Wil sat down hard on a stool. “I… I might have killed the guard that night. Ansel was his name.”
“But—”
“He was chasing me, and I tripped him with a heavy stick. He fell and must have broke his head on a rock. I thought he was only knocked out.”
Heinrich groaned and looked at his son, astonished. “Did any see?”
“No, none at all.” Wil was now pale and perspiring, and he stared into the looping candle, blankly.
No one spoke for a long moment. Herwin motioned for his daughter-in-law to give the two a drink of mead. “Old friend, I fear your son is in a frightful tangle. If he is caught, he will be hanged.”
Heinrich began to pace. “Pious’d have no chance to prove any of it. Priest or not, he has no good ground to stand on.”
“Wil, the abbot would not see me, but I complained to the bailiff that the charges against you were madness. I fear it mattered little,” said Herwin sorrowfully. “Pious told him that you are a hateful, wicked devil who hated your mother and bore a grudge against Lukas. He claims that God opened his eyes and that he saw you do the deeds in a dream. He said he knew of a spell cast on you by the witch. Words like these from a priest might sway the court… even without another witness … but Anka’s testimony will be make it certain.”
“No! It cannot be so!” roared Heinrich. “Well accuse him! He’s the murderer!”
“On whose word?”
Heinrich was silent, and he stared at Wil thoughtfully. “The abbot and his prior have always hated Pious. Now with the bakery prices and his life of gluttony, the monks must surely despise him. Someone might help in a charge against him.”
“With no more than Wil’s word you’ll not be proving a thing,” added Herwin. “Your uncle Arnold told the prior that the boy is innocent. He told him that Pious is up to some mischief. But he knows no one could ever prove it. No, I fear you need to run far, far away and quickly.”
“Arnold? Why would he care?” grumbled Heinrich.
“He’s some different than you remember. Methinks he wants to cleanse his soul before he dies.”
“When did you say m’mother died?” muttered Wil.
“Less than a week after you left.”
The lad fell silent.
“Heinrich, believe me, I took an oath for your son. I swore that the lad had no malice toward his mother nor knowledge of herbs. I swore the witch had cast no spell. I swore on my eternal soul that he had only love for Brother Lukas.”
“You swore true enough,” groaned Wil.
Wulf had been listening quietly. “So the poison was Pious’s then?”
“Nay. I… I took it from Brother Lukas’s chamber.”
The cottage fell silent until Herwin murmured, “Perhaps we’ve heard enough.”
Wil ground his fist into his palm. “Pious and I had an agreement. He agreed to keep silent about that night if I did not accuse him of… of having his way with m’mother.” He darted a glance at his father.
Herwin stood, shaken. It was all too much for the weary man. “Boy, I love you and your father like no others, but you cannot stay here. Pious will destroy you. He is more powerful now than then. Your threat against him would matter little. Get out of his web whilst you can, lad, else you’ll surely swing from Runkel’s gallows.”
“You lay another hand on that boy, and I’ll cleave you in two!” Alwin stood in the door of Otto’s hovel and pointed his sword at the miller.
The miller pushed his son to the floor and took a step toward the knight. “Who be you to tell me how to raise migrât?”
Alwin’s dark eyes burned red with rage. His blond hair hung over his shoulders, and his beard was long. For most men, the sight of this strapping warrior would have been reason enough to yield. But Herold, the miller, was unlike his fellows; he was a fool of fools. The man lunged for the truncheon he kept near his bed and whirled about at the charging knight, swinging wildly at Alwin’s head.
Dodging the stout stick, Alwin kicked the man in the belly and sent him sprawling on the floor. “Otto, get out!” the knight cried.
The lad hesitated.
“Go!” added Tomas. “Go now!”
Bruised and bleeding from his beating, Otto backed slowly toward the door with his eyes fixed on his father now climbing angrily to his feet.
“Boy!” the miller shouted. “You’d run from yer own father? You’d betray yer own for some stranger?”
Otto’s eyes flew from his father to Alwin, then to his father again. “Just… just let me come home in peace,” the lad pleaded. Tears streamed down his face. “Can y’not forgive me? Can y’not have me back?”