Quest of Hope(123)
The rolling land just north of Soest was covered in dripping pines and bothersome streams. Numerous moated castles were hidden in the center of forest villages, like the octagon keep at Bad Iburg, which sent a party of menacing knights to the shoulder of the road. Runkel’s little army had no heart for drawing swords; they’d rather be drinking beer in the city of Munster some four leagues to the east. They paid a modest toll and pressed on.
The thought of Münster’s warm hearths had been tempting, indeed, and as they neared the city the knights craved them all the more. Their fear, however, was the uncertainty of its position in the empire’s civil war. Heribert’s men had followed the pope’s new choice, Duke Philip, but it was rumored that Münster was still supporting Otto.
Simon led his company toward the city with reluctance. Then, with the Budden Tower in view, he balked. He decided he would turn away from Münster after all, and despite the loud objections of his captains, he pointed his army toward a more certain reception in Osnabrück. Longing for a dry bed and hot soup, the knights complained bitterly as they followed their leader north through a lowering landscape and to the banks of the swollen Ems River.
“Old fool!” barked Niklas. “We can’t cross here! We’ll lose all.”
Normally narrow and lazy, the Ems was typically a sluggish, easily forded river. Given the unusual rains of the season, however, it had risen over its banks and brown water now swirled at the ankles of the frustrated knights. Simon gathered his captains to review their situation. In the last week, two servants had perished from fever and one knight had turned back from the discomforts he claimed were beneath his station. The cold rain had kept the men limited to the warmth of a few smoky fires contained within some iron kettles. The baker’s clay oven could not maintain its heat so no bread had been baked, and without boiled water the men could not even eat a peasant’s mush. The impatient, pampered lords were accustomed to roaring hearths and hearty foods in their great halls and lodges. To the secret delight of their servants, they had been reduced to eating cold, salted pork and a few dried fish.
The conversation by the riverbank became heated. All finally agreed that Münster was a risk, but Simon’s indecision had been inexcusable and had cost them valuable time. So, in less than half an hour, Simon’s good friend, Lord Wolfrum, spearheaded a mutiny and assumed command. Crafty, fleshy-faced, and brutal, Lord Wolfrum had been favored all along. The new leader abruptly ordered the small army westward along village roads near the Ems until they found a creaking bridge near Warendorf. Once across the river he quickly directed his column to the trade route leading to Osnabrück.
The shivering, wet army set up camp each night, with the exception of two small monasteries that hosted them briefly. The wagons were pulled close together, the horses tethered to trees. Each servant scampered about his duties—except for poor Rosa and Ita who did their best to hide in the dark recesses. Since they feared the terrors of the spirit-filled forests even more than the soldiers, they rarely dared venture far from the camp’s edge. Unfortunately, they were stripped of the dignity nature had kindly given them and suffered the sad consequences of their gender.
Heinrich shook his head each night. The glory he had felt in Runkel had slowly faded into a seething disgust as he watched the knights denigrate the women, or savage other servants with straps or sticks. It was Blasius, however, who gave Heinrich hope. The devout warrior-monk had not missed a single prayer in the weeks they had traveled. Each morning he dutifully recited twenty-eight Pater Nosters, and at each approximated canonical hour he sang or recited other prayers or psalms.
Yet Brother Blasius was distressed at heart. Outwardly he seemed strong-willed, resolute, and devout. Over chain-mail tunic and breeches, he proudly wore his white robe embroidered at the left breast with a vivid red, Templar cross—easily recognized from afar with its distinctive blunt, wedge-shaped arms. He dutifully bound his robe with a braided, leather cord, which signified his vow of charity. However, since Templars were to avoid the proximity of women, Blasius was uncomfortable with the presence of those accompanying the column. More than that, he was enraged at the wicked attention foisted upon them, and he had risen in defense of Ita on the first night of the journey. Blasius’s master, Brother Phillipe de Blanqfort, had commanded the man’s sworn obedience to the authority vested to the lay knights, and Lord Simon had ordered Blasius’s silence on the matter. So, despite the cruelty he witnessed, he was trapped in a dilemma that worsened with each passing day.