Free Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard Von Bingen by Mary Sharratt Page B

lowborn woman such as Walburga could hope to become a saint, even if she was twice as pious as Jutta von Sponheim. I pondered whether beauty, too, was a necessary ingredient. Didn’t Cuno preach that one’s outer features mirrored the inner soul, that a plain face and awkward figure betokened a coarse nature? All the more reason for me, a child born without the least gift of prettiness, to skulk deeper into the shadows.
You will never be a saint, never be anything the least bit special.
In deepest humility, I would have to resign myself to be Jutta’s handmaiden, a servant to her greater glory. Jutta was the shining pinnacle, the alabaster statue upon the pedestal.
     
    When Countess von Sponheim visited and spoke to Jutta through the screen, my magistra shrank inside her veil, as if tales of worldly life now galled her. She no longer asked about family, old friends, or life at court, but only how her mare fared in her absence. Sometimes her voice caught when speaking of the horse she had loved so much.
    After her mother retired to the guest lodgings, Jutta swept me up, hugging me tight. “On warm summer days, Silvermoon used to doze off with her head in my arms. I taught her to curtsey like a lady. She gave me kisses and took sweetmeats from my lips so delicately. She was always so good and brave on the hunt. Once, when we were cantering around a tight corner, I lost my balance and would have come off, only she slowed down so I could right myself again. She’s such a big, powerful creature, Hildegard, but so gentle. She looked after me.”
    “Did your mother have any news of
my
mother?” I asked, but the answer, as always, was no.
     
    Days and weeks, months and seasons dragged past in dull procession, but I received no visitors, not a single letter from my mother. At first I counted off a litany of spiteful excuses for Mechthild to ease the pain of that gaping silence.
She can’t write. She’s ignorant and unschooled.
But Mother could have asked her chaplain to write a letter, even a short one, a few sentences to tell me that she loved me and kept me in her thoughts. Was even this too much trouble for her?
    I knew it was a sin to hate, to refuse to forgive, but the raw and hurting place inside me grew and grew until I feared it would swallow my heart. Just when I thought I would never hear another word from any of them at Bermersheim, those cold strangers whose blood I shared, who had abandoned me to these two dusty cells, a letter came from Rorich.
    Ripping open the seal, I devoured his words as though they were bread. My brother’s essence filled the lonely rooms, his laughter and gibes, his smell of dusty summer leaves and healthy sweat. Two years had gone by since I’d last seen him. Now I was ten and he was twelve, only two years older than I was, and yet he no longer sounded like the boy I had known. Now he sounded older than Volmar and Jutta.
     
Hildegard, you must hate me for not writing earlier. Mother would not allow it. She said we must leave you in peace while you grew used to your life in seclusion. Any distractions from us would only make it harder for you and make you yearn in vain for what you could no longer have.
     
Sister, now it is my turn to say good-bye to my freedom, for I, too, must go to the Church. Mother is sending me to study with the prelates of Mainz. The youngest son must become a priest—even you knew that. Everyone, says Mother, must face their lot.
     
As for Mother herself, her health has been poor ever since she sent you away, but she has at last succeeded in finding Clementia a husband, although I confess I don’t like him and, if I were her, I would rather be a nun than marry a man who smelled like a goat.
     
Remember, Hildegard, when we used to dream of running away and becoming outlaws? Can you keep those happy days alive in your memory? Keep me in your prayers.
     
I remain your loving brother.
     
    I will remember, Rorich.
Running through the tunnel of memory into