morale of the monks was low. Worse yet, the abbey’s treasury had been pilfered. Since the fiscal year of Christendom began and ended on Michaelmas—the twenty-fifth of September—the treasury had held nearly a year’s worth of revenues. Of course, the abbot dared not let the villagers know of the violation lest they lose heart. After all, the monastery was their final redoubt from Satan’s evils. If God’s fortress could be penetrated so easily, what hope would they have for themselves?
The abbot was frustrated by the theft but also extremely agitated by the parish priests’ continuing ban on remedies for sickness. Since the village priests answered to their bishop and not to him, he sent messengers to the archbishop in Mainz begging him to correct the foolishness. Mercifully, the archbishop agreed and dispatched a simple message to his priests: “Encourage your flocks to trust God by trusting in God’s people and in the tools of God’s creation.”
Immediately, Abbot Malchus summoned an herbalist skilled in modern techniques and, on a warm day in mid-October, Lukas of Saxony appeared at the abbey’s gate. Lukas was of medium height, with dark brown eyes and hair. A young, eager, and good-natured monk, he had gentle, pleasing features, was quick of wit and wise beyond his years. Lukas had been schooled at the Abbey of St. Gall and had taken a special interest in medicines and herbs. The monk had a love for life that gave joy to many, and he knew no better way to serve than to probe the wonderful mysteries of God’s good earth.
But more troubles soon loomed over the manors of the abbey. Just two days after Lukas’s arrival, the abbot received a messenger from the Archbishop of Mainz warning of danger. Apparently, the lord of nearby Mensfelden had revoked his loyalty to Emperor Barbarossa and pledged himself to a prince of Saxony who was building a treasonous alliance. Barbarossa learned of the betrayal and immediately stripped the defector of all his lands, granting them to another. The Abbey of Villmar was under the protection of the Lord of Runkel, himself a loyal subject of the emperor. It was now feared that the disenfranchised Lord of Mensfelden might send his knights into the abbey’s lands to exact revenge.
The days of October became days of vigilance and fear. The men and women of Weyer regularly soaked their roofs with buckets of water and filled the church with what stores their scanty harvest had yielded. At night they lay awake in their beds, imagining what horrors might await them by the following day.
Six-year-old Heinrich lay upon his straw mound wide-eyed and restless. He stared at the dark thatch glowing ominously in the failing light of the hearth and could not sleep. The village was nervous but quiet, until Reeve Lenard began to ease his nerves by beating his hapless dog. Heinrich squeezed his fists and pleaded with God to strike Lenard dead if the soldiers came.
“You, boy!” Baldric stormed from his bedchamber. “You are not to speak at night! Now stand where you be!”
Heinrich climbed to his feet. He knew what was coming and he gritted his teeth. Effi began to sob.
“And you, little brat! If I hear one sound, I’ll strap you too!”
Herwin rose to intervene, only to be knocked to the ground atop Axel. Baldric snatched Heinrich by the elbow and slammed him against the wall. He bent over and hissed in the boy’s ear. “You worthless scrap of dung. You’ve no value to me, so cause me more trouble and you’ll not live to see the morrow. Now take this strap like a man. If you cry out, I’ll hit you all the more!”
The man whipped the boy three times, then four, five, and six. By seven lashes, Baldric’s brave wife ran from her room and fell to her knees between her husband and the stone-faced boy. “Please, I beg you to stop. I—”
Her compassion earned her a stripe of her own, then another. She whimpered and stretched her arms toward Heinrich. The boy mouthed a polite
The abbot was frustrated by the theft but also extremely agitated by the parish priests’ continuing ban on remedies for sickness. Since the village priests answered to their bishop and not to him, he sent messengers to the archbishop in Mainz begging him to correct the foolishness. Mercifully, the archbishop agreed and dispatched a simple message to his priests: “Encourage your flocks to trust God by trusting in God’s people and in the tools of God’s creation.”
Immediately, Abbot Malchus summoned an herbalist skilled in modern techniques and, on a warm day in mid-October, Lukas of Saxony appeared at the abbey’s gate. Lukas was of medium height, with dark brown eyes and hair. A young, eager, and good-natured monk, he had gentle, pleasing features, was quick of wit and wise beyond his years. Lukas had been schooled at the Abbey of St. Gall and had taken a special interest in medicines and herbs. The monk had a love for life that gave joy to many, and he knew no better way to serve than to probe the wonderful mysteries of God’s good earth.
But more troubles soon loomed over the manors of the abbey. Just two days after Lukas’s arrival, the abbot received a messenger from the Archbishop of Mainz warning of danger. Apparently, the lord of nearby Mensfelden had revoked his loyalty to Emperor Barbarossa and pledged himself to a prince of Saxony who was building a treasonous alliance. Barbarossa learned of the betrayal and immediately stripped the defector of all his lands, granting them to another. The Abbey of Villmar was under the protection of the Lord of Runkel, himself a loyal subject of the emperor. It was now feared that the disenfranchised Lord of Mensfelden might send his knights into the abbey’s lands to exact revenge.
The days of October became days of vigilance and fear. The men and women of Weyer regularly soaked their roofs with buckets of water and filled the church with what stores their scanty harvest had yielded. At night they lay awake in their beds, imagining what horrors might await them by the following day.
Six-year-old Heinrich lay upon his straw mound wide-eyed and restless. He stared at the dark thatch glowing ominously in the failing light of the hearth and could not sleep. The village was nervous but quiet, until Reeve Lenard began to ease his nerves by beating his hapless dog. Heinrich squeezed his fists and pleaded with God to strike Lenard dead if the soldiers came.
“You, boy!” Baldric stormed from his bedchamber. “You are not to speak at night! Now stand where you be!”
Heinrich climbed to his feet. He knew what was coming and he gritted his teeth. Effi began to sob.
“And you, little brat! If I hear one sound, I’ll strap you too!”
Herwin rose to intervene, only to be knocked to the ground atop Axel. Baldric snatched Heinrich by the elbow and slammed him against the wall. He bent over and hissed in the boy’s ear. “You worthless scrap of dung. You’ve no value to me, so cause me more trouble and you’ll not live to see the morrow. Now take this strap like a man. If you cry out, I’ll hit you all the more!”
The man whipped the boy three times, then four, five, and six. By seven lashes, Baldric’s brave wife ran from her room and fell to her knees between her husband and the stone-faced boy. “Please, I beg you to stop. I—”
Her compassion earned her a stripe of her own, then another. She whimpered and stretched her arms toward Heinrich. The boy mouthed a polite
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