The Warrior Maiden

by Melanie Dickerson

  She bowed her head but seemed almost amused.

  Rusdorf asked a brother monk to come forward. Steffan had never met him, but he was introduced as Sir Ditmar of Hildesheim. He stood in front of the assembly.

  “When we apprehended this woman in her home, we confiscated all the salve in her possession—five large pottery jars and three smaller jars. She said she had just made a new batch the day before and it would not be potent for seven more days. I have brought a jar of it for you all to examine.”

  The jar was being passed from one man to the next where they sat along the wall. It finally came to Steffan. He opened the lid of the greenish-brown paste. It looked foul and smelled even fouler, the same salve he’d allowed Mulan to put on the cut on his cheek. He closed it and passed it to the next man.

  Finally it reached Rusdorf. He stuck his nose over the top of the jar and sniffed. He scrunched his face. “What is in it?”

  “We guessed that it was made of garlic, leeks, wine, honey, comfrey, and ox gall. And that is just what she claims is in it. I wrote down the recipe, which she says she has only in her memory, as she is illiterate.” He passed a piece of parchment to Rusdorf.

  Rusdorf read the recipe aloud, then looked up at Frau Feodosia. “Is this what is in your salve?”

  After the translation, she said, “Yes, sir.”

  Rusdorf’s face was pinched. Was he offended at her calling him only “sir”? “These are common enough ingredients. These things will not cure a wound or a sickness.”

  “No, sir, it does not cure sickness, only wounds on the outside of a man’s—or woman’s—body. Only flesh wounds.”

  “Are you asking me to believe that these simple things”—he looked back down at the parchment in his hand—“garlic, leeks, wine, honey, comfrey, and ox gall, will heal a wound?”

  “The combination of them keeps away the putrid nature of some wounds. I have never had a man, woman, or child whose wound did not heal while using the salve. Even after the wound has become putrid, this salve will heal it.”

  “That is not possible. I do not believe it. There must be some sort of sorcery involved. You have been conjuring the devil and his demons to infuse your little salve with power—for your own profit and pride!”

  “I do not profit from my salve. I give it away to anyone who needs it. It is God’s own creation and God’s own power that infuses it, if it needs that kind of power. I would never deny another human being their right to it.”

  Rusdorf’s face was red and somehow dark at the same time. He called forward some of the knights who had been wounded in Poland and had ended up captured and held in Zachev Castle. They had been given some of Frau Feodosia’s salve for their wounds.

  He asked each of them, “How fast did your wound heal?” And then, “Have you ever known a wound to heal that fast before?”

  “No, Reverend Father,” they each said. But the last one added, “My mother used honey and comfrey on burns and garlic to keep away sickness, so perhaps it’s only the healing properties in the ingredients themselves that give it power.”

  “My grandmother used wine and leeks for bee stings,” someone else said.

  “Wine and ox gall will cure anything, my old grandmother used to say.”

  Then they all began discussing their families’ remedies for various ailments, until Rusdorf lifted a hand. “Enough! Has she bewitched you? Consecrated men of God such as yourselves? The woman is obviously a sorceress, turning men’s minds against the truth with her witchcraft. Besides being from Lithuania, that bastion of pagan worship, she raised a daughter who is a heretic and dresses in men’s garb and fights as a man in battle.”

  The men looked uncomfortable, glancing away from him, bowing their heads or staring at the floor. Indeed, Rusdorf’s outburst seemed unjust and farfetched. The healer in Hagenheim had doctored many of Steffan’s scrapes and cuts with just such herbs and concoctions.

  Rusdorf dismissed the men and called several of the knights who were experienced in battle.

  “Have you ever heard of a wound that healed as quickly as you have heard about here today?”

  One by one they admitted they had not. Rusdorf dismissed them, saying, “It is sorcery, not the salve itself, that gives it this power.”

  Finally he addressed the woman. “Do you believe in God the Father and Jesus the Son of God?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you believe in the Holy Spirit and Mary the holy mother of Christ?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you received the Sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation, and the Eucharist?”

  “I have.”

  “Do you worship other gods? Your pagan ancestors’ gods?”

  “No.”

  “Will you now renounce this pagan, demonic salve you’ve been making and vow never to make it again?”

  Frau Feodosia hesitated. Then she stared straight at Rusdorf. “I will not.”

  A murmur rippled around the room.

  “I do not see why I should.” The woman raised her voice a bit and waited for the translator, who started coughing, but then quickly resumed his translation. “It is not pagan or demonic. My salve helps people, and when they are healed, they praise God and we give Him the glory for it. That is not wrong, and our priest approves. I will not agree to what you are asking.”

  Admiration welled up inside Steffan for the woman. He’d never seen anyone defy Rusdorf. She did not even appear frightened, though she must know he would have her executed.

  Rusdorf did not even blink. “Why did your daughter dress as a man and go fight as a soldier? Did you instruct her to do this?”

  “I did not. Her father died and she wished to help me. We had no children—only Mulan. She took her father’s place in fighting for Butautus so I could remain in our home.”

  “And this is the reason she became a soldier? You did not try to stop her? Did you not know that it is forbidden for a woman to wear men’s clothing?”

  “She was doing God’s will.” The woman lifted her chin a notch higher.

  “How dare you accuse God!”

  “A friar and a priest prophesied about her, when she was a child, that she would save a nation. It was God’s will.”

  A slight noise, like a gasp, shot through the room.

  “Explain this outrageous assertion.” Veins popped out, big and purple, becoming visible at Rusdorf’s temple and the side of his neck.

  The entire room seemed to be holding its collective breath as the Teutonic Knight-Monks all leaned forward to listen to her.

  Steffan shouldn’t even be here. Something about the woman’s expression made him squirm. He wasn’t a monk, as he had not taken his vows yet. And honestly, he had been lying awake at night, between all the rituals and prayers, between matins and lauds, thinking . . . Did he truly wish to take a vow of celibacy? To vow never to know a woman? He wanted to be a knight, to be powerful and important, but that was the part of the vows that gave him pause.

  Rusdorf’s voice seethed as he said, “Are you telling us that prophecies were made about your daughter, Mulan? Who was this friar? I want his name. And the priest.”

  A chill came over Steffan. What if the woman was right? What if Rusdorf had become obsessed with destroying Mulan and it was not God’s will? Steffan might not be as righteous as the rest of his family, but he knew God was to be treated with reverence and fear. He had heard the stories of miracles from people who would never tell a falsehood, how his brother-in-law Sir Gerek had been led by God to find Steffan’s sister, though she had been seized and taken several days’ ride from Hagenheim and no one knew where. How his father had killed a demon-possessed man, whose demons visibly left his body as he died. How God had brought his brother Gabe just in time to save his future wife, Sophie, and how the man who had been hired to kill her had not been able to do it and had fled from her while she was tied to a tree. There had been numerous other stories of how God had wreaked His vengeance on the enemies of Steffan’s family. Vengeance, i
ndeed, belonged to the Lord.

  And Rusdorf should take care he did not fall into the Lord’s wrath.

  But what did Steffan know? Perhaps this woman was not so innocent as she seemed. Who was he to judge? Rusdorf had risen to the rank of grand master, so he must have the favor of God on him. Steffan must just listen and keep quiet.

  With bated breath Mulan listened to her mother’s account of the day’s trial proceedings. Her heart pounded and she felt sick.

  “What did Rusdorf say? Mother? What happened?”

  “He said he would call me back there tomorrow and give me another chance to renounce my evil conjurings and vow never to make my salve again. But I will not, of course.” Mother crossed her arms, pressing her lips together.

  Mulan wrung her hands, then rubbed her cheek. “Perhaps you should promise never to make the salve again.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you will lose your life if you don’t. If you live you can give the recipe to other people and they can continue to make it, to help people. Rusdorf read the recipe aloud, but you know he will never allow the monks to concoct and use it.”

  “But he said I would have to vow never to give the recipe to anyone.”

  Mulan paced up and down her mother’s small tower chamber. She went to the window and gazed out, propping her elbow against the wall. “What choice do you have, Mother? Rusdorf will never stop . . .” She put her hand over her eyes.

  “I can ask for trial by combat, for a champion. Whoever fights for me will win.” Mother looked so calm and composed.

  Perhaps Mother was right. There seemed to be no other option. “Are you sure you won’t . . . ?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I shall invoke my right to trial by combat.”

  “Either Simon or Gregorius could be your champion and fight for you, but Rusdorf already sent them back to Duke Konrad. And though Wolfgang is better, he is still very much injured. He can barely walk. So I will do it.”

  “You? But isn’t trial by combat a joust? Then hand-to-hand combat with a sword? You are too small for jousting, and you said yourself you were not very good at sword fighting. No, someone else will do it.”

  But there was no one else. A Teutonic Knight would never fight for an accused sorceress. Besides that, they’d be fighting one of their own brothers in arms. And, of course, Rusdorf would assume Mulan would be her mother’s champion, and he would gleefully expect her to be slain—his hope and aim all along. But God would not allow that to happen. Would He?

  Trial by combat, by definition, allowed God to judge and choose the outcome. It was thought that He would grant victory to the side that deserved it.

  God, please grant me victory and Mother her vindication.

  Steffan watched as they led Mulan’s mother into the Chapter Room for the trial. The back of his neck prickled. He had begun to suspect the reason why they had asked him, who had not even taken his vows yet, to sit in on the trial.

  Again, Frau Feodosia appeared calm and—dare he even think it?—as innocent and guileless as anyone he had ever seen. When Rusdorf demanded she renounce the right to make or share her special healing salve, she again refused.

  “Do you have anything else to say for yourself? You do know that the penalty for witchcraft is death?”

  “I do know, and I wish to claim the right to trial by combat. I make entreaty for a champion to fight on my behalf.”

  Rusdorf’s lips curled, obviously pleased. “And that champion would be your own child, Mulan, I presume?”

  This was the first time Frau Feodosia’s confident look faltered. She almost seemed confused. “If no one else will champion my cause, then yes, God will use Mulan to gain victory and vindication for me against my oppressors.”

  Rusdorf’s nostrils flared and a pinched look marred his face, but only for a moment, as she ended her statement.

  “You have two days to find a champion. The combat trial will be at noon.”

  Frau Feodosia’s only response was a slight widening of her eyes. Two days was not very much time.

  Mulan might be a fierce warrior and skilled archer, but she was no match for an experienced jouster and sword fighter, and the Teutonic Knights were both. And Wolfgang was seriously injured. Steffan had heard that he was improving but was still far from healed. The arrow that struck him had been large and had possibly punctured an internal organ, and definitely broke a rib. He’d not be able to joust again for weeks.

  Steffan imagined what Wolfgang would feel when he heard Mulan would be forced to be her mother’s champion. His stomach tightened in sympathy.

  Although he didn’t know why he should feel pity for Wolfgang, after the way they had parted. Though he and his brother had walked the same path most of their lives, his path and his brother’s had diverged, and they likely would never come together again.

  CHAPTER 26

  Wolfgang looked around for his sword as he listened to what Gerke was saying.

  “Mulan is preparing to fight one of the Teutonic Knights tomorrow in the trial by combat. I watched her practice, and she cannot even hold the lance tip in the right position for more than ten paces while her horse charges down the list. And aiming? She cannot aim at all. She will miss the rider entirely and probably run her lance into the ground and unhorse herself. And even if that doesn’t happen, she’s so small and light, she’ll be easily thrown from the saddle.”

  “There must be someone else who can fight. Send for Sir Thomas.” Wolfgang leaned forward and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Where are you going?” Gerke looked alarmed. “I’ll go get Sir Thomas, but you must not get up.”

  Gerke rushed from the room before Wolfgang could even get his feet to the floor. He groaned, sharp pains shooting through his body with every movement.

  A few minutes later, Gerke came back with Sir Thomas.

  “I don’t think you should be getting up.” The white-robed monk hastened over, lifted Wolfgang’s legs, and placed them back on the bed.

  “I can walk. I walked the length of this chamber this morning.” But he was as weak as a kitten and he knew it.

  “I offered myself as Mulan’s mother’s champion this morning,” Sir Thomas said with perfect calm. “Grand Master Rusdorf was not pleased. He told me that I’d been bewitched and was under the influence of the devil, and then he forbade me from taking Mulan’s place. It seems that this is what he had hoped for all along—to have Mulan face one of his men and be . . . defeated.”

  He said “defeated,” but what he meant was “killed.”

  Wolfgang could not let that happen. He had to come up with a way, especially since she still seemed somewhat angry with him, or at least distant. She had not been to visit him since he’d so clumsily asked her to marry him.

  “I have been searching for someone who will take Mulan’s place in the lists,” Sir Thomas went on, “but I suspect Rusdorf will forbid any Teutonic Knight who offers to do so. I will continue searching, but I admit I do not know anyone in this part of the world besides my knight-brethren.”

  Wolfgang sat up straighter. “I will do it.”

  “You?” Both Sir Thomas and Gerke made the exclamation.

  “You cannot,” Gerke protested.

  “It is impossible.” Sir Thomas came closer. “Your wounds are not healed. The skin has not even knitted together yet, not to mention the internal wounds. Have you even the strength to hold a lance?”

  “I may be injured, but it is only my side. And every day I am better. My arm has not forgotten how to hold a lance or how to swing a sword. I should be the one to do it.”

  “No.” Sir Thomas shook his head while Gerke mumbled frantically in his native German.

  “Are you certain Mulan will lose if she attempts to fight?”

  “If it were an archery contest, I would bless her and say, ‘Go to it.’ But in a joust . . .” Sir Thomas heaved a sigh. “She will certainly be killed.”

  “Then I must. Gerke,
go and fetch my supplies. I want my armor polished and ready by morning.”

  “Sir, please . . .” Gerke’s desperate, pleading expression quickly turned to resignation as Wolfgang speared him with a stern look. “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Gerke?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Ask Mulan and Andrei to come to me. I need to speak with them. It’s very urgent.”

  Wolfgang’s head swam as he stood, leaning back against the side of his bed, as he waited for Mulan and Andrei to come to his chamber. Gerke said she had agreed to see him after evening prayers, and he wanted to appear well and strong.

  Finally footsteps approached. Gerke opened the door and he, Andrei, and Mulan entered.

  His heart stuttered as his eyes met Mulan’s. She was wearing her woman’s garb, and her hair was damp. Her expression softened when she saw him, then hardened again, back to her battle face, putting up the wall that she used to protect herself. But why would she feel the need to protect herself from him?

  “Thank you for coming.” He stood up straight, pushing off from the bed. “I volunteer to be Mulan’s mother’s champion in the combat trial.”

  “No.” Mulan’s jaw was set. She took two steps toward him and stopped. “You are injured. I will be her champion.”

  “You are not trained to joust and sword fight. I am.”

  “I also was not skewered by a crossbow bolt.” She lowered her head and peered up at him through her lashes. “It is good of you to want to take my place, but it’s impossible. You must rest.”

  “I want to do it. I believe I must.”

  Andrei and Gerke were watching them silently, never opening their mouths.

  “You must?” She widened her eyes and braced her hands on her hips.

  “I don’t want you to be hurt, and this is playing into Rusdorf’s plan to destroy you. I cannot let him do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why can you not just accept my help?” But getting frustrated would only cause him to say things that would make her angry.

  “Because you will be killed. You’re injured. You cannot, and it’s my fight. I will not let you do it.”