Heinrich brightened somewhat. “You are? But I stole a man’s property and was prideful.”
Emma sighed. “There is also the law of love. Methinks you loved that animal.”
“But I stole it.”
“Perhaps it was the only way to obey the highest law.”
Heinrich sat by the woman. “I am told I am swine dung… that I have shamed myself and my kin.”
“Good lad, none of us are perfect!” Emma chuckled.
“I wish to face the sun.”
Emma stiffened. She desperately wanted to point the lad to wisdom without breaking him of faith. She was angry that the priest had set the two virtues in opposition. “Heinrich, the Holy Church calls us to seek truth, but to find it I fear we must sometimes look higher than its spires.”
Heinrich seemed confused. “But there is more. Sometimes I feel good when I keep this vow I hate.”
Emma slowly released an understanding sigh.
“And Baldric hates me and he burned a parchment,” the eight-year-old suddenly blurted.
Emma’s face tightened and she flushed red-hot with anger. She closed her eyes for a moment, then held the boy tightly. “Heinrich, my son, I fear you’ve much to learn and shall suffer much to learn it. You’ve been shackled sooner than most. For now, hear this one thing: knowing who hates you can teach you much about yourself.”
The years turned and crept, dragged and weathered their way along for the weary, ever-somber village. To be sure, the loving sun urged some days of temperate warmth, and the promise of the seasons’ feasts bore brief and cheery respite. But for the simple peasants of Weyer, life was defined by the dreary rhythm of dull constancy and dread.
In the larger world, in 1183 Emperor Frederick Barbarossa had made his peace in Lombardy where he had been waging war against stubborn foes. With his southern lands in order he had recently returned to his wife, Beatrix, and had begun a tour of feasts throughout his realm.
In the spring of 1184, a courier advised Abbot Malchus that the emperor’s entourage had chosen to spread their great tents on the banks of the Lahn between Villmar and the castle of Runkel. Here they planned to lounge for three days in June. Barbarossa would be traveling north from his wondrous castle on the high summit of Hohenstaufen. It was rumored that he had spent many a night in the arms of a washwoman from nearby Lorch Castle, the sandstone residence of his own Staufen ancestors. So smitten was his heart, it was whispered, that he recently bequeathed the ancient home to the same mysterious woman. For the folk of Villmar’s manors, however, the pending arrival of Red Beard brought hope, if only for three days.
On a comfortable June day word quickly spread amongst the villagers that the Emperor was bathing in the Lahn—their Lahn! And more; he was traveling with a company of Norman knights who bore the bones of St. Aurelius of Rome. Beheaded by Nero centuries before, the saint was now believed to heal all manner of afflictions. One needed only to touch a bone of the relic upon one’s body, or touch one who had touched a bone, or touch a cloth that had been touched by one who had touched a bone. Such was the hope that suddenly cheered the abbot’s dreary land.
As throngs of peasants pressed the margins of the emperor’s camp, Arnold begged a priest to let him touch the saint. His scabbed and itchy skin had tormented him both day and night for years and he was, in that moment, willing to bow and scrape like the others of his kind. But the size of the crowds was great, and few were permitted entrance to the canvas shrine. For his part, the emperor took pity on the peasants waiting on bended knees and, against the pleadings of the papal legate, instructed the imperial guard to carry the relic through the growing mob. So, St. Aurelius was held high above the straining fingers of the clamoring serfs. Unable to touch the bones themselves, the crowd was content to reach for the patient soldiers whose shoulders bore the bier.
Unfortunately for Arnold, he had touched neither the bones, nor another who had touched the bones, nor one who had touched someone who had touched the bones. He returned to Weyer more miserable than when he had left. But ten-year-old Heinrich had climbed amongst the legs of his fellows and managed to thrust a hand between some knees to touch the boot of a soldier whose shoulder had brushed the bronze litter bearing the holy relic. It was good enough, the boy was certain, to claim power from the saint, and he was happy.
Heinrich had other reasons for joy, as well. His friend and secret counselor at the Magi, Brother Lukas, had urged the prior to consider the lad for the position of baker’s apprentice. To everyone’s surprise, the repentant “Scrump Worm” was accepted to the abbey’s bakery and began his career amid the scoffs and envy of his peers.