“Who commands this town?” roared a knight. The man was the surly, unkempt commander of several companies.
“I do,” answered Dorothea firmly.
The soldiers below laughed. “As tender a wisp I’ve ne’er seen, m’fair lady,” the knight said as he bent forward in his saddle. “I am Sir Roland von Esselbach. My men are tired and hungry. Would that we might dine in thy halls this very morn.”
“I doubt your manners are equal to the task,” declared the lady.
Insulted, Sir Roland growled. “Open the gates, wench, and we’ll soon see of what stuff you’re made!”
Dorothea’s eyes shifted from Roland to the Templar a few mounts to one side. The monk seemed agitated. The woman placed her hands on her hips. “Who of you is in command?”
Sir Roland pounded his chest. “I am.”
“You command the Templars?”
“Aye.”
The goad showed immediate promise. The Templar barked at Roland, “We serve the pope, y’fool, not the likes of you!”
For a few moments, it appeared that a sudden rift had divided the army. The Templar knights and a few of their lesser, brown-habited brethren formed a knot in defiance of Sir Roland. “You’ve no authority over us in this or any other matter.”
“I am ordered by the emperor against all foes of the empire. This is my army and—”
“I declare this army now to be an army of the Holy Church!”
Dorothea held her breath.
Sir Roland spat. He would not raise his sword against the Templars and risk the vendetta of their brethren from all over Christendom. “Ach, blood is blood for me. I am in command of m’men—”
“And I am in command of you!” The Templar nudged his stallion close to the knight’s and faced him squarely. “Enough of this, then. We’ve fugitives inside to find. Take from the town what you will, but the Church seeks justice for our slain and an end to heresy. Do not interfere again.”
Defeated, Roland said nothing more as the Templar turned his face toward the disappointed Dorothea staring at him from above. “Woman, I am Brother Cyrill, commander of this army. Four of our brethren have been murdered, and a prisoner has escaped. We must search this town for him and for the heretics that are said to be harbored here.”
“By whose authority do you come?”
A loud chorus of jeers rose from the ranks. “We owe no woman an answer! Open the gates or we shall burn them down!”
Sir Roland pointed his sword at the lady. “Did y’not hear us? We’ll burn yer cursed town to the ground.”
Brother Cyrill shouted for silence. “Woman, we come in the name of the Holy Church, and I command you to open this gate.”
“My father, Lord Bernard, is lord of this town and lands surrounding. He is en route with men-at-arms even as we speak. In his name I grant none entrance.”
Olten’s guardsmen shifted in their places. They looked nervously at their lord’s daughter. “M’lady,” whispered the town’s captain, “we are at half strength, and some are sick with fever. With what we’ve left, we cannot resist them.”
Looking at the man with sudden contempt, Dorothea stiffened. “This town is not yet chartered. It is the property of my father, and you are his subject. Your duty, sir, is to do as I say, even unto death!”
Chastened, the soldier backed away. Dorothea looked across the thatched rooftops and leaning buildings of her town. Not a soul was in sight. It is hopeless, she thought. Would that our whole army were here; we’d have enough men to make a fight of it!
Unwilling to yield easily, she took a sword from a nearby guardsman and pointed it directly at Brother Cyrill. “Hear me, warrior-monk. ‘Let all things be done in decency and in order.’ Lord Bernard is a vassal to the abbot of St. Gall. When you deliver the seal of the abbot, you may search this town. Until then, Brother Templar, be content that you have not bled on Olten’s soil.”
Dorothea’s captain of the guard went wobbly. Pale and shaking, he whispered, “My lady? What are you—” They were his final words on earth, for a crossbowman shot an oak dart squarely into the man’s chest, and he toppled into the courtyard below.
Shocked, Dorothea whirled about and cursed the Templar and his army. “Murderous army of hell! Serpents and demons, may you all be cursed to the Pit!” The brave young woman threw her sword from the wall with a loud cry.
“Open the gate!” came the angry reply.
Defeated, Dorothea nodded to her gatekeepers. In moments the lock beam was lifted away, and the heavy timber gates were pulled apart. Horsemen and infantry roared through the opening and descended on Olten in a wild rage. Like angry hellions, the soldiers surged across the courtyard knocking over carts and merchants’ tables, spilling racks of wares, and trampling cages of fowl. Homes and shops were immediately looted as terrified townsfolk crouched ever deeper in the shadowed corners of their homes.