Prologue
Disibodenberg, Germany – 1106 CE
Born in 1098 into the noble Saint-Clair family in Bingen, Germany, Hildegard von Bingen’s destiny was shaped by both privilege and tradition. As the tenth child of Mechtild of Merxheim-Nahet and Hildebert of Bermersheim, she was offered to the Church at the age of eight—a common practice among noble families seeking to fulfill their spiritual obligations and secure divine favor. Presented as a tithe to the Benedictine monastery at Disibodenberg, young Hildegard entered a world of strict devotion and rigorous education, bound to a life of service to God but destined to reshape the spiritual and intellectual landscape of her time.
Throughout her life, Hildegard von Bingen as a Benedictine nun held numerous esteemed roles, besides becoming a Benedictine abbess, across an array of disciplines such as religion, music, medicine, and natural sciences. Her literary legacy encompasses a diverse range of works from theological writings and scientific dissertations to extensive correspondence. She engaged in written dialogues with the era’s luminaries, including popes and emperors. In her explorations of medicine and natural history, Hildegard’s work mirrored the period’s conceptions of these domains, weaving together empirical observations with profound theological reflections. Moreover, she was a prolific musical composer, having created an extensive catalog of hymns and sequences. Her music, noted for its originality and expressive quality, stands out as a remarkable testament to her creative genius during her time.
From her youth, Hildegard was plagued by severe headaches, which might have been more than mere physical ailments. Indeed, she regarded such painful experiences as mystical visions, a perspective she maintained throughout her life, becoming known as a Christian mystic. These visions, which she meticulously described in her seminal work, Scivias (“Know the Ways”), suggest a profound spiritual connection, framing her migraines not just as physical afflictions but as gateways to divine revelation.
In her early fifties, while serving as the founder and abbess of the Benedictine abbey in Rupertsberg, Germany, Hildegard developed a curious language referred to as the Lingua Ignota, or Unknown Language. This unique vocabulary featured a lexicon of approximately one thousand words, most of which were original creations, though some drew inspiration or were adapted from Latin and German. The precise intention behind the creation of the Lingua Ignota remains an enigma. It is speculated that it might have served mystical or religious functions, perhaps as a covert means of communication among the nuns of her convent, or as a linguistic embodiment of her visions and divine encounters. Regardless, this language stands as a monument to her inventive prowess and her eagerness to delve into and articulate the spiritual and mystical beyond customary forms of communication.
Despite her many skills and interests, however, Hildegard was foremost a pioneer in natural herbal remedies for addressing a range of afflictions common in her place and time: leprosy, plague, smallpox, measles and scarlet fever, dysentery, St. Anthony’s Fire, tuberculosis, malaria, malnutrition, and periodontal diseases, many of which were common and pervasive due to the living conditions, hygiene practices, and inaccurate medical knowledge in twelfth-century Europe.
Hildegard’s fame for her medicinal knowledge spread far and wide, attracting people from distant lands to seek her guidance and remedies. Pilgrims and travelers would make the arduous journey to the convent at Rupertsberg, where she resided, in hopes of receiving a glimpse of her wisdom. Many sought relief from ailments that had plagued them for years, while others came seeking preventative measures against the rampant diseases of the time.
Hildegard’s apothecary was a sight to behold. Its shelves were lined with jars containing herbs, roots, and ingredients collected from the surrounding forests and gardens. She carefully crafted tinctures, salves, and potions, each tailored to the specific needs of the individual seeking her aid.
But it was not just the physical ailments that drew people to her doorstep; her gentle demeanor, wise counsel, and unwavering faith also offered solace to the weary souls who crossed her path. Hildegard listened intently to their stories, offering comfort and encouragement along with her herbal remedies.
As word of her healing abilities continued to spread, so too did tales of her mystical visions and divine revelations. Some whispered that she possessed powers beyond human comprehension, that she communed with angels and received visions of the future. Others believed her to be a chosen vessel of God, sent to bring light and hope to a world shrouded in darkness.
Hildegard, however, saw herself not as a miracle worker or a prophetess but simply as a servant of God, using the gifts He had bestowed upon her to help those in need. She remained steadfast to her calling, and her days were spent in prayer and contemplation, seeking guidance and strength from above to aid her in her mission.
The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves as a simple farmer named Friedrich and his daughter, Liesl, stood before the gates of the Rupertsberg convent. The journey had taken days, and Friedrich’s boots bore the dust of long-traveled paths. Liesl, pale and frail, clutched her father’s arm for support, her breath shallow.
“Stay close, Liesl,” Friedrich murmured, his voice thick with worry. “We’re almost there. Hildegard will know what to do.”
The gate creaked open, revealing a serene nun who regarded them with calm curiosity. Friedrich stepped forward, bowing his head.
“Forgive my intrusion,” he began, his voice trembling. “I am Friedrich, a farmer from Mainz, and this is my daughter. We have come to seek Hildegard’s help.”
The nun studied them, her gaze lingering on Liesl’s gaunt frame. “Follow me,” she said simply, leading them through the stone corridors to a room filled with the scent of herbs and beeswax candles. There, seated at a simple desk, was Hildegard von Bingen.
“Mother Hildegard,” the nun announced softly, “this man and his daughter have come from Mainz seeking your aid.”
Hildegard rose, her presence commanding yet gentle. She approached Friedrich, her gaze filled with understanding.
“You have traveled far,” she said, her voice soothing. “What troubles you?”
Friedrich dropped to his knees, clasping his rough hands together. “Please, Mother Hildegard,” he begged, his voice breaking. “My daughter Liesl—she suffers terribly. No healer, no remedy… nothing has helped. I fear I will lose her.”
Liesl stood silently, her eyes hollow but hopeful. Hildegard knelt beside Friedrich, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Rise, my son,” she said gently. “Your burden is great, but you are not alone. Bring Liesl to my apothecary, and we will seek God’s guidance together.”
With a grateful nod, Friedrich helped Liesl follow Hildegard to the apothecary, a room filled with various containers of dried herbs, as well as pestles, implements, and wooden boxes of roots and flowers. Hildegard motioned for Liesl to sit on a small stool, then knelt to examine her.
“Tell me, Liesl,” she said kindly, “where does it hurt?”
“My stomach,” Liesl whispered, her voice weak. “It’s like a fire that never goes out.”
Hildegard placed a gentle hand on Liesl’s abdomen, her experienced fingers feeling for the signs. After a moment, she looked up at Friedrich. “Her symptoms suggest an imbalance of black bile,” she said. “It is as though her body fights a shadow from within.”
“Can you help her?” Friedrich asked, his voice barely audible.
“I will do all that I can,” Hildegard assured him. She rose and began gathering ingredients from her shelves, speaking as she worked. “This,” she said, holding up a dried gall of a rare herb, “is from the Ricinus aureum. It holds the power to cleanse the humors and restore balance. Combined with other herbs, it can help Liesl’s body heal from the cancer that burdens her.”
She ground the gall with other herbs, her movements precise. “This mixture will become a tea,” she explained. “It will ease the pain and draw out the sickness. But the tea alone is not enough. She must avoid heavy foods and eat only what is light and nourishing—barley bread, cooked apples, and broth will strengthen her.”
Hildegard finished the preparation, pouring the ground herbs into a small pouch. “Friedrich,” she said, handing it to him, “follow my instructions carefully. Brew this tea twice a day, and ensure Liesl rests. Faith and patience will be as vital as this remedy.”
Friedrich’s eyes brimmed with tears as he took the pouch. “Thank you, Mother Hildegard. May God bless you for your kindness.”
Weeks passed, then months, as Friedrich followed Hildegard’s guidance with unwavering dedication. One spring morning, he returned to the convent, his steps lighter than they had been in years. Beside him walked Liesl, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright.
Hildegard greeted them at the gates, her smile serene. “Friedrich,” she said, “your joy speaks before you do.”
“Mother Hildegard,” Friedrich said, his voice thick with emotion, “you saved her. Look at her—she’s strong again. I can never thank you enough.”
Liesl stepped forward and curtsied. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly. “I feel like myself again.”
Hildegard rested her hand gently on Liesl’s head. “Give thanks to God, child. I am merely His servant. Go, live your life in health and gratitude.”
As Friedrich and Liesl departed, Hildegard watched them with quiet satisfaction. Another life restored, another purpose fulfilled. Though her fame spread far and wide, she remained steadfast in her humility, committed to serving those who came to her in need. There were those who offered her money for her help or for her formulas, but her calling was to freely serve those in need, not take from the needy nor to satisfy human greed.
That night, in her prayers before bed, she had yet another vision, this one troubling. Hands, like claws, reached out to her table of herbs, clutching not for help but from callous avarice while a multitude of the sick stood behind, seeking help, finding none. She rose from her knees, unsteady from the vision and looked at a journal that she had been keeping as well as some of her medicinals. She closed her eyes, her fingers floating over the vials at her table. Then she looked heavenward and nodded before picking up the journal and a couple of vials. She settled them in a velvet satchel bag, tied it tight, and left her room, firm in the knowledge of what she must do.
Preserve the healing potential God had gifted her.
Protect the future of healing.
Follow His call.
CHAPTER 1
Present Day
The sun rose over Geneva with a muted brilliance, as the city grieved the loss of a man whose influence had shaped lives and legacies for decades. Baron Armand de Saint-Clair, patriarch of the Saint-Clair family and steward of Banque Suisse de Saint-Clair, had passed peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-four. His death, though not unexpected, cast a long shadow over a legacy that had endured for centuries. To Hana Sinclair, his beloved granddaughter, the loss was more than personal—it was the end of an era, a final chapter in a story that had defined her life.
Banque Suisse de Saint-Clair, founded by the family in the early eighteenth century, was more than a financial institution. For over three hundred years it had been a cornerstone of Swiss banking, renowned for its stability, discretion, and impeccable reputation. Armand, who had overseen the bank’s operations for over half a century, had been its modern-day face, a man respected in boardrooms and capitals alike. Now, with his passing, the responsibility of preserving that legacy fell entirely to Hana, his sole heir.
The estate, an opulent manor nestled on the city’s outskirts on the shore of Lake Geneva, buzzed with activity as preparations for Armand’s funeral and the inevitable transfer of his holdings to Hana were underway. Hana sat in the study, surrounded by legal documents, her laptop open as she responded to a flurry of emails from attorneys, board members, and diplomats offering condolences. She had always known this day would come—her grandfather had prepared her meticulously for it—but no amount of preparation could dull the ache of losing him.
“Mademoiselle Hana,” came the soft voice of Frederic, the baron’s longtime aide, from the doorway. “The florists are here to finalize the arrangements for the memorial service.” It would take many days to prepare properly for a funeral of the size that Armand’s death would entail. Numerous decisions needed to be made.
“Thank you, Frederic,” Hana replied, setting down a stack of papers. Her voice was calm, though inside, she felt like she was holding herself together by sheer will. “Is that something you could attend to?”
Frederic nodded and disappeared down the hall. Hana glanced around the study, the room that had always been her grandfather’s sanctuary. It was filled with artifacts from centuries of family history: fine oil portraits of Saint-Clair ancestors, antique furniture, and shelves lined with aged leather-bound volumes. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait of Armand in his prime, his piercing blue eyes and confident smile captured with remarkable realism. Hana felt her chest tighten. She had seen the man behind that portrait age with grace and humor, but the essence of his vitality had never faded. Until now.
While organizing Armand’s personal papers in the study that afternoon, Hana noticed a sealed envelope tucked inside a small leather portfolio. Her name was written on the envelope in Armand’s elegant handwriting. Inside it was an ornate brass key.
With a trembling hand, she opened the letter.
“‘My dearest Hana,’” it began, “‘if you are reading this, I am no longer with you. Do not let my passing weigh you down too heavily; I have lived a life filled with joy and purpose, much of it because of you. But as I leave this world, I entrust you with a legacy far more important than the bank or the estate. Enclosed is a key. It opens a safe hidden in the study wall, behind the third shelf of the bookcase. Inside, you will find something that has been in our family’s care for centuries. What you learn there may challenge your understanding of who we are and where we come from, but I trust you to use this knowledge wisely.’”
Hana stared at the letter, her pulse racing. Rising from her seat, she walked to the bookcase and carefully removed the books from the third shelf. Behind them, as Armand had described, was a concealed panel. She pressed it, and with a faint click, it swung open to reveal a small steel safe.
Using the key, Hana unlocked the safe and pulled out its contents: an ancient leather-bound manuscript, two glass vials filled with a fine golden powder, and a faded photograph of an abbey she didn’t recognize. The manuscript was inscribed with a title in a strange language she couldn’t decipher, but one name stood out, written at the top of the first page: Hildegard von Bingen.
Hana’s hands trembled as she turned the brittle pages, scanning unfamiliar symbols and dense text. She had no idea why her grandfather had kept something like this hidden, but she knew she couldn’t unravel its meaning alone. She needed someone who could decode the manuscript, someone with both the historical and theological expertise to guide her. Her thoughts immediately turned to her fiancé, Father Michael Dominic, at the Vatican. The late Pope’s edict that allowed priests to marry had allowed them to make marriage plans—if they so chose. Michael had confessed his love, as she to him, but no marriage arrangements had yet been discussed. Now any such plans would be delayed anyway, as she had to wend her way through her family’s private and business affairs due to her grandfather’s death.
As the significance of her inheritance bore down on her—both the financial empire and this mysterious new responsibility—Hana realized her grandfather’s true legacy was far more than she had imagined. But as she began to dig into the manuscript’s origins, she could not know the danger it would bring or the powerful forces potentially mobilizing to claim it for themselves.
The next morning, Hana sat at the desk in Armand’s study, the manuscript spread out before her. The fragile pages seemed to hum with significance, their elegant script etched in a language she couldn’t understand. Next to it, the small vials of golden powder caught the morning light, their contents glinting like tiny pieces of captured sunlight. She turned her phone over in her hands, debating, then tapped Michael’s number. Her heart calmed slightly when his warm voice answered.
“Good morning,” he said, his tone steady and reassuring.
“Good morning,” Hana replied softly, a smile in her voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
“You’re never an interruption,” Michael said, his voice softening. “How are you holding up?”
Hana exhaled, her eyes drifting to the portrait of Armand above the fireplace. “I’m managing. There’s so much to do—arrangements for the funeral, the bank, the estate… but I’ve found something, Michael. Something I think you need to see.”
Michael’s tone shifted, curious. “Oh? What is it?”
Hana hesitated, glancing at the manuscript. “A letter from my grandfather led me to a hidden safe in his study. Inside, I found a manuscript—it’s old and handwritten—along with two vials of what looks like a powdered substance. The first page bears the name ‘Hildegard von Bingen,’ apparently an ancestor of mine. Does that mean anything to you?”
There was a pause, and when Michael spoke again, his tone was laced with both surprise and intrigue. “Hildegard von Bingen? Yes, absolutely. She was a twelfth-century Benedictine abbess—a mystic, theologian, and scholar. She wrote extensively about medicine, music, and natural philosophy. If her name is on the manuscript, Hana, it could be something extraordinary.”
Hana leaned forward, her fingers grazing the edge of the fragile pages. “The script—it doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. It’s intricate, almost like a cipher.”
“That sounds like her Lingua Ignota,” Michael said, his voice quickening. “It’s the language Hildegard invented. She claimed it was divinely inspired, a way to express spiritual truths that couldn’t be captured in ordinary language. Very few examples of it have survived.”
Hana stared at the script, her journalist instincts now fully engaged. “So you think this could be authentic? Something she wrote?”
“It’s possible,” Michael said. “If it is, this manuscript could be invaluable. Hildegard’s writings were centuries ahead of her time, especially in medicine and natural remedies. Did your grandfather give any indication of where he got this?”
“Not exactly,” Hana said, leaning back in the chair. “In his letter, he said it’s been in our family’s care for centuries. He didn’t explain how, just that it was part of our ancestry and that it contains some knowledge that he says could be challenging. Maybe he just means the language, but I don’t even know where to begin. I feel already fatigued with everything else to be done and now this…”
Michael’s voice softened, reassuring. “You’ve already begun. And I have no doubts you can handle your family’s affairs. But you shouldn’t handle all this alone. I’ll come to Geneva and give you a hand.”
Hana sat up straighter. “You would do that?”
“Of course,” Michael said without hesitation. “This isn’t just a historical discovery—it’s deeply personal for you. Besides, if it’s Lingua Ignota and tied to Hildegard, it may require theological context to understand fully. I was planning on coming soon to help you with Armand’s funeral plans anyway; I’ll just leave a little earlier now.”
Hana let out a small breath of relief. “Thank you, Michael. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The priest’s voice warmed. “You won’t have to find out. We’ll figure this out together.”
For a moment, Hana allowed herself to relax, the impact of the manuscript and its mysteries momentarily lessened by Michael’s presence, even across the miles. “Let me know when you’re on your way. I’ll be waiting.”
“I will,” Michael said. “And Hana… be careful. If this is what we think it is, it’s not just rare—it’s valuable. Keep it safe.”
Hana nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When the call ended, Hana placed her phone on the desk and stared at the manuscript once more. Its looping script and cryptic annotations seemed to challenge her, daring her to uncover its secrets. Michael’s words echoed in her mind: divinely inspired… centuries ahead of her time.
But what had compelled her grandfather to keep such a thing hidden? And why reveal it to her now, after his death? As she sat in the stillness of the study, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Armand had known this discovery would lead her somewhere far more dangerous than he had let on.
Still sitting at the desk, Hana absently turned one of the vials of golden powder in her hand, its shimmering contents catching the morning light, each tiny fleck reflecting the swirling questions in her mind. Michael’s reassurances had soothed her nerves for now, but there was still so much she didn’t understand. The name Hildegard von Bingen carried weight, especially with Michael’s explanation of her significance, but the powder—what was its purpose? Could it be linked to medicinal remedies, which likely meant herbals in those days since Michael had mentioned her expertise in medicine?
Her thoughts turned to someone else who might be able to help. It had been a few years since she had last spoken with her old university friend, a botanist now working at the famed Conservatoire et Jardin botaniques de Genève—the city’s most renowned botanical gardens and the largest in Switzerland—but the memory of their lively conversations over wine and books brought a smile to Hana’s lips. If anyone could offer insight into these mysterious vials, it was Élise Gauthier, a woman whose passion for historical botany was rivaled only by her sharp wit.
Setting the vial carefully back on the desk, Hana picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She hesitated only a moment before tapping Élise’s name. The call connected after a few rings, and a familiar, cheerful voice answered.
“Hana! Mon Dieu, it’s been forever! How are you?” Élise exclaimed, her warmth cutting through Hana’s apprehension.
Hana smiled, leaning back in her chair. “It has been too long. I’m… managing, I suppose. My grandfather passed away recently, so things have been a bit overwhelming.”
“Oh, Hana, I am so sorry to hear this. Armand was a legend—what a loss for all of us. You must be drowning in arrangements and responsibilities.”
“I am,” Hana admitted, her voice softening. “But Élise, I’ve also come across something… unusual. Something I think you might be interested in.”
“Now you’ve got my attention,” Élise said, her tone light but curious. “What sort of unusual? Don’t tell me you’ve uncovered another family scandal. Those were always the best stories.”
Hana laughed despite herself. “Not this time. It’s something far older—and stranger. I found a manuscript in my grandfather’s study. It’s attributed to someone in our family named Hildegard von Bingen.”
There was a pause on the line. When Élise spoke again, her voice was tinged with disbelief. “Hildegard von Bingen? The abbess? The medicinal healer? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Hana said. “So, you’ve heard of her?”
“But of course.”
“Well, the manuscript is written in a strange language—Father Michael Dominic of the Vatican thinks it might be her Lingua Ignota—and it was hidden alongside two small vials of golden powder. Michael is flying in tomorrow from Rome to help me figure it out, but I also thought of you. If this powder has anything to do with plants or remedies, you might be the best person to shed some light on it.”
Élise’s excitement was palpable. “Hana, this is incredible! Of course, I’ll come. If this powder is botanical, it could be linked to one of Hildegard’s medicinal recipes. Do you know how rare it is to find something like this intact?”
“I had a feeling you’d say that,” Hana said, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’ll send you the address. Can you come by tomorrow afternoon? Michael will be here by then, and we can go through everything together.”
“Absolutely,” Élise said without hesitation. “I’ll bring some tools and a portable analysis kit—nothing invasive, but enough to get a preliminary sense of what might be in those vials. Hana, I’m telling you now, if this powder is related to her legendary cures, we might be looking at something revolutionary.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Hana said, though Élise’s enthusiasm was contagious. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” Élise confirmed. “And Hana… thank you for thinking of me. I can’t wait to see this with my own eyes.”
They ended the call, and Hana leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. The study felt quieter now, but the air seemed charged with the potential of what lay ahead. She glanced at the manuscript again, its cryptic script both beautiful and inscrutable. Between Michael’s theological expertise and Élise’s botanical knowledge, she felt they were on the verge of unraveling a mystery centuries in the making. A mystery that her ancestors had for centuries felt worth hiding and that her grandfather had charged her with revealing. For all the other tasks ahead of her, this seemed the most inspiring and pleasant.
