Heinrich held his breath. He wanted to roar his approval. A larger cheer rose from the men and a few shouts. She was in the lead.
Edwin reached for Irene. “And for this?”
Irene was a fresh-faced beauty to be sure, but it seemed Pious’s poem had frightened away all support for the young ones. A few shouts from a group of boys wasn’t enough.
Edwin turned to Marta who stepped forward hastily and smiled with feigned shyness. Wil and Karl hoped she would win, else “well have hell to pay at our own hearth!” grumbled Wil. Pious was the first to cheer and with his lead the men of Weyer roared their approval. And so, for the fourth time in her life, Marta, daughter of Dietrich, wore the purple, silken veil of Weyer’s May Day Queen.
As Heinrich had feared, his wife spent the summer lording about the village like she was queen. Her friends followed like hurried goslings behind a goose. Anka, the dyer’s wife, scrambled hither and yon fetching and stepping to keep Queen Marta in a humor worthy of her status.
By late July it had become apparent that the empire’s troubles would not be easing and the profits of the bakery began to dwindle. Worried and growing fearful, Heinrich sought out Lukas as he was picking Eberesche and pulling nettles in the forest by the Magi. “Ho, friend!” called Heinrich.
Lukas straightened and smiled. He stretched his old back and put down his pots. “Ah, Heinrich. Always a joy to see you.”
“And you. Have you a few moments?”
“Aye, indeed.” The two wandered to a log at the base of the three trees and faced the shimmering stream.
“Lukas, I’ve some fears ’bout m’bakery. Hard times seem to never end and the villagers seem less willing than ever to buy m’bread.”
“Hmm. You’ve also repairs, firewood to buy, a helper or two to pay, and Marta has dreams that need be fed by shillings.”
“Ja. Shilling-dreams by day and endless fears of the Judgment in the night. I do what I can to please her. As for the bakery, the tax gets ever higher. I thought when I owned it I’d feel more free than I do.”
Lukas shook his head. “Nay, the power to tax is the power to own. You must know that you cannot stop them from raising it. I fear they’ll force you to give it back by taxing the life out of you.”
“Never! ‘Tis mine and m’lads’ after me!” The two sat quietly. Heinrich tossed a handful of pebbles into the clear water. “I wish Emma were here.”
Lukas nodded. A blackbird landed nearby, then a thrush. A flicker banged his beak against a tree deep in the forest’s shade and a swallow swooped atop the water. “This is a good place, Lukas. A place to think.”
“And a place to dream.”
Heinrich shrugged. “Have you a thought for my bakery? I needs earn more from it.”
Lukas lay on his back and stared at the canopy of leaves arching from the ancient trees around him. “Yes. I do indeed. I’ve a thought or two on the matter. First, try this: folks buy what they think has worth. If you think your work has worth, then they shall as well. I’ve heard the free bakers in the guilds mark each loaf with a mark of their own. You, friend, are the owner; this is your bread! Be proud of it. Show others it has worth to you and mark it with your mark!”
Heinrich glowed. “Yes! A mark like the monks’. I could have a smith make an iron brand with m’own shape!” The baker laughed, pleased with the idea and begging for more.
Chapter 17
THE DECISION
It was the first Thursday in September when Heinrich returned from his busy bakery to the wails and laments of Marta. He charged through the door to find his wife weeping and lying limp over the body of her father. Dietrich had been a heavy cross for Heinrich to bear and the baker felt a twinge of guilt for feeling great relief at the old miller’s death. Father Pious entered next, and though Marta had rejected all attempts by her husband to offer comfort, she eagerly received a lingering embrace from the priest.
Dietrich was washed, shrouded in an expensive deerskin, and buried in Weyer’s churchyard. The day of the man’s burial was quiet, for few had any affection for the cheating, abrasive miller. His was another wasted life, and few gave more than a moment’s note to its passing.
In the hovel a tiny gathering of mourners huddled over a table of bread, salted pork, and cider. Arnold was distant and cold as ever. He spent most of his days in Villmar, “conspiring with the prior,” as Lukas once complained. But as wealthy as he had become, his life was empty and void of value. Richard, on the other hand, was less broody than he had once been and had begun to laugh again. In the past few years he had struggled to reclaim his former self and he was apt to tease and play about the village once more. He had bravely accepted the loss of one dream and had found the courage to dream again.