Marta paused. “Anka says we ought take silver, so when we’ve a bad harvest, all’s not lost.”
“But where would we hide so much silver?”
“The Templars.”
“Aye, but, wife, you’ve said you do not trust the Templars.”
Marta grew quiet. Heinrich found the brief interlude refreshing and he took a few bites. Finally, the woman pressed again. “So, tell me.”
Heinrich wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sat cross-legged by the fire crackling in the center of the room. “I’ve bartered our lands, not the Weyer lands of course.”
At this news Marta began pacing around the room. “You bartered them! For what?”
“I, dear wife, now own the bakery; the buildings, ovens, tools, flours and spices, and the sole rights to bake for Wey—”
“The bakery?”
“Ja.”
“We own the bakery?”
“Ja.” Heinrich began to perspire.
Astonished, Marta sat down slowly on a three-legged stool and stared at her speechless father. None in either family had ever owned an enterprise. She was dumbstruck and struggled to say what came next. “Heinrich, I think it a … a good thing you’ve done.”
Wil grinned at his father and giggled as he burrowed into his straw bed. Heinrich smiled back, surprised at the unexpected and unprecedented approval of his wife. The feeling was delicious and he suddenly felt like a giant among men. His round face glowed and it stretched with a smile as he walked toward Marta in hope of a kind embrace.
News of Heinrich’s gain followed the man like flies to the dunghauler. At every hut he passed, a curse or an oath, a jeer or an insult, reached his ears. Marta, too, suffered the jealousies of small souls. Few, however, were as outraged as Father Pious. The abbot had clearly outmaneuvered the ambitious priest, and the man was humiliated by the defeat. For Pious, Heinrich’s simple bakery had suddenly become more than a coveted asset; it had, instead, become a symbol of personal pride. And symbols, of course, are given power greater than their substance.
The day before Christmas, Father Pious arrived at Marta’s door. The woman was surprised to see the overstuffed priest and invited him inside.
“Greetings to you and your father,” grunted the churchman.
“And to you,” grumbled Dietrich from a corner.
Marta scurried to gather some beer, bread, and an egg for the priest. She is a rare beauty, indeed, Pious thought. He pursed his lips. “Good woman, I thank you for your kindness. I have learned of your happy news. Your husband now owns the bakery, a worthy prize for a servile man. Forgive me, sister, for my tardy well-wishes.”
“Yes, father. Of course.”
“It is duty that calls me here. I must take this joyous occasion to remind you that ‘to whom much is given, much is required.’ So says the Holy Scripture.”
Marta wiped her hands and sat down to listen.
“Firstly, you needs be ever mindful of your tithe. God’s blessings follow sacrifice and faithfulness. His wrath, however, follows unrighteousness and pride. Which brings me to my fear for you. I’ve heard from another that Heinrich is suspect of secret sins.”
“I do believe so as well,” answered Marta, “though I know not of what sort.”
“Ah, with pardon, woman, I cannot divulge. I’ve simply come to warn you that God is not mocked. As long as Heinrich hides his sins, your gain is at great risk. It is my joy to shelter you from sorrow, so I beg you heed my words. “The priest said nothing else, for he had sown his seeds of fear—seeds destined to sprout misery and discontent—tools of opportunity, indeed.
Wil suffered greatly through his first week in school. As his instincts had forewarned, Master Laurentius did hate the peasant boy. “No right!” he was heard screaming to any who would listen. “The peasant scum has no right to learn with these others.” Indeed, Wil sat on the granite gradine alongside oblates of high birth destined to serve the Church or to rule petty kingdoms all over Christendom. His classmates hailed from castles up and down the Rhine and from manor houses from Staufenland to Saxony. Eleven in all, these were offered by their parents with a pledge that granted them to the cloister. It was hoped these young and promising gifts to the abbey would secure the salvation of both child and parent alike.
Wil was the only servile child and was not pledged to the monks. He sat stone-faced and proud through five days of taunts and mockery. His rough-spun tunic and close-cropped hair earned him more than a few fists in the face. His only joy at week’s end was the knowledge that for every bruise he tended, another nursed a lump!