Pilgrims of Promise (38 page)

For Otto’s comrades hiding in the nearby shadows, the sudden turn of events was startling. They stared wide eyed as the clamor drew yet others. It seemed barely a quarter hour had passed when much of Weyer was aroused, its streets now aglow in torchlight. “What of Otto?” blurted Wil. “What will they do to him?”

Heinrich licked his dry lips. “I … I don’t know. He’s no runaway; he’s committed no crime.”

“But listen. They’re calling him ‘devil’ and ‘murderer.’ There, that one called him ‘son of Lucifer!’”

Indeed, the grief of the village folk was turning toward vengeance. “Why him?” cried one. “Why did he live and not the others?”

Otto’s voice cracked above the din, “But others may come even yet!”

“Liar! You’re the only one shameless enough to come back. You betrayed the faith, and now you come back? You need a flogging! You ought be hanged!”

“He’ll not be harmed,” growled Alwin. The knight had already drawn his sword.

“Hold fast,” urged Heinrich. “Listen.”

The reeve had summoned two armed deputies, and the three now shouldered their way through the crowd. The man turned his voice against the folk. “Nay! The boy is not to be harmed!”

The mob grumbled and fell quiet. “Now hear me! Any who lays a hard hand on the lad, save his father, is to be punished by the law. He’s but a boy come home. ‘Tis you fools who sent yer waifs on crusade.”

“No!” answered many. “We told them not to go. We barred our doors and tied them fast.”

Reeve Edwin laughed. “Ha! A pitiful lie to ease the conscience. You’d best have the priests say a prayer for that.” He turned to Otto’s father. “He’s yours. Do as y’please, but if another interferes, I’ll bring justice on your heads.”

The miller spat, then grabbed Otto by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him inside his hovel. Then, to the sound of Otto’s pitiful cries, the folk of Weyer drifted slowly to their own homes.

Heinrich cursed in the shadows. “Well not leave the lad with the likes of him.”

Tomas had said nothing. Like Otto, he, too, had felt the whip, only it had been wielded by monks. “Leave Otto to me,” he whispered. “Ill set him loose, and we’ll meet at the Magi.”

Wil looked carefully at the stone-faced lad. He had learned to trust Tomas, even respect him. He and others had marveled at what change a little patience and some grace had wrought in the young man’s heart. “We all will go.”

Otto cried out again.

“No,” said Alwin firmly. “I’ll go with Tomas. You two have other business, and we must all be away afore dawn.”

Wil nodded reluctantly. Alwin was right; the two of them should be enough. “Then well meet at the Magi.”

The four separated, and soon father and son were padding softly along Weyer’s footpaths. Behind closing doors, mothers could be heard sobbing softly. These folk did love their children, sometimes more, it seemed, than the lords who’d beat their little ones for dropping a comfit. They loved them and missed them, and their hearts were torn by the knowledge that they had released them to die on a fool’s errand.

“There.” Wil pointed. “Home!”

Heinrich and his son stood in the shadow of an ox-shed and faced their two-room hovel quietly. For Heinrich, it was a moment like few others. There, before him, was the simple wattle-and-daub cottage that had sheltered him since the day of his birth. It was here that his mother had died. It was here that all his children had been conceived and born—and where two had died. Under this very thatch he had laughed and wept for so many of his thirty-nine years. Built by the sweat of his father, it was still his along with the adjacent garden plot and fowl coop. The baker took a deep breath and stepped forward boldly.

Arriving at the door, Heinrich paused. “Just open it, Father,” insisted Wil. “It is
our
house!”

Heinrich hesitated, then knocked. A booming voice thundered from within. “Can a man not sleep this night! Who goes?”

Heinrich set his jaw. It was not Marta’s voice. “Heinrich of Weyer, owner of this place!”

The door flew open, and a large man held a candle angrily toward Heinrich’s hardened face. Seeing the patched eye, the wrapped stump, and the handle of a sword, the man stepped back. “So what’s yer business?”

Heinrich pushed his way past the man and into his former home. Wil followed with his dagger drawn. Putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, the baker turned a stiff eye toward the startled family within. “Hear me, thieves, and hear me once. I am Heinrich of Weyer, son of Kurt of Jost. This house is mine and mine alone. It was given me by my father, and I shall pass it to my son.”

The hovel had become home to six: a yeoman, his wife, two grown sons, and two young daughters. The yeoman was a burly, brown-haired fellow from a village near Wetzlar. He was about Heinrich’s age, and his sons were broad-shouldered lads who now reached for their swords. The yeoman grabbed Heinrich by the cloth of his tunic. “I am Horst, a freeman and owner of this cottage. I bought it from the priest for a high price that is paid in full. Any who tries to take it shall need to take it by force!” The women faded into the sleeping chamber as the man’s sons stepped forward.

Heinrich shoved the yeoman, then jerked his sword from its scabbard as he answered, “We’ve two to your three. If you think that makes you the rightful owner to this place, you’re wrong.”

Horst growled and took hold of a sword of his own. “We can strike you dead where y’stand, fool.”

“Or you can prove your claim in the morning in the abbey.”

“The law says it is mine. I’ve no need to prove anything to anyone.”

Heinrich snarled, “The law be damned! This is
my
home! This is my chattel. The land is mine and the bakery, too!”

“None is yours!” roared the yeoman. “This miserable house, the garden, and the coop are all mine. And the bakery is owned by the church, along with your land.”

Wil had remained oddly quiet. “What of the woman who once lived here?”

“Dead.” The answer was hard and unsympathetic. Horst’s eyes now fixed on Wil’s.

“She was my mother,” hissed Wil through clenched teeth.

The family murmured. Horst nodded and turned to Heinrich. “And she was yer wife?”

“
Ja
.”

“She was murdered, we’re told.”

“Murdered! By who?”

All eyes turned to Wil. “By her son,” Horst answered.

Chapter Eighteen

TROUBLE IN WEYER

W
il paled. He looked blankly at his father, then at the family staring at him. “I… I did not!”

“Father Pious says you poisoned yer own mother, then ran away on that crusade of idiots. He said you killed a monk and an abbey guard.”

“He’s a liar!” roared Wil.

Horst smirked and turned to Heinrich. “And you are the father?”

“Aye.”

“The priest says you were killed in the northland.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

Horst shrugged. “Might as well have been. You were declared dead, and yer wife gave the Holy Church all you owned. As she was dying, Father Pious told her the boy had poisoned her. He says she died cursing the two of you.”

“No!” cried Wil. “No!”

“Hold, boy! Hold fast,” commanded Heinrich. The baker curled his lip. “I’ve come back to life to claim what’s mine. The boy’s no killer. You own what you have by fraud and thievery. You’ll not keep it, not for long.”

No one spoke. Wil and Heinrich stood shoulder to shoulder, and Heinrich raised his sword to Horst’s throat. The baker looked down on his blade, and its inscription seared confidence into his heart. “
Veritas Regnare
… Truth Reigns.” He lifted his eye to lock on to his foe’s, and there he stood, stiff as stone, unflinching.

A dreadful quiet hung over the room. There was no rustle of garments, no squeak of leather boots or creak of wood. Horst’s nostrils flared, and it was he who finally broke the silence. “Enough of this!” he groused. “Leave my home.”

Heinrich’s mind was whirling.
Outnumbered and me with one arm, Wil with only a dagger.
“Yeoman, I’ve a rightful claim. I’ll take the matter to the abbey in the morning. Prepare to live elsewhere.”

Now Horst’s mind began to whirl.

As though he could read the man’s mind, Heinrich interrupted. “You could try to kill us, and the matter might be settled. But this I do vow,” he leaned close. “You’ll lose a lad and most likely your own life.”

The menacing baker had a firm confidence about his way, one seasoned by hard times. Horst hesitated, then quickly reckoned that the court would be delighted to have the murdering Wil walk directly into its grasp. The yeoman relaxed. He lowered his sword. “Take yer lies to the abbot then, but if you come to m’door again, we will cross steel!”

With a grunt, the baker slowly lowered his sword and bade Wil to sheath his dagger. Father and son slowly backed out the door as Wil snorted a thick phlegm into his mouth and spat it on to the floor at the yeoman’s feet. “I leave that until we return.”

Cursing in frustration, Heinrich walked away from his own threshold and stumbled into the village. “That devil Pious! He’s stolen what’s mine.” The man stopped. He closed his eye in shame. “Your mother … is dead, you are accused of murder, and I think of nothing else but my property.”

The pair said nothing more and walked toward the Laubusbach slowly. They passed the village well when Wil paused. “We should find Herwin. He can tell us what more we need to know.”

Wil led his father through the footpaths of the village now fast returning to sleep. He found his way easily to Herwin’s door, and when he knocked, a blurry-eyed Wulf answered. “Eh?”

“Wulf, ‘tis me—Wil!”

Herwin’s son of thirty years squinted and studied the two men who were lit only by starlight and a setting moon. “Wil?”

“
Ja!
”

“Wil? We thought you were surely dead!”

“No, I’ve come home!”

An old woman in the neighboring hut poked her head out of her door. “Wil? The baker’s son?”

Before Heinrich could hush him, Wil snapped, “Aye. What of it, hag?”

The woman’s head disappeared.

Wulf bade the two to come inside. His wife hurried to light a candle as he called to his sleeping father. Herwin climbed to his feet slowly, then stared incredulously at his old friends. “Can it be true?” he asked.

The one-armed man and the aging thatcher embraced. Herwin had been a part of Heinrich’s life since the baker was a boy. He had once been a faithful tenant of Heinrich’s father, then suffered under the rule of Baldric until Heinrich owned the hovel. Now in his early fifties, Herwin was gray and frail. His teeth were missing and he limped. “A fall, Heinrich. Actually, two falls and now I’m lame. I still do some thatch on the low sheds. But, now, oh, I’ve much to ask you! First, what of Karl and Maria?”

Heinrich lowered his face. “Karl is dead. He died on crusade near Genoa. Maria is safe.”

“Ah, poor friend.” Herwin laid a trembling hand on Heinrich’s shoulder. “And where have you been all these years?”

“I’ve a long tale,” answered Heinrich. “I shall tell you more when I can, but now we must know of some things. We are told that Marta is dead and our house is sold to another … to a yeoman.”

The thatcher hung his head. “I did what I could to challenge the matter, but within days of your leaving, your wife swore all her earthly possessions to the parish. She was near death when Pious had her words witnessed quite properly by himself, Reeve Edwin, Father Albert, and a clerk of the prior. You had already been declared dead on account of your being missing, so your property was rightfully your wife’s to give away. She could do with it as she pleased, my friend.”

Heinrich cursed.

Herwin sighed. “Pious quickly sold the house to the yeoman, but he kept your land and the bakery for the parish. He’s raised the prices over the objections of the abbot. He sends quite a profit to the diocese, and he’s been rewarded handsomely by the archbishop’s secretary.

“But I fear I’ve other news.” Herwin turned his face toward Wil. “
Frau
Anka has given testimony against you, lad … at the urging of Pious, no doubt. She told the bailiff that you told her to give your mother an infusion of an herb. Pious proved it was poison….”

“I did! But I didn’t know it was poison! Pious told me to give it her. It was he who knew what it was!”

Herwin gasped. “Pious? Pious did this? We thought you were simply mistaken about the herb!”

“Aye, it was Pious!” exclaimed Heinrich.

Herwin was dumfounded. “Wil, he … he wanted you arrested on sight if you ever returned, and he’ll have Anka swear against you in court. And there’s more. Pious has argued that you murdered Lukas and an abbey guard.”

“Miserable, fat bast—”

“Enough, lad!” cried Heinrich. “Pious is a liar! Lukas died in his bed, and the lad had nothing to do with the guard.”

Wil sat down hard on a stool. “I… I might have killed the guard that night. Ansel was his name.”

“But—”

“He was chasing me, and I tripped him with a heavy stick. He fell and must have broke his head on a rock. I thought he was only knocked out.”

Heinrich groaned and looked at his son, astonished. “Did any see?”

“No, none at all.” Wil was now pale and perspiring, and he stared into the looping candle, blankly.

No one spoke for a long moment. Herwin motioned for his daughter-in-law to give the two a drink of mead. “Old friend, I fear your son is in a frightful tangle. If he is caught, he will be hanged.”

Heinrich began to pace. “Pious’d have no chance to prove any of it. Priest or not, he has no good ground to stand on.”

“Wil, the abbot would not see me, but I complained to the bailiff that the charges against you were madness. I fear it mattered little,” said Herwin sorrowfully. “Pious told him that you are a hateful, wicked devil who hated your mother and bore a grudge against Lukas. He claims that God opened his eyes and that he saw you do the deeds in a dream. He said he knew of a spell cast on you by the witch. Words like these from a priest might sway the court… even without another witness … but Anka’s testimony will be make it certain.”

“No! It cannot be so!” roared Heinrich. “Well accuse
him! He’s
the murderer!”

“On whose word?”

Heinrich was silent, and he stared at Wil thoughtfully. “The abbot and his prior have always hated Pious. Now with the bakery prices and his life of gluttony, the monks must surely despise him. Someone might help in a charge against him.”

“With no more than Wil’s word you’ll not be proving a thing,” added Herwin. “Your uncle Arnold told the prior that the boy is innocent. He told him that Pious is up to some mischief. But he knows no one could ever prove it. No, I fear you need to run far, far away and quickly.”

“Arnold? Why would he care?” grumbled Heinrich.

“He’s some different than you remember. Methinks he wants to cleanse his soul before he dies.”

“When did you say m’mother died?” muttered Wil.

“Less than a week after you left.”

The lad fell silent.

“Heinrich, believe me, I took an oath for your son. I swore that the lad had no malice toward his mother nor knowledge of herbs. I swore the witch had cast no spell. I swore on my eternal soul that he had only love for Brother Lukas.”

“You swore true enough,” groaned Wil.

Wulf had been listening quietly. “So the poison was Pious’s then?”

“Nay. I… I took it from Brother Lukas’s chamber.”

The cottage fell silent until Herwin murmured, “Perhaps we’ve heard enough.”

Wil ground his fist into his palm. “Pious and I had an agreement. He agreed to keep silent about that night if I did not accuse him of… of having his way with m’mother.” He darted a glance at his father.

Herwin stood, shaken. It was all too much for the weary man. “Boy, I love you and your father like no others, but you cannot stay here. Pious will destroy you. He is more powerful now than then. Your threat against him would matter little. Get out of his web whilst you can, lad, else you’ll surely swing from Runkel’s gallows.”

“You lay another hand on that boy, and I’ll cleave you in two!” Alwin stood in the door of Otto’s hovel and pointed his sword at the miller.

The miller pushed his son to the floor and took a step toward the knight. “Who be you to tell me how to raise migrât?”

Alwin’s dark eyes burned red with rage. His blond hair hung over his shoulders, and his beard was long. For most men, the sight of this strapping warrior would have been reason enough to yield. But Herold, the miller, was unlike his fellows; he was a fool of fools. The man lunged for the truncheon he kept near his bed and whirled about at the charging knight, swinging wildly at Alwin’s head.