Baldric turned to Heinrich and laid his huge palm on the youth’s shoulder. “You’ve made me proud this day, nephew. Proud, indeed! No more talk of ‘Scrump Worm’ for you!”
Heinrich stared vacantly in the darkness, suddenly empty of fury and void of all joy.
“Now, help me send these bleeders to hell.” To Heinrich’s horror, the man took his mallet and began smashing the heads of the wounded. The young man vomited.
Heinrich clenched his jaw as he helped drag the fallen to the hidden cart still harnessed to Arnold’s horse. He felt dizzy and sick as each lifeless body was heaped atop the others. He trudged behind his comrades toward the deep forest with his mind’s eye still seeing Baldric’s hammer smashing the helpless wounded. A thought knifed through his heart and he groaned. And now I am a murderer!
The young man stumbled through that awful, wet night weeping. “Never again,” he swore to himself, “never again shall I raise my arm for evil!” Then, in the inky blackness of predawn, eight faceless strangers and good Telek were dumped into a shallow pit in the forests of the Laubusbach.
Nearly a year passed, and Heinrich remained burdened by the guilt of that terrible night on the Villmar road. Lord Klothar had raised quite a stir when his shepherds were “gone missing.” He was certain they had escaped to Limburg en route to their freedom and he had sent Lord Simon, page Richard, and five sergeants to search the town. It had been over a decade since the Gunnar-Jost feud had boiled to the surface, and in that time the village had a new priest, the abbey a new abbot, and the lands of the Gunnars a new lord. Few even considered the notion of foul play, and except for the whispers in Weyer and the oaths in distant Gunnar hovels, the matter of feud went largely unnoticed.
Since the time of the killings most thought Baldric had mellowed. His blue eyes flashed with less fury than they had and his drunken stupors were now more pathetic than dangerous. The thirty-four-year-old had not laid a fist on Heinrich since that night, and to some it seemed he was treating the young man with a certain grudging respect. But vengeance only satisfies for a season, and his heart was still as black as his rotting gums.
Heinrich no longer needed the shame of Baldric to weigh on his weary heart, for he had learned to add his own. He now saw himself as a thief and a murderer, a liar and a coward. Despite the encouraging words of Emma, he further accused himself of sloth and—given his happiness at baking—pride. His only relief, it seemed, was his knowledge that he had, at the very least, remained true to his vow.
Yet, unlike so many whose troubles leave them hard and bitter, the young man was still soft and tender in spirit. He was quick to see the sadness in another’s eye and suffer the sorrow of another’s plight. Though few would do the same for him, he was apt to shed a tear for man or beast and offer mercy where none was deserved.
Heinrich, now sixteen by a month and a few days, was settled in Weyer’s new bakery. Katharina’s father had done a magnificent job overseeing its construction and on the tenth day of March, Father Pious had blessed the bricks and the baker. Bread, all had been reminded, was the source of life. “Each time bread is broken,” whined Pious, “we must needs remember the Savior’s goodness to us all. ‘Tis He who provides, for He is ‘the bread of life.’”
The words inspired Heinrich, as did those of the monks who had trained him. “Boy,” said one, “it is you who brings purpose to the labors of the field! When the men sweat and grunt behind their plough, then weed and harrow, and harvest and flail, it is so you can turn their tasks to food fit to swallow!”
At the north end of the bakery, a stone wall housed two chimneys of equal size. They extended several feet into the bakery where a brick-domed oven was attached with a hood and proper vents. Access to the brick-lined oven floor was gained through a waist-high, arched opening that was closed by an iron door.
The open room itself was well ordered with proper racks and shelving. Long-handled wooden paddles stood by each oven and within convenient reach of two trestle tables and two dough-breakers. In the center of the room was a wooden dough trough for mixing, and on one end stood a rack of shelves for raising dough. Along another wall stood flour bins to hold the rye, barley, spelt, or wheat flours. On the same wall was placed a salt box, spice boxes for onions, caraway, rosemary and the like, as well as two lidded barrels for sourdough. Since flour was measured, not weighed, a variety of measuring bowls and baskets were set neatly on a shelf, along with stamps for various feast-days. A firewood room was attached to the outside of the bakery and joined by a door near the ovens.