The Seer and the Scribe (23 page)

“How do you know that's why I'm here?” Volmar was caught off guard by her foresight.

“Don't you remember? We see in our dreams, even though our eyes are closed, do we not? Don't worry, Hiltrud and Jutta are sleeping. For their own safety, they will know nothing of our encounter or the Holy Relic's presence.”

“Yes, of course. I will come for the Holy Relic when the danger has passed.” Volmar was still feeling overwhelmed by his heightened senses. He lifted the leather wrapping from the Spear of Destiny, and gazed longingly at its most precious blade, unimaginably old and believed to have been lost to the world for centuries. This blade of iron had drawn blood—and not just anyone's blood. This blade had borne testimony to the greatest crime ever committed by man.

Solemnly, he draped it again with its humble wrapping, his hands trembling, as he passed the Holy Spear through the small window and into Hildegard's outreached hands. “Sister Hildegard, you are now its caretaker. I give it over freely to you. I should warn you, the Holy Relic has a curse on it.”

“I know,” she answered softly, cradling the Relic gently in her hands. “But it is cursed only when the power it radiates is used for selfish reasons.”

For a wordless moment, Volmar stood very still, feeling the sudden loss of the Relic's power. He felt awkward, vulnerable, and very weak. Volmar drew himself up to his full height and reached into his leather pouch. “Sister Hildegard, you may read this parchment. It is the conversation the Abbot and I had with a soldier named Matthias in the Infirmary. In his own words, he explains how this Relic came into his possession. Please guard it as well.”

“Brother Volmar, this man, Matthias, I fear his life is in grave danger. He must leave Disibodenberg at once.”

“Matthias is planning on leaving as soon as he is well enough. He is tired and wants to return home to his family.”

Hildegard's piercing pale grey eyes searched the young monk's weary features. “Something else is troubling you.”

Volmar sunk his hands into his sleeves. “I am not used to having someone read my thoughts so easily. I did a foolish thing. I asked Matthias if he knew my father, Symon of Bermersheim.”

“And did he?”

“What he knew of him was not flattering. Apparently, my father is one of Brother Gerard's closest companions. He belongs to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem. Rumor has it that they have become more militant over the past few years. They are no longer the noble healers they once were.”

Hildegard spoke reassuringly. “I would question, Brother Volmar, a son's responsibility for his father's failings.”

“Perhaps so; but a son possesses the same tendencies as his father.” Volmar spat on the ground, as if trying to get rid of a bad taste in his mouth. “I carry his evil seed. My earliest memories are of him slapping my mother and making her cry. I remember him with hatred, not kindness. The feeling must have been mutual, for my mother often protected me from his explosive temper. I am the reason he deserted us for the battlefields of the Holy Land.”

“This is in the past, and told from a very young child's eyes. Dear Volmar, I sense in your temperament a strong desire for the truth. Evil cannot consume a life bent on serving justice. Remember that.”

“I am forever indebted to you, Sister Hildegard.” Volmar bowed formally, nearly tripping over the stool. He smiled at it and then at Hildegard's smirk. “Until our next lesson . . . .sleep well.” He picked up the stool and rounded the corner before taking off up the hill. The chill in the air was invigorating, as well as Sister Hildegard's expressed warmth towards him.

Once inside the common room of the Anchorage, Hildegard listened to the rasping, irregular breathing of Jutta and the even less harmonious snoring of Hiltrud, reassured that what she was about to do would go unseen. She walked over to her exquisitely carved glass-fronted bookcase. From underneath her plain linen undergarment, she took a key hanging from a gold chain around her neck. Quietly, she turned it in the lock, opening the secret drawer where she kept her writings, drawings, and paintings, as well as the silver-filigreed clasp given to her by her parents. In reverence, she bent and kissed the Holy Relic, before draping it in its leather cloth and concealing it among her few worldly treasures.

Village of Staudernheim

5
^th
of November, Afternoon

Donato recognized the look in Ulrich's eye. After years of traveling together, he knew the signs. Never though had the old man chosen one so young and so inexperienced before. The thought of Sophie in this man's embrace troubled his conscience, what little he had left of one. Ahead he saw the village tavern's lamp. The wind knocked it against the sign cut out to resemble a frothing wooden mug. There were rooms for rent in the attached inn, and he knew that was where they were headed.

“Buy you a drink,” Donato proposed, as they slowed the horses into an easy saunter.

“What about the girl?” Ulrich said, inclining his head towards Sophie, who had already loosened her grip around his waist, fearfully anticipating the worst of what lay ahead.

“She'll keep with the horses in the stable. If you like, I can tie her to the basket. That way they'll both be fine while we eat and drink in preparation for tonight.”

The stable reeked of stale ale and human feces. It was cold and damp, and as black as the night. Sophie huddled under the blanket Ulrich had wrapped around her after he had tied her snugly to the basket. He leaned over and kissed her mouth, briefly but hard. “I'll be back,” he said hoarsely.

Sophie turned away, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks. Never had she felt such pain; it was as if he had slapped her.

Donato squatted down beside her, making the final twist of rope around her ankles. He couldn't bear to make contact with her terrified eyes, but he whispered instead in confidence. “I'll see to it that he'll drink too much. Nothing will happen this evening, I promise.”

Ulrich traipsed off, his arm around Donato's shoulder. Outside, Ulrich blurted out a verse to some vulgar ballad Sophie wished she could not understand.

It was a long while before her entire body stopped trembling. By then, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The basket was next to
her, like a mooring anchor in the straw. It was a half-sphere in shape and at least four hand-lengths across. The top side was made of very open wickerwork woven around flat strips of iron.

She spoke softly, more in an effort to calm her own nerves than the beast she heard scratching incessantly from inside the basket next to her. “Hello there, my little friend,” she said as gently as she could.

The basket pitched violently from side to side. Whatever was inside must have sensed her fear and was responding aggressively.

Hesitantly, she peered inside through a gap that appeared from the burlap being thrown off to one side. All at once, a beak the size of a grown fist shot out and snapped at her. She jumped back, unfortunately moving the basket closer to her rather than gaining any distance from it. Whether she liked it or not, she had to somehow rid herself of this unholy fiend.

Regaining her nerve, Sophie leaned forward, noting the creature's reddish comb and wattle. “This is no ordinary rooster,” she muttered. The rooster lunged forward again, making an unearthly guttural cry of war. Sophie then saw a large metal spur the length of a man's finger attached to a talon on one of its feet. This claw scraped frantically at the rope fastening the lid on the basket, savagely trying to claw its way to freedom. The sharp spur had already left huge gouges, splitting the willow branches. Sophie backed away slowly, thinking of how that talon was certainly sharp enough to free her ropes. If she could only maneuver her wrists so the rooster could claw through the rope's knots and not her skin, she would be free!

In the distance, she heard the coarse noise of men's voices, rising and falling in bawdy unison, carrying on under the influence of heavy drink. She knew there was little time to make her plan work. She remembered listening to her Grandda's stories about fighting cocks. “Fighting cocks are bred to be mean and are trained to be dangerous, attacking anyone who invades their territory.”

She remembered questioning such cruelty and having Grandda laugh at her for feeling sorry for the rooster. “I do not understand the reasoning behind such savagery,” she had said.

“There, there, my little friend,” she cooed softly. ‘You're hungry, aren't you? Here, I have some bread crumbs for you.” With great discomfort, she managed to reach up her sleeve with two of her fingers and pinch off enough bread to get the rooster's undivided attention.
She then tossed the crumbs into the rooster's basket and watched as he feverishly clawed away, shredding the straw even after he'd eaten all she had given him.

“That's it,” she said, taking more crumbs and this time sprinkling them over the rope that held the two of them together. “I have plenty, don't worry.” She added more crumbs as the rooster pecked and clawed furiously.

The rope became the plate upon which she poured more and more bread crumbs. This went on for several long minutes. With each feeding, the strands on the rope became frayed and then, finally, the silver claw cut through the very last strand and the tautness of the rope around her wrists relaxed.

“Well done, my little friend,” she said, pulling her small hands through the last of the knots. Deftly she untied the rope around her ankles. At last she was free!

Sophie stood, having trouble regaining her balance in her wooden clogs. The burns from the rope around her wrists weren't all that bad, she reckoned, feeling a rush of optimism. In silent exultation, she wrapped her blanket snuggly around her shoulders and took off into the night. Her only thought at that moment was to put as much distance as she could between her and the tavern.

Disibodenberg Monastery

5
^th
of November, Dusk

Samson caught up once again with Volmar and trailed behind him, following him to the stables. This time the cat warmed to his touch and allowed Volmar to pet him. “Let me know when you come across Sophie, will you?” Samson purred in response.

The stables appeared deserted. During the winter months, the animals were kept closer to the kitchen, where Brother Johannes's rubbish fires could warm them and the kitchen scraps could feed them. The young monk peered in and saw now only two fine horses tethered
in the stall; curiously, the two oversized warhorses were gone. Also, there was no sign of Brother Hugo. Relieved, Volmar quietly circled around back, being careful to avoid stepping into the steaming compost heap beside the wall. It was as if it were breathing.

The flood of memories faded as he approached the water trough. It was covered with a thin, cloudy sheet of ice. Volmar went back inside the stables from the rear entrance, wondering where best to leave the milking stool. Only then did he notice something red in the straw. He went over to investigate and found, to his dismay, a red ribbon. He recognized it immediately as the ribbon Isabella had given to Sophie in the Infirmary. He tucked it into his leather pouch and suspiciously looked around for other clues to suggest what may have happened.

In the distance he heard the sound of bells struck by a monk's wooden mallet announcing Vespers. Volmar trudged off obediently, promising himself that after prayers he would go to all the familiar places where he might expect to find Sophie.

As soon as the last “Amen” concluded the ceremony, Volmar turned and questioned all his holy brothers temporarily assembled in one place. Slowly, he pieced together the fact that no one had seen Sophie since the day before. Her sudden disappearance did not make sense. He left the sanctuary, noticing that already the sky was leaden, a sure sign that Brother Albertus's aching back was correct. The sky was heavy with snow.

Why would Sophie leave the monastery so abruptly, telling no one of her whereabouts or her plans? Volmar was deeply troubled now more than ever. He left the rubble of the stone pile where often he would find Sophie watching the builder's son, Thomas, mixing mortar and annoyingly counting aloud the number of scoops of sand he'd put on the board. When the weather was warmer, Volmar would often see them talking amicably, taking turns simply drawing in the sand with a pointed stick. He kicked at the board, dried and hard from an earlier than expected winter. Could someone have said something hurtful to Sophie that angered her enough to make her want to leave? Outside the Apiary
⁸⁶
were stairs leading to the forest, a vast expanse of scrub and rough woodland, cascading sharply down to the road. Volmar stood at the ledge and gazed into the woods below, knowing the birds, weasels, foxes, rats, and other creatures were warily watching his movements. He held Sophie's red hair ribbon to his cheek, wondering if she had left unwillingly. He recalled the two missing warhorses, appalled by the turn his thoughts had abruptly taken. Could Sophie have been kidnapped?

With his hands on his hips, he stared across the Monks' Cemetery. In the distance he could see the twin towers of the Porter's gatehouse. Perhaps, he thought with some hope, Brother Cornelius would know if Sophie had left of her own accord.

Never had the high stone walls surrounding Disibodenberg seemed more in opposition to him than now as he scrambled downhill. Like a fortress they kept the monastery separate from the outside world, yet in doing so, they also provided sanctuary for all God's people. The monastery was a haven for outcasts of one kind or another, especially the widows and orphans, of which one very special orphan was now missing.

Volmar made his way past the iron gates and into the Lay Chapel. It had a vaulted ceiling and a stained-glass window at the far end over a more modest wooden altar. He knelt before the image of the Holy Mother and lingered on the all-knowing eyes of the Christ child. The thought came to him, as he prayed for Sophie's safety, that if everything were easy, men would no longer need God's guidance.