by C. D. Baker
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.
The lord was tired of obstinate peasants. He backhanded Heinrich with a ferocious blow that knocked the baker to the ground. “Now, bend the knee to me, y’worthless fool.”
Heinrich stood. He would not obey.
“I say bend!” roared Niklas. He grabbed the baker and threw him into the shadows of a nearby stable.
Heinrich found his feet and stood defiantly. The baker had spent a lifetime bending and stoop
ing, scraping, bowing, yielding, submitting—but only when he believed such compliance to be proper and just; only when it was right and in order. Lord Niklas had misjudged his tractability for timidity, his meekness for frailty.
Niklas struck him again and again. Bleeding and silent, Heinrich returned to his feet over and over, stiff-necked and ready for more. Frustrated and furious, the bulge-eyed knight suddenly jerked a dagger from his belt and thrust it toward Heinrich’s throat.
The baker dodged the blade and grabbed hold of Niklas’s arm. A fury rose within him, a familiar rage that had once filled him on a rainy night along the Villmar road. He held the knight’s wrist with a viselike grip made strong from years kneading heavy dough. He tossed the soldier over his leg, slammed him hard onto the earth and pounced atop him to keep him close. He held Niklas’s dagger hand fast to the ground with one hand, and with the other he seized the knight’s throat and squeezed with all his might. Niklas gasped and squirmed, trying to roll. He dug his fingers into Heinrich’s eyes as his swelling face began to purple.
Heinrich grunted and squeezed with all the strength his thick hand could muster. Pictures of Richard filled his mind and he tightened his grip even more. The moments passed slowly as the baker’s unyielding grip stayed fixed to the lurching lord’s throat like wet leather drying around a post. Niklas’s flailing body rose and fell as he struggled against his gritty foe. His mouth stretched open wide and gaping, his fingers desperately digging at Heinrich’s flesh. At last, the knight’s eyes rolled and his hand dropped. His torso relaxed and Heinrich slowly, warily, released his hold. A gurgle and wheeze escaped the dead knight’s chest and all was silent.
Heinrich stood and straddled the corpse. A cold shiver ran through him and he spun his head from side to side. He spotted a mound of manure against a far wall and quickly dragged the man by his boots toward it. In moments, he was desperately digging an unseemly grave in which he hurriedly buried the knight.
Once certain the man was well covered, the baker peeked beyond the stable door. With hurried fingers and a rag, Heinrich picked bits of straw from his leggings and wiped manure off his boots, then he slipped into the bustling castle courtyard without a notice.
The night seemed endless as Heinrich stared at the dark rafters above his head. The halls of the castle were glowing in torchlight and restless knights’ swords clanged in good-natured contest. A large contingent of tardy men-at-arms had arrived that very evening from Pomerania in the east. Rumors abounded among the servants that these rough-hewn soldiers were veterans in the empire’s wars against the pagan Prussians. Claiming devotion to Church and emperor, they could be heard above the din shouting for vengeance against the Stedingers. “Next these dogs shall be filling their villages with witches and stealing infants from Christian homes!” one cried. Heinrich groaned.
The baker was worried the dung-haulers would be about the stables in the morning. His only hope was a comment he had overheard in which there was a complaint noted by the count that the castle latrines must be cleaned. It seemed his lady was aghast at the hordes of flies and the army’s reeking piles of excrement yet to be shovelled away. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps I might be halfway to home before they find Niklas.
But Heinrich wondered if it would be better for him to simply unburden his soul by confessing his deed to the constable. After all, he reasoned, it was an act of self-defense, and who would deny even a servile baker the right to life. Yet, prudence was with the man. The lines edging his eyes and furrowed on his brow had been ploughed by years of wisdom’s teaching, and a voice deep within told him plainly that his confession would send him to the gallows. He turned his mind to the state of his soul and wondered if God would require penance for such an act. But self-defense—surely God would forgive. Yet I did think of Richard and hateful vengeance was in m’grip. Heinrich groaned and begged the night to pass.
It was Wednesday, the sixteenth day of May, when the sun rose again to shine atop the baker’s world. Nervous and distracted by his secret, Heinrich went about his duties anxiously, delivering baskets of fresh-baked breads to the knights grumbling from their chambers. He passed quietly through the halls of the castle, then into a garden courtyard where he overheard something that would change the simple man forever.
A group of French captains were whispering among those recently arrived from Pomerania. Believing justice had not been served, these knights were convinced of their right to exact a higher price than what the archbishop had required. Since Hartwig and his soldiers had departed for Bremen with Lord Egbert two days before, none could deny them the opportunity. Furthermore, it was rumored that the count was enraged that the Templar had taken away the entire debt, leaving him with scarcely enough to meet his other obligations—including paying the army. They plotted a raid.
Heinrich listened carefully before hurrying to his wagon where he swallowed a long draught of cider. What am I to do? The man’s mind whirled and he wanted to vomit. With Richard dead, Blasius far away, and every other soul from his homeland gone, he felt so very alone. It was then he also realized that he had no way home! I’ll be attached to a strange lord… I’ll be stolen away, never to see m’lads again. Panic gripped him and his mouth dried. He plunged his hand into his satchel to find his Laubusbach stone. Ah, Emma… if only you could guide me. And Brother Lukas …if I could but hear one word of counsel from you now.
He closed his eyes as words from his past came to him. Emma said thatsunshine is hope and moonlight is mercy. But I cannot lift my head to either. I am supposed to live m’life “by the law of love.” She told m, “’tis higher than that of any man.” He took a deep breath and another draught of cider. He loaded his strong arms with large baskets of bread and returned to the knights’tables where he cocked his ears.
Some Normans had joined with the Frenchmen, and a footman had overheard them talking about a wealthy village within reach. “They wants to loot a rich town along the Weser called Berne,” the man whispered to Heinrich. “It’s north, just below the Hunte and they say there’s less a militia there. But the booty ought be plenty since it trades heavy from the seaport. Then, they says, they’ll come back to the castle, collect their wagons, and go home.”
“Are you footmen going?” Heinrich feigned disinterest.
“Aye. They’ll be makin’ us quick-step the whole way!”
Heinrich nodded. A hard tap on the shoulder sent a chill through the baker. He turned slowly, expecting the worst. He was staring at Falko. “You! Baker.”
Heinrich paled.
Falko narrowed his eyes and leaned close. “’Ave y’seen yer lord?”
“Lord Niklas? Nay, sir master, not for days. Methinks he must be with the ladies, else drunk in the halls.”
Falko said nothing but kept a cold gaze on the baker. Heinrich felt perspiration beading above his upper lip but he did not move or look away. Falko nodded. “Aye. You needs shave that stubble and shorn that mop! No beards, no long hair on servants.” He pulled Heinrich by the sleeve and whispered, “And one more thing. You and the others need bake early. Some soldiers’ll be leavin’’fore dawn.”
Now Heinrich knew it was certain. He also knew Falko to be dimwitted and loose-tongued. “Aye, sire. And … for how many ought I bake?”
Falko leaned closer. “’Bout a hundred, methinks … two score mounted men and some footmen. Say no word of it to others. If asked, say you’ve been told some companies be leavin’ for home in early morn.” The fool winked.
“Aye.” Heinrich’s heart raced and his mind spun as he hurried toward his wagon. He muttered to his helpers, “I’d be suffering colic, methinks.” He held his belly. “I’d needs an hour in m’bed.” Once out of sight he leaned against the cold stone of the castle wall and closed his eyes. I’ll not raise m’hand against them nor help those who do. God forgive me, but m’lords are wrong.
Heinrich scanned the castle grounds for a safe way out. He quickly climbed the steps leading to the battlements where he fixed his eyes on
the green fields beyond the drawbridge. “Wildflowers!”
The man raced down the steps, through the courtyard, and into his bakery where he grabbed a basket. He hurried to the gatekeeper and spoke boldly. “I’m the baker … been ordered to gather flowers to flavor m’lord’s sweetbread and tasties.”
The guard grumbled a word or two, then waved him through the portal. Relieved, but trembling, Heinrich crossed the drawbridge spanning the curve in the Hunte and slowly headed toward the open fields. Soon he was bending to pull spring blooms from the sod. The soldiers on the wall gave him little heed and by vespers he had managed to wander far enough to find cover midst a clump of willows by the riverbank where he hid until twilight.
Under a merciful moon the man ran eastward along the river roadway. The night was quiet and all he could hear were the sounds of his boots pounding the road and his lungs wheezing for air. At this time of year the darkness would be short-lived, and the urgency of his cause pressed him onward. Yet he was not as young as he once was and Heinrich finally collapsed at the side of the road gasping for breath.
After resting a few moments alone in the silver night-scape, the simple man from Weyer felt suddenly important. Heinrich cleared his lungs and began to run again. He had reckoned the distance to be about four leagues—about a three-hour quick-step, less if he ran hard. On and on he pressed despite the ache in his weighted legs and the agony of his heaving chest. It was sometime after matins when the gasping baker finally collapsed at the door of Berne’s simple church. The man pounded on it until a wary priest arrived with a candle. “Please,” Heinrich begged. “Please … let me in.”
The priest helped the exhausted man through the doorway and onto a stool. He called for a drowsy novice to bring a tankard of beer with which Heinrich quickly slaked his thirst. “Knights are coming!” he cried. “Warn your people the knights are to attack the town.”
