Oddly, he still drew some pleasure from his sufferings, a sinister, captivating comfort that kept him chained beneath the millstones grinding at his soul. Perhaps his submission to the order granted him a greater comfort than did craning for the sun, and perhaps it was pride in penance that gave him pleasure in his pain. Either way, the young man had lost sight of most of Emma’s dreams.
Heinrich and Marta stood stone-faced as Dietrich and Baldric clasped hands. For Dietrich, the gain was good, for his future son-in-law was a baker and would have the means to care for him should he ever lose the mill. Heinrich would also soon inherit his father’s land, a half-hide of good yield, and he had coins as well.
It was formally agreed that the wedding would be delayed until Sigmund could be trusted to help with the affairs at the mill. Marta had kept the reckoning of measured grains and had quickly grasped the cunning ploys of the miller. Sigmund, on the other hand, was slow of mind and apt to err in the wrong favor. However, in the hopes of Sigmund’s eventual success, Dietrich set the date for St. Michael’s in the year following.
The matter settled, each turned away, save Marta’s uncle Gunter who presented the girl a gift of a clay bowl he had fashioned for her with his own hands. Marta smiled halfheartedly, then cast an icy glare at Heinrich.
Heinrich returned to his bakery in a mood none had seen before. He kicked open the door, flung resting doughs against the walls, and broke his long paddle across the table. He tossed baskets in all directions and stomped the monks’ stamps to pieces on the hard, clay floor. When his tantrum was over, the flour-caked baker collapsed into a corner and wept.
It was a warm day in May when Sigmund delivered the miller’s heavy-laden donkey to the bakery. Heinrich greeted him with a grunt and pointed to the rope and pulley. Sigmund was one whose countenance was as horrid as his soul. His eyes were usually runny and yellow; his face covered with sores and pimples that crowded the bumps and scars of those that went before. None who knew him dared trust him with even a lentil. Sigmund grinned and motioned for the baker to come close. “I’ve something to tell you, Heinrich.”
Heinrich sighed.
“Something you’ll be wanting to know!” The man smiled and picked at the gaps in what few teeth remained.
Heinrich grimaced. “Well, go on.”
“You know that mason’s wench, Katharina?”
Heinrich tensed. He had just walked with her on the Sabbath past. They had talked with Emma in her gardens and danced in the “ankleblooms” of the meadow. He remembered the shame he felt. “Ja… what of her?”
“She’s to be wed next year, like you.” Sigmund grinned knowingly.
Heinrich felt sick. He turned his head. No, it cannot be! he groaned within himself. “To whom?”
Sigmund raised a brow. “She’s been pledged to a freeman’s son, Ludwig, son of dead Mattias the old forester.”
“Ludwig!” exclaimed Heinrich. “B-but he’s a brute. He has no heart… he’s—”
“He’s to be her husband and you’re not,” laughed Sigmund.
Heinrich leaned against the bakery wall and shuddered in disbelief. The thought of Ludwig with his cherished Katharina was more than he could bear. The young man ran away, sprinting toward the comforting shade of his beloved Magi in the cool wood by the waters of the Laubusbach.
It had been nearly two and one-half years since Ingelbert had suffered trial in the castle of Lord Tomas at Mensfelden. Since then, Tomas had become ever-more sullen and dark; he raged about his castle sending his knights after every peasant’s rumor. It was an obsession that Arnold calculated could be of some advantage in solving another mystery—the shadows of All Souls’ eve.
For years Arnold had hidden in wait, determined to snag the spirit that hovered by Emma’s door at midnight, but in every case he was seized by fear, or chased by beasts, and was now banished from all dabbling in such things. “The shadows,” claimed Father Pious, “may indeed be devils at her door, but to interfere risks hex and curse upon us all. Better to leave the woman be, and her monstrous son, else you risk your own soul.” Arnold had heeded the priest’s advice but with great frustration, for the man was drawn to secrets like a wasp to an eave. Perhaps, thought he, Lord Tornas might press after Ingelbert once again, and why not on All Souls’ eve, only two months hence?
Lord Tomas, however, wanted no part of Ingelbert. His priests assured him that the combat was sanctified and God would surely be displeased if he ignored His just decree. But Arnold’s whispers of spirits and forces in the forests played havoc with the man. Night after night he sat in his large hall facing the roaring hearth with sword in hand. He cursed the lifeless faces of quarry taken from his woodlands; bear and wolf, fox and deer, all prey once walking free amidst the timbers of his realm. The grieving man stared and drank his ale, railing against his priests and knights alike until late one September evening he stood and faced his vassals. “The witch! Of course, the witch!” he shouted. “Why have none of you accused the cursed witch?”