Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [143]
The Jew noted Dietrich’s garb and said, with the briefest dip of his head, “Peace to my lord.”
Dietrich knew that Jews who were strict observers of their Law were forbidden to greet or to return the greeting of a Christian, and so by “my lord” the man had meant in his heart his own rabbi and not Dietrich. It was a deft stratagem by which he could observe both the innumerable laws of his tribe and the conventions of courteous discourse.
“I am Malachai ben Schlomo,” the old man said. “I seek the lands of Duke Albrecht.” His voice reeked of Spain.
“The Duke disposes a fief nearby called Niederhochwald,” he told them. “This is the road to Oberhochwald, held by the same Herr. I will take you to him, if it pleases.”
The old man brushed with his fingers, a gesture that meant to lead on, and Dietrich turned his horse toward the village. “Have you come from … Strassburg?” Dietrich asked.
“No. Regensburg.”
Dietrich turned to him in surprise. “If you seek Hapsburg lands, you have come the wrong way.”
“I took what roads I could,” the old man said to Dietrich.
Dietrich brought the Jew to Manfred’s hof, where he told his story. The blood libel had sparked riots in Bavaria, it seemed, and Malachai had been forced to flee, his home burned, his possessions plundered.
“That was infamous!” Dietrich exclaimed.
Malachai dipped his head. “I had suspected so; but my thanks for the confirmation.”
Dietrich ignored the sarcasm and Manfred, much affected by the man’s woes, bestowed sundry gifts on him and conducted him personally to the manor house in Niederhochwald, where Malachai would await a party of the Duke’s men to escort him safely across Bavaria to Vienna.
THE ONE place in Oberhochwald where the Jews would not betake themselves was inside the church of St. Catherine, so many of the Krenken had hidden themselves there. Dietrich, entering to prepare for the Mass, spied the gleaming eyes of Krenken perched among the rafters. He repaired to the sacristy and Hans and Gottfried followed. “Where are the others?” he asked them.
“At the camp,” Hans told him. “Though it is warm now, they have grown soft these past months, and find the woods less congenial than the village. We, in turn, find their company less congenial, and so have come here. The Kratzer asks when they can emerge.”
“The Jews depart tonight for the Lower Woods. Your folk may return to their labors tomorrow.”
“That pleases,” said Hans. “‘Work is the mother of forgetting.’”
“A difficult mother,” Gottfried said, “with so little food to sustain one.”
This puzzled Dietrich, the Lenten fast being long past. But Hans held a hand out to silence his companion. He hopped to the window, from which he viewed the village. “Tell me about these Jews and—their special foods.”
Gottfried had turned to the vestments and appeared to study them, but in that head-half-cocked way that showed he was also listening closely.
“I know little of Jewish foods,” Dietrich said, “save that some, like pork, they shun.”
“Much like us,” Gottfried said, but Hans again silenced him.
“Are there other foods, which they eat, but you do not?”
By the stillness of the Krenken, Dietrich knew that the question was important. Gottfried’s comment, with its implication of judaizing tendencies, troubled him. “I know of none,” he said carefully. “But they are a very different folk.”
“So different as Gottfried from me?” At Hans’s question, Gottfried turned from his inspection of the Mass vestments and flapped his soft lips.
Dietrich said, “I see no difference between you.”
“Yet his folk came once to our land and … But that is the foregone-time, and all has changed.