Quest of Hope: A Novel (51 page)

The Advent came and passed, then the Epiphany, and finally the self-inflicted sufferings of Lent were also over. Easter was the sixth of April in the year 1208, and on that day Heinrich complained to Father Baltasar about his confinement in the dreadful place. He had wanted to begin his pilgrimage long before but had been frustrated by delays due to heavy spring rains that had made the roads nearly impossible to travel. Father Baltasar and his monks were equally eager to begin their journey and preparations for their departure were underway. Unfortunately, the skies of April were unyielding and day after day the deluge continued. The priest made every effort to calm the man. “Heinrich, you are to be honored for your zeal. Surely your heart’s desire is to stand before the Lateran Palace of the Pope and receive the merits of your faithfulness. Ah, ‘tis a wonder to behold a common man who is not common at all! Tell me, my son, does your heart soar as you see the Holy City in your mind’s eye?”

Heinrich was in no mood for this. He wanted to escape the bells, the chants, the prayers, the fasts, the incense, the huddles of head-bowed shavelings, and all their somber ways. He had no interest in another conversation with the verbose young priest and at that moment would have preferred to share a bench with some rough-tongued drunkard! “Aye!” He shouted the lie and as soon as it left his lips his heart sank again. The bite in his tone caught the priest unawares, though the answer pleased him.

“I thought as much,” he answered, smiling cautiously. “Might I beg you one small favor?”

Heinrich closed his eye in dread. He knew the skill with which churchmen cloak obligation in just that sort of innocuous query. He nodded and held his breath.

“You are a good man. Come with me a moment.” The priest walked Heinrich through the mud and rain to a corner of the cloister church where a dusty, gray beam of light strained to chase a few stubborn shadows. He reached into a satchel hanging by his side and reverently withdrew a long silver chain suspending a gold medallion. The coin twirled in the muted light of the church. Heinrich watched it, entranced and somewhat mesmerized. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

“This relic is a gift from Archbishop Anders Sunesen of our diocese in Gothland. An astounding man of God, is he; a poet of extraordinary skill. Ah, but no matter. It is said he received this from the Archbishop of Mainz in exchange for herring. He then presented it to our former prior upon the cloister’s endowment. Our prior, in turn, has sent it with us along with a lock of hair from Saint Cyrill, once the Bishop of Jerusalem. He prayed these relics would protect us on the sea from pirates and from the pagans by land.

“Since our sea journey was already blessed, some of the brethren believe the new monastery would be best served if one of these would be taken to Rome and presented to a church that cares for the poor. So they have chosen the gold medallion for you to take.”

“Gold?”

“
Ja
, friend. ‘Tis a gold bezance … see here … it appears one of the ancients bit into it with a broken tooth!”

Heinrich went nearly faint. He grabbed the coin and stared numbly at the dashes made by one good tooth and one broken. “Father… tell me what else you know of this.”

Baltasar paused, surprised at the man’s sudden interest. “My son?” He paused, then continued slowly. “The archbishop was informed that this very medallion was touched to the Holy Sepulchre by the Grand Master of the Knights Templar and so blessed by him. It bears the power and wonder of our Lord’s body.”

Heinrich’s eye blurred with tears. He held the necklace to his breast and collapsed to his knees. “Oh, Mother!” he muttered. “Oh, dear Mother, it is your golden secret come to help me!”

Father Baltasar was pleased with the man’s apparent veneration and laid a hand on Heinrich’s trembling shoulders. “Good and worthy fellow. You are entrusted with a sacred thing. Our prayers shall follow you on your journey.”

Heinrich rose slowly, still holding the medallion to his heart. He faced the priest, dumbfounded and speechless, and listened as he was given final instructions.

“Brother Ignatius prayerfully and humbly offered a candidate Church to receive this relic. Ignatius was an orphan in the city of Rome and raised with Christian charity amongst other destitute children in the church known as
Santa Maria in Domnica.
It is agreed that this church should be granted the relic for the blessing and protection of its lowly flock. It is our wish that you should deliver it to the superior of that particular church along with this.” Baltasar handed Heinrich a folded paper sealed with wax. “Present this letter as witness to the nature of our gift and the sacrifice of your service.”

Father Baltasar then took the chain away from Heinrich and walked slowly to the altar. He laid the coin atop the bronze table and prayed loudly. Then he motioned for Heinrich to approach and he lifted the necklace over Heinrich’s head. He laid the golden medallion gently on the man’s heaving chest and prayed, “Angel of God, my dear guardian, to whom his love commits me here; light and guard, rule and guide.”

Heinrich opened his eye and wiped the tears off his face. The priest embraced him and together they returned to the rain-soaked courtyard of the barren cloister.

For the next week it mattered little to the man whether the world was wet or sunny. In the mornings he awakened with his hand closed tightly around his mother’s relic, and when he drifted to sleep he held it all the more. Its presence around his neck restored him to the world from whence he came and he embraced it joyfully.

The rains finally began to ease by the end of April and the roadways were reported to be nearly passable. The cloister was busy with the tardy planting of early peas and the ploughing of its few well-drained fields. Lay-monks scurried about during the few days of warm sunshine in a rhythm of tasks that was familiar to Heinrich.

At long last, it was agreed that conditions were right for the pilgrim to begin his sacred journey. He was called from his bed at morning lauds, sometime before the bells of prime. He rose to receive the blessing of the cloister priests and to hear a psalm sung by the monks in his honor. As he approached the church, however, he suddenly felt faint. Heinrich took a few steps, then lurched forward and caught himself on a stone column just inside the church door. He looked up to see rows of white-robed monks sitting on their gradines and staring at him solemnly. It was all that he remembered.

Later that morning, Heinrich awakened in the cloister’s infirmary sweating and delirious with high fever.
“Debilitas,
winter fever … possibly bilious fever?” The cloister’s infirmer was neither well-trained nor confident.

Father Baltasar was grave. He leaned over the man and prayed. “Heinrich, can you hear me?”

Heinrich groaned.

The priest and his monks gathered together with the infirmer and the prior. It was decided that God’s will would hardly be thwarted by a simple fever and that the Devil was no doubt fearful of the man’s mission. It was further agreed that the man’s fever was most likely not a result of personal sin, for Baltasar was convinced the man was devout. Nor could it be from immoderate living; none were witness to any excess in greed, gluttony, or impure behaviors. Instead, the consensus was that the man suffered maladies resulting from the oppression of the Evil One. Since all were convinced of the man’s calling as the relic-bearer, all believed he would be healed.

Father Baltasar was so certain of Heinrich’s healing that he counseled his Carthusians that they should press on to their own calling without the slightest reluctance. He vouched for Heinrich’s piety and uncommon devotion. He assured all that the relic would be safe and they need not do more than pray as they left him behind in the safekeeping of the cloister.

The matter settled, Heinrich received an anointing of oil, a quiet song, and a bathing of scented water from the priest. Baltasar and his monks then bade the sleeping man a whispered farewell and began their perilous journey to the eastern frontier.

Poor Heinrich wrestled with his fever for days. He awoke in the darkness beset by night terrors and hallucinations. He cried aloud when he thought he saw the hand of Baldric’s ghost grasping at his medallion. With a whimper he returned to half-sleep only to be awakened by nightmares of Ingly drowning in a flooding Laubusbach. He felt both his hands stretching to rescue the desperate lad, but he could not quite touch him. When Ingly’s eyes rolled and his white hair sank out of sight in the brown water, the man lurched awake, weeping. By day the man dreamt of fresh breezes in the sun-swept cottage of Cornelis. He drew breath through his flared nostrils and was sure he could smell the clean air of that glorious, free land. It was those pleasant recollections that brought some peace to his bed.

Unable to stand, Heinrich could barely lift his head to receive infusions of sweating herbs such as thyme, hyssop, or chamomile. Depending on the position of the moon, the frantic infirmer poured either barley water or raspberry vinegar down the gagging man’s throat.

By the end of the third week it was rumored that Heinrich might surely die after all. Having tried all manner of ministrations without success, the weary prior and his worried infirmer yielded their patient’s ultimate end to the Healer of the universe. They prayed earnestly for Heinrich’s restoration and sufficed to do what service each day required. The man’s fever lingered, however, and he spent more days in dreamy places.

It was sometime in the afternoon of Pentecost when the baker of Weyer finally awoke. The infirmer was in the church celebrating the holy day so Heinrich stared at the ceiling before serving himself a tankard of thin, warm ale that was sitting by his bed. He glanced about the room and saw his cloak, tunic, leggings, satchel, and eye patch set neatly on a distant stool. In the bed next to his own coughed an old monk suffering consumption, though greatly relieved at Heinrich’s sudden improvement. Heinrich rolled from his straw mattress, only to find his legs too weak to hold him. He pulled himself back into his bed and lay still.

Between nones and vespers the infirmer returned and rejoiced to see his patient in better health. He quickly ran to the kitchen and returned with a hot pottage of lentils, spring peas, boiled cabbage, and bits of smoked pork. Heinrich smiled and slurped weakly from the man’s spoon. And so it was from day to day for the next week.

But it was as though forces greater than the man bedevilled him. Whenever his fever broke and good health seemed to blossom, another bout of debilitating illness seized him and he was on his back once more. Heinrich began to wonder if it was his mother’s relic that had cursed him. “Not worthy,” he groaned in his sleep. “Am I not worthy to wear it? My heart is black with sin and shame.”

On a day in early July the hapless baker was feeling somewhat better and he wandered beneath a sparse young linden to ponder his suffering. He held the medallion in his hand and considered the state of his life. “I was sent from m’village to do a penance for sins known and unknown. Surely, I needed to do that thing, for my lads, m’wife, and m’self were in peril of the Judgment. Yet I failed to pay the proper price! Instead of suffering pain and remorse I delighted in my journey and my heart filled with pride. Then I coveted the liberty of others and deceived myself to join them as if I were one of them. I raised my arm against the army of the archbishop. God took one of m’arms as payment for my rebellion and he took one eye for m’envy.” He buried his face in the palm of his hand. “My sin followed me to the sea … it caused the shipwreck and the loss of Cornelis’s harvest. They should have cast
me
out.

“I deceived a priest to believe I am a devout pilgrim in order to protect those who rebel against God’s order. Now I wear this holy relic as if it were mine by right … my heart covets the thing for mine own.

“Wicked man that I am, ‘tis good I go to Rome. There I shall beg God’s mercy; there I shall sink m’self into what is right and true. I shall walk home clean and whole … m’sons shall be free of my penalty.” Heinrich sat up and drew a deep breath. He removed his mother’s necklace and placed it in his satchel with the captain’s. He coughed and wheezed and stumbled back to his bed.

All that long summer Heinrich suffered recurring bouts of fever or malaise. As kindly as the monks attempted to be, they, too, were becoming impatient with his recovery. By the Feast of the Assumption in mid-August he seemed to be making true progress, however. By the early days of September strength returned to his legs and he helped drive the oxcarts laden with firewood from the forests in the south. Unfortunately, a fall in the garden caused him to seriously sprain an ankle and he was bound to a crutch.

On St. Michael’s the frustrated man received news that drove him nearly to the point of madness. Brother Radoslaw had died. No one knew why or how; the man simply did not awaken from his sleep. His apprentice had been a novice who had been dismissed from the cloister for insubordination at Lammas, so there was none to operate the bakery. Bread, of course, was that most important symbol of both temporal and spiritual nourishment. It would not do that the brethren should suffer their deprivations without that one sacred foundation. Monks in monasteries everywhere wanted fresh, warm rolls in the morning. And, since it was they who gave Christendom the joy of bread in the first place, perhaps they deserved it.

The prior asked the obvious. “Heinrich, have we been charitable to you?”

Heinrich groaned. It was another question laced with the scent of obligation.
“Ja,
brother,” he answered warily.