“Now, my friends, if you will, follow me quietly through these corridors and down the steps ahead.”
In a few moments the porter was standing over the sleeping keeper of keys, Brother Perpetua. Otto nudged Tomas, and the two grinned beneath their hoods. It was as they had hoped. Friederich fixed his eyes on the man’s keys.
The porter prodded the sleeping monk. “Brother, wake up!”
The fat fellow snorted and opened one eye. “Eh?”
“We’ve guests.”
“Eh?” Perpetua climbed off his stool and rubbed his eyes. “I … I was only praying, brother. Now, how can I serve thee?”
“Unlock the door. We need to select a wine for our special guest.”
The keeper smiled at the five and reached for a torch. He then fumbled through his keys. Friederich guessed there to be about three dozen. Perpetua chose one and inserted it into a rusted keyhole. With a loud snap, the cellar lock opened. “Aye, it never used to be locked, but the devils prowl about some nights. I see them in the mist. The abbot says we’ve lost too much to them over time. I’d say he is right about that. The alms box went empty one night near Martinmas some years ago. Once a lord’s entourage sacked our cellars and our treasury. Wicked souls, may they be damned to hellfire!”
Alwin feigned interest in the wine, then turned to the porter. “Brother, it occurs to me that you’ve been away from your post! We are content to make a choice and let this good monk show us our lodging.”
Disappointed, the youth agreed. He clasped hands with Alwin and bowed to the others, then disappeared into the night.
“So, brother…”
“Perpetua.”
“Yes. Brother Perpetua, methinks it shall soon be the bells of matins. You‘ll need leave us for your prayers.”
The man grunted. I’ve prayed all the night as it is.” He looked covetously at the wine barrels set in a long, neat row. “So you are truly a special guest?”
“I am a crusader, sir, on my way home.”
It was enough. Perpetua smiled and hurried the others inside the cellar and then closed the door behind them as the bells of midnight prayers rang solemnly over the cloister. He set his torch into a wall-holder, shuffled on heavy legs to a shelf, and reached for several wooden tankards. Chortling like a schoolboy, he beckoned his guests to come closer. “Here, lads. God owes crusaders a special kindness. From where in Christendom would you like to taste wine?” He laughed gleefully.
The pilgrims looked blankly at the round-faced monk and the long row of barrels.
“Well? We’ve a fine selection of hearty reds from Burgundy. We’ve a fruity barrel from Alsace and a pale red from the March of Verona. Perhaps you’d prefer something light from Liguria or a heavy port from the Duoro Valley in Portugal?” The man was grinning from ear to ear. “Ah, and the abbot just received a barrel of something very aromatic from the kingdom of Castille.”
Alwin smiled broadly. “You’ve had them all?”
“Indeed!” He squatted on his haunches and leaned over to Friederich. “Boy, I guard the door with my life, and while I’m guarding it, I make sure the taps all work! Ha!” He stood and roared. “I love my calling!”
Chapter Twenty-one
TENSION IN VILLMAR
The pilgrims laughed with the jolly monk and soon followed him up and down the row of barrels. Wisely, Alwin and his companions were carefully pouring most of their “tastes” quietly onto the dirt floor of the cellar, else they would have been staggering like the bleary-eyed Perpetua. Slurring his words and tripping about the cellar, the well-oiled monk was finally coaxed to a bench by the guiding hands of Alwin. “We’ll guard the door for you, old friend,” said the knight softly.
The monk smiled, then dropped to the floor in a stupor. “We didn’t need nimble fingers for this!” snickered Friederich.
Alwin was suddenly serious. “Now, lads, listen. Friederich, take the keys from his belt. Tomas, put out the torch. Well lock the old fellow in, then get to the prior’s office. We’ve about four hours yet.”
In moments, Friederich found the right key and locked Perpetua inside the cellar. The group then hurried up the stone steps and into the arcade, which they followed to the end. Then, turning left, they slunk through the corridor leading them to the abbey’s offices, where the porter had said the prior’s office now was. Fortunately, a rain was falling, so what few torches were burning in the courtyards were fast being extinguished. The abbey was quiet, save for the patter of summer rain on the earth and on the tile roofs above.
“We didn’t ask if it was guarded,” whispered Helmut.