Lukas smiled at the memory of the blessed woman. “Ja, my son.”
Heinrich looked about the castle grounds at the knights, the kneeling priests, the banners fluttering under the scattering clouds. He felt good to belong to such a world. From this vantage, all seemed true enough. He hummed Emma’s tune and smiled. “… Come flutter ‘tween flowers, sail o’er the trees, or light on m’finger or dance in the breeze ….”
The baker looked at old Brother Lukas waiting breathlessly for an answer. He remembered watching the black-robed rascal sneaking through the forests to gather his herbs before spending a day of laughter with his friends at the Magi. Heinrich knew he could not deprive the old man hope, not for all the world. Heinrich took Lukas by the shoulders and looked at him kindly. “Aye, good friend. If I find the Ordnung to be terrible or wickedly empty, I shall leave this way of things and let another find me. It is then, Brother, I shall break my vow and face the sun.”
It was a full fortnight before Lord Heribert’s column was finally ready to make its journey northward. Several of his knights had traveled from manorlands in the Duchy of Bavaria, a few from lower Swabia, and one from Styria far to the southeast corner of the empire. The latter was delayed in the Brenner Pass and had suffered the loss of several servants to the swords of some highwaymen. Finally, however, on the twenty-third of October, Heinrich, Richard, Blasius, and a column of thirteen mounted knights, four mounted archers, twenty-two well-armed footmen and an assortment of some forty servants began their journey northward under the command of Lord Simon.
Heinrich’s heart fluttered like the standards snapping in the wind above his head. He had never stepped foot on another’s land, save for the time he helped rescue Blasius with Brother Lukas some years prior. Now he was about to march into a new world, one he had only imagined. He smiled at the knights’ ladies who waved their colorful kerchiefs from tiny windows high within the castle walls and waved to the peasants staring enviously at him as he passed them by. Yet, despite his jubilance, he shared the fears of the knights who had earlier complained that they had no priest to accompany them. Without the protection of a priest they’d pass through dark forests and cross deep waters void of God’s protection. The priest, it seemed, had fallen ill the night before and none others could be spared. It was an omen that troubled the whole of the column and fear hung as heavy over the company as the dark clouds above. Only Blasius, the warrior-monk, might serve to forestall the wiles of Satan’s minions.
Since seventeen days had already passed since he had left Weyer, the baker also wondered about the “forty-day” contract. Blasius told him he had heard the march to be about seventy leagues. Considering they’d be transversing popular highways through a flattening landscape, the Templar reckoned their travel time to be about six or more leagues per day. According to his calculation, the company should arrive in Oldenburg within a fortnight. Leaving a week for battle, and another fortnight to return, he assured Heinrich they should all be safe in Weyer before Christmas.
Things rarely go as planned, however. Under a blinding torrent of rain, the column followed the swollen Lahn River toward Marburg where additional provisions were waiting with another small company of men-at-arms. Simon’s army lost two wagons and an unfortunate servant in the currents of a flooded ford. The knights were now more certain than ever that this was the beginning of a doomed campaign.
After a brief rest in Marburg’s hilltop castle the army returned to the highway that would lead them roughly northward toward the growing Hanseatic city of Soest. The meandering road was sometimes shin-deep in mud, creating a special hardship for the servants, like Heinrich and Richard, who were forced to push heavy wagon wheels through sucking ruts. Agitated and wet, the travelers slogged forward along the normally pleasant and crowded route.
Several miserable days later they entered the gates of Soest, where Lord Simon directed his cold, soaked troops, past the Petrikirch and into the warmth of the burghers’ halls. It was a great relief to all and the generous addition of roasted meats and countless kegs of Westphalian ale soothed the men and lifted their spirits. Two days later and very much drier, the army resumed its journey.
It was Simon’s hope that his sluggish column might hurry through Westphalia without further delay. His army was imposing enough to give pause to the roving bands of knights known to ambush many on this route, and no mere highwaymen would dare an adventure against them. Yet the cursed rain seemed to be the one enemy he could not dissuade, and the frustrated commander could do little more than turn his face against the gray sky and grumble.