The summer passed with little note and autumn’s brisk breezes soon blew fresh and clean across the village thatch. Emma, now a woman of maturing years bidding her youth a reluctant farewell, thought of this season as though it were her own. It was true, she was thirty-five, but she was still vigorous and keen. Her girth continued to broaden, as did her smile, and her creamy, pink face reflected the joy of a soul that danced to the music of songbirds. Her secret occupation, the illumination of parchment, filled her days with color, and her heart was ever warm with gratitude for her shrewd and kindly friend, Brother Lukas.
Lukas continued to charm the prior with the work of his “secret artisan.” It was a subterfuge that delighted both Lukas and Emma and brought conspiratorial laughter beneath the sheltering boughs of the Magi. It was here, too, that the good friends shared matters of heart and mind safe from judgment or consequence. Each came with either remedy or need, enlightenment or confusion. Their chatter was sometimes of simple things and sometimes of things that plumbed the depths of Creation and Creator alike.
And so, while Emma harvested the last of her gardens, carded her wool, and worked at her table, the village labored long and hard at the tasks of the season. The recently harvested grain was now threshed with long-armed flails, winnowed, fanned, cast, and gathered into baskets. All was done under the watchful eye of the hayward and his deputies, and any caught sneaking the monks’ grain into shoes, hats, or folds of clothing would be flailed themselves.
It was late on one busy day when a troop of mounted men-at-arms accompanied by the new bailiff loped into Weyer from the Villmar road. Atop the lead horse was Werner and behind him rode a youth and four Templars clothed in brown habits. These were sergeants—soldiers who had taken the Templar vows but were of lower birth and standing than the white-cloaked knights they served. Their waists were bound with cords to remind them of their vow of chastity and on their left breasts they, like all the Templars, wore an embroidered red cross. The village knew these bearded, shorthaired monks to be allies of their lord abbot, but the folk watched them warily nonetheless. Men with swords were to be feared regardless of their affiliation.
Heinrich looked from his bakery door and watched the soldiers make their way closer and closer. The baker wiped his hands and waited. As he expected, the horsemen stopped and dismounted. He offered each a wheat roll.
“Many thanks,” said the bailiff. “And sorrows for your uncle’s death.”
Heinrich nodded.
The youth stepped forward. “You are Heinrich?”
“Aye.”
The boy smiled. “You do not remember me, but I was an oblate in the monastery.”
Heinrich did remember him, for the lad was an orphan of the Gunnars—his father had been killed the night Heinrich’s own father was slain. The baker felt suddenly uncomfortable and nervous. He licked his lips and nodded. “Aye. You are some bigger than I remember.”
The blond lad smiled. “Yes, and I’ve needs to grow more if I shall take my sword as a Templar! I am Alwin, a novice page, son of a shepherd named Manfred of the Gunnars. I remember you oft came for bread when I was yet in Villmar.”
Heinrich nodded. “’Tis so, I did.”
“And you were kindly to me and the others. Remember when you would ‘drop’ loaves at the corner of the workshops for us?”
Heinrich blushed. He was never sure if that had been a sin or not but he always thought the oblates looked hungry. “I… I do remember.” Nausea rolled through Heinrich’s gut. He nodded and looked away in shame, his thoughts on the awful night on the Villmar road. Before he could speak Werner interrupted.
“Have you heard anything ’about Baldric’s death?”
Heinrich shook his head.
“Might you know of one who’d likely have him slain, other than the Gunnars?”
Heinrich reddened and looked away from Alwin. “No, sire, I’ve no thoughts on this. My uncle was quick to make enemies; it seemed in his nature.”
The officer looked hard at the young man. “Was the man at odds with any in this village?”
“I think all hated him.”
“Had he talked of poachers or highwaymen?”
Heinrich shrugged. “He oft spoke of such. He said he’d found deer bones in the forests and thought passers-through were poaching. Perhaps …”
“Aye, Brother Lukas thinks his wound that of a puncture from a crossbow. A passing poacher is likely.” Werner brightened. It was an obvious, simple solution that might just satisfy everyone. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it months before!
“I thought crossbows to be outlawed by the pope,” challenged Heinrich.