Heinz shook his head, then cocked it. “There!” he whispered.
Heinrich had heard it as well. A snap, then a rustle. He gripped his dagger firmly and moved forward. Step by step, the pair inched its way across the ravine. They stopped again as Heinz lifted his finger. “There.” He pointed slowly.
Heinrich’s eye followed it into a grove of pines where three hooded figures were squatting close together, facing the smoke of the camp. They appeared to be straining to listen, fixed on something. The baker’s heart beat more quickly. He turned to Heinz and whispered. “Boy, hold fast.” Silently and slowly, he crept toward the figures. As he drew closer, his mouth dried and his breathing quickened. A jay chattered nearby and a dove cooed. A squirrel rustled to one side, some unseen creature to the other. The man held still, then moved again, slowly through a bed of wet ferns to the cover of a low clump of myrtle.
The three spies had not heard a sound and surely had not anticipated Heinrich’s flanking maneuver, but one suddenly stood and nervously turned his head from one side to the other. Perhaps he had realized that the burly, one-armed man was missing. Perhaps he sensed eyes now fixed on him.
Heinrich stopped and crouched yet lower as the figure spun abruptly in his direction. The baker’s view was partially obscured by wild shrubs, but he was able to see that the face was young. The other two now stood, and all three drew short-swords from within their capes.
The dull silver frightened Heinz, who had been watching from a tangle of leafy saplings a safe distance away. He wanted to run, to sprint wildly away, but he held fast. His eyes darted from the three to Heinrich and back again, and they stretched wide when the baker began to move forward.
The man’s jaw was set. He had faced more danger in his day than three slender youths, armed or not. He left his low cover and slid his booted feet quietly along the wet woodland floor, pausing only when eyes swept toward him. Closer he moved, then closer still. The heavens abruptly opened, and a heavy rain shower began to fall loudly through the trees. Like a veteran warrior, Heinrich seized the moment and rushed forward. “Ho there!” he cried with a menacing tone. “Hold fast!”
The startled spies whirled about.
“Your names!” shouted the baker as he approached.
For a moment, the three stood slack jawed as the shaggy Teuton strode ever closer. Then, as if suddenly awakened from a trance, two sprinted in different directions, leaving their leader behind.
The flash of the figure’s drawn sword changed everything. Heinrich snarled and clutched his dagger. With a shout, he charged forward as the youth planted his feet and crouched, sword at the ready.
Then, when Heinrich’s hard-set face was plain to see, the lad lunged forward. The heavy-limbed man dodged the youth’s sword with surprising skill and countered with a vicious swipe at his head, slicing the hood along the ear. With a loud cry, the spy stumbled backward, only to lunge again. His sword missed its mark, and Heinrich countered with another savage swipe. The youth’s agile frame quickly veered, barely avoiding the severing of his throat, but it was enough for him. He turned on his heels and bounded away.
With the spies having disappeared in the misty cover of the forest, Heinz ran to Heinrich’s side. “Herr Heinrich!”
“Aye, lad. All’s we’ll.”
Heinz was shaking. “God be praised, I wasn’t so sure you’d—”
“Eh? You thought me no match for three?” Heinrich winked. “Well, perhaps you’re right, but we’ve lived to see another day!” He looked at his dagger and saw a line of deep red along its edge. He wiped it on his leggings and looked into the forest. “That should send him running.”
The pair returned to the camp, which was now completely silent. “Alles klar,” announced Heinrich.
A cheer rose up as Frieda ran to Heinrich’s side. “We heard the shouts in the wood!”
“Ja, girl. We’d spies on the hillside there.” He pointed vaguely.
“Did you have a look?” asked the priest.
“There were three, but I only saw the face of one. It was somewhat familiar to me, though …”
“Perhaps the same three as I saw,” muttered Pieter.
“He was young, near Wil’s age, and dark eyed, but ‘tis all I can recall. I wounded him in the ear or side of the head.”
“Enough to send him back to Genoa?”
Heinrich shrugged. “We can hope.”
Pieter leaned on his staff and called for Solomon. The dog had given chase and disappeared into the mountain. “Otto, call your captains. We leave at once.”
Dusk was short lived and night fell quickly. To the delight of all, Solomon had returned with a mouthful of brown wool—either from someone’s leggings or sleeve. “A fine loom,” observed Frieda. “Expensive.”