Quest of Hope: A Novel (29 page)

Heinrich sighed—he had much practice. “Give me m’son and go see your friend Anka.”

Marta bristled and threw a tankard of warm ale into the man’s face. He stiffened but stood quietly as others laughed, then wiped his sleeve across his face. He stared blankly at his wife as she disappeared into the torchlight, then picked up his crying son from the ground. Without a word he turned and walked away; he could no longer bear the joy of Christmas.

Lent was calculated to be forty days before Easter, Sabbaths not counted. Since Easter was to be on the second day of April, Lent would begin the fourteenth day of February in this most dreary and snowy winter of 1195. It was a reckoning that Father Pious dreaded, since the season of Lent was his least favored time. While time still remained, the overstuffed churchman hastened to indulge himself in heavy breads, dark ales, and, according to the rumors, companionship unbecoming a man of the Church.

The priest’s ambition would be also fattened, for Oberbrechen’s priest had died a few weeks prior, and Father Pious had quickly petitioned his superior in Mainz. He hoped to be awarded that parish, including its prosperous glebe lands, as his own. Furthermore, Father Johannes was deteriorating and it would surprise none to find him cold and blue in his bed at any time, leaving Pious positioned to claim the parish of Weyer as well. Despite the looming severity of Lent, life for Pious was suddenly brimming with opportunity.

Life was not as happy for Richard. The young man was disgruntled and sullen, and his handsome face was beginning to show signs of the misery of his soul. He simply rose each day to go about his tasks despondently as a broken, woeful soul. To add to his miseries, Richard’s father had pledged him to marry a woman the lad had never met. It was a profitable exchange for Arnold, negotiated in the quiet chambers of the abbot’s residence and serving the secret purposes of many.

Heinrich nearly wept at his friend’s wedding and thought Richard’s fate to be as bad as his own. The couple had no feast, no merry-making, or the slightest pretense of joy. Richard had only met the girl one hour beforehand and was suddenly sure he would have been better off being chained to a mad cow. Brunhild was more attractive than most—thin, brown-haired, blue-eyed, and fair. But it took only a few moments to discern a heart hardened with anger. Heinrich was certain she must be blood-kin to his own Marta.

By mid-April the village was deluged with rains unlike anything seen before. Great sheets of water poured from heaven day and night and this, coupled with the melting snows, made life unbearable. The mud along the footpaths and roadways was shin deep in most places’, knee deep in others. Several huts’ roofs had collapsed and their occupants had little choice but to crowd into neighbors’ hovels.

Rivulets poured from the high ground surrounding the village into the surging Laubusbach. Swollen with more water than it could contain, the faithful, cheerful Laubusbach had become uncharacteristically fearsome and untrustworthy. It quickly turned into a brown serpent, swirling and churning, swallowing great gulps of earth from the banks that were once its gentle shoulders. It bore atop its rolling back huge timbers and debris from places afar, and soon it carried death, as well, for drowned sheep from unknown pens began to tumble into its angry course.

Some thought the Easter confessions to be the cause; either they were lacking in truth, as some said, or were so forthright that God needed to exact a special penance of His own. But now, just two weeks later, it mattered little what the cause. The abbey’s bailiff ordered Oberbrechen and Weyer to remove their residents to the safety of their churches’ high ground.

The floodwaters brought more than mud, debris, and sheep carcasses into Weyer. When the rains finally stopped and the Laubusbach returned to its gentle course, a pestilence emerged from the many pools of stagnant water and spread its invisible terror from hut to hut. Many suffered and died, but to Heinrich’s indescribable distress his good friend Ingelbert lay ravaged and tormented by fever.

Poor Emma sat by her beloved son’s bed both day and night, refusing sleep and all but the most meager bits of bread for three days. Lukas often sat with her, pleading with all heaven to spare the simple-hearted lad. Ignoring the blistering complaints of his wife, Heinrich hurried about his tasks only to fly to Emma’s badly damaged cottage where he kept vigil with his beloved friends and hoped for God’s mercy. But, alas, it was not to be. On a sunny afternoon gently warmed by soft southern winds, Ingelbert left the embrace of those he loved to discover the wonders of a new world.

The death of a friend is a loss rarely recovered and those privileged to know and love Ingelbert recognized the beautiful soul contained by his imperfect vessel. Heinrich returned to his flood-damaged bakery deeply grieved, but determined to continue. The monks had sent extra flour from their granary but encouraged the bakers of each village to stretch their goods with sawdust and chaff—an act punishable by heavy fines or flogging at any other time. Those villagers who had secret handgrinders were granted pardon if they would give them to the bailiff or his deputies. Several surfaced in Weyer and these were put to quick use by the miller for grinding what grains had survived in the upper reaches of his storehouses.

The young Gunnar named Alwin had come to aid the village’s recovery. Weeks before, Alwin had taken his vows as a Knight Templar. In so doing he asked for a new name to confirm his change in identity. He was to be called Brother Blasius, a name chosen by his marshal in memory of an Armenian martyr who had lived nearly nine hundred years earlier. Given his lowly birth, many were displeased when he was conferred as a full knight and not merely a sergeant. However, his piety and uncommon spiritual gifts had inspired his superiors to drape a white robe with the Order’s distinctive red cross over his broad shoulders.

Blasius brought a quiet strength and calm to the distressed village. The sixteen-year-old spent hours each day on his knees weeping and praying for the folk, and his sincerity and devotion did not go unnoticed. As the peasants huddled for their portion of bread each morning, they found great comfort in his earnest prayers and kind words.

Another knight that caught Heinrich’s attention was an elderly man in service to Lord Klothar. The man was heavily bearded, and his long, gray hair hung loose across his shoulders. He was broad-shouldered and tall, lean and strong, but had uncommonly sad and compassionate eyes.

“Good knight,” apologized the baker one morning, “I’ve but a bit of barley bread for you.”

“Aye, lad … shall do well enough,” he answered.

Heinrich hesitated. “I… I am called Heinrich.”

The man looked at the baker squarely. “Yes, so I have been told. I am Gottwald, vassal to Klothar.”

“You’ve lands by Runkel?”

The knight paused. “Nay, lad. M’lands lie elsewhere, but I journey to Runkel from time to time as duty requires.”

Heinrich nodded. “Forgive me, sire, but I cannot help but wonder what interest brings you to our suffering village?”

Gottwald’s face turned to stone. “I’ve interest in any who suffers plight!”

Heinrich knew the conversation had ended.

The warm sunshine of May gently coaxed green from the drying ruts of Weyer. Sprouts of grass quickly covered the village paths, and crofts now burst with springtime shoots and blooms. The fields surrounding the village were alive with grain and with workmen laboring to weed and harrow their precious furrows. Despite the land’s return to life, Emma now found smiling more difficult, especially as she kneaded the earth to plant her flowers. Her hut had been repaired, but not her heart.

On Midsummer’s morning, a happy Effi climbed into a horse-drawn cart to leave for her wedding in Frankfurt. Though she longed for life with her beloved merchant, it was a bittersweet farewell, indeed. As she hugged her brother tightly she cast one final look toward the distant, brown-stoned church of Weyer and the familiar comfort of her lifelong home. Heinrich wept openly and embraced his little sister. The ever-faithful Herwin and his household followed, in turn, until, at the bells of terce, the young woman finally turned her back on those she loved and faced her future in the bustling city by the Rhine.

Summer came and went and autumn leaves soon drifted atop the village thatch. It was the first day of October when Arnold, Richard, and Heinrich stood at eve-tide with hands wrapped round tankards of brown cider. Arnold had grown ever more fearful, traveling the woodland in terror of the demon with whom he had bargained for his soul. He had kept his vows: he had surrendered his penny bag to Brother Lukas and had breathed not one word of his encounter to a single soul. But the man was fearful, not repentant, and he was bitter as well. He remained certain that the Gunnars had murdered his brother Baldric and he lived day and night imagining how he might avenge the deed.

Richard suffered his own miseries as well. Life with his new bride was as unhappy as he had anticipated. Richard was his father’s son, however, so rage became a balm to his fear. He spent his few idle hours conspiring with his father to make the world pay for their miseries.

Heinrich heard little of their plots and cared less. He had tasted vengeance and it was not sweet to him. He had sworn to himself that he’d never again take another’s life in the cause of wrong. Besides, he had more pressing matters to consider—for his wife was in labor with another child.

Heinrich stood by his doorstep where he waited for the birth to be announced. A dog barked in the distant wood and Marta cried out in pain. He listened as the midwife calmed her, and then he waited some more. Heinrich grimaced as Marta screamed again, and then again. At long last, a baby’s cry was heard and in moments the midwife came out of the doorway wiping her hands on a blood-stained apron. She was weary but relieved. “He’d be a strong-lookin’lad and has a good cry. All is well, Heinrich. He can wait till the morn for the baptism.”

So, soon after the bells of prime, a beaming Heinrich and his household stood once again in Weyer’s church as Father Pious claimed another soul for Christendom. The babe was baptized Johann Wilhelm.

Soon after the snowy days of the Epiphany in the year 1196, Heinrich’s father-in-law, Dietrich the miller, was elected the reeve of Weyer. He had not particularly wanted the job but Arnold thought it would be of strategic value. Dietrich was not a popular candidate, and his election was secured only by the threats of Woodward Arnold. Dietrich’s reputation for cunning and for deception was renown, and he was not the sort of man the monks wished to have in charge of one of their manors. But Villmar left such matters in the hands of their
Volk;
it was wise and prudent and helped keep the order of things despite the dubious tenure of any one man.