ALTDORF (The Forest Knights: Book 1) (17 page)

It was a time of celebration, the calm before the storms of winter set in. Women revealed dresses they had worked on in private all year and spent hours braiding and tying ribbons in their friends’ and daughters’ hair. Men donned short, colorful vests and put fresh feathers in their well-worn forester caps. But the real stars of the festival were the cows. Adorned in towering headdresses of pine boughs decorated with gentians, carnations, and edelweiss, their owners marched them through the main street of Schwyz like heroes returning from war.

Thomas and Pirmin watched a dozen cows saunter past, the bells at their necks announcing their passage. A group of proud farmers followed closely behind, waving at friends in the crowd lining both sides of the hard-packed earthen street.

“These beasts are pretty, I will give them that. But the cows of Wallis, now those are fine animals.”

“More beautiful than the finest Arabian mares, I am sure,” Thomas said.

“Beautiful? Naw, Thomi. Ugly as the Devil’s arse. But strong, mean, and black as sin. Every spring we have a festival similar to this, but our farmers do not dress them up in girly headdresses and sweet smelling oils. We watch them fight.”

Thomas smiled. “Fighting cows.”

This was a new tale on the superiority of Wallis, the land of the Matterhorn; where the water was pure, the men brave, women descended from goddesses, and now, apparently, the cows ferocious.

“Do you doubt me?” Pirmin shook his head and wagged a finger in Thomas’s face. “You are too mistrusting. I bet you only drank milk from one of your mother’s teets.”

“I have known you too long to start believing everything you say, my friend.”

“Well, you can believe this. We would put all our cows in a big field and watch them fight all afternoon. Eventually the herd would declare a winner. That would be the one to lead them all up into the Alps, where they would dine on the sweet grasses all summer long. Of course the Queen, as we named her, would get her choice of the bulls.”

“Of course,” Thomas said.

Pirmin kept speaking, extolling the virtues of being nobility but Thomas only heard every other word. Standing beyond the line of parading cows and their handlers, stood the auburn-haired woman from his ferry, Seraina. He had learned soon after that day that she was in fact the ‘old hag’ in the woods, and not just a gardener. But, Thomas noted, there was absolutely nothing ‘old hag’ about Seraina.

Today she wore a sea-green dress, belted high, with a neckline low enough to make Thomas blush. She looked up and caught him staring, then smiled and Thomas marveled that he could make out the brilliance of her emerald eyes even at this distance.

Seraina stepped light-footed into the street, amongst the rush of cows and bulls, and for a moment Thomas worried for her safety. But she paid them no mind and the throng of men and animals parted around her like water flowing around a boulder in a swift-flowing river. Smiling, she made her way towards the two men, occasionally reaching out a hand to caress an animal as it passed.

Pirmin had stopped talking. He elbowed Thomas in the shoulder. “What have we got here?” he said in a low voice as Seraina approached.

Seraina stopped in front of Thomas, to Primin’s surprise, and said, “Hello again ferryman. Enjoying the parade?”

Thomas introduced her to Pirmin, who could not stop staring at Thomas with undisguised amazement.

“Thomi, when did you manage to meet such an enchanting creature?” Seraina laughed and color came to her cheeks, but she did not resist when Pirmin took her hand and kissed it.

The sight of Pirmin holding Seraina’s hand and making her laugh, bothered Thomas at some level he did not understand. He brushed the thought aside. A few moments later Pirmin excused himself to chase after someone he spotted in the crowd, leaving Thomas alone with Seraina.

As she watched Pirmin leave, Seraina said, “Your friend is a charmer. I suspect he does quite well with the women.”

“You have no idea,” Thomas said.

She turned back to Thomas, her eyes flashing. “And you, ferryman? Are you also a man of many conquests?”

Thomas’s head became hot and he was suddenly conscious of his scar. In the guise of looking at the last of the cows marching past, he angled the marred side of his face away from her.

He was saved from responding by a cow passing a few feet in front of them with a towering headdress of pine branches interspersed with brilliant yellow flowers. Seraina pointed and cooed with delight. But Thomas found himself more interested in how her eyes lit up at the sight. She stood close enough for him to smell the sunlight on her bronzed skin, and when she leaned forward to get a better view, her breast pressed lightly against his arm. He marveled at her softness and found himself rooted to the spot, afraid to move.

“That is my favorite flower in the world,” Seraina said, turning to Thomas. He edged back a step and for the first time looked closely at the colorfully adorned cow.

“It is an autumn crocus,” he said.

Seraina raised an eyebrow. “Some in these parts also call it a meadow saffron. But I prefer its older name,” she said looking at Thomas with an impish grin.

“
Colchicum autumnale?
” Thomas recited its Latin name. In the right doses, he had seen it used to treat some types of fever. But it was more often used as a deadly poison.

“There are many languages older than that of your Church, Thomas,” she said, using his name for the first time, he noted. He decided he enjoyed the sound of it on her lips.

“The name I was thinking of,” Seraina continued, “is ‘naked lady’.” She smiled and held Thomas’s eyes with her own until he looked away.

“I am sorry. I did not realize an ex-soldier would redden so easily,” Seraina said with more amusement than sincerity.

Thomas cleared his throat. “I was a Hospitaller. Not a common soldier. Most of us…did not have occasion to speak with women.”

“You mean it was discouraged because all women are sinful? Is that not how your priests see us?”

“Women are not all necessarily sinful, but they do tend to be more susceptible to certain temptations than men,” Thomas said, realizing too late how much he sounded like one of his monk teachers.

“Ah, that would be lust? Temptations of the flesh?”

If Thomas’s face was glowing before when Seraina mentioned the ‘naked lady’, it felt ablaze now.

“Perhaps…” he began, searching for the words that would make him look like lesser a fool than he had already proven himself.

“Strange, but I have known more than a few men to be just as lustful as any woman. And what of it? Lust is as essential as water in living a healthy life. Do you not agree?”

As Thomas wracked his mind to think of a response, Pirmin appeared out of the crowd. Thomas’s relief vanished, however, when Pirmin stepped aside and revealed a man who had been eclipsed by his bulk.

“My lady, I apologize for interrupting,” he flashed a smile down at Seraina, who returned it with a shake of her head. “Thomi, this here is the fellow I told you about.”

The lithe figure of Noll Melchthal stepped from behind Pirmin and held out his hand. “Good to see you again, ferryman. Have you put thought to my offer?” His blue eyes sparkled like a melting glacier, and although he smiled, it came across as warm as his eyes.

Thomas gave Pirmin a withering glare. He did not take Noll’s hand.

“You two know each other then?” Pirmin said. “Good.”

Seraina cut in and put a hand on Noll’s shoulder. “Leave the man alone. This is a festive day, and not one for recruiting. Come, let us go sample some of Gertrude’s cheeses.”

She performed an elaborate curtsy to Thomas and Pirmin, looking every bit a little girl playing at being a lady, then took Noll by the hand and led him away to the food vendor stalls.

***

After the parade was over the games began. Enormous logs were rolled into the town square and men and women of all ages clambered over one another to take part in competitions devised around chopping or cutting through trees in all manners imaginable.

Pirmin lived for competition and when the ax-men lined up in front of the crowd he was standing amongst them, towering over them all. When his name was called he hefted his eight-foot war ax with one arm over his head and the crowd went crazy, cheering louder for the big man than any of the others.

The sight made Thomas smile. They had been in Schwyz for only a few months and Pirmin was already the hometown favorite.

Pirmin’s first match saw him pitted against a young lad with thick forearms but the otherwise lean build of a boy stuck on the cusp of manhood. They each stood on top a log at either end, with their feet spread shoulder-width apart. The log rested across two other logs so it was lifted off the ground, effectively elevating the competitors above the crowd and providing them with a stage. Someone blew a horn and they were off.

The young man’s ax glided into the wood at a slight angle, first from one side then the other. After each pair of strokes, a large chunk of wood sailed through the air. Pirmin on the other hand, at the sound of the horn, hefted his ax high into the air with one hand and looked out into the crowd. He egged them on with his other hand and they whistled and cheered. A group of young girls stood at the front and chanted “Pirmin! Pirmin!”

Only after he’d worked them into a frenzy did he grab hold of his ax with both hands. He let out a deafening bellow and brought the wide-bladed weapon thundering down to strike the log between his feet. The entire length of the log shook and wobbled, and both Pirmin and his opponent had to fight to regain their balance.

Pirmin’s ax blade was embedded up to the handle in the wood. He tugged frantically but the log refused to give it up. His youthful opponent looked over and shook his head then went back to chopping. He was halfway through the log.

Pirmin cursed and jumped off the log. After several grunts and jerks from different angles, he managed to finally free the ax by heaving and pushing against the log with his foot. Red-faced he hoisted himself back on top, but before he could swing again there was a thump, as the young man’s end of the log broke off and fell to the ground.

Pirmin lowered his ax, looked up to the sky and grinned. The crowd clapped and cheered as the two competitors met in the middle of the log and clasped arms. The young girls were still calling Pirmin’s name long after the two men got down.

“That did not go so well,” Thomas said when Pirmin found him in the crowd.

“Bah, that was a warm-up for the two man crosscutting round. That will be where we shine.”

“We?”

“You and me Thomi. Entered us already. And after all that practice this spring cutting timber for your bleeding ferry, I expect to win. So drink some water and let us be off.”

Thomas protested of course, but by the time they got to the crosscutting station Pirmin’s enthusiasm had infected him as well. Of course, to a much lesser degree. It had always been that way when you were with Pirmin. He not only knew how to live life to the fullest, but somehow he also managed to bring life to those around him.

As Pirmin had said it would, the crosscutting went much better than the ax event. Laboring on either end of a long flexible saw, they managed to win their first four matches and had become a crowd favorite. Thomas knew it was not due to their skill, but he did not care. It felt good to hear strangers call out his name. Children ran up to give him and Pirmin drinks of water between rounds.

Eventually they lost to Sutter and his daughter Mera, but that came as no surprise, because they were last year’s champions. Apparently innkeepers cut a lot of wood, and Thomas later learned that Sutter had been a forester for years before taking over the family inn, so he did not feel bad about losing.

Pirmin began complaining over and over how they started before the horn, but when Mera jumped up and kissed him on the cheek, then ran off with her friends, he smiled and went silent enough. Of course, not as silent as Sutter.

Schwingen
would prove to be Pirmin’s event. A local form of wrestling, it had its own unique set of rules. The combatants each donned a sturdy pair of leather shorts over their breeches. Then by only holding the leather, they attempted to throw one another to the ground.

Pirmin had no technique but he was simply too big and strong for most of the men. He was the true hero of the crowd in this event, easily winning his way to the finals. He was to meet Gruber; a barrel-chested young dairy farmer from Seelisberg, who was shorter than Pirmin by a hand span, but almost as strong. And, despite his age, he was experienced in
Schwingen
.

Thomas stood by Pirmin as he struggled into his leather garment. On the other side of the ring, Gruber’s father was helping his son get into his. His mother stood nearby, casting occasional worried glances in Pirmin’s direction.

“The boy’s mother thinks you aim to eat her boy,” Thomas said.

“And I do,” Pirmin said. “As soon as I can get these leathers on. Worse than our war kit. How many bleeding straps do these things need?”

Thomas watched Pirmin’s huge fingers fumble with the fastenings on the leather shorts for a few seconds more. Finally, he had enough, and slapped his hands away.

“Give me those,” Thomas said. “You never could put on your own armor.”

Pirmin cursed but he let Thomas take over. He crossed his arms and looked over at his opponent.

“You ever miss wearing your kit Thomi?”

“Never thought on it one way or the other.”

“Well, I do. Especially the reds. I think I looked pretty fine in those reds.”

A Hospitaller brother-sergeant wore brown with a white cross on the chest, or the shoulder, in his daily activities. Only the knights were permitted to wear black. But in times of war, everyone, brother-knights and brother-sergeants alike, would don vivid red tunics over their armor. On top of this blood-red background of war, a large white cross of peace was emblazoned on the chest.

Pirmin caught his opponent’s mother looking at him. He screwed up his face and gnashed his teeth at her. She quickly looked away, wringing her hands.