Lord Wolfrum was not convinced. He paused for a moment—a long moment for Blasius, as the aging knight’s breath reeked of garlic and beer. The old knight blinked first. “Humph! I’ve little choice but believe you.”
The next two days brought some relief to Heinrich and Richard. A brightening November sky washed the column in sunlight, though the cool air kept the roadways from drying very quickly. Despite wrestling the wagons through the mud, however, Heinrich found his journey rather pleasurable. The sky seemed larger to him here than at home, and the sprawling landscape was rich and fertile.
Osnabrück was a wealthy city renowned for its linen trade. Its mayor and resident bishop offered generous provisions to the weary men and provided a gracious feast. Wanting to hurry on, Lord Wolfram permitted only one night’s stay, however, so at dawn of the next day the bishop blessed the kneeling army in front of the doors to his three-towered cathedral. With the sun shining overhead, the rested column then bade a grateful farewell and was soon traveling along an improving highway leading to the moated gate of Oldenburg.
The knights became ever-more pleased with Heinrich’s baking. He fired his wagon-mounted, clay, domed oven each night about matins, and then began his bake in the hours before dawn. Now that he was better acquainted with his new oven, at each daybreak he delivered baskets of hot, fluffy wheat rolls, salted, hard-baked pretzels, and large loaves of wheat or rye. A friendly archer from Ulm taught him a recipe for honey-laced flat loaves, spread with cherry preserves, and rolled into a treat that won a roar of approval from the lords. Heinrich had earned a place of value and it felt so very good.
Richard, on the other hand, was more interested in adventure than service. He found himself always at the edges of a circle of drunken, gambling knights, or conniving with his fellows on wagers and contests. He had won a flask of liquor from a staggering footman and a flagon of Rhine wine from a carter, and was quick to drink them both. His drunkenness simply oiled his wagging tongue and numbed his better judgment. It did nothing to endear him to either friend or foe.
The night before the column would enter Oldenburg the men-at-arms had filled their bellies and lay about the camp comfortable and groggy. The servants were gathered in huddles by small fires and Heinrich was propped against the trunk of a large spruce thinking of home.
“Ah, good baker,” announced Blasius as he joined the sleepy man.
“Aye, sit.”
“’Tis a wonderful night and your bread was light as angel’s wings!”
Heinrich chuckled. “I like m’oven. It heats good and loves m’doughs.”
Blasius nodded. “You speak of it as though it were alive!”
The two sat quietly and listened to the snores and grunts of sleeping soldiers. A few horses snorted and the fires snapped lightly. “Blasius, I confess I do not really know why we are here. I’ve been told of a rebellion of peasants but I know nothing else.”
“Aye. ’Tis so. Seems the land we travel to is now called Stedingerland. It was settled by Frisians and Dutch Saxons some hundred years ago or more. They came from the Low Countries over by the sea in the west. I am told they are a wild lot; hard-fisted, stubborn as rocks … barely Christian in their ways.
“Of course, this Stedingerland needs folk of special strength. It is low and flat; a marsh that wars with the Weser River year by year. The waters flood and freeze, they make the whole earth a sucking pit, yet these Stedingers know how to tame it. They build dikes to drain water from the marshes and claim new earth to graze their cattle.”
Heinrich was fascinated. “And what is their crime?”
“Ah. Seems they were promised much. The archbishop of former times wanted this wasteland to be civilized; turned into something more than marsh-grass and bogs. He offered them freedom and low taxes. So, they came … and who could blame them? They’ve formed a close bond among themselves. They’ve a militia and courts, even a name. They call themselves the Communitas terre Stedingorum.
“I am told they have resisted all authority from their rightful lord, Archbishop Hartwig in Bremen. Just two years ago they claimed their laws were abused and they attacked and destroyed the bishop’s castles at Lechtenburg and Lineburg. They’ve built bulwarks and defenses, they’ve even resurrected the ancient Germanic gathering called ‘The Thing’—where the chiefs and the people make their own laws. Under such claimed liberties they now refuse to pay taxes and tithes beyond what they accept as fair.”
Heinrich was astonished. “They overthrew the bishop’s castles?”