Quest of Hope: A Novel (46 page)

The lord was tired of obstinate peasants. He backhanded Heinrich with a ferocious blow that knocked the baker to the ground. “Now, bend the knee to me, y’worthless fool.”

Heinrich stood. He would not obey.

“I say bend!” roared Niklas. He grabbed the baker and threw him into the shadows of a nearby stable.

Heinrich found his feet and stood defiantly. The baker had spent a lifetime bending and stooping, scraping, bowing, yielding, submitting—but only when he believed such compliance to be proper and just; only when it was right and in order. Lord Niklas had misjudged his tractability for timidity, his meekness for frailty.

Niklas struck him again and again. Bleeding and silent, Heinrich returned to his feet over and over, stiff-necked and ready for more. Frustrated and furious, the bulge-eyed knight suddenly jerked a dagger from his belt and thrust it toward Heinrich’s throat.

The baker dodged the blade and grabbed hold of Niklas’s arm. A fury rose within him, a familiar rage that had once filled him on a rainy night along the Villmar road. He held the knight’s wrist with a viselike grip made strong from years kneading heavy dough. He tossed the soldier over his leg, slammed him hard onto the earth and pounced atop him to keep him close. He held Niklas’s dagger hand fast to the ground with one hand, and with the other he seized the knight’s throat and squeezed with all his might. Niklas gasped and squirmed, trying to roll. He dug his fingers into Heinrich’s eyes as his swelling face began to purple.

Heinrich grunted and squeezed with all the strength his thick hand could muster. Pictures of Richard filled his mind and he tightened his grip even more. The moments passed slowly as the baker’s unyielding grip stayed fixed to the lurching lord’s throat like wet leather drying around a post. Niklas’s flailing body rose and fell as he struggled against his gritty foe. His mouth stretched open wide and gaping, his fingers desperately digging at Heinrich’s flesh. At last, the knight’s eyes rolled and his hand dropped. His torso relaxed and Heinrich slowly, warily, released his hold. A gurgle and wheeze escaped the dead knight’s chest and all was silent.

Heinrich stood and straddled the corpse. A cold shiver ran through him and he spun his head from side to side. He spotted a mound of manure against a far wall and quickly dragged the man by his boots toward it. In moments, he was desperately digging an unseemly grave in which he hurriedly buried the knight.

Once certain the man was well covered, the baker peeked beyond the stable door. With hurried fingers and a rag, Heinrich picked bits of straw from his leggings and wiped manure off his boots, then he slipped into the bustling castle courtyard without a notice.

The night seemed endless as Heinrich stared at the dark rafters above his head. The halls of the castle were glowing in torchlight and restless knights’ swords clanged in good-natured contest. A large contingent of tardy men-at-arms had arrived that very evening from Pomerania in the east. Rumors abounded among the servants that these rough-hewn soldiers were veterans in the empire’s wars against the pagan Prussians. Claiming devotion to Church and emperor, they could be heard above the din shouting for vengeance against the Stedingers. “Next these dogs shall be filling their villages with witches and stealing infants from Christian homes!” one cried. Heinrich groaned.

The baker was worried the dung-haulers would be about the stables in the morning. His only hope was a comment he had overheard in which there was a complaint noted by the count that the castle latrines must be cleaned. It seemed his lady was aghast at the hordes of flies and the army’s reeking piles of excrement yet to be shovelled away.
Perhaps,
he thought,
perhaps I might be halfway to home before they find Niklas.

But Heinrich wondered if it would be better for him to simply unburden his soul by confessing his deed to the constable. After all, he reasoned, it was an act of self-defense, and who would deny even a servile baker the right to life. Yet, prudence was with the man. The lines edging his eyes and furrowed on his brow had been ploughed by years of wisdom’s teaching, and a voice deep within told him plainly that his confession would send him to the gallows. He turned his mind to the state of his soul and wondered if God would require penance for such an act.
But self-defense—surely God would forgive. Yet I did think of Richard and hateful vengeance was in m’grip.
Heinrich groaned and begged the night to pass.

It was Wednesday, the sixteenth day of May, when the sun rose again to shine atop the baker’s world. Nervous and distracted by his secret, Heinrich went about his duties anxiously, delivering baskets of fresh-baked breads to the knights grumbling from their chambers. He passed quietly through the halls of the castle, then into a garden courtyard where he overheard something that would change the simple man forever.

A group of French captains were whispering among those recently arrived from Pomerania. Believing justice had not been served, these knights were convinced of their right to exact a higher price than what the archbishop had required. Since Hartwig and his soldiers had departed for Bremen with Lord Egbert two days before, none could deny them the opportunity. Furthermore, it was rumored that the count was enraged that the Templar had taken away the entire debt, leaving him with scarcely enough to meet his other obligations—including paying the army. They plotted a raid.

Heinrich listened carefully before hurrying to his wagon where he swallowed a long draught of cider.
What am I to do?
The man’s mind whirled and he wanted to vomit. With Richard dead, Blasius far away, and every other soul from his homeland gone, he felt so very alone. It was then he also realized that he had no way home!
I’ll be attached to a strange lord… I’ll be stolen away, never to see m’lads again.
Panic gripped him and his mouth dried. He plunged his hand into his satchel to find his Laubusbach stone.
Ah, Emma… if only you could guide me. And Brother Lukas …if I could but hear one word of counsel from you now.

He closed his eyes as words from his past came to him.
Emma said thatsunshine is hope and moonlight is mercy. But I cannot lift my head to either. I am supposed to live m’life “by the law of love.” She told m, “’tis higher than that of any man.”
He took a deep breath and another draught of cider. He loaded his strong arms with large baskets of bread and returned to the knights’tables where he cocked his ears.

Some Normans had joined with the Frenchmen, and a footman had overheard them talking about a wealthy village within reach. “They wants to loot a rich town along the Weser called Berne,” the man whispered to Heinrich. “It’s north, just below the Hunte and they say there’s less a militia there. But the booty ought be plenty since it trades heavy from the seaport. Then, they says, they’ll come back to the castle, collect their wagons, and go home.”

“Are you footmen going?” Heinrich feigned disinterest.

“Aye. They’ll be makin’ us quick-step the whole way!”

Heinrich nodded. A hard tap on the shoulder sent a chill through the baker. He turned slowly, expecting the worst. He was staring at Falko. “You! Baker.”

Heinrich paled.

Falko narrowed his eyes and leaned close. “’Ave y’seen yer lord?”

“Lord Niklas? Nay, sir master, not for days. Methinks he must be with the ladies, else drunk in the halls.”

Falko said nothing but kept a cold gaze on the baker. Heinrich felt perspiration beading above his upper lip but he did not move or look away. Falko nodded. “Aye. You needs shave that stubble and shorn that mop! No beards, no long hair on servants.” He pulled Heinrich by the sleeve and whispered, “And one more thing. You and the others need bake early. Some soldiers’ll be leavin’’fore dawn.”

Now Heinrich knew it was certain. He also knew Falko to be dimwitted and loose-tongued. “Aye, sire. And … for how many ought I bake?”

Falko leaned closer. “’Bout a hundred, methinks … two score mounted men and some footmen. Say no word of it to others. If asked, say you’ve been told some companies be leavin’ for home in early morn.” The fool winked.

“Aye.” Heinrich’s heart raced and his mind spun as he hurried toward his wagon. He muttered to his helpers, “I’d be suffering colic, methinks.” He held his belly. “I’d needs an hour in m’bed.” Once out of sight he leaned against the cold stone of the castle wall and closed his eyes.
I’ll not raise m’hand against them nor help those who do. God forgive me, but m’lords are wrong.

Heinrich scanned the castle grounds for a safe way out. He quickly climbed the steps leading to the battlements where he fixed his eyes on the green fields beyond the drawbridge. “Wildflowers!”

The man raced down the steps, through the courtyard, and into his bakery where he grabbed a basket. He hurried to the gatekeeper and spoke boldly. “I’m the baker … been ordered to gather flowers to flavor m’lord’s sweetbread and tasties.”

The guard grumbled a word or two, then waved him through the portal. Relieved, but trembling, Heinrich crossed the drawbridge spanning the curve in the Hunte and slowly headed toward the open fields. Soon he was bending to pull spring blooms from the sod. The soldiers on the wall gave him little heed and by vespers he had managed to wander far enough to find cover midst a clump of willows by the riverbank where he hid until twilight.

Under a merciful moon the man ran eastward along the river roadway. The night was quiet and all he could hear were the sounds of his boots pounding the road and his lungs wheezing for air. At this time of year the darkness would be short-lived, and the urgency of his cause pressed him onward. Yet he was not as young as he once was and Heinrich finally collapsed at the side of the road gasping for breath.

After resting a few moments alone in the silver night-scape, the simple man from Weyer felt suddenly important. Heinrich cleared his lungs and began to run again. He had reckoned the distance to be about four leagues—about a three-hour quick-step, less if he ran hard. On and on he pressed despite the ache in his weighted legs and the agony of his heaving chest. It was sometime after matins when the gasping baker finally collapsed at the door of Berne’s simple church. The man pounded on it until a wary priest arrived with a candle. “Please,” Heinrich begged. “Please … let me in.”

The priest helped the exhausted man through the doorway and onto a stool. He called for a drowsy novice to bring a tankard of beer with which Heinrich quickly slaked his thirst. “Knights are coming!” he cried. “Warn your people the knights are to attack the town.”

The priest gasped and immediately ordered the church bell rung. Within moments, bleary-eyed militiamen began streaming into the church. Upon hearing the baker’s report, messengers and scouts were sent in all directions, and a defense was quickly planned by Berne’s elected captains. Then, before Heinrich could protest, he was herded into a wagon and delivered to the redoubt guarding the main road leading to the town.

In the next hours, anxious farmers poured steadily from villages far and wide with swords and pikes in hand. Some had shields, most not. Some carried axes, others flails, forks, or hammers. None had armor. They gathered into tithings and arranged themselves quickly into proper order as they awaited more news. Once organized, they learned of Heinrich and his brave decision. One by one they sought him out and embraced him. For the baker, the hours were a blur of confusion and fear.

The first rays of dawn spread bright pink across the huge sky of Stedingerland. The wind had changed to the south and a light breeze wafted a bit of warmth to the chilled peasants preparing their defense. They stood around their earthen fortress facing west, still within sight of the steeple of Berne’s church that guarded their rear. From time to time some turned to face the squat tower as if to draw strength from it. And why not? The red-brick church was stout and sturdy, its square steeple unpretentious and efficient—like the people who had built it; like the people it served. It was a worthy reservoir of hope.