Quest of Hope(157)

Dietmar said nothing. He was saddened for Heinrich, and the look on the baker’s face nearly broke his heart. But Dietmar was failing quickly. He felt suddenly weak and faint and halfway to his home he begged Heinrich to sit on a bench for a brief rest. He sat quietly for a while, then handed the baker a ring. It bore his family’s seal. “Take this. You have been kind to me and I’ve none other to leave it to. Show it to the archbishop’s steward of the mines, Laszlo. Tell him I sent you. He’s a monster but he always respected me and he owes me a favor or two. He can employ you through the winter.”

Heinrich stared at the silver ring. “I am forever in your debt, sire.” He let it fall into his palm.

Dietmar shivered and Heinrich wrapped his sealskin around him. “Before you begin your journey for Rome,” said Dietmar slowly, “take the ring to the tinker by the well. Ask no questions, simply do as I bid.”

Heinrich nodded curious.

Dietmar sighed and pulled himself to his feet. “Now, good fellow, we’ve just a few streets farther.”

The pair shuffled slowly through the narrow alleyways of Salzburg until they arrived at the young man’s modest home. There, Heinrich was offered shelter until he could secure his employment at the mines. The grateful baker accepted Dietmar’s kindness but spent the next two days doing nothing other than tending his dying friend. On the third day the landless lord handed Heinrich a few silver pennies and shrugged. “It is all, Heinrich. It is all I’ve left here. Buy some food and drink. I’ll not be calling the physicians again. The fools are stealing my money and the cause is long lost.”

“But—”

“Please … do as I say.” His voice was weak and imploring.

Heinrich left quickly, only to return with an ample provision of meats, some dried peas, a fresh chicken for a good soup, and a flask of red wine. He also dragged in a canvas bag filled with firewood and a pouch of precious salt. “Now, Dietmar, sit by this better fire and warm your bones! I shall cook you a soup you’ll not soon forget and we’ll dress this wound.”

Tears rolled down Dietmar’s gaunt face as he huddled close to the fire. He poured a tall, clay goblet of wine with a trembling hand and smiled. “Thanks be to God for you, friend.” He knew Heinrich had dipped a heavy hand into his own bag of pennies to bring a bit of cheer and hope to a dying man. “Heinrich,” he began in a weakening voice, “I am but a young man … but raised by a wise one. He once told me …” Dietmar faltered. “He once told me that freedom is not granted by men. Freedom, like hope, is a birthright from God. Your vow is a terrible thing that keeps you bound within the ways of others. Break it, my dear friend, brea—” Dietmar would say no more. He toppled lightly to his side and stared open eyed into the snapping fire.

Heinrich lifted the young man’s head to his breast and wept for him. He did not know why this stranger had become his friend nor how he had become so. He only knew that a good man was gone and he was saddened for the loss.





Heavy-hearted, Heinrich used the rest of his pennies to pay a priest the fees necessary for Dietmar’s burial and stood by a strange-looking woman hidden under her hood as the sole witnesses to the man’s interment. He lingered by the grave for a time and wished he could have known the man longer.

The man from Weyer sighed and bade a final farewell. A cold wind rustled through his shoulder-length hair and lifted his long, gray-laced beard. He pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and lifted its hood over his head. He secured his dagger and satchel and rolled Dietmar’s ring around his finger. In the safety of the cathedral’s tall spire he lifted his head to look at the fortress perched on the cliff overlooking the city and drew a deep breath. It was mid-morning and he must get on to things that needed doing.

Heinrich climbed the long, curving road that led to the castle and upon reaching the gate he requested a brief meeting with the archbishop’s steward-of-mines, Laszlo the Hungarian. He was led to a cold corridor where he waited for several hours. Soldiers of the archbishop tramped by in disinterested companies and a few velvetcaped merchants meandered past. Finally, a fur-capped gentleman escorted Heinrich to the steward’s chamber where he was seated on a short bench at the wall farthest from the heat of a roaring hearth. He was introduced as a “country yeoman in want of a moment.” Heinrich grunted. He remembered the steward’s chamber in Villmar’s abbey and he was not comfortable. “I bear this ring to beg … a moment.”

Laszlo stared from dark eyes. He was an arch-nosed, pinched-faced fellow. His frame was lean, almost skeletal, and he looked short on his high chair. Yet he commanded an intimidating presence that few dared challenge. “What’s this?” he grumbled. With a wave his secretary removed Heinrich’s ring and handed it to Laszlo. “Hmm. Dietmar of Gratz. So, you’ve killed my secretary and have come for something?”