Quest of Hope: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  The man stopped and shuddered. The village was silent. “That night we servants were sent away so that we might find safety in Jerusalem. It was later said that our exhausted, outnumbered knights fought well, but in the end, they did yield. They submitted themselves nobly to the supposed mercies of Islam. Ha! They were beheaded by the thousands, and Rainald de Chatillon, the man who had captured Saladin’s mother, was killed by the sultan himself. It is said that some forty-five thousand Christian warriors were lost in that awful place.

  “Then it was not long before the armies of Islam were at our gates. We had learned of the fall of Tyre, Tripolis, and Antioch but we believed the Holy City would be held … it must be held! Our city was bursting with refugees; families from fallen cities throughout Palestine had run to us for safety, each bringing terrible stories of the Turks and their cruel ways.

  “Then the enemy came. First, they offered us peace. Indeed! They even offered us land in Syria if we would but give the Holy places up to them and their bloodstained hands. ‘No!’ we answered in one voice. ‘We shall not yield this sacred city!’”

  The men of Weyer cheered and clapped. Balean sighed. “Ah, ‘tis surely how we were. Then to the fore came Balean of Ibelin! He was a brave and resolute knight, invincible it surely seemed. Our armies were weak and the city hard-pressed for food and water, but Jerusalem’s walls, he said, would surely hold, ‘for the angels fill the ramparts!’”

  Again, the village roared.

  “He took command and organized us well. And he armed each able-bodied man—servants, pages, groomsmen, it did not matter. Each Christian man held a sword!”

  Weyer hushed. Heinrich was amazed and a chill tingled his back. His mind’s eye pictured him taking up arms for his Holy Church and fighting for righteousness. Imagine, he thought, me, a bound-man, armed in a just cause!

  Balean continued. “For fourteen days we fought well and we fought hard. But, alas, we soon learned that St. Stephan’s gate was undermined by the demons.”

  An angry voice cried from the darkness, “It was them digging from hell!”

  “Aye,” answered Balean. “It seemed so when they climbed from their tunnels and spread across the city like a spreading shadow. Our brave commander led us into the churches where we prayed for God’s protection. Alas, though our faith was brittle, God’s mercy reigned. Saladin did the unexpected, he spared us, though Jerusalem was firmly in his grasp.” The man drew a deep, woeful breath. “Now I’ve new troubles to tell you.”

  The villagers waited in trepidation.

  “Our good emperor, Barbarossa, did in faith and humility leave on expedition to liberate Jerusalem once again; some of you have heard this. But, in the mysteries of God’s ways, he did drown in a mountain stream.”

  The peasants gasped. Though the world of popes and emperors was often overshadowed by the daily needs of life, each knew this news would prompt ripples of change like the dropping of a rock into a pond.

  Balean stood and raised his hands. “Good folk, fear not. Heinrich the Sixth is now emperor and shall rule well. Meanwhile, the Duke of Swabia is asking the pope’s permission to found an order of Germans to be named, the ‘Order of Teutonic Knights of the House of St. Mary.’ They will wear white robes with black crosses, and it is they who shall avenge Barbarossa and shall someday free the Holy City once again!”

  The inspired villagers offered a hearty “hurrah” and filled the visitors’ cups with cider and ale. The night then seemed to pass quickly, far too quickly for Heinrich and the others. They dismissed the bells of matins, aware that midnight was better spent in sleep, but keenly conscious that they might never learn of such things again. Balean spoke on and on of the great sea and its shimmering waters. “A place where the sun presses hope into the soul,” the man said. The young baker closed his eyes and tried to imagine “blue water stretching as far as one might see.” He opened his eyes but saw, instead, a wondrous black velvet sky sprinkled with shining, fiery lights, each twinkling like happy, playful eyes eagerly urging him to smile. For an instant Heinrich paused and delighted in the beautiful sight, then dropped his head and shuddered. He had violated his vow.

  By St. Michael’s Day the village was busy with the last of the harvest and the final planting of the winter grains. The hayward had done a masterful job in reorganizing the fields and work schedules. Herwin was pleased with the changes, but unhappy at home. His wife, Varina, had barely spoken to him since Telek’s death. She was certain her brother had not run away, as Baldric and Arnold insisted, and Herwin could do little but look away whenever she confronted him.

  Heinrich did his best to avoid her, but sharing the same roof made his efforts difficult at best. He found himself facing her squarely one day as she asked her question directly. “Do you know what has become of my brother?”

  Heinrich paled as Baldric emerged from the outer room. The young man looked Varina directly in the eyes and struggled for words. If he told her, Heinrich reasoned, he’d put everyone in jeopardy. If he lied, his soul would be in further peril. “Varina,” he said flatly, “you’ll needs ask another.” Heinrich thought that was the clever answer of a shrewd man! He had avoided risk for everyone. But the wounded look in Varina’s face turned the lad away in shame. He was, indeed, a coward.

  Heinrich sighed and stepped toward the door when Baldric laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’ve needs of a word with you out-of-doors.”

  Heinrich felt anxious as he stepped outside.

  Baldric’s tone was surprisingly easy. “You’d be sixteen and of age to receive your inheritance. Kurt left most to you and some for yer brother, Axel. I’ve been thinking it best to hold fast until Axel is of age. Then you can divide things in better order … and I hope you shan’t forget my good care of what’s yours.”

  Heinrich held his tongue. He hadn’t forgotten the burned parchment and the promise that blew away in the ash. He knew nothing of matters of law, however, and it seemed right to wait until Axel’s sixteenth birthday, only one year away. He nodded.

  “Good. Then I’ve your pledge that I’m to act as your legal head until Axel’s birthday?”

  “Aye,” answered Heinrich with an unconcerned shrug.

  “You so swear on the Virgin?”

  Heinrich should have been suspicious. “Yes!”

  Baldric nodded, approvingly. “Then I’ve another matter. I’ve chosen you a wife.”

  Heinrich was stunned. He staggered a little and blurted, “W-what! You’ve not the right… I am of age to choose m’self and—”

  “Hold your tongue!” boomed Baldric. “You’ve just agreed to hold your claims. As your keeper ‘tis my duty to negotiate a dowry and make a pick fit for our kin. I’ve taken the matter to Father Pious and he is in agreement. You’ll marry who the priest has approved and there shall be n’ere more talk of it! Refuse, and the girl shall be shamed and you shall be punished.”

  Heinrich was sweating and confused. “Uncle, I’ve need to make m’own choice in this. Can y’not hear me?”

  Baldric grinned a toothless grin and laughed. His foul breath burned the boy’s nostrils and Heinrich turned in disgust. “Speak, boy, who is the one you’ve such an eye for?”

  Heinrich eyed the brute directly. “Katharina, the daughter of the mason.”

  “Ha! Ha, ha!” roared Baldric. “Katharina? That green-eyed wisp? Her? She’s the daughter of a freeman, y’fool. The abbot forbids marriages ‘tween bound and free.”

  “But what if I buy my freedom?”

  “With what? Dolt!”

  Heinrich lowered his head. Truly, the fee for freedom was high, far too high. His only other choices would be to escape to a free city and hide for a year and a day, or follow the colonists into the marshes of heathen Prussia—a bleak and dreary life for such as Katharina. “But what if she pledged her fealty to the abbot?”

  Baldric shook his head. “I wonder what kind of man would ask such a thing!”

  Heinrich was suddenly ashamed of hims
elf. Indeed, what sort of man would ask a woman to surrender her freedom for his selfish desires? And what father would permit it? Heinrich yielded. His voice thickened and he asked his uncle the dreaded question. “S-so who have you chosen?”

  Baldric grinned. “Marta, daughter of Dietrich.”

  Heinrich’s legs wobbled. “Marta? Marta? That selfish, spoiled wench who … who … spends her days complaining and grousing… and …”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh please, Uncle, not Marta. Give me … give me Elke of the cotter, or Etta, or Maria of Tomas or—”

  “It is done, boy. At least she’s a pretty one, a bit small for my taste, but spirited.”

  “I’d rather marry a monkey!”

  Baldric darkened and bent into the young man’s flushed face. “But Dietrich’s an old and loyal friend to us. He knows things ‘bout us all. He’s a miller, you’re a baker; ‘tis a fit match and ‘tis done. The wedding shall be in two years or less. Dietrich needs her at the mill till Sigmund can be of some use. I’ve already pledged this, but you needs so swear to Dietrich and to the girl at the altar in the coming Lent.

  “And I’ve pledged Axel to a carpenter’s daughter from Emmerich. She is named Truda. Your brother’s a good lad; he looks like Arnold but seems more like me.”

  Heinrich grunted. He was far too overcome by his own misery to care much about his brother’s plight. Marta! echoed in his head. My God, it cannot be!

  It was a miserable, damp morning on the first day of Lent when Heinrich and Marta faced each other to formally accept their betrothal. With a heavy heart, Heinrich stood beneath the low timbers of the manor’s mill and stared vacantly at his bride-to-be. Marta, for her part, was not pleased with her father’s selection either. She had little respect for this curly-headed baker with the melancholy eyes. But her desires were given no more heed than a groaning ewe, and she would submit to her father’s decision void of joy.

  Heinrich was sick of vows and weary of the expectations he labored to fulfill. He had paid a high price for a simple glance at the stars the year prior. For that he had been required to walk barefoot in the snow with a weight tied round his head that kept his neck bent toward the earth. And, at Christmas past, he had failed to mark the monks’ bread with their dove stamps. For this he was called to publicly repent of sloth and carry firewood for Father Pious each day of Christmas’s twelve.

  Oddly, he still drew some pleasure from his sufferings, a sinister, captivating comfort that kept him chained beneath the millstones grinding at his soul. Perhaps his submission to the order granted him a greater comfort than did craning for the sun, and perhaps it was pride in penance that gave him pleasure in his pain. Either way, the young man had lost sight of most of Emma’s dreams.

  Heinrich and Marta stood stone-faced as Dietrich and Baldric clasped hands. For Dietrich, the gain was good, for his future son-in-law was a baker and would have the means to care for him should he ever lose the mill. Heinrich would also soon inherit his father’s land, a half-hide of good yield, and he had coins as well.

  It was formally agreed that the wedding would be delayed until Sigmund could be trusted to help with the affairs at the mill. Marta had kept the reckoning of measured grains and had quickly grasped the cunning ploys of the miller. Sigmund, on the other hand, was slow of mind and apt to err in the wrong favor. However, in the hopes of Sigmund’s eventual success, Dietrich set the date for St. Michael’s in the year following.

  The matter settled, each turned away, save Marta’s uncle Gunter who presented the girl a gift of a clay bowl he had fashioned for her with his own hands. Marta smiled halfheartedly, then cast an icy glare at Heinrich.

  Heinrich returned to his bakery in a mood none had seen before. He kicked open the door, flung resting doughs against the walls, and broke his long paddle across the table. He tossed baskets in all directions and stomped the monks’ stamps to pieces on the hard, clay floor. When his tantrum was over, the flour-caked baker collapsed into a corner and wept.

  It was a warm day in May when Sigmund delivered the miller’s heavy-laden donkey to the bakery. Heinrich greeted him with a grunt and pointed to the rope and pulley. Sigmund was one whose countenance was as horrid as his soul. His eyes were usually runny and yellow; his face covered with sores and pimples that crowded the bumps and scars of those that went before. None who knew him dared trust him with even a lentil. Sigmund grinned and motioned for the baker to come close. “I’ve something to tell you, Heinrich.”

  Heinrich sighed.

  “Something you’ll be wanting to know!” The man smiled and picked at the gaps in what few teeth remained.

  Heinrich grimaced. “Well, go on.”

  “You know that mason’s wench, Katharina?”

  Heinrich tensed. He had just walked with her on the Sabbath past. They had talked with Emma in her gardens and danced in the “ankleblooms” of the meadow. He remembered the shame he felt. “Ja… what of her?”

  “She’s to be wed next year, like you.” Sigmund grinned knowingly.

  Heinrich felt sick. He turned his head. No, it cannot be! he groaned within himself. “To whom?”

  Sigmund raised a brow. “She’s been pledged to a freeman’s son, Ludwig, son of dead Mattias the old forester.”

  “Ludwig!” exclaimed Heinrich. “B-but he’s a brute. He has no heart… he’s—”

  “He’s to be her husband and you’re not,” laughed Sigmund.

  Heinrich leaned against the bakery wall and shuddered in disbelief. The thought of Ludwig with his cherished Katharina was more than he could bear. The young man ran away, sprinting toward the comforting shade of his beloved Magi in the cool wood by the waters of the Laubusbach.

  It had been nearly two and one-half years since Ingelbert had suffered trial in the castle of Lord Tomas at Mensfelden. Since then, Tomas had become ever-more sullen and dark; he raged about his castle sending his knights after every peasant’s rumor. It was an obsession that Arnold calculated could be of some advantage in solving another mystery—the shadows of All Souls’ eve.

  For years Arnold had hidden in wait, determined to snag the spirit that hovered by Emma’s door at midnight, but in every case he was seized by fear, or chased by beasts, and was now banished from all dabbling in such things. “The shadows,” claimed Father Pious, “may indeed be devils at her door, but to interfere risks hex and curse upon us all. Better to leave the woman be, and her monstrous son, else you risk your own soul.” Arnold had heeded the priest’s advice but with great frustration, for the man was drawn to secrets like a wasp to an eave. Perhaps, thought he, Lord Tornas might press after Ingelbert once again, and why not on All Souls’ eve, only two months hence?

  Lord Tomas, however, wanted no part of Ingelbert. His priests assured him that the combat was sanctified and God would surely be displeased if he ignored His just decree. But Arnold’s whispers of spirits and forces in the forests played havoc with the man. Night after night he sat in his large hall facing the roaring hearth with sword in hand. He cursed the lifeless faces of quarry taken from his woodlands; bear and wolf, fox and deer, all prey once walking free amidst the timbers of his realm. The grieving man stared and drank his ale, railing against his priests and knights alike until late one September evening he stood and faced his vassals. “The witch! Of course, the witch!” he shouted. “Why have none of you accused the cursed witch?”

  The courtiers grew nervous as the man began to grin. He wiped frothy ale off his brown beard and threw his wooden tankard across the straw-strewn floor. “She hexed him and hurled him off the cliff! I know it—I feel it! Rumors tell me my son did love the witch’s daughter, Wilda. Ha! I’ll ne’er believe it! But, I tell you this… ‘tis plain to me now… the old one was jealous of his love and spied him out and killed him!”

  Lord Tomas’s knights became noticeably concerned. They whispered around the hall in anxious, hushed tones. His soldiers had no fear of combat; to face another knight across a field and rush toward him atop a sn
orting steed was their virtue and their joy. But to step lightly in the forest mists at dawn in search of witches was something else entirely.

  “What is the morrow?” roared the lord.

  “The first Sabbath of September,” answered a clerk.

  Tomas turned to his priest. “What say you, father, of witches? Have they the might to send a lad such as my Silvester to his death?”

  The priest bowed his head. “Ja, my lord. From former times it is known that they’ve powers from Lucifer to incant and to enchant. ‘Tis they, I have oft heard, who guide arrows into the joints of armor.”

  Tomas’s knights leaned forward, listening in earnest to the priest’s words.

  “I’ve heard it said,” he continued, “that they are sometimes skilled in alchemy—a temptation of the Pit that draws others to them, but also provides them with means. For, it would seem, some do change acorns and beechnuts into gold, or even pebbles into silver pennies. Their witches’ sabbaths spawn curses and hexes, blasphemies and plagues that do fill all hell with wretched souls.

  “Beware, good lord and noble knights, beware! Even the mighty Karl the Great was beset by their powers.”

  Lord Tomas sat still, his eyes fixed on some unseen vision. He stood from his oak chair and raised his gloved hands defiantly into the air. His eyes burned hot with rage and his nostrils flared like a stallion readied for battle. “On the first dawn past Sabbath!” he bellowed. “We shall find these witches and send their souls to hell!”

  Hours before prime on Monday, Heinrich was sweating and shirtless in his bakery. He and his two assistants were preparing for the morning’s onslaught of buyers. In good years the peasants would bring a penny for their bread; in difficult times they’d bring eggs or hands full of peas. In desperate years they’d not come at all, resigned to eating their mush. In this particular year the harvest had been good and the peasants were able to sell their excess for more than what the taxes required. Heinrich would be busy.