Heinrich glanced nervously over his shoulder. “We’d best hurry. I’d some hard time leaving.”
“Ha, not me! Brunhild was happy to see me off. She’s already spent the rents, methinks!”
“Then you’ve come to peace with our new master?”
Richard darkened. He held up his twisted right hand. “I shall never come to peace with that bastard, but I may yet find m’revenge on this journey.”
Heinrich grunted in disapproval as the two strode quickly out of their village and hurried toward Villmar. A light, morning rain drizzled on the grumbling pair as they entered the village. The market square was crowded with oxcarts and pungent with wet dung and urine. The harvest had been good and barrels of apples and wild plums were filled to overflowing. Richard snagged a fat, red apple and pointed. “There, that looks like our lot!”
In the center of the market, by the well, waited a grumbling group of recruits atop a two-wheeled cart. They seemed confused and impatient as Heinrich and Richard approached. “Are ye two of Weyer, for Lord Niklas?”
“Aye,” answered Richard with a mocking bow.
The cart driver stared at Richard’s hand. “Does the lord know of that?”
“Aye, he ought!”
“Get in,” groused the driver. “You’d be the last and yer late.”
Heinrich climbed behind Richard onto the plank-floored wagon where the two met their fellows. Wishing to appear confident and self-assured, Richard barely acknowledged his new companions and chose to mumble an insincere greeting before leaning against the chest-high wagon wall.
Heinrich sat on the wooden floor and leaned his back against the tilting wagon. He surveyed the others and slowly made his acquaintance with them. “I am Heinrich of Weyer, and that man is m’cousin, Richard.”
A young, brown-eyed lad, perhaps fifteen years of age, eagerly greeted Heinrich. “Good cheer to you, sir. My name is Emil of Runkel. And this is Rosa and her cousin Ita from Runkel as well.”
Heinrich smiled politely. Rosa and Ita were young beauties, both of marrying age. Ita glared at him from within a woollen hood. “What ye be lookin’ at, old man?” she barked.
Heinrich blushed. “Ah, maiden, I… I was only wondering why you’d be joining us.”
“Lord Niklas wants fullers, we’re told. And he’s payin’ a fair price for the two of us.”
“Ah, of course. Fullers.” Heinrich turned toward the other three sitting quietly. “And who be you?”
Two men dropped their hoods. “I am Leo and this is m’brother Lenz. We’d be shepherds by Lindenholz.” The two seemed friendly and earnest. Heinrich clasped hands with them and turned to the remaining man who was crouched tightly against the cart’s front corner.
Heinrich stretched his hand forward. “I am Heinrich,” he offered.
The man nodded curtly and looked away.
“He is called Samuel,” offered Emil. “He’s a Jew from Limburg.”
Richard turned a hard stare. “A Jew? I’ve never seen a Christ-killer before.”
The man spat and closed his eyes.
It was nearly noon when the wagon of servants arrived within the walls of Runkel’s brown stone castle. The rain had eased a little and the conscripts were ordered to stand by a generous fire inside the castle grounds. They stood obediently and warmed themselves until two large knights strode toward them with shouts, oaths, and waving arms. Confused and frightened, the huddle of peasants backed against a stone wall where they stood to be inspected.
Each was eyed from head to toe, turned around, and poked and prodded like livestock at the market. “You’ve more teeth than most,” growled Lord Niklas as he yanked Heinrich’s jaw open.
“Huh-uh,” offered the baker.
The knight stared at Heinrich. “Can y’back bread that shan’t kill us?”
“Aye, sire.”
“Humph. And can y’cook other things?”
“Aye.”
“You’re a bit old … you’ve some gray on that red head and gray stubble on yer jaw.”
“Aye, sire.” Heinrich nearly laughed out loud, for the knight was about the same age!
Niklas moved on to Richard. The two locked eyes. The knight grabbed hold of Richard’s short-cropped hair with a laugh. “Glad to see y’found yer proper place!”
Richard pushed the knight’s hand away and growled. With that, Lord Niklas jerked his sword from its sheath. He pinned Richard’s head against the wall with the palm of one hand as he laid his blade’s edge against the peasant’s exposed throat. “You’d like to avenge yer hand, wouldn’t ye? Eh? Speak, man!” Niklas grabbed Richard’s crippled hand and held it high. “If your right hand offends you, cut it off!” he shouted.