Quest of Hope: A Novel (16 page)

On February the tenth in the Year of Grace 1186, Abbot Malchus yielded his body to plague and his spirit to the Almighty. It was fitting that he should die on the first day of Lent; his tenure had been characterized by self-denial and all within his shadow had been denied things temporal. Nevertheless, he had served his chapter vigorously and was mourned by most. The abbey’s priest blessed his soul and his remains were laid to rest in the monks’ graveyard to await the Resurrection.

The abbey had grown and prospered in Malchus’s final years. He had built a small scriptorium, complete with its own separate cloister, and he had been quite pleased with its construction. He had added storehouses and granaries to the perimeter walls; a herbarium, chapter house, and stable were built, as well as a dormitory for the men-at-arms that were occasionally quartered as guests. His only failure was that of not wresting the abbey from control of the archbishop.

After Malchus’s death, Pope Urban III, near death himself and railing against Emperor Barbarossa, sent his legate to Mainz recommending a friend, Stephen of Ghent, as a candidate for Villmar’s growing abbey. Stephen had a worthy pedigree, himself once a lord in Flanders. He had earned a fortune shipping textiles down the Skelt River and just four years prior had been feasting in the huge hall of Count Phillip’s castle.

Stephen had set aside his earthly treasures and took the vows of St. Benedict in order to serve as a brother in the vast French complex of Cluny. It seemed an odd decision at first, at least to his fellows. Many lords left their fortunes in old age to join a monastery, but it was clear they were simply guarding their souls as they faced death. Stephen, however, was not an old lord. He had just seen his thirty-third year, and some wondered what crime he was evading. “Christ,” he claimed, “gave His life at precisely this same age,” and Stephen chose to follow in kind.

The new abbot had learned the Rule quickly and rose in stature among his humble brethren—a paradox that earned the cynical eye of his superiors. However, as his peers feared, it seemed his former life had, indeed, reflected advantage into his new one, and he had been sent first to St. Bertin as prior, and now to Villmar as abbot.

Abbot Stephen addressed his brethren with grave humility and serious deportment. His reputation had preceded his arrival on Holy Saturday, the twenty-eighth of March, 1186, and the sixty monks and twelve novices gathered on the gradines of their new chapter house listened with respect. He instructed them on the virtues of the Rule, of the need for discipline, of the virtue of prudence, the necessity of industry, the vice of sloth, and the wrath of God. When he had finished he washed their feet, prayed over each head, and blessed every soul with a psalm.

On the Monday following, the new abbot invited Prior Paulus to his ample table. As he spread honey on fresh-baked wheat bread, Stephen shared God’s will for the aging prior. “Good Paulus,” he began, “you have served Almighty God humbly and with great effect.”

Paulus bowed, outwardly modest, but secretly pleased.

“I am told by the archbishop that you have filled the treasury of God’s kingdom here in Villmar.”

Again, Paulus bowed.

“It is my wish, good brother, that you shall serve us yet.”

Paulus smiled, relieved and encouraged.

Stephen paused. He leaned into his chair comfortably and stroked his beard. “Brother … might I ask your age?”

Paulus was suddenly uneasy. “Though I am uncertain, brother Stephen, I do believe I am near to fifty and five.”

“Hmm. And what of your health?”

Paulus became nervous. “I… I am fit of mind and body… if I may say so humbly.” The man bowed his head.

“Brother, I have taken you before God’s throne and have asked His wisdom for thy welfare.” Stephen laid a hand firmly on the prior’s shoulder. “And He has spoken.”

Paulus waited, now anxious. He closed his eyes.

“You can, this very day, rejoice! You shall retire thyself to the dormitory for our blessed aged ones. Go with God’s blessing, my brother.”

Early April was soggy and muddy as usual. The footpaths of the damp village were rutted and puddled, the road to Villmar riddled with washouts and trenches. The sky seemed eternally gray and the barren trees were still stripped of life, save the stubborn buds now swelling on their dreary branches.

In Weyer, the foretokens of spring had not yet nudged the folk to joy. Though the thrush had begun to sing in the wood and swallows danced along the wind, the peasants of the village were huddled in fear. It was not because the neighboring borders of Mensfelden had been granted to Tomas of Goslar. None knew of this vassal and none cared, so long as he had no lust for the abbey’s land. Indeed, the leagues and alliances of lords and kings meant little unless they brought the sword.

Instead, the simple people of the village trembled in dread of a plague that had swept upon them in the weeks of Lent. Many now suffered with fever, racking coughs, and horrible eruptions of the skin. Dozens had died despite the heroic efforts of Brother Lukas. The monk was, himself, under the weight of reprimand, for his superior had forbidden him to serve beyond the monastery’s walls. Nevertheless, the man had been determined to suffer what penance would be later required in order to give what comfort he could to body and to soul. “Scrofula,” he muttered in a quaking prayer. “May God have mercy on us all.”

The households of Arnold and Baldric were spared the plague—or at least the agonies it savaged upon others. Though none of them were bedbound, each was required to shoulder the burden of their village fellows and perform both their own labors as well as those of the stricken. Herwin and Telek spent long, difficult days ploughing the stubborn earth and sowing the precious seed.

The women also strained beneath the additional burden. Gisela and Varina spent their days bent in half, planting demesne peas with sharp sticks, churning sheep milk for cheese, or carding wool. At day’s end they hoed, manured, and planted their own gardens; and as charity demanded, they did the same for the gardens of their neighbors. The reward would be green rows of peas and beans, garlic, leeks, lentils, cabbage, onions, and the like—all desperately needed food in the months to come.

For his part, twelve-year-old Heinrich rose at matins each day and rode to Villmar with the brewer to begin his work in the bakery. Then, before the bells of prime, he returned to Weyer with the peasants’ bread that he sold in the commons for pennies, or for eggs, fowl, or herbs. By terce, with three hours of sunlight already gone, he presented the fees to Reeve Lenard who, in turn, held them safe until the next morning’s ride to the abbey. Then, though having already worked nine hours, the lad joined Herwin and Telek in the fields.

By the end of April the barley and oats were sown, the fallow fields turned and fertilized, and peasants’ crofts planted and waiting on the faithful sun of May. Baldric’s friend Dietrich was now the monks’ miller for Weyer, and their mill, located along the Laubusbach at the village edge, was in desperate need of attention. So, in addition to all other tasks, all able-bodied men and boys were forced to work on repairing the mill, for in a few short months its service would give purpose to all the labors of spring.

At twelve and a half, Heinrich was beginning to take the shape of a man. His growth lagged behind others of his age, though his shoulders were beginning to broaden. Most thought he resembled his round-faced father, Kurt, though the boy had not yet gained his father’s burly bulk. His hair was now reddish brown—some might call it auburn. It curled and looped and shone in the sun. His manner reminded some of his mother’s father, for he was calm and gentle, sensitive to the suffering of others, and friendly to all. Yet the lad could be angered and stubborn, and was given to hiding his feelings. He spent much time in melancholy and reflection, and suffered the superstitious fears of his mother. He gave great weight to things of heaven and hell and was given to night torments and dreams. Baldric boasted the boy was finally “well-shamed,” and, indeed, the lad had grown to be ever more bound and fettered by the demands and expectations of others. Little did he know how his world was shaping him for things to come.

On a Sabbath in June, Heinrich raced from Mass with cousin Richard toward the beloved gardens of Frau Emma and her son. Ingly worked long days with the cotters in the monks’ demesne—ploughing, sowing, harrowing, weeding, and serving at whatever task the season called him to perform. He was gentle, still slow of mind, but grand of heart. He bore the jeers and taunts of others with a grace he learned from his mother’s godly ways and offered kindness for insult at every turn.

The boys charged to the woman’s wattled fence and leapt over it like happy deer. Forgetting their manners, they burst through her door without warning and stumbled across her earthen floor. Emma screamed with a start. “Ach! Boys! Can y’not knock on m’door!”

The two stood perfectly still, embarrassed and surprised by her anger. Richard spoke first. “Beggin’ pardon, Frau Emma. We’d no right to rush in like that.” His eyes moved away from her and fell upon what appeared to be a parchment setting atop her scribe’s table.

Emma gathered her wits and drew a deep breath. Her heart slowed to its normal pace and she spoke more gently. “You nearly frightened me to death! It is better for you to knock … but, no harm done.”

Both boys now stared at her table. The woman sighed. She had many secrets and had learned it was sometimes wiser to preserve them. She was about to speak when a familiar voice was heard at her door. The woman closed her eyes and sighed again.

“Frau Emma?”

“Ja.
Come.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron and smiled halfheartedly as Brother Lukas stooped through her door and stepped into her room.

“Peace to you, sister,” he said.

“And peace to you, my friend,” answered Emma.

The monk surveyed the room and nodded a greeting to the boys. “I heard a scream and thought there might be trouble.”

“Ah,” chuckled Emma, “no trouble here. The boys put a scare in me and I’m sorry for your bother. Now if y’needs get back to your—”

“Oh! And what have we here?” The monk joined the boys at Emma’s table.

Emma shook her head and closed her door. She walked over to the group huddling over her parchment and bit her lip. “Ah, yes … this,” she answered slowly. “I had no thoughts of others coming today.”

“It is marvelous! Beautiful! It is … heavenly!” Lukas was amazed.

Heinrich, Richard, and Ingly stood quietly. The man bowed his head low to the table and stroked his short beard with delight. The table was positioned near the window of the hovel and the late morning sun was casting a pleasant light atop it. “Emma, you’ve a gift from God, but I must confess I am very confused. In my days I have ne’er heard of any woman, and surely no peasant woman, set to this task! Ach! By God the abbot would have you flogged! You can let none know!” He turned to the boys and laid a stern eye on them. “You lads! You must keep the secret of this good woman—”