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

by C. D. Baker

  Marta stared steely-eyed and echoed, “I, Marta of Weyer, daughter of Dietrich of Weyer, do take this man, Heinrich of Weyer, son of Kurt of Weyer, to be my husband under God.”

  Heinrich dutifully placed a silver ring on Marta’s third finger, the finger said to carry the vein from a woman’s heart, and then stepped lightly upon her foot as a symbol of his claim. Marta took her husband by the elbow and the two walked into the fore of the church where a holy blessing was offered.

  The reluctant couple then descended the church steps to a lively village feast set beneath the linden tree in Weyer’s center. Here, despite cool September winds, the village enjoyed special breads made by the groom, casks of ale purchased by the happy father-in-law, and sundry pottages and treats added by neighbors and kin. It was a time for others to be glad-hearted!

  By the bells of vespers, the drunken villagers escorted the new couple to their home and all waited outside as the priests blessed the marriage bed. The crowd sang and danced, laughed and teased as the two then disappeared behind a closed door where they began their new life as one.

  Chapter 11

  A NEW FRIEND

  It was midday on the eighteenth day of July when all within earshot cringed at the shrieks of Marta gripped in the pangs of childbirth. The midwife wiped the young mother’s brow gently then smiled as she lifted a baby boy into the air.

  “He’s a fine one, Marta!” she laughed. “Red curls like his papa.”

  Marta, weary and soaked in sweat, reached for her little one. “We Ve needs call the priest for baptism.”

  “Yes, little mother. I shall fetch one and your husband as well!”

  Heinrich was busy in his bakery when he heard the happy cries of the midwife approaching on the footpath. Frau Emma had been sure to tarry by the baker’s door all morning in hopes of happy news, and when she saw the kind woman waving and laughing, she clapped and hugged the young father like she did when he was a little child playing in her flowers.

  “You’d be a father! Heinrich … you’d be a father!”

  Heinrich waited nervously for the midwife to announce the child’s health and gender. Oh, God, be it boy or girl, let it live long and well.

  The midwife stumbled into the bakery huffing and panting, red-faced and sweating. She took Heinrich’s shoulders in her thick hands and wheezed, “A boy! ‘Tis a boy! And all is well with both the lad and your wife.”

  Heinrich smiled and fought the tears welling in his eyes. “Thanks be to God,” he whispered quietly. In the months since his wedding the young baker had graciously accepted his portion in life and had worked hard to serve his calling in a manner pleasing to all. He was a kindly man, good-hearted, dutiful, and selfless. He would be a good father. “Frau Emma. I… I cannot speak… I…”

  “Do not speak, lad! Run to your wife and see your son!”

  Heinrich smiled and wiped his hands on his flour-powdered leggings. He hastily threw on a linen tunic and dashed for home.

  Varina and her three children met the young baker at his door and congratulated him as he hurried past them toward the straw bed in the rear bedchamber. “Might I hold him?”

  Marta scowled. “Nay, he needs to feed.”

  “But… for but a moment?”

  Marta’s face darkened. “No! You’ve brought me enough pain this day. Now go to the church and wait for the priest with the others. Rosa shall bring the boy.”

  Heinrich took pity on the weary woman. Indeed, he thought, I did bring her pain …. He hid his disappointment with a kindly smile and answered softly, “Aye, perhaps later.”

  In an hour or so, soon before the bells of nones, Heinrich and some of his household stood at the door of Weyer’s church and waited for Father Pious to arrive from his tasks in the glebe and for Rosa to bring the baby. The annoyed priest arrived on his donkey and dismounted with a grunt. He was sweating and dirty, covered with bits of grass from harrowing wheat. The churchman had grown ever fatter and ever more discontent. Pious wiped his beaded brow and stood in the summer sun impatiently. “Eh? Is someone going to offer me a tankard of ale or cider?”

  One of Varina’s children had thought to bring a jug of Herwin’s warm ale. “Aye, thanks to you,” Pious grumbled as he lifted the clay rim to his pouty lips. The household waited quietly as the priest finished guzzling. With a belch and a wipe of his sleeve, Father Pious was ready. “So, heaven’s sent a new soul? The midwife did not christen it with some foul blessing?”

  Heinrich answered. “Nay, father, and here she comes with the child.”

  As the midwife climbed up the church steps Herwin arrived from the monks’ fields and greeted his landlord with a firm grasp on the shoulder. “Well done, good man!” he whispered.

  Father Pious took the baby and held him against his own swollen belly. The infant cried and wriggled in the rough wool of the priest’s black robes. Pious blessed the child, put salt in his mouth to ward away demons, and recited a psalm: “Tu autem, Domine, ne longe facias miserationes tuas a me. Ad defensionem meam aspice. Erue a framea, Deus, animam meam. But Thou, O Lord, be not far from me; look toward my defense. Deliver, O God, my soul from the sword.”

  “Now, Heinrich,” continued Father Pious, “have you chosen a name?”

  Heinrich smiled and winked at Emma. “Johann Lukas,” he answered.

  “And have you godparents?”

  Heinrich hesitated. Marta wanted her cousin Johann, but he was unmarried, slothful, and often blasphemous. Heinrich’s brother, Axel, was far away in the guilded halls of Limburg and too much like Baldric for Heinrich’s comfort. His best friend and cousin, Richard, was despondent and miserable, wandering the woodland as the village’s new forester in deep melancholy. He was viewed as promiscuous and unrepentant—a soul in peril. “My … my … tenant, Herwin, and his wife, Varina.” Heinrich gulped. He should have talked about it more with Marta.

  “Are they Christian man and wife?”

  *Ja.”

  “Are they in good stead and order with the rules of God and man?”

  “Ja.”

  “Then so it shall be witnessed. Follow me to the font.”

  As the group shuffled toward the baptismal of the simple church, Herwin and Varina exchanged nervous glances. Herwin leaned toward Heinrich and whispered, “Marta had oft spoke of her cousin. Methinks shell be furious with us and…”

  Heinrich stopped and turned to Herwin with pleading eyes. “You’ve needs do this. None know of Johann’s whereabouts and he’s no wife to bring … and Marta did not want this delayed on account of risk to the boy’s soul. She thinks we’ve much sin under our roof and are in constant danger.”

  Herwin nodded.

  Pious’s voice echoed through the empty church. “Come, make ready!” With little ceremony he lifted the child over the tub and prayed, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spritus Sancti.” He immersed Johann Lukas. “Amen.”

  With that, the little Christian was lifted from the water by Pious and the gentle hands of Herwin, and finally placed in the longing arms of Heinrich. The man beamed with pride, a healthy and godly pride. He smiled as if all heaven’s angels were gathered round, and he cuddled the baby’s tiny face tenderly against his stubbled cheeks. After a precious few moments Heinrich turned to his witnesses and invited all to his house to savor a berry bread he had baked that very morning.

  As the small group made their way toward the celebration Emma drew Heinrich to one side. She smiled and gave her good friend a hug. Heinrich laughed and he offered her a moment with his son. Emma took the baby gently and tickled his chin as the newborn cooed. “Ah, wonder of God’s goodness … live well and be happy.” She softly kissed the little one upon his cheek and returned him to his father.

  “Heinrich,” Emma said with a tone of excitement. “Before you join the others I’ve something to give you.” Her blue eyes twinkled as a huge grin stretched across the happy woman’s face.

  Heinrich stood quietly as Emma reached inside her dress and withdrew a rolled pa
rchment. He stared at it as she handed it to him. “I… I do not understand, I…”

  “‘Tis a gift from your mother.”

  Heinrich held the scroll in hand and waited for more. By the puzzled look on his furrowed face Emma knew she would need to explain.

  “You’ve heard of the old pledge between an abbot of Villmar and your grandfather, Jost?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard bits of it over the years but I thought most to be wild tales. I was told my sons would be taught in the abbey school.”

  Emma beamed. “Aye! ‘Tis true enough.”

  Heinrich was astonished. “How can this be?”

  “Jost was shrewd enough to have it written, sealed, and witnessed on parchment so no abbot could ever deny it.”

  “But Baldric burned it. It would seem to be an empty hope.”

  “Well, young man, your mother was a bit timid, but she was no fool. She stumbled on m’quills and inks one summer afternoon and she put me in debt for her silence. Ha, the blessed woman had a good eye for a worthy scheme!” Emma chuckled. “Your Mutti brought me the abbot’s scroll one night not long before she died. She had me vow on m’very soul to save this for you and present it at your first son’s baptism. And she wanted me to make a forgery to leave for Baldric at her death. Your mother was wise to Baldric’s black heart. So I did—and a good one at that!”

  Heinrich was stunned. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes and he wrapped the woman’s shoulders with his one free arm. He looked at his son. “You, lad, are heir to a promise! You shall sit under the lindens with the princelings and with what brothers may yet come! Ah, blessed Emma, my wonderful Butterfly Frau!”

  Tears rolled down the joyful woman’s face as she stood by the boy she had loved as her own now grown. She turned her face to heaven in thanksgiving for the glorious moment. “Ah, dear Heinrich,” she said quietly, “things are not always as they seem … for sometimes they are so much better!”

  In the year of 1194 the feast of Lammas would be grand, or so it was hoped. The summer had been warm and dry, but not so in any extreme. The harvest was sure to be bountiful, for the green rye was chest high and the yellow barley was drooping heavy with seed-heads longing for the flail. The swineherds were healthy for once and the oxen void of footrot, lump jaw, scours, or bloat. The sheep had been profligate and the goats were yielding milk with ease. It seemed the witch’s curse had finally lifted.

  For Heinrich, Lammas was to be a great test of his skill. He had been told by the reeve that Lord Klothar would be enjoying the feast by the new mill pond in the company of the abbot, the prior, guests from lands afar, and a legate from Rome! It would be the duty of Weyer’s baker to provide the loaves, the buns, the twists, and the dainties for ail to enjoy.

  Dietrich was flabbergasted that the monks chose him to grind their grain over the abbey’s miller and began scrubbing his millstone of all residue of the inferior rye or barley chaff left behind from the villagers’ last grind. However, he was as suspicious as he was flattered by the monks’ decision and feared any error of his part. He wanted to give them no cause to take his mill away.

  Dietrich was no saint. He knew of the conspiracies he and his son had plotted against their fellows and was in terror that God might now call him to account. He had insisted on a private confession of all sins and had farther pleaded for Fathers Johannes and Pious to climb about the inner workings of his mighty, churning giant and bless each part with the sign of the cross. And when the weary priests had descended from the last oaken post, he begged them to offer one more blessing. “Please, good fathers,” he lamented. “Please bless my ears that I may proper hear the stone sing the grind, and bless m’thumbs that I may proper feel the grist is good.”

  Heinrich was also anxious and his belly fluttered at every thought of the occasion. He did not fear what Dietrich feared. After all, he was no cheat; he had kept his vows, was not slothful at task, nor truant from Mass. In fact, he now attended three Sabbath services weekly as the priests urged of late. So, for the baker the day-at-hand was free of risk, other than to his reputation!

  Lukas brought Heinrich rosemary, sage, a few pinches of thyme, and a bushel of onions. These were added to the bakery spice boxes along with some caraway and sundry herbs the baker had grown fond of. Sourdoughs were offered by the kitchener some fortnight before, and fresh salt had recently arrived from Ulm. The priests blessed the man’s ovens and his water, his paddles and troughs, and the baker of Weyer was left to his business.

  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 Emm
a, 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.