Quest of Hope: A Novel (27 page)

Several days prior he had finished baking the large squares of bread to be used atop wooden trenchers as edible bowls for the day’s fare. These were best when hard and stale. Other breads were preferred soft and fresh, however, and their baking would keep him busy right to the time of the meal’s blessing.

Early in the morning of Lammas Eve, Heinrich hurried the village bake and chased his faithful patrons out of his door with their day’s bread. He turned to his helpers and barked orders to clean the shelves and ovens of “every bit of common rye dust.” Shirtless and sweating, the men scoured the hot brick ovens, the troughs and paddles, and every other tool so that all would be ready for the precious wheat flour. Then they worked furiously to knead and rise, then knead the dough again for the ovens. Late in the night, the exhausted men set the formed, rising dough upon clean shelves for the next day.

Long before prime of Lammas, Heinrich finished shaping and stamping his loafs with doves for peace, lions for power, hearts for love, and boars for the fertility of the lord’s household. He shaped thin dough for pretzels soon to be hard baked and heavily salted. Other breads he molded or etched with crosses; some were spiced with herbs and onions, others laced with honey.

The ovens burned hot through the early morning hours and rags of water were dragged across their steaming bricks to keep proper moisture in the air. Paddles flew from shelf to oven door as the heavy dough entered the heated chamber, only to be withdrawn as browned and airy mounds of wondrous bread. Bread! Bread, that simple sustainer of life for all time past and all time to come! Bread, the symbol of the body of Jesus and the offer of hope to all! For Heinrich, the baskets of hot, fluffy, blessed bread now filling his bakery were so much more than heaps of food, but rather symbols of all that was necessary and good.

As Heinrich labored in the stifling bake-house, the village prepared to host the grandest of picnics. The millpond had been dredged months before, and its banks were repaired and sodded with thick, sheep-shorn grass. Children had shovelled away all the manure, and the sheep were chased to distant hills, leaving a clean, green carpet atop the pond’s wide banks.

The mill was located along the Laubusbach some distance north and slightly east from the village at a point where the monks thought the stream to be the most vigorous. Here a pond had been dug in hopes of using a dam to add force to the mill’s great wheel during times of drought. A roadway had been opened from the Münster road, and its surface was now made even so the special guests could arrive with a minimum of discomfort. They were expected by midmorning, sometime near the bells of terce. The abbot had excused the village from all labors of the day. He had proclaimed, “You shall serve neither demesne lands nor croft, nor strips of your own, your hands shall serve only as hosts of our guest and neighbor, Lord Klothar of Runkel.” And so the village prepared to celebrate in song and in dance, with games and sport.

Arnold, the abbey’s new woodward, was authorized to have the monks’ huntsmen provide deer and boar for the villagers as well as quarry for the guests of honor. Numbers of spits were arranged a proper distance from the mill pond so the smoke did not annoy, nor “burn the eyes of nobleman or cleric.” Firewood was gathered, tables carried from the carts sent from Villmar, and, at last, the village women thrilled to the task of tying silk streamers and pennants atop trestle tables, canopies, and standards. The village was filled with the colors of the rainbow! Yellow, red, blue, orange, and purple tents and flags snapped and fluttered in a stiff summer breeze.

For Emma, it was as if her garden had spread its magic along the wondrous, happy stream. She lifted her feet like a young girl in springtime, prancing and dancing her way between her singing neighbors, adrift in the warmth and pleasure of the sun above. At the sounds of kettle drums arriving from Runkel, Ingelbert sprang from the ground with a smile across his face as big as all the world. His happy, little eyes sparkled blue and his white hair waved in the wind like the tops of dandelions in May. The simple man took his mother’s hands in his own and the two danced in circles as flutes and horns and tambourines filled the air with joy.

Trumpets sounded and the villagers retreated to a respectful distance from the picnic grounds. From a vantage all along the roadway they marveled at the spectacle approaching them. In the fore of a long column rode Lord Klothar and his wife atop two beautiful chargers. Behind rumbled a gaily decorated horse-drawn wagon carrying the drably dressed abbot, his dour-faced prior, and several monks. The villagers strained to see the great Lord Protectors of their manor. It was they who defended them against their earthly foes and kept the Devil’s minions at bay.

More horses soon trotted by the happy folk, horses mounted by the smiling knights and squires of Runkel. The men were not dressed for battle, but were graced in colorful robes, long and tailored. Alongside the soldiers trotted a horde of hounds from all parts of Christendom. These included wiry, gray wolfhounds from Ireland, smooth, honey-colored Danish hounds, mastiffs, and a variety of mixed breeds.

Behind this group rode another column of knights, the Knights Templar. These bearded, short-haired warrior-monks were dressed in their white robes emblazoned with red crosses on each left breast. Their standard bearer trotted by carrying the
Beausant
—their battle-flag of two vertical black and white panels—and the villagers grew hushed.

Next followed the ladies of Runkel’s court. Adorned in all the colors of the rainbow, they were dressed in flowing silk over-gowns, rippling and folding gracefully to the ground at their dainty feet. Their hair was braided and bound by jeweled hairclasps. Most covered their heads with gauzy wimples; others with the hoods of their mantles. Atop their saddles lounged all manner of cats who glanced about the parade with aloof indifference.

About the ladies clambered the children. As with the villagers, these came in all sorts, but the children of this class were scrubbed and finely dressed. The girls were dressed as miniature women, complete with shiny accessories and jewels. The younger boys wore tunics to the ankles, more like the women, while the older boys wore them to the knees, where hose followed into leather shoes. Younger or older, the male children’s hair was long, like their fathers, but neat and often capped by plumed hats.

Klothar arrived at the mill pond first and dismounted. Smiling, he stretched in the sun and embraced his courtiers as they arrived. The lord was then escorted to a place at the edge of the grass and from here he raised his arms and graced the awestruck villagers of Weyer with a smile.

The simple folk of that weary hamlet fell to their knees and bowed as the man acknowledged them. “Good people of Weyer!” he roared. “I am Klothar, Lord of Runkel, son of Hugo of Oldenburg, father of Heribert. God has willed our fortunes to be joined with your abbot, Stephen. May God’s blessings be upon us all, this Lammas Day!”

With that, the village folk stood to their feet and cheered. With a brush of his hand and a condescending smile, Lord Klothar then dismissed them to their separate celebration as he turned to his own. A large, high-backed chair was set at the head of a long set of oak plank tables, each covered by colorful cloths and bending with the weight of the feast’s bounty. Lord Klothar welcomed his wife, Mechtilde, to his side and seated her on a wooden chair not unlike his own. She was attractive, especially given her age. The daughter of Rolf, King of Saxony, she had borne her husband a healthy son, Heribert, the future lord of Runkel.

Along the sides of the tables were set benches where the guests of Villmar would be seated. To Klothar’s right, the row began with the papal legate, followed by the abbot, the prior, and a long stream of merchants, lesser lords, and knights. To Klothar’s left sat Hagan, various visiting guests, and finally Bailiff Werner and Woodward Arnold. With the slighted Father Pious scowling in the background, a priest of the abbey offered a blessing and a psalm.

Chefs from Runkel had worked hard to present a fine display, one fitting the guests and the season. They stood to one side as servants gathered in a long column from their cauldrons and pits, portable ovens, and mixing troughs. With great ceremony and the accompanying sounds of lutes and pipes, the parade of servers was quickly ordered toward the cheering entourage with a steaming, sloshing line of pots, trays, kettles, and platters.

Lord Klothar, his family, the abbot, and two or three esteemed lords were presented with their personal trenchers. The rest of the guests would share a platter with two or more of their fellows. Carvers scurried along the tables, deftly slicing slabs of meat and removing bones from juicy roasts. Other servants rushed to fill impatient tankards with wine from the sunny slopes of the empire’s lands near Rome, or with Swabian beer, or local cider. And, while the lords and ladies plunged their fingers, spoons, and daggers into fatty meats and soft stews, their hearts were gladdened by the voices of minstrels, the strings of psalters, and the screeching reeds of
Düdelsacks.

Scraps the peasants would have happily sucked or gnawed were tossed indifferently to the many pampered dogs which drooled overstuffed and haughty at their masters’ feet. Heinrich stared from his appointed place and shook his head.
Those dogs,
he thought,
know their place and are fattened for it.
He turned to look at the gray horde of dim-eyed peasants gawking at their masters.
And we know ours but are the worse for it.
He studied the lords, then his fellows. A voice suddenly whispered in his ear and he turned to see Brother Lukas standing behind a nearby tree. Heinrich laughed. “You’ve escaped again!”

Lukas smiled. “Aye, I could not help but come … it is all the talk of the cloister and I’d be in hopes of some food and drink that might be left.”

“Humph, methinks the dogs are eating your share!”

“Ah, the dogs. I forgot about the dogs.” Lukas watched the abbot toss a lunging mastiff a plate of scraps before he surveyed the gaunt faces of the peasants around him. “The lords of war and the lords of the Church; they rule the earth together and hoard its plenty. We have strayed, m’friend.”

There never had been, nor would there ever be again a Lammas feast in Weyer like the one now passed. For Heinrich, it was a remarkable success, and his reputation as a skilled baker had quickly spread across the realm of the abbey and beyond. The man had other reasons for joy as well. His wife, Marta, was again heavy with child and Heinrich beamed with pride as he awaited the happy day.

News came just past the bells of nones on a hot afternoon on the tenth day of August. Heinrich had just finished wiping the ovens and was about to inspect the harvest with Herwin, when Irma, Herwin’s eldest daughter, rushed down the path to beckon him home.

“Methinks there to be trouble!” squealed the girl.

Panicked and fearful, Heinrich charged ahead to arrive at the barred door of his hovel. Not permitted to enter, Heinrich paced the croft behind his hut. He stopped and listened to hear a faint whimper, then a scream—then the cry of a baby. The man smiled and raced to his door. “Hello?”

The midwife stepped out of the bedchamber and beckoned Heinrich to enter. “Marta is good, but weary. The child is crying but methinks it seems too blue and … is … odd to look upon.”

“‘Odd’? What do you mean, ‘odd?”

The woman shrugged as Heinrich brushed past her and hurried to Marta’s side. Marta lay sobbing, holding the newborn with limp, disinterested arms. At the sight of her husband, Marta cried, “You! You cursed me and the child … you … some sin… have you some secret sin?”

Heinrich stood openmouthed and speechless.
Sin?
he thought. “What sin? What—” He looked at his girl-child and his heart sank. She was of poor color and misshapen.

Varina’s daughter had been summoned to fetch the priest but it seemed forever before Father Johannes appeared at the door. He was annoyed and sweating. He had been working with the harvesters as far south as the balk at the Oberbrechen border and was not pleased to trudge all the way to Weyer on such a steamy day. As he entered the hovel he stomped the dirt clotted on his sandals and grunted. “Does the child yet live?”

Heinrich nodded.

“And where is it?”

Heinrich pointed toward his bedchamber.

The priest took the child from her mother’s arms. He was in a hurry to return to his duties in the field. “The name?”

Marta answered clearly. “I wanted a girl-child to be Margaretha … after my mother’s mother, but—”