Quest of Hope: A Novel (24 page)

“Mother,” urged the one, “we’ve needs go west.” She spoke with a strong, resolute voice.

“Aye,” answered the elder woman. “But methinks it better to take different paths … and quickly. You, head north over the Lahn and into the beech groves near Arfurt… and I’ll go west, across the Villmar road and into the forests of the abbot. You go on now … I shall hex this land ‘fore I leave … we needs call the grundlings and the sprites to build a wall of shadows.”

Baldric felt a chill.
My God, the witches of Münster!

The old one continued. “I shall curse them with scabbies and warts, fevers and blisters that shall bring tears to their weeping eyes!” She cackled and wheezed, and strung a string of blasphemies that singed even Baldric’s calloused ears.

As he listened, Baldric felt another unbidden chill tingle along his spine.
That voice … ‘tis known to me
… He lifted his head for a moment and stared more intently at the two. Their clothes were little more than tattered robes, threadbare, and snagged with brambles, twigs, and pine needles. The old one’s head was covered with stale gray hair, her hardened face worn and weathered like the pocked and broken face of a stony cliff. Baldric was certain she was mad. On the other hand, the young one was a striking beauty. Others had said as much. She wore her blonde hair knotted on either side of milk-smooth cheeks. Her body was lean and supple; she moved gracefully.

There remained something about the old one, however, that troubled Baldric. He studied her as she whispered with her daughter. Perhaps it was her tone, perhaps her gestures, he couldn’t be sure. She haunted him, yet something drew him to her. And when the young beauty dashed away, it was the elder whom he resolved to capture.

Chapter 10

A VOW KEPT

B
aldric pressed himself into the earth as the witch passed near, then clambered to his feet. Leaving his horse behind, he jumped over a large rock and grunted his way through a short ravine only to realize that his quarry was no longer in sight. He stopped and peered into the wood but could only hear the heaving of his own chest. Then, to his rear, he heard a clang of metal and the snapping of wood. He whirled about and stared into the forest. Seeing nothing, Baldric hurried westward in the direction of the forests that lay just beyond the Villmar road. He had not traveled but a hundred paces, however, when the old woman suddenly appeared in front him, staring and pointing each of her forefingers toward the man’s eyes.

Baldric gasped. He stood perfectly still and trembled as the witch inched her way toward him. Her mesmerizing gaze was fixed on his shifting eyes and she moved closer. The aged woman came within the smell of his breath and held her ground. Her arms dropped slowly to her side and she smiled a large, toothless smile. Her eyes flickered, fearless and cunning. She squinted, then leaned toward Baldric’s sweating face. She nodded and set her jaw.

Baldric slowly relaxed. She had not struck him dead. He carefully turned his face squarely into hers. The witch said nothing, and the silence was more than Baldric could bear. “I … I am Baldric, woodward of the abbey of Villmar.”

“I know,” she answered.

Baldric swallowed hard. “H-how do you know me?”

The witch moved closer again, staring silently.

Baldric shuffled his feet.

The woman said nothing for another long moment, then spoke in a low, commanding tone. “Look at me.”

Baldric was confused but obediently bent a little closer and studied her carefully. He thought she seemed strangely familiar. Her features were plain, almost homely, her hair was gray, save the few stubborn strands of blonde not yet lost to time or sorrow. Her bony body was bent and awkward. She seemed hard and menacing, yet something in her blue eyes betrayed a hint of mercy that lingered despite what she had become. A blurred image slowly formed in his mind’s eye. “No!” he gasped. “It cannot be! You cannot be!
Gottin Himmel…!”

The witch spoke. Her tone was firm, sharp but not hateful. “Yes, brother Baldric, ‘tis true. Look at me. I am Sieghild, your sister.” Her voice became bitter.

Baldric was speechless. He stared at Sieghild with eyes that were as wide as one who has seen a ghost. She now stood before him as a broken woman—a tragic
melánge
of anger, relief, and loneliness that would have melted the heart of a gracious man. But Baldric could only gape.

The sounds of approaching men startled the two. They looked to their rear and saw movement. “You, Sieghild,” said Baldric, “they’re after you. Run—now!”

Somehow sadly disappointed with the overdue reunion, Sieghild nodded, and the two rushed together through the forest. Brother and sister ran side by side up the face of a long-sloped ridge and into a small clearing. Baldric knew it well and knew they were drawing close to the roadway where he was certain no foreign men-at-arms would dare venture.

“Hurry, Sieghild!” he cried. “Hurry!” Baldric cast a nervous glance behind and to his dismay, he saw a mounted man bearing down on them. “Oh God! Sieghild, to the road … faster … to the road … a rider … on my horse!”

The woman turned a half-glance and saw the rider straining toward them on the frothing, winded nag.
Maybe,
she thought,
maybe all is not lost…
She raced across the clearing and set her eyes on the thin wall of trees between herself and the busy road. Her light feet whisked her through knee-high weeds and she began to outdistance her heavy-legged brother. Sieghild’s gray hair streamed behind as her chest heaved and her mouth sucked hard for air. She desperately searched her mind for an incantation to cry into the wind—one that might send both horse and rider into hell’s fires.

Baldric bellowed as the knight flew past him. And he could do no more than watch helplessly as the soldier raised his long-sword in midair. He pressed his aching legs hard against the earth as the knight gained on his helpless sister, and he roared what blasphemies his failing breath could muster.

Sieghild turned her head toward the sound of hooves, but she saw only the flash of steel as it fell from the sky. The sharp edge of the sword sliced through her feeble body, cleaving her from the edge of her neck to the center of her belly. The hapless wretch fell apart like a brittle leaf in winter and crumpled lifeless to the ground.

The knight reined in Baldric’s horse and circled his fallen prey with a satisfied smile.

Baldric, now raging like a bear gone mad, rushed toward the knight with a rock gripped tightly in his huge right hand. The soldier chuckled and nudged his heaving horse toward the charging woodward. Then he halted his mount and reached behind his back to grab hold of his crossbow. With a wry smile the knight loaded a well-sharpened bolt and took aim. He stood in his stirrups and calmly waited until he could hear Baldric’s wheezing lungs and see the fury in the red-faced man’s eyes. He pulled the trigger.

The hardwood dart flew hard and true and smashed into Baldric’s chest with a bone-crushing thud. The woodward toppled to his back as if a mighty hand had driven him to the ground, and there he lay, open eyed and gasping. The dispassionate knight dismounted and stood over his fallen prey. He glanced around for a brief moment to be certain none was witness to his deed, then placed a heavy boot on the woodward and jerked the bloodied bolt from the man’s punctured chest.

Foaming blood oozed pink and red from Baldric’s mouth and nose, and his breaths were quick and shallow. His eyes rolled, then closed. He coughed, gasped, and gurgled, until, at last, he lay still and silent upon the ground.

It was three days before Baldric’s body was found. Bailiff Werner, the abbey’s new lay law officer, was eager to show his mettle and quickly began an investigation. Indeed, the scene was a mystery. He had examined the man’s wound but had found no killing instrument. He also discovered a curious pool of blood a dozen rods away from Baldric, but only a strip of tattered cloth lay where a body should have been.

On a cool September day Baldric was washed and shrouded and laid to his eternal rest near his father’s grave in the churchyard of Weyer. Father Pious dutifully offered a final prayer, but none shed a single tear. Heinrich thought that to be the greatest tragedy of all. Baldric had lived his life deceived by the notion that reality lies only within the visible and hence, as do all men of vanity, he gave no thought to things of the invisible; things such as truth, kindness, hope, faith—or love. Void of these, he endured a meaningless life and suffered his death very much alone.

At the request of Abbot Stephen, Lord Klothar of Runkel permitted Werner and a company of brown-habited Templar sergeants to search his lands for evidence in the mysterious death of Baldric—without success. Though Klothar preferred to use his own knights, the Templars were gradually increasing their influence over him and the lands he protected. It was the natural effect of borrowing money, and Lord Klothar had increased his debt to the wealthy Templars.

During the particularly cold winter, Heinrich had stayed warm within his bakery. The abbey’s newly hired general counsel, Hagan, had affirmed the eighteen-year-old’s inheritance. Kurt had possessed a half-hide—inheritable land the equivalent of about twenty-five hectares and twice the amount considered necessary to support an average peasant household. In ancient times inheritances had been partitioned among all the male heirs. However, the lords now worked hard to end this custom, for it had created havoc by dividing each holding into ever-smaller parcels.

So, it was Heinrich who received the greatest portion of his father’s wealth, including his land, livestock, hovel, all chattels, and the garden plot. As a charitable young man, Heinrich was uncomfortable with his good fortune and gave his younger brother Axel a promise of a future sum of silver, and he began immediate plans to accumulate a small inheritance for Effi.

Finally free from Baldric’s control, Heinrich paused to reflect on his new station. He had plans to build a coop for fowl and a pen for swine, had hopes to improve his land’s yield, and dreamt of buying the bakery from the monks someday. He was now responsible to be a Christian landlord to Herwin and the man’s growing family. But most of all, Heinrich needed to consider his sister’s future. She was nearly sixteen and Baldric had not bothered to find her a husband.

As head of his household, Heinrich now needed to relate to his Uncle Arnold as something of a peer. At thirty-five, Arnold’s black hair had turned mostly gray and his lean frame had become bony and knotted. He was still cunning as ever and alert, but like his brother Baldric, his life was void of hope and he lived each day confined to the exploitation of the moment. Heinrich found every possible excuse to avoid the man.

With so much new responsibility, young Heinrich surely missed the company of his cousin Richard. Now seventeen and still serving Lord Klothar’s vassal Simon, Richard had so impressed the knight that he was beginning to train with the squires. Simon thought Richard to be worthy of his freedom and had secretly considered offering manumission to the abbot once the lad’s mettle was proven. It was a dream Heinrich wished for his friend.

The summer passed with little note and autumn’s brisk breezes soon blew fresh and clean across the village thatch. Emma, now a woman of maturing years bidding her youth a reluctant farewell, thought of this season as though it were her own. It was true, she was thirty-five, but she was still vigorous and keen. Her girth continued to broaden, as did her smile, and her creamy, pink face reflected the joy of a soul that danced to the music of songbirds. Her secret occupation, the illumination of parchment, filled her days with color, and her heart was ever warm with gratitude for her shrewd and kindly friend, Brother Lukas.