Quest of Hope: A Novel (8 page)

Arnold and Baldric’s closest friend, Dietrich, were waiting on the road beneath the church with another man, Paul, the dyer for the monks. Paul had come from Mainz as a freeman in search of work. He had married a dyer’s daughter from another village but moved to Weyer in hopes of establishing a shop in the growing village. He had made the unfortunate mistake of borrowing money from Baldric and now was required to pay his terms of interest.

Under the cloak of a new moon the five men whispered their plan. Arnold flashed a knife normally used to bleed swine and demanded the others show their weapons. Kurt yanked his blade from his belt and Dietrich revealed his own. Baldric preferred a mallet he had taken from an ironsmith in a wager. Paul shrugged timidly. “I’ve no weapon, I—”

Arnold snarled, “You of all of us ought have a sword or bow! Fool, dimwit!”

Indeed, serfs were not permitted to own weapons, but freemen were expected to keep a long sword or bow in case called upon to render military service.

Baldric growled. “Here, I’ve a blade in m’boot. Take it, y’dunce and use it well.”

Paul took the short knife with a trembling hand. He touched its edge with his forefinger and closed his eyes.

It was soon after the bells of compline when the five men began their dark journey. They climbed the steep roadway leading them out of Weyer, paused briefly along the ridge-line, and then began to trot down the long slope toward the torches of distant Villmar. About halfway to the abbey’s village they veered off the road and followed Arnold along a cartpath heading northeastward. They ran quietly under a star-sprinkled sky, and before long they could smell the wet mud and waters of the Lahn River.

The Lahn was fairly deep, hemmed by steep banks. It was a bowshot in breadth and sluggish, except in the spring thaw. The group paused at the bank for a moment and crouched in the night’s mist now hanging about their knees. Then, without a sound, they slipped into the Lahn’s warm waters and vanished in the fog. They swam awkwardly through the black water until they found themselves clawing their way up the slippery bank on the far side. The group was now across the border of the abbey’s lands and was trespassing the lands of Lord Klothar, the new lord of Runkel.

As bound serfs, all but Paul could be severely punished for leaving the realm to which they were pledged. The oaths of their ancestors had shackled them to the land they were born upon and only escape to a free city for a year and a day or the purchase of manumission could set them free.

Lord Klothar’s village of Arfurt was about the size of Weyer and was perched atop a high bank directly on the Lahn. The men had crossed the river upstream from the sleepy village and now sat in the low grass of a hayfield to catch their breath. Arnold gathered his comrades close. “We’ve another league to travel to Arfurt,” he whispered. “The cart-way’s fairly smooth but the dark will slow us some. We shall soon hear the bells at matins and that gives us just enough time to do our business and get back ‘afore daybreak.”

Baldric looked carefully about the circle. “None can fail, do y’hear me, Paul?”

The dyer nodded nervously.

“Humph!” groused Baldric. “You’ve thin arms and a soft way about you, dyer. And you’d best have clean hands. If you leave the color of dye behind you’ll swing!”

Paul was sweating in the humid night air and his hands began to tremble. He wished he had never met Baldric nor ever borrowed a single penny from the man.

“Kurt, you’re quiet,” said Baldric.

“Aye, frightened, aren’t you?” laughed Dietrich.

Kurt turned stiffly toward the miller. “Methinks you to be a fool… and a cheat. Keep yerself away from me else I’ll deal with you when this business is done!”

Dietrich pulled the knife from his belt. “Now, now you son of a har—”

Arnold held the man. “Save your rage, friend. Kurt’s with fever, leave him be.”

With a few more oaths the men stood and followed Arnold’s lanky starlit silhouette like sheep trotting behind their bellwether. They slipped through the darkness, waist deep in mist, their thin, leather shoes padding lightly atop the wet grass. The bells of matins echoed through the Lahn valley from nameless village churches scattered about. The troop hunched and bobbed under the night’s sky, each lost in his own thoughts until Arnold suddenly stopped. “Hold!” he hushed. The smell of burning wood wafted past his nose. Arnold crouched and whispered to Baldric. “There, about a bowshot, methinks.”

Baldric assumed command. He huddled his men and spoke in low tones. “Now listen well. They’ve surely set a guard by the wool. He’s the one to die first, then we take the others, but we must move slowly else the ox’ll bellow a warning.”

Kurt was trembling all over. Fever raged through his body and he thought he might faint, but he took a deep breath and crept forward with the others. The dew and heavy mist muffled their movements as they crawled to within a stone’s throw of the Gunnars’ camp. As Baldric had guessed, a sleepy watchman was leaning against the large wheel of a single-axle cart. The dim glow of the campfire lit the man’s left side and Arnold studied it carefully. “Baldric,” he whispered, “no blade.”

Baldric nodded and motioned for Kurt and Paul to advance. As the two moved forward, Baldric, Arnold, and Dietrich crept toward the guard. “Arnold,” whispered Baldric, “you two, move in close and be ready.” He pointed to the sleeping shepherds as he crept through the mist toward the sentry.

Paul and Kurt were now crouching within striking distance of the camp and waited nervously as Baldric stalked the guard. The ox suddenly raised his head and cocked his ears. He lifted his nose to scent the air. The men of Weyer froze. The beast snorted and grunted and the guard stood erect. “Huh?” he muttered as he stepped toward the animal. He set a hand atop the ox’s broad back and stared out into the darkness. Seeing nothing, he turned back toward the wagon with a shrug but had barely taken a step before Baldric’s mallet smashed hard into his face. The awful sound startled the ox, and the beast lurched forward, bawling loudly.

Five sleeping Gunnars were suddenly awake and on their feet, and Arnold and Dietrich sprang forward, Baldric close behind. Kurt was nauseous and dizzy. He stood and took a step, but fever blurred his eyes and he could barely feel the handle of the knife in his grip. He hesitated, but only for a moment. Anger for the shame of Sieghild suddenly pulsed through him, and it was as though he could feel his sister’s suffering. He charged forward into the fray.

The Gunnars fought hard, like their Frankish forefathers. A mighty swipe of Baldric’s mallet, however, dropped one, then two. Another wrestled Arnold to the ground but Baldric struck the shepherd on the spine as Arnold plunged his knife deep into the man’s belly.

Dietrich was in trouble, however. He tripped and lay helpless on the grass as a Gunnar rushed toward him. Kurt turned to help the miller and crashed into Dietrich’s foe. But as he did, the blow of a hammer glanced off his cheek. Stunned, he fell face first to the ground and the man quickly pounced upon him, plunging sharp shears over and over into Kurt’s arching back.

Baldric rushed to Kurt’s aid. With a vicious swipe of his mallet, Baldric crushed the head of the shear-wielding Gunnar. The man fell to his side with a whimper and lay openeyed and lifeless.

Baldric dropped to his brother’s side. “Ach … nay …
Gott in Himmel!”
the man cried to the heavens. He clutched his brother’s body in his arms. “Kurt!” he wailed.

Kurt felt a chill drift through his body. For a moment he felt a flutter. He heard distant voices calling him—familiar voices, perhaps Arnold’s, perhaps his father’s? He gasped for breath, then felt suddenly calm and the voices grew faint, finally fading away to utter silence.

The vanquished Gunnars lay strewn about their campsite, dead or dying. The survivors of Weyer stared disbelieving at their fallen comrade and said nothing as they carried his body to a dewy patch of unspoiled grass. They laid him down respectfully and the three of them knelt by his side.

The group was quiet and the air deadly calm. Paul the dyer approached from the darkness and bowed his head in sorrow. Baldric was fighting a tear—a battle seldom engaged—as he turned his blood-splattered face to the quaking dyer. “You? You hid?”

“Y-Yes,” answered Paul. “I’ve not the stomach for such—”

The gentle man never finished his sentence. Baldric snarled and swung his mallet into the man’s thin frame, felling him to the earth like a broken willow. Paul collapsed with a gasp and his eyes rolled as his soul flew away.

Arnold and Dietrich grunted their assent to justice served and stood to finish the night’s business. With a diabolical grin Dietrich set about the task of assuring the deaths of any Gunnar yet twitching on the ground while Arnold rifled through their purses to take whatever treasures he might find.

“Do we toss them in the river?” asked Arnold.

“Aye, fish food,” answered Dietrich.

Baldric paused. “No, leave them for the birds so their kin finds them. They needs see the price they pay for Sieghild and their threats!”

Dietrich wasn’t so sure. “Lord Klothar will learn of it and go to the abbot. Your feud is no secret.”

“Ach! Let them accuse us. We’ve oath-helpers enough who’ll swear by our innocence.”

Arnold pointed to Kurt and Paul. “And these?” he asked anxiously.

Baldric thought for a moment. “Berta needs claim Kurt died of the fever. We’ll shroud him quick and Father Gregor won’t know. He’s too fearful to ask questions of us anyway. We’ll sink Paul in the river downstream.”

“But Paul’s wife will wonder,” blurted Dietrich.

“Aye,” answered Baldric. “I’ll simply tell her the last I knew he’d been visiting the strumpets in Limburg.”

As the dawn of Lammas broke bright over Weyer, Baldric and Arnold bore the body of Kurt to his wife and three children. Berta collapsed onto the dirt floor of her hovel and wept inconsolably. Heinrich stood bravely at his father’s side and stared into the lifeless face. The lad’s lower lip quivered and tears rolled down his face. He had already been taught to hide such weakness, and he quickly wiped his tears away. He walked bravely toward his mother and offered her the comfort of a tender hug.

“Leave me be!” shrieked Berta. “Are you stupid, boy? Can y’not see I needs be alone?”

Shamefaced, the four-year-old ran from the hovel.

Baldric related the night’s events to Berta and recited the story she must offer to Father Gregor.

“I… I dare not lie to a priest! Are you mad, Baldric? I’ll not put my soul in peril or that of little Axel here, or Effi! No, I’ll not be telling your lies!”

“Then Arnold and I shall swing on Runkel’s gallows and Kurt’s land shall be taken in payment for the dead.”

Arnold whispered to Baldric. “If she’ll betray us, then she’s to join him.”

Baldric nodded. “Woman, listen and listen well. I am the elder of this household now. I’ll speak to Gregor, you say nothing!”

Resigned, Berta nodded obediently. “Then hurry for him, Kurt’s soul has need of the prayers!”

“Not before he’s washed and shrouded!” barked Arnold.

Herwin, the tenant, was sitting in the corner, frightened and silent. Baldric turned to him. “You … come here y’mouse. One word and you’re dead. We’ve need of your rents else you’d already have your throat cut. Be off now to the well with a bucket. Arnold, get some linens from your wife. We shan’t spend for deerskin and we’ve no time for a box.”

Immediately the family was busy. Berta sewed her husband’s wounds so no blood would stain the wraps while Herwin washed the body. Within the half hour they quickly shrouded the corpse.

Father Gregor had a fine Lammas day planned, one filled with good food and drink, village dances and games. He had fields of grain to bless and was not pleased to be bothered with Kurt’s death. “He died of what cause?” he asked Baldric.

“Fever from a prick on the hand some weeks past.”

“Ah, yes, I did notice it swelling. You have already prepared the body?”

“Aye, father, we thought with the feast day it would be good to hurry about it. The widow wants words for his soul, though, and quick.”

Father Gregor sighed. “Aye, ‘tis an hour yet to terce and I’ve much to do. By the saints, the gravediggers shan’t be happy about this! Methinks he needs wait for burial till the morrow.”

Arnold was standing next to Baldric and nudged him. Neither wanted any delay. The Gunnars would be discovered soon and Kurt needed to be in the ground. None would dare dig him out to check his body.