by C. D. Baker
But Niklas was no fool. He quickly discerned that his foe was driven by a fury that would blow itself away, like a gust on a cloudless day. The seasoned knight dodged and ducked, turned and stepped. He blocked and did not counter until Richard’s blazing eyes began to cool.
The flex in Richard’s joints slowly stiffened. His movements became less fluid and more lurching. His legs began to wobble, and soon sweat dripped heavy from his brow. Richard sucked air through a gaping mouth and his chest heaved. The white grip of his knuckles faded and his forearms burned. He cast one fleeting, desperate look at Heinrich and the baker held his breath.
Richard never really had a chance against the knight, and his vain effort finally earned only scoffs and ridicule from the circle of spectators. His arms now began to fail him and the axe weighed heavy. On burning legs he sloshed backward against a rapid flurry of Niklas’s sword. But, with a loud cry, Richard rallied what reserve of hatred he had left and charged forward one last time.
With a sneer, Niklas deftly dodged the assault, then plunged his sword through Richard’s lungs. The woeful cry of Heinrich filled Richard’s ears with their last sounds on earth. The pierced peasant stood wide-eyed for a moment, impaled nearly to the hilt of Niklas’s blade. The knight then yanked his sword away with a sickening sound and Richard toppled forward. Heinrich ran to his friend, only to have Falko hold him while Niklas rolled Richard over. Mercifully, the man’s soul had flown away and he was unaware of his final indignity as Niklas scraped his muddy boots across the bridge of his nose.
Heinrich claimed Richard’s body quickly. He washed and shrouded the bloodied corpse, and a willing priest said the final prayers as he and Blasius dug a grave beyond the castle wall. Then, as a spring cloudburst added yet more misery to the sad day, Richard’s body was lowered to its eternal rest.
Chapter 19
THE CHOICE
A fortnight passed and the castle quickly filled with fresh troops finally ready for the campaign against the obstinate Stedingers. Soldiers of the archbishop had arrived from other places and now bivouacked in tents scattered throughout the bailey. The first days of May were filled with the sounds of their drills and training.
At last, the Count of Oldenburg appeared in all his finery to address the gathered army. He was a vain man, given to the same bloated sense of self that prompted his forebears to claim the title of “count” in the first place. With smug satisfaction he surveyed the rows of armored knights now lined in parade formation at his feet. They were fully bedecked in their colors and proudly bore the standards of their liege lords. Behind them gathered ranks of mounted sergeants—soldiers nearly equal in skill to a knight but from a lower station. Rows of archers formed the next line, and behind them stood an orderly throng of footmen dressed in leather jerkins and grasping maces, axes, lances, and glaives. Heinrich and the other servants were sent to their places amongst a long row of wagons and packhorses laden with provisions for the march that lay ahead.
The count shouted words of encouragement and introduced the army’s commander, one Lord Egbert of Hamburg. He, in turn, announced the knighthood of three former squires. The trio had pledged their fealty in a ceremony of homage that very same morning in which they had knelt before their liege lord and placed their hands within his. After reciting their pledge and receiving the prayers of the archbishop himself, the three were touched upon each shoulder and the head by their lord’s long-sword, forever sworn as his obedient vassals.
The archbishop’s army was comprised of men from all parts of Christendom. Fear of the Stedingers had spread as far as sunny Spain, for it seemed that spontaneous peasant armies were beginning to display astonishing acumen in many parts of Europe, and the kings’ courts were growing nervous. A few English lords had considered sending a company of footmen to join the cause but did not. Perhaps the heritage of liberty savored in that good land had blunted their enthusiasm.
The Archbishop of Bremen’s cause was served by thirty knights from the empire, forty mounted sergeants, and a host of footmen numbering nearly a hundred. In addition, the dukes of Lorraine sent sixty footmen, five mounted sergeants, and four Norman knights under contract. Distant Cordoba offered two black-haired knights on fine, Arabian mounts. Added to these were an entourage of teamsters, cooks, bakers, smiths, groomsmen, armorers, priests, women-of-the-camp, and physicians. The castle of Oldenburg had become host to an encampment of a vigorous and impressive army.
To the surprise of all, Archbishop Hartwig suddenly emerged from his guest chamber bearing his scepter in one hand and his sword in the other. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!”
The army fell to its knees as the great bishop prayed over them. “Have mercy on us, Lord.” Bishop Hartwig bowed to the priests at his side, then descended the steps toward Lord Egbert’s mount and offered his sword and standard to the commander. The trumpets lining the battlements sounded and a thunderous cheer rose up. Then, as Egbert waved his army forward, the knights of the Church passed beneath the outstretched arms of their bishop and through Oldenburg’s high gate.
Heinrich felt the hairs on his neck tingle and rise as he took his first steps forward. There he was, a simple baker from little Weyer, marching midst trumpets and cheers beneath the snapping pennants of a castle keep. He suddenly felt as though he were more than a breadmaker. His chest rose and his stride lengthened as he imagined himself a soldier in God’s army, commissioned to help bear the sword against evildoers and the legions of Lucifer! Tears of inexplicable wonder blurred his eager eyes as he strained to find Blasius.
Heinrich smiled as he spotted the noble monk trotting briskly a short distance ahead. The Templar was surrounded by an enlarging group of devout knights from far-off places that shared his faithful love of God and duty. These true soldiers of Christ wanted little to do with the shameful ways of their fellows and were drawn to the piety of the warrior-monk. They were the flower of Christian knighthood, the lingering fragrance of a fading glory.
The sun shone brightly as Heinrich passed beneath the outstretched hands of the bishop. He closed his eyes to feel their power bring him strength from the Almighty. He breathed deeply and smiled and marched across the drawbridge to the long roadway lying before him.
The army followed the Hunte River for a short distance, then turned southeastward toward the prosperous town of Hude lying in the very center of Stedingerland. The day slowly faded, like the thrill of its beginning. Heinrich’s heart did fly in those early hours of that special day, but it would have soared to even greater heights had it not been tethered to the memory of poor Richard. Why, Richard? What a foolhardy, stubborn, selfish thing to do! As the baker stepped to the rhythm of his wagon’s turning wheel he reflected on their boyhood together. His mind carried him to happy times in Emma’s garden and beneath the boughs of the Magi. He thought of Ingly and how the three of them had sat in speechless awe to hear Emma’s tales of sprites and gnomes, of Dragon-rock and the Knight of the Swan. He remembered lying between Ingelbert and Richard beneath the warmth of a kindly summer sun to discover faces in the clouds. Ah, to gaze at the heavens again, he thought. Heinrich sighed and shook his head.
Within the hour the column had traveled well within the marshy world of the Stedingers. Though its boundaries had spread over the years, Stedingerland was generally considered as lying east of Oldenburg with the River Weser as its original eastern boundary and the Hunte as its northern. The ground was primarily marshland that had been claimed from the flooding Weser by its ingenious settlers through series of ditches and locks. As the land drained, the farmers used their livestock to compress the soil, eventually leaving large areas of hardened fields within protective grids of low dikes. They then built access roads along these dikes connecting the tidy towns and villages that sprouted as vigorously as the hay fields of their ever-widening meadows. Their communities had become prosperous by the third generation.
In a show of strength, the archbishop’s army passed numerous small villages
and near noon was ordered to make camp. Here plans were set for a morning attack against a redoubt that protected access to the town of Hude. By smashing the fortress guarding the Stedingers’ largest town, it was believed the rebels would quickly yield their taxes along with heavy dues with which the army might be paid a bonus. Heinrich hurried about his tasks to ensure fresh loaves for both the night’s supper and the next morning’s first meal.
After his duties were done, Heinrich was glad for the conversation of a friendly company of footmen grateful for his hearty rye.
“Your bread is as good as I’ve e’er eaten!” said one. “Come, sit with us.”
Heinrich nodded. “M’thanks. You’d be the last left to serve and I’m happy for a rest.” He sat between a huddle of contented soldiers and pulled a spelt roll from his pocket. “I am Heinrich of Weyer, from the region of Runkel and Limburg-by-the-Lahn.”
The group introduced themselves as coming from numerous manors or towns of the empire. Each was a yeoman—a freeman who owned land but owed military service as part of his obligation to the lord who protected him. “Forty days! Ha!” grumbled one. “My lord had better credit us three years or more for this.”
The group nodded. Heinrich listened quietly as the men spoke of their reluctance to oppose other free men. “From what I’ve learned they’re our brothers. Free like us, cheated like us.” He lowered his voice. “If we could join together, we could resist as well!”
“Hush, Roland! Are y’mad?!”
“Humph … we must all be mad to be in this army. We belong in the other!”
“Under God I do wonder which cause is just,” whispered one. “I am sworn to follow m’lord, and I dare not oppose the Holy Church … yet I see justice in the Stedingers.”
“But not in the way of their grievance,” blurted Heinrich. “Their cause may be just but their ways are not.”
A young soldier levelled a hard gaze at the baker. “You spent the winter as us … bound in that stone coop with the likes of drunken, debauched lords. You might just as easy say the same of them.”
A grumble of “ayes” circled the ring. Heinrich shrugged. The man had made a good point. “But what of the Church … one cannot oppose the Church.”
“Methinks the Stedingers ‘ave priests praying over them as well. Who’s to say which of God’s men are speaking for God?”
The circle approved of the fellow’s logic but grew suddenly quiet. The dilemma was more than they could handle the night before a likely battle. Heinrich brushed flour from his arms. “Well, I am glad my conscience needs make no choice in this!”
A leather-faced soldier shook his head and curled his lip. “Eh? Methinks y’know better than that. You feed this army … we live on yer bread. Y’might as well be raising a sword against these folk yerself! You’d be a fool and a coward to hide behind yer doughs. You’d be no better’ an us, so on the morrow do not think yerself clean and pure whilst we shed innocent blood!”
The soldiers stared at Heinrich with steely eyes, and the baker hung his head in shame.
Dawn broke red and glorious as the army of the archbishop prepared to launch its attack. It was to be a short march across lands as flat as a table stretching toward a wide horizon. A northerly breeze wafted cool air through the camp, and Heinrich sucked clean air through his nostrils and sighed. He turned his eyes to the tender green grasses of May that blanketed the marshlands spread before him and he wished he were home. The grasslands were dotted with butter flowers and white lace, wild rhododendron and white clover. The sandy road ahead was dry and clear, lined with tall hardwoods such as oak and walnut.
The army began its march with a blast of trumpets and the roll of kettledrums. The servants and their wagons were ordered to follow close by, for the commanders wanted no risk of ambush to their supplies. So Heinrich mounted a cart and bounced along a straight roadway. His attention was quickly taken by the long, narrow fields that ran at right angles to the road. They were evenly divided by hand-dug trenches that marked the owners’ boundaries and disappeared far into the distance. “One denier per year per holding,” grumbled a footman.
“What?”
“I say, one penny per year for the tax on all of that.” He pointed to a Stedinger field. “I’m told they were granted about thirty hectares and their freedom for one penny per year tax!”
Heinrich shook his head. “I am taxed two hundred a year for m’bakery alone!”
“Aye,” answered another, “but did y’build a dike around it?”
A round of chuckles followed. Heinrich grumbled. “I’d dig a river round m’whole village for a tax like that, and I’d drain the Rhine for m’freedom!”
“And me as well!” cried a voice.
Along the road, also at even intervals, stood the tidy Stedingers’ houses. Each house stood at the head of the farmer’s rectangle of land, and the houses were strung in lines of some twenty or thirty, creating villages known as “Marschhufe,” or “marsh holdings.” The houses were well kept and exuded a pride that naturally followed the liberty that was enjoyed under each roof.
As the archbishop’s army passed by one such village, Egbert dispassionately ordered its destruction, and, with no hesitation, his army obeyed. To Heinrich’s horror, its simple cottages were put to the torch and those inhabitants who could be found were slain.
About one league past the burned village stood the earthen fortress that straddled the road leading to Hude. Built some years prior with heavy clay dug from the river-banks, it was a rectangular bulwark reinforced by large timbers. The ten-foot-high walls were steep, but green with spring grass that waved softly in the breeze. At the walls’ rounded tops were periodic eroded notches similar to the more even-spaced ramparts of stone castles. Within were a few wattle-and-daub sheds used for shelter and storage. The small redoubt looked heavy and squat, sturdy—but vulnerable. A timber gate barred the road in front of it and a series of wet trenches were dug along its sides to provide an additional obstacle for an enemy.
Commander Egbert stared at the quiet fortress and feared the peasant militia were poised to strike. He abruptly ordered his army into position. Midst shouts and trumpets Heinrich’s cart was ordered to turn and take a position in the distant rear. Suddenly nervous, the baker eyed Blasius galloping near. “Godspeed!” he cried.
The Templar reined his horse and loped toward his friend. The man’s mount snorted as the soldier stared at Heinrich with an expression uncharacteristically despairing.
Heinrich was pale and confused. “Blasius, tell me we are in the right.”
The Templar shook his head and tried to speak. He fumbled for words and shook his head. “Follow conscience, Heinrich, or follow duty. Perhaps one may be righteous.” His cheeks were drawn and his lips pursed. He adjusted his helm and shield, then stretched his sword toward Heinrich and laid its flat upon the simple peasant’s shoulder. “God be with you, my friend.” Blasius lingered for another moment as if to wish them both to a better place.
The earth began to shake and tremble as the armored cavalry thundered to its place. The warrior-monk drew a deep breath, then turned his horse sadly and galloped to the line. Heinrich climbed atop a wagon to survey the army now gathering quickly before him. In the center of the front line sat the commander atop a white charger. Beside him was his standard-bearer, and on both sides were the broad, cape-draped shoulders of Christendom’s knights waiting impatiently on their pawing steeds. Behind this first line pressed six other tightly formed ranks of knights, together forming a seemingly impenetrable mass of shields, swords, chain mail, and leather. A series of signal flags ordered a swarm of helmeted footmen to their place behind the cavalry and three rows of waiting archers then hurried to form their lines in the rear.
All eyes faced the peasant fortress from which no single sound had yet been heard nor a single defender seen. The captains of the army waited and watched, but only the rustling of their own horses, the tinny sound of shifting armor, or the clearing of nervous throats
broke the silence. At last, the archers were ordered forward with their arrows set ablaze. They drew their strings.
At that moment, the gate was flung open and a contingent of Stedingers appeared marching forward with their colors tipped downward in submission. “Hold bows!” cried Egbert.
Three representatives were sent forward to receive the Stedingers midway between the army and the fortress. Heinrich craned his neck from atop his wagon and waited anxiously as the urgent discussion determined the day’s destiny.
The army’s agents returned at a gallop and huddled with the commander and his captains. It seemed the Stedingers were in no mood to resist. They could ill-afford another war, and they thought their villages were filled with widows enough. They had met in loud, chaotic meetings at The Thing, as their assembly was called, and had reluctantly agreed to pay the taxes as demanded. They desperately needed a season of peace in which they might be left alone to prosper in their liberties.
News of the Stedinger capitulation rolled through the army like the low rumbling of dry thunder. It was met with some cheers and a few satisfied nods, but mostly with grumbles and oaths, sarcasm and jeers. Blasius was among those few cheering the moment, and he was glad-hearted as he witnessed the counting and removal of the taxes from within the fort.
By the time Hude’s distant bells rang nones, the business of the day was completed and an unsettled Lord Egbert gathered his captains on the roadway. The man was content to have his tax in hand and had even exacted a heavy duty besides. Yet he was hardly satisfied. “These rebels cannot simply buy us like we are marketplace whores!” he seethed. “They need see the power and might of God’s army. Tear down these gates and burn whatever stores you find in this pitiful fortress. Slay their delegates and put their heads on pikes. Burn their banners. When your business is finished, I shall lead this army through the town and show this wayward flock what doom they bring atop their heads if they dare oppose the Holy Church ever again!”