Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard Von Bingen (24 page)

O shining gem, o noble Lady who has no blemish, you are a companion of angels.
How does God move in our lives if not through love?

In my darkest hour, when I was certain my ruin was at hand, Richardis sustained me. She was the pillar of strength that allowed me to go on, her devotion the proof that I was not forsaken, that the Light still shone even through a night that seemed endless. If I was condemned, if my story was to end then and there, at least I had known this before I died. At least I had known what it was to be cherished.

How different this was from that girlish infatuation I had once harbored for Volmar, my ardor overshadowed by the cold knowledge that he would adore only one woman—Jutta. My unspoken passion for him was destined never to be requited but to mellow into the chaste friendship that had endured until this day. But Richardis revealed what it was to love and have that love returned, measure for measure. Even though I was twice her age, she held up a mirror. In her gaze, I was beautiful.

What Richardis and I shared was something ineffable, as though God had brought us together for a purpose. Together we grew into nobler souls than we would have been apart. She was so precious to me, this girl who had found her voice just as I began to write of my visions.

I was not ignorant of Eros by any stretch. Three decades ago, when Volmar had whispered to me of his brothel visit, his shame had mingled with his wonder at the ecstasy he had discovered, the force that moves the stag to bugle in the rut. My women pilgrims had described for me the rush of warmth in their wombs and breasts, that vehement heat bursting into rapture. The greater their delight, the more beautiful the children they conceived. I had read many texts, including Constantine the African’s
De Coitu,
that outlined the many ways in which men and women coupled, and also how certain men and certain women desired their own sex—this was why the Benedictine Rule insisted that we sleep fully clothed in separate beds and in communal dormitories where a candle burned the entire night through. I knew all this, yet my love for Richardis seemed to emerge from a different place, a secret chamber only we could enter, as pure as Felicitas’s love for Perpetua when she followed her beloved mistress through the fiery gates of martyrdom.

Richardis’s virginity was a shining vessel, forever inviolate, and I’d written my own vows of perpetual virginity in blood. Yet such visions of her filled my dreams, transfixing me with such light. I could only think that God had delivered these revelations, that God wanted to show this to me. What united Richardis and me was not Eros, but Caritas, that blinding glimpse of divine love.

“What do you see, Hildegard?” Richardis asked, as though yearning for my visions to return.

And so they did, even in that mire of unending fear and enforced silence when I was denied ink and parchment. I saw the womb of the Virgin of Virgins, a matrix of honeycomb, its sweetness nourishing my sisters and me. Not allowed to work on
Scivias,
I composed music instead, more than ever before, for even Cuno could not dare deny me the Holy Office. This was the purest form of prayer, my voice weaving with my sisters’ as our songs rose to the very vault of heaven.

Ave, generosa
Hail, nobly born,
Glorious, and virginal girl!
The beloved of chastity,
The substance of sanctity,
Pleasing to God.
You are the white lily
That, before any other creature,
God looked upon.

Rorich’s letters from Mainz were my only connection to that outside world where my fate would be decided. His messages arrived crumpled, betraying Cuno’s prying fingers. Though I cursed my abbot’s interference, I soon became more worried about my brother’s predicament than my own. Rorich was in danger. Archbishop Adalbert, his master for three decades, was dead, and the newly elected Archbishop Heinrich found himself and his entire household under siege.

My sister, more than ever I beg your prayers, for if we do not receive God’s protection, Heinrich and those of us whom he shields might be dead by the time this letter reaches you. No doubt you have heard how Bernard of Clairvaux preached the Second Crusade with such fervor that entire villages emptied as every able-bodied man pledged to defend the holy shrines in Palestine. For all Bernard’s good intentions, unspeakable barbarities have come to pass in our own native land. The cursed monk Raoul has found his way to Mainz, where he incited our citizens to wage slaughter against the Jews who have dwelled within our city since the time of the Romans. Heinrich, abhorring every injustice, now shelters the Jews within his palace and has sent urgent word for Bernard himself to come and put an end to these riots before the mob murders us along with those we protect.

Powerless as I was, the only thing I could do was pray that Bernard would arrive before the horde outside the archbishop’s palace bashed down the gates or set fire to the place. Would this tide of evil ever end? Had Bernard only known what bloodlust would erupt from his preaching of the Second Crusade, the unlettered masses using his call to arms as their excuse to murder the Jews who lived in our midst.

I found no peace until my brother’s next letter arrived.

Bernard reached Mainz just in time. Standing courageous before the throng, the sainted man denounced the monk Raoul as a murderer and a liar, and thus the wretch has fled like the coward he is. Sister, pray for us as we prepare for the Synod of Trier this November when Bernard and Pope Eugenius will convene, along with the prelates and bishops.

My brother was no fool—he knew that Cuno read his letters. Though Rorich did not say it outright, I read his intention to appear at the Synod of Trier along with the new archbishop to plead my case.

In a matter of months, I would finally learn my fate. My mortal end seemed to glimmer on the horizon, like a ship drawing ever nearer. Feverish, I wrote song after song, prayers of light and love to banish my dread of what loomed before me.

O noblissima viriditas
O noblest greening,
You who have your roots in the sun,
And who shine in bright serenity on the wheel,
Whom no earthly excellence contains.
You glow red like the dawn
And you burn like the sun’s fire.
You are held all around
By the embraces of the divine mysteries.

My sisters and I raised our voices in song. Would our prayers be heard?

Late one February afternoon, a frantic knock sounded on our nunnery door. Volmar burst in, pulling another man behind him.

The sight of Rorich, his face red and chapped from his long winter ride, made me cry out. Before I could say anything, Volmar spoke in a low, urgent voice.

“Quiet, please. Cuno doesn’t know he’s here. The synod has ended. Rorich came to deliver the news before the official messenger.”

My brother, who was no longer young, had traveled at the greatest speed all the way from Trier. Guda ran to fetch him wine while I guided him to the chair nearest the brazier. Kneeling at his feet, I tugged off his riding gloves and chafed his cold hands in mine.

Rorich must have been riding hard, for he was completely out of breath, only able to utter a few words at a time. “Sister, I must tell you . . . Eugenius read from
Scivias
. . . before the prelates.”

My breathing was as shallow as my brother’s. I trembled at the very thought of the pope reading those words I had written—God’s words that I had midwifed. Richardis knelt beside me and held my arm. She looked so determined, as though she would be my shield and armor no matter what happened.

“I saw their faces . . . their scorn . . . several denounced you.”

Richardis’s grip on my arm tightened, her pulse beating with mine.

“Then Bernard spoke.”

Bernard of Clairvaux, the holiest man in Christendom. I bowed my head.

“He praised your visions . . . the others were silenced.”

My heart banged like a drum.

“Eugenius declared you God’s sibyl.”

The room was spinning so fast that I forgot to breathe. Dumbfounded, I gaped at my brother.

“Hildegard,” he said. “You are vindicated.”

My sisters’ voices arose in a happy clamor. Richardis pulled me to my feet and hugged me, but still I swayed, for I could scarcely believe this miracle. Instead of condemning me, the pope had become my champion.

“In a week or two, Eugenius’s letter will arrive.” Rorich had recovered his breath. “But I wanted to tell you sooner. To put an end to your worry.”

“Bernard and the Holy Father believe in my visions.” Overwhelmed in my wonderment, I searched my brother’s eyes. “Does that mean you do, too?”

He kissed my brow. “I believe that God has chosen you. Who else could be so fearless?”

Before I could throw my arms around him, he opened the leather cylinder he carried and pulled out the scrolled manuscript of
Scivias.
I cradled those pages against my heart as warmth flooded my chest.

“Not only do you have the Holy Father’s blessing,” said my brother, “but he commands you to finish this work for the glory of God.”

“We shall begin tomorrow after Prime!” Richardis’s eyes shone like the day star.

My sisters gathered me in a tight embrace. I reached for Volmar’s hand.

“God be praised,” he said, my oldest friend. “Cuno can’t touch you now.”

My joy seemed bottomless.

Fourteen days later, the pope’s letter arrived like a flaming spear breaching Cuno’s fortress walls. My abbot’s perfect plan was foiled. Suddenly I, Hildegard, his most nettlesome charge, was famous, declared a prophet by Eugenius himself. Pilgrims came pouring in, peasants and aristocrats, from every part of Burgundy, Lorraine, and Flanders, and all the German lands.

A
PPLE AND PEAR
trees encircled us in their clouds of blossoms. The forest rang with the cuckoo crying its herald as Richardis and I strode across that waving tapestry of wildflowers and lush new grass. Soon we would return to the monastery, but for now we breathed in the greening, that verdant tide that left me reeling in reverence and gratitude.

“Here you hide in the orchard!” a voice rang out.

We turned to see the prior huffing his way toward us, his face ruddy with the unaccustomed effort of hiking down the steep slope.

“An unwashed mob has arrived, demanding an audience with you,” Egon said, clearly in a temper. “The lay brothers despair over how they are going to feed so many!”

Our trickle of pilgrims had swelled into a crowd. The prior seemed vexed that this common rabble streaming into our abbey would only be a strain on our guesthouse and larders, and offer very little in the way of donations. Egon and Cuno seemed to have little clue what they were to do with me now that I had received the pope’s benediction.

When Richardis and I entered the monastery gates, the brothers scattered to open a path for us.

Over two dozen pilgrims awaited me, most of them simple, unlettered folk.

“There she is, the holy sibyl!” A ragged widow fell to her knees before me. “Mother Hildegard, can you reveal to me the fate of my dead husband’s soul?”

An injured stone mason begged me to bless his withered arm. A visitor from Aquitaine addressed me in his own language, of which I did not understand a word, until one of the brother scribes came to translate.

“He says, ‘I have heard of your reputation, which is spreading in my country, and I have walked barefoot for months just to hear your voice, sainted lady.’”

Another young man approached me. “Most holy lady, since you are a seeress gifted with divine vision, could you please tell me how I may uncover a horde of Roman treasure buried near the city of Worms?”

I veiled my smile. “The true treasure, my son, is to be found within your soul, not buried in the earth. Nonetheless, you may pray to God who will help you according to his will and your need.”

A cleric regarded me with tormented eyes. “Hildegard, I suffer such despair. I am crushed and broken, and I fear for my soul, fodder for the devil that I am.”

I offered him my counsel and prayers. Other pilgrims were so ill that I ushered them into the hospice and worked with Brother Otto to find the right remedies.

When I finally emerged from the hospice, it was past Compline. Bone-weary though I was, I tingled from crown to foot. Such a presence filled me, something unutterable working through me.

In the moonlit cloisters, Richardis waited with yet another visitor—Rorich, his smile as wide as the starry sky.

“Hildegard,” he said, hugging me close. “I’ve come to take you to Mainz. The archbishop requests your presence.”

Overpowering joy welled up in my heart. With the archbishop’s summons, Cuno could do nothing to forbid my journey.

“What will happen in Mainz?” I asked him, my heart racing.

“Heinrich will finally meet the woman whose visions have so moved him.” My brother took my hands. “Once he’s befriended you, you’ll be protected. No one will dare trouble you again.”

When I shared my happy news with my sisters, they gathered round, as overjoyed as when Rorich first delivered the news that the pope had declared me a prophet.

“Hildegard, you must take one of us with you!” Hiltrud, my niece, said. “It would be unseemly for you to travel without another nun.”

The younger nuns and novices exchanged glances, as though anticipating who would be chosen.

But like a pin pricking a soap bubble, Guda’s voice punctured their excitement. “No doubt, the magistra will ask Sister Richardis.”

There was something cool in Guda’s voice, as though she disapproved of the way I favored her young cousin.

“I have no wish to raise myself above the others,” Richardis said, her face bright red. “Perhaps you wish to go with the magistra, Guda.”