Quest of Hope: A Novel

by C. D. Baker

  “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.

  Winter now lay across the manor like a heavy white woollen. Biting cold, privation, darkness, and despair were the demons of the season and little could bring comfort. In this gloom even the beasts of the forests shivered and hid deep in their caves or far below the frozen sod. But despite the natural lethargy, there was much work to do. Baldric was particularly busy working long, cold days overseeing the sawing of timber in the forests, the making of charcoal in the wood near the Lahn, and the management offences for the swine now foraging for mast in the great stands of oak. Herwin was commissioned to work at repairing the roof of the mill in Oberbrechen and the walls of Weyer’s ewe-house. Arnold’s cart was shed-bound by snow, but he was assigned the task of hauling bundles of chopped stubble and straw by sleigh.

  Within each hovel the peasant women were hard at work as well. Some, like Arnold’s wife, kept busy carving bowls and forks, platters and spoons, or pleating baskets with rushes gathered in the autumn. Berta spent much of her time spinning. This year she was skillfully turning coarse flax into good linen thread. The prior had ordered higher taxes to offset a poor grain harvest, and Berta’s spinning helped provide for her obligations.

  It was just two days past mid-March, less than two weeks before Easter, when Berta became ill. She had suffered aches and an unusual weakness in her legs through much of Lent, but she had attributed it to the added privations of the season as she readied her soul for Holy Week. For days Heinrich stood faithfully by his mother’s bed, often dabbing her brow, so he was surprised when she silently slipped from her bed and out the door into the freezing rain, only to return a few hours later with a small satchel stuffed beneath her cloak. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Ask nothing, boy, to bed with you.”

  Baldric rose just before prime of the next morning, and as he was tearing at some stale bread he heard Berta calling his name. “What is it, woman?”

  “Baldric… a word?”

  Baldric ambled into the woman’s room. Now a burly man of nearly twenty-three, he filled the doorway. He stared at her with his narrow-set eyes and picked
at his brown beard. “So what is it?”

  “I am dying.”

  “Aye. And what of it?”

  “You shall have charge of my children. The law shall let you have the harvest until Heinrich is of proper age. Methinks a half-hide’s harvest a fair payment for their care till then.”

  “Humph!” scoffed Baldric. “You’ve three brats and I’ve no wife to mind them.” He leaned close to the woman. “Add your dowry, then I shall agree.”

  Berta was too weak to argue and handed Baldric a box she had set beside her. “The day I wed I was given two ewes and a boar hog, three shillings and this table. The ewes have dropped lambs and the shepherds say they now mark twelve ewes and one ram for us. The boar yielded and we’ve credit for ten pigs in the swineherd … six due for taxes. Kurt added a shilling for his work with the carpenters and from one good harvest. Your father gave ten shillings, though Kurt spent some on woollens, thatching, and some harvest tools. Here’d be all the coins that are left, ‘tis no more.”

  Baldric took the little chest and counted the silver. He looked hard at Berta. He knew she feared for her soul and he leaned close to her face. “So, on the Virgin you do swear this to be all?”

  Berta felt suddenly nauseous. She had no intention to give Baldric all. That would mean she’d need to give him her golden relic. Surely, she imagined, she would burn forever if she gave it to the likes of Baldric! Yet, if she swore a lie on the Virgin would she not also perish? Her mind and heart raced. She closed her eyes.

  Finally certain she was damned for either choice, Berta chose the sin that did not advantage Baldric. “Aye, Baldric, ‘tis all.” She shuddered. All her life she had worked so very hard to avoid the Pit, and in this one moment all had been lost! She groaned.

  The man smiled smugly, but before he could speak, Berta hissed. “Hear me: the monks know all. Should you try to cheat my children, they will serve you justice.”

  Baldric grinned. “There’d be one more thing.”

  Berta closed her eyes.

  “I needs honor m’father’s gift to Heinrich’s sons-to-be. You remember—the parchment with the abbot’s promise?”

  Berta lay motionless. She said nothing for nearly a minute while Baldric waited. Then she slowly dug her hand deep into the recesses of her straw mattress and retrieved a flattened roll. She handed it to him without a word.

  The gray sky hung heavy beneath the noon sun of the next day. Effi was playing with a ball of linen thread like a bored kitten and Axel was busy jabbing the hearth with a smoking stick. Berta called hoarsely for her eldest son. “Boy … come here,” she whispered.

  Heinrich entered his mother’s bedchamber. She nodded weakly and bade him sit by her side. “I needs speak of things. I’ve asked for Arnold to fetch the bailiff and Father Gregor. You must be here when they come. Now, hear me.” The woman raised herself up on one elbow. “Honor the ways and make me proud. Make your father proud.” She fell back. “Do you remember my story of the ox that coveted the saddle, and the horse the plough?”

  Heinrich nodded solemnly.

  “Good. Do not seek change, allow what is, to be.” She sighed a little, then her tone changed. “Obey your uncle. I have given him charge over you all. Care for your sister…”

  Berta closed her eyes and listened to the wind now howling from the east. The door of the common room suddenly burst open and a chilly air blew through the hovel. Three men in heavy wraps tramped across the room and crowded into Berta’s bedchamber.

  Arnold pushed Heinrich aside and bent over the woman. She was now breathing quickly and her skin was pale. “Woman,” he blurted. “Here’s the bailiff and the priest. Now, what’s this about?”

  Berta peered through the room’s gloom into the haunting dark eyes of Arnold. “My thanks,” she whispered. The woman leaned upward on her elbow. “Can y’give me leave with these two?”

  Arnold grumbled and left the room, leaving a perplexed Father Gregor and the stiff-eyed Bailiff Herold staring at the bed. Herold picked at his long nose and tapped his foot impatiently. The woman then reached beneath her and pulled a pouch from the straw. “Bailiff, thanks be to God you’ve come with the father. Listen, I beg you. I am about to die. M’papa taught me to keep things to good order.” She paused. “I’ve needs to know m’sons and Effi shall be watched. And I needs to know that Heinrich’s land will be safe for him as well as this house and—”

  Herold cursed the woman. “You’d drag me through the mud and ice for this!”

  “Hold, good sir,” pleaded Berta. Her lips trembled. “There’s more … but please swear on the Virgin you’ll tell no other.” She held her hand open on her belly. Heinrich, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, leaned between the hips of Gregor and Herold as his mother whispered, “This … this is a relic. ‘Tis no common gold piece. I do swear on my soul this comes from Jerusalem. It was touched to the Holy Sepulchre by the Grand Master of the Templars.”

  Herold snatched the piece and held it to the dim light of the room’s smoky candle. The priest gawked. “Relic? Hmm, look here, it’s been bit! Have you ever heard of a relic that’s been gnawed?”

  The men laughed. Indeed, the gold coin bore a long dash and a short one—marks made from a good tooth next to a broken one. Heinrich squared his shoulders bravely. “If m’Mutti says it to be a relic, it is! She’s never spoken a lie, she’s—”

  Herold cracked the five-year-old boy hard across the face. “Shut yer mouth, ye dim little fool!”

  Father Gregor spoke firmly to Berta. “Woman, your soul is in peril of the Pit this day; you needs speak truth.”

  Berta’s eyes fluttered. “What, what did you say, father?”

  “You ought not be lying to your priest whil’st in death’s valley!”

  “Lying? Oh, I’m not lying, father. I prayed to it when the Templars came to save us, I…”

  “Enough, woman!”

  Desperate tears fell from Berta’s widened eyes. She spoke with hoarse urgency. “Father, I am not lying. I needs beg forgiveness for m’sin, I’ve…”

  Herold laughed out loud. “Woman, you’re a fool!”

  Young Heinrich had enough. He leapt from his corner with a shriek and swung his little fists at the bailiffs legs. Herold kicked the boy away and Father Gregor slapped him hard to the ground. “Lie there, Heinrich, and do not move! Do not look up, stare at the ground to which you shall someday be returned!”

  This was all too much for poor Berta. She gave up her ghost while no one noticed.

  The household of Berta became the household of Baldric. Heinrich, Axel, Effi, and Herwin now spent each day in constant terror of the man who raged about his little empire like a tyrant. Void of affection, vacant of joy, filled only with heavy shadows and rage, the hovel that had once been full of love and warmth now did little more than shelter them from the harsh elements.

  But for Baldric, life seemed suddenly improved. He now had charge of four lessers on whom he could vent his wrath. His position with the monks was envied, and his soul was about to be rescued by the coming of Easter. He had learned that Father Gregor had received an edict from the archbishop’s nuncio ordering the priest to administer the sacrament of Eucharist to the folk of Weyer. The Eucharist was taken weekly, sometimes even daily, by the parish priests on behalf of their flock but was rarely offered directly to laymen. For those bearing the increasing weight of life’s sins it would be a relief beyond measure. Baldric hid his torment well, but he suffered an increasing fear of the Judgment. The blood and flesh of Christ followed by an Easter penance would make him feel clean again.

  The whole village was enlivened by the Easter Mass, and they looked toward spring with new hope. On May Day’s dawn, Effi gathered dew on a bunch of wildflowers and wiped it on her brothers for good luck. Heinrich thanked her, then climbed the churchyard steps to sit by his mother’s grave and mourn. It was a ritual he had followed each day since her death. From time to time he ambled to his father’s grave and stared. He had never understood the mystery of hi
s father’s passing. Some, including his uncles and the priest, told him Kurt had died from infection, yet his mother had blamed him somehow. And so, with such heavy thoughts as these weighing on him, Heinrich considered his predicament and that of his siblings and he wept. After all, it was easy to reason that their current misery was on account of his failures as well.

  May Day gave way to six weeks of hard labors before Midsummer’s feast. And this particular year’s feast presented the village with something of a surprise, for midst the afternoon’s celebrations, Baldric reluctantly wed. In a ceremony that lasted less than a rich man’s confession, the brute was married, ironically, to Hedda, the widow of Paul the dyer who was slain that awful night. Baldric was not particularly pleased with the choice, but he had been pressured to take her by the abbey’s prior who had little patience for the problems of widows. After claiming her by ceremonially stomping on her foot, he introduced the limping bride to a circle of applauding witnesses.

  Heinrich bowed politely and introduced himself to his stepmother. “I am Heinrich.” He looked carefully at Hedda. The lad was insightful for a boy of five. He saw the brown-eyed woman as sympathetic and caring, but weary and withdrawn.

  Hedda smiled and reached a hand toward the boy, but Baldric grabbed her by the wrist and twisted her arm cruelly. “Fetch me beer!” he growled.

  Herwin shook his head as Baldric belched and turned away. “Children,” Herwin whispered quickly, “follow me.” He led the three through the footpaths of Weyer to the village well. There, to Heinrich’s great joy, were Ingelbert and Emma. While the children played, Herwin entreated Emma to keep the boys and their sister overnight.

  Herwin’s request proved to be a wise one, for soon after the next day’s dawn, Baldric was bellowing about the hovel like a madman. Poor Hedda had made a confession to her new husband. “I am barren and … and cannot conceive,” she wept. After three years of marriage to Paul she had not so much as a miscarriage. She had done penances and drunk infusions, worn amulets and even gone so far as to seek the witch near Munster, but nothing had eased her shame.