Quest of Hope: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  On Midsummer’s morning, a happy Effi climbed into a horse-drawn cart to leave for her wedding in Frankfurt. Though she longed for life with her beloved merchant, it was a bittersweet farewell, indeed. As she hugged her brother tightly she cast one final look toward the distant, brown-stoned church of Weyer and the familiar comfort of her lifelong home. Heinrich wept openly and embraced his little sister. The ever-faithful Herwin and his household followed, in turn, until, at the bells of terce, the young woman finally turned her back on those she loved and faced her future in the bustling city by the Rhine.

  Summer came and went and autumn leaves soon drifted atop the village thatch. It was the first day of October when Arnold, Richard, and Heinrich stood at eve-tide with hands wrapped round tankards of brown cider. Arnold had grown ever more fearful, traveling the woodland in terror of the demon with whom he had bargained for his soul. He had kept his vows: he had surrendered his penny bag to Brother Lukas and had breathed not one word of his encounter to a single soul. But the man was fearful, not repentant, and he was bitter as well. He remained certain that the Gunnars had murdered his brother Baldric and he lived day and night imagining how he might avenge the deed.

  Richard suffered his own miseries as well. Life with his new bride was as unhappy as he had anticipated. Richard was his father’s son, however, so rage became a balm to his fear. He spent his few idle hours conspiring with his father to make the world pay for their miseries.

  Heinrich heard little of their plots and cared less. He had tasted vengeance and it was not sweet to him. He had sworn to himself that he’d never again take another’s life in the cause of wrong. Besides, he had more pressing matters to consider—for his wife was in labor with another child.

  Heinrich stood by his doorstep where he waited for the birth to be announced. A dog barked in the distant wood and Marta cried out in pain. He listened as the midwife calmed her, and then he waited some more. Heinrich grimaced as Marta screamed again, and then again. At long last, a baby’s cry was heard and in moments the midwife came out of the doorway wiping her hands on a blood-stained apron. She was weary but relieved. “He’d be a strong-lookin’lad and has a good cry. All is well, Heinrich. He can wait till the morn for the baptism.”

  So, soon after the bells of prime, a beaming Heinrich and his household stood once again in Weyer’s church as Father Pious claimed another soul for Christendom. The babe was baptized Johann Wilhelm.

  Soon after the snowy days of the Epiphany in the year 1196, Heinrich’s father-in-law, Dietrich the miller, was elected the reeve of Weyer. He had not particularly wanted the job but Arnold thought it would be of strategic value. Dietrich was not a popular candidate, and his election was secured only by the threats of Woodward Arnold. Dietrich’s reputation for cunning and for deception was renown, and he was not the sort of man the monks wished to have in charge of one of their manors. But Villmar left such matters in the hands of their Volk; it was wise and prudent and helped keep the order of things despite the dubious tenure of any one man.

  Dietrich’s election cast a pall upon the village and scorn upon its elders. It was feared to be an omen of more troubles yet to come. So the coming of planting was greeted with a mixture of tension and hope. In such a state it was fear that always ruled the day, however. News of mad Lord Tomas’s death added a portion of dread. He, of course, had held the lands along the abbey’s eastern and southeastern borders. His heir was Conrad, Tomas’s second-born son who resided at the family estate in Thurungia. The young knight was thought to be ambitious, and all eyes were turned eastward. The first aggressive act of the new lord was to arrest a roving clan of Lord Klothar’s shepherds who had been caught stealing sheep near Kummenau along the Lahn. Lord Tomas had complained to Lord Klothar for years that his subjects were crossing the border to raid flocks, but his entreaties had fallen on disinterested ears. Young Conrad would have none of it. His soldiers snared their prey in early April, hanging nine men and capturing numbers of women and children who were sold into exile in the marshes of Poland.

  For Arnold, the news was devastating. “Gunnars!” Indeed, it was so. The family for whom Arnold had borne such hatred was gone and with it all purpose for the woodward’s miserable life.

  “Audacious!” roared Klothar. “Conrad is as mad as his father. Next he’ll encroach on Villmar’s lands; I can smell it!”

  It was true. The concerns of the abbey at Villmar and its ally in Runkel were not unfounded, though perhaps overstated. Nevertheless, the abbot and his prior spent urgent hours in council with Lord Klothar’s steward and captains. A plan of defense was hastily drawn and Klothar was forced to hire mercenaries to support his knights in the expected attack. However, while they prepared themselves for Lord Conrad in the east, their allies in the west, the Templars, had plans of their own.

  The preceptor of the Templars’ holding in Lauken was Brother Phillipe de Blanqfort. He had received orders from his master in Paris to claim the manors that bordered the Emsbach, including the villages of Lindenholz and Eschoffen currently under control of the abbey. These lands, it was argued, had been the rightful, legal property of Emperor Heinrich IV many years prior and had been illegally seized by the Archbishop of Mainz. To further their claim, a papal legate presented the archbishop and the abbot in Villmar with a directive demanding the release of these manors to the Templars.

  The news was a blow to the abbot. The contested wedge of land was blessed with rich soil and wide fields. It was part of the “Golden Ground” necessary to sustain the abbey, and its loss would reduce Villmar’s income by at least fifteen percent, just at a time when the treasury was badly depleted by the flood. Abbot Stephen might be able to negotiate for lands elsewhere—his vision could not possibly be limited to the confines of a shrinking manor—but he would not yield this land easily. He dispatched his prior to Mainz with a biting letter of consent to be delivered to the papal legate. Then he turned to Klothar and reduced his pledged fees by twenty percent, “for it is likely you shall have less to protect and defend,” he wrote.

  The furious lord raged about his castle in Runkel and ordered the withdrawal of the mercenaries so recently sent to defend the abbey’s lands in the east. “Less to protect and defend? You’d be right in those words!” So, by early June, Weyer and its neighbors along the Laubusbach were left with little more than a handful of grumbling sergeants, one knight of Runkel, and the watchful eyes of a few Templars.

  News of the rift between Villmar and Runkel quickly found its way to the eager ears of Lord Conrad in residence at nearby Mensfelden. He called a council in the second week of June and organized a raid against the abbey’s manor. “The time is right to strike! The abbot has lost his love for the Templars; he is in division with Klothar; he is ripe for picking! He shall beg to contract with us for protection.

  “Now hear me, hear me well! Our purpose is to expose the weak arm of Klothar. We strike his men without quarter but do no harm to the villages.”

  It was two days before the Midsummer’s Day feast when the Templars learned of Conrad’s plans through a spy well placed in the young lord’s court. Eager to thwart the ambitions of another rival, they sent messengers to both the abbot and Lord Klothar. By dusk the church bell in Weyer was ringing the alarm, and the distant gong of Villmar’s new warning bell could be heard thudding faintly in the distance.

  The Templars rushed a company of men-at-arms south to defend Selters from an attack from the corner nearest their own. Oberbrechen and Weyer were left to a reluctant Lord Klothar and his knights from Runkel. Though frustrated and angered by the recent amendments to his contract, Lord Klothar was a man of honor and dispatched a large company of soldiers into the abbey’s land. Joining thirty mounted sergeants were seven knights, including Simon—the former liege of Richard—and Gottwald, the aging knight with whom Heinrich had spoken. Each of these two had insisted their swords be specifically used in defense of Weyer, and they separated from their larger company with a dozen seasoned sergeants.


  Lord Conrad was young, but was no fool. He expected resistance but had no interest in quarrelling with the Templars. In fact, he had large sums of money held in Templar banks and thought it best to avoid any clash with the armed monks. When he learned of Templars riding in defense of Selters, he adjusted his plans. His forces quickly turned away from Selters and divided in the forests east of the Laubusbach. “You… Roland, take a company to Weyer. I shall lead these against Oberbrechen. Godspeed!”

  Roland, a robust knight of middle years, was savage and brutal. He was known for his cruelty throughout Palestine where he had slaughtered countless innocents in the mountain villages of that holy land. He was often drunk and boastful, frequently bragging of his butchery. Conrad was in fear of Roland and oft wished the rogue knight be slain. Perhaps, he thought, this day shall yield profit in many ways.

  Roland led his men along the Laubusbach’s high eastern bank until the peak of Weyer’s church could be seen below. He had heard the warning bells clanging all through the valley and knew there’d be no surprise, but surprise was not intended, for the purpose of the day was to engage the village’s defenders. He urged his mount forward and stood in his stirrups to survey the scene below. His gaze scanned the empty footpaths and the vacant workshops of the abandoned village and could see no soul in either field or hovel. Nothing moved, save the smoke which curled perpetually from the thatch-covered huts. His eyes inched along the view until they fell upon a line of troops standing ready along the roadway at the base of the church. Roland smiled and waved his men forward.

  Klothar’s men had arrived in good time and they formed a formidable defense at the base of the church hill. Above, the churchyard was filled with anxious peasants crowding its stifling nave or peering over its chest-high stone wall. It was here that Heinrich stood between Emma and Richard, his family safely tucked within the sanctuary.

  Lord Conrad’s men were now visible, trotting casually along the ridge parallel to the stream until they disappeared into a tuck, only to reappear at the swine ford. They crossed the water carefully and angled toward the village center and the wall of stiff-faced soldiers waiting dutifully on the roadway.

  “By the Virgin!” whispered Richard. “The fight’s to be just beneath us!”

  Heinrich nodded and begged Emma to find cover in the churchyard. “Nay,” she answered. “I’ve naught to fear. Notice, lads, the enemy bears no torches, they pay no heed to the village. Methinks we are not their quarry.” She began to perspire and breathe shallow breaths as she clutched her hands to her breast.

  Emma had barely finished speaking when Roland raised his gloved fist and set order to his troops. With a few barks and gestures, his mail-clad warriors tightened into a knot of horse, steel, and leather. They are impressive, thought Heinrich, disciplined, well-armed, and confident. Roland ordered his company to advance.

  A mere twenty rods away, Klothar’s knights countered. They tightened their line and looked to their commander, Lord Gottwald. The gray-haired knight stood in his saddle and snarled. Then, with a wave of his hand a sudden flock of arrows was launched from a low hedge edging the glebe to one side. As the shafts whistled their descent at the surprised invaders, Gottwald pointed his sword and led his company in a charge.

  Above, the peasants cheered, cried, and yelled as they watched the battle erupt below. Steel flashed and men screamed, horses whinnied and toppled. Archers hurried close to pinpoint their targets and shot their longbows with keen, passionless eyes. The grunts of men and clang of steel tumbled together in a horrid mêlée of severed flesh and crunching bone. Oaths and curses, cries and pleadings flew from desperate lips. And in moments it was over.

  Roland lay dead; a lance had pierced his heart before his horse crushed his head. His soldiers lay strewn about, dead or dying, save one knight and a few wounded others who tripped through the village, across the Laubusbach and to the safety of the forest.

  Lord Klothar’s men had suffered loss as well and the villagers now scrambled from their safe perch to give what comfort they might. Two knights lay dead, one dying. Three sergeants and eight footmen were dead, several others wounded. It had been a brief but costly engagement, but for none was it more costly than to Frau Emma. She scuttled from the churchyard sobbing and groaning until she fell across the still breast of Gottwald. The broken woman wailed and raised her tearing eyes to a silent heaven. Confused, Heinrich wrapped a loving arm around her.

  “Shhh … good Emma. Shhh. All shall be well.”

  The woman struggled to her knees and embraced the young baker as she sobbed uncontrollably. Heinrich held her tight and wondered why.

  “H-he was … the love of my life,” whispered the woman. “And … and the father of Ingelbert …” Her voice trembled and faded away.

  Heinrich stared silently at the dead man’s face. He held Emma tightly until Lord Simon touched his shoulder.

  “You there, move off. We’ve needs bear our comrade home.”

  Heinrich nodded and Emma laid a tender hand across Gottwald’s whitened face. She paused for a lingering moment, then turned away to spare the man scandal in death. The knight looked suspiciously at Emma but Heinrich quickly blurted, “She served his family as a child, sire, and … grew to love him from afar.”

  Lord Simon shrugged and ordered four men to lift the corpse into a waiting cart. Emma collapsed when she heard Gottwald’s body drop heavy and hard atop the oak planks.

  “I should have kept my distance, Heinrich,” Emma stammered. “In my love I risked shame for him … a shame we hid for so very long!” The woman released a trembling breath.

  Heinrich helped her to her feet and walked her slowly home where the two sat quietly in the grass of Emma’s gardens until the woman was content to speak. “We loved in sin when we were young, Heinrich. 1 was near to taking vows in Quedlinburg and he was a squire like none has ever been. I saw him ride his stallion in the joust… ah … a sight to steal a young maid’s heart, for sure! His white hair was like flowing snow upon his strong shoulders, and his smile lit the world for me.

  “He loved his God and felt only shame when sin bound us together. He swore to marry me, but I loved him too much to bring trouble to his family.” Emma paused to wipe her nose and eyes. The two rose to walk about the woman’s flowers. “He had been pledged to another … an alliance of families that would keep the peace for many. I dared not undo the wisdom of that betrothal.

  “But he felt both duty and love toward me and used his influence to find me a place to raise our Ingly … and found me quills and the like … he loved my work.”

  Heinrich was spellbound. “And … what of the mystery of All Souls’ Eve? Has he to do with that?”

  Emma sat atop a log at her garden’s edge. She looked carefully at the young man. “I trust you, Heinrich, like no other. I’ve spoken no word of this to any. But secrets weigh heavy and I’ve become old and frail. It suits me now to share the burden.

  “To answer you straightaway, aye… it has been Gottwald who once pledged to come each All Souls’Eve, or send a trusted servant, with some silver for our care or a commission for my work. He would play an hour or so with Ingly … I told the dear boy that the man was a caring friend who lived afar … and we read a psalm and prayed.” Emma looked at the sky above and her chin trembled. “Ah, dear Gottwald.” She turned to Heinrich and took his hand. “There was no more sinning, lad, none. But there surely was love.”

  Chapter 13

  THE GRINDSTONE AND A GIFT

  The summer brought no rain upon the “Golden Ground.” In fact, throughout Christendom the skies were cloudless and bright for week after thirsty week. The monks in the cloister fasted more than their Rule demanded in hopes of ushering in an army of rain-heavy clouds.

  Without rain, the harvest withered. By Lammas there was little left in the fields except stiff stalks of hard and stunted grains. The meadows and pastures had become brown, and their parched grasses cracked and crunched beneath the hard hooves of thin
sheep. So it was with the hay, the flax, the orchard fruit, and garden crops. For the peasants of Weyer, fear loomed dark and heavy despite the sunny skies above.

  All-Saint’s Day brought no feast, and All Soul’s Eve brought added misery to poor Emma. She sat alone in her hovel and wept as she stared at the door in hopes of its midnight opening. Heinrich did not fail her, and soon after the bells of matins the kind man rapped gently on the woman’s door. The Butterfly Frau rose slowly from her oak stool and shuffled to the door. She was nearly forty now but the sadness of the recent past had stolen years from her. Many of her age had long since passed to their reward but, like a few others, she had been gifted with a constitution that might have carried her for many years to come. Heinrich appeared in the soft light of her beeswax candles. “Ah … good baker!” Emma smiled and embraced the man.

  “I could not sleep, Emma. I could only think of you and how you must feel.”

  The woman nodded and her chin quivered. “Ah … yes … ‘tis a pain I cannot describe. But God has been good to me. Ingly is surely dancing with his Vati in heaven’s valley of flowers. It is a picture in m’mind that gives me hope, dear lad, hope indeed. So I look to the sun and know that its Maker is what is constant and sure. He is surely where I find m’hope … not here, amongst our shadows and black robes.” She took Heinrich’s hand. “You needs lift your face to the sun, lad.”

  The young man hesitated. “Aye … but I’ve m’vow … and your sun has parched the land. What hope is that?”

  Emma smiled, patiently. “’Tis true enough. We’ve a need to have eyes that seek far beyond it, for the sun is but a sign, like its sister, the moon. They both urge us to look past our world to the sure things above.”