Quest of Hope: A Novel (30 page)

Dietrich’s election cast a pall upon the village and scorn upon its elders. It was feared to be an omen of more troubles yet to come. So the coming of planting was greeted with a mixture of tension and hope. In such a state it was fear that always ruled the day, however. News of mad Lord Tomas’s death added a portion of dread. He, of course, had held the lands along the abbey’s eastern and southeastern borders. His heir was Conrad, Tomas’s second-born son who resided at the family estate in Thurungia. The young knight was thought to be ambitious, and all eyes were turned eastward. The first aggressive act of the new lord was to arrest a roving clan of Lord Klothar’s shepherds who had been caught stealing sheep near Kummenau along the Lahn. Lord Tomas had complained to Lord Klothar for years that his subjects were crossing the border to raid flocks, but his entreaties had fallen on disinterested ears. Young Conrad would have none of it. His soldiers snared their prey in early April, hanging nine men and capturing numbers of women and children who were sold into exile in the marshes of Poland.

For Arnold, the news was devastating. “Gunnars!” Indeed, it was so. The family for whom Arnold had borne such hatred was gone and with it all purpose for the woodward’s miserable life.

“Audacious!” roared Klothar. “Conrad is as mad as his father. Next he’ll encroach on Villmar’s lands; I can smell it!”

It was true. The concerns of the abbey at Villmar and its ally in Runkel were not unfounded, though perhaps overstated. Nevertheless, the abbot and his prior spent urgent hours in council with Lord Klothar’s steward and captains. A plan of defense was hastily drawn and Klothar was forced to hire mercenaries to support his knights in the expected attack. However, while they prepared themselves for Lord Conrad in the east, their allies in the west, the Templars, had plans of their own.

The preceptor of the Templars’ holding in Lauken was Brother Phillipe de Blanqfort. He had received orders from his master in Paris to claim the manors that bordered the Emsbach, including the villages of Lindenholz and Eschoffen currently under control of the abbey. These lands, it was argued, had been the rightful, legal property of Emperor Heinrich IV many years prior and had been illegally seized by the Archbishop of Mainz. To further their claim, a papal legate presented the archbishop and the abbot in Villmar with a directive demanding the release of these manors to the Templars.

The news was a blow to the abbot. The contested wedge of land was blessed with rich soil and wide fields. It was part of the “Golden Ground” necessary to sustain the abbey, and its loss would reduce Villmar’s income by at least fifteen percent, just at a time when the treasury was badly depleted by the flood. Abbot Stephen might be able to negotiate for lands elsewhere—his vision could not possibly be limited to the confines of a shrinking manor—but he would not yield this land easily. He dispatched his prior to Mainz with a biting letter of consent to be delivered to the papal legate. Then he turned to Klothar and reduced his pledged fees by twenty percent, “for it is likely you shall have less to protect and defend,” he wrote.

The furious lord raged about his castle in Runkel and ordered the withdrawal of the mercenaries so recently sent to defend the abbey’s lands in the east. “Less to protect and defend? You’d be right in those words!” So, by early June, Weyer and its neighbors along the Laubusbach were left with little more than a handful of grumbling sergeants, one knight of Runkel, and the watchful eyes of a few Templars.

News of the rift between Villmar and Runkel quickly found its way to the eager ears of Lord Conrad in residence at nearby Mensfelden. He called a council in the second week of June and organized a raid against the abbey’s manor. “The time is right to strike! The abbot has lost his love for the Templars; he is in division with Klothar; he is ripe for picking! He shall beg to contract with us for protection.

“Now hear me, hear me well! Our purpose is to expose the weak arm of Klothar. We strike his men without quarter but do no harm to the villages.”

It was two days before the Midsummer’s Day feast when the Templars learned of Conrad’s plans through a spy well placed in the young lord’s court. Eager to thwart the ambitions of another rival, they sent messengers to both the abbot and Lord Klothar. By dusk the church bell in Weyer was ringing the alarm, and the distant gong of Villmar’s new warning bell could be heard thudding faintly in the distance.

The Templars rushed a company of men-at-arms south to defend Selters from an attack from the corner nearest their own. Oberbrechen and Weyer were left to a reluctant Lord Klothar and his knights from Runkel. Though frustrated and angered by the recent amendments to his contract, Lord Klothar was a man of honor and dispatched a large company of soldiers into the abbey’s land. Joining thirty mounted sergeants were seven knights, including Simon—the former liege of Richard—and Gottwald, the aging knight with whom Heinrich had spoken. Each of these two had insisted their swords be specifically used in defense of Weyer, and they separated from their larger company with a dozen seasoned sergeants.

Lord Conrad was young, but was no fool. He expected resistance but had no interest in quarrelling with the Templars. In fact, he had large sums of money held in Templar banks and thought it best to avoid any clash with the armed monks. When he learned of Templars riding in defense of Selters, he adjusted his plans. His forces quickly turned away from Selters and divided in the forests east of the Laubusbach. “You… Roland, take a company to Weyer. I shall lead these against Oberbrechen. Godspeed!”

Roland, a robust knight of middle years, was savage and brutal. He was known for his cruelty throughout Palestine where he had slaughtered countless innocents in the mountain villages of that holy land. He was often drunk and boastful, frequently bragging of his butchery. Conrad was in fear of Roland and oft wished the rogue knight be slain.
Perhaps,
he thought,
this day shall yield profit in many ways.

Roland led his men along the Laubusbach’s high eastern bank until the peak of Weyer’s church could be seen below. He had heard the warning bells clanging all through the valley and knew there’d be no surprise, but surprise was not intended, for the purpose of the day was to engage the village’s defenders. He urged his mount forward and stood in his stirrups to survey the scene below. His gaze scanned the empty footpaths and the vacant workshops of the abandoned village and could see no soul in either field or hovel. Nothing moved, save the smoke which curled perpetually from the thatch-covered huts. His eyes inched along the view until they fell upon a line of troops standing ready along the roadway at the base of the church. Roland smiled and waved his men forward.

Klothar’s men had arrived in good time and they formed a formidable defense at the base of the church hill. Above, the churchyard was filled with anxious peasants crowding its stifling nave or peering over its chest-high stone wall. It was here that Heinrich stood between Emma and Richard, his family safely tucked within the sanctuary.

Lord Conrad’s men were now visible, trotting casually along the ridge parallel to the stream until they disappeared into a tuck, only to reappear at the swine ford. They crossed the water carefully and angled toward the village center and the wall of stiff-faced soldiers waiting dutifully on the roadway.

“By the Virgin!” whispered Richard. “The fight’s to be just beneath us!”

Heinrich nodded and begged Emma to find cover in the churchyard. “Nay,” she answered. “I’ve naught to fear. Notice, lads, the enemy bears no torches, they pay no heed to the village. Methinks we are not their quarry.” She began to perspire and breathe shallow breaths as she clutched her hands to her breast.

Emma had barely finished speaking when Roland raised his gloved fist and set order to his troops. With a few barks and gestures, his mail-clad warriors tightened into a knot of horse, steel, and leather.
They are impressive,
thought Heinrich,
disciplined, well-armed, and confident.
Roland ordered his company to advance.

A mere twenty rods away, Klothar’s knights countered. They tightened their line and looked to their commander, Lord Gottwald. The gray-haired knight stood in his saddle and snarled. Then, with a wave of his hand a sudden flock of arrows was launched from a low hedge edging the glebe to one side. As the shafts whistled their descent at the surprised invaders, Gottwald pointed his sword and led his company in a charge.

Above, the peasants cheered, cried, and yelled as they watched the battle erupt below. Steel flashed and men screamed, horses whinnied and toppled. Archers hurried close to pinpoint their targets and shot their longbows with keen, passionless eyes. The grunts of men and clang of steel tumbled together in a horrid
mêlée
of severed flesh and crunching bone. Oaths and curses, cries and pleadings flew from desperate lips. And in moments it was over.

Roland lay dead; a lance had pierced his heart before his horse crushed his head. His soldiers lay strewn about, dead or dying, save one knight and a few wounded others who tripped through the village, across the Laubusbach and to the safety of the forest.

Lord Klothar’s men had suffered loss as well and the villagers now scrambled from their safe perch to give what comfort they might. Two knights lay dead, one dying. Three sergeants and eight footmen were dead, several others wounded. It had been a brief but costly engagement, but for none was it more costly than to Frau Emma. She scuttled from the churchyard sobbing and groaning until she fell across the still breast of Gottwald. The broken woman wailed and raised her tearing eyes to a silent heaven. Confused, Heinrich wrapped a loving arm around her.

“Shhh … good Emma. Shhh. All shall be well.”

The woman struggled to her knees and embraced the young baker as she sobbed uncontrollably. Heinrich held her tight and wondered why.

“H-he was … the love of my life,” whispered the woman. “And … and the father of Ingelbert …” Her voice trembled and faded away.

Heinrich stared silently at the dead man’s face. He held Emma tightly until Lord Simon touched his shoulder.

“You there, move off. We’ve needs bear our comrade home.”

Heinrich nodded and Emma laid a tender hand across Gottwald’s whitened face. She paused for a lingering moment, then turned away to spare the man scandal in death. The knight looked suspiciously at Emma but Heinrich quickly blurted, “She served his family as a child, sire, and … grew to love him from afar.”

Lord Simon shrugged and ordered four men to lift the corpse into a waiting cart. Emma collapsed when she heard Gottwald’s body drop heavy and hard atop the oak planks.

“I should have kept my distance, Heinrich,” Emma stammered. “In my love I risked shame for him … a shame we hid for so very long!” The woman released a trembling breath.

Heinrich helped her to her feet and walked her slowly home where the two sat quietly in the grass of Emma’s gardens until the woman was content to speak. “We loved in sin when we were young, Heinrich. 1 was near to taking vows in Quedlinburg and he was a squire like none has ever been. I saw him ride his stallion in the joust… ah … a sight to steal a young maid’s heart, for sure! His white hair was like flowing snow upon his strong shoulders, and his smile lit the world for me.

“He loved his God and felt only shame when sin bound us together. He swore to marry me, but I loved him too much to bring trouble to his family.” Emma paused to wipe her nose and eyes. The two rose to walk about the woman’s flowers. “He had been pledged to another … an alliance of families that would keep the peace for many. I dared not undo the wisdom of that betrothal.

“But he felt both duty and love toward me and used his influence to find me a place to raise our Ingly … and found me quills and the like … he loved my work.”

Heinrich was spellbound. “And … what of the mystery of All Souls’ Eve? Has he to do with that?”

Emma sat atop a log at her garden’s edge. She looked carefully at the young man. “I trust you, Heinrich, like no other. I’ve spoken no word of this to any. But secrets weigh heavy and I’ve become old and frail. It suits me now to share the burden.

“To answer you straightaway, aye… it has been Gottwald who once pledged to come each All Souls’Eve, or send a trusted servant, with some silver for our care or a commission for my work. He would play an hour or so with Ingly … I told the dear boy that the man was a caring friend who lived afar … and we read a psalm and prayed.” Emma looked at the sky above and her chin trembled. “Ah, dear Gottwald.” She turned to Heinrich and took his hand. “There was no more sinning, lad, none. But there surely was love.”

Chapter 13

THE GRINDSTONE AND A GIFT

T
he summer brought no rain upon the “Golden Ground.” In fact, throughout Christendom the skies were cloudless and bright for week after thirsty week. The monks in the cloister fasted more than their Rule demanded in hopes of ushering in an army of rain-heavy clouds.

Without rain, the harvest withered. By Lammas there was little left in the fields except stiff stalks of hard and stunted grains. The meadows and pastures had become brown, and their parched grasses cracked and crunched beneath the hard hooves of thin sheep. So it was with the hay, the flax, the orchard fruit, and garden crops. For the peasants of Weyer, fear loomed dark and heavy despite the sunny skies above.

All-Saint’s Day brought no feast, and All Soul’s Eve brought added misery to poor Emma. She sat alone in her hovel and wept as she stared at the door in hopes of its midnight opening. Heinrich did not fail her, and soon after the bells of matins the kind man rapped gently on the woman’s door. The Butterfly Frau rose slowly from her oak stool and shuffled to the door. She was nearly forty now but the sadness of the recent past had stolen years from her. Many of her age had long since passed to their reward but, like a few others, she had been gifted with a constitution that might have carried her for many years to come. Heinrich appeared in the soft light of her beeswax candles. “Ah … good baker!” Emma smiled and embraced the man.

“I could not sleep, Emma. I could only think of you and how you must feel.”

The woman nodded and her chin quivered. “Ah … yes … ‘tis a pain I cannot describe. But God has been good to me. Ingly is surely dancing with his
Vati
in heaven’s valley of flowers. It is a picture in m’mind that gives me hope, dear lad, hope indeed. So I look to the sun and know that its Maker is what is constant and sure. He is surely where I find m’hope … not here, amongst our shadows and black robes.” She took Heinrich’s hand. “You needs lift your face to the sun, lad.”

The young man hesitated. “Aye … but I’ve m’vow … and your sun has parched the land. What hope is that?”

Emma smiled, patiently. “’Tis true enough. We’ve a need to have eyes that seek far beyond it, for the sun is but a sign, like its sister, the moon. They both urge us to look past our world to the sure things above.”

Heinrich nodded, then mumbled, “But… I’ve m’vow…”

The woman sighed and thanked him for loving her. “Now, good fellow, you’d best return to your two children and that wife of yours. She’s to bear you another quite soon! Now go. I am content with my memories and my hopes … and you’ve reminded me that I am not so very alone.”

So Heinrich returned to the village. Despite the earth’s struggle to bear fruit, the folk continued in nature’s ways of both good times and suffering. Arnold’s wife, Gisela, died from burns received at her own hearth. It seemed to most, however, that Arnold grieved less for her than for the loss of some silver in a recent theft. Richard’s wife, Brunhild, bore a son named Georg, and on the thirteenth day of November, Marta gave birth to another boy. Certain the name “Johann” assured greater blessing, she insisted the lad be baptized Johann Gerberg.

Heinrich was now the proud father of three: Johann Lukas, three years old, Johann Wilhelm, one, and Johann Gerberg. He cherished the lads but often found his way to Margaretha’s little grave where his tender heart would sag heavy deep within his chest.

Pentecost was on May twenty-fifth in the year 1197. Brother Martin, Emma’s old nemesis from the day she had first arrived at the abbey gate, had fallen ill with whitlow and the man was presented to the infirmer for treatment. The infirmer, in turn, sought Brother Lukas’s advice on an herbal compress. Lukas found Martin to be the most pompous of all the brethren. The man would only speak in Scripture—a ploy, believed Lukas, to present a piety that could not be found in his heart. Lukas also thought the man to be a petty thief, a cheat, and one to “share the failures of others” with the superiors.
As with all things,
thought Lukas,
God has provided a means of justice!

The monk recommended an infusion rather than a balm. “Odd,” responded the infirmer, “the man suffers boils not cramps.”

“Aye,” answered Lukas, “but the boils come from poisons in his blood.”

So Brother Martin obediently drank Lukas’s concoction—a blend of stinging nettles and dandelion that left the poor man groaning for hours in the latrine, smitten with a condition that drew loud and earthy complaints from his offended brethren! Lukas was heard laughing loudly in his herbarium, and the smirk on his face when the prior confronted him only served to doom him to hours of penance with the latrine shovel. At thirty-five, the monk should be of a more “calm and serene demeanor,” he was told, and needed to stop “acting as an unbridled novice!”

Lukas laughed loudly in Emma’s garden as he told his story of sweet revenge, and Emma and Heinrich howled. It was a good Sabbath afternoon, one filled with sunshine and pleasant memories. Heinrich bounced young Johann Lukas on his knee and handed him to his namesake. The monk smiled and lifted the child, now nearly four, toward the sky. “Ah, good little Lukas: love God, love man, love joy!”

The monk laughed as little Wilhelm toppled into Emma’s flowers. The child scowled and groused at the stiff plants scratching against his soft skin. “He’s to be a strong one, Heinrich … y’can see it in his eyes, they burn with fire!”

Indeed, the little boy, now a year and a half old, was headstrong and keen. His eyes were sky blue and his young features were even and pleasing. But his white hair stood up straight, like a field of wheat, and brought a hearty laugh to many.

“Now, Heinrich,” began Lukas, “a peddler came by the cloister at midweek. He brought news for me to give you, good news!”

Heinrich and Emma leaned forward expectantly. “Yes, yes, goon!”

Lukas smiled. “Effi’s had a boy-child and they’ve named him Heinrich!”

The baker smiled. “Ah, good Effi! Is she well, and the child?”

“The message is that all is well.”

“God be praised,” chimed a beaming Emma.

“Indeed!”

Lukas continued. “Ah, but there’s sad news as well. Your brother Axel had a stillborn.”

Heinrich nodded as Lukas went on.

“The famine’s hard in Limburg and all the world beyond. ‘Tis said even the wolves are seizing travelers in the great mountains to the south. What wolves don’t get, robbers do. The merchants stay in long caravans, oft joined by pilgrims and men-at-arms. The weak ones are picked off at the rear. There’s no rain to be found, the winter’s snow passed us by. It seems all the empire is in great danger.”

The harvest of this present year had been so very sparse that the following winter claimed more lives than any had remembered. Many children had been abandoned to the monks in hopes of God’s protection, one infant being found nearly frozen at the rear of the cloister’s shearing shed. He was a black-haired baby boy and the monks baptized him Tomas.

In the May of 1198 spring sowing enjoyed a more proper balance of sunlight and clouds, but, hope notwithstanding, the peasants of the abbey’s lands had other reasons to despair. Emperor Heinrich VI had died suddenly and his realm was now plunged into a civil war between three rivals. To prepare for the troubles that were certain to come, taxes and fines were immediately increased. The demands pushed even Heinrich to near rebellion. For him and the other peasants of Weyer, even a better harvest would yield no gain.

Despite the pressures, the feast of Lammas was ultimately enjoyed with a modicum of gratitude. Weyer had not forgotten the hauntings of the past winter’s famine: the sunken, gray faces of the dead, frozen skin stretched tightly over protruding bones, the swollen bellies of blue-faced infants. By contrast, the vigorous fields of grain waving in the warm winds of August now brought tears of relief.

Heinrich and his household were survivors. The children were thin but not sickly, and Herwin, Varina, Marta, and the baker were, indeed, grateful for the advantages Heinrich’s position offered. Now, as a new harvest began, they bent their knees willingly as their priests prayed over both them and their crops-in-waiting.

Marta was in her eighth month of another pregnancy and the heat of the summer was becoming difficult for her to bear. She could not abide a cluttered house so spent most of her days chasing her three young sons out-of-doors, along with Varina’s brood. “Everything and everyone in its proper place!” she shouted.

It was on one such day in the first week of August when Marta chased her five-year-old, Lukas, her almost four-year-old, Wilhelm, and her toddler, Gerberg, out the door and into the busy village to play. “We’ve all work but you three! Lukas, you’re old enough to lend a hand, so you’re to keep a careful eye on the imps, and keep out from under m’feet!”

Lukas smiled and waved as he led his two brothers along the village footpaths toward the bakery. The village was bustling with carts and oxen, women carrying buckets toward the fields, and old men sharpening sickle blades on their treadle-stones. The day was bright and blue; a gentle breeze blew from the west. Young Lukas was mischievous like his namesake. Cheerful and round-faced, the lad was soft-hearted and quick to laugh. His younger brother, Wilhelm, was game for any dare. Though still a child, Arnold claimed he had the “heart of a lion!” He, too, showed signs of tenderness but seemed to be the happiest when brawling with his brothers or throwing stones at passing little girls.

“Ach, mein Kinder!”
laughed Heinrich as his boys tumbled into his bakery. “You’d be hungry?”

Three dirty little faces smiled and nodded. The baker glanced about to be sure no one was watching and handed his tikes a pretzel. “So, all of us be working hard except you three!”

“Mutti
says m’work is to watch these two.”

Heinrich smiled.

“And what shall you be doing?”

Lukas shrugged. “Grandpapa says come watch the mill grind the first rye.”

“Hmm,” answered Heinrich. “Could be worth a watch. But first, give
Vati
a hug!” With that, each laughing child jumped into the man’s arms. He then gave them each a playful swat on the bottom as they charged out his door, and he smiled as they disappeared down the path toward the mill.

The first grind was truly “worth a watch.” It was prayed over by Father Pious, now the only surviving priest in Weyer. With Johannes now in his grave, Pious covetously held a fist of grain in one hand and repeated his prayer of Lammas dedication, the
Immaculatum Cor Mariae.
Having so honored the Holy Mother, he raised his hands and cried to the Lord, “Restore us, O God our savior, and turn Your anger from us, so You wilt not be angry with us forever nor extend Your wrath from generation to generation.”