Quest of Hope: A Novel (38 page)

Those last words gave hope to all women over fifteen! Marta elbowed her way closer to the priest and fixed a smile on the man. Pious narrowed his beady eyes at her. “Hmm. I confess I see more beauty here than ever in Oberbrechen!”

Weyer roared its approval. The priest smiled and waved and begged for calm. Heinrich was leaning on a shed post grumbling into his beer. “If she wins, Richard, she’ll be impossible to endure. And if she loses, it’ll be even worse!” The two had spent more time together of late. They howled and laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.

The priest began to point to his candidates. “You there, maiden.”

A cheer rose from her kin. “Me?” she asked timidly.

“Aye, you! Come to the fore.”

A young girl of about eleven stepped lightly toward Pious. She was willowy and tall, blonde, and fair. She turned to face the others and blushed.

“And you… there.”

Another young girl stepped forward. She had a bold step, however, and Richard muttered that her legs looked thick under her gown. She was brown-haired, buxom, and spirited. “Better ahead of the plough than behind,” he chortled.

“Hmm. I pray God helps me!” cried Pious. The crowd tittered and waited patiently. The priest scanned the pressing folk until he spotted Katharina. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, shyly, and eyes cast down. Heinrich saw her too and his heart beat quickly. He had not seen her for months, for her cruel husband had kept her indoors for nearly every winter’s day. Pious stared at her for a long moment. Her form was as one kindly, graceful and lean. A
bit old,
thought the priest.
But
… He hesitated while Katharina died a thousand deaths. “You, there! Wife of Ludwig the Yeoman.” The man pointed a chubby finger toward the woman and beckoned her.

Katharina closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She wanted nothing of this silly game. She had been pleased enough to feel the sunshine on her face and needed nothing more. As she moved reluctantly toward the front she smiled politely and begged the pardon of those she bumped against. She stood with the other two and licked her dry lips nervously.

Heinrich left Richard and pressed his way closer. He caught her eye for a fleeting moment and she looked quickly away. At the same time her brutish husband bellowed from somewhere in the crowd, “She’s mine! Y’ve no right to look at my woman!”

Meanwhile, Marta simmered.
Why that cow before me?
Suddenly she worried that Pious would not choose another matron.

The priest shifted his black robe and craned his balding head. “A gourd!” sneered Wil. “His head looks like some swollen gourd and his eyes peek out from his flab like … like little acorns.”

“Quiet!” scolded Karl. “You’ll be doing penance again.”

“There, you,” called the priest. He had chosen number four from the far side of the common. She was another young one, barely of marrying age.

“She’s the sister of that redhead, Ingrid,” added Wil.

“Aye, and y’think Ingrid to be pretty!” teased Karl.

“Shut up, y’dolt!”

Irene, daughter of Franz the yeoman, now stood by Pious and smiled shyly to her cheering family. She waved and giggled and adjusted the white
Maiglücken
blooms tucked neatly in her hair.

“I’ve but one left to choose,” announced Pious. He stretched his neck and scratched his head, furrowed his brow and folded his arms. The names of this one and that were shouted from the impatient folk until, at last, he smiled and motioned for calm. “Ah, good people, I have chosen!” He smiled and pointed to Marta. The woman feigned surprise and blushed. “Me? You pick me?”

Heinrich groaned as Richard jibed him. “You are s-surely one destined to suffer!” he slurred. “Look at her. She walks like someone p-planted a great stick in her rump! She’s got the way of a she-wolf on the prowl, and ha, poor Katharina looks like a d-doe tangled in the brush!”

Reeve Edwin called the crowd to order and thanked the priest, but Pious was not quite finished with his plan. He cleared his throat and beckoned for Marta. He laid his arm over her shoulder and spoke sternly. “Men, hear me, and hear me well, for nothing happens on earth that is not noted in heaven:

Your spelt and wheat and oats and rye

I pray do yield you well,

But choose not she who tempts your eye

Else you shall end in hell!

Choose with care, choose not in jest

A queen to bless your ground.

Choose one proven and one blessed

And one whose spirit’s sound.”

Wil groaned. “A riddle!”

Karl smiled. He loved riddles.

The crowd remained quiet. In times past choosing the queen was a frivolous thing, but Father Pious’s poem made it seem worthy of more care. They suddenly imagined their crops to be at risk and the fun was gone. They studied the candidates and murmured amongst themselves until Edwin called for their attention. “Now, are we ready?”

The crowd nodded.

“Good.” Reeve Edwin put his hand on the first maiden’s head. “All for this one?”

She received a polite applause and a few distant cheers. The young girl hung her head and stepped backward.

“And for this?”

Again, the same.

“And for Katharina?”

Heinrich held his breath. He wanted to roar his approval. A larger cheer rose from the men and a few shouts. She was in the lead.

Edwin reached for Irene. “And for this?”

Irene was a fresh-faced beauty to be sure, but it seemed Pious’s poem had frightened away all support for the young ones. A few shouts from a group of boys wasn’t enough.

Edwin turned to Marta who stepped forward hastily and smiled with feigned shyness. Wil and Karl hoped she would win, else “well have hell to pay at our own hearth!” grumbled Wil. Pious was the first to cheer and with his lead the men of Weyer roared their approval. And so, for the fourth time in her life, Marta, daughter of Dietrich, wore the purple, silken veil of Weyer’s May Day Queen.

As Heinrich had feared, his wife spent the summer lording about the village like she was queen. Her friends followed like hurried goslings behind a goose. Anka, the dyer’s wife, scrambled hither and yon fetching and stepping to keep Queen Marta in a humor worthy of her status.

By late July it had become apparent that the empire’s troubles would not be easing and the profits of the bakery began to dwindle. Worried and growing fearful, Heinrich sought out Lukas as he was picking
Eberesche
and pulling nettles in the forest by the Magi. “Ho, friend!” called Heinrich.

Lukas straightened and smiled. He stretched his old back and put down his pots. “Ah, Heinrich. Always a joy to see you.”

“And you. Have you a few moments?”

“Aye, indeed.” The two wandered to a log at the base of the three trees and faced the shimmering stream.

“Lukas, I’ve some fears ’bout m’bakery. Hard times seem to never end and the villagers seem less willing than ever to buy m’bread.”

“Hmm. You’ve also repairs, firewood to buy, a helper or two to pay, and Marta has dreams that need be fed by shillings.”

“Ja.
Shilling-dreams by day and endless fears of the Judgment in the night. I do what I can to please her. As for the bakery, the tax gets ever higher. I thought when I owned it I’d feel more free than I do.”

Lukas shook his head. “Nay, the power to tax is the power to own. You must know that you cannot stop them from raising it. I fear they’ll force you to give it back by taxing the life out of you.”

“Never! ‘Tis mine and m’lads’ after me!” The two sat quietly. Heinrich tossed a handful of pebbles into the clear water. “I wish Emma were here.”

Lukas nodded. A blackbird landed nearby, then a thrush. A flicker banged his beak against a tree deep in the forest’s shade and a swallow swooped atop the water. “This is a good place, Lukas. A place to think.”

“And a place to dream.”

Heinrich shrugged. “Have you a thought for my bakery? I needs earn more from it.”

Lukas lay on his back and stared at the canopy of leaves arching from the ancient trees around him. “Yes. I do indeed. I’ve a thought or two on the matter. First, try this: folks buy what they think has worth. If you think your work has worth, then they shall as well. I’ve heard the free bakers in the guilds mark each loaf with a mark of their own. You, friend, are the owner; this is
your
bread! Be proud of it. Show others it has worth to you and mark it with
your
mark!”

Heinrich glowed. “Yes! A mark like the monks’. I could have a smith make an iron brand with m’own shape!” The baker laughed, pleased with the idea and begging for more.

Chapter 17

THE DECISION

I
t was the first Thursday in September when Heinrich returned from his busy bakery to the wails and laments of Marta. He charged through the door to find his wife weeping and lying limp over the body of her father. Dietrich had been a heavy cross for Heinrich to bear and the baker felt a twinge of guilt for feeling great relief at the old miller’s death. Father Pious entered next, and though Marta had rejected all attempts by her husband to offer comfort, she eagerly received a lingering embrace from the priest.

Dietrich was washed, shrouded in an expensive deerskin, and buried in Weyer’s churchyard. The day of the man’s burial was quiet, for few had any affection for the cheating, abrasive miller. His was another wasted life, and few gave more than a moment’s note to its passing.

In the hovel a tiny gathering of mourners huddled over a table of bread, salted pork, and cider. Arnold was distant and cold as ever. He spent most of his days in Villmar, “conspiring with the prior,” as Lukas once complained. But as wealthy as he had become, his life was empty and void of value. Richard, on the other hand, was less broody than he had once been and had begun to laugh again. In the past few years he had struggled to reclaim his former self and he was apt to tease and play about the village once more. He had bravely accepted the loss of one dream and had found the courage to dream again.

The village smith stopped by Heinrich’s hovel at day’s end and gave Marta a hammer and a small anvil that Dietrich had bought to use in those late nights by the furnace. Marta burst into tears as she ran her fingers along the necklace her father had made, and thanked the man. Heinrich bade the smith farewell, then turned to catch him on the pathway. Karl and Wil came trotting behind.

“Smith!” called Heinrich.

The man stopped and looked. “Aye?”

“How much to make me a baker’s mark? A small stamp to press into my loaves.”

“Uh, that would depend on the shape. Have you a drawing?”

Heinrich turned to Wil. “Boy, can you write in the dust, can you write ‘Emma?”

Wil brightened. “Of course, it begins with an
e
.” The lad drew an ‘
E
’ in the dirt with his finger.

The four studied the letter for a few moments until Karl suddenly cried, “Look,
Vati!
Draw the middle line all the way through and you’ve a cross!”

The man smiled. “Good lad! There, smith—there is m’mark!”

By St. Michael’s Day the baker was proudly stamping every loaf, roll, twist, and bun with his brand. And as Lukas had imagined, the village loved it. No longer were they buying only bread, but instead were buying the handiwork of one who cared. He had also learned to season his loaves with herbs and even honey. The bakery was suddenly paying its tax and yielding a pleasing profit. But Heinrich’s heart was softer than his fresh-baked doughs and it often broke for the little ones who came and begged. So his bakery had also become a source of Christian charity for those in want. He found ways to stretch his flours just enough to feed what needy ones he could. Far from reducing the gain for others, his prosperity became a means for many to have more.

Between matins and morning lauds Heinrich rose from his straw-mound bed, kissed the heads of his sons, and walked briskly toward his bake-house and met his apprentices.

“Good day, Rolf, and to you, Reinl.” The sleepy boys nodded. Karl, now nearly six, would join his father at prime to aid in selling bread to travelers along the road.
A good occupation for the little chatterbox!
thought Heinrich.
He learns of riddles and tricks, songs, and legends from all parts and sells lots of bread!

The baker set his goods in baskets by the door and set his coin box in its place beneath a shelf as his first patrons arrived. The first hour passed without incident, and all seemed well until Brother Lukas peeked through a shuttered window in the rear of the bakery. “Pssst! Heinrich!” he called in a hushed tone.

Heinrich turned about. “Lukas?”

“Shhh!” The monk beckoned him to come close.

Heinrich stepped to the window. “Why aren’t you in chapter?”

Lukas shrugged. “No matter. We’ve other business. Come with me.”

“But… but m’patrons, I—”

“Nay! Leave them to the boys. You come!”

Heinrich hesitated, then removed his apron and slipped out the door to follow Lukas silently through the day’s early light. The monk said nothing as they crossed the plank bridge spanning the Laubusbach and entered the wood. “Lukas, really, I’ve no time today for a talk at the Magi.”

Lukas’s voice was tight. “Keep walking, friend, and quickly. Now listen, it seems there was quite a battle yesterday on Lord Conrad’s land. We knew nothing of it until late in the night. Conrad suffered a terrible slaughter, but he escaped by dividing his army into several parts. The Templars separated to give chase but were ambushed by mercenaries held in reserve.”

Heinrich stopped. “So why is this our business?”

“Blasius is missing.”

Heinrich felt a chill. Heinrich could still see the good man weeping for young Albert at the gallows. He would give his life to help Blasius despite his being a Gunnar. The baker suddenly thought of the words Uncle Baldric had spoken long ago: “Never deny the Code or the cause!” Heinrich had honored the Code and kept it well, but on this day the cause must end.

The two ran past the Magi, then hurried past the boundary poles of the abbey. Heinrich grew nervous. He cast an anxious glance at the monk who winked confidently and pressed on. At last the monk stopped. “Just over there,” panted Lukas.

Heinrich followed the man’s finger to a dip in the ground. “Why there?”

“‘Tis something of a secret. Blasius and I oft spy this land. He for his master, me for the thrill! Knowledge, Heinrich, is power. The Templars want control of all these lands, at least that is my thought. Blasius was sent here to spy and he brought me along. In that hollow is a deep spring, heavy timber, two small caves, and a bounty of herbs and berries.”

“I’m off m’lord’s lands.”

“Aye, but you’d be doing the Lord’s work.”

Under full light of day, the two trotted quickly through an open field, ever vigilant for what other eyes might be watching. They hid against the trunk of a huge beech where Lukas abruptly warbled like a thrush. Heinrich’s mouth dropped in astonishment.

Lukas warbled again. This time it was answered. The monk laughed with delight and hiked his black robes above his ankles. He led Heinrich carefully along a deer path and downward into the heavy shade of the hollow. The two walked slowly through cold, damp air until a low whistle was heard off to their right. Lukas froze and cocked his ears. He answered the whistle, and it echoed back to him. “There.” He pointed.

Heinrich peered carefully between the trees and saw nothing until he followed Lukas a little farther and saw the figure of a man slumped against a fallen log. Lukas raced ahead. “Blasius!” he called in a hushed tone.

“’Tis I,” the man answered.

Lukas embraced the young soldier and checked his wounds. Blasius was badly cut across his left arm and his face was bloodied. He held his belly and mumbled he had been “de-horsed by a hammer.”

Heinrich looked into the man’s eyes. “Brother, all shall be well. We’ve brought bread from the best baker in all the Empire!”

Blasius chuckled, then groaned. “Aye, for certain. No rye, please!”

Heinrich laughed.

“Lukas, three of us came upon a company. Then … then others came and … it was just… just to the west a few hundred paces. When I awoke, my comrades were dead and I crawled here.”

Lukas nodded. It was midmorning and he was certain that a grand hunt was already on by both sides. It was dangerous to move, especially with a wounded man, but all the more dangerous to stay. “Can you walk?”

“Aye, m’legs are well, but m’lungs cut me and I cough blood some. But, Lukas, my brothers shall surely come. Templars leave none behind; ‘tis our oath.”

“I understand, but Conrad’s men are searching as well and I think it more likely for them to find you here than your fellows.” Lukas studied the man, then glanced at the sun above. He bent on his knees and lifted a prayer to the Almighty, recited the
Doxologia Minor
and smiled. “Now we go.”

With that, the three began a tortuous climb out of the hollow and onto the wide, sun-swept ridge above. They crawled in the cover of tall grass to the protective edge of the forest where Heinrich propped Blasius against a tree and wiped the blood oozing from his lips with a cloth he had wetted in the spring. Lukas surveyed the field behind them and suddenly pointed to their hollow. “Look,” he whispered. “Conrad’s men riding in. God be praised, we would have surely been found! We needs move off, and fast.”

Blasius groaned and gasped as he stood to his feet. Lukas was troubled and he looked squarely into the young Templar’s face. “Blasius, you needs take off the armor. Heinrich shall carry you.”

The soldier hesitated. Chain mail was costly—very costly. A baker would need to work for a year to pay for one man’s chain-mail coat. “Your life has value, as well,” snapped Lukas. “Now off with it! I’ll stuff it under these rocks.”

With a few grumbles and groans, the man was stripped of his heavy armor and hoisted upon Heinrich’s broad back. Their load now lightened considerably, the three tripped their way through the heavy wood to the safety of Weyer.

Marta had worried and pleaded with Heinrich for months. “I hear rumors everywhere that you crossed the boundary to save a Templar. Yet you told Father Pious you did not! A mortal sin. If you lied to the priest you shall surely earn us all a penalty on this earth and beyond!”

The woman’s shrill voice turned the man’s stomach. He shook his head and walked away. “Just leave it be, woman, just leave it be!” Indeed, the priest had confronted him three times with the story. Since leaving the manor was a very serious offense, Heinrich had reasoned he’d rather add to his secret sins than risk forfeiting his bakery. After all, he could always counter with another penance.

It was mid-June and Heinrich thought the unusual heat was a mild discomfort compared to the unyielding badgering he continued to endure from his nagging wife. She was now convinced that every bad bake, each leak of the roof, the near fire that Karl started in the hovel—all were warnings of greater woes to come. Marta spent hours with the priest, begging him to squeeze the truth from her husband.