Quest of Hope(73)

“Jost was shrewd enough to have it written, sealed, and witnessed on parchment so no abbot could ever deny it.”

“But Baldric burned it. It would seem to be an empty hope.”

“Well, young man, your mother was a bit timid, but she was no fool. She stumbled on m’quills and inks one summer afternoon and she put me in debt for her silence. Ha, the blessed woman had a good eye for a worthy scheme!” Emma chuckled. “Your Mutti brought me the abbot’s scroll one night not long before she died. She had me vow on m’very soul to save this for you and present it at your first son’s baptism. And she wanted me to make a forgery to leave for Baldric at her death. Your mother was wise to Baldric’s black heart. So I did—and a good one at that!”

Heinrich was stunned. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes and he wrapped the woman’s shoulders with his one free arm. He looked at his son. “You, lad, are heir to a promise! You shall sit under the lindens with the princelings and with what brothers may yet come! Ah, blessed Emma, my wonderful Butterfly Frau!”

Tears rolled down the joyful woman’s face as she stood by the boy she had loved as her own now grown. She turned her face to heaven in thanksgiving for the glorious moment. “Ah, dear Heinrich,” she said quietly, “things are not always as they seem … for sometimes they are so much better!”





In the year of 1194 the feast of Lammas would be grand, or so it was hoped. The summer had been warm and dry, but not so in any extreme. The harvest was sure to be bountiful, for the green rye was chest high and the yellow barley was drooping heavy with seed-heads longing for the flail. The swineherds were healthy for once and the oxen void of footrot, lump jaw, scours, or bloat. The sheep had been profligate and the goats were yielding milk with ease. It seemed the witch’s curse had finally lifted.

For Heinrich, Lammas was to be a great test of his skill. He had been told by the reeve that Lord Klothar would be enjoying the feast by the new mill pond in the company of the abbot, the prior, guests from lands afar, and a legate from Rome! It would be the duty of Weyer’s baker to provide the loaves, the buns, the twists, and the dainties for ail to enjoy.

Dietrich was flabbergasted that the monks chose him to grind their grain over the abbey’s miller and began scrubbing his millstone of all residue of the inferior rye or barley chaff left behind from the villagers’ last grind. However, he was as suspicious as he was flattered by the monks’ decision and feared any error of his part. He wanted to give them no cause to take his mill away.

Dietrich was no saint. He knew of the conspiracies he and his son had plotted against their fellows and was in terror that God might now call him to account. He had insisted on a private confession of all sins and had farther pleaded for Fathers Johannes and Pious to climb about the inner workings of his mighty, churning giant and bless each part with the sign of the cross. And when the weary priests had descended from the last oaken post, he begged them to offer one more blessing. “Please, good fathers,” he lamented. “Please bless my ears that I may proper hear the stone sing the grind, and bless m’thumbs that I may proper feel the grist is good.”

Heinrich was also anxious and his belly fluttered at every thought of the occasion. He did not fear what Dietrich feared. After all, he was no cheat; he had kept his vows, was not slothful at task, nor truant from Mass. In fact, he now attended three Sabbath services weekly as the priests urged of late. So, for the baker the day-at-hand was free of risk, other than to his reputation!

Lukas brought Heinrich rosemary, sage, a few pinches of thyme, and a bushel of onions. These were added to the bakery spice boxes along with some caraway and sundry herbs the baker had grown fond of. Sourdoughs were offered by the kitchener some fortnight before, and fresh salt had recently arrived from Ulm. The priests blessed the man’s ovens and his water, his paddles and troughs, and the baker of Weyer was left to his business.

Several days prior he had finished baking the large squares of bread to be used atop wooden trenchers as edible bowls for the day’s fare. These were best when hard and stale. Other breads were preferred soft and fresh, however, and their baking would keep him busy right to the time of the meal’s blessing.

Early in the morning of Lammas Eve, Heinrich hurried the village bake and chased his faithful patrons out of his door with their day’s bread. He turned to his helpers and barked orders to clean the shelves and ovens of “every bit of common rye dust.” Shirtless and sweating, the men scoured the hot brick ovens, the troughs and paddles, and every other tool so that all would be ready for the precious wheat flour. Then they worked furiously to knead and rise, then knead the dough again for the ovens. Late in the night, the exhausted men set the formed, rising dough upon clean shelves for the next day.