Quest of Hope(142)
Cornelis handed the man a final gift, a long dagger with a gleaming, polished blade. “This gift is from the chieftains as a token of their thanks. Your warning saved many and your bravery in battle is worthy of honor.”
Heinrich was stunned. He received the gift with a trembling hand and stared at it almost fearfully. An unbidden voice hissed within him and reminded him that a servile man was forbidden to own such a weapon. He grunted to himself and lifted the blade to his lips for a kiss of acceptance and a humble bow.
Cornelis smiled. “The blade is Saxon steel. Its edge is hard and sharp enough to split a hair. The handle is fashioned from the bone of an elk taken from the great forests of Norway. Old Wit van Ness was commissioned to make it for you. And see there, an inscription of our battle cry, “Vrijheid altijd,” which means “Freedom always!”
Heinrich answered quietly, “I am not worthy of such honor, Cornelis. You have returned my simple act tenfold. I told you before, I did not choose to fight with you. It was as if I was carried along by an unseen hand. I confess I do still wonder if my soul is in greater peril now, or in less.” His voice trailed away and he sighed.
Cornelis smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “And as I’ve told you, you think too much! Now, ‘tis time we get you to the dock. Wife, he’s well supplied?”
Edda nodded as Anna took Heinrich’s hand and squeezed it warmly. “Thanks be to God for you; you saved the life of m’son.” The man smiled and turned to touch each sleeping child lightly on their heads. “May God’s blessings be upon these little ones … and you all.” He faced his hosts. “You have shown me more kindness in these few months than I have seen in many years. I’ve no words to thank you but I pledge I shall ne’er forget you. When I am home I shall ask a special friend of mine—Brother Lukas is his name—to pray for you each day, and when I meet another—Brother Blasius, the Templar—he, too, shall pray for your safekeeping.” Heinrich followed Cornelis to the door and turned one last time. “Veel danken … Vrijheid altijd.”
Groot was a leathery seaman of Frisian roots, born at the mouth of the Weser River some thirty-five years prior. Being Heinrich’s elder by only two years, the man treated his passenger with more respect than he did the four young oarsmen who served him. Gruff and coarse by the standards of more genteel folk, the sailor was courageous, intelligent, and ambitious in the finest sense of the word.
He stood aft on the sturdy vessel he had purchased from a Danish shipwright ten years before. It was wide and squat, blending the features of a traditional Nordic design with the features of the popular Celtic cog. Skillfully crafted of planks hewn from ancient Swedish oak, the ship was worthy of the wright’s skill. It lay some thirty-eight feet long and sixteen feet wide and maintained a generous freeboard even when weighed heavy with cargo. It had a flat bottom, like the cogs, and a straight sternpost. The vessel was powered by a large square sail and four long oars, and like the Viking ships of years past, it was steered by a large rudder attached to the side of the stern. Its tall, upward-curved bow ploughed the waves with the self-respect and unpretentious determination of its master.
Groot stared quietly at the gray September sky. His ship’s hold was filled with baskets of grains from the Stedinger farmers as well as wheels of cheese, leather goods, and some handcrafts. He was paid a handsome fee to brave both the perils of an autumn sea and the violence of Nordic pirates, but only once had he failed to return with a profitable exchange. A stiff breeze from the west gave him pause. The Danish seas were usually calm and blessed with light winds in summer, but late September and October were often given to strong westerly storms. He looked carefully at the dark, western horizon and reasoned that the pirates would be equally wary to sail. Do I risk high seas or evil men? he wondered. Groot looked at his waiting crew and at the one-eyed stranger staring blankly at the gray water lapping hard against the smooth bow. “Cast off!” he cried.
The four crewmen scrambled to throw their heavy ropes onto the dock before pulling hard to set the sail. The oars were lowered and the squat ship began to lightly roll with the falling tide of the Weser.
Heinrich’s heart soared within him as he peered into the wind-drifting mist of the river. He had never been on water before and he immediately turned his ears toward birds screeching above. His nostrils were filled with the smells of fish and of river mud. He gathered his cloak around him to chase the morning chill and pulled his hood over his head.
The sun was rarely seen that day as Groot sailed northward across the widening Weser. The river’s spreading banks were flat and empty, the sky growing ever larger. Heinrich stood with legs spread wide atop the thick planks of the ship’s foredeck as it began to rock into the river’s mouth. The man breathed deeply of salt air and turned his face to either side where mud flats and reeds stretched as far as he could see. He looked forward and saw nothing but gray water that met the sky somewhere beyond his sight. The simple baker from Weyer was speechless and awestruck. The wind blew hard through his hair as sea birds cried overhead.