The army began its march with a blast of trumpets and the roll of kettledrums. The servants and their wagons were ordered to follow close by, for the commanders wanted no risk of ambush to their supplies. So Heinrich mounted a cart and bounced along a straight roadway. His attention was quickly taken by the long, narrow fields that ran at right angles to the road. They were evenly divided by hand-dug trenches that marked the owners’ boundaries and disappeared far into the distance. “One denier per year per holding,” grumbled a footman.
“What?”
“I say, one penny per year for the tax on all of that.” He pointed to a Stedinger field. “I’m told they were granted about thirty hectares and their freedom for one penny per year tax!”
Heinrich shook his head. “I am taxed two hundred a year for m’bakery alone!”
“Aye,” answered another, “but did y’build a dike around it?”
A round of chuckles followed. Heinrich grumbled. “I’d dig a river round m’whole village for a tax like that, and I’d drain the Rhine for m’freedom!”
“And me as well!” cried a voice.
Along the road, also at even intervals, stood the tidy Stedingers’ houses. Each house stood at the head of the farmer’s rectangle of land, and the houses were strung in lines of some twenty or thirty, creating villages known as “Marschhufe,” or “marsh holdings.” The houses were well kept and exuded a pride that naturally followed the liberty that was enjoyed under each roof.
As the archbishop’s army passed by one such village, Egbert dispassionately ordered its destruction, and, with no hesitation, his army obeyed. To Heinrich’s horror, its simple cottages were put to the torch and those inhabitants who could be found were slain.
About one league past the burned village stood the earthen fortress that straddled the road leading to Hude. Built some years prior with heavy clay dug from the river-banks, it was a rectangular bulwark reinforced by large timbers. The ten-foot-high walls were steep, but green with spring grass that waved softly in the breeze. At the walls’ rounded tops were periodic eroded notches similar to the more even-spaced ramparts of stone castles. Within were a few wattle-and-daub sheds used for shelter and storage. The small redoubt looked heavy and squat, sturdy—but vulnerable. A timber gate barred the road in front of it and a series of wet trenches were dug along its sides to provide an additional obstacle for an enemy.
Commander Egbert stared at the quiet fortress and feared the peasant militia were poised to strike. He abruptly ordered his army into position. Midst shouts and trumpets Heinrich’s cart was ordered to turn and take a position in the distant rear. Suddenly nervous, the baker eyed Blasius galloping near. “Godspeed!” he cried.
The Templar reined his horse and loped toward his friend. The man’s mount snorted as the soldier stared at Heinrich with an expression uncharacteristically despairing.
Heinrich was pale and confused. “Blasius, tell me we are in the right.”
The Templar shook his head and tried to speak. He fumbled for words and shook his head. “Follow conscience, Heinrich, or follow duty. Perhaps one may be righteous.” His cheeks were drawn and his lips pursed. He adjusted his helm and shield, then stretched his sword toward Heinrich and laid its flat upon the simple peasant’s shoulder. “God be with you, my friend.” Blasius lingered for another moment as if to wish them both to a better place.
The earth began to shake and tremble as the armored cavalry thundered to its place. The warrior-monk drew a deep breath, then turned his horse sadly and galloped to the line. Heinrich climbed atop a wagon to survey the army now gathering quickly before him. In the center of the front line sat the commander atop a white charger. Beside him was his standard-bearer, and on both sides were the broad, cape-draped shoulders of Christendom’s knights waiting impatiently on their pawing steeds. Behind this first line pressed six other tightly formed ranks of knights, together forming a seemingly impenetrable mass of shields, swords, chain mail, and leather. A series of signal flags ordered a swarm of helmeted footmen to their place behind the cavalry and three rows of waiting archers then hurried to form their lines in the rear.
All eyes faced the peasant fortress from which no single sound had yet been heard nor a single defender seen. The captains of the army waited and watched, but only the rustling of their own horses, the tinny sound of shifting armor, or the clearing of nervous throats broke the silence. At last, the archers were ordered forward with their arrows set ablaze. They drew their strings.
At that moment, the gate was flung open and a contingent of Stedingers appeared marching forward with their colors tipped downward in submission. “Hold bows!” cried Egbert.