Quest of Hope: A Novel (3 page)

The relieved priest fell to his knees and cried a prayer of thanksgiving for the sparing of his helpless sheep: “
Laudamus te, adoramus
te,
glorificamus te, gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam, Domine Deus!
We praise thee, we adore thee, we glorify thee, we give thee thanks for thy great glory, Lord God!”

The villagers crept out through the church door and descended the steps warily. Fearful eyes watched the road carefully and ears were yet cocked for the return of the warriors. But, before long, a nervous laughter broke the silence and, relieved, the families of Weyer hurried toward their smoky hearths. Kurt, Berta, and their round-faced child reached the bottom of the hill and crossed the road. Here they followed the well-worn footpath to their two-room hovel located near the village center.

Kurt’s hut was little more than two years old and still smelled faintly of fresh thatch and clay. He boasted it would be a three-generation house, not merely serving one like so many others. “When our lad weds, it’ll yet stand, and for his lads after that!” Instead of simply sinking posts into the earth, he had dug a deep foundation that he lined with large rocks. Posts were then stood every rod or so and tightly packed with stones and gravel.

The walls of the hut were not unlike the others of the village. They were covered inside and out with wattle and daub—woven wands of oak or willow smeared with a mixture of mud and straw. Kurt was pleased to have a two-room dwelling; a large common room about three rods square, and a smaller room for a private sleeping area. The roof was about two rods tall at the peak, sound and covered to a generous depth with good thatch. Built with a design becoming ever more popular, it rested on long, collared rafters instead of a clutter of interior posts.

In keeping with her duty and despite her soreness and fatigue, Berta began the preparation of the day’s meal. She planned to surprise her guests with wheat rolls and beer that she had bartered with the monastery’s kitchener. The expensive wheat had cost her a double quantity of her best rye loaves plus two ells of spun wool, but this was the day of Heinrich’s salvation, and she was pleased to pay the monk his due.

Kurt heaped a generous supply of wood onto the floor-hearth that was set in the exact center of the common room. He watched as sparks flew around the iron kettles suspended over the flames, and he followed their ascent to the small mouth of the smoke-hole. Suddenly, the door burst open and a cold blast of wind chased a loud tumble of homespun and fur into the room. Kurt laughed and turned to greet his family cheerfully.
“Ja, ja,
welcome! Now everyone, first to the fire and a tankard of beer! We’ve needs be glad-hearted for our good fortune this day. Ha! Let them burn Selters! We’ve no fires to quench and none to bury, no loss of barns or beasts!”

As the family crowded around the fire, Berta carefully ladled dark amber beer into the circle of wooden tankards now waving impatiently toward her. The first served was Jost, the patriarch. He, too, had been eighteen when his own firstborn, Kurt, was baptized. A steely, shrewd, vindictive man, Jost was more able than most to climb and claw his way about the world.

To Jost’s right stood his second born, Baldric, his favored son and the pride of his life. Baldric was about a year younger than Kurt and very different from his brother, indeed. He was hard-hearted, blustery, and ambitious. A barrel-chested, brutish, heavy-limbed young man of seventeen, he swaggered about the village daring any to challenge him. He stood a head taller than most men and could crush the whole of a large apple in his hand. His brown hair curled atop a broad head, and his dark blue eyes were set narrowly, giving him the look of an angry bear.

To Jost’s left stood Arnold, the third born. Almost two years younger than Kurt, he was broad-shouldered and lean, dark-eyed, and cunning. Though only sixteen, he suffered the weight of life like a cantankerous village elder. Brooding, covetous, and mean-spirited, Arnold spent each waking moment calculating a way out of his position as a cart-hauler for the monks. Most thought he should be grateful for his good fortune, but he was one who sought the greatest gain for the least possible effort. His ability to avoid the labor of the fields was renowned and some claimed they had never seen a single bead of sweat drip from his furrowed brow. The youth’s chief pleasure was eavesdropping on the manor, for he had become a gatherer of whispers and a merchant of secrets.

“No spills,” pleaded Berta. “Kurt worked a long day to buy this from the monks.” She served the men, then turned to Sieghild, Jost’s fourth born and Kurt’s only sister. At fourteen, Sieghild was blonde and fair skinned, lanky and plain, a bit stubborn, like her father, but also compassionate like her deceased mother. Normally quiet and reserved, at times she was overcome by fits of fury that the village women murmured were nothing less than possessions by devils.

“You … girl,” grunted Jost. “You’ll not be drinking more than a small share. We men ‘ave claim to the next draught and we want plenty to go ‘round.” Jost looked with contempt at his daughter. “Nearly fifteen and no offers … ‘tis no wonder. Now, where’s m’little Heinz? Let me give m’blessing to the little Christian!”

“Berta,” warned Sieghild, “the last time he blessed an infant he passed wind in the poor girl’s cradle!”

Berta immediately stepped between her father-in-law and the helpless infant sleeping peacefully in the straw-filled cradle. “Perhaps it’d be best that you be sticking only your face in there!”

The hovel roared with laughter.

“Well said!” boomed Baldric.

Jost shrugged innocently. “Ach, I was only about to put some good sense into the boy.”

Berta grumbled beneath her breath and turned toward one of the iron kettles filled with steaming water and a basket of mixed grain. She began preparing her
Mus—
a porridge-like mush—by adding several fists of grain to the water along with a few pinches of precious salt. For the next quarter hour she stirred the thickening staple with a long, wooden spoon while the household chattered quietly. Finally she handed the spoon to Sieghild and lifted her crying son from his cradle. “Kurt?” she called. “The blessing for Heinrich?”

Kurt was bristling at some remark of Baldric when he heard his wife’s words. He nodded and took his son awkwardly into his calloused hands. “Aye,” he answered. The young father cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly as the circle quieted. He held the suddenly quiet, wide-eyed infant at arms’ length. “Heinz—” Kurt looked at his wife and remembered her dislike of nicknames. “Heinrich of Weyer.” He paused as he struggled to remember the words he had rehearsed for weeks. Finally he began. “Ah,
ja.
I’ve a good blessing for you, lad.” He cleared his throat, looked deeply into baby Heinrich’s eyes, and spoke clearly.

For this circle of kin I vow

To stand by you and humbly bow

To God above and blood below,

To join our hands against all foes.

I pray you courage and arms as steel,

A mind of wisdom, a heart that feels.

Though battles may find you, may each one be won,

Your eyes turned toward heaven and lit by the sun.

The room was silent. Kurt was not known for using words well and the blessing had the ring of a poet. Baldric belched and wiped a woollen sleeve across his face. “Ha! What kind of talk was that?” He turned toward Arnold and guffawed, “Sounds like the ramblings of a mad monk!”

Kurt handed Heinrich to Sieghild. “Just because you’d be the family fool…”

Baldric leapt to his feet and swung at Kurt, landing his monstrous fist squarely on the young man’s chin. Kurt collapsed atop a mound of straw against the far wall. Then, amidst the approving cheers and roars of Jost and Arnold, Kurt climbed to his feet and charged Baldric, bellowing like a raging bull. Baldric was the size of a seasoned knight and tossed his older brother aside with ease. Kurt, no easy prey for most, crashed against the trestle table, upsetting Berta’s wheat rolls and honey. Baldric seized Kurt by the throat as he raised his hands for quarter. Baldric had won every boyhood brawl, and this day would be no exception.

Berta shook her head as Sieghild tilted the table back to its legs and gathered the precious buns into the basket. She stared into the pot and grumbled a few oaths, then asked Sieghild to fetch more water from the nearby village well. A good mush was bubbling, and two scrawny chickens were waiting to be boiled in another pot, now steaming. The woman looked wearily around the room and, content all was now restored to calm, turned toward her husband. “You might reach out the door for a bit of snow and put it on that swelling face of yours.” Kurt grumbled and nodded but was soon laughing again with his brothers.

For the next hour the two women huddled together in conversation, stirring the mush and sinking the chickens, trying their best to ignore the men. So, despite the blustery, cold winds of January that bent the smoky columns atop Weyer’s rooftops, the house of Kurt was returned to proper order.

By the bells of nones the household had sucked the last bit of meat from both birds and fingered the mush bowl clean. It was a good mush, a stout and hearty blend of boiled barley and rye. The wheat rolls had brought a roar of approval from all gathered, and the taste of sweet honey on that bitter day was likened to a gift from the Holy Virgin herself.

Outside, the sky was a heavy gray and darkening as the day aged. Inside, Kurt kept the fire blazing and now cradled his newborn in his strong arms. Berta sat with Sieghild on one side of the hearth while the men lounged about the straw-strewn floor atop their woollen cloaks and furs.

At last, Jost stood to his feet and stretched. After shaking the straw from his hood he ceremoniously reached into his leather satchel hanging on a peg and withdrew a mysterious parchment scroll. “Afore I present this, I’ve needs to speak of some things.” Jost the Shepherd was not a tall man, nor strong-built, but his resonant voice and imposing eyes commanded the unwavering attention of all. He looked into each face carefully and then began to speak.

“All here be kin. I’ve a half-hide of land, as y’know. Now, a half-hide’s not enough to earn a man’s freedom, but ‘tis more than the cotters can claim and more than what I had when I was but a shepherd.” He paused a moment, suddenly picturing in his mind’s eye his late wife and their difficult years spent in drafty, one-room huts on the outskirts of nearby Villmar. He could see himself walking over the endless pastures of the Lahn valley as the monks’ shepherd. He remembered the few pennies they had always kept in a wooden bowl, never as many as a shilling at a time and barely enough to pay the taxes they owed.

Jost returned from his musings and continued. “Hear my wheezing chest? Not the sounds of a man likely to see Lammas. Methinks I am near m’grave. No matter. It is time to leave behind what I can; a few thoughts and a promise. Lads, look to me hard in the eyes! There’d be two things not to forget once I’m gone and you needs teach the little one. Your lives need rest on these two things and these alone: the code and the cause.

“First, cursed be any who shames this family by breaking the code of m’father, Thonges. I’ve taught you the way before, but I say it again, plainly: hate sloth, steal naught, keep a pledge. ‘Tis simple enough.”

Jost stopped to let his words settle and took a long draught of beer. Baldric nodded to his father. He liked to work and had no urge to scrump; he had made no vows. He was suddenly relieved, as are all who imagine the way of salvation so well within their gifts.

Sieghild offered timidly,
“Vater,
the priest says some different.”

Kurt groaned, but he recognized the courage in his sister’s challenge—for true valor is in proportion to fear, and the poor girl was terrified.

Jost’s face tightened like wet deerskin in the summer’s sun but he allowed her to speak.

Sieghild began. “The father says we’ve to keep the rules of the Holy Church. He says the Church has its place, the men-of-arms have theirs, and we have ours. We needs keep the order of things right. Our place is to be kept without questions and other contempts. We ought ‘seek truth only through the Holy Church and protection but through our rightful lords.’ He says the end of the world is at hand, that Judgment is close and the world needs to be fit and ready. He says we’ve a code of ten commandments to live by… not three.” Her voice faded to a fearful whisper.

Jost bristled but found himself on precarious ground. He, too, feared the Judgment to come so he thought carefully before he answered.
“Ja, ja,
follow the bells and chants, heed the mumbles of the churchmen as y’wish, but never, never stray from the family code. Ach, I know The Commandments, but they are ten ways to say the same as what we say in three! Now, enough of this.”

Sieghild took her seat and the circle grew quiet once more. Jost took Heinrich from his mother and held him at arm’s length. “You’ve a good code to follow, boy, and also a worthy cause.”

Berta moved to protest, but Kurt silenced her with a stare.

“It is our duty to avenge the wrongs we have suffered at the hand of Gunnar’s kin.” Jost looked hard at the child. “This next generation shall not fail its duty. The day my mother was savaged by Gunnar of Arfurt we were bound to her revenge as sure as our ancestors bound us to these lands. That ancient oath of vengeance still stands, as does ours!

“The whole realm knows Gunnar kin to be thieves of sheep and cattle, witches and worshipers of the old gods. They cast spells and hexes and dance naked in the night… I’ve seen these things. For their crimes they’ve lost little more than a barn of grain, a hut or two, and but one small child. Our cause is this: we live to avenge, without quarter and without fear.”