The death of a friend is a loss rarely recovered and those privileged to know and love Ingelbert recognized the beautiful soul contained by his imperfect vessel. Heinrich returned to his flood-damaged bakery deeply grieved, but determined to continue. The monks had sent extra flour from their granary but encouraged the bakers of each village to stretch their goods with sawdust and chaff—an act punishable by heavy fines or flogging at any other time. Those villagers who had secret handgrinders were granted pardon if they would give them to the bailiff or his deputies. Several surfaced in Weyer and these were put to quick use by the miller for grinding what grains had survived in the upper reaches of his storehouses.
The young Gunnar named Alwin had come to aid the village’s recovery. Weeks before, Alwin had taken his vows as a Knight Templar. In so doing he asked for a new name to confirm his change in identity. He was to be called Brother Blasius, a name chosen by his marshal in memory of an Armenian martyr who had lived nearly nine hundred years earlier. Given his lowly birth, many were displeased when he was conferred as a full knight and not merely a sergeant. However, his piety and uncommon spiritual gifts had inspired his superiors to drape a white robe with the Order’s distinctive red cross over his broad shoulders.
Blasius brought a quiet strength and calm to the distressed village. The sixteen-year-old spent hours each day on his knees weeping and praying for the folk, and his sincerity and devotion did not go unnoticed. As the peasants huddled for their portion of bread each morning, they found great comfort in his earnest prayers and kind words.
Another knight that caught Heinrich’s attention was an elderly man in service to Lord Klothar. The man was heavily bearded, and his long, gray hair hung loose across his shoulders. He was broad-shouldered and tall, lean and strong, but had uncommonly sad and compassionate eyes.
“Good knight,” apologized the baker one morning, “I’ve but a bit of barley bread for you.”
“Aye, lad … shall do well enough,” he answered.
Heinrich hesitated. “I… I am called Heinrich.”
The man looked at the baker squarely. “Yes, so I have been told. I am Gottwald, vassal to Klothar.”
“You’ve lands by Runkel?”
The knight paused. “Nay, lad. M’lands lie elsewhere, but I journey to Runkel from time to time as duty requires.”
Heinrich nodded. “Forgive me, sire, but I cannot help but wonder what interest brings you to our suffering village?”
Gottwald’s face turned to stone. “I’ve interest in any who suffers plight!”
Heinrich knew the conversation had ended.
The warm sunshine of May gently coaxed green from the drying ruts of Weyer. Sprouts of grass quickly covered the village paths, and crofts now burst with springtime shoots and blooms. The fields surrounding the village were alive with grain and with workmen laboring to weed and harrow their precious furrows. Despite the land’s return to life, Emma now found smiling more difficult, especially as she kneaded the earth to plant her flowers. Her hut had been repaired, but not her heart.
On Midsummer’s morning, a happy Effi climbed into a horse-drawn cart to leave for her wedding in Frankfurt. Though she longed for life with her beloved merchant, it was a bittersweet farewell, indeed. As she hugged her brother tightly she cast one final look toward the distant, brown-stoned church of Weyer and the familiar comfort of her lifelong home. Heinrich wept openly and embraced his little sister. The ever-faithful Herwin and his household followed, in turn, until, at the bells of terce, the young woman finally turned her back on those she loved and faced her future in the bustling city by the Rhine.
Summer came and went and autumn leaves soon drifted atop the village thatch. It was the first day of October when Arnold, Richard, and Heinrich stood at eve-tide with hands wrapped round tankards of brown cider. Arnold had grown ever more fearful, traveling the woodland in terror of the demon with whom he had bargained for his soul. He had kept his vows: he had surrendered his penny bag to Brother Lukas and had breathed not one word of his encounter to a single soul. But the man was fearful, not repentant, and he was bitter as well. He remained certain that the Gunnars had murdered his brother Baldric and he lived day and night imagining how he might avenge the deed.
Richard suffered his own miseries as well. Life with his new bride was as unhappy as he had anticipated. Richard was his father’s son, however, so rage became a balm to his fear. He spent his few idle hours conspiring with his father to make the world pay for their miseries.
Heinrich heard little of their plots and cared less. He had tasted vengeance and it was not sweet to him. He had sworn to himself that he’d never again take another’s life in the cause of wrong. Besides, he had more pressing matters to consider—for his wife was in labor with another child.