Quest of Hope: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

rock on the scaffold. Father was below.”
    Berta lovingly wrapped hers arms about her husband’s shoulders and wept for him as tears rolled down his ruddy cheeks. Kurt said nothing but leaned into his wife’s embrace like a small boy.
    Arnold stood in front of the floor hearth and stared into its small fire. He was weary from months of hauling harvest goods over rutted roads. His father had kept order to their crowded hut and he knew things would now be different. He’d have to face his nagging Gisela without help and deal with Baldric’s wife, Hildrun, as well. Hildrun was with child and growing more unbearable every day. He groaned and wished both mother and infant might soon join Jost.
    Jost was buried in Weyer’s churchyard on a warm afternoon. His life had been better than that of other shepherds. He had lived to dream more than many and had achieved more than most. His shrewdness had shaped a legacy that would reach beyond his own time, and, after all, what is ever left behind other than one’s effect? Jost had often dreamt of his descendants toasting his good name, and he had spent his last days believing himself a good and worthy man.
    The bereaved family huddled by the open grave. Their common sorrow found comfort in its sharing, and the grief of the circle was a healing balm. Kurt sighed and stroked Heinrich’s ginger-colored hair. The little one was plump and pink, oblivious to the cause of tears on his father’s face. Finally, Berta took her husband’s hand and the family slowly turned away, leaving Jost behind.
    October brought both beauty and additional melancholy. Sieghild moved into Kurt’s hovel to escape the miseries of life with her other brothers. Then, as the oaks turned crimson and the beech released their golden leaves, part of Arnold’s cursed wish bore true, for poor Hildrun woke one night in terror to find her newborn gasping for air. Less than a fortnight old, little Ida had been early and jaundiced. It was a long night of suffering and no finger-tastes of thyme could spell her coughs, nor sage-balm ease her fever. On All Hallows’ morn Baldric watered the earth with a tear of his own. The tiny infant was washed and wrapped in a little shroud, then laid beside her grandfather in the shadow of the church.

     
    On the morning after All Souls’ Day, just past the bells of terce, the monks in Villmar’s abbey set their tasks aside and were gathering to pray. A black-hooded stranger peered through the cloister’s jarred gate into the abbey grounds and waited impatiently for prayers to end. At his side stood a weary donkey laden with a humble assortment of baggage. Atop the haphazard collection of satchels and rolled blankets were tied a crude, three-legged stool, a well-wrapped table of some sort, and an iron candle stand.
    The man was a wandering monk in desperate search of a community that might feed and house him, or even welcome him into their fellowship. Many such monks drifted the countryside and were usually viewed with suspicion if not contempt. These gyrovoagi were seen as an ever-increasing menace; gluttonous parasites consuming the good will and hospitality of their charitable brethren. In his day, St. Benedict viewed them with particular fury and prescribed a remedy in his Rule. This monk was not unaware of his likely predicament, but he hoped the parchment held tightly in his grip might open both gate and hearts.
    Beside the brother and his exhausted beast stood a young woman and her infant of one year. Despite her fatigue and the dampness of the cold November morning, the woman smiled cheerfully and caressed the wisps of white hair blowing from under her baby’s wrap. She wore a dark, hooded peasants’ cloak that fell a bit short of her ankle-length gown, exposing a pair of good, black shoes. She turned her face toward the sun to feel its warmth against her round, pink cheeks. “Ah, and you, my precious Ingelbert, can you see the blue? Does the sun not touch your tender