“So, you heard us talking?” he asked softly as they reached their cottage.
She nodded. “Who?”
“A spice merchant named Heinfried. He’s already had two wives, but neither could bear him children.”
Madlen could barely choke out a short sentence. “I’ve never heard of him. Does he live in Heidelberg?”
Kilian sighed. “No. He lives in Heilbronn and only passes through here on business. He wants to take you there with him.”
“When?”
“In two weeks.”
“So soon?” Madlen said, her eyes wide. “Did he pay well?”
“Very well. I don’t think we can talk Father out of it.”
“How old is he?” Madlen’s voice broke as a chill ran through her body. Kilian looked at her sympathetically but dodged the question.
“I can’t remember.”
She imagined what her future husband looked like: a fat pig, probably older than her father. She shuddered. Kilian opened the door, and she followed him inside, then set down the basket. She immediately started to chop vegetables. Her hands cut mechanically through the cabbage; she could hardly see through the tears in her eyes.
When her father finally came in, the soup was ready. Without a word, she filled up the plates with food and placed them on the table. During the meal, nobody said anything. It was as if Madlen was already gone.
Chapter Two
“It’s the same old tale.” Clara sounded angry, yet resigned. “The fat rich man takes a fresh young maiden to bed without a thought to her soul.” She settled into a chair.
Madlen could no longer hold back her tears. “I don’t want to leave home, but what can I do? My father needs the money. As soon as the spice merchant, this Heinfried fellow comes, he’ll pay my father. And he’ll pay him again if I give him a son.”
“Heinfried.” Clara rolled her eyes. “I wish I had the money to pay your father, but I just don’t.”
Madlen grabbed Clara’s hand. “I know. Anyway, it won’t be so terrible. But I’ll miss you and Kilian desperately.” She hesitated. “And my father, too,” she added softly.
“You’re so brave, sweet girl.” Clara patted Madlen’s hand tenderly. “I think of you as my own daughter.”
Madlen hesitated to ask the next question. She often wondered why Clara had never married or had children of her own, like most women her age. She had to be at least forty, the age that fertility started to wane. She’d known Clara since she was a little girl, because her little cottage wasn’t far from home. She couldn’t think of a time when Clara wasn’t in her life, although she knew that the midwife had moved here when Madlen was six or seven years old. Even then, Madlen had been immediately attracted to Clara’s amiable nature. In many ways, she was the mother that Madlen had always wanted. Clara had even helped her when she had her first bleed. But Madlen had never dared to ask Clara why she lived alone. Since the midwife had brought it up, Madlen mustered the courage to ask, “Why didn’t you ever have your own children?”
Clara lifted her head and looked at Madlen sadly. “I did have a daughter once. A wonderful girl. She would be two years older than you are now.”
“What happened?” Madlen whispered, imagining a gruesome story.
Clara swallowed hard. “It’s been almost eleven years now. An eternity. Even so, I can remember everything exactly as it happened.” She took a deep breath. “My husband’s name was Jobst. He struck out to chop and gather wood despite the freezing air. It was the coldest winter I can remember. At that time, we lived in Ulm. Have you ever been there?”
“No, but I’ve heard the name before.”
“It’s more than five days away from here,” Clara continued. “Our home was right next to the river. My Marie was with me in the cottage. We baked together until she fell asleep. She was four years old at the time. I laid her down on her bed.” Clara paused. Madlen silently held her hand. The pain of the memory was written all over her friend’s face. “Suddenly, somebody knocked very hard at the door, and I answered to find my next-door neighbor. Her husband had hurt himself very badly, and she begged me to help her. I threw on my cloak, wrote Jobst a note, and followed her to their barn. There, I was met with a horrific scene. Fritz had slipped from the top of the ladder onto the hard frozen ground. His head was bleeding profusely, and his whole face was swollen and distorted. We did everything possible to stem the bleeding, but he finally closed his eyes, never to open them again.” Clara’s hand shook. “I went back to my cottage, but Jobst was nowhere in sight. The ax was stuck in the post, so I thought he was probably back in the house with Marie. But he wasn’t.”