Pilgrims of Promise (29 page)

“Who commands this town?” roared a knight. The man was the surly, unkempt commander of several companies.

“I do,” answered Dorothea firmly.

The soldiers below laughed. “As tender a wisp I’ve ne’er seen, m’fair lady,” the knight said as he bent forward in his saddle. “I am Sir Roland von Esselbach. My men are tired and hungry. Would that we might dine in thy halls this very morn.”

“I doubt your manners are equal to the task,” declared the lady.

Insulted, Sir Roland growled. “Open the gates, wench, and we’ll soon see of what stuff you’re made!”

Dorothea’s eyes shifted from Roland to the Templar a few mounts to one side. The monk seemed agitated. The woman placed her hands on her hips. “Who of you is in command?”

Sir Roland pounded his chest. “I am.”

“You command the Templars?”

“Aye.”

The goad showed immediate promise. The Templar barked at Roland, “We serve the pope, y’fool, not the likes of you!”

For a few moments, it appeared that a sudden rift had divided the army. The Templar knights and a few of their lesser, brown-habited brethren formed a knot in defiance of Sir Roland. “You’ve no authority over us in this or any other matter.”

“I am ordered by the emperor against all foes of the empire. This is my army and—”

“I declare this army now to be an army of the Holy Church!”

Dorothea held her breath.

Sir Roland spat. He would not raise his sword against the Templars and risk the vendetta of their brethren from all over Christendom. “Ach, blood is blood for me. I am in command of m’men—”

“And I am in command of you!” The Templar nudged his stallion close to the knight’s and faced him squarely. “Enough of this, then. We’ve fugitives inside to find. Take from the town what you will, but the Church seeks justice for our slain and an end to heresy. Do not interfere again.”

Defeated, Roland said nothing more as the Templar turned his face toward the disappointed Dorothea staring at him from above. “Woman, I am Brother Cyrill, commander of this army. Four of our brethren have been murdered, and a prisoner has escaped. We must search this town for him and for the heretics that are said to be harbored here.”

“By whose authority do you come?”

A loud chorus of jeers rose from the ranks. “We owe no woman an answer! Open the gates or we shall burn them down!”

Sir Roland pointed his sword at the lady. “Did y’not hear us? We’ll burn yer cursed town to the ground.”

Brother Cyrill shouted for silence. “Woman, we come in the name of the Holy Church, and I command you to open this gate.”

“My father, Lord Bernard, is lord of this town and lands surrounding. He is en route with men-at-arms even as we speak. In his name I grant none entrance.”

Olten’s guardsmen shifted in their places. They looked nervously at their lord’s daughter. “M’lady,” whispered the town’s captain, “we are at half strength, and some are sick with fever. With what we’ve left, we cannot resist them.”

Looking at the man with sudden contempt, Dorothea stiffened. “This town is not yet chartered. It is the property of my father, and you are his subject. Your duty, sir, is to do as I say, even unto death!”

Chastened, the soldier backed away. Dorothea looked across the thatched rooftops and leaning buildings of her town. Not a soul was in sight.
It is hopeless
, she thought.
Would that our whole army were here; we’d have enough men to make a fight of it!

Unwilling to yield easily, she took a sword from a nearby guardsman and pointed it directly at Brother Cyrill. “Hear me, warrior-monk. ‘Let all things be done in decency and in order.’ Lord Bernard is a vassal to the abbot of St. Gall. When you deliver the seal of the abbot, you may search this town. Until then, Brother Templar, be content that you have not bled on Olten’s soil.”

Dorothea’s captain of the guard went wobbly. Pale and shaking, he whispered, “My lady? What are you—” They were his final words on earth, for a crossbowman shot an oak dart squarely into the man’s chest, and he toppled into the courtyard below.

Shocked, Dorothea whirled about and cursed the Templar and his army. “Murderous army of hell! Serpents and demons, may you all be cursed to the Pit!” The brave young woman threw her sword from the wall with a loud cry.

“Open the gate!” came the angry reply.

Defeated, Dorothea nodded to her gatekeepers. In moments the lock beam was lifted away, and the heavy timber gates were pulled apart. Horsemen and infantry roared through the opening and descended on Olten in a wild rage. Like angry hellions, the soldiers surged across the courtyard knocking over carts and merchants’ tables, spilling racks of wares, and trampling cages of fowl. Homes and shops were immediately looted as terrified townsfolk crouched ever deeper in the shadowed corners of their homes.

On the wall, Dorothea waited for the enemy. She ordered her guards to drop all weapons as footmen scrambled up the stairways to the wall walk. At last, with her face lifted proudly, she yielded to the grasping hands of two large knights, who dragged her down to the courtyard. Thrown to the ground at Cyrill’s feet, she fought back tears of outrage. She climbed to her feet and brushed the dirt off her silk gown. Her chin now trembled slightly, and her fair face had lost its prior flush of anger. Nevertheless, she stood erect and proud. “Whom do you seek?” she asked flatly.

The Templar stroked his short beard and shook his head. He muttered a few words to the other white-robed knight at his side, who galloped away. Then he shook his head at the disgusting display around him. Laughing footmen were carrying screaming women into vacant sheds, and knights were filling sacks with silver goblets and sundry treasures. The inns were crowded with men happy to slake their thirsts with fresh ale and red wine.

At last, he turned to Dorothea. “Brave woman, look about you. I am ashamed of the wanton vice and excess I see. These are Roland’s men. Unlike mine, they are under no vows. Do you see there, those horsemen in brown robes behind their commander in white? They are our lesser brethren, Templars nonetheless. They’ll not touch the women nor steal for themselves. No, my lady, be thankful we are here.”

“Thankful? I think not! If you were truly in command, you’d spare this carnage.”

“I see. Well, perhaps it is carnage or perhaps it is justice. Like the locusts of Egypt, they may be the mighty hands of God’s wrath.” His mood darkened and his voice now rose. “You are harboring heretics, doubtlessly the murderers of four of my brothers—four Christian soldiers with whom I served our Lord in Palestine.”

“We harbor no one.”

The man took a deep, restraining breath. He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his sword and watched a footman slay an old man in the doorway of a shop. “Before this day ends, we shall have our justice. Either you surrender those you are hiding, or I shall order the entire town slaughtered and burned.”

Cyrill’s tone was matter-of-fact, and his ultimatum was delivered with such seeming familiarity that the woman’s spine tingled with terror. “Now, hear me well. We are told of youths dressed in black. They were seen freeing our horses in Burgdorf and setting fire to that town.”

“And?” Dorothea’s mind whirled.

The Templar set his jaw. “And we are certain that they are those who later murdered my four friends and set our captive free.”

“Children bettered the swords of four mighty Templars? Methinks not.”

The knight reddened. “Silence, wench!” He slapped Dorothea hard across her face, knocking her to the ground. “We’ve also been told of Cathari venturing to and from this town on their flight eastward. The man who was rescued is a traitorous Templar who served their cause! Does it not seem odd that he is rescued near the very place the Cathari are known to hide? By God and the Holy Mother, I can almost smell them! We shall find them and slay them under thine own eyes! Now where are they?” he roared.

Dorothea fell silent. Her heart raced, for she knew that if either Pieter’s company or the Cathari were discovered, she’d suffer death as well.
Oh, Pieter, stay deep in the cellar!
she thought. Before she could answer, the town’s priest came scurrying toward the two of them. “Brother Templar!” he cried.

Dorothea chilled. Aside from her innkeeper and a few servants, this meddlesome churchman was the only one to know of Wil’s company. One of her guards had spotted him prowling the gardens by the hall’s windows during breakfast.
If he speaks,
she thought,
all is lost.

In the dim light of a single yellow candle, the travelers stared at the heavy shadows of the cellar. Each sat deep in private thought, wrestling with conflicting urges of both fear and duty. Wil leaned against his bride with one hand clutched firmly around Emmanuel. At last, the young man broke the silence. He kissed fair Frieda and stood determinedly. “Dorothea needs me on the wall!” he blurted. “This town has treated us well. I’ll not let it fall without raising my hand for it.”

“Aye, lad! I am with you!” cried Heinrich. The baker turned to the others. “Pieter, Maria, Frieda … remain here with any other who wishes to stay.”

Frieda rose. “I’ll not stay—”

Wil put his hand on his wife’s arm. “
Ja
! You will stay. I demand it. You must keep Maria safe.”

Frieda stiffened. She would not give in easily and pulled away. “I go where you go!”

“No! Obey me in this, wife! I need you to stay by Maria.”

“What shall we do?” asked Otto.

Wil and Heinrich looked at each other as Alwin joined them. “No, this will not do. Listen well. The Templars demand justice at all cost. They will burn the whole of Christendom to find me and those who rescued me. I must surrender myself and quickly. I’ll confess all deeds and swear by the Holy Virgin that it was Otto’s men who saved me and left me here to heal.” With that, the man abruptly shuffled through the damp cellar toward the squat ladder amidst shocked protests from his comrades.

“No!” cried Heinrich. “They’ll hang you on the square afore terce!”

“
Ja
, and then spare the town. You’ll not dissuade me again.” Alwin reached for a rung. “I am not the warrior I once was. I even forgot my sword this morning!”

Pieter stood and leaned heavily on his staff as he called after the man. “Good Alwin, one moment. Please, my son. Hanging you shall not stay their swords against those who have given you shelter.”

“It will save some.”

Pieter nodded. “Perhaps. But I should also say that your story shan’t hold under scrutiny. What of Burgdorf?”

Alwin hesitated. “I’ll… I’ll be ready for that. No, you cannot change my mind in this. It is the only way.”

Pieter sighed. “Then I ask you this: would you pause just a brief moment so that I might share the holy doctrines, hear thy confession, and pray over thy soul? It would give me peace.”

Alwin hesitated.

“Please,” urged Heinrich. “My friend, I beg you. At least do this.”

Alwin released the rung and turned toward Pieter. The old man’s craggy face looked sad yet consoling; Heinrich’s, familiar and assuring. It would be comforting to be alone under his hanging hood with these images as his final companions. He nodded. “Very well, but be brief, Father Pieter.”

“Good, my son.” Pieter reached for the candle and lifted it to cast a soft yellow light about the dusty room. He eyed a clear spot on the floor at its very center, away from the stacks of sundry wares piled about. “There, brother. We shall kneel together there.”

The priest handed Heinrich the candle and hobbled behind Alwin to the place where he bade his penitent bend to both knees. Still holding his staff, he laid one hand atop Alwin’s head. “Alwin of Gunnar, prepare thy soul to be received in thy Savior’s embrace.”

Alwin bowed and folded his hands.

“First, do you confess belief in the truths of the Apostles’ Creed?

“I do.”

“Does thine heart lean upon our Savior by faith alone for the forgiveness of sin?”

“
Ja
, Father Pieter. It does so lean.” Confused by priest’s unusual liturgy, he opened his mouth to add, “But I—”

“Might I ask if you have been perfect as he is perfect: in thought, word, and deed?”

Confused, Alwin answered obediently, “No, but—”