Quest of Hope(9)

Beside the brother and his exhausted beast stood a young woman and her infant of one year. Despite her fatigue and the dampness of the cold November morning, the woman smiled cheerfully and caressed the wisps of white hair blowing from under her baby’s wrap. She wore a dark, hooded peasants’ cloak that fell a bit short of her ankle-length gown, exposing a pair of good, black shoes. She turned her face toward the sun to feel its warmth against her round, pink cheeks. “Ah, and you, my precious Ingelbert, can you see the blue? Does the sun not touch your tender skin?” She hugged the little one. “Brother, you do have the letter?”

The man nodded.

“And you’d be sure they’d be a willing host?”

The man shrugged.

“‘Tis a good day for m’son and me.”

The monk nodded.

“But I do hope they shall honor the archbishop’s request. He made no demands for this and—”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Ah, well there’s oft truth in that for me. Methinks little Ingelbert is a good reminder of that.” She sighed.

“Those who plough evil and those who sow trouble reap it.” The monk stared at her with a quality of scorn that would bend most others’ eyes to the ground.

Instead of cowering however, the stout woman turned her warm brown eyes directly into his. “Aye, ‘tis so, indeed, Brother Martin, and it was so very kind of you to remind me.”

Martin studied the woman. He noticed that her dress was common, but her face belied a quality of intelligence that had made him suspicious since they met in Mainz two days before. Brother Martin had been told nothing of her past, of her status, or of what purpose she now stood at this gate. He held his tongue and turned his back.

The greeter, a fresh-faced novice, opened the gate and welcomed the three. “Deo gratias, thanks be to God. Blessings, frater. How might I serve you?”

Martin stared at the boy and held a scroll just beyond the novice’s reach. He remained mute and waited for the lad to calculate his duty. Dolt, he thought.

The nervous boy brightened. “Ah, you must be bound under a vow … is it for silence?” he asked.

Martin rolled his eyes. Pathetic fool!

“Oh, what an unwise and sinful question!” the novice stammered. “Had you answered, I’d be guilty of your sin and I’d be an accessory to temptation!” He fell on his knees.

The woman chuckled. “Ah, good lad. Stand to your feet! Ha, ha! You’ve brought me a good laugh and y’needs never repent of that! What’d your name be?”

“Brother Oskar.”

“Well, little brother, perhaps you ought fetch the porter.”

The boy stood up and rushed away. In a few minutes he returned, blushing and stuttering. Brother Egidius, the abbey’s porter, was a bit shamefaced himself. The rule of his order required the porter to be a sensible man, not given to wanderings from his post. He thought a quick trot to the latrine after prayers would go unnoticed. “Thanks be to God, Brother. I’m told you’d be bound to a vow of silence?”

Martin shook his head. “I must speak only the words of Scripture or those of saints.”

“Ah, I see,” answered Egidius. “Perhaps I ought fetch the guest-master.”

Martin shook his head again. “Many seek an audience with a ruler.” He stared intently as if to drive some point into the man’s mind. Egidius and Oskar looked at each other and scratched their heads.

“Forgive me, brothers,” interjected the woman. “I am Emma of Quedlinburg and this is my son, Ingelbert. The archbishop’s clerk sent this shaveling as my escort from Mainz with a message for your abbot. Methinks him a bit tiresome, but—”

“A fool’s mouth is his undoing!” scolded Martin.

Egidius grunted and sent Oskar to find the prior. “Brother, remain outside the gate while I find you both a cool drink. I shan’t be more than a moment.” The porter lifted his habit and ran to the nearby kitchen. He rushed back with two tankards of beer.

“Let us be thankful, and so worship God,” offered Martin.

“Aye, to Him all praises we give,” muttered Egidius.

As the monks prayed, Emma drained her tankard and then graciously offered her thanks.

The porter smiled and set a tender hand on the infant. “Your child has no father?”

“Every child has a father,” answered Emma.

“Ah, well said! I should have asked if he has a father to care for him.”

Emma thought for a moment before answering. “None with the liberty to enjoy the lad’s happy laughter, nor one free to hold him when he cries.”

Egidius lifted the boy from his mother’s arms and looked at him carefully. The baby’s eyes were deep-set and blue, close together and not in proportion to one another nor rightly aligned along his little nose. The monk tilted the boy’s face upward and took note of the child’s chin. It was far too short, leaving the upper lip protruding severely over the lower. The boy’s large ears sprouted unevenly from a sloping head and were bent forward toward his face. The monk said nothing but gently blew the boy’s ghost-white hair and brushed the lad’s pale white skin with a calloused finger. “Ah, a fine boy, Frau Emma, fine, indeed.”