Quest of Hope: A Novel (15 page)

Arnold stepped forward and fixed a tight grip on Emma’s elbow. He hissed into her ear, “Go witch, go with your freak child, else you’ll both have a high price to pay.” He squeezed her arm until she cried out in pain, and he dragged her away.

Father Johannes turned an icy glare on Heinrich. “Boy, you’ve a choice before you. You have broken the code of heaven and the code of thine own kin. Hearken my words and take the vow, else your rebellious soul shall face the Judgment in grave peril. And more! Your penalties will be passed to your brother and sister, and family to come!”

Heinrich, ashamed, confused, filled with terror and with dread, hesitated. He knew what he was condemned to do. No longer could he lie in the grass and find pictures in the clouds. No more might he follow birds across the blue sky, nor feel the noontime sun upon his chin. Yet he felt he must obey. He believed with all his tender heart that he had placed himself and those whom he loved in grave jeopardy. With a sad, tearful sigh, he nodded. “I… I do so vow.”

Martinmas passed with little notice, celebrated only by a liturgy none could understand. It was now mid-November and Weyer was busy with the slaughter. The abbey’s lay-bailiff, Herold, was about the villages insisting that the blood month yield well for the abbot. After all, though the monks were sworn to eat little meat, they needed to pay their tithe to Mainz with carts of salted, smoked, or pickled pork and pound upon pound of mutton. “So,” he proclaimed to the village men, “round up your swine and be clever with the slaughter, we needs use everything but the squeal!”

The villagers did as they were told—they nearly always did. The swine herdsmen marked the hogs with dyes as to their rightful owners and gathered them in the village pens. The best sows and boars were separated and saved for breeding; the rest were herded to meet the men who stunned them with heavy mallets. Once unconscious, the hogs’ rear legs were tied and hoisted upward while the slitters, including Heinrich and Richard, cut the throats for bleeding. The blood was drained into buckets and carried to cauldrons where women stirred in fat to make bloodwurst. Once drained of blood, the carcasses were scalded with boiling water, the hair scraped, and skins preserved. Once the slaughter was complete, every spare part would be put to good use.

Others worked at culling the herd in the sheepfolds. The youngest ewes were saved for springtime lambing and next year’s shearing. The older ones, however, were chased into pens where they were bled, skinned, and carved into sheepskins and meat, ground bone and fat.

At the end of several weeks, the villagers proudly loaded carts filled with the fruits of their labor. The products filling these barrels, kegs, bundles, and sacks would help pay the fines, taxes, tithes, rents, and fees still owed after shipping the abbey a full third of the grain crop just two months before.

The final days of November passed quickly, and just before Advent a cart bearing two strangers rolled slowly into Weyer from the Villmar road. The few villagers who saw them turned away, for outsiders were seldom welcomed. Heinrich, however, had just descended from the fields where he was helping plough a fallow strip and, in his exhaustion, nearly walked directly into the cart’s path. A man cried out in a foreign tongue and the startled boy jumped back. “I-I am sorry, sir, I did not see you.”

The man kept a tight rein on his ox and turned to the boy. “Reeve—?” he asked carefully.

“You needs see the reeve?” asked Heinrich.

The man nodded. The woman sitting next to him smiled.

Heinrich stared with amazement at the stranger. He was the largest man the boy had ever seen. The giant pointed to himself. “Telek,” he said, then turned and gestured toward the woman. “Varina.”

Heinrich barely heard the man. His gaze was fixed on the six fingers that hung on each of the man’s hands. He dropped his eyes to the man’s bare feet and the boy gasped. “And six toes on each foot!”

The woman chuckled. She spoke in heavily accented German.
“Junge
… I am Varina and this is my brother, Telek. The monks in Villmar named him ‘Goliath’… after a character in the Scriptures. They wish us to call him that, though he is not happy about it.” She smiled affectionately at the man.

Herwin caught up to Heinrich. “Greetings, friends,” he offered with a sincere smile.

“And greetings to you. I am Varina … this is my brother, Telek. We are Slavs, captured by Christian knights and bound to Lord Klothar of Runkel. We converted and have lived in Runkel for nearly two years. Now we are sent by the abbot to serve in this village. We are to find your reeve. ‘Tis all we know.”

Heinrich listened intently. His eyes fell upon the woman’s swollen belly.

“Ja. I am with child.”

Herwin stared at Varina. Though she was rather plain, he felt strangely drawn to her. She was blonde and blue-eyed with fair skin. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she was thin-framed, but had a broad, open face.

“They are looking for Lenard,” said Heinrich.

“Yes, boy, so I heard.” He motioned to Varina, “Follow me.”

As Herwin led Klothar’s slaves to Lenard’s hovel, Heinrich entered his own. It was past nones and there was only one hour of daylight left. Baldric had returned early and was furious to see the boy. “You’ve come home early while work can yet be done?” he shouted.

“Nay, Uncle. We needed return Gunter’s oxen… one’s footsore and we daresn’t keep it on the plough.” Heinrich knew Baldric had been drinking and he was frightened.

Baldric shoved the boy to the wall. “Thief! You listen to me, Scrump Worm. You’d steal a man’s dog and you’d steal a man’s time! You needs labor till dusk, any less is sloth—another sin. By God, y’damnable, wretched waif, were y’not the son of m’brother I’d throw you to the dogs. I work this manor hard both day and night. I put food enough into yer worthless belly and y’ve good wool on your miserable back. You repay me by shaming the good name of your grandpapa to the whole village! Now you come home sneaking to rest! By the saints! No more! By God in heaven, ‘tis enough. Y’d be in forfeit!”

Heinrich leaned against a far wall, trembling. He set an eye for a quick escape. Then he wondered aloud, “Forfeit…?”

Baldric grabbed Heinrich by an ear and dragged him into the rear bedchamber. He tossed the boy to the ground and fumbled for a box beneath a candlestand. He threw up the lid and grasped a folded parchment scroll that he held in front of the boy’s face. “Here, little man. Here is the birthright your grandpapa passed to you for
your
own lads should you ‘ave any. ‘Tis a promise for your sons to be taught in the abbey school… a vow from an abbot to a shepherd! Of course, I’ve no such gift for me! Seems m’blood was never as good as yer father’s. No matter, you’ve shamed our ways and have lost the right of blessing … you’d not be fit for it, you’ve broke the code again. Now watch, thief, sluggard. Watch it burn away!”

Heinrich stared openmouthed and confused. He knew little of the birthright but it hardly mattered now. Baldric stormed to the common room hearth and held the parchment to its flames. He smiled coldly in the failing light as the dry parchment smoked and flickered, then floated into nothingness out the smoke hole above. He dropped the final ashes to the straw-strewn floor and ground them with his heel. “It is done. Now things are set to right.”

Chapter 7

A SECRET REVEALED

I
t snowed lightly on the first Sunday after Advent in the Year of Grace 1182. Richard walked with Heinrich and pointed to the sky. “Look at the clouds. Methinks a storm is coming.”

Heinrich shook his head. “I cannot look up.”

Richard shrugged. “Ach, Heinrich. No one is here to tell.”

Heinrich was sorely tempted, but refused. And when he refused he felt suddenly good and clean, as if his shame were redeemed, if only for a moment. His eye suddenly caught a glimpse of a satchel lying half-buried in the snow by the side of the road. “Look, Richard. I’ve found something!” Indeed, the lad had found a set of quills, some sharp knives, and ampoules. “We needs take this to Father Johannes,” said Heinrich.

“Johannes? Nay, Heinrich, are y’dim? We should give them to Frau Emma. I’ve seen inks in her hut.”

“But she’ll want to find the rightful owner.”

Richard paused. “Hmm. Then we tell her … we tell her a peddler lost them to us in a wager!”

“A wager! She’ll scold us for wagering, and besides, what would we have wagered?”

“You think too much. She’ll never ask such a thing.”

“And if she does?”

“Then I’ll have an answer.”

Heinrich wasn’t so sure. “Richard, methinks we’re about to lie again … more sin.”

Richard thought for a moment. “Then let me talk.”

Heinrich shrugged, and the two turned and ran toward the smoking thatched roof of the Butterfly Frau. They arrived to a warm welcome. “Ah, my boys!” exclaimed Emma. She smiled and held each one under her thick arms. “You’ve been growing again!”

“Frau Emma,” blurted Richard, “I… we’ve something for you.”

The woman sat down and wiped a wisp of long hair from her forehead. Taking the satchel from Richard’s outstretched hands she opened it carefully and her eyes widened. “Boys, where on this earth did you find these? They are marvelous! Look, here, goose quills, the very best! And they come from the right wing… most unusual. Hmm, and they are well dried and sharpened. Here, a burnishing knife, a leaf-knife, and … and gold powder! And here, too, good gall ink! Boys, you’ve quite a find. Someone’s suffered a loss, indeed.”

Richard cleared his throat. “Nay, Frau Emma. Heinrich and I won this for you in a wager.”

“A wager!” Emma’s face darkened. “You boys ought not be wagering, and what on earth could you offer in exchange?”

Heinrich knew she’d ask that! The worst always happened. Richard set a steady gaze at the woman, his eyes betraying an active imagination. “Now, Frau Emma. Do not be angry. The man was a thief by his own word, and not a thief like Heinrich. I mean a
real
thief.”

“Enough, boy. ‘Tis quite enough. I cannot accept this … this
gift
from you. What do you think, Heinrich?”

Heinrich was speechless. He stared at Richard and stammered, “I … I … methinks you ought keep it, Frau. We’ve no idea where …”

“And are Richard’s words true?”

Heinrich turned white. “I must not lie again! But if I say that it is not so, then I betray my kin as a liar… another sin, methinks.” He turned to Emma and answered, “I did not hear Richard talk with … the thief, sol … I cannot say in truth.”

Emma paused. She looked at smiling Ingelbert and tapped her finger on her chin. “And what use have I of these things?”

Richard shrugged. “Methinks Ingly has said something about you writing.”

Emma took a deep breath. “I see. Well, I shall keep this for a season and I shall listen for any talk of it. If it is not claimed after a reasonable time, I suppose it might be God’s will for me to keep.” She winked.

Richard cheered loudly and joyful voices filled the room as all began talking at once—all, that is, except solemn Heinrich.

“Heinrich,” Emma said. “You seem a little sad.”

The boy nodded.

“Is it shame you feel?”

He nodded again.

“I hope you know how proud I am that you loosed that poor beast!”

Heinrich brightened somewhat. “You are? But I stole a man’s property and was prideful.”

Emma sighed. “There is also the law of love. Methinks you loved that animal.”

“But I stole it.”

“Perhaps it was the only way to obey the highest law.”

Heinrich sat by the woman. “I am told I am swine dung… that I have shamed myself and my kin.”

“Good lad, none of us are perfect!” Emma chuckled.

“I wish to face the sun.”

Emma stiffened. She desperately wanted to point the lad to wisdom without breaking him of faith. She was angry that the priest had set the two virtues in opposition. “Heinrich, the Holy Church calls us to seek truth, but to find it I fear we must sometimes look higher than its spires.”

Heinrich seemed confused. “But there is more. Sometimes I feel good when I keep this vow I hate.”

Emma slowly released an understanding sigh.

“And Baldric hates me and he burned a parchment,” the eight-year-old suddenly blurted.

Emma’s face tightened and she flushed red-hot with anger. She closed her eyes for a moment, then held the boy tightly. “Heinrich, my son, I fear you’ve much to learn and shall suffer much to learn it. You’ve been shackled sooner than most. For now, hear this one thing: knowing who hates you can teach you much about yourself.”

The years turned and crept, dragged and weathered their way along for the weary, ever-somber village. To be sure, the loving sun urged some days of temperate warmth, and the promise of the seasons’ feasts bore brief and cheery respite. But for the simple peasants of Weyer, life was defined by the dreary rhythm of dull constancy and dread.

In the larger world, in 1183 Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had made his peace in Lombardy where he had been waging war against stubborn foes. With his southern lands in order he had recently returned to his wife, Beatrix, and had begun a tour of feasts throughout his realm.

In the spring of 1184, a courier advised Abbot Malchus that the emperor’s entourage had chosen to spread their great tents on the banks of the Lahn between Villmar and the castle of Runkel. Here they planned to lounge for three days in June. Barbarossa would be traveling north from his wondrous castle on the high summit of Hohenstaufen. It was rumored that he had spent many a night in the arms of a washwoman from nearby Lorch Castle, the sandstone residence of his own Staufen ancestors. So smitten was his heart, it was whispered, that he recently bequeathed the ancient home to the same mysterious woman. For the folk of Villmar’s manors, however, the pending arrival of Red Beard brought hope, if only for three days.

On a comfortable June day word quickly spread amongst the villagers that the Emperor was bathing in the Lahn—
their
Lahn! And more; he was traveling with a company of Norman knights who bore the bones of St. Aurelius of Rome. Beheaded by Nero centuries before, the saint was now believed to heal all manner of afflictions. One needed only to touch a bone of the relic upon one’s body, or touch one who had touched a bone, or touch a cloth that had been touched by one who had touched a bone. Such was the hope that suddenly cheered the abbot’s dreary land.

As throngs of peasants pressed the margins of the emperor’s camp, Arnold begged a priest to let him touch the saint. His scabbed and itchy skin had tormented him both day and night for years and he was, in that moment, willing to bow and scrape like the others of his kind. But the size of the crowds was great, and few were permitted entrance to the canvas shrine. For his part, the emperor took pity on the peasants waiting on bended knees and, against the pleadings of the papal legate, instructed the imperial guard to carry the relic through the growing mob. So, St. Aurelius was held high above the straining fingers of the clamoring serfs. Unable to touch the bones themselves, the crowd was content to reach for the patient soldiers whose shoulders bore the bier.

Unfortunately for Arnold, he had touched neither the bones, nor another who had touched the bones, nor one who had touched someone who had touched the bones. He returned to Weyer more miserable than when he had left. But ten-year-old Heinrich had climbed amongst the legs of his fellows and managed to thrust a hand between some knees to touch the boot of a soldier whose shoulder had brushed the bronze litter bearing the holy relic. It was good enough, the boy was certain, to claim power from the saint, and he was happy.

Heinrich had other reasons for joy, as well. His friend and secret counselor at the Magi, Brother Lukas, had urged the prior to consider the lad for the position of baker’s apprentice. To everyone’s surprise, the repentant “Scrump Worm” was accepted to the abbey’s bakery and began his career amid the scoffs and envy of his peers.

Under orders from the abbot, Prior Paulus had demanded the villages buy their bread from the monks and from the monks alone. He had unwisely closed the communal ovens that had served the villages so very well for generations. Now, each morning, bread was carted to the villages with their day’s allotment. Paulus argued that this control would provide needed revenues to the abbey and “protect our good people from the risks of the ‘corn witch,’ the cheats of the millers, and the poisons of ergot.”

While Heinrich enjoyed his good fortune, his brother Axel soon enjoyed his own. Baldric, now a village elder, was eager to make room for cash-paying tenants in his hovel. He was paid well as the overseer of the manor’s hunting, fencing, timbering, and assarting, but was eager for more silver. While the hovel was yet his own, he was determined to squeeze every penny he could from within its walls. Since blood kin paid no rents, it would serve Baldric well to make room for those who would. So, after a brief visit with a hired carpenter from Limburg and with the reluctant approval of the prior, Baldric arranged for young Axel to join the craftsman’s household as his apprentice. Axel, for his part, was happy to leave the labors of the fields to Heinrich.

It was Herwin, good and faithful Herwin, who still remained to shelter Effi and Heinrich from their uncle. But he would no longer stand guard alone, for to his great joy he had married the Slav, Varina. Considering the immediate increase in rents, Baldric was a willing creditor and loaned the happy man what pennies were required to pay the merchet. And so, into the household of Baldric moved Herwin’s new wife, her baby son, Wulf, and her twelve-fingered, twelve-toed, giant of a brother, Telek. The marriage proved fruitful, for in another year Varina bore Herwin a child of his own, a daughter, baptized Irma.

Meanwhile Emma, the Butterfly Frau, had aged with grace. She did her best to offer patient kindness to the village women who seemed ever disposed to disparage and deride her. Perhaps it was her very grace that earned her scorn and such contempt. Or, perhaps it was the unfortunate appearance of poor Ingelbert. Many, it seemed, remained convinced the woman was somehow connected to the witch of Münster’s forest. After all, she had come from another land with the freak child, she lived apart in her cottage by the stream, and she seemed to be of mysterious means. But more than all of these, rumors now abounded that she was visited each All Souls’ Eve by fearful shadows in the night.

For Lukas these years had proven difficult. His herbarium was grand, airy, and large, and his gardens had been fruitful in each season. Yet his heart was heavy and his mind oft troubled. It was his joy to serve his fellow man, like in the healing of little Alwin—the orphaned Gunnar oblate with fever, or even Pious—the pompous novice at Weyer. Many of his brothers in the abbey, to whom he brought infusions and balms, tinctures and ointments, thrilled at his duties, for he was skilled in the gifts of Creation and tender of spirit. But despite his competence, the man was often angry with his masters and sometimes doubtful of his faith. The man saw more than most and dared heed the call to brighter light.