Quest of Hope: A Novel (44 page)

Heinrich scampered about the castle with the other servants as they hurried the horses to the livery, carried stocks and provisions to the warehouses, and delivered the knights’ personal trunks and barrels to valets. The knights would be bedded in stone-walled chambers within the castle walls and towers. The servants would be chased to timbered, thatch-roofed warehouses, stables, and sheds scattered haphazardly about the muddy bailey.

When Heinrich was finally directed to his own straw-filled cot he rested for a while. Uncomfortable and restless, he sat up, however, and gazed vacantly at the sorry lot of fellows crowding his low-roofed building. Weary, gaunt, and unkempt, his comrades were in stark contrast to the well-dressed, bold, fire-eyed knights they served. Heinrich sighed. He knew he was one of them.

“Heinrich!” barked Richard from the yard.

“Eh?”

“We’ve needs go. They’ve summoned all from Heribert’s column.”

The two soon stood in a long line of servants with their backs pressed against a cold wall. They faced their new foreman with dread and waited breathlessly as a broad-chested young man with an upturned nose and a well-fitted cloak strutted before them. “I am Falko of Wasserburg and I have news.” He smiled wickedly and tapped his thigh with a heavy stick. “Yer lords have assigned me as yer master. I’m to fetch you when one of ‘em needs you. In the meanwhile, you’ll ‘ave yer daily duties that I’ll set you to.” He gave them a hard look and raised his stick. “Keep in good order or you’ll be meetin’ m’friend here. Yer first duty is to get yourselves shorn and shaved.” He walked to Emil, the lad from Runkel. “Y’ve runny eyes.”

“Ja,
sir master. And fever.”

“Humph.” He knocked the boy hard to the ground. “Get in yer bed and be ready on the morrow for fair day’s work. Now, the rest of you hear me. Yer lords won’t be warring against the Stedingers just yet; they’ve needs wait for more troops. Seems the Thurungians are late and the archbishop’s troops are in a fight with Otto’s men far to the east. The archbishop orders the count to hold fast until springtime.”

Astonished, Heinrich groaned and he squeezed his fists angrily.
Springtime!
he thought.
Forty days, indeed!

Forty days became ninety and many more would come. The biting cold winds of late January had frozen the castle into a dismal stone cage. To the north, blinding snows sculpted the flat landscape into a blue-tipped desert of rippled white as far as shivering Heinrich could see. Each day the sky grayed with low clouds sagging southward from the nearby, ice-laden sea. Inside, the castle grounds were hazy with smoke trapped by heavy air within the high walls where peasants huddled around pitiful fires stoked with meager rations of firewood.

Within the halls of the nobles, great fires roared in ample hearths and drunken men indulged their vices in boredom. Soon after the Epiphany, the more refined and civil pleasures of reading, fencing, chess, or backgammon had given way to heavy drinking, dice, bloodletting swordplay, lasciviousness, and brawling.

Brother Blasius was aghast at the blasphemous indulgences and spent long, lonesome days and nights praying in the chapel or breaking bread with the three timid priests who served Oldenburg Castle with dubious devotion. Joined by four faithful, Christian knights who also found the wanton behavior of their comrades too disheartening to bear, he stared at each morning’s sky yearning for some harbinger of spring to offer hope in the winter’s desolation. From time to time he visited Heinrich and Richard in their respective bakery or stable. Yet he dared not linger for fear of what penalties Falko might exact from his good friends.

Richard was grateful for the hours he labored in the pungent stables. The many horses kept the buildings warm, and he found comfort in the gentle eyes of the beasts. It was the days he was sent with forage teams into the barren, frozen landscape that he dreaded. Wrapped in fur cloaks and heavy boots, he and others would lead sleighs into a far-off western forest where they rang their steel-head axes against the frozen trunks of tall spruce. By the pink-hued light of dusk, they then hurried their heavy loads back across deepening snows into the confines of the castle where they stood before their small fires with numb fingers and toes.

Richard’s crippled hand had adapted to the handle of an axe once again. Though awkward to the eye, the man had regained some measure of skill and quickly recalled the martial training of his youth. On Sabbaths he would race about the bailey feigning combat with his own shadow!

By March, the knights and other men-at-arms were nearly at their wits’ end. They had blatantly disregarded the forty days of Lent. Their months of self-indulged excess had predictably failed to satisfy, so they were irritable, explosive, and seething for blood. The servants, too, were despairing. Day after endless day of cold and gray, of aches and chills and monotony had left them miserable and short-tempered. A few had died from fights within their quarters. Six had frozen to death, having slept at the farthest reach of the fires. Four had been killed in the forest and another went missing. Samuel, the Jew from Limburg, had been found murdered during Advent though it was of little interest to any. Eighteen had perished with maladies such as bloody flux, cramp colic, congestive chill, and St. Vitus’s dance. Among the dead from fever was young Emil of Runkel.

The servants were not the only ones to suffer. Six footmen had died of putrid fever, one sergeant from milk leg, and Richard’s former master, Lord Simon, from an infected wound.

It was Holy Thursday, the nineteenth of April, 1207, when Richard faced Lord Niklas once again. The knight was drunk with brandy cider and was accompanied by two escorts as he struggled across the castle bailey. The courtyard was a quagmire of mud and manure, and terribly rutted, so it was not uncommon for a pedestrian to lose a boot or find himself floundering, ankle deep in the brown muck. It was in just such a state that Lord Niklas was discovered by Richard as he passed by atop a cart of firewood. Having spent a winter of utter melancholy, having passed months with nary a smile or a grin, the blond peasant roared in delight. The loud laughter boiled the blood of the chagrined knight, and he responded with a string of oaths and blasphemies, scourges, insults, and mockeries that hushed the whole of the castleyard.

Richard seized his teamster by the shoulder and bade he hold fast. He turned and faced Niklas squarely. “Eh?” he cried.

“You heard me, y’son of Satan’s brothel. You one-handed simpleton, you’d be playin’ the fool your whole life, y’worthless coward!”

Richard stared silently at the knight who was shaking a fist at him. The disappointment of his life’s dream had never truly left him. Despite all efforts to break free, his lame hand still held him within its grasp; like others, he suffered a wound of life that he permitted to define him. He suddenly pictured his father’s face staring at his hand. He heard the man’s words ringing in his ears: “Worthless!” Richard wanted nothing more than to release his itching anger and avenge his shattered hopes. He scrambled through the logs until he laid his hands on the axe he had wielded all that dreadful winter. He snatched it and held it high. “I challenge you, Niklas! Have you the courage to face a simpleton and his axe?”

With a haughty laugh and a snarl, Lord Niklas agreed.

Word spread quickly throughout the castle sheds that a duel was about to begin, and the combatants barely had time to face each other before a circle of foul-smelling, black-toothed peasants were cheering and mocking the both of them.

Niklas was clearly drunk, and he stumbled this way and that as Richard cut the air with his swinging axe. Yet the knight had been well-seasoned by combat and quickly sharpened his senses with each near miss.

Heinrich pushed his way to the front of the circle and closed his eyes. “Oh, Richard! Poor fool … poor hopeless fool.” He clenched his teeth and grimaced and groaned as his friend and kinsman lunged about the mud, red-faced and furious.

At thirty-one, Richard surprised most, particularly Lord Niklas. For an aging peasant with a lame hand, the impudent rebel gave a good account of himself. He had not forgotten his training under Lord Simon, and years of repressed bitterness now uncoiled into a fierce assault. He blocked Niklas’s sword with skill, then swept his axe smoothly toward the knight’s dodging belly; he followed with a savage swipe at Niklas’s head, then swung another, and another.

But Niklas was no fool. He quickly discerned that his foe was driven by a fury that would blow itself away, like a gust on a cloudless day. The seasoned knight dodged and ducked, turned and stepped. He blocked and did not counter until Richard’s blazing eyes began to cool.

The flex in Richard’s joints slowly stiffened. His movements became less fluid and more lurching. His legs began to wobble, and soon sweat dripped heavy from his brow. Richard sucked air through a gaping mouth and his chest heaved. The white grip of his knuckles faded and his forearms burned. He cast one fleeting, desperate look at Heinrich and the baker held his breath.

Richard never really had a chance against the knight, and his vain effort finally earned only scoffs and ridicule from the circle of spectators. His arms now began to fail him and the axe weighed heavy. On burning legs he sloshed backward against a rapid flurry of Niklas’s sword. But, with a loud cry, Richard rallied what reserve of hatred he had left and charged forward one last time.

With a sneer, Niklas deftly dodged the assault, then plunged his sword through Richard’s lungs. The woeful cry of Heinrich filled Richard’s ears with their last sounds on earth. The pierced peasant stood wide-eyed for a moment, impaled nearly to the hilt of Niklas’s blade. The knight then yanked his sword away with a sickening sound and Richard toppled forward. Heinrich ran to his friend, only to have Falko hold him while Niklas rolled Richard over. Mercifully, the man’s soul had flown away and he was unaware of his final indignity as Niklas scraped his muddy boots across the bridge of his nose.

Heinrich claimed Richard’s body quickly. He washed and shrouded the bloodied corpse, and a willing priest said the final prayers as he and Blasius dug a grave beyond the castle wall. Then, as a spring cloudburst added yet more misery to the sad day, Richard’s body was lowered to its eternal rest.

Chapter 19

THE CHOICE

A
fortnight passed and the castle quickly filled with fresh troops finally ready for the campaign against the obstinate Stedingers. Soldiers of the archbishop had arrived from other places and now bivouacked in tents scattered throughout the bailey. The first days of May were filled with the sounds of their drills and training.

At last, the Count of Oldenburg appeared in all his finery to address the gathered army. He was a vain man, given to the same bloated sense of self that prompted his forebears to claim the title of “count” in the first place. With smug satisfaction he surveyed the rows of armored knights now lined in parade formation at his feet. They were fully bedecked in their colors and proudly bore the standards of their liege lords. Behind them gathered ranks of mounted sergeants—soldiers nearly equal in skill to a knight but from a lower station. Rows of archers formed the next line, and behind them stood an orderly throng of footmen dressed in leather jerkins and grasping maces, axes, lances, and glaives. Heinrich and the other servants were sent to their places amongst a long row of wagons and packhorses laden with provisions for the march that lay ahead.

The count shouted words of encouragement and introduced the army’s commander, one Lord Egbert of Hamburg. He, in turn, announced the knighthood of three former squires. The trio had pledged their fealty in a ceremony of homage that very same morning in which they had knelt before their liege lord and placed their hands within his. After reciting their pledge and receiving the prayers of the archbishop himself, the three were touched upon each shoulder and the head by their lord’s long-sword, forever sworn as his obedient vassals.

The archbishop’s army was comprised of men from all parts of Christendom. Fear of the Stedingers had spread as far as sunny Spain, for it seemed that spontaneous peasant armies were beginning to display astonishing acumen in many parts of Europe, and the kings’ courts were growing nervous. A few English lords had considered sending a company of footmen to join the cause but did not. Perhaps the heritage of liberty savored in that good land had blunted their enthusiasm.

The Archbishop of Bremen’s cause was served by thirty knights from the empire, forty mounted sergeants, and a host of footmen numbering nearly a hundred. In addition, the dukes of Lorraine sent sixty footmen, five mounted sergeants, and four Norman knights under contract. Distant Cordoba offered two black-haired knights on fine, Arabian mounts. Added to these were an entourage of teamsters, cooks, bakers, smiths, groomsmen, armorers, priests, women-of-the-camp, and physicians. The castle of Oldenburg had become host to an encampment of a vigorous and impressive army.

To the surprise of all, Archbishop Hartwig suddenly emerged from his guest chamber bearing his scepter in one hand and his sword in the other.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!”

The army fell to its knees as the great bishop prayed over them. “Have mercy on us, Lord.” Bishop Hartwig bowed to the priests at his side, then descended the steps toward Lord Egbert’s mount and offered his sword and standard to the commander. The trumpets lining the battlements sounded and a thunderous cheer rose up. Then, as Egbert waved his army forward, the knights of the Church passed beneath the outstretched arms of their bishop and through Oldenburg’s high gate.

Heinrich felt the hairs on his neck tingle and rise as he took his first steps forward. There he was, a simple baker from little Weyer, marching midst trumpets and cheers beneath the snapping pennants of a castle keep. He suddenly felt as though he were more than a breadmaker. His chest rose and his stride lengthened as he imagined himself a soldier in God’s army, commissioned to help bear the sword against evildoers and the legions of Lucifer! Tears of inexplicable wonder blurred his eager eyes as he strained to find Blasius.

Heinrich smiled as he spotted the noble monk trotting briskly a short distance ahead. The Templar was surrounded by an enlarging group of devout knights from far-off places that shared his faithful love of God and duty. These true soldiers of Christ wanted little to do with the shameful ways of their fellows and were drawn to the piety of the warrior-monk. They were the flower of Christian knighthood, the lingering fragrance of a fading glory.

The sun shone brightly as Heinrich passed beneath the outstretched hands of the bishop. He closed his eyes to feel their power bring him strength from the Almighty. He breathed deeply and smiled and marched across the drawbridge to the long roadway lying before him.

The army followed the Hunte River for a short distance, then turned southeastward toward the prosperous town of Hude lying in the very center of Stedingerland. The day slowly faded, like the thrill of its beginning. Heinrich’s heart did fly in those early hours of that special day, but it would have soared to even greater heights had it not been tethered to the memory of poor Richard.
Why, Richard? What a foolhardy, stubborn, selfish thing to do!
As the baker stepped to the rhythm of his wagon’s turning wheel he reflected on their boyhood together. His mind carried him to happy times in Emma’s garden and beneath the boughs of the Magi. He thought of Ingly and how the three of them had sat in speechless awe to hear Emma’s tales of sprites and gnomes, of Dragon-rock and the Knight of the Swan. He remembered lying between Ingelbert and Richard beneath the warmth of a kindly summer sun to discover faces in the clouds.
Ah, to gaze at the heavens again,
he thought. Heinrich sighed and shook his head.

Within the hour the column had traveled well within the marshy world of the Stedingers. Though its boundaries had spread over the years, Stedingerland was generally considered as lying east of Oldenburg with the River Weser as its original eastern boundary and the Hunte as its northern. The ground was primarily marshland that had been claimed from the flooding Weser by its ingenious settlers through series of ditches and locks. As the land drained, the farmers used their livestock to compress the soil, eventually leaving large areas of hardened fields within protective grids of low dikes. They then built access roads along these dikes connecting the tidy towns and villages that sprouted as vigorously as the hay fields of their ever-widening meadows. Their communities had become prosperous by the third generation.

In a show of strength, the archbishop’s army passed numerous small villages and near noon was ordered to make camp. Here plans were set for a morning attack against a redoubt that protected access to the town of Hude. By smashing the fortress guarding the Stedingers’ largest town, it was believed the rebels would quickly yield their taxes along with heavy dues with which the army might be paid a bonus. Heinrich hurried about his tasks to ensure fresh loaves for both the night’s supper and the next morning’s first meal.

After his duties were done, Heinrich was glad for the conversation of a friendly company of footmen grateful for his hearty rye.

“Your bread is as good as I’ve e’er eaten!” said one. “Come, sit with us.”

Heinrich nodded. “M’thanks. You’d be the last left to serve and I’m happy for a rest.” He sat between a huddle of contented soldiers and pulled a spelt roll from his pocket. “I am Heinrich of Weyer, from the region of Runkel and Limburg-by-the-Lahn.”

The group introduced themselves as coming from numerous manors or towns of the empire. Each was a yeoman—a freeman who owned land but owed military service as part of his obligation to the lord who protected him. “Forty days! Ha!” grumbled one. “My lord had better credit us three years or more for this.”

The group nodded. Heinrich listened quietly as the men spoke of their reluctance to oppose other free men. “From what I’ve learned they’re our brothers. Free like us, cheated like us.” He lowered his voice. “If we could join together, we could resist as well!”

“Hush, Roland! Are y’mad?!”

“Humph … we must all be mad to be in this army. We belong in the other!”

“Under God I do wonder which cause is just,” whispered one. “I am sworn to follow m’lord, and I dare not oppose the Holy Church … yet I see justice in the Stedingers.”

“But not in the
way
of their grievance,” blurted Heinrich. “Their cause may be just but their ways are not.”

A young soldier levelled a hard gaze at the baker. “You spent the winter as us … bound in that stone coop with the likes of drunken, debauched lords. You might just as easy say the same of them.”

A grumble of “ayes” circled the ring. Heinrich shrugged. The man had made a good point. “But what of the Church … one cannot oppose the Church.”

“Methinks the Stedingers ‘ave priests praying over them as well. Who’s to say which of God’s men are speaking for God?”

The circle approved of the fellow’s logic but grew suddenly quiet. The dilemma was more than they could handle the night before a likely battle. Heinrich brushed flour from his arms. “Well, I am glad my conscience needs make no choice in this!”

A leather-faced soldier shook his head and curled his lip. “Eh? Methinks y’know better than that. You feed this army … we live on yer bread. Y’might as well be raising a sword against these folk yerself! You’d be a fool and a coward to hide behind yer doughs. You’d be no better’ an us, so on the morrow do not think yerself clean and pure whilst we shed innocent blood!”

The soldiers stared at Heinrich with steely eyes, and the baker hung his head in shame.

Dawn broke red and glorious as the army of the archbishop prepared to launch its attack. It was to be a short march across lands as flat as a table stretching toward a wide horizon. A northerly breeze wafted cool air through the camp, and Heinrich sucked clean air through his nostrils and sighed. He turned his eyes to the tender green grasses of May that blanketed the marshlands spread before him and he wished he were home. The grasslands were dotted with butter flowers and white lace, wild rhododendron and white clover. The sandy road ahead was dry and clear, lined with tall hardwoods such as oak and walnut.

The army began its march with a blast of trumpets and the roll of kettledrums. The servants and their wagons were ordered to follow close by, for the commanders wanted no risk of ambush to their supplies. So Heinrich mounted a cart and bounced along a straight roadway. His attention was quickly taken by the long, narrow fields that ran at right angles to the road. They were evenly divided by hand-dug trenches that marked the owners’ boundaries and disappeared far into the distance. “One denier per year per holding,” grumbled a footman.

“What?”

“I say, one penny per year for the tax on all of that.” He pointed to a Stedinger field. “I’m told they were granted about thirty hectares and their freedom for one penny per year tax!”

Heinrich shook his head. “I am taxed two hundred a year for m’bakery alone!”

“Aye,” answered another, “but did y’build a dike around it?”

A round of chuckles followed. Heinrich grumbled. “I’d dig a river round m’whole village for a tax like that, and I’d drain the Rhine for m’freedom!”

“And me as well!” cried a voice.

Along the road, also at even intervals, stood the tidy Stedingers’ houses. Each house stood at the head of the farmer’s rectangle of land, and the houses were strung in lines of some twenty or thirty, creating villages known as
“Marschhufe,”
or “marsh holdings.” The houses were well kept and exuded a pride that naturally followed the liberty that was enjoyed under each roof.