Quest of Hope: A Novel (28 page)

“Then so it is,” interrupted Johannes.

Heinrich nodded.

“And the godparents?”

Marta scowled at Heinrich. She was not one to forget an offense. “I’ll not burden my kin with this … this cursed thing. Herwin and Varina shall be named again.”

Varina looked sympathetically at Heinrich and the baby. She had long ago forgiven him the mystery of her brother and had grown to love him. Her heart now broke for him and the pitiful infant.

Heinrich nodded. Father Johannes hurried the sacrament. “We’ve no time for other things … I’ve no salt and—”

“Father, I do!” exclaimed Heinrich. He was anxious that his daughter have every advantage against the wiles of the Evil One, and he withdrew a precious pinch from his apron.

Johannes touched a fingertip of salt to the child’s mouth and poured water over her head.
“Et Filii …in nomine Patris … et Spiritus Sancti…”

Wide-eyed and suddenly terrified, Marta shrieked. “Nay! Oh, blessed Virgin Mary! He spoke out of proper order … the child’s cursed and damned to be sure!”

Indeed, the aging priest had pronounced the baptism in error and the poor serfs were now in terror for the baby’s soul. A great wail was raised to heaven.

“My God, father!” shrieked Heinrich, “You’ve sent my daughter’s soul to hell!”

“It surely does not matter, my son. If it gives you peace I shall pronounce it again.”

Marta screeched. “Not him! Get Pious!”

Confused and uncertain, Heinrich ordered the dumbstruck Johannes away and went to Margaretha’s side to kiss her wet head. Then, angry and fearful, he stormed out-of-doors in search of Father Pious. In an hour he returned with Pious in tow. The corpulent priest was all too pleased to feign outrage for his superior’s shortcoming and quickly rebaptized the infant. To the great relief of the household, he then assured all that he had salvaged her little soul from the ever-straining reach of Lucifer’s evil grasp. “Pope Gregory had made it so very clear that all sacraments must be kept in perfect order. You were wise to call me.”

Exhausted and grateful, Heinrich offered a half-shilling for the parish alms tin and a tankard of ale for the smiling priest.

The day quickly passed into night and sleep came easy to the weary baker. But sometime in the predawn darkness of the next day, baby Margaretha found her rest as well. Her teary-eyed father bathed and wrapped her in a tiny linen shroud and laid her in an infant’s grave by the cold stone wall of Weyer’s church.

It was late September, a few days past St. Michael’s Day, when Heinrich confirmed the betrothal of Effi to Jan, a merchant of Frankfurt who traveled the region each season. Jan was a freeman, a city dweller of good report. Two years older than Heinrich, he was twenty-two and a widower without children. Effi, it seems, had served him water from Weyer’s well in the spring of the year prior and the two had met on several of his passings since that first meeting.

For his part, Jan was drawn to the little redhead’s feisty spirit and twinkling eyes. He loved her banter and her barbs and saw the tender heart of mercy beneath the bluster. In fact, so great was his affection that he had reached far into his strong box to pay the manumission for her freedom. Prior Mattias had charged a heavy fee. “We need healthy women to bear us more good men for Weyer and we needs be paid well.” He hoped to discourage others from snatching young wives from his village, though he was wondering if the villages were not beginning to become overcrowded.

Jan added a generous dowry to secure the woman’s future. “Two pounds and a mark,” he said, “are on deposit in the Templar’s preceptory in nearby Lauken. Should I die, Effi may return here to claim it. Otherwise I shall surely provide for her as a Christian man ought.”

Effi, weeping with joy, embraced the man as Heinrich offered his blessing on the two. To avoid much talk, the prior insisted the wedding be in Frankfurt. None of Effi’s household would be permitted to attend—the risk of peasants leaving the manor was too great and the abbot thought it better to “spare them the sight of things they are not ordained to have.”

The harvest season brought other news as well. Though the time for war and conquest most commonly occurred in spring, some lords had begun to realize that the time just after harvest was of some advantage; the knights would have their own fields scythed and their grains in storehouses, yet the weather would be suitable for travel. A quick conquest of nearby land could be accomplished before the Advent and winter would prevent a counterassault.

With this in mind, the abbot of Villmar was suddenly nervous about the plans of his southern neighbor, Lord Tomas. The ambitious lord was rumored to have an increasing appetite for an alliance with the abbey. By challenging and defeating Lord Klothar, the abbot’s present protector, Tomas would be in a position to demand a contract of defense for himself.

In response to these rumors, Lord Klothar had presented his picnic on the border. But rather than dissuade Tomas, it was learned that the event had been seen as a provocation. Riders were now often spotted along the far banks of the Laubusbach. In fact, on one particular day a yeoman swore on the relics of his church that he had witnessed a company of armed men cross the stream at night and disappear into the forests toward Villmar. It was this testimony that prompted the prior to order Werner to begin leading scouting parties of his own.

The protection alliance between Villmar and Lord Klothar of Runkel required the lord to furnish “whatever arms deemed right and necessary to provide order and safety to the lands, buildings, chattel, roadways, beasts, stores, and subjects of the manors of the Abbey of Villmar.” Klothar, however, had problems of his own. Another alliance had drawn his soldiers into Saxony in support of imperial forces under assault. So Klothar was forced to do what he had hoped to avoid—hire the Templars to protect his contract with the abbot.

With certainty and precision, the Knights Templar had slowly developed their own lands into prosperous manors. Based to the west of Villmar’s abbey, in Lauken, their borders extended from the Lahn at Limburg in nearly a straight line southeastward until it joined the Emsbach. From there it continued to a point just south of the village of Selters. Their entire manor was nearly twice the size of Villmar’s lands and contained six villages. The Templars, however, had an appetite for more, including a contested wedge of land between themselves and the abbey’s manor.

Lord Klothar feared the Templars. Many of these warrior-monks had been seasoned on the bloodied sands of Palestine and were nearly invincible in battle. Because of their vast network scattered across most of Christendom, they could summon companies of knights or sergeants in support from nearly every quarter. One could not offend a single knight-brother without risking the wrath of the others. Furthermore, they had become the single largest benefactor of dying lords whose last wish was to secure an eternal reward by granting large tracts of land and treasure to these devout warriors of the Cross. With such assets they had become the bankers of the Christian world and had the means to buy whatever supplies, mercenaries, or other advantages any situation might require.

It was early in October when Heinrich saw a group of four Templars and a squire enter Weyer on horseback. Three of the men were lesser brethren and wore their brown robes over chain mail. They each wore steel caps and carried long-swords and shields. With them was one of the knights, easily identified by his white, sleeveless gown draped over his mail. His left breast boasted an embroidered crimson cross, and atop his head was a steel helm. Heinrich stood in awe, for as the knight turned the baker saw a second red cross stitched on the knight’s back—a sign he had served God in the great Crusades.

It was midday and the bells of sext rang out as the Templars approached the bakery. At the order of the knight, the group dismounted and aligned themselves into a perfect row, facing east. They bent on their knees and prayed, and when they were finished the knight led them to the bakery door. “God be with you, baker.”

Heinrich bowed. “And to you, sir knight.”

“Have you a bit of bread we might buy?”

“Of course, sire. But it would please the abbot, methinks, to grant our poor bread as a gift.”

“With thanks, good man, but the abbot provides for us in other ways. Take this penny and we’d be forever in your debt.”

Heinrich took the silver
Pfennig
and filled a basket with bread and two pretzels. “I… I am so very sorry, brother, but I have naught but rye bread.”

The knight grunted and stared at the dark rolls. “Rye,” he sighed. “But, lad, it could be worse … it could’ve been oats!” The man laughed and slapped Heinrich on the shoulder. “’Tis good, son, good enough.”

Heinrich smiled and turned his eye to the squire who had finished hitching the horses to a nearby rail. It was Alwin, the Gunnar. Heinrich watched the lad as he recited words in Latin. Then, the novice began to walk about in a large circle, stopping to act out some strange movements. His odd behavior captured Heinrich’s attention.

“He’s doing a penance for losing a shoe,” offered one of the brothers.

“But…
what
is he doing?”

“Each day at the bells of sext he is required to act the fourteen Stations of the Cross. There … he’s at number seven, the second fall of the Savior. Next he shall bless the women of Jerusalem, then … there … he falls for the third time.”

Heinrich watched, spellbound. The lad seemed to suffer the very emotions of Christ at each act. “The man is truly devout.”

“Aye. There, he is dying on the Cross.”

Alwin’s face twisted as he stretched his arms wide. He groaned as if he felt the very anguish of Jesus, then turned his head upright toward heaven and cried,
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!”
He fell to the ground, paused, then rolled to lie still as if shrouded in his tomb.

“There, the fourteenth station.”

Heinrich was speechless, taken as much by Alwin’s sincerity as he was by his precision and drama.

Finished, Alwin was summoned to greet Heinrich. “Good baker, this is Alwin, a squire-novice in training and soon to take his vows.”

“Hello again, Heinrich.” Alwin smiled and extended his hand.

Heinrich was uncomfortable. His own many hours of penance suddenly seemed pitifully lacking. He took the lad’s hand and released it quickly. Heinrich ventured a quick look into the squire’s face.
Touched by God,
he thought. Indeed, there was an intelligence and a charity in the lad’s eyes that set him apart from others. He was about fifteen, Heinrich guessed. Five years younger than Heinrich, the young man was tall, strong, dark-eyed and blond. He was devoted to his faith and to his masters in the preceptory, and would, no doubt, take his vows soon. Eager and faithful, he was beloved by his brethren and the favored friend to all.

Alwin smiled. “We have not met since the bailiff was searching for your uncle’s murderer.”

“Aye.”

“All agreed it was a poacher.”

Heinrich shrugged and shuffled. He could not free himself from the images of the dead Gunnars dumped in that muddy grave.
His cousins … perhaps uncles to him? A brother?
he wondered.

“Well, we needs be off. I hope to see you again.”

Heinrich nodded.

“I hope we might be friends!”

The baker’s mouth went dry.

Chapter 12

THE BROWN SERPENT

F
ather Pious warned Arnold to stay away from Emma’s hovel on All-Saint’s Day. He made it very clear that to interfere in the dark world of spirits and shadows would bring only trouble to Arnold and the entire village. Father Pious insisted that he would keep an eye on the woman and her unfortunate son, and his vigilance would be enough. Arnold mumbled a grudging assent and returned to his drunken brooding.

Richard was brooding as well. Since the injury to his hand he had not been the same man he once was. The kind words of Emma, the urgings of Brother Lukas, and the sympathies of Heinrich did little to encourage him. Even his new position as Weyer’s forester did nothing to bring him out of his deep melancholy.

By nightfall of All-Saint’s Day, Richard had left the hovel to go wandering in search of a willing maiden while his father staggered to the mill to find Dietrich. “F-friend, g-g-good and true friend,” slurred Arnold. “We’ve needs to put something to r-rest this night.”

“Ach, nay … not the old woman!”

“Aye, so it is.”

“Arnold, you put yer position with the monks at risk, methinks.”

“Ja?
Then so be it!”

“Hear me, y’drunken fool. I’ve no part in it. I’ll not have my mill taken in penalty for some hex you bring upon us all.”

Insulted, Arnold pulled himself upright. “Then I shall settle the matter m’self, y’coward!” Arnold stumbled through the village but soon collapsed and fell asleep on the damp, cold ground about a quarter furlong from the village edge and within earshot of Emma’s quiet hut.

The November night grew raw and a light drizzle of rain fell through the leafless branches of the trees lining the Laubusbach. A few hours later, Arnold awakened, disoriented, shivering, and wet. He wrapped his woollen wrap tightly around his shoulders and looked about. Remembering his mission, he hurried closer to Emma’s hovel and positioned himself behind a tree trunk just fifteen paces from her door. Now he was certain he would learn the woman’s secret of All Souls’ Eve.

The dripping rain was the only sound to be heard as Arnold waited and waited, struggling aginst the effects of cold, hunger, and fear. Finally, he thought he heard a snap of twigs to his left. Arnold stiffened and tried to sharpen his senses. He trained his eyes on the muddy footpath leading to the woman’s home and held his breath. He heard another snap, then a sloshing noise. His skin tingled with sudden fright. A large, hooded figure then appeared, stoop-shouldered and hurried. In a moment, the silhouette slouched through the low gate and was at the woman’s door. In an instant it was ushered quickly within.

Arnold crept toward the fence edging the woman’s croft. Certain he had just beheld an incarnate demon, his heart pounded. His shaking fingers plucked a dagger from within his cloak.
But is he made of flesh? Does a demon bleed? Indeed, can it even die?
A shiver ran through his body. Arnold stared transfixed on the cottage for nearly an hour before Emma’s door creaked open. Arnold stood still as death as the figure filled the dimly lit doorway and lingered for a moment. The shadow turned and stepped toward the gate with a few long strides. Then, as it passed through the gate and onto the path, Arnold leapt from the darkness with a cry and a thrust of his blade.

The figure was quick to be sure, agile with catlike reflexes. It had sensed danger before Arnold had attacked and stepped deftly to one side. With a quick kick and grab the shadow felled Arnold into the mud.

“Aaahhh!” screamed Arnold. He begged and blubbered like a terrified child. “Please, demon … please I—”

“What?” The figure remained motionless for a second and then demanded, “What be your name?”

Arnold lay quaking. The demon’s voice sounded like that of a man. “I… I… it be Arnold of Weyer, sir.”

“Ah, Arnold, your soul will be mine and now I can toy with it as my plaything for all eternity,” hissed the figure.

“Nay … oh, nay … fearsome demon—”

“Shut your mouth, fool! Methinks your soul hardly worth the bother. Tell me why you are here.”

“I… I wanted to see about the woman’s visitor.”

The figure tightened his grip and Arnold writhed in pain.

“I shall release you on two conditions.”

Arnold trembled. “Aye … yes, of course, anything you ask … anything at all.”

“First, swear to me that you shall ne’er tell another of this night. Not of things you have seen or things you have heard.”

Arnold nodded. “S-su-surely … of course, aye, not a word, none, sir demon.”

“I’ve heard of your bag of ‘penny sins.’”

Arnold gulped. “Perhaps such a thing is pleasing to you?” he asked timidly.

The shadow paused. “Aye, as does all evil. Therefore … your second condition is to leave your bag in the monks’ herbarium by Martinmas.”

Arnold was confused and suddenly not very pleased. “Sir demon, I do not understand, I… I cannot…”

“Then I shall take your soul this very night!” shouted the figure. He raised his arm high above his head. Arnold was sure he saw the glint of a devil’s blade.

“Nay!” pleaded Arnold. “I shall do as you demand! Please spare me this night. I beg you release my soul!”

The figure jerked Arnold to his feet and peered at him from deep within a dark hood. Arnold’s legs bowed and shook; he clenched his hands at his breast and trembled as he heard the final words.

“Your soul is released upon news of the bag. First, swear your pledge to keep silence on these matters.”

“I do so swear.”

“Good. If you fail I shall steal your soul by night.”

Eleven days after Arnold’s terror, Brother Lukas entered his herbarium to find a large, leather bag stuffed to near bursting with silver pennies. It was on Martinmas, the twelfth day of November, and Lukas thought the gesture most fitting. After all, St. Martin had given the cloak off his back to spare a freezing beggar. With winter coming, Lukas could now grant warmth and shelter to many.

A little more than two weeks passed and the season of Advent began. Father Pious insisted that the Sabbath before Christ’s Mass be more solemn than in previous years. Therefore, the wool-clad folk rose well before prime and began the day in a long procession to the church where they crowded into the nave to stand upon the cold, straw-covered floor for a predawn homily. Then, dismissed until the bells of sext, the villagers returned to their green-bedecked homes and ate their mush, breads, boiled meats, and salted pork.

At the appointed time, the villagers returned to the church to hear prayers and to offer confession. Encouraged by the Archbishop of Mainz to press for the “greater redemption” of his flock, Pious demanded confession now be done at both Christmas and Easter, immediately after which his people would be offered the blood and body of Christ. Souls cleaned and spirits refreshed, the villagers were now free to celebrate the holy day and the three days of respite their masters granted.

Christmas was a time for the wealthy to help the less fortunate, and the abbot joined in the spirit of the season by delivering sundry tasties to his delighted villages. So, on Christmas morning the whole of Weyer gathered in the churchyard to enjoy large casks of cider, mead, ale, baskets of fresh-baked bread and preserves granted by their benevolent abbot. By midday of Christmas, the glebe was kindled with snapping fires and boiling pots.

Lord Klothar sent some musicians to add gladness to the celebration and the village sang and danced in the cold December air as though it were the early days of spring. Laughter echoed against the brown, stone walls of the silent church and on it went through Christmas and deep into the night of St. Stephan’s.

Exhausted from the festivities, Heinrich stood off to the side watching the happy revelers at play. As he scanned the gathering, his eyes fell upon a slight form at the foot of the church’s bell tower. It was a woman, alone and silhouetted against the rooftops of the torch-lit village. He walked carefully through the darkness, beyond the stretched shadows of the feast straining his eyes to be certain it was she.

The night sky was moonless and overspread Weyer like a jeweled canopy. Heinrich walked slowly, placing each foot tentatively forward in the darkness. He came within a few yards of the woman when the front of the church was suddenly awash in a brilliant white light. It was as if a thousand torches had burst into flame before him! There, wide-eyed and startled stood fair Katharina, bathed in a white light, smiling and staring at the sky.

“Look! A falling star … oh!” she cried.

Heinrich’s eyes never left Katharina’s delighted face, even as the illumination faded.

“Heinrich?” Her voice was tender and affectionate.

“Ja, Katharina, it is me.”

“Did you see the star?”

“Nay, but… but I saw you and you looked like an angel.”

If he could have seen her face he would have noticed the color fill her cheeks. Heinrich felt suddenly uncomfortable and a weight of guilt came over him. “I-I ought get back to the others. Methinks the round-dance shall start soon and Marta may want to …”

“Ja,
and Ludwig shall be looking for me. But, first tell me, Heinrich, are you well?” Her voice was earnest, almost pleading.

The man wanted to weep, for he was surely not well. His heart had ached for Katharina since the day he first met her. “I am well. And you?”

Katharina’s heart sank. She wanted to hear him say that he was miserable or angry, empty … thinking of her each day. In the darkness she ran her fingers lightly over the bruises her husband had raised on her arm. “I? Yes, Heinrich, ‘tis well with me.”

The two paused for a brief moment and stared at each other in the blackness of the churchyard. Heinrich could hear her breathing and he closed his eyes. He could yet see the vision of her emblazoned by the star. A sound startled him and Heinrich’s eyes opened. It was time to return to their worlds, apart and forever alone.

Heinrich could hardly bear Marta’s touch as she grabbed his arm and scolded him. “You leave me with this brat! Where have you been?” Her voice was grating and harsh, like a blast of sleet.

Heinrich shrugged.

“Ha! Methinks you off with another! Listen to me, husband. If you stray I’ll have you beaten by the bailiff and you’ll be doing more of your pathetic penances for all the village to see!”