by C. D. Baker
Heinrich nodded. “Some days ‘tis worse than others.”
“Yes, ‘tis the flours and yeasts you work with. I’ve told y’before y’needs wash your skin morning and night. Here, I’ve a good balm of marigold. Keep it on whilst you sleep, and you’ll smell the better for it too!” Lukas paused and looked into Heinrich’s eyes. “Hard times can bring the itch as well. Have you hard times, lad?”
Heinrich shrugged. “No more than another man. I’ve much on m’mind with the bakery and m’land, rents and taxes, and the like.”
“And your wife?”
The baker grew silent.
Lukas narrowed his gaze. “And your wife?” he repeated.
“She means to do well for all, and she wants the best for her household. She’s got a gift in charcoaling the likeness of faces and…”
“And have you peace?” asked Emma.
Heinrich thought for a moment, then answered. “No more nor less than any other. Methinks I am doing well. I serve m’wife faithfully, feed my young ones, keep my vows, avoid sloth. I steal nothing. Ja, I’d say I am at peace.”
Emma and Lukas exchanged troubled glances. Emma set her hand lightly on Heinrich’s shoulder. “I almost never see you laugh,” she said softy.
“Laugh? Ah, Frau Emma. Who laughs?” Heinrich tossed a pebble into the stream.
Lukas nodded and poked Emma with a stick. “Aye, sister. Who laughs in this place but you and I?” chortled the monk. “And they all think us mad!”
Emma chuckled. “So it is! I beg your pardon, Heinrich, it seems you are not mad yet. But if I could, I’d make you so!”
Lukas scratched his beard and turned to the baker. “So, friend, you say you’d be at peace?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Well, I… I do as I am required, I—”
“Then why do you never laugh?”
Heinrich darkened. “I’ve little enough to laugh about! My eyes burn at night, m’wife’s quick to find my faults, I wheeze in my bed, m’body aches for all its labors… I worry bout the tax … I’ve buried three … death and suffering are all around! Unlike some, I’ve no cloister to hide in!”
Lukas’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, so you’d be angry as well? Seems odd for a peaceful man.”
Heinrich bristled. “What’s your game? Methinks you’ve had too much mead.”
“Game? I’ve no game, good fellow. I think you fail to see yourself, ‘tis all. And that, my good friend, is an ailment common to most.” Lukas picked at a dry leaf. “To be at peace one must be free, and you, my friend, are hardly free.”
“Who is free? The yeomen? They are slaves to taxes. And even you are bound to a vow.” Heinrich’s voice was tight. “I … I do not fight against the way of things … I leave the world as it is and hope it does the same for me; that is the peace I have.”
Lukas nodded and said nothing for a moment. “Little room for dreams in such a life. Perhaps this is why you cling to your foolish vow. You have given others power to bind you, and they have darkened your eyes. I do confess, dear friend, I cannot understand how a man banished from the view of heaven’s hope can claim to be at peace.”
The baker was uncomfortable. He stood and heaved a stone across the stream. “I think my penance and vows, my faithful labors must please God. I keep my face toward the earth in humility … like you ought! When I hold to such things I feel right and good within m’self and it gives me hope enough.”
Lukas cast a sad eye at Emma who was seated on a mossy rock. She smiled kindly at the two men and gathered a cluster of wildflowers in her hand. “Dear Heinrich. We do not mean to anger you, but please consider this: God’s gifts are for those humble enough to abandon themselves.” She paused to smell her bouquet and lifted her face to the sun. “True humility draws your face upward, not downward. ‘Tis a glorious mystery.” Emma continued softly. “Oh, my dear, dear boy, I long for you to face the sun and dance like a child again midst the flowers and butterflies.”
The baker listened halfheartedly. He stared at the stream with a mix of emotions. A tone of condescension braced his voice. “There are times I wish I could laugh. I wish I could feel the sunlight on my face, but I believe it is better for all of us to serve the order of things. We are called to serve in a hard world soon to be destroyed by the Judgment. Let m’lads dance in the flowers while they can, but such foolishness is no fit call for a man.” He flashed a hard eye at Lukas with his last remark.
Emma sighed a little. Her eyes lost their glint and swelled, red and wet. She stood and gave the young man a tender embrace. “I do love you, Heinrich, and those lads of yours. Someday, when your strength wanes and your virtues fail, when you long for hope once more, turn your eyes upward and find another way.” Emma was wise. She knew that conversations, like life, had seasons, and it was time to speak of other things. Wil crawled to her side and he rested his head atop her lap. “Heinrich, now I’ve needs tell you of something else.”
Heinrich groaned.
She stroked Wil’s hair and cast a loving glance toward Karl still sleeping soundly in the ferns. “First, Lukas tells me that Abbot Stephen shall honor the cloister’s covenant with your grandfather Jost.”
Lukas nodded.
“What a wonderful thing! I have other good tidings for you as well. By my best reckoning I am now some forty-two years on this earth and have enjoyed a wonderful life. Yet a feeling is coming over me that my time is short.”
The tension left Heinrich’s face and he stared at Emma suddenly anxious.
“At night, when all is quiet, it is as if a voice whispers my name. And sometimes I feel a squeeze about m’heart; a heaviness in my chest that sends some pain into my arms and a tingle to my fingers. I pray a few psalms and ask the angels to wait a bit longer.
“Heinrich, know that I love you and shall always love you as m’son. You have been a kind and faithful friend. Always a helper, always a listener, you’ve loved me and have brought me great joy. You loved my Ingly too. And,” she smiled and her eyes twinkled, “I’ve always known it was you who stole wood from the village for my fire those many years ago. You and that devilish Richard!”
Heinrich grimaced. “We were but boys and—”
“But you knew better!” mocked Lukas with a grin.
Heinrich shrugged. “Aye, but Emma’s woodpile had been scrumped by another … and it seemed fair justice.”
“And whose did you scrump?”
Heinrich fought a smirk. “Dietrich’s.”
“Dietrich? Your wife’s father?” roared Lukas with approval.
Heinrich nodded.
“Ha! Well done, lad! How many penances for you and your friend?”
Heinrich shrugged. “I made m’self do a hundred ‘Ave Marias’ and a few psalms. But I think none for Richard … he saw no wrong in it!”
“Scoundrel!” laughed Emma. “He was always such a rogue. I loved him too, and I miss him.”
“And me as well,” answered Heinrich. “He’s not been the same since … since things changed in his life. He wanders the forest sullen and sickly.”
The group became quiet and remembered Richard as he was, a devilish young boy romping through these same trees, laughing and bold, stouthearted and spirited. Now, it was feared, his heart had been extinguished by disappointment and pain.
Emma beckoned Heinrich to sit close by her side. She took one of his hands in her own and began again. “I’ve told you of Lord Gottwald. He was the love of my heart, and I think I was his … though he ne’er spoke of our love from the day he was wed. Nor did he betray his good wife with me … nay … not once. Our love was spring love, the love of early things, things young and tender, bright and earnest. And unwise, it ought be added, as spring love so often is. Nor was it ordained by heaven.
“When I was found with child my superior was merciful and kind and used her influence to help me. To my great relief, Gottwald proved to be a man of honor. He had his ways to see that his child and I would be kept prope
r and safe. It was he that had whispered to the chambers of Mainz to find me a good place to raise his son. He had told me that he had confessed our sin to a trusted priest, who, in turn, had worked as his emissary to those above … those who never need learn of our shame.
“I am told that Gottwald lived his life as a knight of the Cross ought—courageous, loyal, faithful to his lords and to his God. And he was known as a humble man, a friend to the poor and charitable to any in need. Methinks it was Ingly who softened his heart toward the misfits and the unfortunate, for I am told he built a special home for those who wandered his realm in search of shelter and goodness. So, Heinrich, know that he was neither perfect nor without blemish, but he surely was a Christian man if ever one lived!
“Now, listen well. Lukas has informed me that Gottwald bequeathed a holding of land to me. It is said there was a titter in the audience as his will was read, but that his wife had agreed without complaint. It seems the man’s conscience had caused him to confide in her many years before. God bless the woman, for she both forgave her man and me.” Emma’s voice trembled and a tear ran down each cheek.
“The land is five hides, a token of his affection and a kind gift, indeed. And it was partitioned with great effort. It lies on a fertile plain near Oldenburg where he held several manors. It seems the silver he would oft bring me on All Souls’Eve was rents from this good ground.”
Heinrich listened intently, but suddenly bristled. “Five hides are a fortune for a peasant, but it seems a paltry grant from a wealthy lord to the mother of his child!”
Lukas interrupted. “It might seem so, but few would honor a bastard child under such circumstances and even less the child’s mother. The man was faithful to his duty all these years and never once sought favors from Emma.”
The woman nodded. “Now, Heinrich, we’ve not yet felt the war but surely we shall. Our protectors in Runkel are in alliance with the pope’s choice, Lord Otto of Brunswick, as are the counts in Oldenburg who shelter Gottwald’s lands. It seems the lands are safe enough, but protected by the counts or not, the land could be lost to the war or to others.
“Heinrich, I speak of this for a reason. As I have said, I do not expect to see many more years. Soon I shall be dancing with Ingly in God’s valley of flowers and it brings gladness to my heart to think of it. It also brings me joy to tell you this: that I have sworn a will and you shall inherit my land.”
Before the dumfounded baker could respond, Lukas interrupted, “Be warned. I would not boast or tell of this to others, nor tell your children until they are of age. There are those who would now profit from your death or those of your heirs; it is the dark side of wealth. I have told only Blasius, the Templar, so you have a witness. The lad is devout and has sworn his silence. He shall act as your emissary in matters of rents and receipts and shall keep your money in the treasury at the preceptory. Heinrich, when the time is right, you might have enough to buy the freedom of yourself and your children!”
The baker was silent. He was overwhelmed and suddenly overjoyed at his good fortune. This land, added to his half-hide in Weyer, would multiply his holdings beyond anything he had ever imagined possible. Yet he dared not feel the pleasure in it, for his gain would only come with the loss of that person whom he loved. “I… I have no words, I…”
“And none are needed,” Emma said smiling.
Chapter 14
THE GARDEN POEM
Another year passed and the dawn of a new century spread slowly across Weyer’s rounded hills. The Volk gave the moment little heed and simply plodded through their dreary days hard at task, bound to a monotony that had dulled their spirits and numbed them to the shifts of the troubling winds blowing through the realm. They wanted no part of the civil war now ravaging the empire and sought only the comforts of good thatch, a hearty mush, the simple pleasures of the village feasts, and the deep contentment of Sabbath rest.
On the nineteenth day of April, just ten days past Easter, news of Lord Klothar’s death reached nearby Villmar Abbey. The monks climbed the ridge rimming their village to see black pennants hanging despondently from the ramparts of Runkel’s nearby castle.
Two weeks later the abbot invited his subjects to gather on the grounds just beyond the abbey walls to witness the reception of Runkel’s new lord. Pressed and packed closely together, nearly two thousand peasants anxiously faced their new protector, Prince Heribert, son of Klothar. The young man stood upon a silk-draped stage and faced the gray and woolly host in all his finery. He smiled and waved and received the blessings of the abbey priests. Some thought him to be a bit thin, yet his face was ruggedly handsome and firmly anchored by dark brown eyes that gave him a noble strength. The twenty-year-old was the son of Klothar, to be sure, but he was also the grandson of King Rolf of Saxony.
The throng grew quiet and some began to kneel, first here, then there. The young lord smiled and squared his shoulders. He beckoned his betrothed to his side. The fair Christine came forward and took his hand, bowing before the assembly as though she were a queen. Astonished whispers passed through the multitude, for the maiden was a striking beauty. Her hair was a deep-hued chestnut and shimmered in the sunshine like fine silk.
The abbot smiled outwardly, though the young lord’s influence on the humble peasants was making him uncomfortable. Prior Mattias sensed his superior’s worry and whispered quiet assurance: “He offers them protection, Father Abbot. He gives them peace of mind.”
Abbot Stephen grumbled. “We guard their souls, he their flesh; I oft wonder which they treasure most.”
Prince Heribert spoke a few words of promise and of pledge. He bade the peasants work hard at task; that they give their due for the abbot’s good and faithful care. He embraced the preceptor of the Templar’s house, Brother Phillipe de Blanqfort, and the two white-robed knights at his side. The act was witness to their continued alliance in the defense of the abbey and of Runkel. When the presentation was over, most hearts were steadied, willing and happy to return to their villages with a measure of hope.
It was inevitable that the effects of the empire’s war would ripple across the lands of Villmar. No blood had yet been spilled directly upon its ground, though some of Heribert’s knights had been slain in distant combat. But fees for protection were raised in the face of dwindling revenues. The archbishop in Mainz was feeling the pressure as well and now demanded more from the abbot, adding greater friction to their already strained relationship. So the peasants’ taxes, rents, and fees were increased yet again. The merchet was doubled, the heriot increased by half, and the charge for grinding flour was raised so much that the village millers were in fear for their very lives.
For Father Pious, these hard times presented new opportunities. With ambition consuming his soul, he sought every occasion to earn the notice of his superiors in Mainz. He had already proven his skill at serving both Oberbrechen and Weyer—a double duty that had relieved the diocese of a considerable expense. And he had managed the glebes well, squeezing a profit through both fair times and drought. Pious, knowing that the abbey had fallen behind in its tithes due the archbishop, now eyed the bakery in Weyer as a possible means of collection. Of course, the addition of the bakery as a direct asset of the archbishop would be one more success the priest could add to his credit. His shrewd dealings, however, had done more than gain the attention of the councils of Mainz, for they had also served to secure his reputation in the abbey as a greedy man of pompous self-importance.
The troubles of the realm touched other lives in ways not so opportune. Axel, Heinrich’s brother, was sent home to Weyer, for the mayor of Limburg was no longer able to afford workers from the abbey. The unemployed carpenter was now married and the father of two boys, Arnwolf, age eight, and Thom, age seven. As the four hungry, homeless peasants stood at Heinrich’s door, the baker knew he had no choice but to help.
Marta, of course, found this new condition intolerable. She had banished Heinrich from her affection long ago but now ordered him
from their bedchamber altogether. Heinrich, tormented by the woman long enough finally took his stand. “You! You Housedragon! Nörglerin!”
Marta responded with a fist into the man’s face.
To escape the cramped and unhappy conditions of the hovel, Herwin and his household moved. They found a gracious welcome from an old spinster who was happy to rent space in her run-down hut at the south end of the village. Herwin’s departure was heart-wrenching for both him and Heinrich. The kindly tenant had slept under that thatch roof for twenty-five years, pouring out his life in service to the family of Kurt.
Heinrich embraced Herwin, Varina, and their children. “I … I cannot bear to see you leave us.”
Herwin wept and nodded. “And you, young man. You have been like a son to me. I… I should like to stay in your hire to work your land?”
“Of course! I would have it no other way.”
The two looked at each other for a long, heartbreaking moment. A breeze rustled through their hair and they turned to go their separate ways.
The year dragged on. The increase in taxes, fines, and rents kept laughter and good cheer in check, even at the May Day feast. By Midsummer’s, thefts were increasing, and the abbot sent strong words of warning to each village reeve. The pope’s armies continued to support Otto the Welf, as did Prince Heribert, but the armies of Otto’s two rivals were vigorous. Heribert’s treasury was badly depleted and the Templars suffered as well. So when the abbot demanded help in keeping order in his manors, the men-at-arms were neither patient, merciful, or kind. Crimes and offenses were met with the most severe penalties and administered without compassion.
By St. Michael’s Day, Richard was the father of a daughter. Heinrich rarely saw his old friend, for the man still spent his days either deep in Weyer’s woodlands or in a drunken stupor with his father. Richard had lost all hope, and what spark of life remained was shadowed by shame or buried in bitterness. Though always willing to yield a grunt and a wave to Heinrich, Richard was a man bent inward on himself.