“The Moldau turns hard to the west. There you must find a small roadway that travels to the wondrous Danube River. ‘Tis a glorious blue … like sapphire! Follow it west to the confluence of the Inns River at the town of Passau. Follow the Inns south to its split, then travel along the narrow Salzach River upstream into Salzburg … you shall see a mighty fortress on a hill just outside the city.”
Heinrich drew a deep breath and nodded. The priest made him recite the directions six times. Then he let the troubled baker rest. With a friendly embrace the priest offered one more word of advice: “Be on the watch for rogue knights and men-at-arms whether German or Slav … and highwaymen as well. It would be better for you to find the company of a caravan … but we must leave that to God’s wisdom.” With a final hug and word of blessing, the kindly priest disappeared along the lonely road leaving Heinrich to his own devices.
The peasant reordered his leggings and his cloak, counted his foodstuffs and coins, then pressed on, relieved to have a plan but feeling a bit anxious for the perils ahead. Ignorance had been a more favored companion.
The days passed without rain, but the wind now blew from the east and delivered a damp coldness that chilled Heinrich to the bone. Despite his growing discomfort, the man set a spirited pace. Then the heavy rains came just as Heinrich entered Passau. He quickly negotiated shelter in a grain shed and earned a silver penny and two meals for one-handing the latrine’s shovel for a full day. On the following day, Heinrich watched a wagon of Slavic slaves roll through the town’s muddy streets. He stared at the wretches from his latrine as they passed him by and his heart broke. He was particularly troubled by the face of an attractive young woman that he thought he remembered from his passage on the ship so long ago. She was packed into the jostling wagon with a dozen or so men, two children, and a few other women. Each was scantily clad in threadbare homespuns and shivering in the cold rain. They were filthy and unkempt, and all but she sat slumped in their places. It was her erect posture and the fire in her eyes that had caught Heinrich’s attention on the ship and he swore he recognized it again. Perhaps it was that she looked so much like Varina.
The man found sleep to be elusive that night and it was with a mysterious compulsion that he arose before dawn’s first light. He pulled on his boots quickly and followed his instincts through the sleepy footpaths and alleys of the smoke-heavy town. It was along such an unnamed alleyway where he stopped and listened carefully. There! he thought. Over there. Heinrich walked silently toward the shadow of a building. He heard a slap and a groan, a bit of laughter and a shout. Heinrich followed the sounds closer to the thatch-roofed smith-shed where he placed his eye against a small chink in the wattle walls. In the yellow light of several thick-handled torches he saw a group of prisoners bound with ropes. They were the same Slavs he had seen enter the town the day before. The slaves sat helpless, though defiant, and they could do little but stifle the outrage that rose within them as two of their captors made sport with one of the women.
“Soldiers,” muttered Heinrich. He studied the slaves carefully and found the woman who had reminded him of Varina standing defiant and hard-faced as she awaited her inevitable turn. The baker thought quickly. He looked about and grunted. The rainy dawn was gray and dark. A thick smoke from sagging hearth-fires filled the streets with a heavy smog; it was a fortuitous blanket of cover.
Heinrich slipped quietly to the far side of the smith-shed and opened a small door that was set deep within the building’s shadows. From there he crept inside the shed slowly and eased his way along a dark wall where he paused. No one had seen him. He looked about and noticed a loft of hay mounded high with dry fodder. The soldiers were busy grunting and belching and trifling with their prey. With their backs to him, Heinrich saw his opportunity. He took three long strides toward a torch, then jerked it from its holder, and tossed it into the hay. As the dry tinder began to snap, he crouched into a dark corner and drew his dagger.
The slaves cried out. They were bound by ropes to the shed’s posts and their eyes bulged wide in sudden terror. The soldiers turned in astonishment and raced toward the rising fire to beat it with their capes. They coughed and gasped for air as flames licked the underbelly of the thatch roof. Realizing the cause was hopeless, the rogues abandoned both the building and the slaves, cursing as they fled.
Heinrich lunged from his cover and dashed toward the panicked prisoners. His dagger cut through their ropes like it was passing through soft fruit, and he quickly released them into the smoke-choked streets. From there they stormed through the chaos of the rousing town and into the forest standing just beyond the timber walls.