by C. D. Baker
Heinrich peered carefully between the trees and saw nothing until he followed Lukas a little farther and saw the figure of a man slumped against a fallen log. Lukas raced ahead. “Blasius!” he called in a hushed tone.
“’Tis I,” the man answered.
Lukas embraced the young soldier and checked his wounds. Blasius was badly cut across his left arm and his face was bloodied. He held his belly and mumbled he had been “de-horsed by a hammer.”
Heinrich looked into the man’s eyes. “Brother, all shall be well. We’ve brought bread from the best baker in all the Empire!”
Blasius chuckled, then groaned. “Aye, for certain. No rye, please!”
Heinrich laughed.
“Lukas, three of us came upon a company. Then … then others came and … it was just… just to the west a few hundred paces. When I awoke, my comrades were dead and I crawled here.”
Lukas nodded. It was midmorning and he was certain that a grand hunt was already on by both sides. It was dangerous to move, especially with a wounded man, but all the more dangerous to stay. “Can you walk?”
“Aye, m’legs are well, but m’lungs cut me and I cough blood some. But, Lukas, my brothers shall surely come. Templars leave none behind; ‘tis our oath.”
“I understand, but Conrad’s men are searching as well and I think it more likely for them to find you here than your fellows.” Lukas studied the man, then glanced at the sun above. He bent on his knees and lifted a prayer to the Almighty, recited the Doxologia Minor and smiled. “Now we go.”
With that, the three began a tortuous climb out of the hollow and onto the wide, sun-swept ridge above. They crawled in the cover of tall grass to the protective edge of the forest where Heinrich propped Blasius against a tree and wiped the blood oozing from his lips with a cloth he had wetted in the spring. Lukas surveyed the field behind them and suddenly pointed to their hollow. “Look,” he whispered. “Conrad’s men riding in. God be praised, we would have surely been found! We needs move off, and fast.”
Blasius groaned and gasped as he stood to his feet. Lukas was troubled and he looked squarely into the young Templar’s face. “Blasius, you needs take off the armor. Heinrich shall carry you.”
The soldier hesitated. Chain mail was costly—very costly. A baker would need to work for a year to pay for one man’s chain-mail coat. “Your life has value, as well,” snapped Lukas. “Now off with it! I’ll stuff it under these rocks.”
With a few grumbles and groans, the man was stripped of his heavy armor and hoisted upon Heinrich’s broad back. Their load now lightened considerably, the three tripped their way through the heavy wood to the safety of Weyer.
Marta had worried and pleaded with Heinrich for months. “I hear rumors everywhere that you crossed the boundary to save a Templar. Yet you told Father Pious you did not! A mortal sin. If you lied to the priest you shall surely earn us all a penalty on this earth and beyond!”
The woman’s shrill voice turned the man’s stomach. He shook his head and walked away. “Just leave it be, woman, just leave it be!” Indeed, the priest had confronted him three times with the story. Since leaving the manor was a very serious offense, Heinrich had reasoned he’d rather add to his secret sins than risk forfeiting his bakery. After all, he could always counter with another penance.
It was mid-June and Heinrich thought the unusual heat was a mild discomfort compared to the unyielding badgering he continued to endure from his nagging wife. She was now convinced that every bad bake, each leak of the roof, the near fire that Karl started in the hovel—all were warnings of greater woes to come. Marta spent hours with the priest, begging him to squeeze the truth from her husband.
Father Pious found the woman’s fears to be opportune. He coveted the bakery for reasons of both ambition and of personal pride. He had cleverly negotiated the transfer of the brewery in Oberbrechen to the archbishop in Mainz and had received a letter of commendation. Weyer’s bakery would be another prize—one formerly denied—and he was now more certain than ever that he could plot its capture. He also found the woman desirable. He was happy to spend as much time near her as he could. “Dear sister, how might I serve thee?” asked Pious one warm afternoon.
“Oh, good father. I can hardly live each day. I am so distressed at my husband’s deceits, I know that ill shall befall m’self or m’sons.”
Pious took her hand. “But, dear woman, Karl and Wil are both now sitting under the lindens in the abbey. They are in the good care of their schoolmasters, learning of God’s ways. They are surely safe.”
Marta nodded. “‘Tis true, father, and I thank you. B-but what of me? What price must I pay for that man’s evil? What am I to do?” She leaned toward him.
“Hmm. As his wife, you must stay in submission.”
Marta nodded.
“But you are correct to reckon your risk, for the Scripture says that you and he are as ‘one flesh.’”
Marta nodded nervously.
Pious stood and pondered the opportunity before him. He was not sure exactly how to proceed, but he was certain an advantage was in view. “I think it best that I speak to the man. I fear his sins are both mortal and venial. His eyes must be opened.”
While Father Pious was comforting Marta, Heinrich walked through the village. It was midafternoon and the other men were hard at work in the fields. He thought he should be checking on Herwin’s son, Wulf, who was working his land that day, but he knew that Wulf was as faithful and as hardworking as his father. Instead, Heinrich decided to take an unusual hour’s respite.
The baker left the village and walked through the narrow fields of fresh-cut hay that lay by the Laubusbach. He strained an eye to find Herwin, who now sat in the shade with the other old men, sharpening scythes instead of swinging them. He happily strode toward the haymakers with few cares on his mind. Actually, he thought his adventure with the Templar had changed him some. News of the man’s complete recovery had given him a good feeling and he felt proud for his part, despite the twinges of guilt he felt for having crossed the border. Not finding Herwin, he settled contentedly under one of the great oaks lining the Oberbrechen road.
The baker surveyed the fields filled with men swinging scythes, women binding sheaves, and oxen pulling two-wheeled carts. He watched the haymakers’ entrancing rhythm until his eyes grew heavy. He laid back and imagined Emma picking flowers in her summer garden surrounded by flocks of hovering butterflies. He heard Ingly laughing in the Laubusbach and Richard giggling in the wood. The cool grass, the sweet-smelling hay, the lowing of oxen all lulled the tired man into a deep sleep.
Heinrich awakened as the bells of vespers clanged from both Oberbrechen and Weyer. He sat up, startled and surprised. A strong breeze brushed the curls off his slightly sweated brow and he looked about at the final carts being led away. He knew he ought to start toward home, for he had tasks in his garden to attend. The man stood up and stretched, then thought of his wife’s likely reception and lay down once again. He faced the blue sky but kept his eyes closed; it felt good to him to keep his vow. At last he yawned and sat up. He looked about and eyed the approaching form of a familiar figure. “Katharina!”
Katharina had gleaned the fields of what cuttings were left behind and was prodding an ox gently toward the road. Heinrich stood and stared. Katharina saw the man and bowed her head timidly as she nudged her ox forward. Heinrich’s heart beat quickly and he was overcome with a desire to speak to her. He pushed a creeping guilt away and called to the approaching woman. “Katharina. You’d be a bit behind the others.”
“Aye,” she answered softly. She kept her face turned away.
Suspicious, Heinrich trotted toward her. “Katharina?”
The woman kept her eyes downward. The man gently lifted her chin with his forefinger. He gasped. “Katharina!” The woman’s face was badly bruised and swollen. Fury filled Heinrich’s heart. “I shall … I shall kill him!” he shouted.
Katharina’s eyes filled with terror and she
shook her head. Her lips were so swollen she could barely speak. “N-nay, good Heinrich. I beg you.” Her tone was desperate and pitiful.
The man was enraged, but also overcome with compassion. He reached his arms toward her and pulled her tightly to his breast. Katharina began to sob and Heinrich felt all the more a man until a voice from the roadway sent a bolt of lightning down his spine.
“What is this?”
Heinrich spun around, ready to attack the woman’s cruel husband. He snarled and snapped, “Who speaks?” His chest then seized and he faltered for words for it was not Ludwig, but Father Pious.
“You know who I am! Sinners! Caught in a lover’s embrace!” The priest was scolding and loud.
Heinrich felt suddenly sick and shame washed over him like a cold cloudburst in November. “Nay, father, I was only offering comfort. Look at her, father, see her face.”
The priest dismounted his weary donkey and brushed through the roadside bramble with a wagging finger and heated words. “Add not lies, Heinrich! Add not lies!” He pushed between the two and hissed spittle and fury from his purpled face. “Sinners be damned!”
Heinrich backed away and dropped his eyes.
“Do not hide your lust in mercy, man. Do you think me a fool?”
Heinrich stood, speechless and confused. Indeed, he thought, perhaps there was some desire.
“And you, woman!” Pious shouted as he turned his back on Heinrich. “Wife of one, mother of three! Whore! Scourge!” With those words the priest raised his hand and slapped the quivering Katharina across the side of her head. She whimpered and fell.
Heinrich’s change was sudden and complete. His eyes burned and his teeth clenched. He grabbed the priest’s cowl from the rear and jerked the man around. Then, with a warrior’s cry he smashed his fist squarely into Pious’s flaccid, fleshy face, first once, then twice, then a third time.
Pious staggered backward until a fourth blow dropped him groaning to the ground. The man lay motionless and bloodied, staring at the evening sky of June in disbelief and shock.
Heinrich stood over him, his legs straddled across the priest’s wide girth. His fists were tight and readied for more; his nostrils flared in rage and contempt. “See to it, priest, that Ludwig’s punished, else I shall do it m’self. And if you lay a hand on this woman again, I shall do you worse!”
Katharina burst into tears. Then, with a grateful look at her friend, she scurried toward her waiting ox and hurried home.
It was a long fortnight before Father Pious came pounding on Heinrich’s hovel door. The baker had spent the time in a private agony of guilt, shame, and fear, for he was certain a harsh consequence would surely be the fruit of his behavior. Pious had been vacant from his pulpit and Father Albert served at the altar in Weyer, but Heinrich could not miss the hard eyes of his favored priest and knew the man was not ignorant of his offenses.
“Open, I say. Heinrich, open thy door!”
Marta answered. She was tired and worn from a day of summer’s tasks but seemed to brighten at the sight of men of God in her doorway. “Father Pious … and Father Albert? And, and Bailiff Werner?” Her eyes lingered curiously on Pious for just a moment. His white-bleached skin was spotted with light green bruises and the woman wondered.
“Poor, dear soul,” began Pious. “Is thy husband here?”
Heinrich had just returned from his fields and was in the croft repairing the fence. He heard the men and came slowly to meet them. “I am here.” A cold, clammy sweat came over him. Thunder rumbled in the east and a gust of wind stirred the dust on the footpath.
Werner glared at the man. His brown eyes were close set and penetrating. “You needs get inside!” he ordered.
Heinrich drew a deep breath and nodded. The five gathered in Heinrich’s common room as a summer storm drifted closer. Pious began. “Marta, poor and blessed woman. You have spoken truly of thy fears and of your jeopardy. Indeed, your husband brings grave risk to this household. Thy children and thyself shall surely suffer for his sins. As our Scripture says, ‘the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children.’ I must ask you first if he has confessed himself to you?”
Marta was speechless. She shook her head and stared blankly at her husband.
“Hmm. We feared it to be so. Thy husband is guilty of much and for his sins he must do a great and mighty penance else you shall bear God’s judgment. One of his dark secrets has been revealed—he has been unfaithful to you with another woman.”
Marta cursed and wheeled about with curled lips and a clenched fist. The man protested, “Nay, nay! I’ve been true to you, woman, I’ve—”
“Enough!” roared Werner. “Keep silent, for there is far more.”
Pious clutched his robes and lifted his pursed lips toward heaven. “Ah, ‘tis true. There is much more.” He laid his beaded, fat-pressed eyes on Heinrich. “Tell me, man, can you recite the seven deadly sins?”
Heinrich nodded.
“Then do so.”
The baker thought for a moment. His mind was spinning and he wanted to run away. “Anger, avarice, envy … gluttony … lust, pride, and sloth.”
“Well done. And can you recite the Ten Commandments?”
Heinrich did.
Pious nodded. “Seventeen warnings from God. And, one other, the most important of all?”
Heinrich shrugged.
“Love thy neighbor as thyself! Have you kept this one?”
The baker hung his head. Pious smiled. “Ah, perhaps you have loved thy neighbor’s … wife?”
Marta’s face became as dark as the sky outside her hut. “What is this about, husband!”
Bailiff Werner answered. “He has been seen holding another’s wife, he has struck a priest, he—”
“Struck a priest!” cried Marta. “Struck a priest? My God, we shall all be damned! You fool, you wicked fool!”
Pious pointed his finger at Heinrich. “I have sought counsel with my superior in Mainz and with my brother, Father Albert. We have all agreed that you have violated all these eighteen demands of God. Thy many sins are mortal. Thy miserable soul is worthy of utter damnation and thy household cannot but be in harm’s way. I know no man more evil than you! You are known for your charity to the poor? Ha! A ruse. You are thought to be clever and shrewd in matters of business, but a deceiver is what I see! Hypocrite, liar, thief, adulterer, man of murderous intent, envious, slothful, haughty, greedy; I could go on!
“Your assault on my own person is worthy of penalty in both Church and lay court. With a word to Werner I can have you taken to Mainz and then to Runkel for flogging, or thumbing, or worse.” He leaned forward. “Perhaps you ought lose the bakery?”
Marta was suddenly uncertain whether she ought to feel outrage or fear. She hated her husband for his offenses but feared the loss of the comforts he provided. She stepped forward and looked at Pious with pleading eyes. “Father, I fear so for m’boys. Could he not confess and do some heavy penance?”
It was the question Pious was burning to hear. He had already been told it was unlikely the man would forfeit his bakery—a harsh penalty like that would have created an unmanageable uproar among the free men of the manor. He paused and feigned merciful reflection. He lowered himself dramatically upon a squatty stool and picked at his ear. “Hmm. Perhaps. You are, indeed, a woman offender spirit, one in touch with heaven. Hmm. I would not deny his absolution with proper confession, and I do imagine a heavy penance might reduce his temporal debt.” He let hope prosper in silence. Marta held her breath and her eyes widened. The priest leaned forward and whispered, “Yet, I fear thy whole household must make a sacrifice fitting to the offense.”
“Ja, ja?”
Father Albert was suddenly nervous. Lightning flashed across the evening sky and a clash of thunder shook the hut.
Pious sighed. “His confession must be sincere and if so, I shall not deny him God’s grace. As far as the necessary penance, however, I should think for the Holy Trinity we need three shirtless
belly-crawls to Oberbrechen while reciting the Ave and the Pater Nostra; for the disciples, twelve Sabbath fasts; for the two Testaments, two barefoot pilgrimages to the walls of the abbey. And one more … hmm.”
Heinrich was staring aimlessly. He had spent much time during the past two weeks considering his sins. I was unfaithful in m’heart, he concluded, and had murderous intent, and was prideful, and filled with sloth that day. He had already spent days reciting the Commandments and concluded he truly was guilty of all. Shame washed over him like the torrent of rain now crashing on the village.
“For Mother Mary, he must willingly release the bakery to the parish.”
None spoke. The falling rain was all that could be heard. Father Albert looked at Pious incredulously and turned a now sympathetic eye toward the baker and his wife.
Marta gasped. “But, but father, if we lose his bakery then we all suffer for this miserable man’s failings!”
“One flesh, dear sister.”
Heinrich stiffened. Guilt-ridden or not, he had been pushed beyond his limit. Anger chased away his melancholy. He looked at his wife and wanted to vomit. Then he looked at Pious and his hands closed into fists. He fixed his eyes on the priest and held his stare for a long, agonizing moment.
The rain slowed to a steady patter on the thatch above and all waited. Heinrich’s heart pounded within him, yet he said nothing. He listened to the rain and the trickling rivulets of water just beyond his door. His thoughts drifted the Laubusbach and he began to grow calm. His fury faded quickly and his mouth felt dry. In another moment his mind was seized again by accusing thoughts: I am an evil man. The baker could not speak. His fists relaxed and he sighed. Much of him wanted to surrender the bakery if only it would finally free him of the shame and the confusion that was driving him to madness.
