Quest of Hope: A Novel (6 page)

Somewhere on the road to Runkel five men charged from the wood and intercepted Arnold’s cart. “Ha!” boomed one as he grabbed the horse’s bridle. “You’d be comin’ with us, son of Jost!”

Cursing, Arnold stood on his wagon and snapped his whip at the man. “Off with you! Get off, now!” He swung his whip over and over again, drawing blood and oaths. More hands grasped at the panicked beast and at Arnold and his shrieking sister.

Arnold quickly reached under his seat and yanked out a stout stick with a rock lashed to one end. He roared and flung his weapon in all directions, pounding at the heads and shoulders of the gang of men now clambering into his cart. It wasn’t long, however, before Arnold was knocked to the ground where four of the rogues kicked him and beat him furiously until he went limp in the dust.

Meanwhile, a fifth man held Sieghild by her hair as his fellows rummaged through the cart. Like ignorant apes at the fairs of Champagne, they poked and sniffed a satchel of spices destined for Lord Hugo’s kitchen and some herbs intended for his physician. One squeezed warm cider from a wineskin into Arnold’s face. “Look at me, son of Jost! You and your kin needs pay for yer sins.”

“Aye, you’d all be in needs of a lesson, methinks,” snarled another.

Arnold struggled to open his blood-matted eyes. He peered through a red haze at the filth before him. Toothless, and smelling worse than most peasants before their spring baths, they reeked of garlic and field scallions; their leggings were threadbare and crusted by years of neglect.

“Rot in hell,” muttered Arnold.

With that, poor Sieghild was thrown to the ground. Arnold struggled to his feet, only to be hammered in the belly. He collapsed, gasping and cursing. The writhing girl’s gown and under-gown were yanked from her shins and bunched above her hips. Sieghild’s face was pummelled mercilessly by heavy fists while her wrists and ankles were pinned tightly to the ground.

It was not long before her screams and pleadings faded into wounded whimpers as one by one each attacker took a turn. At long last the five stood shoulder to shoulder spitting upon both Arnold and poor Sieghild. They laughed and mocked the girl, adding vulgarities to their blasphemy, then crowded into Arnold’s cart. With a slap of the whip they disappeared into the darkening wood.

Arnold groaned and covered his trembling sister. Stunned and ashamed, Sieghild stared vacantly from behind haunted eyes, then turned her face away.

The next day, little Heinrich awakened just before dawn. He cried for his mother and, while Berta attended his needs, Kurt stood in his doorway, anxious and suddenly filled with dread. Sieghild had not yet returned from her journey, and the man sensed something was wrong. He stepped lightly past his trestle table and raised the hardwood latch of his door. The village was dark and smoky, the air heavy and clinging. He hurried to Baldric’s hoping for news, but, having none, he could do little else but report to his duties with the carpenters working in the nearby village of Oberbrechen.

By the bells of nones, Kurt returned to Weyer and inquired again, only to learn nothing. Gravely concerned, he reluctantly marched to his fields that lay just north of the village. He arrived and stared mutely at the large stones that marked his strips. With a deep breath Kurt forced his attention to the fertile ground and calculated his hopes for the growing season ahead. Of his half-hide, half were in fallow and the rest would yield barely enough for a profit. He needed to keep about one third of the harvest for the next planting’s seed, another third for taxes, and only the last third would be his own. That final third needed to feed his family and leave enough to be sold for profit.

Herwin, Kurt’s tenant, was clever and insisted that more manure would increase the yield. Unfortunately, Kurt owned no sheep or cows and would have to purchase it. Kurt preferred to argue, “the best fertilizer is the farmer’s foot.” He knew his land, he said, and somehow that would have to be good enough.

For the remainder of the day he labored behind his rented oxen, but Kurt’s thoughts were never far from Sieghild. Twilight finally urged him to follow other weary silhouettes toward the village. He was hungry and his legs ached. His mind pictured Berta’s bubbling mush and Heinrich’s laughing face.

Kurt made his way to Baldric’s hut once more—only now he arrived to find a scene of horror. Baldric’s face was purpled in a rage that Kurt had never seen. Arnold’s wife was holding Sieghild dutifully and turned cold eyes toward Kurt. “Your brother’s half-dead from a Gunnar beating and this one’s been used—by more than one—and she’s in need of a midwife.”

Kurt paled. A shiver chilled his back and anger coursed through his body. He looked at Sieghild with a devastating pity. He reached for her but she pulled away and turned her face in shame.

Baldric roared, “By God, Jesus, by Odin and thunder; by the wind I do swear this night that blood will spill!”

Kurt nodded and turned toward Arnold who was slouched and unattended in a corner. The badly beaten young man looked up from swollen eyes. His nose was broken and he was bent in two with pain.

“I… I am sorry, brother,” Arnold wheezed and coughed. “There was five, methinks. I—”

“Hush, Arnold,” snapped Kurt. “There’d be no shame for you in this.”

Baldric crouched by his younger brother and Arnold grabbed his shoulder. “Vow this: vow you’d not be seeking Gunnar kin without me. I… I needs time for strength, but by God, I must make them pay with m’own hand.”

Baldric hesitated. He wanted to strike that very night. He stood and paced the room like a wounded bear. His narrow eyes flickered and flamed. With a howl and an anguished cry he smashed a stool with the edge of his huge fist. He hesitated, then relented. “Aye, brother, I so vow.”

The next morning Berta reluctantly held a cup of the midwife’s infusion to Sieghild’s lips while her sisters-in-law stood grimly in the corner. Berta was told the drink might keep God’s judgment from the girl’s womb by sparing her the consequence of her attackers. “A blend of secret herbs and steeped in water hexed years ago by a passing Syrian,” the midwife said.

Berta was not unkind, nor without compassion, but she wanted no part of this uncleanness. She had worked too hard at her own perfection to be soiled by this woman’s indignity. Her pity was blended with disgust. “Touched and handled by so many,” she whined. “Methinks some spirit within her must have drawn them … talk’s always been of such.”

Hildrun nodded. “Despoiled, I say, and none will want her now. What Christian man would?”

Gisela agreed. “I’ve always thought her to have demons hovering about.”

Poor Sieghild had said not one word since the attack and had done little more than stare and groan in pain. Though mute, she was not deaf, however, and had the other women bothered to look, they would have surely seen the unspoken anguish flooding the young woman’s eyes. Evil men had plundered her body, but it was her own kin who now ravaged her soul. A wicked tongue and haughty heart are surely among the most ruthless of evil’s weapons, and in the blackness of the night, poor Sieghild could bear the eyes of shame no longer. Slipping out of Baldric’s hovel and across the Laubusbach, she wandered past the boundary poles of her manor and was gone.

Chapter 3

THE FEUD

H
einrich had become a cheerful little lad. The child was strong and healthy, keen-eyed and happy. He laughed easily, always eager for the soft comfort of his mother’s arms and the playful toss of his father’s hands. The toddler spent his days trundling about the hovel, bouncing between the trestle table and the three-legged stool. He brought little trouble to his mother, though the same could not be said of his brother, Axel, now nearly one year old.

Kurt had long since given up his search for Sieghild and had sorrowfully turned his attention to his many duties. The first weeks of June were unusually eventful as Weyer and its neighboring villages had almost fallen prey to the rogue knights of a disenfranchised lord. Christendom’s most admired defenders, the white-robed warrior-monks known as the Knights Templar, soundly defeated the insurgents. The victorious monks secured vast lands adjacent to the western border of the abbey’s manor, and the folk of Weyer were delighted to be living under the watch of such valiant protectors.

Secretly, Berta was certain that the Templars had won the day because of her own precious relic that she kept hidden under her bed. The relic was a gift given by her father years before with a warning that she should show it to no churchman. It was a gold bezance, suspended by a silver chain, that had been minted in Barcelona nearly a century before. According to the peddler who had sold it to Berta’s father, it had been carried by a French knight in the First Crusade. The knight had touched it to the Holy Sepulchre and had it blessed by the first Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Hughues de Payen. Upon hearing of the battle and the Templars’ great victory, Berta had clutched the relic to her heart and wept for joy.

Within days Berta had another reason for joy as well. On the thirteenth of June she presented a third healthy child to her husband, a red-haired girl they baptized Effi. To the family’s dismay, however, the colicky bundle did little other than keep everyone from a good night’s rest!

One bright Sabbath after Midsummer’s, Berta took the baby and her two boys for a morning walk near the bubbling Laubusbach. It wasn’t long before they happened upon Emma and her son, Ingelbert. Berta turned quickly as if to leave, but Heinrich ran ahead to greet Emma’s little lad. Heinrich grinned and reached out his hand to touch Ingelbert’s white hair.

Ingelbert bore the unfortunate curse of being an outsider. He was the illegitimate son of a woman from an unknown place, of unknown blood, and odd ways. That would have been enough to cause suspicion and fear, but the little fellow’s appearance added yet more to his troubles. Though only three years old, the boy already had the look of an old man. His nose was long and hooked, his thin, white hair wisped atop a sloped head. His front teeth protuded over a jaw that was so weak it virtually disappeared. Yet, for anyone daring enough to see beyond his imperfect shell, there awaited an eager smile, a longing to please, and a selfless heart bursting with kindness.

Heinrich was still blessed with the innocence of childhood. He saw only a happy face and an honest smile. Only six months younger than Ingelbert, Heinrich was still a bit clumsy on his feet and stumbled toward his new friend until he fell into him. They both tumbled to the ground, laughing and rolling like puppies in the soft grass.

“No more!” cried Berta nervously. She avoided the sad and knowing eyes of Emma and whispered to herself, “No curses upon us.”

Emma had kept a respectful distance but now took a slow step toward Berta and offered her a kind word. “Frau Berta? I pray you and your lovely children peace.” She smiled kindly, then turned away from the startled woman and reached her hand toward Heinrich. The boy stood calmly, almost entranced, as Emma gently rolled her finger through a ginger-colored curl looped across his forehead. Heinrich giggled and Emma grinned, her round face lit by her twinkling eyes. “Frau Berta, methinks this boy of yours to be special. There’s a… a light of sorts within him, and a look of mercy… and … ah, well…” With that, Berta shuddered and she quickly led her children away.

At dusk a few days later, Kurt was summoned to the council where the men of Weyer would review village business by torchlight on the roadway just below the church. About forty men gathered, women being strictly forbidden. The elected village chief, or reeve, was a mean-spirited, blustery yeoman named Lenard who proceeded to review a number of issues, including the village’s constant plea for a wall and news of a grinding machine driven by wind. “A peddler told the monks of it and they’ve some interest. Seems a tower’s been built in Normandy and atop it is some contraption of arms with windsails. It catches the wind and turns the grindstones below.” Lenard paused as the men muttered in disbelief. After some debate, they finally decided harnessing the wind was too much of a risk.

The reeve then announced the appointment of a new hayward to oversee harvesting schedules, and he reviewed the status of the sheepfold, the swineherd, and the condition of the ox teams, as well as complaints of firewood allotments and sundry fees. “I’m told the mill fees may increase,” he added bluntly.

An angry murmur rippled through the group.

“Aye, but the abbot says ‘tis needed. Enough of it. I’ve other news as well. The abbey plans to build a larger bakery so you’ll be needing to buy from them again, and only them. When it’s finished you’ll be closing up the village oven and you’re expected to eat less
Mus
and buy more bread.”

“Nay!” shouted an angry voice, quickly followed by a chorus of protest. Bread was life itself and they surely preferred it to mush, but they feared the monks’ prices.

“You’ve no choice. I should tell you now that you’ll soon be buying their beer as well.”

“Curse them, those—”

“Hold your tongue, man, or burn in the Pit!” Lenard was incensed. “I’ve two more things. There’s talk of a witch with a babe in the east wood by Münster. Arnold’s brought us news of bat’s wings and heads of chickens. He’s seen a lean-to of sticks and heard a baby’s cry in the night. Is it not so, boy?”

Arnold stepped from the darkness. “Ja, I swear to these things. I’ve heard reports from pilgrims north of the Lahn as well.”

“Men,” continued Lenard, “we’ve all lived with witches and their spells, fairies, sprites, gnomes, and the like. We’ve a good, stout church here in the village. Keep your families true to the Holy Virgin. I don’t want any of you seeking out this witch to help with harvesttime, planting, sickness, or troubles. We’ve no need of her spells and magic; they’ll only bring us trouble to be sure.”

The reeve looked hard at his men. “Now, one last thing. I’ve given thought to the strumpet Emma and her freak child. Methinks she’s no witch, but strange to be sure and uncommon. I think she does not belong here but the monks say to leave her in peace.”

The men laughed. “Have you seen that little beast of hers? Big nose, crooked eyes …”

“Front teeth sticking out and …”

“Aye, and ears too! Have you seen its ears? We could use them to catch the wind for that windgrinder!”

The group howled. Lenard, laughing with the others, settled them. “Well then, good men, tell your kin and householders to keep a safe distance but leave the two fools be. They seem content to watch the water.”

The harvest of 1177 had been poor and Kurt’s household was worried. Adding to their misery were the unbearable moods of Baldric who had lost his wife to childbirth several months before. The angry bear now prowled about the forests and villages in search of a target for his fury.

Poor harvests were a particular problem for the abbey. Good stewardship required revenues be collected regardless of conditions. After all, the abbot owed considerable fees to the Lord of Runkel for protection and to the see of Mainz as well. Certain that an abbey bakery could turn a quick profit, the abbot insisted work continue on its construction in Villmar. He planned to eventually construct a bakery in each of the abbey’s villages as well, and, in time, breweries. In addition, he had been entertaining new ideas on crop rotation and mining. Travelers had brought news of interesting techniques in France and England that were increasing harvest yields. The area was also rich in marble, silver, and shale—products not yet fully exploited. The business of shepherding souls, he sighed, required a clever mind and a resolute spirit.

Stewardship was a heavy responsibility not to be taken lightly. Business for some was a problem of revenue, for others, a question of expense. The abbot was determined to address both. He had lessened the pressure on his treasury by limiting the number of oblates and postulants. Novices, too, were a costly venture, he reasoned, always in need of new habits, eating more than their elders by twice or thrice—in spite of the Rule that demanded they eat less. They were famous for damaging tools, spilling inks, wasting dyes—the list of expenses was endless. So, when a wealthy merchant from nearby Limburg appeared at the monastery’s gate with a young child in tow, the abbot was wary.

Corpulent and well dressed, the merchant strode with an arrogant swagger to the abbey gate. Egidius, the porter, bowed. “Thanks be to God.”

The merchant grunted. Dragging a stout, young boy of about five years of age forward, he said, “Its mother’s dead. I’ve no need of it.”

The porter looked at the plump, pink-faced lad with sudden compassion. “Has he no kin, an aunt or…?”

“No. I’ve no one who wants the thing. I’ve a bag of coins that should keep it fed and in clothes, more coins than the thing’s worth, to be sure.”

Egidius had a strong urge to assault the man but obediently offered charity, instead. “Come this way,” he growled.

The merchant followed the porter into the courtyard of the monastery and passed the kitchen. It was fortunate for the man that it was neither Wednesday nor Friday and the monks were not in fast. This assured him of a good meal, especially since it was just now midafternoon. The merchant wasn’t certain, but he thought he smelled mutton stew and fresh bread. He licked his lips in anticipation.

The three soon passed the dining hall and crossed the inner courtyard to the abbot’s chambers. The hooded monks scurrying to their meal did not speak to the stranger for their Rule prohibited it, but they did bow respectfully, as did Abbot Boniface upon the merchant’s arrival at his door.

Boniface prayed and then greeted his visitor with a kiss of peace. He recited a few verses of the Holy Scriptures and then washed the merchant’s hands and feet. As he dried his own hands he prayed again. “God, we have received thy mercy in the midst of thy temple.” He motioned for a brother to fetch food for his guest and beckoned the man be seated.