Quest of Hope: A Novel (17 page)

“Aye! And so we shall,” boasted Richard.

Heinrich nodded. “We’d known her to have quills before … but we only ever saw her doodlings.”

“Think no more of it, boy, put it out of your mind, for one slip might cost her plenty. The abbot wants the scriptorium to be a profitable commerce. He contracts his scribes to make Scriptures, Books of Hours, and Psalms for Mainz and for lords in the realm. He needs no secret competitor under his nose! And, Emma, you must know that all income is subject to tax and tithe. You’d be punished for a hidden work—I fear you’d be punished harshly.”

Lukas turned to the boys. “Lads, if you love this woman you shall ne’er speak of what you see.”

Heinrich stepped forward. “Brother, we would die before we’d see her harmed. We shall say nothing of it … but … what is this?”

Lukas had forgotten that the uneducated peasant boys had never seen such a thing. To them it was a wonder, and they were drawn to it like bees to blooms. The monk looked at Emma and she smiled.
It would be good for them,
she thought;
it would be good for them to know of things beyond their world.

Emma laid a hand on Heinrich’s shoulder and led him to her table. Richard crowded close and Ingly looked on while Lukas kept a nervous watch at the door. “As a young girl, boys, I was privileged to learn a trade from an aged monk in Quedlinburg. Some said he had lost his mind, others that he had an untoward eye for the sisters! But I thought him to be the kindest, most caring man I had ever known. He grumbled that the scribes ought not be the keepers of color. He thought color to be the gift of God for it is the product of light. Do you understand?”

The boys shrugged. Lukas moved closer. She continued. “Color, lads, is only present when there is light—it is the sun’s fruit. That is why I love my flowers and my butterflies as I do. When there is no light, there are but shades of gray.” She looked into Lukas’s face. “And many would deny us even that! They would that you see only the black of the letter or the white of the page. They would deny you both color and shade, for in their own blindness they would keep you from the light.”

Lukas nodded, for he understood of what she spoke.

“Boys,” she continued, “listen well and remember this: there is blackness and there is white, but there are also shades and more. When truth is present, light is present, and when light shines, shades and color are born. Live your life in truth, look always for the light—it is the source of hope! Live in color! Dance waist deep in flowers, lads, and let butterflies float above your heads; let sweet aromas fill your nose, and turn your face toward the sun like the tender buds of spring.” She looked sadly at Heinrich.
That cursed vow,
she thought,
that vow from the Pit!

The room was quiet and Emma looked at the faces staring at her. “So, enough of m’thoughts; you’ve more interest in that.” She pointed to her work. “I was secretly trained by Brother Vigilius in the arts of the scribe, beginning with stretching and scraping the skins. He preferred to use the skins of calves, though this one is from a piebald goat … can you see the brown shades?”

The boys nodded, spellbound and excited.

Emma continued. “Calves and some goats yield a finer skin, called vellum, but skins from sheep make what we know as parchment. He then showed me how to stitch the ‘quires,’ or the gatherings of folded pages that are later sewn together for the final book. Of course, this was a bit tricky, for he insisted the parchment be folded and stitched so that the hair-sides always face each other, and flesh faces flesh.

“Then came a most important part. I was taught how to rule the pages with a stylus and was beaten each time I cut through the parchment! Now I use a lead stick to make the lines. I needed to learn to make them straight and to draw a grid of proper proportion so the letters would be even and pleasing to the eye.”

Richard was bored. “So what of this one?”

Emma chuckled. “Ah, good lad, patience! I then needed to learn of inkmaking and pens! Vigilius said the best quills were from the goose, though I have used the feathers of crows and ravens. It is the left wing of the bird that offers the quill bending to the right and this is what is best for right-handed scribes. I—being under some curse I am told—am left-handed, which is why, dear Richard, your wager proved so timely for me. The quills you… won … were from the right wing of the bird, a most unusual find!”

Lukas started. The abbey’s left-handed scribe had commissioned quills some years back—quills that had never arrived.

Emma continued her lesson. “I take my quill and dip it into my inkhorn. The black ink I have is good, gall ink, and is made from copperas, which comes from the earth, and gums and oak apples. Heinrich, you’ve helped me pick oak apples before. They are the tumors the wasps make in oak buds. 1 also have red ink, which is made from vermilion mixed with egg whites, or with certain woods and urine. But my joy, dear friends, is in the illumination!”

Lukas marveled. “I was amazed that you were a scribe, but now you say you are an illuminator?”

Emma blushed.

“By the saints!” Lukas exclaimed. “This is wonderful. A peasant woman illuminating psalms and prayer books for the unsuspecting! Boys, see the large letter at the start of the page?”

Richard pointed to the tall, ornate figure. “That? That is a letter?”

“Aye,” answered Lukas. “It begins the word
Pater.
She is writing the
‘Pater Noster.’
” He turned to Emma. “This is a prayer book … for a lord?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“May I ask who gives you work?”

Emma stiffened slightly. “Perhaps another time.”

The monk nodded, respectfully, and turned again to the boys. “See, lads, see how she creates the letter … with red and black, green inks and even blue! And see the gold! Ah, it is the gold that shimmers in the light of the sun, ‘tis why the craft is called illumination.”

Emma showed her friends the gold leaf hidden in the floor, her rare inks and powders, her pumice, knives, grinder, and the honey used to grind both gold and silver. “And all, good friends, done for the glory of God.”

It was a warm summer morning, a few days past Midsummer’s, when Heinrich heard the hue and cry. He had just sold the last of the abbey’s bread to a grumbling
Hausfrau
when the trumpeting blasts of Reeve Lenard’s horn echoed through Weyer. Following the tribal tradition of his forefathers, Heinrich immediately joined the men of the village streaming from the fields toward the village common.

Lenard stood atop the stone wall of Weyer’s well and called all to silence. “Listen … listen! A shepherd’s been found murdered along the Emsbach in Selters—on abbey soil. His throat was cut clean through and his hands taken off. Arnold saw a man running this direction through the wood by Oberbrechen. Methinks he’s headed toward the heavy wood by Münster and we’ve been given permission to give chase across the border. Now, go in tithings according to your elder. Dietrich—take your men over the stream and up the ridge.”

“In the new lord’s lands?” asked the nervous miller.

“Ja! And be quick about it y’dolt. All of you listen, spread yerselves, each man within a bowshot of the next. Go two leagues and circle back.”

Dietrich had been hard at work grinding flour and was covered with dust. Heinrich and Richard laughed out loud, thinking he looked like a ghost! Dietrich’s pretty daughter, Marta, however, captured the boys’ attention as she ran from her hut and handed her father a draught of beer. The girl smiled at the boys flirtatiously and then tossed her head with a disdainful look. Heinrich grunted, “Her!” and followed Dietrich’s group often toward the stream.

The men were panting when they reached the top of the ridge overlooking the village from across the stream to the southeast. Heinrich put his hands on his knees and sucked hard for air. He stood between Richard and Dietrich’s son, Sigmund, while he waited for Dietrich’s orders. None could believe Sigmund was the twin of Marta. From the day of their birth it seemed the one had been blessed and the other cursed. As beautiful as Marta was, Sigmund was ugly. His face was knotted in lumps and blemished with scabs, and though just twelve, he had the disposition of a crotchety old man.

Dietrich organized his group carefully. He spread the three lads among the older men. Each of his tithing was positioned about one hundred fifty paces apart, and was ordered to make a quick but wary advance eastward. They were to comb the forest carefully, looking for the fugitive behind the thick-trunked oaks and within the cover of ferns and thickets.

For Heinrich, his first hue and cry was a great adventure. He felt like a man grown, an equal of the others and an important part of his world. He pressed through tangles and briars, his woollen leggings snagging and catching on pickers and thorns. Leafy branches scratched his face and his hands became sticky with pine sap. From time to time he spotted a deer darting from cover or a fox sliding through distant shadows. He was sure he felt the eyes of a wolf staring at him from the heavy shade, and hoped no wild boars were about; it was not uncommon for one to kill a man.

About five furlongs away, Richard picked his way through deep ferns. They were waist deep and growing in the dark shade of ancient spruce. He had lost sight of his fellows, though occasionally he heard a call or a snapping branch. The boy carried a stout stick in his left hand and a small rock in his right. He prowled the forest like a well-bred predator. Tall, thin, agile, and handsome, he resembled the yellow-haired warriors of ancient times. Suddenly, he heard a loud snap ahead of him. He held his breath and stopped. He focused both eyes and ears and crouched shoulder deep in ferns.

The lad heard another crack and a crunch not more than fifty paces in front of him. He wondered silently,
Is it a deer? A wolf? …A …
The back of a man’s head suddenly popped out of the ferns. Richard’s eyes widened. The man’s head began to turn. Richard squatted deeper. The man then stood slowly and began to move toward the boy. Richard’s heart pounded as he came within twenty paces, then ten … then five … then …

Richard jumped from his cover with a loud shriek and heaved his rock with all his might. He struck the startled man in the center of his belly, driving the wind from his lungs. The boy then charged with a yell and pounded the fugitive squarely on the head with his stick. The man stood stunned and glassy-eyed before Richard struck him again and again. He then fell backward in the ferns, bloodied and unconscious. The breathless boy cried loudly for the others, and in a matter of moments Richard and his prize were encircled by the cheering men of Weyer.

Chapter 8

TRIALS, DREAMS, AND FEAR

T
he cycle of seasons turned again until once more the land was warmed by the kind sun of springtime. But by the days of Pentecost in 1188, troubling news had found its way through the gentle valleys of Villmar’s manors. Jerusalem had fallen to the armies of Saladin; some said on a night the witch was heard cackling in the wood. It was a terrible blow to all.

Heinrich, now fourteen, had become broad-shouldered and strong. His skin was dry from the flour dust of the bakery, but his eyes were clear and his mind was keen. He had kept his vow and had faced neither the sun nor the stars since that awful day nearly six years before. Instead, the lad had learned to draw a curious comfort from keeping the cursed pledge. But, as with all who suffer self-deception, to embrace the darkness the boy needed to deny the light, and to Emma’s great despair Heinrich had grown ever more introverted and melancholy. She could only hope that seeds planted early in the boy’s tender heart might someday turn the lad toward better things.

November brought news of tragedy for Lord Tomas of Mensfelden, the ruler of the manors bordering Weyer to the south and east. The lord’s son was named Silvester and was known to spend his days in the deep wood with his falcons or his bow. He was considered an odd youth, however, given to solitary, midnight bonfires and moonlight rituals. Most thought him to be drawn to the witch’s daughter. It was rumored that the young girl was a rare beauty—tall and willowy, white-haired and fair. Yet, given her owl-like screeches and spine-tingling howls, she had become known as “Wilda the Wild.”

Early on Martinmas, it was poor Ingelbert who found Silvester’s body. The simple lad had spent a quiet dawn at the Magi when he thought he heard a whisper beckoning him toward the deeper wood. The young man followed trancelike until he was knee-deep in wilted ferns, giving no heed to the boundary pole he passed. He sang and danced in the early light of the gray day, but as he skipped his way through the forest, he suddenly came upon the base of a short cliff. He stopped for a moment, sensing something amiss. He raised his eyes to the top of the rock wall, then let them drift slowly down the sharp contours of the cliffs face until they reached the bottom. The young man gasped. For there lay the broken, battered body of Silvester.

The bountiful feast of Christ’s Mass was now of little interest to Heinrich and of less to poor Emma. Her beloved son had been shackled to the cold walls of Lord Tomas’s castle dungeon for more than a month, accused of illegal trespass and of Silvester’s murder. She was forbidden to leave Weyer to see him, and no oath-helpers were permitted to testify on the lad’s behalf. In truth, only Heinrich and Richard had even offered to speak, and much of the village would have been happy to witness
against
the poor boy. Lukas—who was not allowed to leave the cloister due to his latest infraction—sent messages of encouragement to Emma via Heinrich and spent hours begging God’s mercy for the boy.

Ingelbert was slow of mind but not numb to pain. Bound to the damp, plastered walls of the dark dungeon, Ingly wept inconsolably for his mother and longed for the warmth and solace of her hearth. He could not understand the charges against him but was familiar with the jeers and taunts of the jailers who mocked his odd and disquieting form. Ingly’s trial was set for the thirtieth day of December, and Lord Tomas planned to personally judge his case. The narrow-faced, bitter lord was determined on vengeance.

As having assisted in the hue and cry, Reeve Lenard, Arnold, Dietrich, and Baldric were granted permission to represent Weyer at the captured man’s trial at Mensfelden’s castle. The night before, the four men were delighted to find themselves sitting at the edges of Lord Tomas’s great hall, gulping great draughts of beer and reaching for scraps of meat and cheese. They toasted and laughed, bellowed and belched late into the night, feasting on salted pork and venison, boiled rabbit, and roasted duck. Joining them were a dozen or so sergeants-at-arms and two bored knights, as well as a few ladies of Limburg who seemed to have more than a passing familiarity with their hosts. Finally, the overstuffed, indulged visitors collapsed against the castle’s cool walls and slept until nudged awake by the morning bells of Mensfelden.

Dawn broke and the captured fugitive from the hue and cry could be heard moaning from deep within the hole where he had been confined for many months. It was a narrow, lightless shaft dug into the castle floor about two rods deep and one pace in width. Atop was an iron grid where passersby paused to relieve themselves. About an hour after dawn a trumpet sounded, and the dung-covered, wet man was hauled into the frigid air where the crowd assaulted him with oaths and blasphemies. He fell cursing to the snow-covered earth. A mounted soldier tied a long rope to the man’s wrists and dragged him to the outdoor court.

Lord Tomas’s bailiff sat as judge. A gallows was hastily set in place as the prisoner was delivered to him. The bailiff looked indifferently at the man and ordered him tied to a wall while other matters were tended.

The first business was that of a boundary dispute; the second a charge of premarital relations against a tavern wench of Mensfelden; the next, a claim by a village reeve that his neighbor had diverted water. After an hour’s deliberation the court turned to a complaint against a baker stealing dough from his neighbors. It seems the clever fellow hid a child beneath the table where his customers set their doughs for measuring. Once the dough was set on the table, the child removed a wooden plug from beneath and dug out fingers’ full! At the baker’s signal, the imp would quickly replace the plug and wait for the next. The scheme earned the baker a good flogging and a severe penance from the priest.

The judge moved on to other business, including that of a frustrated yeoman and his strident wife. The plaintiff was convinced that his wife and a tinker were conspiring against him, and he proceeded to explain a confusing plot. His wife interrupted him time and time again with oaths and loud belches, eventually heaving a handful of pebbles at the man and then more at the court. That poorly aimed insult earned her an immediate flogging!

Finally, the judge turned his attention to more important matters. He quickly found the man captured by Richard and the men from Weyer guilty of murder and hung on the spot. He had been tried by ordeal; a method which yielded to God’s omniscience. The man had been bound and cast into the moat. If he floated he was to be judged guilty, if he sank, innocent. Sadly for the accused, he failed to drown.

It was shortly after the bells of sext when the drunken crowd was dispersed for the midday meal. The four men of Weyer sauntered off for a bite of bread, a fist of smoked pork, and a two-handed flagon of ale. They soon found themselves squatting by the warmth of a small bonfire where they chatted with the subjects of Lord Tomas and waited for Ingelbert’s trial to begin.

They did not need to wait long, for the agitated lord soon stormed to his place in the fore of the court, quickly replacing his bailiff as the judge. “Now,” bellowed Tomas impatiently, “to the business at hand! Bring that demon freak!” The crowd hurried to the courtyard and watched the lord pace in his black mourning cloak. He peered angrily from beneath a black, broad-rimmed hat with no mind for mercy. Within moments, Ingelbert was dragged before him.

The lord circled the young man like a hawk menacing a mouse. He mocked the lad’s bowed back and spindly legs; he slapped his sloping forehead and squeezed his retreating chin. Then, in a rage, he pounded his gloved fist into Ingly’s protruding top teeth and drove the lad to the ground. He circled faster and faster, his eyes red with grief and with fury. He kicked Ingelbert viciously, over and over again and none dared stop him. None, that is, save one.

“My lord!” boomed a voice from the crowd. A tall, black-haired knight stepped forward with a hooded cleric at his side.

Lord Tomas stopped and stared. “Who dares interrupt? Who dares!?”

“I am Simon, knight of Lord Klothar in Runkel. This is m’priest.”

Tomas turned from Ingelbert and strode through the hushed crowd. “And what business have you in my court?” he growled.

Simon set his fists upon his hips. “I am bored. You’ve little here to watch, save that monster you’d be kicking like a sack!” The knight threw back his head and laughed.

Lord Tomas relaxed and clasped hands with Simon. “Ja! ‘Tis a curse on legs, methinks! Look at the wretch. He murdered my son!”

Simon nodded his head. “Hmm.” He set a finger on his bearded chin and circled Ingelbert thoughtfully. “Was your son a slight lad? Young perhaps? A boy?”

“Nay! He was a strong lad… skilled at arms and a falconer.”

“Ah. And of what cause did he die?”

Tomas turned a hateful eye toward Ingelbert who lay still and whimpering on the ground. “My Silvester was found battered and crushed, his neck broken. It seems he was killed, then thrown from a high cliff to the rocks below.”

“And you’d be certain a feebleminded willow like this could have bested him?”

Lord Tomas did not like the question. His face puffed and reddened. “Some say the freak has a demon; his mother’s thought to be odd, perhaps a witch or sorceress.”

Simon took the man by the shoulder and spoke in low tones. “You needs be sure you’ve the right man.”

The hooded cleric shuffled forward and agreed. “Good lord,” he whispered, “if you have the wrong man, thy son’s soul shall not be avenged. I think it best you be careful that God’s will be done, else you shall never be at peace.”

Lord Tomas pounded a fist into his hand. “Nay! This monster is the one!”

Simon nodded. “I see. Then forgive me, sire. But perhaps trial by … combat would serve you best.”

Lord Tomas was startled. He faced Ingelbert. “Combat? He could bear no sword unless he truly has a demon—but a Christian knight would overcome and … Ah!” The man smiled wryly. “I understand. It shall be for our amusement.”

Lord Tomas whispered with his priest, then addressed the court. He spoke loudly and sternly. “Hear me. In the matter of the prisoner of Weyer, graciously yielded to our justice by his master, Abbot Stephen of Villmar, I, under the authority granted by the emperor and in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, do demand said accused to stand trial by combat.”

Baldric’s eyebrows arched. “Combat?” he whispered in astonishment. “’Tis an ancient way. I’ve not heard of it in my lifetime and ne’er for a peasant! Ha, the fool’s to be cut in two!”

Lord Tomas continued. “In honor of God’s will and perfect knowledge, I shall surrender my rights to the sword to my faithful proxy, Lord Hans of Saalfeld, a vassal in my lands of Thurungia.” An impressive young knight bowed. Tomas sensed a rumbling among the spectators. He cleared his throat and continued. “This decision has been made with the counsel of the Church and is right and fair. But, in mercy, I do not require either man to take the life of the other. The verdict shall be plain when one is the better.” His last words drew nods of approval, and Lord Tomas took his seat upon his high-backed, oak throne.

Ingelbert was lifted to his feet and his bonds were removed. He was given a long, two-handed sword with a chuckle from a guard. Tomas’s priest prayed over Hans and moved slowly toward Ingelbert. As he lifted his arms above the baffled lad, Simon’s voice suddenly bellowed through the crisp air of the castle yard.

“My lord, I declare my right to champion the accused.”

Lord Tomas nearly fell from his chair. His eyes bulged and he jumped to his feet. “What! What sort of trickery is this? You … you’ve no—”

“But I do! I have the right to stand in the man’s stead and so I shall! If you refuse me, may the lad’s blood be upon your soul at the Judgment.” Simon’s lips twitched with delight as Lord Tomas gawked incredulously.

The grinning knight and his black-robed cleric strode boldly into the open yard. The churchman winked at Ingelbert, and the lad’s eyes brightened as he recognized the kind face of Brother Lukas peeking from within the shadow of his hood.

“You must think me a fool!” bellowed Lord Tomas. “How dare you come to my lands and make a mockery of this trial!”

Simon stood straight-backed and turned. “Think of me as a vassal of justice, sire.” He smiled and the crowd began to applaud.

“Then so be it!” roared Tomas. “But now it shall be a test unto death!”

Hans turned nervously to his lord. “T-to the death?” Before he could speak another word the command of his master rang in his ears. “Serve me this day, man, or be stripped of all and shamed forever.” Hans swallowed hard and beckoned his squire to his side.