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Authors: C. D. Baker
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Lahn’s warm waters and vanished in the fog. They swam awkwardly through the black water until they found themselves clawing their way up the slippery bank on the far side. The group was now across the border of the abbey’s lands and was trespassing the lands of Lord Klothar, the new lord of Runkel.
As bound serfs, all but Paul could be severely punished for leaving the realm to which they were pledged. The oaths of their ancestors had shackled them to the land they were born upon and only escape to a free city for a year and a day or the purchase of manumission could set them free.
Lord Klothar’s village of Arfurt was about the size of Weyer and was perched atop a high bank directly on the Lahn. The men had crossed the river upstream from the sleepy village and now sat in the low grass of a hayfield to catch their breath. Arnold gathered his comrades close. “We’ve another league to travel to Arfurt,” he whispered. “The cart-way’s fairly smooth but the dark will slow us some. We shall soon hear the bells at matins and that gives us just enough time to do our business and get back ‘afore daybreak.”
Baldric looked carefully about the circle. “None can fail, do y’hear me, Paul?”
The dyer nodded nervously.
“Humph!” groused Baldric. “You’ve thin arms and a soft way about you, dyer. And you’d best have clean hands. If you leave the color of dye behind you’ll swing!”
Paul was sweating in the humid night air and his hands began to tremble. He wished he had never met Baldric nor ever borrowed a single penny from the man.
“Kurt, you’re quiet,” said Baldric.
“Aye, frightened, aren’t you?” laughed Dietrich.
Kurt turned stiffly toward the miller. “Methinks you to be a fool… and a cheat. Keep yerself away from me else I’ll deal with you when this business is done!”
Dietrich pulled the knife from his belt. “Now, now you son of a har—”
Arnold held the man. “Save your rage, friend. Kurt’s with fever, leave him be.”
With a few more oaths the men stood and followed Arnold’s lanky starlit silhouette like sheep trotting behind their bellwether. They slipped through the darkness, waist deep in mist, their thin, leather shoes padding lightly atop the wet grass. The bells of matins echoed through the Lahn valley from nameless village churches scattered about. The troop hunched and bobbed under the night’s sky, each lost in his own thoughts until Arnold suddenly stopped. “Hold!” he hushed. The smell of burning wood wafted past his nose. Arnold crouched and whispered to Baldric. “There, about a bowshot, methinks.”
Baldric assumed command. He huddled his men and spoke in low tones. “Now listen well. They’ve surely set a guard by the wool. He’s the one to die first, then we take the others, but we must move slowly else the ox’ll bellow a warning.”
Kurt was trembling all over. Fever raged through his body and he thought he might faint, but he took a deep breath and crept forward with the others. The dew and heavy mist muffled their movements as they crawled to within a stone’s throw of the Gunnars’ camp. As Baldric had guessed, a sleepy watchman was leaning against the large wheel of a single-axle cart. The dim glow of the campfire lit the man’s left side and Arnold studied it carefully. “Baldric,” he whispered, “no blade.”
Baldric nodded and motioned for Kurt and Paul to advance. As the two moved forward, Baldric, Arnold, and Dietrich crept toward the guard. “Arnold,” whispered Baldric, “you two, move in close and be ready.” He pointed to the sleeping shepherds as he crept through the mist toward the sentry.
Paul and Kurt were now crouching within striking distance of the camp and waited nervously as Baldric stalked the guard. The ox suddenly raised his head and cocked his ears. He lifted his nose to scent the air. The men of Weyer froze. The beast snorted and grunted and the guard stood erect. “Huh?” he muttered as he
As bound serfs, all but Paul could be severely punished for leaving the realm to which they were pledged. The oaths of their ancestors had shackled them to the land they were born upon and only escape to a free city for a year and a day or the purchase of manumission could set them free.
Lord Klothar’s village of Arfurt was about the size of Weyer and was perched atop a high bank directly on the Lahn. The men had crossed the river upstream from the sleepy village and now sat in the low grass of a hayfield to catch their breath. Arnold gathered his comrades close. “We’ve another league to travel to Arfurt,” he whispered. “The cart-way’s fairly smooth but the dark will slow us some. We shall soon hear the bells at matins and that gives us just enough time to do our business and get back ‘afore daybreak.”
Baldric looked carefully about the circle. “None can fail, do y’hear me, Paul?”
The dyer nodded nervously.
“Humph!” groused Baldric. “You’ve thin arms and a soft way about you, dyer. And you’d best have clean hands. If you leave the color of dye behind you’ll swing!”
Paul was sweating in the humid night air and his hands began to tremble. He wished he had never met Baldric nor ever borrowed a single penny from the man.
“Kurt, you’re quiet,” said Baldric.
“Aye, frightened, aren’t you?” laughed Dietrich.
Kurt turned stiffly toward the miller. “Methinks you to be a fool… and a cheat. Keep yerself away from me else I’ll deal with you when this business is done!”
Dietrich pulled the knife from his belt. “Now, now you son of a har—”
Arnold held the man. “Save your rage, friend. Kurt’s with fever, leave him be.”
With a few more oaths the men stood and followed Arnold’s lanky starlit silhouette like sheep trotting behind their bellwether. They slipped through the darkness, waist deep in mist, their thin, leather shoes padding lightly atop the wet grass. The bells of matins echoed through the Lahn valley from nameless village churches scattered about. The troop hunched and bobbed under the night’s sky, each lost in his own thoughts until Arnold suddenly stopped. “Hold!” he hushed. The smell of burning wood wafted past his nose. Arnold crouched and whispered to Baldric. “There, about a bowshot, methinks.”
Baldric assumed command. He huddled his men and spoke in low tones. “Now listen well. They’ve surely set a guard by the wool. He’s the one to die first, then we take the others, but we must move slowly else the ox’ll bellow a warning.”
Kurt was trembling all over. Fever raged through his body and he thought he might faint, but he took a deep breath and crept forward with the others. The dew and heavy mist muffled their movements as they crawled to within a stone’s throw of the Gunnars’ camp. As Baldric had guessed, a sleepy watchman was leaning against the large wheel of a single-axle cart. The dim glow of the campfire lit the man’s left side and Arnold studied it carefully. “Baldric,” he whispered, “no blade.”
Baldric nodded and motioned for Kurt and Paul to advance. As the two moved forward, Baldric, Arnold, and Dietrich crept toward the guard. “Arnold,” whispered Baldric, “you two, move in close and be ready.” He pointed to the sleeping shepherds as he crept through the mist toward the sentry.
Paul and Kurt were now crouching within striking distance of the camp and waited nervously as Baldric stalked the guard. The ox suddenly raised his head and cocked his ears. He lifted his nose to scent the air. The men of Weyer froze. The beast snorted and grunted and the guard stood erect. “Huh?” he muttered as he
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