Quest of Hope(95)

Heinrich nodded. “And y’ve spinning and little Erika and the like … I understand. Marta makes others do her chores when she can. She says she’s oft sick and ought rest more. But she does keep the hovel in good order. Everything in its place, all swept and … and she likes to work at art. She makes a good likeness with charcoal and…” Heinrich wondered why he was speaking of Marta.

Katharina listened respectfully and said little until they were standing by the water’s edge. The two stared into the lively stream and were drawn, almost magically, into its cheerful, sun-tipped joy. The water danced and bubbled clean and bright like liquid crystal over smooth gemstones. “It wonders me some, Heinrich, if heaven shall have its own Laubusbach.”

Heinrich smiled. She is so very gentle, he thought. Her voice was calming, like the waters at his feet. Her flaxen hair was neatly braided and laid along the nape of her slender neck. He wanted for all the world to touch it, but his wife’s face suddenly filled his mind’s eye and he felt fresh guilt wash over him. Marta, he thought. So unhappy and hard. He stared at the lapping stream. Not wicked, just tiresome … but oh, such a heavy burden. A lump filled his throat and he turned toward Katharina. “I needs take m’leave.” His voice betrayed a despair that drew tears to Katharina’s eyes.

She smiled and nodded. “I think I shall stay a while longer. Ludwig thinks me gathering walnuts so I must fill this basket and be off… else—”

“Else what?”

Katharina said nothing.

Heinrich nodded and slowly turned away.





Two more years passed. Now twenty-eight, Heinrich was aging beyond the prime of his life. Many of his peers had already been laid in their graves; most from sickness, some by accidents or calamity.

Heinrich kept his curly hair short, as peasants ought, and obliged the new abbot’s command that servile men now be clean-shaven. He had more teeth than many and more silver than most. His fields were still well managed by Herwin and often yielded more than others. He had acquired a small piece of land adjacent to his hovel and fenced it for use as a larger kitchen garden. The baker had built a fowl coop as well. “I want eggs for the poor,” Heinrich said, and, indeed, the man was generous to those in need.

The abbot now ruling the manor was Udo of Brandenburg, a benevolent though stern monk who had every intention of wresting the abbey from the control of the archbishop and submitting it, instead, to the Holy See in Rome. Abbot Stephen had been sent to a larger abbey in the south of France. He had done well to advance the small abbey in the midst of trying times and had proven great skill in his stewardship. It was good fortune that had helped him finally pay the tardy tithe, however, for new rents now flowed to Villmar from lands gifted by the will of Lord Gottwald; lands near Oldenburg that surrounded Emma’s inheritance.

There were seventy-five brethren who received Abbot Udo in Villmar’s growing cloister. The abbey grounds had recently been enlarged with new granaries and workshops, and work had begun on a new chapel and a novice cloister. Udo was delighted to leave his duties in the larger abbey at St. Gall, for he thought in ways that often earned trouble in more prestigious places. He was convinced that his Benedictines, despite the letter of his Rule, ought mingle and minister, talk and weep with the people they served. His ideas were, it seemed, far ahead of their time, though none in Villmar chose to challenge him.

The day of Udo’s endowment was a fine and glorious Sabbath in June. At terce, the black-robed abbot raised a gracious hand over his brethren as they sang to him their psalms and prayers with comforting humility. The cloister’s priests then prayed loudly and with vigor, charging all to “keep God’s holy ways, stray not toward paths of sin, and honor the Virgin in each word and every deed.”





The feast of Lammas was met with dread as the harvest failed once again. The hay crop was poor and the blood-month of November would need to cull a larger number of stock than any wished. The grain fields were dry from drought; they would yield but a fraction of their potential at planting.

Herwin shook his head and groused, “My son and I sweat upon the fields Heinrich, but once more we’ve little to show for our labors! I shall never earn enough to buy even a virgate of m’own!” Indeed, the man’s words were true and they stabbed at Heinrich’s heart. Herwin was more deserving than most. He was hard-working, charitable, kind, and faithful. “He has never once scrumped even a fistful of grain for himself,” grumbled Heinrich. “He ought have better.”

In the larger world, the three-way contest for the empire’s crown continued. Pope Innocent III maintained his support for Otto the Welf, but rumors abounded that he was beginning to speak with some sympathy of Duke Philip’s cause. Some said he was even tempted to support Friederich’s claim due to recent doubts of Otto’s loyalty. The confusing matters of Church and empire went largely unnoticed by the peasants, however, except to the extent they raised taxes or hardened the hand of the abbey’s bailiff.