The Wandering Harlot (The Marie Series) (20 page)

“Here, take this. You can surely use it.” He stood up quickly, as if afraid he might regret his generosity. “I believe I had better go now. May the saints protect you, Marie.”

“It’s about time they do,” she replied, standing and shaking his hand in farewell.

Master Jörg briefly embraced her and then suddenly let her go. Marie watched until he disappeared beyond the city gate, and then she returned to her tent. On meeting Gerlind, she was about to demand the money Master Jörg had paid the old harlot, but Marie shrugged and walked past her. At the moment she had no wish to quarrel. Moreover, Master Jörg’s purse contained far more than the few shillings Gerlind had taken for herself.

VI.

Marie’s meeting with Wölfling weighed so heavily on her mind that for a while she forgot about the new argument between Hiltrud and Gerlind. The old woman wanted to go over to Baden and then to the Rhine, where she thought there were better chances of making money, whereas Hiltrud thought it better to first go down the Neckar River to the Rhine. Mechthild von Arnstein was related to the House of Büchenbruch, and Hiltrud had heard at Arnstein Castle that there would be a feud between the Büchenbruch clan and the House of Riedburg. Hiltrud thought it dangerous to follow the route Gerlind suggested and possibly find themselves caught between the two warring factions.

Gerlind demurred with a scornful look. “That’s just foolish talk. If there were really going to be a feud, we’d have heard about it by now. I say we head straight for the Rhine, and then we’ll arrive early enough to meet the Black Forest raftsmen taking their logs down the river. They’ve still got plenty of silver jangling in their purses from the advances their bosses gave them upon taking the job, and they’ll be happy to relax with us after their hard days of work.”

Puffing out her chest, Berta tried to look down on Hiltrud, which was rather ridiculous given their difference in height. “I agree with Gerlind, and so do Fita and Märthe. So it’s four against two.”

“Against me and Marie, who also heard about the feud and would no doubt take my side,” Hiltrud replied, her face strained as she turned to look for her friend. She was nowhere to be seen, however, so Hiltrud gave in. “Very well, then, let’s go with your plan. I hope it’s safe for us.”

“And why shouldn’t it be?” Berta asked derisively. “If a fellow gets too fresh, I’ll whack him on the head so hard with my big knife that he won’t get up again until the last trump sounds.” She waved her weapon in front of Hiltrud’s face amidst general laughter.

Hiltrud stepped back instinctively, which made Gerlind laugh even louder, her belly and breasts bouncing up and down. “Six determined women like us don’t even need to fear God.”

Fita suddenly turned serious and crossed herself. Then she folded her hands and asked God for forgiveness for this blasphemy. Bertha walked up and shoved Fita headfirst into the grass. “Don’t act as if God doesn’t understand a joke. He’s certainly not as strict as the priests want to make us believe. Haven’t you figured out yet that they tell us so much about hell in order to get inside our skirts for free?”

Opening her mouth, Fita prepared to deliver one of her religious tirades, but Gerlind snapped at her before she could speak. “See those fellows hanging around over there? Go get one of them, or for the next few weeks you won’t be able to put a penny in an offering box or light a candle for the Virgin Mary. You’ve fallen behind recently in your earnings, and I don’t intend to let you live off us.”

Staggering to her feet, Fita wiped away her tears with the hem of her dress and ran over to the three men. Two of them gave her a contemptuous look and stared lustfully after Marie who was feeding the goats with her back turned to the other women. The third fellow let Fita take him to her tent from which a loud groaning and moaning could soon be heard.

“If the fellow’s banging her up as badly as it sounds, he’ll really hurt her,” Berta joked, and swinging her hips, she walked over to the two other men, waving at Märthe to follow.

Disgusted at the way the four other women acted, Hiltrud knew that their behavior diminished their value and made the better customers avoid them like the plague. She herself had been so fussy that day that she didn’t even earn enough to cover expenses. Nevertheless, rather than looking around for another customer, Hiltrud sat down with Marie in the grass and petted her goats.

“We’ll have to stay with Gerlind’s group until we get to the Rhine, but then I swear we’ll go our own way, even if we have to sleep with every single servant in the wagon train,” she said to Marie, telling her about the route Gerlind planned to take. Marie was only half listening, however. “I don’t care where we go, as long as we lose the four of them.”

VII.

The six women left at dawn the next morning. Gerlind and her companions carried a lighter load than before, as Hiltrud had allowed them, after a fierce dispute, to put some of their things on her cart. As a result, the goats had to strain a bit more, and even the kids were hitched up, tugging vigorously on the reins. As the road steepened, however, it became too much for the animals, and Hiltrud was forced to help pull the wagon while Marie pushed from behind. By the third hill, Marie suggested hitching up Berta or Märthe as well.

With a contemptuous wave of her hand, Hiltrud demurred. “They would just force Fita to help us, and she’d collapse like a tottering old nag after three steps.”

Marie heaved an angry sigh. “Four years ago I never would have imagined that I’d long for the day we could part ways with Gerlind.”

She would always be grateful for how friendly Gerlind had been, taking her in and helping her with such care over those first hard days. But this bitter woman in a filthy dress hobbling in front of them was no longer the Gerlind that Marie had gotten to know and admire. Nevertheless, she felt bad that she no longer was thankful to the old woman. Struggling with her guilt, she tried to shake off her feelings.

“What’s the matter?” Hiltrud asked, concerned.

“I was thinking about Gerlind. Tell me, who has changed more, me or her?”

Hiltrud laughed out loud. “That’s obvious. You’ve both changed, you for the better and she for the worse. I must say, I’m looking forward to soon saying good-bye to her for the last time. It makes me feel wretched just to look at her anymore.”

Marie nodded silently and started pushing again.

The following days were mostly uneventful but not apt to soften Marie’s and Hiltrud’s hostility, now directed less at Gerlind than at Berta, who did everything she could to make their lives harder. The first night she told Marie and Hiltrud that they weren’t welcome at their campfire but that they instead needed to set up their tents some distance away. Nevertheless, Berta insisted that they take half of the night watch while helping herself to some of the wood that the two had gathered for themselves.

Hiltrud didn’t object to the guard-duty assignments, since she didn’t trust the others and was afraid she’d lose her goats to a bear or a stray wolf. Marie just prayed that the wild animals would spare her, for her knife was not a suitable weapon. Even Gerlind’s iron-studded stick was no longer what it used to be. Its point, once so sharp, had worn down and become bent. That first night, however, they had set up camp near a large farm, and Marie was happy that the noise of the barking dogs was so loud, it would keep beasts of prey away, even if it kept them awake.

On the second day, Berta caught six fat hens that had wandered into the street, and she wrung their necks. Marie’s mouth watered at the sight of the birds, as she’d always liked chicken, especially the way Wina used to prepare it, crispy brown with tasty stuffing. Unfortunately, the four other women had no intention of sharing their meal with their two companions.

Instead, Hiltrud prepared a little dough cake with flour that she baked on a stone in the fire along with onions and wild fennel. Marie kept an eye on other women, shuddering as she watched them hastily scorch the chickens in the campfire, then hungrily devour the half-cooked insides. She preferred Hiltrud’s crispy dough cakes to that.

By the next day, they could see the forested summit of Mount Fürstkopf in the south, and their path merged onto a wider road where fresh hoofprints of large horses, deep wheel ruts, and trampled grass were visible. The tracks suggested that a large merchant’s convoy had recently passed through, and Gerlind and Berta became extremely excited, as there were no doubt plenty of men in the group willing to spend their money on women. Gerlind therefore didn’t look for a campsite in the late afternoon, but instead quickened her pace and hurried her companions along so they could set up their tents and collect firewood before nightfall.

“The wagon train is at most an hour ahead of us, and if we rush, we’ll soon be sitting by a warm fire with a cup of wine in our hand . . .”

“And a man between our legs,” Berta interrupted with a giggle.

By the time they finally spotted a blazing bonfire in the valley ahead, the hour had long passed, and darkness had descended over the land. Gerlind pointed triumphantly. “There they are! In no time at all their silver pieces will be jangling in our pockets.”

As they turned off the road, they could hear loud laughter and voices, as if a big party were going on. Distrustful, Marie stopped and listened. She had spent the night close to many wagon trains, but these noises were unusual. It was also strange that the people were camped out in the middle of the forest rather than staying at an inn. Merchants and wagon drivers traveled from one inn to another if at all possible, because they could otherwise easily fall prey to robbers out in the forest or be attacked and robbed by knights or townspeople. At night, with no witnesses to report the attack, even a safe-conduct letter purchased at great cost was of no value to the merchants.

Marie warned other women to stay away, but it was too late, as rough male voices were already calling out to Gerlind and Berta.

“Hey, what are you women doing out on the road at night?” Two men holding torches walked toward them.

“Look! They’re whores!” the second one shouted, waving the torch excitedly. “Men, the evening is saved. Whores are coming our way.”

At that, more than three dozen men came running through the forest toward the women, cheering. Some held up their torches while others boldly grabbed and groped them, pinching their bottoms and breasts.

“Stop that!” Marie shouted furiously, punching one of the men, and he grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to stare into the light.

“You’re a damned pretty little bird. I think I’ll help myself.” He was about to throw her on the ground when a powerfully built fellow lay a hand on his shoulder.

“Keep your hands off her. This fine girl is something for the noblemen, or do you think they’d want to let you take her away from them?”

As Marie reached under her skirt and grabbed the handle of her knife, the man snorted angrily and let her go. She tried to withdraw inconspicuously and disappear into the bushes, hoping to slip away under the cover of darkness. Gerlind had led them straight into a camp of mercenaries, and Marie knew from talking with other prostitutes what they could expect there.

These were roving mercenaries of the worst sort: Swiss deserters, Swabian lance bearers, and people who’d rather cut throats than earn an honest living. Even in the torches’ flickering light it was clear that their equipment was anything but uniform. There were no coats of arms on their surcoats since they didn’t belong to a nobleman’s army, and some of them were wearing shirts with faded marks on the chest from where they had removed a nobleman’s insignia upon leaving his service.

Thinking only of escape, Marie had slipped away from the torchlight and was about to disappear into the pitch black of the undergrowth when a huge man grabbed her and pressed her against his chest. “Here’s the little bird for our Sir Lothar! Now you owe me something,” he called out to the large man.

Understanding the seriousness of their situation, Gerlind tried to negotiate. “Don’t be so rough with us, fellows. We have no objections to spreading our legs for you. This pleasure costs only a few pennies, and we’ll see that each of you gets his turn.” Though she tried to sound cheerful, her voice trembled with anxiety.

One of the men began to laugh loudly. “If you can find a Haller in our purses, old lady, you’re lucky. Our spare change has long ago been spent in drinking and whoring, but we’ll take you just the same. Don’t you agree, men?” Those standing around grinned and nodded vigorously.

The men dragged the protesting women back to their camp, which was inadequately lit by the bonfire in the middle but where Marie could see two wagons heavily laden with barrels and war supplies, and another wagon with two dismantled cannons. Directly in front of the wagon with the cannon was a tent presumably belonging to the group’s leader, since the mercenaries had set up their beds of blankets and coats under the open sky.

Marie had heard many times that wandering prostitutes were often raped. She herself had been lucky up to now, but it looked like her luck had run out. The entrance flap of the tent was turned up, and a young man dressed like a nobleman stuck his head out. Marie began to hope it wouldn’t be as bad as she’d feared.

“Why all this noise?” he asked sharply.

“We have visitors,” a mercenary replied with a grin. “We ran into a few whores, and we’ve reserved the prettiest little bird for you, Squire Siegward, a treat that will certainly be to your taste.”

Shocked, Marie knew whose hands she’d fallen into. Old Siegbald of Riedburg Castle was the declared enemy of Lady Mechthild’s relatives at Büchenbruch Castle. He had a reputation as a highway robber—and his sons, of whom Siegward was the eldest, had even worse reputations. If this man learned that Marie had spent the winter at Arnstein Castle, he’d probably kill her out of anger toward Lady Mechthild, who had sent help several times to her relatives in their fight against the Riedburgs.

Siegward von Riedburg licked his lips and looked her up and down as if she were a calf being delivered for slaughter. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a warrior’s build that would make Sir Dietmar envious. His dull, pale blue eyes revealed that he wasn’t very bright, however, and his jutting chin suggested a domineering personality.

The squire pinched Marie’s breast and nodded to his people. “Well done, men. This is exactly what I need tonight. In the meantime, amuse yourselves with the other whores.”

“We will, sire,” replied the soldier, nodding vigorously. “But to do that, we need to fill our bellies with something more than the porridge we had for supper. Hey, fellows, how about roasting those goats?” He pointed to Hiltrud’s animals standing on the nearby roadside where they were eating grass.

“Hands off my goats!” shrieked Hiltrud, but the men only roared with laughter as one of them drew his sword and chopped off a goat’s head. Hiltrud tore herself free and rushed at the perpetrator, clawing at his face with her fingernails. Several of the soldiers grabbed her immediately, however, and threw her to the ground.

Turning away from the scene, Squire Siegward lifted Marie in his arms and carried her into the tent. A simple but bright oil lamp lit up the interior, where two men playing cards looked up expectantly. Judging by the younger one’s resemblance to Siegward, Marie assumed he was one of Siegward’s brothers. The other man was stocky and broad-shouldered with long arms and short, crooked legs.

The beds were filthy, as if the occupants had wallowed in dirt before getting in, and strewn with clothing and weapons. On the folding table in the middle of the room were three cups alongside a pile of playing cards and stacks of coins, and beneath the table an empty wine jug. The men must have had a wild party, for when Siegward forced a kiss on Marie, she could smell the strong, acrid odor of wine.

He tore open her dress and pulled her toward him, his younger brother dancing nervously around him to ask if he could also grab the girl. “The whore is for all of us.” Siegerich von Riedburg let out a demented laugh as Siegward pushed Marie back onto one of the beds.

The look on his face was not promising. He jumped on Marie, and as Hiltrud had taught her, she went completely limp. She felt the pain caused by his lack of consideration, but in her mind’s eye another scene was playing out, one that she had repressed as much as possible in recent years. Suddenly it was no longer Siegward panting and groaning on top of her, but Utz, the wagon driver. Instinctively she stiffened and opened her eyes, then was brought back to the present by the sight of the young squire rearing up over her, his face flushed, while his brother stood over them, awaiting his turn.

“I’m next,” Siegerich begged his brother like a young boy after a piece of candy.

Siegward answered without pausing in his violent contortions. “But only with the armorer’s approval, lad. You know we have to humor Gilbert. After all, he’s the one with the job of destroying Büchenbruch Castle with his artillery.”

“I’ll go and enjoy myself somewhere else for a while and let your brother go first.” The armorer raised the canvas over the opening and stepped outside.

Finally, bellowing loudly, Siegward finished and made way for his brother. Siegerich tried to compensate for his inexperience with vigorous movement, but after a few breaths he collapsed on top of her. At that moment the armorer returned, a contented look on his face. “The fellows broke open a barrel of wine and started drinking. If you don’t do anything to stop them, you’ll never get them moving again in the morning.”

Siegward waved him off with a laugh. “One day doesn’t matter, so let them have their fun.” His gaze fell on the empty wine jug, and he pushed it over to his brother with his foot. “Bring us something to drink, too. We shouldn’t have to enjoy a tasty little chick with a dry throat.”

Siegerich grabbed the pitcher and ran out.

After a long while, Gilbert sank down on top of her, overcome by wine and exhaustion, and began to snore. The three had abused her so much that it felt like every bone in her body was broken, and she struggled to crawl out from under the armorer.

As she tried to get up, her knees buckling with exhaustion, her first impulse was to run away. However, the laughter and savage groaning outside the tent made her realize that the other mercenaries were still busy. Not wanting to fall into their hands as well, she collapsed on a stool and thought about what to do next. She felt horribly dirty, but she couldn’t find any water, so she dipped a corner of her underdress in the wine still remaining in the pitcher and washed herself with it. The alcohol burned like fire, but that didn’t bother her nearly as much as the shrill screams of the women outside.

As she sat tying her shirt together with strips of cloth ripped from the knight’s clothing, an almost unbearable hatred welled up inside her. Searching for her knife that Siegward had torn from the sheath on her leg and weighing it in her hand, she considered slitting the three men’s throats, running her fingertips along the knife’s sharp blade. But as she approached Gilbert, she caught sight of his purse that was full to the bursting point with coins.