Pilgrims of Promise (25 page)

“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.

Heinrich felt sick. “I… I murdered no one, boy.”

“Killed, then?” Tomas sneered.

Surprised, Heinrich looked at Wil and struggled for words. “Well, we’d a fight on the Villmar road when I was young, a little younger than Wil.”

Tomas cursed.

“It was long before you were born, lad. I had no hand in your father’s death, and I know nothing of it.”

“
Ja
? Well, perhaps you killed Blasius’s father instead.”

Heinrich’s face hardened. “‘Twas a Gunnar who killed my own father.”

“Enough!” cried Pieter. “We’ve business to tend to.”

Within the hour, Tomas’s plan was begun. The black-haired youth led Wil, a trembling Benedetto, Helmut, Otto, Rudolf, and Heinz quietly through the alleyways of Burgdorf to the large corrals kept safe within the city walls.

Meanwhile, Heinrich and Pieter crept to their assigned hiding places in the brush rimming the Galgenberg—the hanging hill. The hill sprouted from the valley like a wart on a witch’s face, and atop it stood a wide-limbed leafy chestnut tree dotted with green nuts. Here the pair waited breathlessly, hoping Frieda was obediently keeping herself and Maria out of view with Paulus and Solomon.

In Burgdorf, Tomas gave orders from behind a hay barn. “Heinz, go now.”

The elfish scamp scurried away and sneaked past the marshal’s guards to let his nimble fingers release the ropes that held the gates of the corral. Benedetto was then ordered to his duties. The little minstrel had determined to redeem his cowardice in Domodossola and now strutted bravely toward the doorway of a nearby hall where some soldiers were enjoying their supper. With a deep breath, he began singing loudly and playing his lute with all the bravado his timid spirit could muster.

Distracted, groups of drunken men-at-arms wandered into the street and stared at the tiny man. Laughing, they began to leap about the street like so many mad fools. The men drew others, and soon the pilgrims’ troubadour was crooning over the din of an entire barracks.

With the corral unlocked and most of the soldiers distracted, Tomas and the others flew to their tasks. Wil and Otto ran into a nearby barn and set it on fire with torches taken from a vacant shop. At the first sign of smoke, the stable master’s guards predictably ran from their posts, and the moment they were gone, Heinz, Helmut, and Rudolf dashed from their cover to chase the wide-eyed herd toward the far end of a street where the city gate was still open. The three lads heaved stones and sticks, shouted, and flailed their arms as the horses thundered past the grasping hands of surprised sentries.

With smoke pouring from the barn, the town erupted in confusion. Pieter and Heinrich spotted black smoke rising from behind the town’s walls, and the priest began to pray loudly. “O Lord, tell me we are not truly mad!”

Before long, flames began to leap from the barn to another and then to another. In less than a half hour, the folk of Burgdorf were in a desperate battle to save their city. With a third of the buildings now burning, the streets quickly filled with smoke. Benedetto threw his lute over his shoulder and crawled through a confused mob. Squeezing between the crush of bodies, the tiny man was soon trapped in the midst of a crowd beginning to stampede.

Wil and Otto rejoined a nearly panicked Tomas, who had moved to the street corner near the jailhouse. The smoke had become so thick, however, that none could see anything. Choking, the lads clung to one another and squinted painfully. “M’bow’s no good to me,” cried Wil.
“I
can see nothing!”

“We needs get out!” shrieked Otto.

“But Blasius?”

The three peered through the eye-burning smoke at the jailhouse door. Thankfully, it was not on fire. It had been Tomas’s plan to have Wil shoot the guards during the distraction and then find a way to release the prisoner. With no horses to follow, they imagined that they might then find a way out of the town and across open fields to the safety of the wood. But it was not to be.

The smoke was suffocating. Coughing and tearing, they retreated inside a shop, where they gasped for air. “Tomas, we needs get out! We’ve no way to release him.”

“To the other plan then,” wheezed the lad. “Otto, can we find the gate?”

The stout boy was on his knees sucking air through the sleeve of his tunic. Overhead, a burst of wind dropped burning thatch alongside them. “Follow me!”

Otto and his two companions pulled their hoods over their heads and charged down a street they hoped would lead them to the walls. The town was a maze, however, and at each turn none could be sure of their whereabouts. A burning roof collapsed nearby. With hearts pounding, the three pressed on.

At long last, Wil, Otto, and Tomas ran into a chute of screaming townsfolk funneling toward a gate. Pushing and shoving their way through, the trio emerged, gasping. They fell to the ground, sucking for air. “We must hurry on,” coughed Wil. “Now!”

The lads struggled to their feet and made way for their camp. Wil turned his face back and groaned. Black smoke and flames filled the sky.
O God, forgive us for what we’ve done.

Hoping they had not been seen, the fleeing raiders returned to their camp. Frieda ran to Wil and hugged him tearfully. “I saw the smoke … I was so worried.”

The young man’s face was black with soot, and his clothes smelled of burnt thatch. “We failed,” he mumbled sadly as he wrung his hands. “We could not find the jail. The fire was to draw attention, no more. Now we’ve caused many a death.”

Frieda nodded sympathetically. She looked at the other lads, whose heads were drooped in remorse. “The summer’s been dry and hot. The thatch is tinder.”

“Ja.
So we should have known,” moaned Otto. He wrung his hands and stared at the sky.

Frieda looked at the lad carefully, then at the others. “Confess the error but not evil intention. All of you, please listen. Your hearts were good in this—”

“But our minds were not!” groused Tomas. “‘Twas my plan, ‘tis my blame.” The young man took a deep breath. “We’ve not time to think on it now. I have another plan if you’ll let me.”

Wil nodded. “Yes, Tomas. None shall ever blame you for the fire. We all had a part in it. Now, we’ve no time for this. We’ve need of your other plan.”

Relieved, Tomas stared at Wil for a moment, then spoke. “My master told me to never have one plan alone. He said the world would always undo your first, but it wouldn’t expect a second.”

“Your master?” quizzed Otto.

“Aye, the prince of the forest you saw.”

Otto gulped. “Aye.”

Wil whirled about. “Pieter and Father?”

“In their places,” Tomas answered. “They are part of our second plan. I’d hoped to not need them.”

“And the others?”

Frieda pointed to a clearing in the wood. “I saw them back there. They were able to catch six horses by their halters, and they’re trying to keep them quiet in the wood. They took rope off Paulus’s sacks and made some sort of reins. I’ve not seen Benedetto, though.”

Wil looked back at the town. “If they catch any of us, well hang. We must not fail again. Frieda, you’ve the torches ready?”

“
Ja
.”

“Good,” interrupted Tomas.

Maria finally spoke. “Tis nearly compline. What do you think will happen?”

Tomas answered, “I’d think they’d be too busy to hang him tonight. We’ll wait a bit longer, then plan for the morrow to—”

“Look!” Frieda blurted. “Look there!”

In the darkening twilight, four torches lit the white robes of four marching Templars who were dragging their prisoner toward the Galgenberg. Tomas cursed. “Make ready, then!” he barked.

The six lads prepared themselves. In about a quarter hour they emerged from their cover on horseback. None of them had ridden much—peasants rarely owned horses. They had ridden a few plow horses or nags, but these were neither. These animals were the great chargers, the mighty warhorses of Christendom with huge shoulders and broad backs.