by C. D. Baker
At dusk a few days later, Kurt was summoned to the council where the men of Weyer would review village business by torchlight on the roadway just below the church. About forty men gathered, women being strictly forbidden. The elected village chief, or reeve, was a mean-spirited, blustery yeoman named Lenard who proceeded to review a number of issues, including the village’s constant plea for a wall and news of a grinding machine driven by wind. “A peddler told the monks of it and they’ve some interest. Seems a tower’s been built in Normandy and atop it is some contraption of arms with windsails. It catches the wind and turns the grindstones below.” Lenard paused as the men muttered in disbelief. After some debate, they finally decided harnessing the wind was too much of a risk.
The reeve then announced the appointment of a new hayward to oversee harvesting schedules, and he reviewed the status of the sheepfold, the swineherd, and the condition of the ox teams, as well as complaints of firewood allotments and sundry fees. “I’m told the mill fees may increase,” he added bluntly.
An angry murmur rippled through the group.
“Aye, but the abbot says ‘tis needed. Enough of it. I’ve other news as well. The abbey plans to build a larger bakery so you’ll be needing to buy from them again, and only them. When it’s finished you’ll be closing up the village oven and you’re expected to eat less Mus and buy more bread.”
“Nay!” shouted an angry voice, quickly followed by a chorus of protest. Bread was life itself and they surely preferred it to mush, but they feared the monks’ prices.
“You’ve no choice. I should tell you now that you’ll soon be buying their beer as well.”
“Curse them, those—”
“Hold your tongue, man, or burn in the Pit!” Lenard was incensed. “I’ve two more things. There’s talk of a witch with a babe in the east wood by Münster. Arnold’s brought us news of bat’s wings and heads of chickens. He’s seen a lean-to of sticks and heard a baby’s cry in the night. Is it not so, boy?”
Arnold stepped from the darkness. “Ja, I swear to these things. I’ve heard reports from pilgrims north of the Lahn as well.”
“Men,” continued Lenard, “we’ve all lived with witches and their spells, fairies, sprites, gnomes, and the like. We’ve a good, stout church here in the village. Keep your families true to the Holy Virgin. I don’t want any of you seeking out this witch to help with harvesttime, planting, sickness, or troubles. We’ve no need of her spells and magic; they’ll only bring us trouble to be sure.”
The reeve looked hard at his men. “Now, one last thing. I’ve given thought to the strumpet Emma and her freak child. Methinks she’s no witch, but strange to be sure and uncommon. I think she does not belong here but the monks say to leave her in peace.”
The men laughed. “Have you seen that little beast of hers? Big nose, crooked eyes …”
“Front teeth sticking out and …”
“Aye, and ears too! Have you seen its ears? We could use them to catch the wind for that windgrinder!”
The group howled. Lenard, laughing with the others, settled them. “Well then, good men, tell your kin and householders to keep a safe distance but leave the two fools be. They seem content to watch the water.”
The harvest of 1177 had been poor and Kurt’s household was worried. Adding to their misery were the unbearable moods of Baldric who had lost his wife to childbirth several months before. The angry bear now prowled about the forests and villages in search of a target for his fury.
Poor harvests were a particular problem for the abbey. Good stewardship required revenues be collected regardless of conditions. After all, the abbot owed considerable fees to the Lord of Runkel for protection and to the see of Mainz as well. Certain that an abbey bakery could turn a quick profit, the abbot insisted work continue on its construction in Villmar. He planned to eventually construct a bakery in each of the abbey’s villages as well, and, in time, breweries. In addition, he had been entertaining new ideas on crop rotation and mining. Travelers had brought news of interesting techniques in France and England that were increasing harvest yields. The area was also rich in marble, silver, and shale—products not yet fully exploited. The business of shepherding souls, he sighed, required a clever mind and a resolute spirit.
Stewardship was a heavy responsibility not to be taken lightly. Business for some was a problem of revenue, for others, a question of expense. The abbot was determined to address both. He had lessened the pressure on his treasury by limiting the number of oblates and postulants. Novices, too, were a costly venture, he reasoned, always in need of new habits, eating more than their elders by twice or thrice—in spite of the Rule that demanded they eat less. They were famous for damaging tools, spilling inks, wasting dyes—the list of expenses was endless. So, when a wealthy merchant from nearby Limburg appeared at the monastery’s gate with a young child in tow, the abbot was wary.
Corpulent and well dressed, the merchant strode with an arrogant swagger to the abbey gate. Egidius, the porter, bowed. “Thanks be to God.”
The merchant grunted. Dragging a stout, young boy of about five years of age forward, he said, “Its mother’s dead. I’ve no need of it.”
The porter looked at the plump, pink-faced lad with sudden compassion. “Has he no kin, an aunt or…?”
“No. I’ve no one who wants the thing. I’ve a bag of coins that should keep it fed and in clothes, more coins than the thing’s worth, to be sure.”
Egidius had a strong urge to assault the man but obediently offered charity, instead. “Come this way,” he growled.
The merchant followed the porter into the courtyard of the monastery and passed the kitchen. It was fortunate for the man that it was neither Wednesday nor Friday and the monks were not in fast. This assured him of a good meal, especially since it was just now midafternoon. The merchant wasn’t certain, but he thought he smelled mutton stew and fresh bread. He licked his lips in anticipation.
The three soon passed the dining hall and crossed the inner courtyard to the abbot’s chambers. The hooded monks scurrying to their meal did not speak to the stranger for their Rule prohibited it, but they did bow respectfully, as did Abbot Boniface upon the merchant’s arrival at his door.
Boniface prayed and then greeted his visitor with a kiss of peace. He recited a few verses of the Holy Scriptures and then washed the merchant’s hands and feet. As he dried his own hands he prayed again. “God, we have received thy mercy in the midst of thy temple.” He motioned for a brother to fetch food for his guest and beckoned the man be seated.
“Now, how may I serve thee, good sir?”
“My name is Leopold of Limburg and I’ve needs to find a home for this.” Leopold pushed his son to the fore.
“Ah. Good sir, and what of your wife?”
“I’ve no wife.”
“Ah, she is dead?”
“I’ve had no wife. The thing’s mother died of a fall a week back.”
Boniface stroked his face and stared at the moneybag. “You are the child’s father?”
Leopold grunted. “Yes. A momentary slip off the path, Father Abbot. I thought to make penance by offering a heavy price for its care.”
Boniface sighed. He stared at the man with a mixture of pity and contempt. The man is indulgent. He is fat and soft like a November hog. Hmm. The otter hat, embroidered clothing …he obviously has wealth. The abbot cleared his throat. “We’ve a need to better steward our finances. I pray God’s wisdom for you as you seek elsewhere for the lad’s care.”
Leopold sat quietly, picking at the large mole on his left earlobe. “Nay, methinks you’ll take it from me. Think of the thing like a little Christ child, and think of me as a Magi with silver a’plenty.” He slammed his purse hard upon the abbot’s desk. It was stuffed full and the abbot knew it to be worth about ten shillings—the rent of one full hide for two years. The two stared at each other for a long moment. But it was Leopold who erred. He, being less shrewd than old Boniface, spoke first. “It whines a
little but comes of good stock.”
The abbot nodded politely.
Leopold waited, then finally snatched two coins from a hidden pocket. “Ach, mein Gott! Ill add two gold pieces from Genoa!”
Boniface extended his arms toward the waiting child. “God’s blessing for thy father’s selfless and most generous gifts. Ah, a soul and a purse for us, oft traded for each other, are both now granted to our humble abbey.”
Leopold released his son to the monk. “I’m in no further debt and owe no other penance?”
Boniface bowed. “Go in peace, my son, thy sin is forgiven. We shall raise the boy into a fine smith, perhaps a—”
Leopold looked suddenly solemn. “The thing’s a bit lazy but methinks it shows cleverness at times. Swear to me, Abbot, that he’d be no workhand for the monks his whole life.”
Boniface shrugged. “I know not God’s will for him.”
Leopold paused. “You see my clothing? My fine doublet? It took me near to a lifetime to get out of my short-slit tunic and the fields. I’ve no love for this … nuisance, but I swore an oath that no issue of mine would ever wear a serf’s tunic, nor a workman’s apron. I’ll not bear that shame no matter what I think of the thing. It’s to be trained a merchant or a priest and wear linen and silk or the robes of a churchman. I want your vow on that!” The man pulled a purse from inside his silk sash. He lowered his voice and leaned close to Boniface. “The bag and the two coins are given to the Holy Church for its care. But this is for your pledge and for you alone.”
The abbot smiled and tapped his fingers next to three gold coins stacked neatly before him. “Yes, my son. I believe the little fellow might make a good priest.” Then, like a snake striking its prey, the gold was snatched away to a dark pocket within his simple robe.
Leopold nodded and smiled and cast a final look at his son before he turned away. As he followed the porter toward the courtyard he called to Boniface, “If any should ask, he was baptized Pious.”
The hay harvest of the following spring was poor again. Kurt and his tenant, Herwin, labored for hours under the hot sun in order to fulfill the work requirements of the abbey. They swung their scythes over the monks’ meadows by the Laubusbach but sheaved less than half a good year’s yield. Thorny weeds seemed to always do best in hard times; it was as though they relished adding pain to misery. Kurt had pricked his hand on a thick thorn a week prior and the wound made his grasp of the scythe an agony.
Kurt’s own fields were suffering badly in a second year of drought. The harvest would yield little more than his rent required, and as he worked he wondered how he would buy barley for the field now waiting in fallow. With the carpenters’ guild now hiring laborers from Villmar, Kurt would have to rely on the harvest from his own small holding and the pittance Herwin paid in rents.
Most of the village men were working in the field that day. Each owed a fixed number of days in service to the monks in exchange for their protection. It was the ancient way. At the far end of the meadow worked the old men, most sitting in the shade with the village whetstones, sharpening dulled blades for the harvesters. The meadows were filled with scythe-swinging men, and behind them followed the women and children, including young Heinrich, raking and bundling the cut grass into sheaves for the carters to haul away. Berta, however, was home carding wool. She was due to deliver her fourth child and was suffering much discomfort.
At the bells of compline the weary peasants were dismissed from their tasks and most immediately plunged into the Laubusbach for a cool respite. A few splashes in the stream’s waters did wonders to brighten spirits, and soon a column of peasants in dripping woollens began the short march from the meadows to the village, singing songs of spring.
Kurt and Herwin stumbled through the door in search of beer or cider, but came upon the midwife in the middle of her work. “Out! Out at once!” she shrieked. Men were strictly forbidden to be present at times like these. By the look on Berta’s face Kurt knew something was not in order. He retreated through the doorway and sat against the wattled wall of his hovel where he winced and grimaced at the cries of his wife. Heinrich and Axel stared wide-eyed and sat close to their worried father.
At last there was silence. And then sobbing, followed by a curt reprimand. “Enough, woman. ‘Tis as God wills it to be!” The midwife came through the doorway wiping her bloodstained hands on her apron. “Kurt, you’ve lost a son. He was born breathing so ye’d best call on Father Gregor and have him baptized straightaway.”
“Kurt … Kurt!” cried Berta from within. “Kurt, get the priest and quick, we’ve needs to catch his soul before it falls in the Pit!”
The man’s face hardened in grief and he pushed his boys aside. He stepped into his hut and stared at his sobbing wife lying in the bedchamber. She was whimpering and holding her limp newborn tightly to her bared breast. He knelt by her dutifully and kissed her on the forehead.
By matins little Reinhard was baptized a Christian, bathed, and shrouded. He was buried in the morning, and before the bells of terce Kurt was scything hay once more.
The harvest feast of Lammas, August the first, was only two weeks away, yet the village was still bustling with its summer labors. The hay had been gathered and carted to the abbey, the wool had been carded and bundled into bales for sale in Limburg. The parched grain fields stood ready for the scythes, while the fields in fallow were turned by sluggish oxen.
Kurt grew weaker as an infection spread from his hand through his forearm. Heinrich faithfully bathed his father’s sweating brow through long nights of fever sweats, yet at each dawn the man rose to fight his way to dusk with a resolution that would have greatly pleased old Jost.
The summer had brought few changes, no season really ever varied much, but one addition to the village proved an annoyance to all. A stray mastiff had wandered into Weyer looking for food and attention. Reeve Lenard took ownership of the beast, hoping to train the dog to hunt.
Lenard’s new dog proved to be playful and bright but preferred his own pleasures to those of his master. Each night, Lenard loudly commanded the animal to sit or lie down, roll or fetch a stick. The more the man commanded, however, the less the dog performed until, exasperated, the man beat and pounded the dog with a leather strap. “You shall yield to me, beast!” Lenard cried each night. Then, night after night, grumping and grousing and bellowing foul oaths, the defeated reeve collapsed into his straw bed.
Heinrich lay awake each of those nights teary-eyed and sobbing for the poor animal. By day, the four-year-old would sneak over to Lenard’s cottage and play with the dog. Though the animal was twice the boy’s size, he had no malice in his simple heart and gently rolled the little lad around the ground. The beast was kind and gentle, though strong; intelligent and tender of heart. Heinrich sat quietly by his side and stroked his dusty, red-brown fur, laughing at the drooping tongue of his panting kindred spirit.
Heinrich’s affections had become quickly attached to the dog as they had to his best friend and cousin Richard, the son of Arnold. Blond and handsome, Richard was lean, strong, and quick of mind. Arnold swore he’d see the boy knighted in Runkel’s castle someday—an ambitious dream for the son of a cart-hauler.
The mastiff and young Richard were not Heinrich’s only friends, however. Emma’s son, Ingelbert, was one whom the lad had oft wished he might see more often. Heinrich rarely saw Emma’s son, save those times Ingelbert fetched water with his mother at the village well. Heinrich’s own mother, as well as the other mothers of the village, had banned their children from speaking with Ingelbert, believing Emma and her misshapen child to bear a curse of some sort.
For her part, Emma persistently offered Berta kindness on every occasion. Heinrich had watched the lonely newcomer help his mother break the ice off the well one cold day in the winter just past. It was such kindness that had caught the child’s attention quickly, and the selfless acts were beginning to calm Berta’s fears.
It was July thirty-first, just before the f
east of Lammas, when Baldric and Arnold arrived at Kurt’s hovel. Exhausted from the day’s toil, Kurt slowly opened the door and stepped out into the humid night air. After the brothers conversed in low, urgent tones for a few moments, Kurt finally nodded and returned to his wife, his face tight and flushed. “Wife, we’ve business to tend to this night and tomorrow we feast. Sleep well and mind the children. I shall return soon.”
Berta felt a sudden chill. She sensed danger but dared not ask more. Holding her husband’s palm against her cheek, Berta whispered a blessing to her man. With that, Kurt moved toward the door. He touched his boys’ heads briefly. Weak with fever and favoring his badly infected right arm, he paused to retrieve a steel carving knife hidden beneath the table. He shoved it under his belt and stepped out into the dark village.
Arnold’s labors as a cart-hauler earned him two pennies per day but also paid a hearty wage in information. A peddler told him of a distant shepherd’s family swearing oaths against some folk in Weyer. He further learned that some shepherds of Runkel’s lands were conspiring to “teach smother lesson to Weyer” after they delivered bales of wool to nearby Arfurt, lying on the far bank of the Lahn.
Arnold and Baldric’s closest friend, Dietrich, were waiting on the road beneath the church with another man, Paul, the dyer for the monks. Paul had come from Mainz as a freeman in search of work. He had married a dyer’s daughter from another village but moved to Weyer in hopes of establishing a shop in the growing village. He had made the unfortunate mistake of borrowing money from Baldric and now was required to pay his terms of interest.
Under the cloak of a new moon the five men whispered their plan. Arnold flashed a knife normally used to bleed swine and demanded the others show their weapons. Kurt yanked his blade from his belt and Dietrich revealed his own. Baldric preferred a mallet he had taken from an ironsmith in a wager. Paul shrugged timidly. “I’ve no weapon, I—”
