Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Page 19

  Otto snatched Paulus’s lead and pulled with all his might. The stubborn beast would not move! “Damn you, beast!” shouted the boy. “Move!” He pulled and yanked frantically, and with every straining tug the animal leaned farther back, planting his hooves deeply in the dust and nearly laying his rump atop the ground.

  “Come on, Otto!” cried Rudolf. “Hurry!”

  “I can’t. He won’t move!”

  “Then leave him!”

  Otto closed his eyes and grimaced as he pulled again. It was Solomon, however, who made the donkey move. With a snarl and a snap, he fixed his bared teeth hard into the beast’s rump! Paulus leapt forward with a loud bray and threw a sideways kick at the nimble dog. With a victorious shout, Otto then dragged the donkey and a lifeline of provisions to the cover of the wood.

  About a furlong ahead, a road that transversed the plain from east to west intersected the pilgrim’s north-south highway. From opposing directions, two small armies now roared, and it seemed as though they would collide directly in front of Wil’s company.

  Panting and frightened, the pilgrims crouched low in the shadows of their leafy screen. “We ought to go deeper,” counseled Heinrich. “They might join together and scour the whole plain for what they can find. We’ve two females, a high-piled donkey, and satchels heavy with coin.”

  Wil had strung Emmanuel and moved his quiver to his hip. He nervously fixed his grip on the handle of his new dagger. “Aye, but see. Both armies are pulling up. Look, their commanders are putting them to order. Methinks they’ll fight one another.”

  “Then for the sake of heaven,” cried Pieter, “keep out of sight.”

  The birds stopped chirping, and no living thing moved. Rudolf whispered to Helmut, “Listen to the wind … it has stopped. ‘Tis ne’er a good sign!”

  Helmut nodded. Their ancient forbears had taught that the wind bore change into the world. Despite the relentless efforts of the Holy Church, it was these echoes of Odin—the ancient god of the Teutons—that yet moved lads as these. They feared both the stillness and the breeze, perpetually haunted by what might be.

  “Look there!” cried Otto in dread. A distant field of winter rye began to bend beneath the insistent urging of a sun-heated gust. The shimmering green field now wended and welled toward the warriors. “The spirits are twisting in the grain!”

  Chapter Eleven

  TO ARMS!

  The acrid smell of burning thatch wafted over the plain. “They’ve left villages afire in their wake,” groaned Rudolf.

  The group murmured and crouched lower as the armies prepared to fight. The knights to the east were gathering in close ranks, the flanks of each charger pressed up against the next. Wil strained to see the army gathering from the west. “Templars!” he gasped.

  A line of Knights Templar stood waiting like a white curtain of steel. Wil noted how much smaller their horses were than those of their opponents. The Templars preferred their spirited Arabian mounts and rode them in deep-set saddles. The warrior-monks sat confidently upon their sweated steeds, souls safe for all eternity and ready to do battle against the disordered rabble of evildoers now facing them. Their white habits bore a red cross over the left breast, and beneath they wore chain mail coats. Atop their heads sat metal helms that capped their chain mail hoods. In one hand, each grasped a kite-shaped shield emblazoned with a red cross; in the other, long-swords or lances.

  The standard-bearer raised the Templar banner proudly. Wil had seen it in Weyer years before and had never forgotten its chequered black and white panels with the Templars’ red cross embroidered boldly in the center. “Methinks they’ve about two score horse in total and … there! There comes some host of footmen and archers from behind.” In fact, the Templars’ small army consisted of eight Knights Templar, about two score mounted mercenaries, three score footmen, and a dozen crossbowmen.

  To the east was a smaller army: heavy cavalry numbering some twenty knights and supported by an equal number of footmen and a tithing of archers. Garbed in the varied-colored robes of an assortment of lords, they, like their enemies, paused to receive blessings from their priests. In a few moments, the commander kissed a raised crucifix and inspected his men.

  Heinrich whispered to Wil as he pointed to his right, “Methinks those to be men of Otto. There, to our left would be the army supporting Friederich. The Templars always follow the pope’s choice.”

  Suddenly, the first glint of steel shined in the west as the Templar master raised his long-sword. With a loud cry he led his cavalry forward, first at a trot. At the sound, the commander of Otto’s men answered. Undaunted by the white robes and the banner of the dreaded Templars, he abruptly ordered his own horsemen forward at a full gallop. His chargers thundered toward the dividing highway under shields glistening in the sunlight. In the dust behind, his leather-vested companies of footmen and archers sprinted forward with lances, pikes, and flails.

  The pilgrims’ heads turned from east to west as the close-ranked Templars answered with their battle cry, “Vive Dieu, Saint Amour!” They stormed toward Otto’s line like a flashing fist of steel, lances leveled like a forest on end. Their ranks held tight and true as shoulder to shoulder they crashed into their foes. Otto’s commander fell at once, his chest impaled by the hard point of an unbending lance. His line then collapsed in utter confusion.

  The Templars and their allies seized upon their foes without mercy. They were skilled in butchery and fought savagely with long-swords and glaives. Some swung Turkish maces—thick-handled sticks bearing a heavy, spiked ball on the end. With them, they smashed through their opponents’ helmets like rocks landing on eggs. In less than a quarter hour, many numbers of Otto’s men were strewn about the roadway; others fled for their lives.

  A loud cry was heard from a small pocket of trees just beyond the battlefield. Wil’s spellbound company turned toward the sound and watched breathlessly as three of Otto’s knights were chased from their cover by a half-dozen white-robed Templars. One of the pursued knights rode a small horse, like those of the Templars. This horse and rider were nimble and quick, dodging two shots from a crossbow and outrunning a mounted swordsman. His two comrades, however, were riding huge warhorses and proved to be no match for the speedier Templar mounts. In short order, they were slain as their lone comrade raced a wide circle around his foes and dashed for the cover of the very wood in which the pilgrims hid.

  “We must run!” cried Heinrich. “They’ll be upon us!”

  The company panicked and began a desperate flight into the depths of the forest. Pieter stumbled and fell, only to be picked up by Otto and Helmut. Maria was snatched up into the arms of Heinrich again, but the two tumbled over a fallen log. Paulus reared, and his halter tangled in some brush as Benedetto scampered away in terror.

  In mere moments, the fugitive’s horse crashed into the wood behind them, and Wil cried for all to hold and hide. Like rabbits in the eyes of wolves, the pilgrims froze in place behind whatever cover was close by.

  Heinrich held Maria close and peered through a green screen of weeds to watch. The fleeing soldier was spurring his horse through the brush directly toward the baker with a face set firm but not panicked. Suddenly, his white-foamed stallion turned a leg and toppled, dumping the hapless man forward with a crash. He groaned and hurried to his feet, only to trip backward as he drew his sword. Flinging his head from one side to the other, his eyes met the baker’s. “Heinrich!” cried the knight.

  “Blasius!”

  It was all that could be said. The six Templars burst into the wood and, before Blasius could move, reined their mounts in a circle around him. Heinrich crouched low and held Maria tightly. The man’s heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. What to do … what to do? Blasius was the baker’s friend. He had last seen him trotting away from Stedingerland those many years before. O God above, what to do?

  Heinrich laid a trembling hand on his sword. His looked about the circle of six Templars, and he set his jaw. But before th
e baker could foolishly spring from his cover, Blasius was disarmed and bound. “They’re not going to kill him?” The baker released his breath and watched intently as his old friend was thrown over his saddle and tied upon his own horse.

  “You’ll pay for your betrayal, Brother Blasius,” grumbled a Templar.

  “‘Tis the Grand Master and the pope who’ve betrayed us!”

  Fists pounded Blasius’s face. “Blasphemer! Damn you to hell!”

  With no more words, the soldiers mounted their steeds and charged out of the wood with their prisoner in tow. The pilgrims remained silent until, one by one, they popped out from their hiding places. Wil looked at his father now ghost-white and trembling. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you frightened?”

  Heinrich wiped his brow. “Ah, lad. Do you remember our friend Blasius?”

  “Of course. I’ll ne’er forget him.”

  “That was he.”

  “Who?”

  “The one taken and bound.”

  “Ach, mein Gott! Are you sure, Father?”

  Heinrich nodded. Wil turned to his fellows and briefly recounted the history of Blasius. “And more than all that, he was devout to the true faith and a soldier of charity. He was all that I might ever wish to be. Father, he came twice to Weyer in search of you after you had gone. He was very worried.”

  The baker did not answer.

  “I’ll never forget when he tried to save the little boy from the hangman.”

  “Aye, lad. Now we needs save him.”

  Pieter asked gravely, “What’s to be done?”

  Wil looked about. “First, is everyone accounted for?” His eyes flew about the company. “Good. And I see Paulus and Solomon stood fast and quiet!”

  “Methinks we need to first see where they take him,” said Heinrich as he moved toward the margins of the wood.

  “Aye,” answered Wil. He led the others behind his father, and they watched helplessly as the Templar army finished its gruesome business. The soldiers moved midst their fallen foes, indifferently dispatching the wounded. No quarter had been given, and not a single conscience was pricked for it. Lord Otto, it was reasoned, had violated the sacred order of things, and the pope had ordained their swords as instruments of God’s judgment. On that account, mercy had little role to play.

  Blasius could be seen atop his horse, head drooping to one side. A circle of white-robed knights was gathered close by and seemed to be discussing the matter.

  “We must know their plan,” muttered Pieter. “I confess, I am grieved at what I see here. I have always admired the Templars. They are warrior-monks who have honored the cause of Christ in their piety and charity and have been the guardians of the innocent. But here, they seem no better than common rogues.”

  “Blasius is all that is good in a Christian warrior, Pieter. Trust me in this.” Heinrich’s attention was fixed on the captive.

  “They’re assembling to leave,” added Frieda. “I see them pointing south.”

  “Toward Burgdorf, methinks,” said Wil.

  With no more business on the field, the Templar master commanded his small army south on the highway the pilgrims had just traveled. Crouching low in their cover, Wil’s company watched carefully as the column of men-at-arms moved slowly away. Numbers of their own wounded were tied to litters carried by weary footmen, and their dead were shrouded in heavy blankets and hung over the rumps of horses. Blasius was still tied to his horse, his arms bound by thick cords that were wrapped around the whole of his body.

  “To Burgdorf, then,” stated Heinrich.

  “Ja, Father. To Burgdorf.”

  Wil, Pieter, and Heinrich left the others in the care of Otto and made their way carefully back to the timber-walled town of Burgdorf to spy. It had never been a place of hospitality, and entering its gates did little to make them feel welcome. The town was a disorganized clutter of low thatch-covered hovels and shops strung along deep-rutted alleys and crowded streets. Its folk were a typical assortment of poor peasants dressed in their short tunics and awkward-looking hats. Here and there merchantmen wandered about alongside two-wheeled carts filled with their treasures. These men were dressed in either knee-length tunics decorated with silk sashes or the more fashionable doublets beginning to make their way from the large cities. The mood of the town was surly and loud. On this corner and that, quarrelsome wenches were barking at one another, and the taverns were filled with brawling men.

  “Not a place I’d like to stay long,” noted Pieter. “Tis good we missed the feast!”

  The three made their way past booths of mutton slabs and pork. The meat was discolored and fly covered. Here and there tables were piled with wares from local parts and from afar. Cheese, of course, was everywhere, as were horn ware and items carved from wood. Hay was being harvested from the meadows, so the town’s barns were quickly filling. “The hay is the only thing that smells good here,” complained Wil.

  “Aye,” agreed Pieter. They rounded the corner and were greeted with a bakery’s mouth-watering aroma. “Except for that!” Soon, the trio was crowding the baker’s tables and breathing deeply of fresh bread.

  “Buy or be gone!” snapped the baker.

  Heinrich spat. “Ja? Well, the smell is free and so’s the street.” He looked at a few dark pretzels. “Your oven’s too hot.”

  “Leave!” roared the man.

  With a few oaths, the three moved on. “Pieter, even if we find the Templars, we’ll not likely know their plan for Blasius,” said Heinrich.

  “True enough,” answered the priest. “Methinks we ought to find an armorer or a smith. They oft hear things.”

  “There,” interrupted Wil. “There, the armorer.”

  Down the street and to their right side was the workshop where chain mail was fashioned and repaired. It had been conveniently positioned next to the blacksmith, where several craftsmen were forging swords. “Good day, gentlemen,” said Pieter smiling.

  “Not so good,” grunted the master smith.

  “Good if you be a Templar man!” replied the priest.

  The armorer shrugged. “What d’y’need?”

  “We’ve heard of a battle nearby and wondered what y’might know of it.”

  The man turned away and hammered a small ring that encircled the round finger of a small anvil.

  Heinrich lifted a penny to the air. “Does any know of the man captured?”

  The workmen stopped and looked. A journeyman walked close, wiping his hands on his leather apron. He reached for the silver penny.

  “And?”

  The man took the penny with a snort. “Ja. ‘Tis said he’s a traitor and he’s to be hanged by compline prayers. What of it?”

  Heinrich reached into his satchel and retrieved another penny. “Where?”

  “Why?” snapped the smith.

  “And who needs to know our business?” growled Heinrich.

  “I do.” A soldier stepped forward from the shadows. He was not a Templar, but he was a knight who had been trying on his armor. He emerged into full light and fixed a hard stare on the baker.

  Heinrich’s heart began to race. He turned to face the soldier. “This priest and his … his novice were robbed in the mountains by a rogue knight. They wanted to see if it was he, and if so, they want their chalice and paten returned.”

  “Else we shan’t bring the blood and body of Christ to our poor flock,” whined Pieter sanctimoniously.

  The knight turned toward a lady now entering the shop. Smiling, he reached to kiss her.

  “And many thanks, m’lord. ‘Tis time we were going,” the lady said. She adjusted the jeweled chaplet ringing her head, then smiled flirtatiously.

  The knight’s eyes never left hers, and he walked after her until Pieter called after him. “Sir, the prisoner?”

  Annoyed, the man answered over his shoulder, “He’s to be hanged at compline on the Galgenberg.”

  Heinrich took a deep breath and turned to the smith.
“So, for the penny you can now tell me where the Galgenberg is.”

  “Aye,” the man snatched the silver coin. “Tis about a furlong west of town. You’ll see a widespread chestnut on a valley knoll. A good place for hangings!”

  Soon Wil, Pieter, and Heinrich were hurrying away from Burgdorf and to their camp beyond the walls. It was approaching vespers when they arrived, and that left them only three hours to both calculate and execute a plan of rescue. “Look about us,” whined Benedetto. “We’ve naught but smooth-faced lads, girls, a cripple, an old man, and a minstrel. We’ve a stubborn mule, no warhorse, and but one playful hound.”

  An army like this

  We ought not to resist.

  That army of knaves

  Will put us in graves.

  Pieter dragged his forefinger aimlessly in the dust and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Indeed. Sounds like the makings of a good ballad.” He sighed and looked about the circle of blank faces staring back. Humph. This pathetic fellowship of castoffs and misfits against the Knights Templar? We must be mad!

  Perspiring in the summer heat, Heinrich offered two poor ideas. Wil blurted some harebrained scheme, and Pieter struggled to find any solution. It was Tomas who stepped from the margins of the camp and offered a plan. The lad had been dark and brooding over the past weeks. He had taken what simple pleasure he could by sniping at the others from time to time, but his disappointment with the Dark Lord and his brief stay in Dragonara had plied his heart enough to let the occasional kindness of others bring a little light to him. “Blasius was kind to me,” he muttered. “He was an oblate like me. Some say he was my cousin. Brother Lukas swore it, but I was never sure.”

  Heinrich leaned forward. “How a cousin, lad?”

  “Seems we’re both of Gunnar stock, shepherds by Arfurt. They had a feud with your family for generations. And I’m told you had some hand in the murder of some.” The lad’s expression suddenly darkened.