Sylvia (47 page)

‘I will miss it greatly, my Lord.'

‘Four languages, that is quite enough! It does not serve a woman well to know too much lest her head grows too large and her paps shrink for lack of womanliness. You are a comely wench and my advice to you is to find a rich man to marry and then to please him well.'

‘Yes, my Lord, I will pray upon it and ask for guidance,' I answered.

‘Yes, do that, it is God's wish for every woman,' he said absently. With Rosa at my side we turned to go and as we reached the door to the anteroom I heard him call, ‘Bring wine and food. It has been a busy and well-concluded day, and just as women must weep so men must eat.' Laughter followed from the mice.

The following day I took up my Father John bag and my beloved stave, now restored to me, and made the journey on foot to the monastery at Disibodenberg to report to Brother Dominic. I would, I told myself, tell him all about the inquiry and what each person had said. I confess in retrospect to being somewhat pleased with my performance and wanted him to know that he hadn't wasted his time by tutoring me. It was vainglorious and unworthy but at the time it seemed appropriate, couched as I intended in the context where I would be crediting him for my precocious performance.

But my tutor was not as easily gulled as the archbishop and his council. ‘Aye, child, you have learned your lessons well, but you are nevertheless most fortunate to have answered to a pair of dunderheads and a committee of mice. The present bishop of Cologne is well-known for a philanderer and when it comes to ideas has a thinly populated mind. Your new archbishop, Count Leonardo of Mentz, I knew in Rome where he spent his time with horses, arms, soldiery and banqueting and is more taken up with sophistry than earnest inquiry. He and his family are good friends of Pope Gregory, that ambitious lawyer who cares little for matters spiritual and even less for intellect, who now demands a crusade to Egypt from the Emperor for his own nefarious reasons.

It is fortunate that the archbishop thinks so well of you and you would do well to keep his lordship on your side. Like all men of power who seek only solutions, whether righteous or wrongful, that further their ambitions, he makes a good friend and a bad enemy. Although they are birds of a feather, that poltroon bishop who excommunicated you would do well to guard his back.'

I then told him of my decision not to return to the convent and thanked him for his generosity and his teaching. ‘Father, you have shown me the path to wisdom and I will strive to keep my feet upon it all my life.'

The old man shook his weary head. ‘Sylvia, you have traversed wisdom's rocky road with a sureness of foot and it is I who must thank you. Before you came I had sunk into a well of deep despondency and your presence has kept me from total despair. There will come a time when men will once again think for themselves, but in these dark times it is such as thee who must carry the torch of reason and burn the true light of our Christian belief. I am old and will soon die, but I am content to leave this mortal coil knowing that you are among the few who may carry our faith forward, constantly seeking the truth no matter what the cost. If we are blessed with the unremitting mercy and compassion of Christ, then our belief in His true teaching must constantly be tested and tempered by reason. The word of God rests separately in the heart of every man. Each must consciously decide what His will is for himself and not blindly accept the dogma of the Church. True faith is not for the lazy and compliant – it is a vigorous and strengthening habit practised by a thinking mind, nourished by the heart and tempered by the spirit.'

Knowing myself unworthy of his lavish praises, I wept. As I departed the monastery of Disibodenberg I knew that I might never again meet another such as the beloved Doubting Dominic. He had taught me so much of how the rich and vainglorious think and had, at the same time, managed to instil in me a little wisdom and a small courage in the extent of my mind. I grinned through my tears. He had also helped me develop some perspicacity as well as cunning. I also now wrote fluently in Latin.

Two weeks later I was to hear of my blessed tutor's passing, that he had died in his sleep with a manuscript, one of his own, clasped to his chest, after the previous evening calling for the last rites. The following day with my bag and stave I left Cologne as soon as the gates to the city opened to walk back to the monastery to pray at Brother Dominic's grave. Arriving at the great wooden gates in the late afternoon I rang the clangorous bell. The same little monk who had appeared at the peeping window when Father Hermann had first brought me by mistake to the gate appeared almost at once, his tiny face seeming even more grumpy and stupid.

Seeing I was female he sighed heavily. ‘What do you want?' he demanded.

Adopting a suitably supplicating tone I answered,‘Good Brother, I wish to pray at the grave of Brother Dominic.'

‘Who?'

I realised that even tiny men can bully. ‘Brother Dominic, the great scribe and scholar from Rome, who died here four days ago,' I answered.

‘Never heard of him, go away!' he said in a peremptory voice, withdrawing his shiny, fat little face and slamming shut the peeping window.

I slept that night in the woods and in the morning drank from and then washed my face in the stream, and soon after found a few early berries, not yet summer-sweet but not entirely unpleasant. It was a lovely late-spring day when I stood once again at the giant wooden gates. But this time I called the birds until several hundred flocked about me. I reasoned that if that Italian deacon, Francis of Assisi, could impress by preaching to the birds, maybe it would also work for me. I did not ring the bell but simply waited directly opposite the little window set into the gate. It opened soon enough and a different gatekeeper's face, surprised to see me, appeared. ‘Good morrow! What is it you want?' the monk shouted above the bird cries, pulling back in fright when a magpie landed on the ledge in front of him.

I indicated the birds. ‘We have been sent to pray at the grave of Brother Dominic. He was a great friend of the birds and they have come to sing a Gloria of their own at his graveside.'

‘We saw them coming,' he exclaimed. ‘They came from everywhere – the sky was filled with their cries. I am sent to inquire,' he shouted in a friendly voice. I made a mental note to think a little better of this bird preacher, Francis of Assisi. Perhaps he wasn't as stupid as he seemed.

‘Well then,you are to letus in, we do God's bidding,'I shoutedback.

One of the great doors swung open and with the birds hovering above me in an avian cloud we followed him. But with the monastery already alerted by the gathering of the birds and with their noise in the air above me, by the time we reached St Michael's Chapel, which served as the monks' burial ground, a hundred monks had gathered and soon even the abbot arrived. I was led to the grave of Brother Dominic where I let the birds sing a little longer before letting them be gone, and then I asked permission of the abbot to sing a Gloria I knew to be my tutor's favourite.

The abbot then intoned a short prayer and thanked me for coming. ‘We have heard much about you, Little Sister Sylvia. It seems God has blessed you in Cologne and you have made a powerful friend in the new archbishop.'

‘Father, I am no longer at the nunnery and am now plain Sylvia Honeyeater, and as for the archbishop, I have met him but the once.'

‘But well met it seems. He has visited and speaks mostly highly of you and claims you have great sensibilities for a woman and are gifted with four languages. I know Brother Dominic greatly loved you and you brought him great joy with your questioning mind. He thought us all not worth the time to tutor and claimed you would one day be another Hildegard von Bingen.'

I blushed. ‘Nay, Father!' I protested. ‘Brother Dominic was always over-lavish in his praise.'

‘I think not,' he replied quietly. ‘Perhaps you will tarry sufficiently to take some repast?' Then he added, ‘I would greatly like to hear the story of the archbishop's inquiry. We get scarce any news here and the archbishop on his visit told that you did play a surprisingly relevant part in the hearing and greatly helped his deliberations, though he didn't tell us more of the proceedings.'

‘Did Brother Dominic not tell you? I told him all of it.'

‘Nay, he was old and felt himself betrayed by Rome.' The abbot sighed. ‘He trusted no one in the priesthood and in the end, perhaps only thee.'

I would not have found myself able to accept the abbot's hospitality knowing that news of my coming would reach the abbess and that this might prove awkward for him. It was he who had originally urged her, to her fury, to free me for the afternoons so that I might study with Brother Dominic. I did not wish to make further trouble between them. But now, by telling the abbot of the archbishop's inquiry, I would justly earn the food he offered and so I readily agreed. Besides, with only a few half-ripe berries in my stomach I felt myself famished. ‘Thank you, Father, you are most kind and I cannot refuse. I have not eaten since the morning of yesterday and the return to Cologne is long and without sustenance would prove arduous.'

‘Then you are welcome and you must have bread and wine to take with you.'

He led me to the guest room near the kitchen where the smell of newly baked bread from the nearby ovens caused me to salivate. He bade me be seated though he continued to stand beside me. Soon fresh bread still warm from the oven and cheese and a little smoked fish with a jug of ale was brought to me. ‘Will you not sit, Father? It is a long story and you will be more comfortable.' It was then that I suddenly remembered. ‘Oh dear, please forgive me, Father. I have brought you a small gift that I hope you will accept.' I removed my Father John satchel from my back and from it took a large jar. ‘It is ointment. I am told it is most efficacious and will bring you some comfort.'

The abbot took the jar of ointment for his piles without a change of expression. ‘Thank you, it is most thoughtful of you, Little Sister Sylvia. The abbess has closed the dispensary at the convent and we greatly miss the many efficacious items she prepared for us.' Then, to indicate that he understood the nature of the ointment, ‘Though an ointment such as this, though promised, was never obtained.'

‘Father, the woman Rosa, it was she who prepared these medicines at the convent but she has since departed. I know her whereabouts in Cologne.' I hesitated a moment, drawing a breath.

‘Perhaps she might bring the unguents and ointments you need from time to time, her payment being perhaps in wine and grain?' I knew that Frau Sarah would be happy with this arrangement – she had taken a liking to Rosa and enjoyed her cheeky peasant wit. Whenever she had an early morning free they would spend time gathering herbs in the woods.

‘Ah, that is an excellent solution. We have always paid the abbess in wine and wheat or barley and sometimes smoked fish – it will be no greater burden to pay this woman, Rosa.'

I then commenced to eat and all the while to tell the abbot the story of the naked women chanting in the square right through to the end of the inquiry when we were once again restored to the bosom of the Church.

The abbot, still standing, looked pensive. ‘This boy, Nicholas of Cologne, you know him well?'

‘Aye, I have known him since I first came to Cologne.'

‘And is he blessed?'

‘Yes, Father. On the days he preaches his sermons are filled with the glory of our Saviour and his message is most inspiring. He now preaches to over a thousand children and each time still more come. Some have travelled for days to hear him,' I added.

‘And this Children's Crusade, what think you of it?'

‘It is a miracle, Father. A miracle I have been waiting for all my life.'

‘Miracle? Has it guided you? Is there a message?'

‘Aye, God has bade the children to march to Jerusalem to take the Holy Sepulchre back from the infidel.'

‘And you would go?' he asked, surprised.

‘I must answer God's command and do His bidding.'

‘You have prayed? Sought guidance? After all, you are no longer yourself a child.'

‘Aye, but I work among street children and know their natures well. I must go to care for them.'

‘Oh, Little Sister Sylvia, will you not think carefully upon this!' he cried in a tone of great alarm. ‘Jerusalem, it is a year's walk if you are fortunate. How will you cross the sea? Who will provision you? There are perilous climbs and dangerous places, mountains and snows and deserts, brigandry is everywhere and you will have no arms or knights to protect you.'

‘I cannot deny God's command to me, Father,' I replied softly. ‘I have seen this miracle and I must now test my faith.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Cross of Crows

I ARRIVED BACK IN Cologne from the monastery of Disibodenberg on the 25th of April in the year of our Lord 1212 to find Nicholas in the highest of preaching spirits with energy that could not be contained. This was to continue for the next ten days and both Father Hermann and myself were run off our feet. Halfway through this period, the good priest was heard to declare, ‘I cannot keep up with him, Sylvia. He preaches daily, recruiting for his crusade, and each day the children attending increase in number and come from everywhere. Only yesterday I met boys from Liège and Floreffe and they told of others from Marbach, Neresheim and Zwiefaltern. I came across a group of young girls from Schäftlarn in the east! I told them to return home, that embarking on a crusade was hard and dangerous and no place for girls.' He laughed wearily. ‘One of them looked at me and said, “Who then will do the cooking, Father?” It was a good point, we have not thought of this.'