Quest of Hope: A Novel (9 page)

“The widow wants this done now. The diggers always have graves-in-waiting, put him in one of them.” Baldric’s eyes narrowed.

Gregor felt suddenly uneasy. “And what is the hurry, my sons?” Suspicion laced his tone.

Baldric answered straightaway. “No hurry, father, but Berta believes a feast day to be a more blessed day to bury.”

Gregor shook his head. “Where such notions are born!”

Father Gregor greeted the family at the churchyard and prayed for the little cluster of kin gathered around. Throughout the brief burial service small Heinrich stood stone-faced and tearless. His mother had commanded him to be the son his father expected. But as soon as the priest finished, the young boy turned in hopes of flying to a safe place to shed his tears. Father Gregor snagged him by the arm. “Heinrich, now ‘tis time for you to be a man. Knowyour place and forget it not. Learn the ways and serve well.”

The young lad nodded soberly.

Chapter 4

MADONNA AND THE WITCH

W
ithout a husband, life became unbearable for Berta, and she blamed everyone, including her eldest son, for her suffering. “Boy,” she said flatly one night, “you understand it was for your honor that your father died?”

Heinrich stared at her in confusion.

“Aye? Your father had a code to keep.”

The little boy didn’t understand.

“There’s an order to life, ‘tis something you’ve needs learn now from Father Gregor. There is a proper way to follow and you must learn the code, like your father and grandfather. But you ought heed the priests’ ways more than your father did. It would be your gift to me and I shall love you for it.”

Berta was lonely and often desperate. One afternoon she led her children to the village well for a brief respite from the oppressive hovel. It was late and no one was near except for Emma, who usually came after the others had left. The outcast carried a wooden bucket in one hand and gently led her son with the other. Berta thought the woman to be odd but not as fearsome as some did, and on this summer’s evening her loneliness was greater than her discomfort.

“Good evening,” smiled Emma warmly.

“G-good evening to you, as well,” Berta stammered.

Emma cautiously approached and spoke gently. “I was sorry to learn of your husband’s death.” The woman laid a tender hand on Berta’s forearm. “I have not suffered that kind of loss, hut I imagine you must be lonely and confused.”

Unable to speak, Berta stared at the woman’s hand on her sleeve and nodded. No one had bothered to comfort her in these past few weeks. Gisela didn’t care, she had no true friends, and her cousins were indifferent.

“I’ve a beehive, you know,” Emma continued. “Could you and your little ones come for a bit of bread and honey?”

Berta was shocked. “Honey?” Only the monks owned beehives and she feared it was poached.

“Oh no, good Berta,” chuckled Emma. “’Tis honest honey. I bought the hive and paid the fine to have more. And I’ve a special place to show you!”

Heinrich was wide-eyed. He waited respectfully for his mother to answer, hoping with all his heart that she would say yes. He studied Emma carefully. He thought her to be softlooking and warm. She was shorter than his mother and plump and snugly. Her brown hair was braided and rolled neatly atop her head. Her brown eyes sparkled kindly from within a gentle, round face.

After a moment’s hesitation, Berta wavered. She was not quite ready to receive the woman’s kindness, though she wanted desperately to do so. At last she blurted, “Might we come on Sabbath afternoon?”

“Yes, of course.” Emma masked her disappointment. “I shall look for you on the morrow.”

The women smiled at each other and the boys bid each other a reluctant farewell. Emma reached out to lightly touch Heinrich on the head. It felt good to him, reassuring and loving. He sighed and stared at the kindly woman with happy eyes. He hated to leave.

The next day Heinrich could barely endure Mass and begged his mother to hurry. After a meal of mush and a Sunday pottage, Berta asked Arnold’s wife, Gisela, to mind Axel and Effi. Within a quarter hour, mother and son were walking toward the village edge and were soon within sight of the pleasant waters of the Laubusbach.

They walked a little farther until, just ahead of them, Emma’s cottage appeared. It stood alone beyond the footpaths of the village and near the water’s edge. A squat, one-room hut surrounded by a woven fence, its roof was thatch, its walls well-mudded, and all in all very much like every other hovel in the village. Yet it was enchanting in some indescribable way.

Emma and Ingelbert saw their guests approaching and hurried to meet them. They welcomed them through the simple gate where Berta suddenly stopped and gaped. The edge of Emma’s croft was lined with the most beautiful assortment of wildflowers she had ever seen. Every color of the rainbow was represented, forming a glorious collage that brought tears to Berta’s eyes. She was drawn deeper into the flower garden and then gasped aloud, for atop the many blooms fluttered more butterflies than she could have ever imagined in the most wondrous of dreams!

“I… I… have never seen such a thing in all my days!” Berta finally choked. “Ah, Emma, ‘tis a good thing you’ve done here.”

Emma smiled. “God’s hand is one of wonder and His eye is true.” She turned her face to the sun now blazing high above. “The sun ‘tis a warming glimpse of what’s sure and always.”

Heinrich tilted his head backward and smiled as the sun warmed his cheeks.

“So, my little Heinz—”

“Frau Emma, I prefer him be called by his baptized name—Heinrich.” Berta was firm.

Emma smiled. “Ah, and what does he prefer?”

Berta darkened. “What does that matter?”

“I see,” answered Emma slowly. She turned to the boy. “Heinrich, Ingelbert shall show you about whil’st I fix our honey.”

As the two boys scampered off, Emma motioned for Berta to sit on a stump while she left to fetch the treat. Berta’s eyes followed her hostess as she disappeared through the doorway, but curiosity tempted the woman beyond restraint and she quickly followed after her host. Stepping timidly across the threshold, she entered a neat, warm room furnished with two straw-mound beds, stools, a table, and a puzzling item covered by a large blanket. “Beggin’ your pardon, Emma, but what is that?”

“Aye?” Startled, Emma whirled about. “’Tis nothing, only…”

Berta was normally timid and reserved, but she walked boldly to the blanket and reached a hand for a corner. Her eyes searched through the shadows beneath the blanket as she lifted it away. “What is this? A… a scribe’s table?”

“Well… yes,” answered Emma nervously.

But Berta wanted more. She looked about the room and spotted some inkpots and colored powders tucked behind a broom. She squinted, puzzled and curious. She took a few steps toward another wall and studied a small grinder, a thick, iron-strapped chest, and a clay jar of honey, complete with a crowd of bees climbing over its stopper. Hanging on a peg was a wicker basket with several well-worn quills peeking over its edge, a few flat knives, and a stylus.

“So,” sighed Emma. “You’ve uncovered m’secret.”

Berta was confused. A breeze blew through the open doorway and toyed with her hair. “I… I thought only the monks knew how to write …”

“Times are changing.”

Berta nodded. “You’d be a taught woman, with a … a bastard child?”

Emma sighed, patiently. “’Tis true that I am somewhat learned and, yes, my good boy is a bastard. Methinks the two facts are opposed, for how learned could I be to have a predicament such as this?” She chuckled.

Berta became subdued and thoughtful. The two spoke in low tones until Heinrich and Ingelbert came tumbling through the doorway. “Ha, ha!” chortled Heinrich. “I like you, Ingly … I “

“Nay!” scolded Berta. “The boy’s name is Ingelbert, not ‘Ingly’!”

“Ah, Berta, ‘tis alright. My son seems to like the sound of it,” smiled Emma. “He’s never felt the joy of a friendly name. Heinrich, you have my permission to call him as he likes.”

Berta stiffened. She felt somehow insulted, and her mind quickly whispered reasons to reject her new friend. “Frau Emma, m’son needs learn the ways of right. Father Gregor thinks him already prideful, as do I, and I think it would be better he call your son as I say he should.”

Emma gazed sadly at Heinrich. The boy was staring at his feet and waiting for the final pronouncement. “Good lad,” began Emma. She bent down and laid a gentle finger under his chin. “Dear boy, look at me. ‘Tis always good to honor your mother.”

Heinrich nodded. His eyes brightened as they met the woman’s and met with unspoken understanding.

“Thank you,” interrupted Berta. “Things need remain as we know them to be. It is good to fix yourself to things right and true. Father Gregor says so.”

Emma sighed. “Might I serve you some buns with your honey, and some cider?”

Berta paused. She struggled for a moment, surprised at the woman’s charity. Berta was still drawn to the strange woman. “I … I can stay for a short time, but needs return home soon.”

Emma understood Berta’s struggle—she had been witness to such hesitation before. Graciously she set a small table of rye rolls, cider, and a jar of precious honey. Then, having made her guest at better ease, she patiently listened to Berta’s recitation of her many penances, her successes in fleeing temptation, and the wonders of the Virgin. But when Berta began to slander a neighbor, Emma interrupted. “Ah, ‘tis a glorious day, is it not? Would you be pleased to walk in my gardens?”

Berta fell silent, then nodded. And, while the two boys played innocently by the Laubusbach, the two mothers were soon walking midst Emma’s joy. The kitchen garden was filled with pungent herbs like rue, sage, and basil; also parsley, hyssop, parsnips, turnips, garlic, and chives. Berta was astonished at the abundance of green things lush and ready for the gardener’s knife.

Emma’s true treasure, however, was her garden of flowers. It was a masterpiece no painter could have ever captured, even on the canvas of a king. Emma led her guest to a plot of her favorites. “These are m’most precious ones. They are simple corn poppies, found wild in the grain fields. But I water them and sing to them, and they grow big and happy. Look how their red petals lift and open to the sun. See how their faces shine yellow with seed? Oh, I do love them so.”

A soft breeze cooled Berta’s skin, and she smiled as the kindly sun yielded its precious fruit of color. She picked a corn poppy and held it to her heart as she turned this way and that, marvelling at Emma’s glorious garden. Her burdens and fears were quickly chased away by beauty as she sat down among blossoms of borage and marigold, langde-beef, heartsease and other sundry perfumed blooms. Berta’s nose was bathed in heavenly perfume and, were that not joy enough, floating flocks of butterflies circled about her sunlit hair.

Autumn labors proved difficult and strained Berta’s household to its limit. Faithful Herwin worked the fields, harvesting the grain and threshing it late into the night. The hayward had ordered a rotation of barley for the coming year and the fields just harvested would be left fallow for a year’s rest. Herwin thought there ought to be a better way of using the land. He had heard of other manors rotating their crops in a three-field system rather than the ancient two rotations the abbey still demanded.
Why do they fear change so? One year fallow, one year planting, by the saints, we lose profit! Why not one third fallow, one third a spring crop, and one third an autumn harvest?
he wondered to himself.

But there were other pressures on Berta and her three children. The Gunnars had come under cover of night and burned the hovel shared by her brothers-in-law. While Arnold’s family found other residence, the bitter Baldric forced his way into Berta’s home.

By the Epiphany a dark melancholy had overtaken the woman, and it had deepened like the snow blanketing the smoky village. Berta looked about her cottage and began to weep. Baldric’s very presence had cast a fearful pall over everyone, but she could do little more than hang her head and yield to duty. Baldric was the brother of her husband and she, a mere widow with three children and a tenant. She was thankful the priest had not required they marry.