Quest of Hope(14)

The reeve then announced the appointment of a new hayward to oversee harvesting schedules, and he reviewed the status of the sheepfold, the swineherd, and the condition of the ox teams, as well as complaints of firewood allotments and sundry fees. “I’m told the mill fees may increase,” he added bluntly.

An angry murmur rippled through the group.

“Aye, but the abbot says ‘tis needed. Enough of it. I’ve other news as well. The abbey plans to build a larger bakery so you’ll be needing to buy from them again, and only them. When it’s finished you’ll be closing up the village oven and you’re expected to eat less Mus and buy more bread.”

“Nay!” shouted an angry voice, quickly followed by a chorus of protest. Bread was life itself and they surely preferred it to mush, but they feared the monks’ prices.

“You’ve no choice. I should tell you now that you’ll soon be buying their beer as well.”

“Curse them, those—”

“Hold your tongue, man, or burn in the Pit!” Lenard was incensed. “I’ve two more things. There’s talk of a witch with a babe in the east wood by Münster. Arnold’s brought us news of bat’s wings and heads of chickens. He’s seen a lean-to of sticks and heard a baby’s cry in the night. Is it not so, boy?”

Arnold stepped from the darkness. “Ja, I swear to these things. I’ve heard reports from pilgrims north of the Lahn as well.”

“Men,” continued Lenard, “we’ve all lived with witches and their spells, fairies, sprites, gnomes, and the like. We’ve a good, stout church here in the village. Keep your families true to the Holy Virgin. I don’t want any of you seeking out this witch to help with harvesttime, planting, sickness, or troubles. We’ve no need of her spells and magic; they’ll only bring us trouble to be sure.”

The reeve looked hard at his men. “Now, one last thing. I’ve given thought to the strumpet Emma and her freak child. Methinks she’s no witch, but strange to be sure and uncommon. I think she does not belong here but the monks say to leave her in peace.”

The men laughed. “Have you seen that little beast of hers? Big nose, crooked eyes …”

“Front teeth sticking out and …”

“Aye, and ears too! Have you seen its ears? We could use them to catch the wind for that windgrinder!”

The group howled. Lenard, laughing with the others, settled them. “Well then, good men, tell your kin and householders to keep a safe distance but leave the two fools be. They seem content to watch the water.”





The harvest of 1177 had been poor and Kurt’s household was worried. Adding to their misery were the unbearable moods of Baldric who had lost his wife to childbirth several months before. The angry bear now prowled about the forests and villages in search of a target for his fury.

Poor harvests were a particular problem for the abbey. Good stewardship required revenues be collected regardless of conditions. After all, the abbot owed considerable fees to the Lord of Runkel for protection and to the see of Mainz as well. Certain that an abbey bakery could turn a quick profit, the abbot insisted work continue on its construction in Villmar. He planned to eventually construct a bakery in each of the abbey’s villages as well, and, in time, breweries. In addition, he had been entertaining new ideas on crop rotation and mining. Travelers had brought news of interesting techniques in France and England that were increasing harvest yields. The area was also rich in marble, silver, and shale—products not yet fully exploited. The business of shepherding souls, he sighed, required a clever mind and a resolute spirit.

Stewardship was a heavy responsibility not to be taken lightly. Business for some was a problem of revenue, for others, a question of expense. The abbot was determined to address both. He had lessened the pressure on his treasury by limiting the number of oblates and postulants. Novices, too, were a costly venture, he reasoned, always in need of new habits, eating more than their elders by twice or thrice—in spite of the Rule that demanded they eat less. They were famous for damaging tools, spilling inks, wasting dyes—the list of expenses was endless. So, when a wealthy merchant from nearby Limburg appeared at the monastery’s gate with a young child in tow, the abbot was wary.

Corpulent and well dressed, the merchant strode with an arrogant swagger to the abbey gate. Egidius, the porter, bowed. “Thanks be to God.”

The merchant grunted. Dragging a stout, young boy of about five years of age forward, he said, “Its mother’s dead. I’ve no need of it.”

The porter looked at the plump, pink-faced lad with sudden compassion. “Has he no kin, an aunt or…?”