Quest of Hope: A Novel

by C. D. Baker

  The satisfied twitch of Albert’s lips told Marta that her husband would not lose the bakery. Frustrated and furious, Pious rose and leaned toward the baker. “You shall yield a heavy penance,” he hissed. “For it is due me!” The priest cast a scheming eye toward Marta. “Poor woman. I shall pray for God to rescue you. Until then, stay clean in spirit and in flesh, for you are surely in grave danger.”

  Heinrich wept on his knees alongside a sympathetic Father Albert. His confession was heartfelt, though rambling, yet the tortured man left the church still unsure of his heavenly absolution. With hope obscured by doubt, he spent the miserable harvest of 1206 doing every sort of penance Marta’s wild imagination could demand. He reasoned that he truly needed to suffer harsh earthly penalties for the heavy sins forgiven in heaven, yet his instincts shielded him from Pious’s self-serving demands.

  By the bitter days of the Epiphany Marta insisted that Heinrich do a belly-crawl to Oberbrechen and Heinrich complied. His contrition was confusing him, however, for though he felt sorrow and shame for his imperfections and his failings, he also felt a growing hatred for the very penances intended to reconcile him to those offended. He found no relief and his only joy was in knowing that his sons were far away in the abbey and not witness to his embarrassing distress. Given his ambivalence, he was also further convinced that his soul and those of his family were surely in jeopardy of a terrible lingering in Purgatory, perhaps now more than ever.

  By summer, poor Heinrich wished he might just fly away. He enjoyed neither his days in the bakery nor his Sabbath walks, for everywhere he went he did not fail to see the sneers on others’ faces or the malice in their tone. Most now believed him to be filled with deceptions, ill-will, hidden hatreds, and untoward desires. News had also reached his ears that Katharina had been beaten by her husband more than once for the rumors spread about her and the baker. Heinrich confronted him twice but the man would not be goaded into striking first.

  Good Richard remained faithful and true, and Lukas did what he could to encourage and embolden the man. On a few occasions even Blasius made a special effort to bring a cheery wish or kind word. So Heinrich endured. He denied himself all thoughts of Katharina and agreed with Lukas that such desires were, indeed, not in keeping with God’s ways.

  Yet, news of Katharina’s beatings tortured him, prompting him to make the mistake of begging Father Albert to protect her. He was warned that any assault on Ludwig would cost him the bakery and land him in Runkel’s lethal dungeon. Hopeless and desperate, Heinrich wanted to raise his eyes to heaven and beg for mercy. “Look beyond the sun,” Emma used to say. “Hope lies in heaven, dear boy,” she would cry. But he did not look beyond the sun, for he thought the keeping of his horrid vow to be his lone surviving virtue.

  On a cool and blustery Sabbath day in early September, Father Pious returned to Heinrich’s door. He was accompanied by a well-dressed man who identified himself as Bernd, a deputy of Lord Heribert. Bernd gawked about the hovel and lifted a lip in some contempt. “Heinrich,” said Pious flatly, “’tis time your account is settled. I’ve come to you this day to spare your life and that of fair Marta.”

  Marta nervously bade the two inside, and scurried to fetch some bread and wild plums. She placed a pitcher of ale atop her table and two tankards, and cast a look at Pious that did not escape her husband’s notice.

  “As you know, baker, for the sake of thy wife and children I have been seeking counsel for your penance yet due.”

  Heinrich stiffened. He had known this day would surely come.

  Pious’s voice tightened. “And, good Marta, I’ve sought a way that preserves your own good standing.” He had found little choice but to design a new path to his prize, one that required a few extra steps.

  Marta smiled.

  The priest pointed to Bernd. “This man comes with news that is most unusual and I am quite certain it is God’s answer to my prayers. Sire, please tell of your needs.”

  Bernd studied Heinrich for a long moment. Broad-built, though a bit old, he thought. A bit beaten of spirit? But seasoned, perhaps, and not one to risk mutiny or escape. He cleared his throat. “How old are you, man?”

  Heinrich wasn’t sure. “I am not certain.”

  Pious interrupted. “Brother Martin tells me you are near the age of Christ at His death.”

  Heinrich shrugged. “How old was that?”

  “Thirty-three,” snapped Bernd. “That makes you older than many. You’ve survived much and I am told you are a good baker.”

  Heinrich shrugged again.

  “Yes, and you understand that elder men are less important to a growing village than the younger ones.”

  Heinrich remained silent.

  “Let me come to the matter. The Holy Church has called on my lord, Heribert, to support her in parts far north of here. As if the civil war was not enough, it seems Archbishop Hartwig of Bremen has a need to protect his diocese from some rebellious serfs who would deny their Church her proper taxes, rents, tithes, and the like.”

  Heinrich leaned forward. The words “rebellious serfs” were suddenly appealing. “What men are these?”

  “Some wild and untamed Frisians; peasants who have strayed. Lord Heribert’s cousin is the Count of Oldenburg and has called on Heribert to satisfy a debt by providing assistance.”

  Heinrich was curious. “And why, sir, are you here?”

  “Yes, of course. My lord is sending a small troop to help the archbishop, and I am charged to support them with servants, groomsmen, cooks, armorers, and others. We’ve a terrible shortage with our losses in the war, so I am to recruit some from the villages.” He turned to Pious. “If you have not already learned, the pope has abandoned his support of Otto and now allies with Duke Philip.”

  Pious raised his eyes. “And then what of the Templars?”

  “Aye, the blessed Templars. Like us they follow the pope wherever he may go. Seems they imagine him to be infallible. Incredible! The local preceptory is to send one of theirs with us—as a spy, methinks. The abbot has permitted us to take servants from among his serfs as payment toward his contract with us, and he has graciously offered free rents for the time spent. Father Pious and the bailiff have suggested you to go.”

  Marta looked pleased and she smiled at her priest.

  Pious nodded. “Ja, Marta, this is somewhat easier than what is truly deserved, but I have seen that you have called him to tasks of obedience and suffering these many months.”

  “But what of my bakery?” quizzed Heinrich.

  “The commission is for the usual forty days, a most manageable time.”

  The priest grunted. “You shall be home by Advent. And more, you may be pleased to know that your cousin, Richard, is a most eager recruit, as well. Seems he’s a few matters of his own to settle under God!”

  Heinrich was all the more tempted. Oh, a chance to fly, to be away from this place—away from her, and an adventure with Richard … like we are boys again! He quickly condemned himself. Nay, it is to be a penance… a serving of the Church in her time of need. He looked at the faces staring at him. “Forty days you say?”

  “Aye.”

  Heinrich hesitated. The penalty seemed too light and he did not trust Pious. But he desperately wanted to feel clean and he wanted peace returned to his mind. Despite Lukas’s pleadings to the contrary, he had become obsessed with the fear that his sons would soon suffer because of his failings. He needed to be sure this would save them all. “I am not certain, father, that this is penance enough for my sins. It seems … somewhat gentle.”

  Bernd laughed. “Gentle?” the deputy scoffed. “It shall not be an easy time! Indeed not. You shall be required to carry firewood and cook, lift carts out of mud, push them through fords. The knights shall demand much of you. And worse, you are helpless in ambush and there are oft attacks. We’ve lost more servants than soldiers while traveling the Empire! The civil war has brought naught but confusion. If attacked, the knights have armor and you have n
othing. When the enemy fears to engage our knights, they creep into camp to slaughter the servants, then disappear, leaving the knights to cook their own supper! Ha! It is not a light thing.”

  Heinrich was satisfied; the plan seemed to give God a wealth of opportunities to punish him properly. “Father,” he asked, “this penance covers all my sins?”

  “More than likely. You’ll need report thy sufferings upon thy return.”

  Marta did not approve of that answer. “But father, if he fails to return and is not absolved, shall I be at risk for—”

  “Fear not, sister. If your husband fails to suffer enough I shall find some other way to finally absolve you and your brood. You must trust in me.” He picked a dark, caraway-seasoned roll from the breadbasket and lifted it to his nose with a wry smile.

  Ignorant of his secret schemings she was satisfied and grunted her approval.

  Heinrich listened carefully. He stared at Pious, aware that the ambitious priest was setting some kind of snare. But what can happen in forty days? he wondered. The baker looked at Marta. She’ll keep the bakery safe; she’s too much greed to let it slip away. And if I die, Lukas shall surely protect the bakery for m’sons. I do own it. He paused to consider Wil and Karl. Only forty days, free rents to put in the strongbox, the lads released from my sin and still safe in the abbey—and time away from Marta.

  Moved by an anguished desire to feel clean and whole and free, Heinrich’s heart pounded as he wrestled within himself. Yet it was not reason, nor fear, nor shame, nor secret curiosity that finally prodded the man’s assent. Instead it was an irresistible sense of something greater than himself urging him to fly. He closed his eyes and let his spirit yield to the call of a silent voice. The weary man nodded. “Yes! I shall go.”

  Chapter 18

  FAREWELL

  It was the ninth day of October in the Year of our Lord 1206 when Heinrich stood anxiously at his hovel’s door. The bells of prime had just sounded as the man prepared to bid his family farewell. The air was damp and chilly; a stiff breeze brought a hint of rain from the east and the sky was gray. Heinrich had expected to leave by St. Michael’s Day but there had been numerous delays—something the man hoped did not portend things to come.

  Heinrich rubbed a set of bruised knuckles and cast a nervous glance at Reeve Edwin now racing along the footpaths in search of his gray, scruffy dog. The baker had always pitied the bright-eyed creature and now hoped he had run far, far away. But Heinrich had another reason to hurry and could delay no longer. He fussed with his clothing one last time, shifting about in his woollen leggings and hooded tunic. He stamped his feet and admired the heavy-soled boots that his new master, Lord Niklas, had sent him. The anxious man took a deep breath, placed a thick, brown, woollen cape over his shoulders, and slung a leather satchel across his neck. In this he had put some salted pork, a loaf of spelt bread, a flask of mead, and a withered, red flower from Emma’s now abandoned garden. He also put a small, flat stone from the Laubusbach on which he had etched his baker’s mark in memory of his beloved Emma and the bread of truth she had so lovingly shared with him. “Ah, Karl!” he said as he bent on one knee. “Stay happy, lad. Learn your riddles and your lessons well. And don’t bedevil the monks!”

  The round-faced redhead smiled, halfheartedly, then tightened his face to stifle the tears. “Vater, must you go? I want you to stay… I may never see you again.”

  Heinrich’s eyes swelled and a thick lump filled his throat. He loved the boy, now nearly eight, and suddenly wondered if he was making the right decision. Marta’s crisp voice turned his head.

  “They must be waiting by now.”

  Heinrich nodded. “Aye.” He laid a tender hand on Karl’s curly head. The lad tried to offer a brave smile but his chin quivered and his lips simply twisted. Heinrich next turned to Wil. The lanky lad had just turned eleven. His eyes were light blue and keen. His flaxen hair shimmered in the October sun, but his feelings were buried deep in dark places. Heinrich laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders and Wil stiffened. Heinrich eased his touch slowly and sadly. “Wil, I … I shall surely miss you as well. I will imagine you under the monk’s linden, and I’ll return after my forty days.” Wil nodded and said nothing. He did not believe his father would ever return.

  Heinrich turned a swollen, sorrowful face to his wife. “I… I am truly sorry, woman, for what pain I have caused you and our children. I shall surely work to … to give you what you have always longed for. I mean to restore m’soul to the proper ways and save you all from my shame.” He glanced about the gray, smoke-choked village and handed Marta a small, folded paper with a trembling hand. “Here’s the abbot’s pledge that pays the rents.”

  The man wished he could do something more, something that might chase away the misery of what was and replace it with the glory of what might have been. He considered his sons and then his woeful wife. What a failure I am, he groaned to himself, that I must do this thing to repair the mess I’ve made! The broken man looked to Marta for hope. How he longed to hear her say something gentle, something kind. His heart would have soared at nothing more than a light touch of her hand or a forgiving smile. And, oh, how he would have felt had she offered even one word of contrition for her own vexing ways. For one such word the man would have forgotten and forgiven all to embrace her with a heart as big as the whole of heaven! But the hard, unyielding barrenness in the woman’s eyes chased all hope away and the beaten man’s chest released a weighted sigh.

  Marta tightened her shoulders and folded her arms across the apron covering her simple gown. “Godspeed, husband,” she stated tonelessly.

  Heinrich nodded and turned once more toward his sons. He battled his melancholy to offer them a smile and, with a lingering, doubt-filled gaze, the man walked away.

  “Where have you been?” roared Richard from the sheepfold gate. “I’ve been standing here since the bells and I’ve heard quite a gossip!” He smiled and wrapped an eager arm around his cousin. “What of Ludwig? Eh?”

  Heinrich glanced nervously over his shoulder. “We’d best hurry. I’d some hard time leaving.”

  “Ha, not me! Brunhild was happy to see me off. She’s already spent the rents, methinks!”

  “Then you’ve come to peace with our new master?”

  Richard darkened. He held up his twisted right hand. “I shall never come to peace with that bastard, but I may yet find m’revenge on this journey.”

  Heinrich grunted in disapproval as the two strode quickly out of their village and hurried toward Villmar. A light, morning rain drizzled on the grumbling pair as they entered the village. The market square was crowded with oxcarts and pungent with wet dung and urine. The harvest had been good and barrels of apples and wild plums were filled to overflowing. Richard snagged a fat, red apple and pointed. “There, that looks like our lot!”

  In the center of the market, by the well, waited a grumbling group of recruits atop a two-wheeled cart. They seemed confused and impatient as Heinrich and Richard approached. “Are ye two of Weyer, for Lord Niklas?”

  “Aye,” answered Richard with a mocking bow.

  The cart driver stared at Richard’s hand. “Does the lord know of that?”

  “Aye, he ought!”

  “Get in,” groused the driver. “You’d be the last and yer late.”

  Heinrich climbed behind Richard onto the plank-floored wagon where the two met their fellows. Wishing to appear confident and self-assured, Richard barely acknowledged his new companions and chose to mumble an insincere greeting before leaning against the chest-high wagon wall.

  Heinrich sat on the wooden floor and leaned his back against the tilting wagon. He surveyed the others and slowly made his acquaintance with them. “I am Heinrich of Weyer, and that man is m’cousin, Richard.”

  A young, brown-eyed lad, perhaps fifteen years of age, eagerly greeted Heinrich. “Good cheer to you, sir. My name is Emil of Runkel. And this is Rosa and her cousin Ita from Runkel as well.”

  Hein
rich smiled politely. Rosa and Ita were young beauties, both of marrying age. Ita glared at him from within a woollen hood. “What ye be lookin’ at, old man?” she barked.

  Heinrich blushed. “Ah, maiden, I… I was only wondering why you’d be joining us.”

  “Lord Niklas wants fullers, we’re told. And he’s payin’ a fair price for the two of us.”

  “Ah, of course. Fullers.” Heinrich turned toward the other three sitting quietly. “And who be you?”

  Two men dropped their hoods. “I am Leo and this is m’brother Lenz. We’d be shepherds by Lindenholz.” The two seemed friendly and earnest. Heinrich clasped hands with them and turned to the remaining man who was crouched tightly against the cart’s front corner.

  Heinrich stretched his hand forward. “I am Heinrich,” he offered.

  The man nodded curtly and looked away.

  “He is called Samuel,” offered Emil. “He’s a Jew from Limburg.”

  Richard turned a hard stare. “A Jew? I’ve never seen a Christ-killer before.”

  The man spat and closed his eyes.

  It was nearly noon when the wagon of servants arrived within the walls of Runkel’s brown stone castle. The rain had eased a little and the conscripts were ordered to stand by a generous fire inside the castle grounds. They stood obediently and warmed themselves until two large knights strode toward them with shouts, oaths, and waving arms. Confused and frightened, the huddle of peasants backed against a stone wall where they stood to be inspected.

  Each was eyed from head to toe, turned around, and poked and prodded like livestock at the market. “You’ve more teeth than most,” growled Lord Niklas as he yanked Heinrich’s jaw open.