“Your instruction shall take many years.” He paused and stared at them sternly. “We begin our journey together now and with this first truth: Christian mankind is divided into three estates: those that rule, those that pray, and those that toil. As learned men you shall serve God in the first or second estate. Whatever your call, it is for the glory of God, amen.
On the twenty-fifth of April, 1204, the folk of Weyer gathered at the stone church to celebrate Mass. Having confessed their sins in a responsive, penitential prayer, the simple folk then received the Holy Eucharist through their priests. Ably assisted by Father Albert, Father Pious faced his flock with a face hardened for the precision required of the sacrament. Pious was draped in a white mantle for the season and confidently followed the Roman Rite to near perfection. His unscrupulous attention to detail provided great confidence to his ever-increasing congregations.
Marta was always apt to stand close to the altar. She ground the soles of her shoes hard into the earthen floor in hopes of drawing power and protection from the relics of bone recently buried beneath. She drew deep breaths as Albert incensed the air above the pyx, the paten, and the chalice and nearly swooned as the bread was set upon the tongue of Pious. Her sins now purged, she felt clean again, and so very grateful to her revered priest.
Heinrich also felt some burdens lift from his weighted shoulders. Unlike his wife, however, he preferred offering his confession to Father Albert, who allowed Heinrich the comfort of confession without the embarrassment of specificity. Heinrich believed Albert to be genuine and earnest—simple, yet thorough in his faith. His counsel was thought wise though less rigorous than that of Pious, and his demands for penance were generally eased by a quality of mercy. Ironically, however, it was the young priest’s tender heart that gave pause to poor Heinrich, for the baker often wondered if he ought not suffer harsher penances than the gentle cleric called him to perform.
Marta provided an Easter feast that drew high praise from her household. She beamed as Wil and Karl applauded her presentation of fatty pork and boiled goose. To this she added a bowl of tripe, a loaf of her husband’s wheat bread, a small saucer of honey she had bought from the monks, and a dish of cheese. Since Easter was late this year, she had picked a quarterpeck of early peas and added them to a pottage of wild scallions, ground acorns, and early herbs.
To Heinrich’s delight and mild alarm, she then retrieved a gift from behind the table in her room. It was a flask of wine she purchased from a Frenchman on a pilgrimage through the village. He had stopped to pray at the abbey’s new Kappelle built by the roadway to Münster. For an undisclosed price, the woman had wrangled the precious beverage for her family, and she beamed with delight as smiles spread around the table.
She poured the wine slowly, almost ceremonially into each waiting cup. She served her father first—a choice that did not escape the notice of Heinrich. Then came Karl, Wil, and her husband in turn.
Dietrich smiled and winked at his daughter as he stared into his cup. “Ah, now you’ve proved your success! You’ve the means to buy wine! I’d often wished I could run off with the priest’s chalice.” He laughed. “Thanks to you, daughter, and God’s blessings to all. Now, all drink!”
Heinrich again wished he could toss the old man out, this time into the April mud. It was his own role to offer his household the blessing of the season; it was the money he had earned that bought the cursed wine, not Dietrich’s. But Heinrich also wanted peace, so, with another sigh he took a swallow of the cherry-red drink. It felt warm and smooth as it rolled over his tongue, bursting with life and flavor.
Karl and Wil smiled and rolled their eyes in ecstasy as the last drops were tapped from the recesses of their wooden cups. “Mother, ‘twas like nothing I’ve e’er tasted,” said Wil.
“Aye, Mutti, ist wunderbar. Have you more?” chirped Karl.
Marta basked in her glory. She turned to Heinrich. “Well, husband, have we the means to buy more?”
Heinrich was surprised to hear a tone that was somewhat deferential. He answered with a smile. “Ah, I do surely hope for it. You’d be a hard worker, Marta, and it gives me joy to see you pleased. More wine and someday a cloak of otter or a headdress of silk?”
Marta immediately suspected him of sarcasm and she tightened her face. It was a sad moment, for the man had been earnest, and when he saw her face harden his heart sank. Before Heinrich could respond, Dietrich stood up and hobbled to his daughter. His legs were failing and his back was now stooped. But his face was lit as he presented a gift to the curious woman. “Here, I’ve made you something.”