by C. D. Baker
Upon hearing the pronouncement, Baldric beat her senseless and tossed her out his door. He then punched his fists through the walls of his hovel and smashed a stool atop the coal-red hearth. Cursing the prior for his trickery, he grabbed the morning’s kettle, steaming with heated water and charged outside to douse his bride when Reeve Lenard intervened, backing him against the wall with the points of a hay fork. Other men rushed to the cottage and circled the raging man as Hedda was taken away.
Heinrich, Effi, Axel, Ingelbert, and Emma were blissfully unaware of the morning’s turmoil. They had spent a wonderful night sleeping under the stars in Emma’s butterfly garden and laughing at the wondrous stories good Emma could tell. In the morning they begged for more. “Well, my children,” laughed Emma, “have I told you of the Nixie of the Rhine?”
The spellbound children leaned forward, gaping and wide-eyed.
“Ha, ha!” chuckled the sparkling-eyed woman. “She lives with other Nickers by the water’s edge and spends her days combing her golden hair under a magic sun!
“On Midsummer’s she and her Nixie friends dance with their male friends, the Nixes, and in their secret palace below the water they sing and feast until the moon is high above.
“They are good, you know. They dance upon the water when a man is about to drown. They say it is a call for help.”
“Nay.” Heinrich was suddenly gloomy. “Methinks they’d be happy for death.”
“Ah, now Heinrich, why do you speak so?” asked Emma. She looked at him with worried eyes.
The boy shrugged. At the tender age of five, he had more reasons than he ought to think as he did.
It was a wondrous afternoon on the second Sabbath of July. A happy breeze toyed with the fields of thigh-high grain, bending them like folds of soft satin. The sky was blue, even bluer than the laughing eyes of young Heinrich as he dashed up the slope behind his good friend and cousin, Richard. The two reached the summit of the high ridge that overlooked Weyer from the east and waited impatiently for Ingelbert and Emma who were lagging behind.
Emma, panting and sweating, collapsed next to the boys and laughed. “By all the saints! I am getting a bit old for this.” She pulled a clay jug of last year’s cider from her satchel and smiled as the boys squealed in delight. Each took a swig and gathered close to the woman. She sat quietly for a few moments, enjoying the company of her son and his young friends. She reached deep into her satchel again and withdrew some rye and cheese. Soon the four were gnawing on dark bread and sharing the cider jug as the woman told tales of artful dwarves and cunning gnomes, the Knight of the Swan and the Dragon-rock.
The soft melodic voice of Emma lulled all to sleep beneath the golden sun; their backs nestled in thick, soft grass, their tender faces turned toward the warm light of the ever-constant sun. And while the foursome slept, the sun’s caring visage arced in an ever-certain path, its very sureness offering hope to the shadowed order grinding far below.
A hurried breeze awakened Emma from her sleep and she sighed contentedly. She lay quietly in the green grass and thought of her life, of hard times and good. She recalled her childhood and thought of the mother she had never known. Would she be pleased her life was forfeited for the likes of me? she wondered. She then remembered her father, a wealthy lord, surrounded by the best physicians and moaning in fevered agony. Her memory took her to his solemn burial, and then to the long journey to the nunnery in Quedlinburg. As it often did, her mind quickly flew to the man she did yet love and the season of confusion in the orchards near the convent. A tug on her shoulder gave her a start.
“Frau Emma,” insisted Richard. “Are you awake?”
“Ah, good lad,” answered Emma. “Ja, I am indeed! And methinks it a good time to look to the sky!” She stroked Richard’s hair and marveled at the lad’s handsome features. Hardly the son of Arnold! chuckled Emma to herself. And when her own son tumbled next to Richard she fought back tears. For there sat one boy pleasing to all and the other doomed to contempt. She cupped Ingelbert’s homely face in her hands and kissed him. “Now, children. Lie on your backs and look up. Always be looking up! The light comes from above. The sun and the moon are like the eyes of truth; sunshine is hope, and moonlight is mercy. Heinrich, can you remember this?”
The boy nodded.
“Now, lads, watch the clouds and tell me what you see.”
A few moments passed. Finally Richard laughed. “I see Father Gregor’s face!”
The others squealed. Indeed, a thin, white cloud with a large nose was drifting by. “Ha, ha! Richard. Good one!” chortled Heinrich.
Ingelbert pointed to a round, puffy cloud. “Mutti!”
Richard giggled.
“Wunderbar! Wonderful, Ingly! Ha, ha, ‘tis fat like me!” Emma beamed.
The four laughed and tumbled, wrestling like pups with a playful mother. They rested in the grass and pointed to the sky once again where they discovered rabbits and cows, a hog’s face and a monk’s hood. “Can you see how the wind brings change? The sky is ever changing as the sun stays on its path. ‘Tis wondrous.”
The boys were puzzled by the woman’s reflections, but there seemed to be something right and true in the words she spoke. They gathered close and felt joy in her presence.
It was a gray, foreboding morning as the bells of Weyer’s church rang prime on the day of the Epiphany in the year 1180. From the sunny spires of Constantinople to the rain-soaked chapels of soggy Ireland, the faithful of all Christendom gathered to celebrate this high day, this Feast of the Three Kings. The abbot of Villmar was pleased to know that the subjects of his manor were winding their way to the village churches, all worshiping God in service to their earthly masters.
But as the column of peasants climbed the steep steps of Weyer’s dark-stoned church, they stopped as one, held for a moment by a shrieking cry from a clearing on the ridge above the Laubusbach on the opposite side of the village. All eyes turned to see the outstretched arms of a woman shouting and screaming at them with a small, white-haired child by her side. “A curse!” the woman screeched across the rooftops. “I cast a curse upon each soul. I throw a spell on all:
May fever, sores, King’s Evil gasps, come to whom it may,
St. Vitus’s Dance and pox and grippe befall this place this day!
All grain to dust, all swine to fits, all sheep to wolves, I pray,
All thatch to flames, all wells to bane, and Satan stain your way!”
Heinrich stood speechless and cold, unnerved and fearful. He, like the others, had heard of her, and some were reported to have secretly counseled with her in the dark forests. But none had been hexed before, nor had any heard of a whole village being cursed. Father Gregor paled and leaned, fainthearted, against the stone wall of the churchyard. He raised the silver crucifix hanging round his neck and offered a pitiful prayer in response. His timid, quivering voice was impotent and weak, and few thought the legions of heaven would rally to his cause. “Jesu Christe, have mercy.”
Heinrich followed his poor fellows as they raced up the steps and huddled in the damp church; a gray bundle of tattered wool and matted hair, tightened faces, and tongues tied in terror. Father Gregor watched the witch throw a handful of ash into the sky and dance wildly. She joined hands with her little one and the two circled one another, faster and faster until the child stumbled. Then, with a final cackle and crow, the black-clad sorceress waved her open-palmed hands over the earth as if to summon the demons of Satan’s Pit to her side. Gregor was certain she had.
Chapter 5
COURAGE AND GRACE
The Sabbath following the Epiphany was known as the Baptism of our Lord, but for the terrified folk of Weyer there was little joy in the celebration. Few had dared venture from their homes since the fearful hex of the woodland witch. Rumors abounded of hairless swine found tied in the trees and of infants suffocated in the night. Finally, Father Gregor convinced a reluctant Arnold to escort him to Villmar where he entreated the abbot to rise in defense of th
e village. After exchanging messages with the archbishop, the worried abbot decided to invite the Templars, holy monks themselves, to help Runkel’s men-at-arms scour the forests in search of the witch. He wanted her captured and brought to trial in the church court at Mainz.
Gregor returned from Villmar with Father Johannes, a younger priest just sent from Mainz to assist the aging man. Father Gregor was nearly fifty and had endured his tenure in the service of a damp and gloomy parish church. The appointment of an assistant made for a bittersweet gift. The old priest was pleased to have the younger man’s companionship, but his very presence was an unpleasant reminder of his own mortality.
Father Johannes had been raised as an oblate in the pink-stoned cloister at Maria Laach and, though his heart was sincere, he had been granted just enough education to cause harm. For all his lack of learning, however, the thin man was sincere and eager to do God’s work. He imagined himself a guardian of the Virgin, and his piety and zeal were evident to all. As he followed Arnold and Father Gregor down the hill into Weyer’s hollow, the young priest wept aloud for joy. “Ah, thanks be to God for this place! It is my place and I shall guard it well!”
No sooner had the clerics entered the village before a group of peasants crept from their hovels and scurried to the safety of the priests’ shadows. One desperate woman held out her sick child for help. “Fathers, in the name of Blessed Mary can y’not help us? The witch’s hex has taken one of m’children and now this one is sick with the King’s Evil, just as she said!”
Others crowded around, including Heinrich. The sun disappeared behind a thick cloud and a sudden gust of snow showered the village. “My children,” began Father Gregor slowly. “The brothers in Villmar are fasting for you now, this very day. They fast and they are doing penances for what wrongs you have brought upon yourselves. And God has sent us Father Johannes in our hour of need. He, too, shall pray for you and fast with me for thy safety.”
“My child’s eyes are failing and she lies sweated with fever,” shrieked a woman. “I’ve spent all I have for bilberry but it is for naught. The witch is taking her sight!”
“Enough, woman!” answered Father Johannes sternly. He walked toward her purposefully and beckoned all to listen. Heinrich pressed close.
“The Savior healed the blind; ‘tis blindness that be our foe! Seek not herbs to save your child’s sight! ‘Tis faith that is the balm, faith I say for all to hear. Woman, all of you, vow to me this very day that none shall put their trust in herbs or cantations, remedies or cures! Vow to fast and yield yourselves to the prayers of God’s men.
“From here to the end of the curse any who would use a potion or an infusion or chant shall bear the wrath of the Holy Church. It is your lack of faith that has brought the curse, and by your faith restored the curse shall fail! Now on the morning Mass I shall grant absolution for all confessed sins. Your souls will be forgiven in heaven, but I cannot grant plenary indulgence for the temporal penalty still due until you perform penance for your weakness.
“So hear me: none are to eat honey, all must swear to charity; you needs pay another tithe by Sabbath day. One of each family must walk the village paths barefoot and without a cloak. By these penances we shall begin to overcome.”
The folk were desperate and the young priest’s confidence gave them hope. At the bells of nones groups of penitent villagers hurried toward the roadway. Among them were Baldric’s bruised wife, Hedda, as well as Reeve Lenard with his huge dog in tow. Heinrich took his sister by the hand, and the two walked to the end of the frozen footpath to stare at the huddled column trudging obediently round the village like the Hebrews circling Jericho. But in Weyer there were no trumpets and there was no victory; only shivering peasants tramping barefoot through the snow.
By Holy Week much had changed in Weyer. The child with failing sight was now completely blind, and nearly two dozen others had entered their graves. Most had died obediently—dutifully refusing to use the herbs offered by a kind Creation. The swineherd was decimated as well as the sheepfold, more from neglect than by the curse.
Among those lost to that terrible season was Father Gregor. He had fallen ill with the grippe just two days after the village penance had begun. Some said he ought not have walked barefoot with the others. But he was anxious to prove his mettle in the presence of a rival, and he led his little flock like the good shepherd he claimed to be. He had taken no herbs to ease his distress, though he was sorely tempted. “To whom much is given, much is required,” had scolded Johannes. Gregor agreed and had poured his cup of coltsfoot upon the floor. So the man died faithful to the notions of Johannes—if not to the voice of Wisdom.
To the great joy of Baldric, another taken by the scourge was the woodward. For him, the witch’s hex seemed a blessing for he was quickly appointed to the dead man’s position and would now rule all the forests of Villmar’s lands. Another was lost as well. Abbot Boniface had become ill, stricken with a cramping colic and consumption. Overcome with pain, he lost all enthusiasm for the ban on remedies. An oblate—a lad named Pious—had smuggled jugs of barley water and raspberry vinegar from the infirmer for the abbot’s relief. Upon Boniface’s death the lad confessed to all, and the disappointed brothers were sure the hand of God had stricken the hapless abbot for his unfaithfulness.
In his place came Brother Malchus. The monk had taken his vows in Lorch, the home of Emperor Barbarossa. Malchus had been a knight by another name in the service of the emperor and had lost his left ear in a battle in Palestine. Believing himself spared to serve God in new ways, he had joined the monastery in Lorch where the novice-master gave him his name. There he proved himself to be a man of wisdom, true humility, and deeply committed to the Rule of Benedict. He secretly resented the control the Archbishop of Mainz exercised over the abbey at Villmar, especially since most abbots now answered directly to papal legates. It would be his hope to bring the liberation of the abbey.
Malchus arrived on Holy Thursday and immediately summoned Prior Paulus to review the spiritual and temporal condition of his new stewardship. Before long he imposed stricter fasts on his brethren and ordered new aggressive plans for village bakeries, breweries, and mills. “And more,” he said. “We’ve must look to a new system of planting like we’ve done in Swabia. Gather the village reeves and haywards and we’ll set upon the task.”
The summer proved to be a grave disappointment for the new abbot. The harvest was a disaster and morale of the monks was low. Worse yet, the abbey’s treasury had been pilfered. Since the fiscal year of Christendom began and ended on Michaelmas—the twenty-fifth of September—the treasury had held nearly a year’s worth of revenues. Of course, the abbot dared not let the villagers know of the violation lest they lose heart. After all, the monastery was their final redoubt from Satan’s evils. If God’s fortress could be penetrated so easily, what hope would they have for themselves?
The abbot was frustrated by the theft but also extremely agitated by the parish priests’ continuing ban on remedies for sickness. Since the village priests answered to their bishop and not to him, he sent messengers to the archbishop in Mainz begging him to correct the foolishness. Mercifully, the archbishop agreed and dispatched a simple message to his priests: “Encourage your flocks to trust God by trusting in God’s people and in the tools of God’s creation.”
Immediately, Abbot Malchus summoned an herbalist skilled in modern techniques and, on a warm day in mid-October, Lukas of Saxony appeared at the abbey’s gate. Lukas was of medium height, with dark brown eyes and hair. A young, eager, and good-natured monk, he had gentle, pleasing features, was quick of wit and wise beyond his years. Lukas had been schooled at the Abbey of St. Gall and had taken a special interest in medicines and herbs. The monk had a love for life that gave joy to many, and he knew no better way to serve than to probe the wonderful mysteries of God’s good earth.
But more troubles soon loomed over the manors of the abbey. Just two days after Lukas’s arrival, the abbot received a
messenger from the Archbishop of Mainz warning of danger. Apparently, the lord of nearby Mensfelden had revoked his loyalty to Emperor Barbarossa and pledged himself to a prince of Saxony who was building a treasonous alliance. Barbarossa learned of the betrayal and immediately stripped the defector of all his lands, granting them to another. The Abbey of Villmar was under the protection of the Lord of Runkel, himself a loyal subject of the emperor. It was now feared that the disenfranchised Lord of Mensfelden might send his knights into the abbey’s lands to exact revenge.
The days of October became days of vigilance and fear. The men and women of Weyer regularly soaked their roofs with buckets of water and filled the church with what stores their scanty harvest had yielded. At night they lay awake in their beds, imagining what horrors might await them by the following day.
Six-year-old Heinrich lay upon his straw mound wide-eyed and restless. He stared at the dark thatch glowing ominously in the failing light of the hearth and could not sleep. The village was nervous but quiet, until Reeve Lenard began to ease his nerves by beating his hapless dog. Heinrich squeezed his fists and pleaded with God to strike Lenard dead if the soldiers came.
“You, boy!” Baldric stormed from his bedchamber. “You are not to speak at night! Now stand where you be!”
Heinrich climbed to his feet. He knew what was coming and he gritted his teeth. Effi began to sob.
“And you, little brat! If I hear one sound, I’ll strap you too!”