Chapter 3
THE FEUD
Heinrich had become a cheerful little lad. The child was strong and healthy, keen-eyed and happy. He laughed easily, always eager for the soft comfort of his mother’s arms and the playful toss of his father’s hands. The toddler spent his days trundling about the hovel, bouncing between the trestle table and the three-legged stool. He brought little trouble to his mother, though the same could not be said of his brother, Axel, now nearly one year old.
Kurt had long since given up his search for Sieghild and had sorrowfully turned his attention to his many duties. The first weeks of June were unusually eventful as Weyer and its neighboring villages had almost fallen prey to the rogue knights of a disenfranchised lord. Christendom’s most admired defenders, the white-robed warrior-monks known as the Knights Templar, soundly defeated the insurgents. The victorious monks secured vast lands adjacent to the western border of the abbey’s manor, and the folk of Weyer were delighted to be living under the watch of such valiant protectors.
Secretly, Berta was certain that the Templars had won the day because of her own precious relic that she kept hidden under her bed. The relic was a gift given by her father years before with a warning that she should show it to no churchman. It was a gold bezance, suspended by a silver chain, that had been minted in Barcelona nearly a century before. According to the peddler who had sold it to Berta’s father, it had been carried by a French knight in the First Crusade. The knight had touched it to the Holy Sepulchre and had it blessed by the first Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Hughues de Payen. Upon hearing of the battle and the Templars’ great victory, Berta had clutched the relic to her heart and wept for joy.
Within days Berta had another reason for joy as well. On the thirteenth of June she presented a third healthy child to her husband, a red-haired girl they baptized Effi. To the family’s dismay, however, the colicky bundle did little other than keep everyone from a good night’s rest!
One bright Sabbath after Midsummer’s, Berta took the baby and her two boys for a morning walk near the bubbling Laubusbach. It wasn’t long before they happened upon Emma and her son, Ingelbert. Berta turned quickly as if to leave, but Heinrich ran ahead to greet Emma’s little lad. Heinrich grinned and reached out his hand to touch Ingelbert’s white hair.
Ingelbert bore the unfortunate curse of being an outsider. He was the illegitimate son of a woman from an unknown place, of unknown blood, and odd ways. That would have been enough to cause suspicion and fear, but the little fellow’s appearance added yet more to his troubles. Though only three years old, the boy already had the look of an old man. His nose was long and hooked, his thin, white hair wisped atop a sloped head. His front teeth protuded over a jaw that was so weak it virtually disappeared. Yet, for anyone daring enough to see beyond his imperfect shell, there awaited an eager smile, a longing to please, and a selfless heart bursting with kindness.
Heinrich was still blessed with the innocence of childhood. He saw only a happy face and an honest smile. Only six months younger than Ingelbert, Heinrich was still a bit clumsy on his feet and stumbled toward his new friend until he fell into him. They both tumbled to the ground, laughing and rolling like puppies in the soft grass.
“No more!” cried Berta nervously. She avoided the sad and knowing eyes of Emma and whispered to herself, “No curses upon us.”
Emma had kept a respectful distance but now took a slow step toward Berta and offered her a kind word. “Frau Berta? I pray you and your lovely children peace.” She smiled kindly, then turned away from the startled woman and reached her hand toward Heinrich. The boy stood calmly, almost entranced, as Emma gently rolled her finger through a ginger-colored curl looped across his forehead. Heinrich giggled and Emma grinned, her round face lit by her twinkling eyes. “Frau Berta, methinks this boy of yours to be special. There’s a… a light of sorts within him, and a look of mercy… and … ah, well…” With that, Berta shuddered and she quickly led her children away.
At dusk a few days later, Kurt was summoned to the council where the men of Weyer would review village business by torchlight on the roadway just below the church. About forty men gathered, women being strictly forbidden. The elected village chief, or reeve, was a mean-spirited, blustery yeoman named Lenard who proceeded to review a number of issues, including the village’s constant plea for a wall and news of a grinding machine driven by wind. “A peddler told the monks of it and they’ve some interest. Seems a tower’s been built in Normandy and atop it is some contraption of arms with windsails. It catches the wind and turns the grindstones below.” Lenard paused as the men muttered in disbelief. After some debate, they finally decided harnessing the wind was too much of a risk.