“He’s a liar.”
The soldier looked about the crowd. “Have we any witnesses?”
“Oui,” came a voice. It belonged to a lovely young damsel dressed in a flowing silk gown. She peered from beneath a gauze wimple that covered her hair piled neatly atop her head. She pointed to Heinrich. “He is a thief.”
It was enough. The guards grabbed both father and son and began to drag them away when the old man cried out again, “Hold, sirs. Hold a moment.”
“What?”
“Well, truth be told, this fellow caused me no harm. Perhaps he might just pay me for m’trouble, and we can let the matter rest.”
“He’ll pay nothing!” shouted Wil. A soldier slapped him.
The officer nodded to the old man. “And how much would be fair?”
“Well, he gave m’little friend quite a scare and me as well. And he ought be taught a lesson for the sake of other helpless folk such as m’self. I should say… hmm … methinks a shilling should do.”
“Burn in hell, old man,” cried Wil. A fist knocked him to the ground.
“Two shillings, now,” grumbled the guard. “Else we’ll invite you to our little feast in the dungeon.”
The very word sent chills through both father and son. Heinrich clenched his teeth. “Sirs, methinks a shilling and a beg of pardon from my son should do. I’ve no more than a shilling on m’person anyway. ‘Tis all I’ve left after a long journey.”
Wil was impressed. His father had learned a few things since his days in Weyer!
Annoyed, the officer agreed, and Heinrich picked carefully through his satchel. His fingers found the silver, and he carefully counted twelve pennies. He lifted them from his bag in a closed fist and presented them to the officer.
Releasing their prisoners with a shove, the soldiers grunted. They took four pennies for themselves, then handed the old scoundrel his eight as Heinrich and Wil walked slowly away. “Old bag of gas,” grumbled Wil. The pair turned to see the man who now beckoned his apparent accomplice to his side. He handed the damsel some coins, and the two waved at the hapless pilgrims.
“I hate this place,” said Wil as he rubbed his jaw. “Let’s be off.”
The pair hurried to buy the items on their lists, then paused briefly in the square by the fish market. Their eyes scanned the brownstone buildings, the towers of the churches, and the passersby. A few men sitting nearby were talking of the dangers in the Rhine Valley, both along the east and west banks. “Outlaws and mercenaries, errant knights and rebels are everywhere. The war never ends and the innocent pay the bills. It’s best to board a riverboat or travel with a caravan if you can find one. The boats are costly, but there ought to be numbers of caravans headed toward the Champagne fairs this time of year. And the road north is flat and easy walking.”
Heinrich listened carefully. He’d had his fill of troubles and wanted no more. “These caravans—they’ll let us travel with them?”
“For a lesser fee than a boat. They hire men-at-arms to guard them, so they charge others to sleep under their watch.”
Heinrich nodded. “Seems fair enough. I’d not travel with infidels, though.”
The others agreed. “Times go bad for them … as they should. Landless crusaders fill the ranks of the highwaymen, and they want nothing but vengeance on the cursed devils.”
The following morning, the company agreed they’d forego the expense of sailing the river and would venture north along the west bank of the Rhine in hopes of finding a caravan. With Pieter riding Paulus, they followed the highway as it bent northward across a landscape that had become flat and easy to walk. They were quickly unsettled, however, when they realized they were among a very few travelers on what should have been a crowded thoroughfare. After all, it was this road that led the way to the fairs at Champagne, to Paris and Strasbourg, and even to dreary Bruges and the Low Countries.
“Keep a sharp eye about,” said Alwin. “Tis all we can do.”
The group marched north quickly but cautiously. Few words were spoken as all eyes were kept fixed on distant points. At the end of the second day, they made camp in a light wood about three bowshots beyond the red-block walls of a free, growing village called Neuf-Brisach. It was on the morning of the next day when it seemed good fortune found them.
“Look,” cried Helmut. “A caravan!” The lad pointed to the north gate of the town from which a column of wagons and horsemen was emerging. The company hurried forward to have a better look, and as they drew near, they smiled.
Led by an armored knight in gaily colored robes and accompanied by a cacophony of sounds, a long line of persons, beasts, and sundry vehicles streamed forward. Heavy-laden packhorses followed yawning servants, and strong-backed Frisians yielded to the cries of the carters as they hauled many numbers of canvas-covered wagons and two-wheeled carts