Under a merciful moon the man ran eastward along the river roadway. The night was quiet and all he could hear were the sounds of his boots pounding the road and his lungs wheezing for air. At this time of year the darkness would be short-lived, and the urgency of his cause pressed him onward. Yet he was not as young as he once was and Heinrich finally collapsed at the side of the road gasping for breath.
After resting a few moments alone in the silver night-scape, the simple man from Weyer felt suddenly important. Heinrich cleared his lungs and began to run again. He had reckoned the distance to be about four leagues—about a three-hour quick-step, less if he ran hard. On and on he pressed despite the ache in his weighted legs and the agony of his heaving chest. It was sometime after matins when the gasping baker finally collapsed at the door of Berne’s simple church. The man pounded on it until a wary priest arrived with a candle. “Please,” Heinrich begged. “Please … let me in.”
The priest helped the exhausted man through the doorway and onto a stool. He called for a drowsy novice to bring a tankard of beer with which Heinrich quickly slaked his thirst. “Knights are coming!” he cried. “Warn your people the knights are to attack the town.”
The priest gasped and immediately ordered the church bell rung. Within moments, bleary-eyed militiamen began streaming into the church. Upon hearing the baker’s report, messengers and scouts were sent in all directions, and a defense was quickly planned by Berne’s elected captains. Then, before Heinrich could protest, he was herded into a wagon and delivered to the redoubt guarding the main road leading to the town.
In the next hours, anxious farmers poured steadily from villages far and wide with swords and pikes in hand. Some had shields, most not. Some carried axes, others flails, forks, or hammers. None had armor. They gathered into tithings and arranged themselves quickly into proper order as they awaited more news. Once organized, they learned of Heinrich and his brave decision. One by one they sought him out and embraced him. For the baker, the hours were a blur of confusion and fear.
The first rays of dawn spread bright pink across the huge sky of Stedingerland. The wind had changed to the south and a light breeze wafted a bit of warmth to the chilled peasants preparing their defense. They stood around their earthen fortress facing west, still within sight of the steeple of Berne’s church that guarded their rear. From time to time some turned to face the squat tower as if to draw strength from it. And why not? The red-brick church was stout and sturdy, its square steeple unpretentious and efficient—like the people who had built it; like the people it served. It was a worthy reservoir of hope.
Heinrich stared about in disbelief. He had been given little time to consider his predicament, and he gaped numbly at a group of men munching hastily on cheese and swigging beer. He thought his new fellows to be a handsome race. Almost to a man they were tall, ruddy and blond, blue-eyed and sharp featured—very much like the Northmen of Emma’s legends. They spoke a dialect that the baker struggled to understand—a form of German, though more guttural and harsh like the Dutch of their ancestors. Some Pomeranians from the east were mixed in, as well as a few converted Prussians and a handful of Thuringians from farther south.
A militia chieftain, a thick-chested, aging man named Lars, stroked his beard and tossed his long, grayed mane to one side. He gripped a fearsome battle-axe and used it as a pointer. “They’ll come in close along the road so their horses don’t bog in the marshes they suspect on either side,” he growled. “You, Devries, hide three companies in the ditches over there and there.” He pointed to the far edges of the field. “Well stand here, in front of the fort. If need be well fall back behind the walls, but I’d rather fight them in the open. After they hit our center, you flank them.” He turned to Heinrich. “We owe you much, friend. Stand with us and see how liberty is defended.”
The baker bowed. Being called a friend of men such as these felt good to him.
A priest scurried toward the commander and his resolute little army, and within moments Heinrich found himself suddenly kneeling shoulder to shoulder with free men as a priest prayed over him. He was bedevilled by his new dilemma. These strangers now expected him to fight the knights of his own world—the protectors of his life’s order. And he was receiving a blessing from a priest who served the same God as Father Pious and Archbishop Hartwig. Or does he? Heinrich had no time to reflect. It was as if his decision had been made for him, for he surely knew he could not simply walk away. Nor did he want to, for he was drawn to these astonishing people and felt strangely compelled to defend them.