But it was as though forces greater than the man bedevilled him. Whenever his fever broke and good health seemed to blossom, another bout of debilitating illness seized him and he was on his back once more. Heinrich began to wonder if it was his mother’s relic that had cursed him. “Not worthy,” he groaned in his sleep. “Am I not worthy to wear it? My heart is black with sin and shame.”
On a day in early July the hapless baker was feeling somewhat better and he wandered beneath a sparse young linden to ponder his suffering. He held the medallion in his hand and considered the state of his life. “I was sent from m’village to do a penance for sins known and unknown. Surely, I needed to do that thing, for my lads, m’wife, and m’self were in peril of the Judgment. Yet I failed to pay the proper price! Instead of suffering pain and remorse I delighted in my journey and my heart filled with pride. Then I coveted the liberty of others and deceived myself to join them as if I were one of them. I raised my arm against the army of the archbishop. God took one of m’arms as payment for my rebellion and he took one eye for m’envy.” He buried his face in the palm of his hand. “My sin followed me to the sea … it caused the shipwreck and the loss of Cornelis’s harvest. They should have cast me out.
“I deceived a priest to believe I am a devout pilgrim in order to protect those who rebel against God’s order. Now I wear this holy relic as if it were mine by right … my heart covets the thing for mine own.
“Wicked man that I am, ‘tis good I go to Rome. There I shall beg God’s mercy; there I shall sink m’self into what is right and true. I shall walk home clean and whole … m’sons shall be free of my penalty.” Heinrich sat up and drew a deep breath. He removed his mother’s necklace and placed it in his satchel with the captain’s. He coughed and wheezed and stumbled back to his bed.
All that long summer Heinrich suffered recurring bouts of fever or malaise. As kindly as the monks attempted to be, they, too, were becoming impatient with his recovery. By the Feast of the Assumption in mid-August he seemed to be making true progress, however. By the early days of September strength returned to his legs and he helped drive the oxcarts laden with firewood from the forests in the south. Unfortunately, a fall in the garden caused him to seriously sprain an ankle and he was bound to a crutch.
On St. Michael’s the frustrated man received news that drove him nearly to the point of madness. Brother Radoslaw had died. No one knew why or how; the man simply did not awaken from his sleep. His apprentice had been a novice who had been dismissed from the cloister for insubordination at Lammas, so there was none to operate the bakery. Bread, of course, was that most important symbol of both temporal and spiritual nourishment. It would not do that the brethren should suffer their deprivations without that one sacred foundation. Monks in monasteries everywhere wanted fresh, warm rolls in the morning. And, since it was they who gave Christendom the joy of bread in the first place, perhaps they deserved it.
The prior asked the obvious. “Heinrich, have we been charitable to you?”
Heinrich groaned. It was another question laced with the scent of obligation. “Ja, brother,” he answered warily.
“In these difficult months past we have lost six of our score of brethren to disease or injury, Brother Radoslaw being one of them. A novice was sent away for his rebellious spirit and another has taken flight. Our fields are in desperate want and we, now, are in need. Would you serve us as our baker until another is sent?”
It was as if a hand seized Heinrich’s heart. He knew he had little choice. He dreaded another delay but considered the immensity of his soul’s present debt and quickly calculated what credits the agonizing service might yield. “How long do you think it shall take for another to come?”
The prior darkened. “How long?” his voice was sharp and cutting. “How long? I answer you thus: as long as God’s pleasure requires.”
How might any man challenge such an answer? “Ah, indeed,” mumbled Heinrich.
It was a dull day between the Feast of the Assumption and St. Michael’s in the year of Grace 1209 when a timid monk in a well-pressed scapular appeared at Heinrich’s bakery door. The prior introduced the new member of the cloister as Brother Wienczyslaw. Heinrich dusted his leather apron with a huff and repeated the bowing monk’s words. “Aye, ‘peace be to you’ too. ‘Ave y’any knowledge of baking?” he asked curtly.
The prior smiled and ducked quickly out the door.
“Nay, good baker.”