Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  Heinrich felt sick. “I… I murdered no one, boy.”

  “Killed, then?” Tomas sneered.

  Surprised, Heinrich looked at Wil and struggled for words. “Well, we’d a fight on the Villmar road when I was young, a little younger than Wil.”

  Tomas cursed.

  “It was long before you were born, lad. I had no hand in your father’s death, and I know nothing of it.”

  “Ja? Well, perhaps you killed Blasius’s father instead.”

  Heinrich’s face hardened. “‘Twas a Gunnar who killed my own father.”

  “Enough!” cried Pieter. “We’ve business to tend to.”

  Within the hour, Tomas’s plan was begun. The black-haired youth led Wil, a trembling Benedetto, Helmut, Otto, Rudolf, and Heinz quietly through the alleyways of Burgdorf to the large corrals kept safe within the city walls.

  Meanwhile, Heinrich and Pieter crept to their assigned hiding places in the brush rimming the Galgenberg—the hanging hill. The hill sprouted from the valley like a wart on a witch’s face, and atop it stood a wide-limbed leafy chestnut tree dotted with green nuts. Here the pair waited breathlessly, hoping Frieda was obediently keeping herself and Maria out of view with Paulus and Solomon.

  In Burgdorf, Tomas gave orders from behind a hay barn. “Heinz, go now.”

  The elfish scamp scurried away and sneaked past the marshal’s guards to let his nimble fingers release the ropes that held the gates of the corral. Benedetto was then ordered to his duties. The little minstrel had determined to redeem his cowardice in Domodossola and now strutted bravely toward the doorway of a nearby hall where some soldiers were enjoying their supper. With a deep breath, he began singing loudly and playing his lute with all the bravado his timid spirit could muster.

  Distracted, groups of drunken men-at-arms wandered into the street and stared at the tiny man. Laughing, they began to leap about the street like so many mad fools. The men drew others, and soon the pilgrims’ troubadour was crooning over the din of an entire barracks.

  With the corral unlocked and most of the soldiers distracted, Tomas and the others flew to their tasks. Wil and Otto ran into a nearby barn and set it on fire with torches taken from a vacant shop. At the first sign of smoke, the stable master’s guards predictably ran from their posts, and the moment they were gone, Heinz, Helmut, and Rudolf dashed from their cover to chase the wide-eyed herd toward the far end of a street where the city gate was still open. The three lads heaved stones and sticks, shouted, and flailed their arms as the horses thundered past the grasping hands of surprised sentries.

  With smoke pouring from the barn, the town erupted in confusion. Pieter and Heinrich spotted black smoke rising from behind the town’s walls, and the priest began to pray loudly. “O Lord, tell me we are not truly mad!”

  Before long, flames began to leap from the barn to another and then to another. In less than a half hour, the folk of Burgdorf were in a desperate battle to save their city. With a third of the buildings now burning, the streets quickly filled with smoke. Benedetto threw his lute over his shoulder and crawled through a confused mob. Squeezing between the crush of bodies, the tiny man was soon trapped in the midst of a crowd beginning to stampede.

  Wil and Otto rejoined a nearly panicked Tomas, who had moved to the street corner near the jailhouse. The smoke had become so thick, however, that none could see anything. Choking, the lads clung to one another and squinted painfully. “M’bow’s no good to me,” cried Wil. “I can see nothing!”

  “We needs get out!” shrieked Otto.

  “But Blasius?”

  The three peered through the eye-burning smoke at the jailhouse door. Thankfully, it was not on fire. It had been Tomas’s plan to have Wil shoot the guards during the distraction and then find a way to release the prisoner. With no horses to follow, they imagined that they might then find a way out of the town and across open fields to the safety of the wood. But it was not to be.

  The smoke was suffocating. Coughing and tearing, they retreated inside a shop, where they gasped for air. “Tomas, we needs get out! We’ve no way to release him.”

  “To the other plan then,” wheezed the lad. “Otto, can we find the gate?”

  The stout boy was on his knees sucking air through the sleeve of his tunic. Overhead, a burst of wind dropped burning thatch alongside them. “Follow me!”

  Otto and his two companions pulled their hoods over their heads and charged down a street they hoped would lead them to the walls. The town was a maze, however, and at each turn none could be sure of their whereabouts. A burning roof collapsed nearby. With hearts pounding, the three pressed on.

  At long last, Wil, Otto, and Tomas ran into a chute of screaming townsfolk funneling toward a gate. Pushing and shoving their way through, the trio emerged, gasping. They fell to the ground, sucking for air. “We must hurry on,” coughed Wil. “Now!”

  The lads struggled to their feet and made way for their camp. Wil turned his face back and groaned. Black smoke and flames filled the sky. O God, forgive us for what we’ve done.

  Hoping they had not been seen, the fleeing raiders returned to their camp. Frieda ran to Wil and hugged him tearfully. “I saw the smoke … I was so worried.”

  The young man’s face was black with soot, and his clothes smelled of burnt thatch. “We failed,” he mumbled sadly as he wrung his hands. “We could not find the jail. The fire was to draw attention, no more. Now we’ve caused many a death.”

  Frieda nodded sympathetically. She looked at the other lads, whose heads were drooped in remorse. “The summer’s been dry and hot. The thatch is tinder.”

  “Ja. So we should have known,” moaned Otto. He wrung his hands and stared at the sky.

  Frieda looked at the lad carefully, then at the others. “Confess the error but not evil intention. All of you, please listen. Your hearts were good in this—”

  “But our minds were not!” groused Tomas. “‘Twas my plan, ‘tis my blame.” The young man took a deep breath. “We’ve not time to think on it now. I have another plan if you’ll let me.”

  Wil nodded. “Yes, Tomas. None shall ever blame you for the fire. We all had a part in it. Now, we’ve no time for this. We’ve need of your other plan.”

  Relieved, Tomas stared at Wil for a moment, then spoke. “My master told me to never have one plan alone. He said the world would always undo your first, but it wouldn’t expect a second.”

  “Your master?” quizzed Otto.

  “Aye, the prince of the forest you saw.”

  Otto gulped. “Aye.”

  Wil whirled about. “Pieter and Father?”

  “In their places,” Tomas answered. “They are part of our second plan. I’d hoped to not need them.”

  “And the others?”

  Frieda pointed to a clearing in the wood. “I saw them back there. They were able to catch six horses by their halters, and they’re trying to keep them quiet in the wood. They took rope off Paulus’s sacks and made some sort of reins. I’ve not seen Benedetto, though.”

  Wil looked back at the town. “If they catch any of us, well hang. We must not fail again. Frieda, you’ve the torches ready?”

  “Ja.”

  “Good,” interrupted Tomas.

  Maria finally spoke. “Tis nearly compline. What do you think will happen?”

  Tomas answered, “I’d think they’d be too busy to hang him tonight. We’ll wait a bit longer, then plan for the morrow to—”

  “Look!” Frieda blurted. “Look there!”

  In the darkening twilight, four torches lit the white robes of four marching Templars who were dragging their prisoner toward the Galgenberg. Tomas cursed. “Make ready, then!” he barked.

  The six lads prepared themselves. In about a quarter hour they emerged from their cover on horseback. None of them had ridden much—peasants rarely owned horses. They had ridden a few plow horses or nags, but these were neither. These animals were the great chargers, the mighty warhorses of Christendom with h
uge shoulders and broad backs.

  Jerking on their short rope reins, the would-be knights circled and reared in every direction. Were it not so grievous a moment, it would have been a comical thing to watch! Young Heinz, looking no bigger than a large fly on the back of a black giant, fell three times.

  “Saddles would’ve helped!” cried Otto.

  Somehow, Wil and Tomas calmed their cavalry and turned to the girls. “We’ve need of the torches now.” Wil adjusted his bow and quiver, nervously felt for his dagger, and then reached for his torch.

  Frieda handed it to her husband, then helped Maria lift more to the others. Finally, all stood ready for the signal. “I hope this plan works better than the last!” sniped Helmut.

  On Galgenberg, Pieter and Heinrich crouched low. Considering the confusion in Burgdorf, they were astonished to see the column of Templars marching toward them. “Why tonight? Why the devil are they so fixed on hanging him tonight?” grumbled Pieter.

  “Do you think the boys are ready?” whispered Heinrich.

  “Oh, by the saints above, I surely hope it. I tell you, baker, my old heart is pounding hard. This plan is far-fetched to my way of thinking.”

  The Templars soon were close enough for Pieter and Heinrich to see the torch-lit outline of their faces. And as they came closer yet, the pair could hear their conversation plainly. The knights spoke mostly of their fury with the stable master. “On the morrow, I’ll have his head on a pike. I swear it. All the horses gone! Armor and robes ruined, two brothers burned badly, and the mercenaries killing each other in the looting. By the Virgin, someone shall pay!”

  Blasius was praying quietly. As Blasius was dragged beneath the limb of his gallows, Pieter could hear him muttering the Lord’s Prayer and quoting from the psalms. The priest and the baker prepared to act.

  “Prisoner,” began the master, “thou art charged with desertion in battle, with defending heretics against the crusade of the Holy Church, with blasphemy, and with treason against the empire. Thou hast been tried this very day by the brethren and declared to be an anathema in the name of the Holy Father. Thou hast disgraced thy order and despoiled thy name. Hence, thou shalt not enter hell as ‘Blasius,’ but rather as a nameless, corrupted soul, stricken from the Lamb’s Book of Life. Thy once-good name is thus stripped from thee as are all benefits and merits of thy former brotherhood with the Order of Knights Templar.

  “So, in accordance with the Rule of our Grand Master, Odo de St. Amand, and under the authority of Pope Innocent, I sentence thee to hang by this tree until dead. May thy spirit languish in the Pit for days and nights without end, amen.”

  Blasius lifted his head proudly. “Hang me if you must, but I gladly go to God with the name of my baptism, Alwin of Gunnar.” He said no more.

  With that, the Templars tied a thick rope around his neck and threw the other end over the limb. It was the signal for Pieter. “Hold fast, fools!” cried the old man as he emerged from his cover.

  Turning with a start, the Templars wheeled about. “What devil is this?”

  “Release him!” shouted Pieter. He raised his staff in the air, hoping the others could see his signal in the firelight.

  At the lifting of the staff, Wil and his fellows braced themselves.

  “Who are you?” roared the Templar.

  “I am a priest in the service of Almighty God. I say release this innocent man or bear the sting of the heavenly host upon thee, each and every one!”

  “Hoist him up!” bellowed the master. Three sets of strong hands immediately pulled on the rope and lifted the flailing Alwin off the ground. They wound the rope around the gallows’ tie.

  Pieter raised his staff again, crying, “No! Come, legions of heaven, come!”

  Instead of Gabriel, it was Heinrich who burst from cover with a drawn sword and filled with fury. And, two bowshots away, the second raising of the staff signaled Wil’s little cavalry to charge, screaming like flame-bearing hellions atop thundering mounts.

  Startled and confused, the Templars whirled about, and Heinrich caught the master completely by surprise. He plunged his sword into the man’s unarmored belly with a bellow as the others drew their blades. The baker rushed toward Alwin’s rope and swung wildly at it. The edge of his sword nicked the rope, but it was not enough. The Templars charged the man and would have slain him on the spot had not Pieter leapt between them. “You’d not dare slay a priest!”

  “Move off!” one cried.

  The air was suddenly filled with the sound of hooves and shrieking voices. The knights spun about to see torches surging toward them out of the darkness. “You two, charge them!” cried one. “Ill take these.” As his fellows rushed past, the soldier turned his fiery eyes at Pieter. “Move, I say!”

  “Burn in hell!” answered Pieter.

  At that moment three riderless chargers burst by the tree, distracting the Templar for just an instant. It was time enough, however, for Heinrich to lunge forward and drive his sword into the man’s neck.

  Another horse ran by, and a moment later a Templar came running out of the darkness toward Heinrich. The baker stumbled backward to the ground, and Pieter jammed his staff in front of the knight’s feet. The soldier fell forward, but before Heinrich could slay him, another riderless horse thundered through the camp, knocking both Heinrich and Pieter aside.

  Meanwhile, in these few brief moments, Alwin had become limp. His limbs twitched slightly, save an occasional desperate lurch. Seeing his plight, Heinrich scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the dangling man. There were still two other Templars, however, and one had retreated to the tree, where he dodged a passing horse. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of the baker rearing back to cut the rope. He flew at the man.

  In the darkness, Wil hung on to the neck of his steed with two hands. He had thrown away his torch and pointed his horse toward the tree, where he could plainly see Alwin’s body in the torchlight. Closer he came, and still closer. His mind carried him to a childhood dream very much like this. He reached into his belt and drew his dagger. Not a dream, but a vision! With a victorious cry, he roared past the hanging man and sliced the rope in two.

  Alwin dropped to the ground with a thud and lay crumpled in the dark as Wil fell from his rearing mount. The lad hit the ground hard, and with a groan of pain, he pulled himself up and ran toward the gallows as he reached for Emmanuel still hanging on his back.

  Under the tree, Pieter had collapsed unconscious, and Heinrich was scrambling for his life. Out of the corner of his eye, the baker saw that Alwin was saved, but both Templars were now upon him.

  Into the clearing charged four shrieking lads. None were armed; they had hoped their bluff might have chased off the knights. Startled, the two knights turned from the helpless Heinrich, and one snarled, “Ha! You’ll taste steel tonight!” The words had barely left his lips when a whiz and a thud caught all by surprise. The Templar stood as though stunned, then reached a limp hand toward the arrow now piercing his lung.

  Astonished, the other knight whirled toward the darkness from which another arrow flew. The man gagged and gurgled, clutching the wooden shaft that had impaled his throat. Staring blankly, he coughed once and then collapsed.

  Otto ran to Alwin and screeched for someone to cut the cord. Heinrich stumbled forward, but Wil charged from the darkness with his dagger drawn and laid its edge quickly under the thick hemp. He sawed carefully away from Alwin’s throat and severed the rope. He took the man’s face in his hands and prayed for God’s mercy. “Breathe, breathe, I say!”

  Tomas flew alongside and pounded Alwin on the chest once, then twice, then a third time. “Breathe, y’dolt, breathe!”

  Alwin stirred slightly, and the circle stared down at him hopefully. His eyes popped open and he arched his back, sucking air into his lungs. Then, midst the cheers of all, the man rolled weakly to his knees and wheezed great gulps of air.

  “God be praised!” cried Heinrich.

  “Wil!” shouted Helmut. “Come
quick. It’s Pieter!”

  Leaving Tomas to care for Alwin, the others ran to the old man’s side. He was barely breathing and still unconscious. “He’s alive,” said Heinrich grimly. Before he could say more, Otto screeched, “Look! More’s coming!” The boy pointed to a column of torches winding its way quickly toward them.

  “Oh, by the saints!” shouted Heinrich. “The provost is sending a company this way! Hurry, we must carry Pieter to safety!”

  Wil and Otto lifted Pieter by his shoulders and legs and hurried into the darkness as Heinrich rushed to Alwin’s side. “Men are coming. We must move you to cover at once.”

  Tomas laid hold of one shoulder and Heinrich the other as they helped the struggling Alwin to his feet. Heinrich quickly studied the Galgenberg. He checked to make sure he had his sword and that nothing was left behind. “Steady him,” he said to Tomas. The baker then snatched another sword from one of the Templars. “Ach, if only I had two hands!” He looked about another moment, then stared uneasily into the darkness. “Something seems amiss.”

  Chapter Twelve

  FRIENDS FOUND, FRIENDS LOST

  Where’s Benedetto?” asked Maria. “And where is Heinz?”

  Panting with exertion, the pilgrims cowered in the dark forest under cover of night. They had fled the Galgenberg and now stared fearfully at the group of torches gathered under the silhouetted boughs of the distant tree. “Benedetto!” whispered Wil loudly. “Are you here? Heinz? Where are you?”

  All remained quiet. Squatting, Heinrich shifted his weight and peered into the inky darkness. A red glow radiated over the walls of Burgdorf, and the air smelled of smoke. Clouds hid the stars. “Wil?”

  “Aye, Father.”

  “How is Pieter?”

  “Awake, but weary.”

  The man took a deep breath. “Where are the minstrel and Heinz?”

  Tomas answered, “I sent Benedetto to distract the soldiers at the tavern. It was near the jail. I heard him singing before the fire was set, but that’s the last I saw him.”