The servants were in good humor, though wishing to return home. A tiny village appeared in front of them. As they passed through, loud wails from a hand-wringing host of women greeted their ears. They wailed as they saw their men’s heads staring at them lifelessly from atop the horrid pikes.
“Toss them to their wives,” barked the archbishop. “The taxes are paid; let them bury them as Christians.”
A large series of fields now separated the army from Hude, and in them were men working at spring labors. These paused to stare warily at the passing column, still ignorant of the day’s sad news. Heinrich looked carefully them, men not unlike himself. They and their sons stood proud and broad-shouldered with short-swords and daggers in their belts. They lifted their heads and faced their would-be oppressors squarely and without fear. Heinrich felt an odd kinship and sudden respect. He did not imagine them to be Lucifer’s pawns or the demons of darkness after all.
The army soon passed by the fresh brick of St. Elisabeth’s Church and entered the gates of Hude. The stockaded town lay along the small, muddy Berne River on the edge of the marshes. It was prosperous and crowded with brick or timber homes arranged in neat rows. Many were thatched, but some were roofed with clay tile. Heinrich was amazed at the wealth he witnessed and could not help but marvel at the dignity and self-respect with which the people carried themselves. Weavers, carpenters, tinsmiths, wheel-wrights—tradesmen of every kind were hard at task. Heinrich understood the pleasure of heritable ownership—the satisfaction of creating wealth that would serve generations to follow. Ah, but to be free to move from town to town, to pay a fair tax, to have some say in what and why the tax should be; to have the honor of bearing arms to defend oneself, one’s kin, and neighbors! The baker of Weyer was moved.
Archbishop Hartwig was not. He glared and scoffed like a jealous spinster at her sister’s wedding. “No right!” he grumbled. “They’ve no right to have so much. Their very presence mocks us and our ways… they pay a pittance and turn their backs as if they’d be our better!” He sat pouting in his saddle with a nose lifted high in contempt as he ordered the army to spend the night in Hude’s market square.
Hartwig slept in a pleasant room provided by a wealthy merchant of the town. He found it bittersweet to enjoy the man’s bounty, but was particularly annoyed to be awakened by the bells of prime pealing from the town’s church. Hartwig was aggravated that the souls of these rebels were aided by the very Church he, himself, served so faithfully. It was a paradox that spoiled a good breakfast of eggs, bacon, cheese, and fish. He grumbled a sour thanks to his host, then rushed back to the church with barely a nod to the three priests bowing respectfully as he passed them by on his way to the altar.
Hude’s new, red-brick church was, indeed, a beacon of hope in a dark world. Like the folk it served, it delighted in the joys of liberty that truth beckons its beloved to enjoy. It was a good and decent refuge for wounded and weary souls. Humility was its very breath, and the light that burst through its simple windows filled its nave with goodness. The simple priests who served the town were wise and caring, scrupulous in their piety, honest in their charity, and blessed with uncommon grace.
Hartwig blustered to the altar where he prayed a revolting, self-aggrandizing prayer. He administered a hasty Mass to himself and the three priests, then left the altar filled with the illusion of an even greater self. He chided the town’s three bowing priests with a diatribe of rebuke and remonstration that must have nauseated what saints’ spirits dared linger in his vulgar wake. Finally, his dark shadow left the sun-washed church, and he stormed toward his army to lead them home.
Grumbling, cursing, and still dissatisfied, the army returned to Oldenburg where, over the next few days, its knights began dispersing to their various manors throughout Christendom. Resettled in the castle, Heinrich felt a flutter of excitement as he imagined seeing his boys again. He paused to wonder, however, if his service had been misery enough for what penance he owed. A twinge of nausea filled his belly as he suddenly wondered if Richard’s death was related to his penance. The sound of Lord Niklas’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“You’d be the last from Villmar, y’miserable dolt, and I the last from Runkel,” the man muttered.
Heinrich stared at him with a look that betrayed his utter loathing. He hated the lord and wanted nothing more than some terror to come upon him. He could still see the monster wiping his boots across Richard’s face—it was a memory he’d never forget.