Eifelheim

XVI. March, 1349 Lent

With March had come the New Year. Serfs and villagers trimmed grapevines and cut posts for fences damaged by the winter’s snow. Since the truce imposed by Herr Manfred, humors had cooled, and many Krenken returned to their former guest-houses in the village. Hans, Gottfried, and a few others encamped by the shipwreck. The weather was warming, and Zimmerman and his nephews had built a shed for them heated by a stove of flagstones. This enabled them to work more hours on the repairs and, not incidently, minimize encounters with their recent foes. Gerlach Jaeger, who often ranged far hunting wolves, reported that, at eventide, he would sometimes spy them attempting their odd leaping dance “in concert.”

“They ain’t real good at it,” the hunter replied. “They forget, and then each of ’em just does what he wants.”

Dietrich often visited their camp, and he and Hans would walk the now well-marked forest paths while discussing natural philosophy. The trees had begun to green again, and a few impatient flowers spread their arms to pray for bees. Hans wore a sheepskin vest over leatherhose, his particular krenkish clothes having long since worn out.

Dietrich explained that, although the French began the Year of the Lord already at Christmastide, the Germans took the Incarnation as the proper time. The civil year began, naturally, in January. Hans could not understand such inconstancy. “On Krenkheim,” he said, “is not only the year standard, but so too the hour of the day and even to one part in two hundreds of thousands of the day.”

“The Kratzer divided your hour into a gross of minutes, and each minute into a gross of eyeblinks. What task can ever be done so quickly as to need an ‘eye-blink’ to mark it?”

“’Eye-blink’ is your term. It ‘signifies’ nothing to us.”

Could a man see humour in golden faceted globes; laughter in horny lips? Above them, he heard a colored woodpecker rap against a branch. Hans clacked back at it, as if answering, then laughed.

“We find such intervals useful,” he continued, “for measuring the properties of the ‘elektronik sea,’ whose… tides… rise and fall countless times during an eye-blink.”

“Ach so,” Dietrich said, “the waves that ripple in no medium. What is by you this ‘eyeblink’?”

“I must consult the Heinzelmännchen.” The two proceeded in silence beneath a choir of woodleafsingers and acorn-jays. Dietrich stooped by a patch of woods-masters by the trail. He plucked one of the pale pink flowers and held it close to his eye-glasses. The underground parts made a good red dye and Theresia could use the remainder in her remedies, save that she would not walk the Great Woods so long as the Krenken were there. Reason enough for Dietrich to dig a few up for her and place them in his scrip.

“An eyeblink,” Hans announced at last, “is two thousand and seven hunded and four myriads of the ripples of unseeable light from… a particular substance which you do not know.”

Dietrich stared at the Krenk for a moment before the absurdity overwhelmed him, and he burst into laughter.

As they returned to the camp, Hans asked after the Kratzer. Dietrich told him of his many quodlibets with the philosopher over points of natural philosophy, but Hans interrupted. “Why has he not come to our camp?”

Dietrich studied his companion. “Perhaps he will. He complains of weakness.”

Hans suddenly stilled and Dietrich, thinking he had seen something in the forest, stopped also and listened. “What is it?”

“I fear we hold the Lenten fast too seriously.”

Dietrich said, “Lent is a demanding season. We await the Lord’s resurrection. But the Kratzer is not baptized; so why does he also fast?”

“From fellowship. We find comfort in that.” More, Hans would not say, but passed the remainder of the walk in silence.

At the camp, Ilse Krenkerin approached Dietrich. “Is it true, pastor, that those who swear fealty to your lord-from-the-skies will live again?”

“Doch,” Dietrich assured her. “Their spirits live forever in the communion of saints, to be reuinited with their bodies on the Last Day.”

“And your lord-from-the-sky is a being of energia, and so can find the energia of my Gerd and replace it in his body?”

“Ach. Gerd. Were you then his wife?”

“Not yet, though we spoke of finding a ‹no equivalent› on our return. He was of the crew and I was but a pilgrim taking passage, but he seemed so… so commanding… in his ship’s livery, and goodly in form. It was for my sake — that I need not drink the alchemist’s broth — that he counterspoke the Herr Gschert and joined the heretics. If your sky-lord will reunite us in a new life, I would swear my fealty also to him.”

Dietrich said nothing of Gerd’s unbaptized state. He was unsure of the correct reasoning. The law of love held that no man could be condemned for lacking beliefs he had never had opportunity to learn; but it was true also that only through Jesus could a man enter heaven. Perhaps Gerd would be admitted to that limb of heaven reserved for the virtuous pagans, a place of perfect natural happiness. But if so, and Ilse accepted the Christ, they would not be reunited. It was not an easy question, but he promised to arrange instruction for her and for two others in the camp who also asked.

He was pleased at their interest, and curious also what “the alchemist’s broth” might be.

To raise a junker to knighthood was a costly matter, since honor required celebrations worthy of the occasion: festivities, banquets, gifts, a competition of minnesingers, and bohorts, the ‘playing at lances.’ So lords often raised several junkers at once to share the costs. When Manfred announced that he would raise Eugen, Thierry agreed to raise his Imein, as well.

The Zimmermans constructed a stand of benches in the meadow from which folk could watch the contests, and the sounds of hammer and saw drowned the grumbling at the extra work. A serf named Adolfus was so wroth at the additional work that he ran off, either to Freiburg or to the new towns in the wild East. His property escheated to Manfred, who bestowed the manse in halves to Hans and Gottfried.

“The land is servile,” Dietrich warned the new tenants, “so you’ll owe hand-service for it to Manfred, but you yourselves are free tenants.” He suggested they engage Volkmar Bauer to assume the plowing and reaping in return for half-shares in the harvest. Volkmar complained naturally that he was hard-pressed to work his own manses and those he owed the Herr; but he was a forethoughtful man and his kin might some day need additional furlongs. So arrangements were made by which divers obligations of the strips were rented to others, and the terms were witnessed by the schultheiss and written into the weistümer. While the transaction did not win Volkmar’s love for the Krenken, it did still the vogt’s more overt hostilities.

On the day before the knighting, which was the Third Sunday in Lent, the junkers fasted from dawn to dusk. Then, breaking fast at sunset, they put on robes of the purest white English wool and spent a vigil-night on their knees in the chapel. Eugen’s wound was healing, as the Savoyard had promised, though the scar was prominent and his smile would always have a sinister curl to it. Imein, who had fought creditably but without a wound, regarded the scar with something approaching envy.

“I much regret the meanness of the festivities,” Manfred confessed to Dietrich that evening as he inspected the viewing stands. “Eugen deserves more, but we must yet conceal our krenkish vassals. Einhardt will be much vexed that I did not invite him to play at lances with us.”

Einhardt was the imperial knight by Stag’s Leap. “I suspect the old man has heard rumors by now,” Dietrich suggested, “but is too courteous to indulge his curiosity.”

“That pleases. My daughter dislikes bathing him because he smells so. He seldom uses soap, though he was taught since childhood proper bathing. ‘French vanities!’ he says. I suspect he triumphed on the battle field because his opponents ran from his stink.” Manfred threw his head back and laughed.

“Mine Herr,” said Dietrich, “I pray you not tilt your head… Among the Krenk it is a mark of submission — and an invitation to the superior to bite the neck in twain.”

Manfred’s eyebrows shot up. “Is’t so! I’d thought them laughing.”

“Each man sees what his own experience has taught him. You did not punish Grosswald for disturbing the peace. To us, forebearance is a virtue; but to them it signifies weakness.”

“Hah.” Manfred walked a few more steps with his hands clasped behind the small of his back. Then he turned and inclined his head. “Hans’ gesture at Falcon Rock, when he spared his enemy… Did that signify also weakness?”

“Mine Herr, I know not; but his ways are not ours.”

“They must learn our ways, if they are to stay on my manor.”

“If they stay. Their desperation to regain their own country is what drove Hans to his disobedience.”

Manfred considered him thoughtfully. “But why such desperation? A man might long for his homeland, for family or lovers or…, or wife, but longing eventually dies. Most longing.”

On the morrow, the junkers emerged from the chapel and were bathed to symbolize their cleanliness, after which they were dressed in linen undergarments, tunics brocaded with gold thread, silk stockings and embellished shoes. Crimson cloaks were hung about their shoulders, so that the assembly gasped with delight when they re-entered the chapel. The Krenken painted many pictures with their fotografia.

The chaplain celebrated the Mass, while Dietrich and brother Joachim sang Media vita in morte sumus in choir. The choice was meet; for while the words reminded the young men that death lurked always in their chosen life, the tonalities of the fourth mode lessened the choleric yellow bile, which a warrior must ever restrain.

After the Mass came the schwerleite. Eugen and Imein placed their swords upon the altar and promised their services to God. In his homily, Father Rudolf cautioned them to imitate the knights of olden days. “In these degenerate times, knights turn against the anointed of the Lord and lay waste the patrimony of the Cross, despoil the ‘paupers of Christ,’ oppress the wretched, and satisfy their own desires with the pain of others. They dishonor their calling and replace their duty to fight with lust for booty and innocent virgins. You must demonstrate instead your honor, loyalty, justice, generosity, and especially your balance — avoiding all excesses. Honor priests, protect the poor, and punish criminals, as in days of old.”

Dietrich wondered whether the knights of olden times had been as pure and upstanding as they were now remembered. Perhaps Roland and Ruodlieb and Arthur had been men no better or worse than Manfred — or von Falkenstein. And yet, was it not a good thing to seek the ideal, regardless how poorly it may have been attained in practice; to imitate the ideal Roland and not the fallible man he may have been?

Father Rudolf blessed the two swords. Then Manfred dressed Eugen in a double-stitched shirt of linked mail, shoes of iron ringlets, a topfhelm with windows, and a shield bearing Eugen’s new device: a white rose crossed by a thistle. Once Imein was similarly accoutered by Thierry and both were kneeling before the altar, Manfred took up each man’s sword in turn and laid the accolade upon his shoulder. Formerly, this had been done with a hand-slap across the face, but this new French custom had lately become popular in the Germanies.

Afterward, a banquet was laid in the great hall. An ox roasted upon a spit outside the manor house, and serfs hurried in and out with great platters bearing haunches and sausages. Laid out were pepper cabbage, candied songbirds baked into pies, eggs pickled in red beets, baked ham in black vinegar sauce, grated sweet beets and carrots combined with raisins. The iced cream and sobets were also drizzled with the black vinegar sauce. Feasting was accompanied by juggling, mimes, and song. Peter Minnesinger performed a passage from Hartman von Aue’s Erec describing the rage of his fellow knights against a count who had beaten his young wife. Dietrich wondered if Manfred had ordered the passage as a gentle reminder to his daughter’s betrothed.

The bohorts took place in the afternoon. The contenders and their ladies progressed about the field while the spectators admired their colorful surcoats and livery. Eugen was especially remarked, for he was well-liked. The villagers hooted Imein lustily when the two newly raised knights took their positions at opposite ends of the field.

Dietrich watched with Max and Hans from the stands, distant enough that the horses did not smell the Krenk. “We played a game much like this at Paris,” Dietrich remarked.

“What!” said Max. “You? At lances?”

“No, it was the game of obligations. One student was assigned to be the interlocutor and another to be the respondent. The interlocutor’s task in the debate was to trap the respondent into maintaining a contradiction. The respondent’s task was to avoid the traps. It helped us develop nimble wits.”

Max grunted. “Hah, hardly as fine a display as this!” He swept his arm around the curial grounds.

“Ach, but the church disapproves of such displays,” Dietrich said.

Hans clacked his mandibles. “Small wonder! To risk life for sport!”

“It’s not that,” Dietrich told him. “It’s the display of vanity and pride that is objectionable.”

“You will thank God for all the vanity and pride,” said Max, “when you must trust your lives and property to the skills they practice here.”

“It is to their skills that our lives and properties are usually forfeit,” Dietrich said. “I think folk may one day be thankful more for the skills that scholars of natural philosophy practice.”

Kunigund, who was queen of love and beauty for the contest, tossed her kerchief, and the two knights spurred their mounts with a shout, leveling their lances as they closed. Imein cleverly deflected Eugen’s point with a feat of his shield, and caught the other full on with his own. Eugen flew over his horse’s rump and lay stunned on the field until the attendants carried him off.

Kunigund rose to go to him, but Manfred restrained her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Bwa! We Krenken might enjoy this game,” said Hans, “if the blows were not pulled.”

“Times change,” Max said. “In the old days, the crowd would shout, ‘Be cheerful!’ and applaud any well-turned feat. Imein did good work with his shield in that passage. Very prettily done. But now, you hear them yell. ‘Stab and attack!’” Max suited gesture to his words. “’Poke out his eyes!’ ‘Chop off his foot!’”

Hans waved his arm across the stands. “They cried no such thing.”

Max leaned forward to watch Thierry and Ranaulf enter the lists. “No, but elsewhere. Here, chivalry is not yet forgotten.”

That evening, Dietrich ventured into the Lesser Woods behind Church Hill, gathering certain roots and cuttings, the moon and he being both in the proper frame for such a task. A few herbs also had answered to the spring warmth, although the butterheads would not bloom for several months. Some plants he left whole. Others, he sliced and boiled to make a paste. Still others, he ground to powder with a pestle and tied into muslin bags for infusions. He would make of these medicines a gift to Theresia. The unexpected offering would delight her and she would invite him inside to talk and they could restore the life they had had together.

Dietrich prepared the salves and ungeants in the kitchen outbuilding, while Joachim prepared also dinner, and the Kratzer warmed himself by the fire. The Kratzer questioned Dietrich closely about the attributes of each specimen, and Dietrich told him that this was a purgative and that was a simple against fevers. The krenkish philosopher picked up a root that Dietrich had not yet washed. “Our alchemist,” he said, “considered both too much and too little the future. He never proofed these substances, only those you offered us as food. Perhaps in one of these would have lurked our salvation.”

“Your salvation,” Dietrich told him, “lies in the Bread and in the Wine.”

“Ja,” said the Kratzer, still studying root. “But bread of what grain? Wine brewed of which fruit? Ach, had Arnold persevered, he might have found the answer in this unpromising wood.”

“One doubts so,” said Dietrich. “That is mandrake, and a poison.”

“As we will all learn,” Joachim said from the kettle, “if you let it into my stew.”

“A poison,” said the Kratzer.

Dietrich spoke. “Doch. I have lately learned that it induces sleep and a relief from pain.”

“Yet, that which poisons you may sustain us,” the Kratzer said. “Arnold should have continued his proofings. Our physician has not his skill at alchemy.”

“What was it Arnold sought?”

The Kratzer rubbed his forearms slowly. “Some thing to sustain us until our salvation.”

“The Word of God, then,” said Joachim from the fireplace.

“Our daily bread,” said the Kratzer.

Dietrich thought the concordance too neat. The words he heard the Kratzer speak were only those that the Heinzelmännchen had matched to krenkish clicks and humms. “What means ‘salvation’ to you?” he asked the creature.

“That we should be taken from this world to the next, and so to our home beyond the stars, when your lord-from-the-sky at last on Easter comes.”

“Faith is vain,” said Joachim, “without charity. You must follow the Way that is Jesus — shelter the homeless, clothe the naked, comfort the afflicted, feed the hungry -.”

“Ach!” cried the Kratzer. “Could I but feed the hungry! Yet, there is food which nourishes and that which merely fills.” He rubbed his forearms slowly together, a sound like a grinding millstone and hopped to the doorway, the upper half of which was open to the late afternoon, and stared out toward the Lesser Wood. “I have never -,” he said after a silence. “Your word is ‘wed,’ though among us it wants three to accomplish. I have never wed, but there are colleagues and nest-brothers that I would see once more, and now I never shall.”

“Three!” said Joachim.

The Kratzer hesitated a moment and his mandibles parted, as if on the edge of speech; then he said. “In our language, the terms would mean the ‘sower,’ the ‘eggmaker,’ and the… The Heinzelmännchen does not overset the word. Call it the ‘wet nurse,’ though it nurses before the birth. Bwa-wa-wa! We are truly ‘der,’ ‘die,’ and ‘das’! To watch one’s niggling crawl into the nurse’s pouch is said to be a profoundly moving experience… Ach, I have grown too soon old, and such matters are for the young. Mwa-waa. Never more will I see my nest-brothers.”

“You must not lose hope,” said Joachim.

The Kratzer turned his great yellow eyes on the monk. “Hope! One of your ‘inner words.’ I know what you signify by ‘swine’ or ‘palfrey’ or ‘schloss,’ but what is ‘hope’?”

“When all else is lost,” Joachim told him, “it is the one thing you may keep.”

At Theresia’s cottage, Dietrich’s knock was answered first by silence, then by a furtive movement by the shutters, then by the upper door opening. Awkwardly, Dietrich pulled from his scrip the bag of medicines he had prepared and extended them to the woman who had been the only daughter in his life. “Here,” he said. “I made these for you. One is a sleep-inducement made of mandrake for which some instruction is required.”

Theresia did not take the bag. “What temptation is this? I am no witch, to deal in poisons.”

“’The dose makes the poison.’ You know that. I taught you.”

“Who gave you this poison? The demons?”

“No, it was the Savoyard physician who treated Eugen.” Only a chirurgeon, but Dietrich did not mention that. He shook the bag. “Take it, please.”

“Which is the poison? I won’t touch it.”

Dietrich took the sponge he had infused with the Savoyard’s mixture.

“I wish you hadn’t made it. You never dealt in poison before they came.”

“It was the Savoyard, I told you.”

“He was only their instrument. Oh, father, I pray every day that you break free of their spell. I have asked for help for you.”

Dietrich felt cold. “Who have you asked?”

Theresia took the remainder of the bag from him. “I remember when I saw you first,” she said. “I could never remember, but now I do. I was very small, and you seemed enormous. Your face was all blackened from smoke and people were screaming. There was a red beard… Not yours, but…” She shook her head. “You snatched me over your shoulder and said, ‘Come with me.’” She began to close the upper door, but Dietrich held it back.

“I thought we could talk.”

“About what?” And she closed the door firmly.

Dietrich stood silently before the cottage. “About… anything,” he whispered. He had longed so for her smile. She had always delighted in his gifts of medicines. Oh, father! the child cried in his memories. I do love you so!

“And I love you,” he said aloud. But if the door heard, it did not answer, and Dietrich had barely dried his tears before he reached the parsonage at the top of the hill.

Shortly before vespers on Holy Thursday, a herald arrived from Strassburg bearing a parcel sealed with ribbons and with the episcopal arms impressed into bright red wax. The herald found Dietrich in the church preparing for the morrow’s Mass of the Pre-sanctified, the only day of the year when no Consecration was prayed. Warned by the farspeaker, Hans and the other Christian Krenken, who were helping drape the crosses and statues in black, had leapt into the rafters and hidden themselves in the shadows above.

Dietrich inspected the seals and saw no sign of tampering. He hefted it, as if its weight would reveal its matter. That someone as august as Berthold II knew his name frightened him beyond measure. “Know you what this touches upon?” he asked the herald.

But the man denied knowledge and departed, though with many a wary glance at his surroundings. Joachim, who was also helping in the church, said, “I think rumors have reached the bishop’s ears. That man was sent to deliver a message, but he was also told to keep his eyes open.”

The Krenken dropped to the flagstones and resumed their work with the shrouds. Gottfried, last to drop, said, “Shall we give him something to see?” Then he departed, laughing.

Dietrich slit the seal on the packet and unfolded it. “What is it?” Joachim asked.

It was an indictment from the episcopal court that he had baptized demons. If there were any surprise in the contents, it was that they had been so long in coming.

It came suddenly upon Dietrich that it was on this night, at about this time of day, that the Son of Man had been betrayed by one of his own. Would they come for him tonight, as well? No, he had a month’s grace to respond.

He read the document a second time, but the words had not changed.

“A month’s grace,” said Manfred when Dietrich came to his scriptorium with the news.

“By law,” Dietrich answered. “And I must provide a list of my enemies, so the investigating magistrate may decide whether the charges have been laid in malice. There must be at least two witnesses before a judge will act. The bill does not name them, which is unusual.”

Manfred, sitting in his curule chair at his desk, curled his fingers under his chin. “So. How long is your enemy list?”

“Mine Herr, I did not believe I had any.”

Manfred nodded toward the indictment. “You have at least two. By Catherine’s wheel, you are naïve for a priest. I can name a dozen here in the village.”

Dietrich thought irresistibly of those who had objected to Hans’ baptism, who feared the Krenken beyond reason. The punishments for false witness were severe. A father who had accused his son of heresy, for spite over the lad’s disobedience, had been placed in the stocks, where he had died. Dietrich went to the slit window and sucked in the evening air. Firelight glowed in cottage windows in the valley below. The forest was a rustling black under a twinkling sky.

How could he name her, and deliver her to such a fate?