Quest of Hope: A Novel (41 page)

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

I
t 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.”

Heinrich 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.

“Huh-uh,” offered the baker.

The knight stared at Heinrich. “Can y’back bread that shan’t kill us?”

“Aye, sire.”

“Humph. And can y’cook other things?”

“Aye.”

“You’re a bit old … you’ve some gray on that red head and gray stubble on yer jaw.”

“Aye, sire.” Heinrich nearly laughed out loud, for the knight was about the same age!

Niklas moved on to Richard. The two locked eyes. The knight grabbed hold of Richard’s short-cropped hair with a laugh. “Glad to see y’found yer proper place!”

Richard pushed the knight’s hand away and growled. With that, Lord Niklas jerked his sword from its sheath. He pinned Richard’s head against the wall with the palm of one hand as he laid his blade’s edge against the peasant’s exposed throat. “You’d like to avenge yer hand, wouldn’t ye? Eh? Speak, man!” Niklas grabbed Richard’s crippled hand and held it high. “If your right hand offends you, cut it off!” he shouted.

Lord Simon joined the two. The aging knight was leathery and worn. Gray hair fell to his shoulders and a long, gray beard framed a face wrinkled by war and weather. “Enough, sir! He’s a good man and shall serve well. I stake my honor on it.” The fire in Simon’s dark eyes was enough to still the impetuous Lord Niklas.

Niklas leaned close to Richard. “Let the past stay there!” he muttered. “I meant you no harm then … or now.”

Richard’s blue eyes never moved from Niklas’s face. The knight sheathed his sword and moved on to inspect his other servants.

“Y’needs be more careful!” scolded Heinrich.

Richard was still bristling. “Put a stopper in y’mouth, cousin. ‘Tis my fight, not yours.”

A familiar voice turned their heads. “Peace be unto you!”

“Ah, and to you!” shouted Heinrich. He was smiling from ear to ear as his friend, Blasius, the Templar, approached. The two embraced and the warrior-monk turned to greet Richard.

“A wonderful day!” cried Heinrich. “Look at us! Together in a common cause, serving our Church and each other.” The baker suddenly beamed with joy. It was an amazing thing for him to feel more than a simple tradesman. Instead he felt important and he delighted in the new sense of purpose.

A black hood peeked from around a corner. From deep within its recesses spread a huge smile. “Brother Lukas!” roared Richard.

“Shhhh!” hushed the jovial old monk as he trotted toward his friends. “I’ve been caught thrice out of the monastery and am supposed to be in prayer! Ha! I’d rather see m’dearest friends off on their adventure.” Lukas gave each a mighty hug. “My prayers shall follow you where e’er this journey takes you. Now, on your knees, each of you.”

Heinrich, Richard, and Blasius obediently bent and bowed as the monk laid his age-marked hands on each of them. He prayed loudly and boldly, urging the kingdom of God to offer them “shield and buckler from the wiles of Satan and the ignorance of man.” When he finished he kissed Blasius and Richard on each cheek, but took Heinrich by the elbow.

Lukas walked the baker some distance from the others and paused by a dozing ox. Lukas looked deeply into Heinrich’s patient face and began to speak with a gentle, pleading voice. “Good man,” he began, “my heart aches as I behold you here, in this place, about to leave in this service. My son, for all the many years I have loved you, I have prayed you might leave your darkened path. Your captive conscience binds the man that bears God’s image deep within. You have allowed others to chain you to the madness that rules our world because you turn your eyes away from truth and have closed your ears to wisdom!