Long before prime of Lammas, Heinrich finished shaping and stamping his loafs with doves for peace, lions for power, hearts for love, and boars for the fertility of the lord’s household. He shaped thin dough for pretzels soon to be hard baked and heavily salted. Other breads he molded or etched with crosses; some were spiced with herbs and onions, others laced with honey.
The ovens burned hot through the early morning hours and rags of water were dragged across their steaming bricks to keep proper moisture in the air. Paddles flew from shelf to oven door as the heavy dough entered the heated chamber, only to be withdrawn as browned and airy mounds of wondrous bread. Bread! Bread, that simple sustainer of life for all time past and all time to come! Bread, the symbol of the body of Jesus and the offer of hope to all! For Heinrich, the baskets of hot, fluffy, blessed bread now filling his bakery were so much more than heaps of food, but rather symbols of all that was necessary and good.
As Heinrich labored in the stifling bake-house, the village prepared to host the grandest of picnics. The millpond had been dredged months before, and its banks were repaired and sodded with thick, sheep-shorn grass. Children had shovelled away all the manure, and the sheep were chased to distant hills, leaving a clean, green carpet atop the pond’s wide banks.
The mill was located along the Laubusbach some distance north and slightly east from the village at a point where the monks thought the stream to be the most vigorous. Here a pond had been dug in hopes of using a dam to add force to the mill’s great wheel during times of drought. A roadway had been opened from the Münster road, and its surface was now made even so the special guests could arrive with a minimum of discomfort. They were expected by midmorning, sometime near the bells of terce. The abbot had excused the village from all labors of the day. He had proclaimed, “You shall serve neither demesne lands nor croft, nor strips of your own, your hands shall serve only as hosts of our guest and neighbor, Lord Klothar of Runkel.” And so the village prepared to celebrate in song and in dance, with games and sport.
Arnold, the abbey’s new woodward, was authorized to have the monks’ huntsmen provide deer and boar for the villagers as well as quarry for the guests of honor. Numbers of spits were arranged a proper distance from the mill pond so the smoke did not annoy, nor “burn the eyes of nobleman or cleric.” Firewood was gathered, tables carried from the carts sent from Villmar, and, at last, the village women thrilled to the task of tying silk streamers and pennants atop trestle tables, canopies, and standards. The village was filled with the colors of the rainbow! Yellow, red, blue, orange, and purple tents and flags snapped and fluttered in a stiff summer breeze.
For Emma, it was as if her garden had spread its magic along the wondrous, happy stream. She lifted her feet like a young girl in springtime, prancing and dancing her way between her singing neighbors, adrift in the warmth and pleasure of the sun above. At the sounds of kettle drums arriving from Runkel, Ingelbert sprang from the ground with a smile across his face as big as all the world. His happy, little eyes sparkled blue and his white hair waved in the wind like the tops of dandelions in May. The simple man took his mother’s hands in his own and the two danced in circles as flutes and horns and tambourines filled the air with joy.
Trumpets sounded and the villagers retreated to a respectful distance from the picnic grounds. From a vantage all along the roadway they marveled at the spectacle approaching them. In the fore of a long column rode Lord Klothar and his wife atop two beautiful chargers. Behind rumbled a gaily decorated horse-drawn wagon carrying the drably dressed abbot, his dour-faced prior, and several monks. The villagers strained to see the great Lord Protectors of their manor. It was they who defended them against their earthly foes and kept the Devil’s minions at bay.
More horses soon trotted by the happy folk, horses mounted by the smiling knights and squires of Runkel. The men were not dressed for battle, but were graced in colorful robes, long and tailored. Alongside the soldiers trotted a horde of hounds from all parts of Christendom. These included wiry, gray wolfhounds from Ireland, smooth, honey-colored Danish hounds, mastiffs, and a variety of mixed breeds.
Behind this group rode another column of knights, the Knights Templar. These bearded, short-haired warrior-monks were dressed in their white robes emblazoned with red crosses on each left breast. Their standard bearer trotted by carrying the Beausant—their battle-flag of two vertical black and white panels—and the villagers grew hushed.
Next followed the ladies of Runkel’s court. Adorned in all the colors of the rainbow, they were dressed in flowing silk over-gowns, rippling and folding gracefully to the ground at their dainty feet. Their hair was braided and bound by jeweled hairclasps. Most covered their heads with gauzy wimples; others with the hoods of their mantles. Atop their saddles lounged all manner of cats who glanced about the parade with aloof indifference.