Quest of Hope(43)

The new abbot had learned the Rule quickly and rose in stature among his humble brethren—a paradox that earned the cynical eye of his superiors. However, as his peers feared, it seemed his former life had, indeed, reflected advantage into his new one, and he had been sent first to St. Bertin as prior, and now to Villmar as abbot.

Abbot Stephen addressed his brethren with grave humility and serious deportment. His reputation had preceded his arrival on Holy Saturday, the twenty-eighth of March, 1186, and the sixty monks and twelve novices gathered on the gradines of their new chapter house listened with respect. He instructed them on the virtues of the Rule, of the need for discipline, of the virtue of prudence, the necessity of industry, the vice of sloth, and the wrath of God. When he had finished he washed their feet, prayed over each head, and blessed every soul with a psalm.

On the Monday following, the new abbot invited Prior Paulus to his ample table. As he spread honey on fresh-baked wheat bread, Stephen shared God’s will for the aging prior. “Good Paulus,” he began, “you have served Almighty God humbly and with great effect.”

Paulus bowed, outwardly modest, but secretly pleased.

“I am told by the archbishop that you have filled the treasury of God’s kingdom here in Villmar.”

Again, Paulus bowed.

“It is my wish, good brother, that you shall serve us yet.”

Paulus smiled, relieved and encouraged.

Stephen paused. He leaned into his chair comfortably and stroked his beard. “Brother … might I ask your age?”

Paulus was suddenly uneasy. “Though I am uncertain, brother Stephen, I do believe I am near to fifty and five.”

“Hmm. And what of your health?”

Paulus became nervous. “I… I am fit of mind and body… if I may say so humbly.” The man bowed his head.

“Brother, I have taken you before God’s throne and have asked His wisdom for thy welfare.” Stephen laid a hand firmly on the prior’s shoulder. “And He has spoken.”

Paulus waited, now anxious. He closed his eyes.

“You can, this very day, rejoice! You shall retire thyself to the dormitory for our blessed aged ones. Go with God’s blessing, my brother.”





Early April was soggy and muddy as usual. The footpaths of the damp village were rutted and puddled, the road to Villmar riddled with washouts and trenches. The sky seemed eternally gray and the barren trees were still stripped of life, save the stubborn buds now swelling on their dreary branches.

In Weyer, the foretokens of spring had not yet nudged the folk to joy. Though the thrush had begun to sing in the wood and swallows danced along the wind, the peasants of the village were huddled in fear. It was not because the neighboring borders of Mensfelden had been granted to Tomas of Goslar. None knew of this vassal and none cared, so long as he had no lust for the abbey’s land. Indeed, the leagues and alliances of lords and kings meant little unless they brought the sword.

Instead, the simple people of the village trembled in dread of a plague that had swept upon them in the weeks of Lent. Many now suffered with fever, racking coughs, and horrible eruptions of the skin. Dozens had died despite the heroic efforts of Brother Lukas. The monk was, himself, under the weight of reprimand, for his superior had forbidden him to serve beyond the monastery’s walls. Nevertheless, the man had been determined to suffer what penance would be later required in order to give what comfort he could to body and to soul. “Scrofula,” he muttered in a quaking prayer. “May God have mercy on us all.”

The households of Arnold and Baldric were spared the plague—or at least the agonies it savaged upon others. Though none of them were bedbound, each was required to shoulder the burden of their village fellows and perform both their own labors as well as those of the stricken. Herwin and Telek spent long, difficult days ploughing the stubborn earth and sowing the precious seed.

The women also strained beneath the additional burden. Gisela and Varina spent their days bent in half, planting demesne peas with sharp sticks, churning sheep milk for cheese, or carding wool. At day’s end they hoed, manured, and planted their own gardens; and as charity demanded, they did the same for the gardens of their neighbors. The reward would be green rows of peas and beans, garlic, leeks, lentils, cabbage, onions, and the like—all desperately needed food in the months to come.

For his part, twelve-year-old Heinrich rose at matins each day and rode to Villmar with the brewer to begin his work in the bakery. Then, before the bells of prime, he returned to Weyer with the peasants’ bread that he sold in the commons for pennies, or for eggs, fowl, or herbs. By terce, with three hours of sunlight already gone, he presented the fees to Reeve Lenard who, in turn, held them safe until the next morning’s ride to the abbey. Then, though having already worked nine hours, the lad joined Herwin and Telek in the fields.