To Jost’s right stood his second born, Baldric, his favored son and the pride of his life. Baldric was about a year younger than Kurt and very different from his brother, indeed. He was hard-hearted, blustery, and ambitious. A barrel-chested, brutish, heavy-limbed young man of seventeen, he swaggered about the village daring any to challenge him. He stood a head taller than most men and could crush the whole of a large apple in his hand. His brown hair curled atop a broad head, and his dark blue eyes were set narrowly, giving him the look of an angry bear.
To Jost’s left stood Arnold, the third born. Almost two years younger than Kurt, he was broad-shouldered and lean, dark-eyed, and cunning. Though only sixteen, he suffered the weight of life like a cantankerous village elder. Brooding, covetous, and mean-spirited, Arnold spent each waking moment calculating a way out of his position as a cart-hauler for the monks. Most thought he should be grateful for his good fortune, but he was one who sought the greatest gain for the least possible effort. His ability to avoid the labor of the fields was renowned and some claimed they had never seen a single bead of sweat drip from his furrowed brow. The youth’s chief pleasure was eavesdropping on the manor, for he had become a gatherer of whispers and a merchant of secrets.
“No spills,” pleaded Berta. “Kurt worked a long day to buy this from the monks.” She served the men, then turned to Sieghild, Jost’s fourth born and Kurt’s only sister. At fourteen, Sieghild was blonde and fair skinned, lanky and plain, a bit stubborn, like her father, but also compassionate like her deceased mother. Normally quiet and reserved, at times she was overcome by fits of fury that the village women murmured were nothing less than possessions by devils.
“You … girl,” grunted Jost. “You’ll not be drinking more than a small share. We men ‘ave claim to the next draught and we want plenty to go ‘round.” Jost looked with contempt at his daughter. “Nearly fifteen and no offers … ‘tis no wonder. Now, where’s m’little Heinz? Let me give m’blessing to the little Christian!”
“Berta,” warned Sieghild, “the last time he blessed an infant he passed wind in the poor girl’s cradle!”
Berta immediately stepped between her father-in-law and the helpless infant sleeping peacefully in the straw-filled cradle. “Perhaps it’d be best that you be sticking only your face in there!”
The hovel roared with laughter.
“Well said!” boomed Baldric.
Jost shrugged innocently. “Ach, I was only about to put some good sense into the boy.”
Berta grumbled beneath her breath and turned toward one of the iron kettles filled with steaming water and a basket of mixed grain. She began preparing her Mus—a porridge-like mush—by adding several fists of grain to the water along with a few pinches of precious salt. For the next quarter hour she stirred the thickening staple with a long, wooden spoon while the household chattered quietly. Finally she handed the spoon to Sieghild and lifted her crying son from his cradle. “Kurt?” she called. “The blessing for Heinrich?”
Kurt was bristling at some remark of Baldric when he heard his wife’s words. He nodded and took his son awkwardly into his calloused hands. “Aye,” he answered. The young father cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly as the circle quieted. He held the suddenly quiet, wide-eyed infant at arms’ length. “Heinz—” Kurt looked at his wife and remembered her dislike of nicknames. “Heinrich of Weyer.” He paused as he struggled to remember the words he had rehearsed for weeks. Finally he began. “Ah, ja. I’ve a good blessing for you, lad.” He cleared his throat, looked deeply into baby Heinrich’s eyes, and spoke clearly.
For this circle of kin I vow
To stand by you and humbly bow
To God above and blood below,
To join our hands against all foes.
I pray you courage and arms as steel,
A mind of wisdom, a heart that feels.
Though battles may find you, may each one be won,
Your eyes turned toward heaven and lit by the sun.
The room was silent. Kurt was not known for using words well and the blessing had the ring of a poet. Baldric belched and wiped a woollen sleeve across his face. “Ha! What kind of talk was that?” He turned toward Arnold and guffawed, “Sounds like the ramblings of a mad monk!”
Kurt handed Heinrich to Sieghild. “Just because you’d be the family fool…”
Baldric leapt to his feet and swung at Kurt, landing his monstrous fist squarely on the young man’s chin. Kurt collapsed atop a mound of straw against the far wall. Then, amidst the approving cheers and roars of Jost and Arnold, Kurt climbed to his feet and charged Baldric, bellowing like a raging bull. Baldric was the size of a seasoned knight and tossed his older brother aside with ease. Kurt, no easy prey for most, crashed against the trestle table, upsetting Berta’s wheat rolls and honey. Baldric seized Kurt by the throat as he raised his hands for quarter. Baldric had won every boyhood brawl, and this day would be no exception.