Quest of Hope: A Novel (25 page)

Lukas continued to charm the prior with the work of his “secret artisan.” It was a subterfuge that delighted both Lukas and Emma and brought conspiratorial laughter beneath the sheltering boughs of the Magi. It was here, too, that the good friends shared matters of heart and mind safe from judgment or consequence. Each came with either remedy or need, enlightenment or confusion. Their chatter was sometimes of simple things and sometimes of things that plumbed the depths of Creation and Creator alike.

And so, while Emma harvested the last of her gardens, carded her wool, and worked at her table, the village labored long and hard at the tasks of the season. The recently harvested grain was now threshed with long-armed flails, winnowed, fanned, cast, and gathered into baskets. All was done under the watchful eye of the hayward and his deputies, and any caught sneaking the monks’ grain into shoes, hats, or folds of clothing would be flailed themselves.

It was late on one busy day when a troop of mounted men-at-arms accompanied by the new bailiff loped into Weyer from the Villmar road. Atop the lead horse was Werner and behind him rode a youth and four Templars clothed in brown habits. These were sergeants—soldiers who had taken the Templar vows but were of lower birth and standing than the white-cloaked knights they served. Their waists were bound with cords to remind them of their vow of chastity and on their left breasts they, like all the Templars, wore an embroidered red cross. The village knew these bearded, shorthaired monks to be allies of their lord abbot, but the folk watched them warily nonetheless. Men with swords were to be feared regardless of their affiliation.

Heinrich looked from his bakery door and watched the soldiers make their way closer and closer. The baker wiped his hands and waited. As he expected, the horsemen stopped and dismounted. He offered each a wheat roll.

“Many thanks,” said the bailiff. “And sorrows for your uncle’s death.”

Heinrich nodded.

The youth stepped forward. “You are Heinrich?”

“Aye.”

The boy smiled. “You do not remember me, but I was an oblate in the monastery.”

Heinrich did remember him, for the lad was an orphan of the Gunnars—his father had been killed the night Heinrich’s own father was slain. The baker felt suddenly uncomfortable and nervous. He licked his lips and nodded. “Aye. You are some bigger than I remember.”

The blond lad smiled. “Yes, and I’ve needs to grow more if I shall take my sword as a Templar! I am Alwin, a novice page, son of a shepherd named Manfred of the Gunnars. I remember you oft came for bread when I was yet in Villmar.”

Heinrich nodded. “’Tis so, I did.”

“And you were kindly to me and the others. Remember when you would ‘drop’ loaves at the corner of the workshops for us?”

Heinrich blushed. He was never sure if that had been a sin or not but he always thought the oblates looked hungry. “I… I do remember.” Nausea rolled through Heinrich’s gut. He nodded and looked away in shame, his thoughts on the awful night on the Villmar road. Before he could speak Werner interrupted.

“Have you heard anything ’about Baldric’s death?”

Heinrich shook his head.

“Might you know of one who’d likely have him slain, other than the Gunnars?”

Heinrich reddened and looked away from Alwin. “No, sire, I’ve no thoughts on this. My uncle was quick to make enemies; it seemed in his nature.”

The officer looked hard at the young man. “Was the man at odds with any in this village?”

“I think all hated him.”

“Had he talked of poachers or highwaymen?”

Heinrich shrugged. “He oft spoke of such. He said he’d found deer bones in the forests and thought passers-through were poaching. Perhaps …”

“Aye, Brother Lukas thinks his wound that of a puncture from a crossbow. A passing poacher is likely.” Werner brightened. It was an obvious, simple solution that might just satisfy everyone. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it months before!

“I thought crossbows to be outlawed by the pope,” challenged Heinrich.

The Templars laughed. “Aye, we’re not to use them on Christians. You shall not see us with them, but few others care much about the pope on matters such as these.”

Werner was relieved. He mounted his horse and said, “We’ve needs to press on, Heinrich. God’s best to you, and on the wedding… some three weeks yet?” Werner laughed.

Heinrich smiled halfheartedly as dread filled his belly. “And good day to you, bailiff, and to you, brothers … and Alwin.”

The troop nodded and turned their horses toward the mill. Heinrich watched them for long moment until they passed out of sight.

The knight, Simon, was a vassal to Lord Klothar of Runkel, and his small manor lay within Runkel’s vast estate just beyond the Lahn River, close to the village of Arfurt. Simon held three hundred hectares of fertile land and about five hundred hectares of forest, making his domain about half the size of the area surrounding Weyer. He had no village, but instead housed many of his five score servile subjects in a cluster of huts gathered near his manor house. Other peasants who were bound to him lived in Arfurt and walked each day to work in his fields. By the order of things, both he and they were also bound to Lord Klothar of Runkel, the greater overlord of many such manors north of the Lahn. Of course, Lord Klothar, in turn, was the pledged vassal to a greater lord and so forth, until the chain of command found its way to the emperor himself, now Heinrich VI.

Richard, Arnold’s son, was gaining attention as Lord Simon’s aspiring servant-on-loan. As a page, Richard had served the knight well, learning the arts of court life and combat. Richard no longer wore the gray woollen leggings and short homespun tunic of a peasant boy. He now dressed in linen hose, colorful shirts, and the long, sleeveless robe of the warring class. He sported narrow, leather belts, supple leather boots, and embroidered cloaks. Nearly eighteen, he was entering the peak of his vigor and manhood. Handsome, strong, forceful, and courageous, he had captured the attention of the court and the ladies. But he was far too old to be considered a page any longer, so he was introduced as a footman-in-training, a respected title for a peasant soldier.

It was the feast day of St. Michael’s, and the serfs of Lord Simon had provided their lord with a plentiful harvest of food and beverages. Of course, Lord Simon had added plenty from his own surplus, and he offered the great hall and courtyard of his manor house for the celebration. Cartloads of cheese, bread, and vegetables were hurried toward large tables bowing from the bounty. Three oxen, two bullocks, five calves, seven sheep, and a dozen swine had been slaughtered the day before, and by the bells of prime they were roasting on spits or boiling in huge cauldrons.

The sun shone brilliantly and the air was cool as it should be in late September. In one corner of the courtyard, drunken peasants wagered hard-won pennies on cockfights, while others wrestled, played bladder-ball, or raced. All through the morning, children squealed and chased one another through rounds of blindman’s bluff and prisoner’s base. Indeed, it was a feast day not unlike others gone before!

For Simon and his squires, however, the day would be lost unless they had opportunity to display their skill at arms. The knight, having drunk more than prudence would advise, beckoned his fellows to gather in the courtyard while his subjects cleared the center. Simon’s best friend and dearest comrade, Lord Wolfrum of Saxony, had also come to celebrate the feast day. He and Simon began a good-natured contest with long-swords and shields. The two circled round and round each other, their swords singing in the clear air. They laughed and roared as the razor-sharp blades breezed by their unprotected limbs. The two played like lion cubs in the sun until, at long last, they collapsed unharmed and exhausted on the grass. Several squires set straw targets by the granary wall and displayed their skill in archery as others lanced gourds from atop spirited steeds. A group of footmen tumbled about in a riotous wrestling match while Richard watched restlessly.

The young peasant from Weyer had spent time training with a battle-axe and was anxious to display his skill. He desperately wanted to have Lord Simon see his ability for—just perhaps—the knight might be moved to buy his freedom and offer him a knighthood of his own. Richard decided it was time. He searched about the tented courtyard until he finally found one man willing to engage his fancy.

With a reluctant nod from Simon, Richard and Squire Niklas soon faced one another in the center of the quieting courtyard. At the insistence of their lord, each donned an open-faced helmet and a mail shirt before choosing their weapons. It would be the object of the contest to disarm the opponent without causing mortal injury.

While Niklas surveyed a table of fearsome weapons, Richard laid hold of his battle-axe like a man claiming the love of his life. He gripped it tightly, but respectfully, and then turned his shoulders squarely toward his opponent.

Niklas was almost ready to be knighted. In fact, he had rehearsed his ceremony of homage just a fortnight before. He was the son of a noble in Oldenburg and a relative by blood to Lord Klothar. He was steadfast, devout, and confident of his place in Creation’s Holy Chain.

The peasants gathered in a large ring around the combatants. They cheered most loudly for Richard, of course, since he was of lowly birth. The young man tied his long, blond hair in a knot behind his neck and crouched like a cat ready to strike. Niklas had chosen a fork as his weapon. It was a long-handled, three-pronged trident favored by the crusaders of Barbarossa for its ability to keep opponents at bay. Niklas reasoned he needed only to catch the handle of Richard’s axe and twist it from his grip. The two combatants nodded as Simon’s wife, the gracious Lady Irina, dropped a yellow kerchief to the ground. Surrounded by cheers and shouts, claps and whistles, the two circled each other slowly.

It was in that moment when Richard realized he was at a great disadvantage, for his axe was meant to be a rushing weapon, one used to charge a foe in an indelicate, crude assault. The trident was its perfect foil. “I should’ve chose the flail!” he muttered to himself.

Niklas thrust his fork forward, straight at Richard’s face. The startled peasant turned his head and swung a blocking blow that swept through empty air. Niklas laughed and feigned another parry. Richard dodged, but had dodged nothing, earning jeers from the crowd. Embarrassed and humiliated, Richard then rushed his opponent with his axe held high overhead. Niklas stepped quickly to one side and flung his fork toward the ground in front of Richard’s feet. The boy tripped and tumbled into the dust.

Now furious, Richard charged Niklas again. This time, Niklas deftly aimed his fork at Richard’s falling axe and caught the handle in the crotch of his spikes. He then jerked and twisted the weapon in hopes of dislodging it from Richard’s grip. But the peasant had learned well and held on tightly, lurching forward to absorb the squire’s yank.

The two circled again and Richard wisely waited for his foe to thrust.
If my timing is good …
thought the lad. He waited patiently, but the crowd was growing tired and loud, urging the two to get on with it. Richard looked sideways to see Lord Simon yawning and teasing with a maiden, and the lad knew he was not impressing anyone. He turned his eyes hard upon Niklas and varied his plan. He charged the squire with an ear-piercing yell.

Lord Simon turned his face to see young Richard’s brave charge and stood to his feet in anticipation. The young man raised his axe high over his right shoulder and kept his eyes fixed on Niklas’s fork as he stormed forward. Niklas stepped backward with rapid, short strides and kept his eyes fixed on Richard’s axe as it fell toward him in a mighty swipe.

Niklas had been well trained, and he instantly lowered the angle of his fork to catch the axe’s handle close to his opponent’s hands. But he lowered his pole too far, puncturing Richard’s right hand with one of the trident’s spikes. With a scream of anguish, Richard fell sideways to the ground. The poor lad rolled in the dirt, then rose to his knees and held his bloodied hand with tears of agony streaming down his face. Three attendants raced to his side and wrapped his wound with Lady Irina’s kerchief.

With words of comfort and encouragement they then carried Richard to a hastily cleared table in the great hall where the lord’s surgeon attended him. The young man was held fast to the tabletop and cried out in agony as the surgeon did his best to stitch and splint the hand. Simon offered a few words of sympathy to the devastated youth and left him to rest; he knew Richard’s hand would be forever lame.