Quest of Hope: A Novel Page 6

  Arnold snarled, “You of all of us ought have a sword or bow! Fool, dimwit!”

  Indeed, serfs were not permitted to own weapons, but freemen were expected to keep a long sword or bow in case called upon to render military service.

  Baldric growled. “Here, I’ve a blade in m’boot. Take it, y’dunce and use it well.”

  Paul took the short knife with a trembling hand. He touched its edge with his forefinger and closed his eyes.

  It was soon after the bells of compline when the five men began their dark journey. They climbed the steep roadway leading them out of Weyer, paused briefly along the ridge-line, and then began to trot down the long slope toward the torches of distant Villmar. About halfway to the abbey’s village they veered off the road and followed Arnold along a cartpath heading northeastward. They ran quietly under a star-sprinkled sky, and before long they could smell the wet mud and waters of the Lahn River.

  The Lahn was fairly deep, hemmed by steep banks. It was a bowshot in breadth and sluggish, except in the spring thaw. The group paused at the bank for a moment and crouched in the night’s mist now hanging about their knees. Then, without a sound, they slipped into the Lahn’s warm waters and vanished in the fog. They swam awkwardly through the black water until they found themselves clawing their way up the slippery bank on the far side. The group was now across the border of the abbey’s lands and was trespassing the lands of Lord Klothar, the new lord of Runkel.

  As bound serfs, all but Paul could be severely punished for leaving the realm to which they were pledged. The oaths of their ancestors had shackled them to the land they were born upon and only escape to a free city for a year and a day or the purchase of manumission could set them free.

  Lord Klothar’s village of Arfurt was about the size of Weyer and was perched atop a high bank directly on the Lahn. The men had crossed the river upstream from the sleepy village and now sat in the low grass of a hayfield to catch their breath. Arnold gathered his comrades close. “We’ve another league to travel to Arfurt,” he whispered. “The cart-way’s fairly smooth but the dark will slow us some. We shall soon hear the bells at matins and that gives us just enough time to do our business and get back ‘afore daybreak.”

  Baldric looked carefully about the circle. “None can fail, do y’hear me, Paul?”

  The dyer nodded nervously.

  “Humph!” groused Baldric. “You’ve thin arms and a soft way about you, dyer. And you’d best have clean hands. If you leave the color of dye behind you’ll swing!”

  Paul was sweating in the humid night air and his hands began to tremble. He wished he had never met Baldric nor ever borrowed a single penny from the man.

  “Kurt, you’re quiet,” said Baldric.

  “Aye, frightened, aren’t you?” laughed Dietrich.

  Kurt turned stiffly toward the miller. “Methinks you to be a fool… and a cheat. Keep yerself away from me else I’ll deal with you when this business is done!”

  Dietrich pulled the knife from his belt. “Now, now you son of a har—”

  Arnold held the man. “Save your rage, friend. Kurt’s with fever, leave him be.”

  With a few more oaths the men stood and followed Arnold’s lanky starlit silhouette like sheep trotting behind their bellwether. They slipped through the darkness, waist deep in mist, their thin, leather shoes padding lightly atop the wet grass. The bells of matins echoed through the Lahn valley from nameless village churches scattered about. The troop hunched and bobbed under the night’s sky, each lost in his own thoughts until Arnold suddenly stopped. “Hold!” he hushed. The smell of burning wood wafted past his nose. Arnold crouched and whispered to Baldric. “There, about a bowshot, methinks.”

  Baldric assumed command. He huddled his men and spoke in low tones. “Now listen well. They’ve surely set a guard by the wool. He’s the one to die first, then we take the others, but we must move slowly else the ox’ll bellow a warning.”

  Kurt was trembling all over. Fever raged through his body and he thought he might faint, but he took a deep breath and crept forward with the others. The dew and heavy mist muffled their movements as they crawled to within a stone’s throw of the Gunnars’ camp. As Baldric had guessed, a sleepy watchman was leaning against the large wheel of a single-axle cart. The dim glow of the campfire lit the man’s left side and Arnold studied it carefully. “Baldric,” he whispered, “no blade.”

  Baldric nodded and motioned for Kurt and Paul to advance. As the two moved forward, Baldric, Arnold, and Dietrich crept toward the guard. “Arnold,” whispered Baldric, “you two, move in close and be ready.” He pointed to the sleeping shepherds as he crept through the mist toward the sentry.

  Paul and Kurt were now crouching within striking distance of the camp and waited nervously as Baldric stalked the guard. The ox suddenly raised his head and cocked his ears. He lifted his nose to scent the air. The men of Weyer froze. The beast snorted and grunted and the guard stood erect. “Huh?” he muttered as he stepped toward the animal. He set a hand atop the ox’s broad back and stared out into the darkness. Seeing nothing, he turned back toward the wagon with a shrug but had barely taken a step before Baldric’s mallet smashed hard into his face. The awful sound startled the ox, and the beast lurched forward, bawling loudly.

  Five sleeping Gunnars were suddenly awake and on their feet, and Arnold and Dietrich sprang forward, Baldric close behind. Kurt was nauseous and dizzy. He stood and took a step, but fever blurred his eyes and he could barely feel the handle of the knife in his grip. He hesitated, but only for a moment. Anger for the shame of Sieghild suddenly pulsed through him, and it was as though he could feel his sister’s suffering. He charged forward into the fray.

  The Gunnars fought hard, like their Frankish forefathers. A mighty swipe of Baldric’s mallet, however, dropped one, then two. Another wrestled Arnold to the ground but Baldric struck the shepherd on the spine as Arnold plunged his knife deep into the man’s belly.

  Dietrich was in trouble, however. He tripped and lay helpless on the grass as a Gunnar rushed toward him. Kurt turned to help the miller and crashed into Dietrich’s foe. But as he did, the blow of a hammer glanced off his cheek. Stunned, he fell face first to the ground and the man quickly pounced upon him, plunging sharp shears over and over into Kurt’s arching back.

  Baldric rushed to Kurt’s aid. With a vicious swipe of his mallet, Baldric crushed the head of the shear-wielding Gunnar. The man fell to his side with a whimper and lay openeyed and lifeless.

  Baldric dropped to his brother’s side. “Ach … nay … Gott in Himmel!” the man cried to the heavens. He clutched his brother’s body in his arms. “Kurt!” he wailed.

  Kurt felt a chill drift through his body. For a moment he felt a flutter. He heard distant voices calling him—familiar voices, perhaps Arnold’s, perhaps his father’s? He gasped for breath, then felt suddenly calm and the voices grew faint, finally fading away to utter silence.

  The vanquished Gunnars lay strewn about their campsite, dead or dying. The survivors of Weyer stared disbelieving at their fallen comrade and said nothing as they carried his body to a dewy patch of unspoiled grass. They laid him down respectfully and the three of them knelt by his side.

  The group was quiet and the air deadly calm. Paul the dyer approached from the darkness and bowed his head in sorrow. Baldric was fighting a tear—a battle seldom engaged—as he turned his blood-splattered face to the quaking dyer. “You? You hid?”

  “Y-Yes,” answered Paul. “I’ve not the stomach for such—”

  The gentle man never finished his sentence. Baldric snarled and swung his mallet into the man’s thin frame, felling him to the earth like a broken willow. Paul collapsed with a gasp and his eyes rolled as his soul flew away.

  Arnold and Dietrich grunted their assent to justice served and stood to finish the night’s business. With a diabolical grin Dietrich set about the task of assuring the deaths of any Gunnar yet twitching on the ground while Arnold rifled through their purs
es to take whatever treasures he might find.

  “Do we toss them in the river?” asked Arnold.

  “Aye, fish food,” answered Dietrich.

  Baldric paused. “No, leave them for the birds so their kin finds them. They needs see the price they pay for Sieghild and their threats!”

  Dietrich wasn’t so sure. “Lord Klothar will learn of it and go to the abbot. Your feud is no secret.”

  “Ach! Let them accuse us. We’ve oath-helpers enough who’ll swear by our innocence.”

  Arnold pointed to Kurt and Paul. “And these?” he asked anxiously.

  Baldric thought for a moment. “Berta needs claim Kurt died of the fever. We’ll shroud him quick and Father Gregor won’t know. He’s too fearful to ask questions of us anyway. We’ll sink Paul in the river downstream.”

  “But Paul’s wife will wonder,” blurted Dietrich.

  “Aye,” answered Baldric. “I’ll simply tell her the last I knew he’d been visiting the strumpets in Limburg.”

  As the dawn of Lammas broke bright over Weyer, Baldric and Arnold bore the body of Kurt to his wife and three children. Berta collapsed onto the dirt floor of her hovel and wept inconsolably. Heinrich stood bravely at his father’s side and stared into the lifeless face. The lad’s lower lip quivered and tears rolled down his face. He had already been taught to hide such weakness, and he quickly wiped his tears away. He walked bravely toward his mother and offered her the comfort of a tender hug.

  “Leave me be!” shrieked Berta. “Are you stupid, boy? Can y’not see I needs be alone?”

  Shamefaced, the four-year-old ran from the hovel.

  Baldric related the night’s events to Berta and recited the story she must offer to Father Gregor.

  “I… I dare not lie to a priest! Are you mad, Baldric? I’ll not put my soul in peril or that of little Axel here, or Effi! No, I’ll not be telling your lies!”

  “Then Arnold and I shall swing on Runkel’s gallows and Kurt’s land shall be taken in payment for the dead.”

  Arnold whispered to Baldric. “If she’ll betray us, then she’s to join him.”

  Baldric nodded. “Woman, listen and listen well. I am the elder of this household now. I’ll speak to Gregor, you say nothing!”

  Resigned, Berta nodded obediently. “Then hurry for him, Kurt’s soul has need of the prayers!”

  “Not before he’s washed and shrouded!” barked Arnold.

  Herwin, the tenant, was sitting in the corner, frightened and silent. Baldric turned to him. “You … come here y’mouse. One word and you’re dead. We’ve need of your rents else you’d already have your throat cut. Be off now to the well with a bucket. Arnold, get some linens from your wife. We shan’t spend for deerskin and we’ve no time for a box.”

  Immediately the family was busy. Berta sewed her husband’s wounds so no blood would stain the wraps while Herwin washed the body. Within the half hour they quickly shrouded the corpse.

  Father Gregor had a fine Lammas day planned, one filled with good food and drink, village dances and games. He had fields of grain to bless and was not pleased to be bothered with Kurt’s death. “He died of what cause?” he asked Baldric.

  “Fever from a prick on the hand some weeks past.”

  “Ah, yes, I did notice it swelling. You have already prepared the body?”

  “Aye, father, we thought with the feast day it would be good to hurry about it. The widow wants words for his soul, though, and quick.”

  Father Gregor sighed. “Aye, ‘tis an hour yet to terce and I’ve much to do. By the saints, the gravediggers shan’t be happy about this! Methinks he needs wait for burial till the morrow.”

  Arnold was standing next to Baldric and nudged him. Neither wanted any delay. The Gunnars would be discovered soon and Kurt needed to be in the ground. None would dare dig him out to check his body.

  “The widow wants this done now. The diggers always have graves-in-waiting, put him in one of them.” Baldric’s eyes narrowed.

  Gregor felt suddenly uneasy. “And what is the hurry, my sons?” Suspicion laced his tone.

  Baldric answered straightaway. “No hurry, father, but Berta believes a feast day to be a more blessed day to bury.”

  Gregor shook his head. “Where such notions are born!”

  Father Gregor greeted the family at the churchyard and prayed for the little cluster of kin gathered around. Throughout the brief burial service small Heinrich stood stone-faced and tearless. His mother had commanded him to be the son his father expected. But as soon as the priest finished, the young boy turned in hopes of flying to a safe place to shed his tears. Father Gregor snagged him by the arm. “Heinrich, now ‘tis time for you to be a man. Knowyour place and forget it not. Learn the ways and serve well.”

  The young lad nodded soberly.

  Chapter 4

  MADONNA AND THE WITCH

  Without a husband, life became unbearable for Berta, and she blamed everyone, including her eldest son, for her suffering. “Boy,” she said flatly one night, “you understand it was for your honor that your father died?”

  Heinrich stared at her in confusion.

  “Aye? Your father had a code to keep.”

  The little boy didn’t understand.

  “There’s an order to life, ‘tis something you’ve needs learn now from Father Gregor. There is a proper way to follow and you must learn the code, like your father and grandfather. But you ought heed the priests’ ways more than your father did. It would be your gift to me and I shall love you for it.”

  Berta was lonely and often desperate. One afternoon she led her children to the village well for a brief respite from the oppressive hovel. It was late and no one was near except for Emma, who usually came after the others had left. The outcast carried a wooden bucket in one hand and gently led her son with the other. Berta thought the woman to be odd but not as fearsome as some did, and on this summer’s evening her loneliness was greater than her discomfort.

  “Good evening,” smiled Emma warmly.

  “G-good evening to you, as well,” Berta stammered.

  Emma cautiously approached and spoke gently. “I was sorry to learn of your husband’s death.” The woman laid a tender hand on Berta’s forearm. “I have not suffered that kind of loss, hut I imagine you must be lonely and confused.”

  Unable to speak, Berta stared at the woman’s hand on her sleeve and nodded. No one had bothered to comfort her in these past few weeks. Gisela didn’t care, she had no true friends, and her cousins were indifferent.

  “I’ve a beehive, you know,” Emma continued. “Could you and your little ones come for a bit of bread and honey?”

  Berta was shocked. “Honey?” Only the monks owned beehives and she feared it was poached.

  “Oh no, good Berta,” chuckled Emma. “’Tis honest honey. I bought the hive and paid the fine to have more. And I’ve a special place to show you!”

  Heinrich was wide-eyed. He waited respectfully for his mother to answer, hoping with all his heart that she would say yes. He studied Emma carefully. He thought her to be softlooking and warm. She was shorter than his mother and plump and snugly. Her brown hair was braided and rolled neatly atop her head. Her brown eyes sparkled kindly from within a gentle, round face.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Berta wavered. She was not quite ready to receive the woman’s kindness, though she wanted desperately to do so. At last she blurted, “Might we come on Sabbath afternoon?”

  “Yes, of course.” Emma masked her disappointment. “I shall look for you on the morrow.”

  The women smiled at each other and the boys bid each other a reluctant farewell. Emma reached out to lightly touch Heinrich on the head. It felt good to him, reassuring and loving. He sighed and stared at the kindly woman with happy eyes. He hated to leave.

  The next day Heinrich could barely endure Mass and begged his mother to hurry. After a meal of mush and a Sunday pottage, Berta asked Arnold’s wife, Gisela, to mind Axel and Effi. Within a quar
ter hour, mother and son were walking toward the village edge and were soon within sight of the pleasant waters of the Laubusbach.

  They walked a little farther until, just ahead of them, Emma’s cottage appeared. It stood alone beyond the footpaths of the village and near the water’s edge. A squat, one-room hut surrounded by a woven fence, its roof was thatch, its walls well-mudded, and all in all very much like every other hovel in the village. Yet it was enchanting in some indescribable way.

  Emma and Ingelbert saw their guests approaching and hurried to meet them. They welcomed them through the simple gate where Berta suddenly stopped and gaped. The edge of Emma’s croft was lined with the most beautiful assortment of wildflowers she had ever seen. Every color of the rainbow was represented, forming a glorious collage that brought tears to Berta’s eyes. She was drawn deeper into the flower garden and then gasped aloud, for atop the many blooms fluttered more butterflies than she could have ever imagined in the most wondrous of dreams!

  “I… I… have never seen such a thing in all my days!” Berta finally choked. “Ah, Emma, ‘tis a good thing you’ve done here.”

  Emma smiled. “God’s hand is one of wonder and His eye is true.” She turned her face to the sun now blazing high above. “The sun ‘tis a warming glimpse of what’s sure and always.”

  Heinrich tilted his head backward and smiled as the sun warmed his cheeks.

  “So, my little Heinz—”

  “Frau Emma, I prefer him be called by his baptized name—Heinrich.” Berta was firm.

  Emma smiled. “Ah, and what does he prefer?”

  Berta darkened. “What does that matter?”

  “I see,” answered Emma slowly. She turned to the boy. “Heinrich, Ingelbert shall show you about whil’st I fix our honey.”

  As the two boys scampered off, Emma motioned for Berta to sit on a stump while she left to fetch the treat. Berta’s eyes followed her hostess as she disappeared through the doorway, but curiosity tempted the woman beyond restraint and she quickly followed after her host. Stepping timidly across the threshold, she entered a neat, warm room furnished with two straw-mound beds, stools, a table, and a puzzling item covered by a large blanket. “Beggin’ your pardon, Emma, but what is that?”