“Toward Burgdorf, methinks,” said Wil.
With no more business on the field, the Templar master commanded his small army south on the highway the pilgrims had just traveled. Crouching low in their cover, Wil’s company watched carefully as the column of men-at-arms moved slowly away. Numbers of their own wounded were tied to litters carried by weary footmen, and their dead were shrouded in heavy blankets and hung over the rumps of horses. Blasius was still tied to his horse, his arms bound by thick cords that were wrapped around the whole of his body.
“To Burgdorf, then,” stated Heinrich.
“Ja, Father. To Burgdorf.”
Wil, Pieter, and Heinrich left the others in the care of Otto and made their way carefully back to the timber-walled town of Burgdorf to spy. It had never been a place of hospitality, and entering its gates did little to make them feel welcome. The town was a disorganized clutter of low thatch-covered hovels and shops strung along deep-rutted alleys and crowded streets. Its folk were a typical assortment of poor peasants dressed in their short tunics and awkward-looking hats. Here and there merchantmen wandered about alongside two-wheeled carts filled with their treasures. These men were dressed in either knee-length tunics decorated with silk sashes or the more fashionable doublets beginning to make their way from the large cities. The mood of the town was surly and loud. On this corner and that, quarrelsome wenches were barking at one another, and the taverns were filled with brawling men.
“Not a place I’d like to stay long,” noted Pieter. “Tis good we missed the feast!”
The three made their way past booths of mutton slabs and pork. The meat was discolored and fly covered. Here and there tables were piled with wares from local parts and from afar. Cheese, of course, was everywhere, as were horn ware and items carved from wood. Hay was being harvested from the meadows, so the town’s barns were quickly filling. “The hay is the only thing that smells good here,” complained Wil.
“Aye,” agreed Pieter. They rounded the corner and were greeted with a bakery’s mouth-watering aroma. “Except for that!” Soon, the trio was crowding the baker’s tables and breathing deeply of fresh bread.
“Buy or be gone!” snapped the baker.
Heinrich spat. “Ja? Well, the smell is free and so’s the street.” He looked at a few dark pretzels. “Your oven’s too hot.”
“Leave!” roared the man.
With a few oaths, the three moved on. “Pieter, even if we find the Templars, we’ll not likely know their plan for Blasius,” said Heinrich.
“True enough,” answered the priest. “Methinks we ought to find an armorer or a smith. They oft hear things.”
“There,” interrupted Wil. “There, the armorer.”
Down the street and to their right side was the workshop where chain mail was fashioned and repaired. It had been conveniently positioned next to the blacksmith, where several craftsmen were forging swords. “Good day, gentlemen,” said Pieter smiling.
“Not so good,” grunted the master smith.
“Good if you be a Templar man!” replied the priest.
The armorer shrugged. “What d’y’need?”
“We’ve heard of a battle nearby and wondered what y’might know of it.”
The man turned away and hammered a small ring that encircled the round finger of a small anvil.
Heinrich lifted a penny to the air. “Does any know of the man captured?”
The workmen stopped and looked. A journeyman walked close, wiping his hands on his leather apron. He reached for the silver penny.
“And?”
The man took the penny with a snort. “Ja. ‘Tis said he’s a traitor and he’s to be hanged by compline prayers. What of it?”
Heinrich reached into his satchel and retrieved another penny. “Where?”
“Why?” snapped the smith.
“And who needs to know our business?” growled Heinrich.
“I do.” A soldier stepped forward from the shadows. He was not a Templar, but he was a knight who had been trying on his armor. He emerged into full light and fixed a hard stare on the baker.
Heinrich’s heart began to race. He turned to face the soldier. “This priest and his … his novice were robbed in the mountains by a rogue knight. They wanted to see if it was he, and if so, they want their chalice and paten returned.”
“Else we shan’t bring the blood and body of Christ to our poor flock,” whined Pieter sanctimoniously.
The knight turned toward a lady now entering the shop. Smiling, he reached to kiss her.
“And many thanks, m’lord. ‘Tis time we were going,” the lady said. She adjusted the jeweled chaplet ringing her head, then smiled flirtatiously.