by C. D. Baker
Following the advice of his predecessors, Pious traveled first to Weyer in order to offer a restrained and rather routine objection to the springtime festival. The first of May was not sacred, nor was it noted on the Holy Calendar. Instead it was born of the ancient Romans who had called the day Festival Floralia in honor of the goddess Flora. The sight of the village women adorned with crowns of green leaves atop their braided hair gave the man a reason to wink at the celebration, however. So, instead of trying to ruin the day, Pious settled for a village prayer and a psalm before reaching for a tankard of warm ale.
The young men of Weyer raised a tall birch pole high into the air. It was decorated with flowers and leaves and a bright red ribbon. Beneath, the village began to dance and drink until the bells of nones when the queen was to be selected. Reeve Edwin called all to order. He had been elected reeve in Dietrich’s stead the year prior, though few respected or liked the harsh man of twenty-seven. “All gather!” he roared. The village quieted and circled around the maypole.
“Quiet! Quiet, I say.” He paused. “Good people of Weyer, we sing this day for luck in planting and in harvest. Times are yet hard but we’ve seen worse. I am told to keep an eye for trouble from Lord Conrad. Watch the wood across the stream. But today, sing and drink! The sun shines, the earth is warming. Ring your bells to wake the ground, for winter is now past!”
The crowd cheered and a hundred little bells tinkled in the air.
“Father Pious has agreed to help judge the May Queen. Father, your blessing?”
Father Pious waddled to the center. He loved the attention and strutted to the pole like a peacock before its hens. Wil stood between Karl and little Otto, the five-year-old son of Herold the new miller. Wil pointed a finger at Father Pious. “Look at him! He looks like, like some overfed boar! His robes can barely hold that lard-arse of his!”
“You ought not speak of him like that,” answered Karl. The boy was nearly seven but had the honed conscience of a righteous monk. “He is a man of God You ought not—”
“Put a stopper in it, Karl! You needs not teach me. I’ve teachers enough!”
Father Pious stood on a stump and raised his hands over his flock. “I cannot bless this occasion but I do bless you in the name of our Lord Jesus and the Virgin.” He made the sign of the cross in the air. “Now, it is time for me to nominate five for the office of Queen. The elders shall then call the vote of the men.” The priest clutched his robe with two hands and rocked on his feet as he surveyed the crowd pressing close. He basked in the moment before speaking again. “Ah, I needs remind you that the choice may be for either youth or beauty or for kindness. And in this year we shall also think of those who have aged with grace.”
Those last words gave hope to all women over fifteen! Marta elbowed her way closer to the priest and fixed a smile on the man. Pious narrowed his beady eyes at her. “Hmm. I confess I see more beauty here than ever in Oberbrechen!”
Weyer roared its approval. The priest smiled and waved and begged for calm. Heinrich was leaning on a shed post grumbling into his beer. “If she wins, Richard, she’ll be impossible to endure. And if she loses, it’ll be even worse!” The two had spent more time together of late. They howled and laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.
The priest began to point to his candidates. “You there, maiden.”
A cheer rose from her kin. “Me?” she asked timidly.
“Aye, you! Come to the fore.”
A young girl of about eleven stepped lightly toward Pious. She was willowy and tall, blonde, and fair. She turned to face the others and blushed.
“And you… there.”
Another young girl stepped forward. She had a bold step, however, and Richard muttered that her legs looked thick under her gown. She was brown-haired, buxom, and spirited. “Better ahead of the plough than behind,” he chortled.
“Hmm. I pray God helps me!” cried Pious. The crowd tittered and waited patiently. The priest scanned the pressing folk until he spotted Katharina. She was standing at the edge of the crowd, shyly, and eyes cast down. Heinrich saw her too and his heart beat quickly. He had not seen her for months, for her cruel husband had kept her indoors for nearly every winter’s day. Pious stared at her for a long moment. Her form was as one kindly, graceful and lean. A bit old, thought the priest. But … He hesitated while Katharina died a thousand deaths. “You, there! Wife of Ludwig the Yeoman.” The man pointed a chubby finger toward the woman and beckoned her.
Katharina closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She wanted nothing of this silly game. She had been pleased enough to feel the sunshine on her face and needed nothing more. As she moved reluctantly toward the front she smiled politely and begged the pardon of those she bumped against. She stood with the other two and licked her dry lips nervously.
Heinrich left Richard and pressed his way closer. He caught her eye for a fleeting moment and she looked quickly away. At the same time her brutish husband bellowed from somewhere in the crowd, “She’s mine! Y’ve no right to look at my woman!”
Meanwhile, Marta simmered. Why that cow before me? Suddenly she worried that Pious would not choose another matron.
The priest shifted his black robe and craned his balding head. “A gourd!” sneered Wil. “His head looks like some swollen gourd and his eyes peek out from his flab like … like little acorns.”
“Quiet!” scolded Karl. “You’ll be doing penance again.”
“There, you,” called the priest. He had chosen number four from the far side of the common. She was another young one, barely of marrying age.
“She’s the sister of that redhead, Ingrid,” added Wil.
“Aye, and y’think Ingrid to be pretty!” teased Karl.
“Shut up, y’dolt!”
Irene, daughter of Franz the yeoman, now stood by Pious and smiled shyly to her cheering family. She waved and giggled and adjusted the white Maiglücken blooms tucked neatly in her hair.
“I’ve but one left to choose,” announced Pious. He stretched his neck and scratched his head, furrowed his brow and folded his arms. The names of this one and that were shouted from the impatient folk until, at last, he smiled and motioned for calm. “Ah, good people, I have chosen!” He smiled and pointed to Marta. The woman feigned surprise and blushed. “Me? You pick me?”
Heinrich groaned as Richard jibed him. “You are s-surely one destined to suffer!” he slurred. “Look at her. She walks like someone p-planted a great stick in her rump! She’s got the way of a she-wolf on the prowl, and ha, poor Katharina looks like a d-doe tangled in the brush!”
Reeve Edwin called the crowd to order and thanked the priest, but Pious was not quite finished with his plan. He cleared his throat and beckoned for Marta. He laid his arm over her shoulder and spoke sternly. “Men, hear me, and hear me well, for nothing happens on earth that is not noted in heaven:
Your spelt and wheat and oats and rye
I pray do yield you well,
But choose not she who tempts your eye
Else you shall end in hell!
Choose with care, choose not in jest
A queen to bless your ground.
Choose one proven and one blessed
And one whose spirit’s sound.”
Wil groaned. “A riddle!”
Karl smiled. He loved riddles.
The crowd remained quiet. In times past choosing the queen was a frivolous thing, but Father Pious’s poem made it seem worthy of more care. They suddenly imagined their crops to be at risk and the fun was gone. They studied the candidates and murmured amongst themselves until Edwin called for their attention. “Now, are we ready?”
The crowd nodded.
“Good.” Reeve Edwin put his hand on the first maiden’s head. “All for this one?”
She received a polite applause and a few distant cheers. The young girl hung her head and stepped backward.
“And for this?”
Again, the same.
“And for Katharina?”
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Heinrich held his breath. He wanted to roar his approval. A larger cheer rose from the men and a few shouts. She was in the lead.
Edwin reached for Irene. “And for this?”
Irene was a fresh-faced beauty to be sure, but it seemed Pious’s poem had frightened away all support for the young ones. A few shouts from a group of boys wasn’t enough.
Edwin turned to Marta who stepped forward hastily and smiled with feigned shyness. Wil and Karl hoped she would win, else “well have hell to pay at our own hearth!” grumbled Wil. Pious was the first to cheer and with his lead the men of Weyer roared their approval. And so, for the fourth time in her life, Marta, daughter of Dietrich, wore the purple, silken veil of Weyer’s May Day Queen.
As Heinrich had feared, his wife spent the summer lording about the village like she was queen. Her friends followed like hurried goslings behind a goose. Anka, the dyer’s wife, scrambled hither and yon fetching and stepping to keep Queen Marta in a humor worthy of her status.
By late July it had become apparent that the empire’s troubles would not be easing and the profits of the bakery began to dwindle. Worried and growing fearful, Heinrich sought out Lukas as he was picking Eberesche and pulling nettles in the forest by the Magi. “Ho, friend!” called Heinrich.
Lukas straightened and smiled. He stretched his old back and put down his pots. “Ah, Heinrich. Always a joy to see you.”
“And you. Have you a few moments?”
“Aye, indeed.” The two wandered to a log at the base of the three trees and faced the shimmering stream.
“Lukas, I’ve some fears ’bout m’bakery. Hard times seem to never end and the villagers seem less willing than ever to buy m’bread.”
“Hmm. You’ve also repairs, firewood to buy, a helper or two to pay, and Marta has dreams that need be fed by shillings.”
“Ja. Shilling-dreams by day and endless fears of the Judgment in the night. I do what I can to please her. As for the bakery, the tax gets ever higher. I thought when I owned it I’d feel more free than I do.”
Lukas shook his head. “Nay, the power to tax is the power to own. You must know that you cannot stop them from raising it. I fear they’ll force you to give it back by taxing the life out of you.”
“Never! ‘Tis mine and m’lads’ after me!” The two sat quietly. Heinrich tossed a handful of pebbles into the clear water. “I wish Emma were here.”
Lukas nodded. A blackbird landed nearby, then a thrush. A flicker banged his beak against a tree deep in the forest’s shade and a swallow swooped atop the water. “This is a good place, Lukas. A place to think.”
“And a place to dream.”
Heinrich shrugged. “Have you a thought for my bakery? I needs earn more from it.”
Lukas lay on his back and stared at the canopy of leaves arching from the ancient trees around him. “Yes. I do indeed. I’ve a thought or two on the matter. First, try this: folks buy what they think has worth. If you think your work has worth, then they shall as well. I’ve heard the free bakers in the guilds mark each loaf with a mark of their own. You, friend, are the owner; this is your bread! Be proud of it. Show others it has worth to you and mark it with your mark!”
Heinrich glowed. “Yes! A mark like the monks’. I could have a smith make an iron brand with m’own shape!” The baker laughed, pleased with the idea and begging for more.
Chapter 17
THE DECISION
It was the first Thursday in September when Heinrich returned from his busy bakery to the wails and laments of Marta. He charged through the door to find his wife weeping and lying limp over the body of her father. Dietrich had been a heavy cross for Heinrich to bear and the baker felt a twinge of guilt for feeling great relief at the old miller’s death. Father Pious entered next, and though Marta had rejected all attempts by her husband to offer comfort, she eagerly received a lingering embrace from the priest.
Dietrich was washed, shrouded in an expensive deerskin, and buried in Weyer’s churchyard. The day of the man’s burial was quiet, for few had any affection for the cheating, abrasive miller. His was another wasted life, and few gave more than a moment’s note to its passing.
In the hovel a tiny gathering of mourners huddled over a table of bread, salted pork, and cider. Arnold was distant and cold as ever. He spent most of his days in Villmar, “conspiring with the prior,” as Lukas once complained. But as wealthy as he had become, his life was empty and void of value. Richard, on the other hand, was less broody than he had once been and had begun to laugh again. In the past few years he had struggled to reclaim his former self and he was apt to tease and play about the village once more. He had bravely accepted the loss of one dream and had found the courage to dream again.
The village smith stopped by Heinrich’s hovel at day’s end and gave Marta a hammer and a small anvil that Dietrich had bought to use in those late nights by the furnace. Marta burst into tears as she ran her fingers along the necklace her father had made, and thanked the man. Heinrich bade the smith farewell, then turned to catch him on the pathway. Karl and Wil came trotting behind.
“Smith!” called Heinrich.
The man stopped and looked. “Aye?”
“How much to make me a baker’s mark? A small stamp to press into my loaves.”
“Uh, that would depend on the shape. Have you a drawing?”
Heinrich turned to Wil. “Boy, can you write in the dust, can you write ‘Emma?”
Wil brightened. “Of course, it begins with an e.” The lad drew an ‘E’ in the dirt with his finger.
The four studied the letter for a few moments until Karl suddenly cried, “Look, Vati! Draw the middle line all the way through and you’ve a cross!”
The man smiled. “Good lad! There, smith—there is m’mark!”
By St. Michael’s Day the baker was proudly stamping every loaf, roll, twist, and bun with his brand. And as Lukas had imagined, the village loved it. No longer were they buying only bread, but instead were buying the handiwork of one who cared. He had also learned to season his loaves with herbs and even honey. The bakery was suddenly paying its tax and yielding a pleasing profit. But Heinrich’s heart was softer than his fresh-baked doughs and it often broke for the little ones who came and begged. So his bakery had also become a source of Christian charity for those in want. He found ways to stretch his flours just enough to feed what needy ones he could. Far from reducing the gain for others, his prosperity became a means for many to have more.
Between matins and morning lauds Heinrich rose from his straw-mound bed, kissed the heads of his sons, and walked briskly toward his bake-house and met his apprentices.
“Good day, Rolf, and to you, Reinl.” The sleepy boys nodded. Karl, now nearly six, would join his father at prime to aid in selling bread to travelers along the road. A good occupation for the little chatterbox! thought Heinrich. He learns of riddles and tricks, songs, and legends from all parts and sells lots of bread!
The baker set his goods in baskets by the door and set his coin box in its place beneath a shelf as his first patrons arrived. The first hour passed without incident, and all seemed well until Brother Lukas peeked through a shuttered window in the rear of the bakery. “Pssst! Heinrich!” he called in a hushed tone.
Heinrich turned about. “Lukas?”
“Shhh!” The monk beckoned him to come close.
Heinrich stepped to the window. “Why aren’t you in chapter?”
Lukas shrugged. “No matter. We’ve other business. Come with me.”
“But… but m’patrons, I—”
“Nay! Leave them to the boys. You come!”
Heinrich hesitated, then removed his apron and slipped out the door to follow Lukas silently through the day’s early light. The monk said nothing as they crossed the plank bridge spanning the Laubusbach and entered the wood. “Lukas, really, I’ve no time today for a talk at the Magi.”
Lukas’s voice was tight. “Keep walking, friend, and quickly. Now listen, it seem
s there was quite a battle yesterday on Lord Conrad’s land. We knew nothing of it until late in the night. Conrad suffered a terrible slaughter, but he escaped by dividing his army into several parts. The Templars separated to give chase but were ambushed by mercenaries held in reserve.”
Heinrich stopped. “So why is this our business?”
“Blasius is missing.”
Heinrich felt a chill. Heinrich could still see the good man weeping for young Albert at the gallows. He would give his life to help Blasius despite his being a Gunnar. The baker suddenly thought of the words Uncle Baldric had spoken long ago: “Never deny the Code or the cause!” Heinrich had honored the Code and kept it well, but on this day the cause must end.
The two ran past the Magi, then hurried past the boundary poles of the abbey. Heinrich grew nervous. He cast an anxious glance at the monk who winked confidently and pressed on. At last the monk stopped. “Just over there,” panted Lukas.
Heinrich followed the man’s finger to a dip in the ground. “Why there?”
“‘Tis something of a secret. Blasius and I oft spy this land. He for his master, me for the thrill! Knowledge, Heinrich, is power. The Templars want control of all these lands, at least that is my thought. Blasius was sent here to spy and he brought me along. In that hollow is a deep spring, heavy timber, two small caves, and a bounty of herbs and berries.”
“I’m off m’lord’s lands.”
“Aye, but you’d be doing the Lord’s work.”
Under full light of day, the two trotted quickly through an open field, ever vigilant for what other eyes might be watching. They hid against the trunk of a huge beech where Lukas abruptly warbled like a thrush. Heinrich’s mouth dropped in astonishment.
Lukas warbled again. This time it was answered. The monk laughed with delight and hiked his black robes above his ankles. He led Heinrich carefully along a deer path and downward into the heavy shade of the hollow. The two walked slowly through cold, damp air until a low whistle was heard off to their right. Lukas froze and cocked his ears. He answered the whistle, and it echoed back to him. “There.” He pointed.
