Quest of Hope: A Novel (18 page)

Neither knight was dressed for combat. They wore no chain mail or heavy leather jerkins. Neither had a shield or armored glove, not even so much as a quilted vest. Instead they were each dressed for comfort, Simon wearing only a fur cloak, a long, woollen tunic, loose breeches, and high leather boots. His opponent was dressed in similar fashion, though he sported a beaver cap that was now removed.

Hans was younger than Simon and a bit shorter. He was of average build and graceful. Simon was lankier and better seasoned, though not as nimble or quick-of-foot. Simon had learned to calculate an opponent’s strengths quickly, and he immediately recognized that Hans’s youth and agility would give the younger man advantage if they fought with short swords.

Simon turned to Lord Tomas. “My lord,” he offered shrewdly, “I carry only a short sword but it is one with which I have grown accustomed. I would prefer its use to the longer one you handed the simpleton.”

Tomas was still furious with the man and was eager to penalize him. In his haste, the lord was snared again. “Nay! You shall use the swords of my choice. Each of you take the long-sword!”

Simon bowed, happy to submit. In short order, he and Hans faced one another with blades crossed. A castle priest prayed God’s holy and perfect will be done, then blessed each man and backed away. Lord Tomas’s heretofore silent lady angrily waved a yellow kerchief and the courtyard fell silent.

Simon had served the Holy Church in Palestine, warring against the infidels on the victorious plain of Ferbelet just six years prior. There, in the company of French knights, he had proven himself to be stouthearted and ruthless, skilled with the long-sword and axe. Restless with life in the quiet valleys of the Empire, the man was now preparing to join Barbarrosa’s Third Crusade already underway. His hands were itching for a fight. Opposing him stood Hans, knighted only months before. He was uncertain and tentative, suddenly wishing he were still a squire.

After exchanging chivalrous bows, Simon circled his foe, studying his movements and judging his skill. It was easy to see the timidity in the young man’s eyes.
He’s ne’er drawn blood,
Simon thought. The knight knew the contest would be quick.

Hans gritted his teeth and bravely lunged toward Simon with a ferocious two-handed swipe. Simon deftly ducked and parried with a restrained thrust that drew a small stain of blood to the belly of the man’s shirt.

“Yield now, son. ‘Tis no shame in it.” Lord Simon’s words were fatherly and kind.

“Nay, Hans!” roared Tomas. “Kill him!”

The young knight licked his lips nervously and shook his head. Again he charged his elder. Hans’s blade sang through the cold air, missing its mark by a wide margin. This time Simon countered with a single, powerful thrust. His aim was true and his long sword plunged through Hans’s chest and burst out the young man’s back. The young knight stared at his better, helplessly impaled upon the steel blade. He coughed and his eyes rolled as Simon released his grip from the long hilt. Hans collapsed to his knees, then fell backward with a gasp.

The crowd in Mensfelden’s castle was dumbstruck. Lord Tomas stood slack-jawed in disbelief. The woolly mob remained silent until their master spun on his heel and stormed away. Brother Lukas then flew to Ingelbert and embraced the simple lad in tears.

Staring in disbelief, the four men of Weyer huddled slurping their beer and cursing the fortune of dead Hans until Lord Simon suddenly strode toward them. Arms folded confidently, he stared at them from his dark-eyed, bearded face. “What’s your complaint?”

Baldric bristled. He opened his mouth wide and he bellowed, “That freak’d be no business of yours!”

The knight winced at Baldric’s singeing breath, then mocked the man. “You’ve but half your teeth, man, and what’s left is black and bleeding. You’d be a pitiful sight, yourself.”

Baldric promptly closed his mouth.

Simon looked at Dietrich. “And look at you; thick like a plug and short like a woman.”

Dietrich cowered.

Lord Simon glared about the four and shook his head with disdain. He grunted. “Humph. I’m told one of you is the sire of the boy, Richard, who captured the hanged man.”

Arnold stepped forward cautiously. “Aye, ‘tis my lad.”

The knight laid a gloved hand firmly atop Arnold’s shoulder. “I am from lands by Arfurt, vassal to Lord Klothar of Runkel.”

“I know who you are, sire,” mumbled Arnold, “and I know of Arfurt.”

“I am in need of a page. Mine was lost to fever in Saxony. I could make demands on the abbot and seize the boy, but I’d prefer a willing one. He’s of servile birth, so he’s not likely to be a squire, but a page oft becomes a sergeant and a sergeant’s wage is a good one. He’d be well placed to keep you fit and fed in your old age.”

Arnold had already reckoned that.

“So, it is settled. I shall pay the abbot for the lad’s use.”

Arnold had hoped to bargain. “Good sire, worthy knight … I… I need the boy to tend the fields. Our taxes are heavy and the new abbot demands much.”

“Enough, fool!” barked Simon. “Do not dare to press me. I can have him taken or I can just as easily find another.”

Arnold bowed while his mind raced.

“Surely,” whispered Dietrich, “he will pay something for the lad, and the boy will learn of things in Klothar’s lands … secrets of the nobles.”

Arnold’s money pouch was filled with knowledge of what he called “penny sins,” and he was certain the sins of knights and lords would be worth much more than those of mere villagers and monks. He smiled at Lord Simon. “Good sire, it would be my privilege to serve you in this way. Ah, but could not a token of Christian charity be given? I am a poor man and you’d be takin’ a strong lad from m’fields.”

Simon snarled. “Aye. You shall have a shilling and a palfrey. See that the boy is scrubbed, shorn proper, and delivered to the abbot.”

The season of Lent began on the twenty-first day of February in the Year of Grace 1189. Fathers Johannes and Pious seemed quite zealous to honor this time of denial and repentance. For his part, the younger priest had taken it upon himself to wander the village footpaths in the dark of night in search of excess. Father Pious, though corpulent and obese, was eager to deny others the objects of his own desires.

Baldric, Arnold, and Dietrich snickered as Pious passed Baldric’s barred door. They had indulged in two jugs of well-spirited cider and were the happier for it. The three lounged in the dim light of the hearth, sputtering and slopping their muddy drink midst foul stories and sundry blasphemies. Herwin and his family huddled against a far wall, feigning sleep, while Heinrich and Effi attempted the same. Unfortunately for Heinrich the ruse had little effect, for he was soon rousted from his straw-mound bed to fetch more mead.

“And hurry, Heinrich!” barked Baldric. “You’ve but sloth in your blood, y’worthless worm!” The man’s eyes were blood red and hung heavy in their baggy sockets. His graying beard was matted and wet, the front of his tunic stiff with half-frozen cider.

The lad rose slowly. He dared not look into his uncle’s face for fear of inciting his anger. The fifteen-year-old trembled and kept his eyes to the floor as he wrapped himself in a sheepskin cloak. Arnold belched and the sound drew Heinrich’s head up involuntarily.

“Aye? And what would you be lookin’ at?” growled Arnold.

“Nothing,” answered Heinrich timidly.

Baldric stood to his feet. “’Tis your uncle, boy. You spoke with disrespect!”

With that, the man struck Heinrich across the face with his open palm. The slap stirred Herwin. “Now, boy,” boomed Baldric, “have you nothing to say for yourself, y’worthless half-a-man, you coward?”

Heinrich held his arm over his face and peeked upward at his towering uncle. “I-I am sorry, sir. I was about to fetch your mead from Aunt Gisela and—”

“Sorry? You say you’re sorry? Ha! ‘Tis what you said when you scrumped Lenard’s dog! ‘Tis what you said when you threw rocks at m’friends at village council! ‘Tis what you always say!” The man thumped the boy on the back and then again in the face. Poor Heinrich tumbled across Telek.

The giant stood to his feet. He had often been witness to Baldric’s violence but now it was enough. The broad-headed Slav took Heinrich by the shoulder and escorted him out the door along with Effi. He then walked over to Varina and her children and led them out-of-doors as well. With a grunt, Telek re-entered the hut and closed the door, barring it with the table.

The Slav grabbed the gaping Baldric by the throat and tossed him against the wall. Before the woodward could gather his wits, Telek seized the stunned man again and threw him over the hearth. Baldric crashed to the floor and then pulled himself to his feet. He pulled a knife from under his wolf-skin cloak and pointed it nervously at the giant. Telek held his ground and growled.

“Y-you, freak!” threatened Baldric. “You’ll hang for this! You’ve attacked your master’s man.” Baldric turned to Herwin. “You—tenant! He’d be kin to you, y’fool. You shall pay a price as well!”

Herwin spoke bravely. “You ought not beat the lad so, or Effi.”

“Find me one man who cares so little for his kin that he stays his hand!”

“Telek loves the boy, as do I. You beat him for hatred, not for care.”

“You’ve bitten the hand that feeds you, fool. Now tell that monster of yours to back away, else I’ll have you and your miserable litter bound in Runkel.”

Herwin knew Baldric meant what he said and he needed to think—and quickly. “Telek was … wrong to lay a hand on you. I should like to add it to my debt.”

Baldric laid the edge of his blade against the Slav’s throat. “I ought cut it,” he threatened. “I’d be in my rights.”

“You’ve no right to that dagger, friend,” said Dietrich. “Methinks you’ll be bringing more trouble than what we needs. Heed Herwin’s words.”

“
Ja
,” added Arnold. “‘Tis always better to build another’s debt! And y’know what needs doing up by Arfurt.”

Baldric licked his lips. “Aye, ‘tis sure.” He turned to Herwin. “You’ll add no pennies to your debt but you’ll pay this: we’ve business in Arfurt—business with Gunnar kin.”

Herwin paled. “I’ve no part in your feud, I’ve—”

“You and him have a part indeed. ‘Tis the debt you now owe!”

Herwin closed his eyes and nodded in resignation.

It was the Sabbath before Easter when strangers arrived in Weyer. A freeman from Limburg had moved his family to the monks’ manor in search of business as a mason. He had been promised work at the bakery now under construction at the north end of the village where Heinrich would soon serve. It seemed that the new prior, Mattias, had successfully influenced Abbot Stephen to return baking to the villages. It was a reasonable scheme, considering the gross inefficiency of carting dusty bread to each village every morning. He had argued it would also improve relations between the peasants and the brothers. Such consideration—and the profit attached—was a worthy advantage for all.

The traveling mason brought with him a household of six, as well as news of Axel. Heinrich eagerly questioned him about his younger brother and was pleased to learn that the apprentice was doing well at trade, as he was naturally adept at calculating distance and weight, and agile atop the scaffolds of Limburg. His master could be heavy-handed, but was known to be a good teacher.

As Heinrich bade the mason farewell, a young girl stepped from the man’s modest quarters. The young man stopped and stared—captured by the girl’s bright green eyes and smiling face. He tried to speak. “G-g-good day, s–strange … good strange maiden … I mean …” The lad took a deep, rasping breath. “I mean, good day, stranger.”