Within the hour the column had traveled well within the marshy world of the Stedingers. Though its boundaries had spread over the years, Stedingerland was generally considered as lying east of Oldenburg with the River Weser as its original eastern boundary and the Hunte as its northern. The ground was primarily marshland that had been claimed from the flooding Weser by its ingenious settlers through series of ditches and locks. As the land drained, the farmers used their livestock to compress the soil, eventually leaving large areas of hardened fields within protective grids of low dikes. They then built access roads along these dikes connecting the tidy towns and villages that sprouted as vigorously as the hay fields of their ever-widening meadows. Their communities had become prosperous by the third generation.
In a show of strength, the archbishop’s army passed numerous small villages and near noon was ordered to make camp. Here plans were set for a morning attack against a redoubt that protected access to the town of Hude. By smashing the fortress guarding the Stedingers’ largest town, it was believed the rebels would quickly yield their taxes along with heavy dues with which the army might be paid a bonus. Heinrich hurried about his tasks to ensure fresh loaves for both the night’s supper and the next morning’s first meal.
After his duties were done, Heinrich was glad for the conversation of a friendly company of footmen grateful for his hearty rye.
“Your bread is as good as I’ve e’er eaten!” said one. “Come, sit with us.”
Heinrich nodded. “M’thanks. You’d be the last left to serve and I’m happy for a rest.” He sat between a huddle of contented soldiers and pulled a spelt roll from his pocket. “I am Heinrich of Weyer, from the region of Runkel and Limburg-by-the-Lahn.”
The group introduced themselves as coming from numerous manors or towns of the empire. Each was a yeoman—a freeman who owned land but owed military service as part of his obligation to the lord who protected him. “Forty days! Ha!” grumbled one. “My lord had better credit us three years or more for this.”
The group nodded. Heinrich listened quietly as the men spoke of their reluctance to oppose other free men. “From what I’ve learned they’re our brothers. Free like us, cheated like us.” He lowered his voice. “If we could join together, we could resist as well!”
“Hush, Roland! Are y’mad?!”
“Humph … we must all be mad to be in this army. We belong in the other!”
“Under God I do wonder which cause is just,” whispered one. “I am sworn to follow m’lord, and I dare not oppose the Holy Church … yet I see justice in the Stedingers.”
“But not in the way of their grievance,” blurted Heinrich. “Their cause may be just but their ways are not.”
A young soldier levelled a hard gaze at the baker. “You spent the winter as us … bound in that stone coop with the likes of drunken, debauched lords. You might just as easy say the same of them.”
A grumble of “ayes” circled the ring. Heinrich shrugged. The man had made a good point. “But what of the Church … one cannot oppose the Church.”
“Methinks the Stedingers ‘ave priests praying over them as well. Who’s to say which of God’s men are speaking for God?”
The circle approved of the fellow’s logic but grew suddenly quiet. The dilemma was more than they could handle the night before a likely battle. Heinrich brushed flour from his arms. “Well, I am glad my conscience needs make no choice in this!”
A leather-faced soldier shook his head and curled his lip. “Eh? Methinks y’know better than that. You feed this army … we live on yer bread. Y’might as well be raising a sword against these folk yerself! You’d be a fool and a coward to hide behind yer doughs. You’d be no better’ an us, so on the morrow do not think yerself clean and pure whilst we shed innocent blood!”
The soldiers stared at Heinrich with steely eyes, and the baker hung his head in shame.
Dawn broke red and glorious as the army of the archbishop prepared to launch its attack. It was to be a short march across lands as flat as a table stretching toward a wide horizon. A northerly breeze wafted cool air through the camp, and Heinrich sucked clean air through his nostrils and sighed. He turned his eyes to the tender green grasses of May that blanketed the marshlands spread before him and he wished he were home. The grasslands were dotted with butter flowers and white lace, wild rhododendron and white clover. The sandy road ahead was dry and clear, lined with tall hardwoods such as oak and walnut.