Quest of Hope: A Novel (43 page)

“Münster’s but a few days’ quick-step behind us. None would bother follow back through those swamps.” The girls looked so helpless to Heinrich. He nearly wept for them. He thought of the bruises on Katharina. “The men are drunk already. They’d be finishing their meals and coming for you soon enough. You’d best hurry.”

The girls began to cry and Linz took Ita by the hand. “Leo, you and I shall take them! One year and a day in Münster and we shall all be free!”

“What of your family at home?” asked Richard.

“We’ve none. All died by plague this summer past.”

“And what of you?” Richard asked the girls.

The two shrugged.

“Rosa! Ita!” It was drunken Lord Niklas calling from the camp.

“By God, you needs go quick!”

“How can I help?” Blasius’s voice whispered from the darkness.

Startled, Heinrich nearly dropped at the sound. “Uh, brother, these four are escaping.”

“Aye. If they are caught they shall be slain on the spot.”

“We’d rather die than stay,” answered Linz.

Blasius thought for a moment. More men began to cry out for the girls. “Get ready to run, and go with God.” With that, the Templar burst into the firelight. He raised his sword above his head and roared, “I challenge any man!”

The camp grew quiet as the Templar circled round and round. He grabbed a shield and banged his sword against it until Lord Niklas took the bait.

“I challenge!” roared the drunken knight. “Prepare yourself, fool monk!”

As Lord Wolfrum reviewed the rules of the contest and his knights eagerly circled the combatants, Leo, Linz, Rosa, and Ita slipped away unseen into the forests of Saxony. Heinrich and Richard, having bade them a heartfelt “Godspeed,” crept to the edges of the camp’s firelight and watched as Brother Blasius skilfully attracted all attention to himself.

It took mere moments for the Templar to be fully engaged in a savage duel with Richard’s nemesis. The monk circled and dodged, parried and ducked. He mocked and ridiculed, beckoned and harassed Niklas with his long Templar sword and a surprising repertoire of sarcasm. He strutted and boasted, taunted and jeered the tormented lord until the bedevilled man roared in frustration. Then, wily Blasius teased with riddles and rhymes as he parried with
riposte
and lunges. At last, the arm-heavy Templar reckoned the time to be right for a final, silent, savage assault. With a few deft strokes Lord Niklas was driven backward across the campsite and knocked flat on his back. He lay under the dark sky staring glumly up the shining flat of Brother Blasius’s long-sword.

“Ha, ha!” howled Richard from the shadows. It was a disrespect that would not soon be forgotten.

Blasius withdrew his sword and reached a hand to his fallen foe. Lord Niklas dismissed the monk’s chivalry with a sneer and climbed to his feet. Midst words of congratulations and newfound respect, the Templar bowed to his fellows and walked away quietly.

It was nearly an hour before the camp knew of the girls’ disappearance. Lord Wolfrum ordered a search of the wagons and the forest, but took Blasius aside and studied him with a suspicious eye. “Do you know something of this?”

Heinrich was standing nearby and listened carefully. He wondered if a Templar dared lie. Blasius set his jaw and leaned close enough to Wolfram’s craggy face for their beards to tangle. “Nay, sire,” he answered calmly.

Lord Wolfrum was not convinced. He paused for a moment—a long moment for Blasius, as the aging knight’s breath reeked of garlic and beer. The old knight blinked first. “Humph! I’ve little choice but believe you.”

The next two days brought some relief to Heinrich and Richard. A brightening November sky washed the column in sunlight, though the cool air kept the roadways from drying very quickly. Despite wrestling the wagons through the mud, however, Heinrich found his journey rather pleasurable. The sky seemed larger to him here than at home, and the sprawling landscape was rich and fertile.

Osnabrück was a wealthy city renowned for its linen trade. Its mayor and resident bishop offered generous provisions to the weary men and provided a gracious feast. Wanting to hurry on, Lord Wolfram permitted only one night’s stay, however, so at dawn of the next day the bishop blessed the kneeling army in front of the doors to his three-towered cathedral. With the sun shining overhead, the rested column then bade a grateful farewell and was soon traveling along an improving highway leading to the moated gate of Oldenburg.

The knights became ever-more pleased with Heinrich’s baking. He fired his wagon-mounted, clay, domed oven each night about matins, and then began his bake in the hours before dawn. Now that he was better acquainted with his new oven, at each daybreak he delivered baskets of hot, fluffy wheat rolls, salted, hard-baked pretzels, and large loaves of wheat or rye. A friendly archer from Ulm taught him a recipe for honey-laced flat loaves, spread with cherry preserves, and rolled into a treat that won a roar of approval from the lords. Heinrich had earned a place of value and it felt so very good.

Richard, on the other hand, was more interested in adventure than service. He found himself always at the edges of a circle of drunken, gambling knights, or conniving with his fellows on wagers and contests. He had won a flask of liquor from a staggering footman and a flagon of Rhine wine from a carter, and was quick to drink them both. His drunkenness simply oiled his wagging tongue and numbed his better judgment. It did nothing to endear him to either friend or foe.

The night before the column would enter Oldenburg the men-at-arms had filled their bellies and lay about the camp comfortable and groggy. The servants were gathered in huddles by small fires and Heinrich was propped against the trunk of a large spruce thinking of home.

“Ah, good baker,” announced Blasius as he joined the sleepy man.

“Aye, sit.”

“’Tis a wonderful night and your bread was light as angel’s wings!”

Heinrich chuckled. “I like m’oven. It heats good and loves m’doughs.”

Blasius nodded. “You speak of it as though it were alive!”

The two sat quietly and listened to the snores and grunts of sleeping soldiers. A few horses snorted and the fires snapped lightly. “Blasius, I confess I do not really know why we are here. I’ve been told of a rebellion of peasants but I know nothing else.”

“Aye. ’Tis so. Seems the land we travel to is now called Stedingerland. It was settled by Frisians and Dutch Saxons some hundred years ago or more. They came from the Low Countries over by the sea in the west. I am told they are a wild lot; hard-fisted, stubborn as rocks … barely Christian in their ways.

“Of course, this Stedingerland needs folk of special strength. It is low and flat; a marsh that wars with the Weser River year by year. The waters flood and freeze, they make the whole earth a sucking pit, yet these Stedingers know how to tame it. They build dikes to drain water from the marshes and claim new earth to graze their cattle.”

Heinrich was fascinated. “And what is their crime?”

“Ah. Seems they were promised much. The archbishop of former times wanted this wasteland to be civilized; turned into something more than marsh-grass and bogs. He offered them freedom and low taxes. So, they came … and who could blame them? They’ve formed a close bond among themselves. They’ve a militia and courts, even a name. They call themselves the
Communitas terre Stedingorum.

“I am told they have resisted all authority from their rightful lord, Archbishop Hartwig in Bremen. Just two years ago they claimed their laws were abused and they attacked and destroyed the bishop’s castles at Lechtenburg and Lineburg. They’ve built bulwarks and defenses, they’ve even resurrected the ancient Germanic gathering called ‘The Thing’—where the chiefs and the people make their own laws. Under such claimed liberties they now refuse to pay taxes and tithes beyond what they accept as fair.”

Heinrich was astonished. “They overthrew the bishop’s castles?”

“Ja.
They say their women were taken in the night by soldiers and their property raided. But rather than petition the Church court, they rose in rebellion and now threaten to undo the order of things. Seems Archbishop Hartwig fears for the whole of the northland if these Stedingers are not put into their proper place. The count in Oldenburg is equally nervous of such notions spreading through his nearby manors.”

Heinrich was quiet. He could barely imagine peasants defeating the knights of the realm. He remembered his uncle Baldric unseating and dispatching a handful of rogue soldiers in Weyer so long ago, but he could hardly fathom an organized army of farmers.

Indeed, the legions of Stedingers posed a serious threat to the whole of the empire’s northland. Their ranks had been swelled with escaping German peasants who yearned for the liberty of their tribal forefathers. Stedinger villages and farms had become united in a spirit of common wealth and common purpose. They were becoming more than a population of free farmers, they were becoming a realm unto themselves, and more dangerous than even that—a symbol.

Such intransigence troubled the ecclesiastical and lay lords, for throughout all Christendom storm clouds were gathering. Peasants in Düdeldorf, Pickliessem, and Himmenrode had attacked their masters. The unhappy serfs of St. Pantaleon had planned a mass escape in the dark of night. The folk of the lord of Oberzel rebelled with the torch, the peasants of Gindorf with rocks, those of Goslar with organized sloth.

Blasius stared into the darkness. “I do confess some sympathy for these brave souls. I believe they have suffered abuses, nor do I doubt that they are entitled to special privilege on account of the archbishop’s promises.”

“So why do you come to fight them?” asked Heinrich.

Blasius was quiet again. “I never said I’ve come to fight them. My preceptor sends me to ensure that Templar silver is properly managed. Seems the count and the archbishop owe us a sum of one hundred and forty-seven pounds. They both claim they cannot pay until the Stedingers satisfy their debt of taxes and tithe. I am to witness their collection, then be paid our rightful sum. Afterward I am to arrange an escort of the silver to our representatives in Cologne.”

“Will you fight against them?”

Blasius drew a deep breath. “I have suffered over that question since our journey began. I am not convinced they are in the wrong, yet they are in rebellion. I do swear, good friend, that I am caught in a dilemma. The Stedingers have just claims and grievances, yet their reactions violate all laws of God and man. If… if I must raise my sword against these folk, I shall do so with pain in my heart.” The soldier stared at his feet, blank-faced for a long moment.

Heinrich laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Brother Lukas once told me the only way to resolve such snares is to yield to the highest virtue.”

Blasius nodded. “Ah, good Lukas. But it is just that which vexes me. Tell me, which is the higher virtue, Heinrich—order or mercy?”

The baker became very quiet. He drew a deep breath. “I once thought I followed the order of proper cause … and I took another’s life … unjustly.” He trembled and lowered his eyes.

Bright sunshine and merry spirits brought laughter and glad hearts to the high, rounded walls of Oldenburg Castle. The fortress sat squarely on the banks of the Hunte River, where its waters were diverted to serve as a moat. Beyond lay the growing city of Wasserburg, soon to take the name of the castle. With trumpet blasts and welcoming drums, the mounted knights led their column over a drawbridge and through the arched gateway leading into the smoky castle courtyard where the count and a company of his elite men spread their arms in welcome. The mail-clad knights of Heribert embraced their fellows with hearty hugs, and in moments brown ales and foaming beers were splashing into eager tankards.