faith restored the curse shall fail! Now on the morning Mass I shall grant absolution for all confessed sins. Your souls will be forgiven in heaven, but I cannot grant plenary indulgence for the temporal penalty still due until you perform penance for your weakness.
“So hear me: none are to eat honey, all must swear to charity; you needs pay another tithe by Sabbath day. One of each family must walk the village paths barefoot and without a cloak. By these penances we shall begin to overcome.”
The folk were desperate and the young priest’s confidence gave them hope. At the bells of nones groups of penitent villagers hurried toward the roadway. Among them were Baldric’s bruised wife, Hedda, as well as Reeve Lenard with his huge dog in tow. Heinrich took his sister by the hand, and the two walked to the end of the frozen footpath to stare at the huddled column trudging obediently round the village like the Hebrews circling Jericho. But in Weyer there were no trumpets and there was no victory; only shivering peasants tramping barefoot through the snow.
By Holy Week much had changed in Weyer. The child with failing sight was now completely blind, and nearly two dozen others had entered their graves. Most had died obediently—dutifully refusing to use the herbs offered by a kind Creation. The swineherd was decimated as well as the sheepfold, more from neglect than by the curse.
Among those lost to that terrible season was Father Gregor. He had fallen ill with the grippe just two days after the village penance had begun. Some said he ought not have walked barefoot with the others. But he was anxious to prove his mettle in the presence of a rival, and he led his little flock like the good shepherd he claimed to be. He had taken no herbs to ease his distress, though he was sorely tempted. “To whom much is given, much is required,” had scolded Johannes. Gregor agreed and had poured his cup of coltsfoot upon the floor. So the man died faithful to the notions of Johannes—if not to the voice of Wisdom.
To the great joy of Baldric, another taken by the scourge was the woodward. For him, the witch’s hex seemed a blessing for he was quickly appointed to the dead man’s position and would now rule all the forests of Villmar’s lands. Another was lost as well. Abbot Boniface had become ill, stricken with a cramping colic and consumption. Overcome with pain, he lost all enthusiasm for the ban on remedies. An oblate—a lad named Pious—had smuggled jugs of barley water and raspberry vinegar from the infirmer for the abbot’s relief. Upon Boniface’s death the lad confessed to all, and the disappointed brothers were sure the hand of God had stricken the hapless abbot for his unfaithfulness.
In his place came Brother Malchus. The monk had taken his vows in Lorch, the home of Emperor Barbarossa. Malchus had been a knight by another name in the service of the emperor and had lost his left ear in a battle in Palestine. Believing himself spared to serve God in new ways, he had joined the monastery in Lorch where the novice-master gave him his name. There he proved himself to be a man of wisdom, true humility, and deeply committed to the Rule of Benedict. He secretly resented the control the Archbishop of Mainz exercised over the abbey at Villmar, especially since most abbots now answered directly to papal legates. It would be his hope to bring the liberation of the abbey.
Malchus arrived on Holy Thursday and immediately summoned Prior Paulus to review the spiritual and temporal condition of his new stewardship. Before long he imposed stricter fasts on his brethren and ordered new aggressive plans for village bakeries, breweries, and mills. “And more,” he said. “We’ve must look to a new system of planting like we’ve done in Swabia. Gather the village reeves and haywards and we’ll set upon the task.”
The summer proved to be a grave disappointment for the new abbot. The harvest was a disaster and
“So hear me: none are to eat honey, all must swear to charity; you needs pay another tithe by Sabbath day. One of each family must walk the village paths barefoot and without a cloak. By these penances we shall begin to overcome.”
The folk were desperate and the young priest’s confidence gave them hope. At the bells of nones groups of penitent villagers hurried toward the roadway. Among them were Baldric’s bruised wife, Hedda, as well as Reeve Lenard with his huge dog in tow. Heinrich took his sister by the hand, and the two walked to the end of the frozen footpath to stare at the huddled column trudging obediently round the village like the Hebrews circling Jericho. But in Weyer there were no trumpets and there was no victory; only shivering peasants tramping barefoot through the snow.
By Holy Week much had changed in Weyer. The child with failing sight was now completely blind, and nearly two dozen others had entered their graves. Most had died obediently—dutifully refusing to use the herbs offered by a kind Creation. The swineherd was decimated as well as the sheepfold, more from neglect than by the curse.
Among those lost to that terrible season was Father Gregor. He had fallen ill with the grippe just two days after the village penance had begun. Some said he ought not have walked barefoot with the others. But he was anxious to prove his mettle in the presence of a rival, and he led his little flock like the good shepherd he claimed to be. He had taken no herbs to ease his distress, though he was sorely tempted. “To whom much is given, much is required,” had scolded Johannes. Gregor agreed and had poured his cup of coltsfoot upon the floor. So the man died faithful to the notions of Johannes—if not to the voice of Wisdom.
To the great joy of Baldric, another taken by the scourge was the woodward. For him, the witch’s hex seemed a blessing for he was quickly appointed to the dead man’s position and would now rule all the forests of Villmar’s lands. Another was lost as well. Abbot Boniface had become ill, stricken with a cramping colic and consumption. Overcome with pain, he lost all enthusiasm for the ban on remedies. An oblate—a lad named Pious—had smuggled jugs of barley water and raspberry vinegar from the infirmer for the abbot’s relief. Upon Boniface’s death the lad confessed to all, and the disappointed brothers were sure the hand of God had stricken the hapless abbot for his unfaithfulness.
In his place came Brother Malchus. The monk had taken his vows in Lorch, the home of Emperor Barbarossa. Malchus had been a knight by another name in the service of the emperor and had lost his left ear in a battle in Palestine. Believing himself spared to serve God in new ways, he had joined the monastery in Lorch where the novice-master gave him his name. There he proved himself to be a man of wisdom, true humility, and deeply committed to the Rule of Benedict. He secretly resented the control the Archbishop of Mainz exercised over the abbey at Villmar, especially since most abbots now answered directly to papal legates. It would be his hope to bring the liberation of the abbey.
Malchus arrived on Holy Thursday and immediately summoned Prior Paulus to review the spiritual and temporal condition of his new stewardship. Before long he imposed stricter fasts on his brethren and ordered new aggressive plans for village bakeries, breweries, and mills. “And more,” he said. “We’ve must look to a new system of planting like we’ve done in Swabia. Gather the village reeves and haywards and we’ll set upon the task.”
The summer proved to be a grave disappointment for the new abbot. The harvest was a disaster and
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