Father Gregor had a fine Lammas day planned, one filled with good food and drink, village dances and games. He had fields of grain to bless and was not pleased to be bothered with Kurt’s death. “He died of what cause?” he asked Baldric.
“Fever from a prick on the hand some weeks past.”
“Ah, yes, I did notice it swelling. You have already prepared the body?”
“Aye, father, we thought with the feast day it would be good to hurry about it. The widow wants words for his soul, though, and quick.”
Father Gregor sighed. “Aye, ‘tis an hour yet to terce and I’ve much to do. By the saints, the gravediggers shan’t be happy about this! Methinks he needs wait for burial till the morrow.”
Arnold was standing next to Baldric and nudged him. Neither wanted any delay. The Gunnars would be discovered soon and Kurt needed to be in the ground. None would dare dig him out to check his body.
“The widow wants this done now. The diggers always have graves-in-waiting, put him in one of them.” Baldric’s eyes narrowed.
Gregor felt suddenly uneasy. “And what is the hurry, my sons?” Suspicion laced his tone.
Baldric answered straightaway. “No hurry, father, but Berta believes a feast day to be a more blessed day to bury.”
Gregor shook his head. “Where such notions are born!”
Father Gregor greeted the family at the churchyard and prayed for the little cluster of kin gathered around. Throughout the brief burial service small Heinrich stood stone-faced and tearless. His mother had commanded him to be the son his father expected. But as soon as the priest finished, the young boy turned in hopes of flying to a safe place to shed his tears. Father Gregor snagged him by the arm. “Heinrich, now ‘tis time for you to be a man. Knowyour place and forget it not. Learn the ways and serve well.”
The young lad nodded soberly.
Chapter 4
MADONNA AND THE WITCH
Without a husband, life became unbearable for Berta, and she blamed everyone, including her eldest son, for her suffering. “Boy,” she said flatly one night, “you understand it was for your honor that your father died?”
Heinrich stared at her in confusion.
“Aye? Your father had a code to keep.”
The little boy didn’t understand.
“There’s an order to life, ‘tis something you’ve needs learn now from Father Gregor. There is a proper way to follow and you must learn the code, like your father and grandfather. But you ought heed the priests’ ways more than your father did. It would be your gift to me and I shall love you for it.”
Berta was lonely and often desperate. One afternoon she led her children to the village well for a brief respite from the oppressive hovel. It was late and no one was near except for Emma, who usually came after the others had left. The outcast carried a wooden bucket in one hand and gently led her son with the other. Berta thought the woman to be odd but not as fearsome as some did, and on this summer’s evening her loneliness was greater than her discomfort.
“Good evening,” smiled Emma warmly.
“G-good evening to you, as well,” Berta stammered.
Emma cautiously approached and spoke gently. “I was sorry to learn of your husband’s death.” The woman laid a tender hand on Berta’s forearm. “I have not suffered that kind of loss, hut I imagine you must be lonely and confused.”
Unable to speak, Berta stared at the woman’s hand on her sleeve and nodded. No one had bothered to comfort her in these past few weeks. Gisela didn’t care, she had no true friends, and her cousins were indifferent.
“I’ve a beehive, you know,” Emma continued. “Could you and your little ones come for a bit of bread and honey?”
Berta was shocked. “Honey?” Only the monks owned beehives and she feared it was poached.
“Oh no, good Berta,” chuckled Emma. “’Tis honest honey. I bought the hive and paid the fine to have more. And I’ve a special place to show you!”
Heinrich was wide-eyed. He waited respectfully for his mother to answer, hoping with all his heart that she would say yes. He studied Emma carefully. He thought her to be softlooking and warm. She was shorter than his mother and plump and snugly. Her brown hair was braided and rolled neatly atop her head. Her brown eyes sparkled kindly from within a gentle, round face.
After a moment’s hesitation, Berta wavered. She was not quite ready to receive the woman’s kindness, though she wanted desperately to do so. At last she blurted, “Might we come on Sabbath afternoon?”
“Yes, of course.” Emma masked her disappointment. “I shall look for you on the morrow.”