Quest of Hope: A Novel

by C. D. Baker

  The proprietor smiled. “Ah, the blessed knots and links of the Irish! Gloria tibi, Domine!”

  Heinrich’s eye remained fixed on the artwork as though a prisoner of its comforting sublimate.

  “God’s Word honored with a bit of heaven’s glory, I say,” added the proprietor. “Color and light… the Irishman who does this work says it is the very essence of our hope.”

  Heinrich nodded without speaking. He stared at the parchment’s hues: dark reds and blues, yellows and greens. Within the artist’s curls and graceful turns, gold leaf glittered and shimmered. It was as though the colors of Creation’s rainbow were lit by the sun and offered in all their glory on this single page of Scripture. The man began to weep.

  Heinrich hurried from the shop and leaned against the cold stone of the three-story building. He covered his face to hide his tears and in the blackness of his palm he saw Emma smiling at him, pointing him heavenward. “Oh, Emma,” he groaned. His mind carried him to her garden of wildflowers and butterflies. He imagined lying within the blooms of June, staring at the bright blue sky with Richard at his side.

  “Are you in need, man?”

  Heinrich was startled.

  “May I help?” a sickly young man pressed further.

  “Uh, nay, good sir. But m’thanks to you.”

  The man nodded. He was leaning on a makeshift crutch and his leg was bandaged with a discolored wrap.

  Heinrich would have preferred to hurry away but his heart held him fast. The young man was thin and drawn, slightly yellowed and hollow-eyed. “Methinks you’d be the one in need,” observed the baker.

  “Ah, my leg’s been shattered in the archbishop’s mine and it seems my time is short. My name is Dietmar of Gratz.” He coughed and shivered.

  “Gratz?”

  “’Tis in the Duchy of Styria near the Kingdom of the Huns.”

  “The Huns. Ne’er met one.”

  “You needs hope you don’t. They raid the borders from time to time. I lost my lands to their treachery three years prior.”

  “You are a freeman?”

  “Aye. You?”

  Heinrich wasn’t sure any longer. He no longer felt like the property of Villmar’s monks, yet he assumed the law would say he was. His delay caught the notice of Dietmar.

  “A runaway?”

  The title snagged Heinrich. His heart skipped and his belly fluttered. “Runaway? Nay, sir. I am a pilgrim from … from Stedingerland in the far north.”

  Dietmar nodded approvingly. “I have heard of your people. Seems word of your ways is troubling many a lord’s court throughout all the realms.” He paused to gather strength. “When I was a lord, I was troubled by the likes of you as well. Now, it seems, I find your rebellious ways delicious!”

  Heinrich smiled. The young man seemed earnest and honest. “You say you were injured in the mines?”

  “Ja. I worked for the archbishop’s steward, Laszlo. The man’s a Christian Hun. He’s a clever devil from Pest along the Danube. I was one of his clerks. He sent me to the new mine at Hallein to do a reckoning of charcoal.” Dietmar paused and sat atop a keg. He coughed and wiped some spittle off his chin with his sleeve. “A timber fell from a cart and broke my leg … hasn’t even begun to heal in near a month and now I fear I’ve mormal in the wound.”

  “Mormal? You’ll die for sure.” Heinrich grimaced at his words.

  “Aye. We all die for sure.” Dietmar chuckled lightly, then became faint.

  Heinrich steadied the man and handed him a flask he had bought for himself. Dietmar drained a long draught of air-chilled ale.

  “Many thanks, stranger. What is your name?”

  “Heinrich. Heinrich of… Stedingerland.” He hated to lie.

  “Well, Heinrich, your pilgrimage is to where?”

  “Rome.”

  “Ah, the Holy See. For a penance?”

  “Aye. Have you been there?”

  Dietmar shook his head. “You plan to winter in Salzburg?”

  “Yes. But I hope to leave as early in the spring as possible. I hope before Easter.”

  “The mountain passes are often closed until Pentecost, sometimes later. You ought travel through the Brenner. It is lower and clears a little earlier.”

  Heinrich grumbled. “Perhaps I should hurry and find a caravan. I am told they sometimes dare the passes late in the season.”

  “Some years the snow is late … sometimes early. Perhaps strange fortune and south winds might make for an odd season next year, but I can tell you that this year is too late.”

  Heinrich sighed. The two sat quietly for a short time while Dietmar rested, then Heinrich offered his new friend a meal. The two found their way to a tavern within the shadow of St. Peter’s near the town’s center. Dietmar ravenously chewed a thick slice of soup-soaked bread and wiped his fingers through a hearty mash. Gangrene had indeed spread within his poorly set break and fever was besetting the young man. “This fare is some of the best I’ve eaten!” said Dietmar cheerfully. He grimaced and reached for his leg. “Cursed physicians! I have spent far too much on them. All they do is squeeze the ooze and sprinkle bits of salt on the rot.”

  Despite the physicians’ shortcomings, salt was a powerful agent for healing. Just as it preserved the sausages, hams, bacon, fish, fowl, beef slabs, cheese, butter, and nearly every other food necessary to winter the growing population of Europe, it was found to protect life from many diseases. Salt was precious and expensive, yet, along with sunlight, a necessary ingredient in a dark and corrupted world.

  Heinrich listened compassionately to Dietmar’s story and happily paid the man’s meal from the monks’ pennies. He then helped the man from the table and led him into the late daylight that still warmed the courtyard of the cathedral. The two found a comfortable bench and leaned against the wall of a merchant’s house.

  Heinrich stared in awe at the massive stone church. Its towers were squat and heavy, like the little church in Weyer, but on a much grander scale. Its walls were massive; it was a fortress that would surely hold fast against the assaults of Lucifer’s legions. The simple man of Weyer had seen few such edifices of God’s kingdom and he sat in spellbound astonishment.

  Dietmar noticed the man’s excitement and asked Heinrich to follow him into the sanctuary. Heinrich entered reverently, almost fearfully. His eye widened at the arched buttresses and thought the huge columns lining the nave to be like orderly plantings of ancient trees. He walked quietly toward the altar standing so very far away. His leather soles padded lightly on the stone floor, and as he walked he leaned his head back to behold the carvings gracing the heights of God’s castle. “This place,” he whispered, “it points me to God.”

  Dietmar nodded. “What our eyes see, our tongues taste, our noses smell, our ears hear, and our fingers touch do much to call upon the spirit within us. They are important parts of our worship.”

  The pair stood quietly near the altar where they lingered for some time. At last, an annoyed priest spotted them and chased them out the door, complaining he had chores for the All Souls’ services in the morning. The two stumbled out into the courtyard laughing.

  “My new friend, look there.” Dietmar pointed to a mountain towering over the edge of Salzburg. “Lookup, Heinrich! An old Bulgarian priest once taught me to ‘Let the eyes climb the summit, then let them fly higher and higher! Let them take you to the God that this poor little chapel chirps about.’ ’Tis good the works of man remind us of bigger things, but look, see how the mountains point us higher still.” He turned to see Heinrich staring at the snow edging the tops of his feet. “Heinrich …?”

  “I… I am under a vow.”

  “A vow?” Dietmar was confused. He stared at the baker. “What sort of vow keeps your eye from heaven?”

  “I do not wish to speak of it. Now, let me help you home.”

  Dietmar said nothing. He was saddened for Heinrich, and the look on the baker’s face nearly broke his heart. But Dietmar was failing quickly. He fel
t suddenly weak and faint and halfway to his home he begged Heinrich to sit on a bench for a brief rest. He sat quietly for a while, then handed the baker a ring. It bore his family’s seal. “Take this. You have been kind to me and I’ve none other to leave it to. Show it to the archbishop’s steward of the mines, Laszlo. Tell him I sent you. He’s a monster but he always respected me and he owes me a favor or two. He can employ you through the winter.”

  Heinrich stared at the silver ring. “I am forever in your debt, sire.” He let it fall into his palm.

  Dietmar shivered and Heinrich wrapped his sealskin around him. “Before you begin your journey for Rome,” said Dietmar slowly, “take the ring to the tinker by the well. Ask no questions, simply do as I bid.”

  Heinrich nodded curious.

  Dietmar sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “Now, good fellow, we’ve just a few streets farther.”

  The pair shuffled slowly through the narrow alleyways of Salzburg until they arrived at the young man’s modest home. There, Heinrich was offered shelter until he could secure his employment at the mines. The grateful baker accepted Dietmar’s kindness but spent the next two days doing nothing other than tending his dying friend. On the third day the landless lord handed Heinrich a few silver pennies and shrugged. “It is all, Heinrich. It is all I’ve left here. Buy some food and drink. I’ll not be calling the physicians again. The fools are stealing my money and the cause is long lost.”

  “But—”

  “Please … do as I say.” His voice was weak and imploring.

  Heinrich left quickly, only to return with an ample provision of meats, some dried peas, a fresh chicken for a good soup, and a flask of red wine. He also dragged in a canvas bag filled with firewood and a pouch of precious salt. “Now, Dietmar, sit by this better fire and warm your bones! I shall cook you a soup you’ll not soon forget and we’ll dress this wound.”

  Tears rolled down Dietmar’s gaunt face as he huddled close to the fire. He poured a tall, clay goblet of wine with a trembling hand and smiled. “Thanks be to God for you, friend.” He knew Heinrich had dipped a heavy hand into his own bag of pennies to bring a bit of cheer and hope to a dying man. “Heinrich,” he began in a weakening voice, “I am but a young man … but raised by a wise one. He once told me …” Dietmar faltered. “He once told me that freedom is not granted by men. Freedom, like hope, is a birthright from God. Your vow is a terrible thing that keeps you bound within the ways of others. Break it, my dear friend, brea—” Dietmar would say no more. He toppled lightly to his side and stared open eyed into the snapping fire.

  Heinrich lifted the young man’s head to his breast and wept for him. He did not know why this stranger had become his friend nor how he had become so. He only knew that a good man was gone and he was saddened for the loss.

  Heavy-hearted, Heinrich used the rest of his pennies to pay a priest the fees necessary for Dietmar’s burial and stood by a strange-looking woman hidden under her hood as the sole witnesses to the man’s interment. He lingered by the grave for a time and wished he could have known the man longer.

  The man from Weyer sighed and bade a final farewell. A cold wind rustled through his shoulder-length hair and lifted his long, gray-laced beard. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and lifted its hood over his head. He secured his dagger and satchel and rolled Dietmar’s ring around his finger. In the safety of the cathedral’s tall spire he lifted his head to look at the fortress perched on the cliff overlooking the city and drew a deep breath. It was mid-morning and he must get on to things that needed doing.

  Heinrich climbed the long, curving road that led to the castle and upon reaching the gate he requested a brief meeting with the archbishop’s steward-of-mines, Laszlo the Hungarian. He was led to a cold corridor where he waited for several hours. Soldiers of the archbishop tramped by in disinterested companies and a few velvetcaped merchants meandered past. Finally, a fur-capped gentleman escorted Heinrich to the steward’s chamber where he was seated on a short bench at the wall farthest from the heat of a roaring hearth. He was introduced as a “country yeoman in want of a moment.” Heinrich grunted. He remembered the steward’s chamber in Villmar’s abbey and he was not comfortable. “I bear this ring to beg … a moment.”

  Laszlo stared from dark eyes. He was an arch-nosed, pinched-faced fellow. His frame was lean, almost skeletal, and he looked short on his high chair. Yet he commanded an intimidating presence that few dared challenge. “What’s this?” he grumbled. With a wave his secretary removed Heinrich’s ring and handed it to Laszlo. “Hmm. Dietmar of Gratz. So, you’ve killed my secretary and have come for something?”

  “Killed him?” Heinrich was baffled. “N-nay, sire. I cared for him until his death from injury … suffered in your mine at… at Hallein. He said I ought bring this to you and ask if I might labor for you this winter.”

  “Ha! Ha!” Laszlo laughed loudly, then rose to his feet and slammed his palm hard atop his oak desk. “What would I do with a one-armed, one-eyed murderer?”

  Heinrich paled and he stammered for words. “M-m-murderer? Sire, nay, I am innocent … there’s been no murder. Ask the priest who buried him! He prepared the body … he saw the mormal that rotted his leg—”

  “Humph,” snorted Laszlo. He stared at Heinrich for another moment. He enjoyed toying with men of lesser station. What Heinrich did not know, however, was that laborers were desperately needed in the mines. Laszlo tossed the silver ring back to Heinrich. “I believe you to be a runaway.”

  The words shocked Heinrich even more than the other accusation. His mind raced. He had just arrived a week before. Who would have told him? he wondered. Heinrich gulped. He had been told that a runaway could be hung on the spot where he stood. He licked his lips. “Nay, sire. I am a freeman on a pilgrimage to Rome.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Heinrich’s mind raced. He drew his dagger from its sheath. The flash of his steel had barely glistened in the torchlight when three guards were upon him. He was pushed to the ground roughly.

  Laszlo laughed. “Bumpkin! Dolt! What sort of fool are you. Why did you draw steel against me?”

  “N-nay, sire. I thought to show you I was armed … only free men bear them and—”

  “Enough!” Laszlo walked to Heinrich and leaned close. “Pity you’re no runaway. Those who escape their manors to live here and work for me for one year and a day leave with my seal on a passport… forever free … and their heirs as well.” He stared slyly at Heinrich, then returned to his desk. “Have you any skill, freeman?”

  Heinrich was still pondering this new opportunity. He knew that any who lived in an imperial city for a year and a day were considered freemen—it was a problem for the landlords of the realm. He hadn’t known that Salzburg was such a city.

  “Are you listening, man?” roared Laszlo.

  “Aye, sire. I am trained as a baker.”

  The steward nodded and smiled. His workers needed bread, and neither the city’s bakers nor their apprentices could be coaxed to stay in Hallein for very long, especially in winter. Laszlo stepped from behind his desk and leaned his face close to Heinrich’s. “Well, pilgrim. I suppose we could use a baker. He tossed the man back his ring. Aye, you are assigned to the bakery at Hallein, where you shall make dozens of the Church’s faithful laborers very happy. For your service you shall be paid in salt like the Roman legions with their salarium. This ‘salary’ as we call it, can be exchanged for coin at our moneychanger’s stall in the city when you are given leave.” Laszlo then set his lips by Heinrich’s ear to hiss, “And when you are ready, we shall talk again about your freedom.”

  A two-day cart ride delivered Heinrich to the village of Hallein that was nestled within the Dürnberg Mountains. He was given a bed in a worker’s dormitory and introduced to his new master, one Ladislav of Moravia. Ladislav was a dark-eyed, violent man of twenty years who possessed a poor grasp of the German language and even less Christian charity. His task was to squeeze the
most production possible out of each worker and he had no patience for fatigue, hunger, cold, or infirmity. Heinrich knew his objective would be to keep as much distance between himself and the impetuous Slav as possible.

  The baker was soon working long hours in the bakehouse. He had become proficient in using his one arm in the mixing and kneading of dough and was suddenly grateful for the woeful years in the dreadful cloister in Posen where he had learned to retrain his body. His apprentices watched with admiration as the handicapped man worked the doughs, shaped the loaves, and shuttled the paddles in and out of the brick ovens. More than that, they marveled at the excellent product the newcomer presented to the eager workmen each day.

  Through the long winter Heinrich worked faithfully. He was fed amply, his canvas cot was reasonably comfortable, and the dormitory was surprisingly warm. A monumental amount of wood had been stripped from the mountainsides in order to fire the huge furnaces necessary to produce the salt. The relatively small quantities taken for the personal comfort of the workers was barely noticed.

  Hallein’s salt mines had been closed for several centuries. In ancient times the Dürnberg Mountains had been mined by the Celts who carved tunnels deep into the mountains. Here they had chiseled clumps of red salt from the narrow veins that spidered their way through the mountain. The clumps were then carried outside where they were smashed into granules, washed, and poured into barrels. One Sabbath afternoon, however, Heinrich learned of the archbishop’s better way. His curiosity called him up the trail from the village to the mine entrance, where he hesitated. He drew a deep breath and picked up a pine-torch. He lit it on the coal bucket and stepped timidly into the tunnel where he immediately saw a dull, curling flame some distance ahead. He walked slowly toward the light until he came upon a sleepy guard dozing against a timber brace.