Quest of Hope: A Novel (45 page)

As the archbishop’s army passed by one such village, Egbert dispassionately ordered its destruction, and, with no hesitation, his army obeyed. To Heinrich’s horror, its simple cottages were put to the torch and those inhabitants who could be found were slain.

About one league past the burned village stood the earthen fortress that straddled the road leading to Hude. Built some years prior with heavy clay dug from the river-banks, it was a rectangular bulwark reinforced by large timbers. The ten-foot-high walls were steep, but green with spring grass that waved softly in the breeze. At the walls’ rounded tops were periodic eroded notches similar to the more even-spaced ramparts of stone castles. Within were a few wattle-and-daub sheds used for shelter and storage. The small redoubt looked heavy and squat, sturdy—but vulnerable. A timber gate barred the road in front of it and a series of wet trenches were dug along its sides to provide an additional obstacle for an enemy.

Commander Egbert stared at the quiet fortress and feared the peasant militia were poised to strike. He abruptly ordered his army into position. Midst shouts and trumpets Heinrich’s cart was ordered to turn and take a position in the distant rear. Suddenly nervous, the baker eyed Blasius galloping near. “Godspeed!” he cried.

The Templar reined his horse and loped toward his friend. The man’s mount snorted as the soldier stared at Heinrich with an expression uncharacteristically despairing.

Heinrich was pale and confused. “Blasius, tell me we are in the right.”

The Templar shook his head and tried to speak. He fumbled for words and shook his head. “Follow conscience, Heinrich, or follow duty. Perhaps one may be righteous.” His cheeks were drawn and his lips pursed. He adjusted his helm and shield, then stretched his sword toward Heinrich and laid its flat upon the simple peasant’s shoulder. “God be with you, my friend.” Blasius lingered for another moment as if to wish them both to a better place.

The earth began to shake and tremble as the armored cavalry thundered to its place. The warrior-monk drew a deep breath, then turned his horse sadly and galloped to the line. Heinrich climbed atop a wagon to survey the army now gathering quickly before him. In the center of the front line sat the commander atop a white charger. Beside him was his standard-bearer, and on both sides were the broad, cape-draped shoulders of Christendom’s knights waiting impatiently on their pawing steeds. Behind this first line pressed six other tightly formed ranks of knights, together forming a seemingly impenetrable mass of shields, swords, chain mail, and leather. A series of signal flags ordered a swarm of helmeted footmen to their place behind the cavalry and three rows of waiting archers then hurried to form their lines in the rear.

All eyes faced the peasant fortress from which no single sound had yet been heard nor a single defender seen. The captains of the army waited and watched, but only the rustling of their own horses, the tinny sound of shifting armor, or the clearing of nervous throats broke the silence. At last, the archers were ordered forward with their arrows set ablaze. They drew their strings.

At that moment, the gate was flung open and a contingent of Stedingers appeared marching forward with their colors tipped downward in submission. “Hold bows!” cried Egbert.

Three representatives were sent forward to receive the Stedingers midway between the army and the fortress. Heinrich craned his neck from atop his wagon and waited anxiously as the urgent discussion determined the day’s destiny.

The army’s agents returned at a gallop and huddled with the commander and his captains. It seemed the Stedingers were in no mood to resist. They could ill-afford another war, and they thought their villages were filled with widows enough. They had met in loud, chaotic meetings at The Thing, as their assembly was called, and had reluctantly agreed to pay the taxes as demanded. They desperately needed a season of peace in which they might be left alone to prosper in their liberties.

News of the Stedinger capitulation rolled through the army like the low rumbling of dry thunder. It was met with some cheers and a few satisfied nods, but mostly with grumbles and oaths, sarcasm and jeers. Blasius was among those few cheering the moment, and he was glad-hearted as he witnessed the counting and removal of the taxes from within the fort.

By the time Hude’s distant bells rang nones, the business of the day was completed and an unsettled Lord Egbert gathered his captains on the roadway. The man was content to have his tax in hand and had even exacted a heavy duty besides. Yet he was hardly satisfied. “These rebels cannot simply buy us like we are marketplace whores!” he seethed. “They need see the power and might of God’s army. Tear down these gates and burn whatever stores you find in this pitiful fortress. Slay their delegates and put their heads on pikes. Burn their banners. When your business is finished, I shall lead this army through the town and show this wayward flock what doom they bring atop their heads if they dare oppose the Holy Church ever again!”

To the horror of some and the joy of others, a company of eager knights dashed into the fortress and slayed the woeful yeomen. Then, as ordered, the timber gates were pulled over and burned along with a meager quantity of stores found within.

In the meanwhile, Heinrich was ordered by Master Falko to help harness the wagons and pack the horses. He was busy racing hither and yon when Blasius appeared with a contingent of some dozen mounted soldiers.

“Heinrich!” he called.

The baker turned and shielded his eyes from a bright sun above.
“Ja?
Ah, Blasius!”

The monk dismounted and embraced his old friend. He looked at the baker closely. “In this light I see yet more silver in those red curls of yours!” He smiled. “And the look of many burdens.”

Heinrich shrugged. “Aye, but a few have lifted today. I am pleased you’ve no need for battle against these people.”

Blasius shook his head. “Ah, I wish the day was so pure. Egbert ordered these to be butchered without Christian mercy and without cause. I raised my voice against him but was silenced. I am only grateful we’ve no larger war to fight, for as God is my witness, I do not know that I could raise my hand against them. I spoke with a few while we were collecting the tax. They are good men, Heinrich, good Christian men. They work hard and only want to be treated under the law as free men ought. They’ve no stomach, for war but their blood boils for their liberties. I pray God blesses their fellows, and I pray for the souls of those just slain. Ah, but I am here to bid my farewell.”

Heinrich’s chest seized. “Farewell?”

“Yes. I have collected the Templars’ due and must escort it to our preceptory in Cologne at once.”

“But…but, I…”

Blasius laid his gloved hands atop the baker’s shoulders. “Good and dear friend. There’s to be no war. You shall be leaving for home within days and methinks by midsummer you shall be with your boys and wife in Weyer once again!”

Heinrich sighed. He grasped the Templar’s hand in his own and squeezed it. The two embraced before Blasius mounted his horse. “Until we meet in Weyer!” he cried. With that, the monk and his company urged their horses forward and dashed away.

Heinrich stood still as he watched his friend disappear on the roadway.
“Bis Weyer.”
With a heavy heart he turned away and soon was marching with the army through the smoking bulwarks of the Stedingers’ stronghold. He peered at the headless bodies of some twenty freemen strewn about the place and wondered if their murder truly served the cause of greater good. Rolling his Laubusbach stone between his fingers, he turned away and followed his wagon.

The archbishop and a contingent of his elite guard suddenly appeared from the west and soon joined the army as it marched toward Hude. Whispers down the line confirmed the bishop’s pleasure with the tax collection, but he was apparently displeased with Egbert’s bloodlust.

The servants were in good humor, though wishing to return home. A tiny village appeared in front of them. As they passed through, loud wails from a hand-wringing host of women greeted their ears. They wailed as they saw their men’s heads staring at them lifelessly from atop the horrid pikes.

“Toss them to their wives,” barked the archbishop. “The taxes are paid; let them bury them as Christians.”

A large series of fields now separated the army from Hude, and in them were men working at spring labors. These paused to stare warily at the passing column, still ignorant of the day’s sad news. Heinrich looked carefully them, men not unlike himself. They and their sons stood proud and broad-shouldered with short-swords and daggers in their belts. They lifted their heads and faced their would-be oppressors squarely and without fear. Heinrich felt an odd kinship and sudden respect. He did not imagine them to be Lucifer’s pawns or the demons of darkness after all.

The army soon passed by the fresh brick of St. Elisabeth’s Church and entered the gates of Hude. The stockaded town lay along the small, muddy Berne River on the edge of the marshes. It was prosperous and crowded with brick or timber homes arranged in neat rows. Many were thatched, but some were roofed with clay tile. Heinrich was amazed at the wealth he witnessed and could not help but marvel at the dignity and self-respect with which the people carried themselves. Weavers, carpenters, tinsmiths, wheel-wrights—tradesmen of every kind were hard at task. Heinrich understood the pleasure of heritable ownership—the satisfaction of creating wealth that would serve generations to follow. Ah, but to be free to move from town to town, to pay a fair tax, to have some say in what and why the tax should be; to have the honor of bearing arms to defend oneself, one’s kin, and neighbors! The baker of Weyer was moved.

Archbishop Hartwig was not. He glared and scoffed like a jealous spinster at her sister’s wedding. “No right!” he grumbled. “They’ve no right to have so much. Their very presence mocks us and our ways… they pay a pittance and turn their backs as if they’d be our better!” He sat pouting in his saddle with a nose lifted high in contempt as he ordered the army to spend the night in Hude’s market square.

Hartwig slept in a pleasant room provided by a wealthy merchant of the town. He found it bittersweet to enjoy the man’s bounty, but was particularly annoyed to be awakened by the bells of prime pealing from the town’s church. Hartwig was aggravated that the souls of these rebels were aided by the very Church he, himself, served so faithfully. It was a paradox that spoiled a good breakfast of eggs, bacon, cheese, and fish. He grumbled a sour thanks to his host, then rushed back to the church with barely a nod to the three priests bowing respectfully as he passed them by on his way to the altar.

Hude’s new, red-brick church was, indeed, a beacon of hope in a dark world. Like the folk it served, it delighted in the joys of liberty that truth beckons its beloved to enjoy. It was a good and decent refuge for wounded and weary souls. Humility was its very breath, and the light that burst through its simple windows filled its nave with goodness. The simple priests who served the town were wise and caring, scrupulous in their piety, honest in their charity, and blessed with uncommon grace.

Hartwig blustered to the altar where he prayed a revolting, self-aggrandizing prayer. He administered a hasty Mass to himself and the three priests, then left the altar filled with the illusion of an even greater self. He chided the town’s three bowing priests with a diatribe of rebuke and remonstration that must have nauseated what saints’ spirits dared linger in his vulgar wake. Finally, his dark shadow left the sun-washed church, and he stormed toward his army to lead them home.

Grumbling, cursing, and still dissatisfied, the army returned to Oldenburg where, over the next few days, its knights began dispersing to their various manors throughout Christendom. Resettled in the castle, Heinrich felt a flutter of excitement as he imagined seeing his boys again. He paused to wonder, however, if his service had been misery enough for what penance he owed. A twinge of nausea filled his belly as he suddenly wondered if Richard’s death was related to his penance. The sound of Lord Niklas’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“You’d be the last from Villmar, y’miserable dolt, and I the last from Runkel,” the man muttered.

Heinrich stared at him with a look that betrayed his utter loathing. He hated the lord and wanted nothing more than some terror to come upon him. He could still see the monster wiping his boots across Richard’s face—it was a memory he’d never forget.

“Get that look out of yer eyes!” shouted Niklas. “Y’might pass for a Stedinger!”

Heinrich liked the sound of that. He set his jaw and kept his eyes fixed hard on the drunken knight.