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.”