Pilgrims of Promise(113)
Arriving at the door, Heinrich paused. “Just open it, Father,” insisted Wil. “It is our house!”
Heinrich hesitated, then knocked. A booming voice thundered from within. “Can a man not sleep this night! Who goes?”
Heinrich set his jaw. It was not Marta’s voice. “Heinrich of Weyer, owner of this place!”
The door flew open, and a large man held a candle angrily toward Heinrich’s hardened face. Seeing the patched eye, the wrapped stump, and the handle of a sword, the man stepped back. “So what’s yer business?”
Heinrich pushed his way past the man and into his former home. Wil followed with his dagger drawn. Putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, the baker turned a stiff eye toward the startled family within. “Hear me, thieves, and hear me once. I am Heinrich of Weyer, son of Kurt of Jost. This house is mine and mine alone. It was given me by my father, and I shall pass it to my son.”
The hovel had become home to six: a yeoman, his wife, two grown sons, and two young daughters. The yeoman was a burly, brown-haired fellow from a village near Wetzlar. He was about Heinrich’s age, and his sons were broad-shouldered lads who now reached for their swords. The yeoman grabbed Heinrich by the cloth of his tunic. “I am Horst, a freeman and owner of this cottage. I bought it from the priest for a high price that is paid in full. Any who tries to take it shall need to take it by force!” The women faded into the sleeping chamber as the man’s sons stepped forward.
Heinrich shoved the yeoman, then jerked his sword from its scabbard as he answered, “We’ve two to your three. If you think that makes you the rightful owner to this place, you’re wrong.”
Horst growled and took hold of a sword of his own. “We can strike you dead where y’stand, fool.”
“Or you can prove your claim in the morning in the abbey.”
“The law says it is mine. I’ve no need to prove anything to anyone.”
Heinrich snarled, “The law be damned! This is my home! This is my chattel. The land is mine and the bakery, too!”
“None is yours!” roared the yeoman. “This miserable house, the garden, and the coop are all mine. And the bakery is owned by the church, along with your land.”
Wil had remained oddly quiet. “What of the woman who once lived here?”
“Dead.” The answer was hard and unsympathetic. Horst’s eyes now fixed on Wil’s.
“She was my mother,” hissed Wil through clenched teeth.
The family murmured. Horst nodded and turned to Heinrich. “And she was yer wife?”
“Ja.”
“She was murdered, we’re told.”
“Murdered! By who?”
All eyes turned to Wil. “By her son,” Horst answered.
Chapter Eighteen
TROUBLE IN WEYER
Wil paled. He looked blankly at his father, then at the family staring at him. “I… I did not!”
“Father Pious says you poisoned yer own mother, then ran away on that crusade of idiots. He said you killed a monk and an abbey guard.”
“He’s a liar!” roared Wil.
Horst smirked and turned to Heinrich. “And you are the father?”
“Aye.”
“The priest says you were killed in the northland.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
Horst shrugged. “Might as well have been. You were declared dead, and yer wife gave the Holy Church all you owned. As she was dying, Father Pious told her the boy had poisoned her. He says she died cursing the two of you.”
“No!” cried Wil. “No!”
“Hold, boy! Hold fast,” commanded Heinrich. The baker curled his lip. “I’ve come back to life to claim what’s mine. The boy’s no killer. You own what you have by fraud and thievery. You’ll not keep it, not for long.”
No one spoke. Wil and Heinrich stood shoulder to shoulder, and Heinrich raised his sword to Horst’s throat. The baker looked down on his blade, and its inscription seared confidence into his heart. “Veritas Regnare … Truth Reigns.” He lifted his eye to lock on to his foe’s, and there he stood, stiff as stone, unflinching.
A dreadful quiet hung over the room. There was no rustle of garments, no squeak of leather boots or creak of wood. Horst’s nostrils flared, and it was he who finally broke the silence. “Enough of this!” he groused. “Leave my home.”
Heinrich’s mind was whirling. Outnumbered and me with one arm, Wil with only a dagger. “Yeoman, I’ve a rightful claim. I’ll take the matter to the abbey in the morning. Prepare to live elsewhere.”
Now Horst’s mind began to whirl.
As though he could read the man’s mind, Heinrich interrupted. “You could try to kill us, and the matter might be settled. But this I do vow,” he leaned close. “You’ll lose a lad and most likely your own life.”