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

by C. D. Baker

  No one spoke. Wil and Heinrich stood shoulder to shoulder, and Heinrich raised his sword to Horst’s throat. The baker looked down on his blade, and its inscription seared confidence into his heart. “Veritas Regnare … Truth Reigns.” He lifted his eye to lock on to his foe’s, and there he stood, stiff as stone, unflinching.

  A dreadful quiet hung over the room. There was no rustle of garments, no squeak of leather boots or creak of wood. Horst’s nostrils flared, and it was he who finally broke the silence. “Enough of this!” he groused. “Leave my home.”

  Heinrich’s mind was whirling. Outnumbered and me with one arm, Wil with only a dagger. “Yeoman, I’ve a rightful claim. I’ll take the matter to the abbey in the morning. Prepare to live elsewhere.”

  Now Horst’s mind began to whirl.

  As though he could read the man’s mind, Heinrich interrupted. “You could try to kill us, and the matter might be settled. But this I do vow,” he leaned close. “You’ll lose a lad and most likely your own life.”

  The menacing baker had a firm confidence about his way, one seasoned by hard times. Horst hesitated, then quickly reckoned that the court would be delighted to have the murdering Wil walk directly into its grasp. The yeoman relaxed. He lowered his sword. “Take yer lies to the abbot then, but if you come to m’door again, we will cross steel!”

  With a grunt, the baker slowly lowered his sword and bade Wil to sheath his dagger. Father and son slowly backed out the door as Wil snorted a thick phlegm into his mouth and spat it on to the floor at the yeoman’s feet. “I leave that until we return.”

  Cursing in frustration, Heinrich walked away from his own threshold and stumbled into the village. “That devil Pious! He’s stolen what’s mine.” The man stopped. He closed his eye in shame. “Your mother … is dead, you are accused of murder, and I think of nothing else but my property.”

  The pair said nothing more and walked toward the Laubusbach slowly. They passed the village well when Wil paused. “We should find Herwin. He can tell us what more we need to know.”

  Wil led his father through the footpaths of the village now fast returning to sleep. He found his way easily to Herwin’s door, and when he knocked, a blurry-eyed Wulf answered. “Eh?”

  “Wulf, ‘tis me—Wil!”

  Herwin’s son of thirty years squinted and studied the two men who were lit only by starlight and a setting moon. “Wil?”

  “Ja!”

  “Wil? We thought you were surely dead!”

  “No, I’ve come home!”

  An old woman in the neighboring hut poked her head out of her door. “Wil? The baker’s son?”

  Before Heinrich could hush him, Wil snapped, “Aye. What of it, hag?”

  The woman’s head disappeared.

  Wulf bade the two to come inside. His wife hurried to light a candle as he called to his sleeping father. Herwin climbed to his feet slowly, then stared incredulously at his old friends. “Can it be true?” he asked.

  The one-armed man and the aging thatcher embraced. Herwin had been a part of Heinrich’s life since the baker was a boy. He had once been a faithful tenant of Heinrich’s father, then suffered under the rule of Baldric until Heinrich owned the hovel. Now in his early fifties, Herwin was gray and frail. His teeth were missing and he limped. “A fall, Heinrich. Actually, two falls and now I’m lame. I still do some thatch on the low sheds. But, now, oh, I’ve much to ask you! First, what of Karl and Maria?”

  Heinrich lowered his face. “Karl is dead. He died on crusade near Genoa. Maria is safe.”

  “Ah, poor friend.” Herwin laid a trembling hand on Heinrich’s shoulder. “And where have you been all these years?”

  “I’ve a long tale,” answered Heinrich. “I shall tell you more when I can, but now we must know of some things. We are told that Marta is dead and our house is sold to another … to a yeoman.”

  The thatcher hung his head. “I did what I could to challenge the matter, but within days of your leaving, your wife swore all her earthly possessions to the parish. She was near death when Pious had her words witnessed quite properly by himself, Reeve Edwin, Father Albert, and a clerk of the prior. You had already been declared dead on account of your being missing, so your property was rightfully your wife’s to give away. She could do with it as she pleased, my friend.”

  Heinrich cursed.

  Herwin sighed. “Pious quickly sold the house to the yeoman, but he kept your land and the bakery for the parish. He’s raised the prices over the objections of the abbot. He sends quite a profit to the diocese, and he’s been rewarded handsomely by the archbishop’s secretary.

  “But I fear I’ve other news.” Herwin turned his face toward Wil. “Frau Anka has given testimony against you, lad … at the urging of Pious, no doubt. She told the bailiff that you told her to give your mother an infusion of an herb. Pious proved it was poison….”

  “I did! But I didn’t know it was poison! Pious told me to give it her. It was he who knew what it was!”

  Herwin gasped. “Pious? Pious did this? We thought you were simply mistaken about the herb!”

  “Aye, it was Pious!” exclaimed Heinrich.

  Herwin was dumfounded. “Wil, he … he wanted you arrested on sight if you ever returned, and he’ll have Anka swear against you in court. And there’s more. Pious has argued that you murdered Lukas and an abbey guard.”

  “Miserable, fat bast—”

  “Enough, lad!” cried Heinrich. “Pious is a liar! Lukas died in his bed, and the lad had nothing to do with the guard.”

  Wil sat down hard on a stool. “I… I might have killed the guard that night. Ansel was his name.”

  “But—”

  “He was chasing me, and I tripped him with a heavy stick. He fell and must have broke his head on a rock. I thought he was only knocked out.”

  Heinrich groaned and looked at his son, astonished. “Did any see?”

  “No, none at all.” Wil was now pale and perspiring, and he stared into the looping candle, blankly.

  No one spoke for a long moment. Herwin motioned for his daughter-in-law to give the two a drink of mead. “Old friend, I fear your son is in a frightful tangle. If he is caught, he will be hanged.”

  Heinrich began to pace. “Pious’d have no chance to prove any of it. Priest or not, he has no good ground to stand on.”

  “Wil, the abbot would not see me, but I complained to the bailiff that the charges against you were madness. I fear it mattered little,” said Herwin sorrowfully. “Pious told him that you are a hateful, wicked devil who hated your mother and bore a grudge against Lukas. He claims that God opened his eyes and that he saw you do the deeds in a dream. He said he knew of a spell cast on you by the witch. Words like these from a priest might sway the court… even without another witness … but Anka’s testimony will be make it certain.”

  “No! It cannot be so!” roared Heinrich. “Well accuse him! He’s the murderer!”

  “On whose word?”

  Heinrich was silent, and he stared at Wil thoughtfully. “The abbot and his prior have always hated Pious. Now with the bakery prices and his life of gluttony, the monks must surely despise him. Someone might help in a charge against him.”

  “With no more than Wil’s word you’ll not be proving a thing,” added Herwin. “Your uncle Arnold told the prior that the boy is innocent. He told him that Pious is up to some mischief. But he knows no one could ever prove it. No, I fear you need to run far, far away and quickly.”

  “Arnold? Why would he care?” grumbled Heinrich.

  “He’s some different than you remember. Methinks he wants to cleanse his soul before he dies.”

  “When did you say m’mother died?” muttered Wil.

  “Less than a week after you left.”

  The lad fell silent.

  “Heinrich, believe me, I took an oath for your son. I swore that the lad had no malice toward his mother nor knowledge of herbs. I swore the witch had cast no spell. I swore on my eternal soul th
at he had only love for Brother Lukas.”

  “You swore true enough,” groaned Wil.

  Wulf had been listening quietly. “So the poison was Pious’s then?”

  “Nay. I… I took it from Brother Lukas’s chamber.”

  The cottage fell silent until Herwin murmured, “Perhaps we’ve heard enough.”

  Wil ground his fist into his palm. “Pious and I had an agreement. He agreed to keep silent about that night if I did not accuse him of… of having his way with m’mother.” He darted a glance at his father.

  Herwin stood, shaken. It was all too much for the weary man. “Boy, I love you and your father like no others, but you cannot stay here. Pious will destroy you. He is more powerful now than then. Your threat against him would matter little. Get out of his web whilst you can, lad, else you’ll surely swing from Runkel’s gallows.”

  “You lay another hand on that boy, and I’ll cleave you in two!” Alwin stood in the door of Otto’s hovel and pointed his sword at the miller.

  The miller pushed his son to the floor and took a step toward the knight. “Who be you to tell me how to raise migrât?”

  Alwin’s dark eyes burned red with rage. His blond hair hung over his shoulders, and his beard was long. For most men, the sight of this strapping warrior would have been reason enough to yield. But Herold, the miller, was unlike his fellows; he was a fool of fools. The man lunged for the truncheon he kept near his bed and whirled about at the charging knight, swinging wildly at Alwin’s head.

  Dodging the stout stick, Alwin kicked the man in the belly and sent him sprawling on the floor. “Otto, get out!” the knight cried.

  The lad hesitated.

  “Go!” added Tomas. “Go now!”

  Bruised and bleeding from his beating, Otto backed slowly toward the door with his eyes fixed on his father now climbing angrily to his feet.

  “Boy!” the miller shouted. “You’d run from yer own father? You’d betray yer own for some stranger?”

  Otto’s eyes flew from his father to Alwin, then to his father again. “Just… just let me come home in peace,” the lad pleaded. Tears streamed down his face. “Can y’not forgive me? Can y’not have me back?”

  Herold spat and cursed, then lunged once more at the knight. Alwin deftly blocked the man’s blow with his sword and countered with a carefully placed slice along the man’s shoulder.

  “Aahh!” Herold cried. He fell back and grasped his wound, then turned hateful eyes on his son. “You! ‘Tis your fault, you little Scheisse!” He looked at the blood seeping down his arm. “Pathetic fool. You are no son of mine, and I’ll not have you stink up my home. Get out! The sight of you sickens me. Get out, else I’ll kill you in yer sleep!”

  The words pierced Otto’s heart like no mere lance might ever do. The hard man who had once fed and sheltered him was now discarding him like so much refuse. Yet the boy longed to remain in his most familiar refuge with one whom he did somehow love. The brave lad’s chin quivered slightly, and then he held out his arms as if to beg his father’s mercy one last time. “I… I…”

  “Shut yer fool mouth. I curse the day you were born. You’ve never been the son I wanted, and you killed the one I loved. Would that Lothar had come home and never you!”

  Alwin’s chest heaved. He had no son; he had denied himself that joy by taking his Templar vows. To see this fool now curse and spit upon a lad as worthy as Otto filled him with rage. “By heaven and by hell, I ought take your head and put it on a pike! You miserable old fool, take a step toward me so I can send your soul to the Pit.”

  Herold stared at Alwin, tight faced, then spat at Tomas, who was scowling to one side. What courage he had, he had already expended on his first go at the knight, and he had no interest in trying again. “You two, take this worthless scrap of dung out of m’house. He’s no son of mine no more.” With that, he turned his back on Otto forever.

  Alwin lowered his sword and cursed, then looked at the trembling boy. “Lad?”

  Tomas laid a hand on Otto. “It’s all changed now. Come with us.”

  Otto nodded sadly. He turned to his father and opened his mouth to speak, then held his tongue. Hesitating for another moment, he let his eyes linger on the little hut that had been home to him for his fourteen years. He ran his fingers lightly along the bruises rising on his cheeks, and then, saying nothing, he followed Tomas out the door and returned to his comrades by the Magi.

  “Open the door!” boomed a voice.

  Herwin’s color drained away. “The reeve!”

  “Open!”

  Herwin’s eyes flew about the dim-lit hut. It was a one-room hovel with no good place to hide Heinrich or Wil. “To the corner!” he whispered urgently. Wulf blew out the candle, and Herwin answered. “Ja? Who’s there?”

  “Reeve Edwin and five deputies. Open, else well break it down!”

  Herwin lifted the bar, and the men burst into the dark room. “Where are they?” shouted the reeve. “Make us some light!”

  Heinrich and Wil were crouched low in a dark corner, but they knew it was hopeless. There’d be no hiding. With a shout, they rushed toward the open door. At their cry, Wulf threw two of the reeve’s deputies away from the threshold. Midst grunts and heaves, a tangle of struggling men then tumbled out of the hovel and onto the moonlit footpath.

  There, Wulf, Heinrich, and Wil engaged six shadows in a wild brawl. The large Wulf dropped one deputy with a solid fist to the face, but he was quickly felled by the strike of the reeve’s flail. He collapsed sideways, falling like a great timber. Bouncing against the hovel’s wattled wall, he rolled to his side, unconscious.

  Wil traded blows with two others, then yanked his dagger from his belt, which was immediately sent to the shadows by the strike of a mallet. The two grunting forms then wrestled the howling lad hard to the ground. “Hold fast, y’devil,” cried one. “Y’ve a hangman to greet!”

  Heinrich kept the three others at bay with his sword, while old Herwin begged for calm. The baker backed slowly toward his son now being tied at the wrists and ankles. “Wil!” he cried.

  “Aye, Father, they’ve bound me!”

  “He’s to hang, baker. He’s a murderer.” The voice was familiar but the face unseen. Suddenly, the figure lunged toward Heinrich with a long-sword of his own. The baker dodged and parried, missing his mark. Another rushed him and he swiped at the man, cutting him lightly across the belly and sending him rolling away. Reeve Edwin roared forward with his flail. Heinrich leapt to one side and tripped the aging reeve, only to quickly dodge the jab of the other’s sword once more. Instinctively, the baker returned a ferocious thrust of his own, driving the point of his sword squarely into the ribs of his foe.

  The man cried out and fell forward with Heinrich’s sword jammed into his chest. While struggling to jerk his blade free, the one-armed baker was quickly pounced upon by the reeve and another and knocked hard to the ground.

  “I’ll kill you, y’fool!” cried a deputy.

  “Hold!” begged Herwin. “Hold easy!”

  With a loud cry, the reeve struck Heinrich on the head with his flail, knocking the man unconscious. He then spun around to Herwin. “I should arrest you as well, you and your son. You’ve harbored a fugitive.”

  “We didn’t know.”

  “Aye, y’did know! You know Wil and his father well, and you know the boy’s been charged with murder. You’d a duty to summon me! That makes you guilty.” Reeve Edwin was panting. He was a man of middling years and had served as Weyer’s reeve for a decade. He had always liked Herwin, however, and as his breath returned to him, so did his reason. “Why didn’t you send for me?”

  “I… I had barely spoken with them when you came to the door. Who sent you?”

  “I did!” It was Horst, the yeoman occupying Heinrich’s hovel. The man cursed and rubbed his jaw. “Boys?”

  One son answered. “Fitz is cut in the belly!”

  Horst stumbled to his son’s side. “That one-eyed fool!” he cried. �
��I’ll kill him where he lies!”

  Reeve Edwin spun about and stuck the end of his flail against Horst’s chest. “Nay. He’ll be taken to Runkel. You’ll not have at him nor his lad.”

  Horst spat and cursed. “My son lies with a belly wound.”

  “Then load him in yer cart and get him to the abbey! But leave me with these.”

  The two glared at one another in the darkness until Horst yielded. Edwin then ordered Herwin to tie Heinrich’s ankles together and to wrap the man’s arm to his side. The reeve then hurried over to his fallen deputy and groaned. “Ach, mein Gott! Ludwig’s been killed.”

  Another deputy hurried to Edwin’s side on wobbly legs, still rubbing his jaw where Wulf had pummeled him. The two bent over the dead yeoman and cursed. The reeve yanked Heinrich’s sword from the man’s chest and threw it on the ground. “Baker, you’ll surely swing as well,” he muttered.

  Several peasants with torches had emerged from their hovels and now stood gawking in a curious circle around the reeve, his deputies, and their two prisoners. Behind them, crouching deep in the shadows, were Alwin and Tomas, recently arrived from delivering Otto to the Magi. They had hurried back to the village and had been drawn to the sounds of struggle. Now they found themselves utterly unable to help their captured friends.

  Edwin ordered four onlookers to carry the body of Ludwig to his wife. “And give her the killer’s sword. She can sell it for her keep.” Heinrich’s sword was laid across Ludwig’s corpse, and the grunting men carried the body away.

  “Now, you others. Hear me. We’ve captured Wilhelm, son of Heinrich, and he’ll be hanged for murdering his mother … and maybe for others as well.” The folk murmured.

  “And it seems our missing baker’s come home. He’s murdered Yeoman Ludwig, and he’ll dangle with his son.”

  That news drew loud gasps of disbelief. “Heinrich’s come home?” cried one.