“Killed him?” Heinrich was baffled. “N-nay, sire. I cared for him until his death from injury … suffered in your mine at… at Hallein. He said I ought bring this to you and ask if I might labor for you this winter.”
“Ha! Ha!” Laszlo laughed loudly, then rose to his feet and slammed his palm hard atop his oak desk. “What would I do with a one-armed, one-eyed murderer?”
Heinrich paled and he stammered for words. “M-m-murderer? Sire, nay, I am innocent … there’s been no murder. Ask the priest who buried him! He prepared the body … he saw the mormal that rotted his leg—”
“Humph,” snorted Laszlo. He stared at Heinrich for another moment. He enjoyed toying with men of lesser station. What Heinrich did not know, however, was that laborers were desperately needed in the mines. Laszlo tossed the silver ring back to Heinrich. “I believe you to be a runaway.”
The words shocked Heinrich even more than the other accusation. His mind raced. He had just arrived a week before. Who would have told him? he wondered. Heinrich gulped. He had been told that a runaway could be hung on the spot where he stood. He licked his lips. “Nay, sire. I am a freeman on a pilgrimage to Rome.”
“Can you prove it?”
Heinrich’s mind raced. He drew his dagger from its sheath. The flash of his steel had barely glistened in the torchlight when three guards were upon him. He was pushed to the ground roughly.
Laszlo laughed. “Bumpkin! Dolt! What sort of fool are you. Why did you draw steel against me?”
“N-nay, sire. I thought to show you I was armed … only free men bear them and—”
“Enough!” Laszlo walked to Heinrich and leaned close. “Pity you’re no runaway. Those who escape their manors to live here and work for me for one year and a day leave with my seal on a passport… forever free … and their heirs as well.” He stared slyly at Heinrich, then returned to his desk. “Have you any skill, freeman?”
Heinrich was still pondering this new opportunity. He knew that any who lived in an imperial city for a year and a day were considered freemen—it was a problem for the landlords of the realm. He hadn’t known that Salzburg was such a city.
“Are you listening, man?” roared Laszlo.
“Aye, sire. I am trained as a baker.”
The steward nodded and smiled. His workers needed bread, and neither the city’s bakers nor their apprentices could be coaxed to stay in Hallein for very long, especially in winter. Laszlo stepped from behind his desk and leaned his face close to Heinrich’s. “Well, pilgrim. I suppose we could use a baker. He tossed the man back his ring. Aye, you are assigned to the bakery at Hallein, where you shall make dozens of the Church’s faithful laborers very happy. For your service you shall be paid in salt like the Roman legions with their salarium. This ‘salary’ as we call it, can be exchanged for coin at our moneychanger’s stall in the city when you are given leave.” Laszlo then set his lips by Heinrich’s ear to hiss, “And when you are ready, we shall talk again about your freedom.”
A two-day cart ride delivered Heinrich to the village of Hallein that was nestled within the Dürnberg Mountains. He was given a bed in a worker’s dormitory and introduced to his new master, one Ladislav of Moravia. Ladislav was a dark-eyed, violent man of twenty years who possessed a poor grasp of the German language and even less Christian charity. His task was to squeeze the most production possible out of each worker and he had no patience for fatigue, hunger, cold, or infirmity. Heinrich knew his objective would be to keep as much distance between himself and the impetuous Slav as possible.
The baker was soon working long hours in the bakehouse. He had become proficient in using his one arm in the mixing and kneading of dough and was suddenly grateful for the woeful years in the dreadful cloister in Posen where he had learned to retrain his body. His apprentices watched with admiration as the handicapped man worked the doughs, shaped the loaves, and shuttled the paddles in and out of the brick ovens. More than that, they marveled at the excellent product the newcomer presented to the eager workmen each day.
Through the long winter Heinrich worked faithfully. He was fed amply, his canvas cot was reasonably comfortable, and the dormitory was surprisingly warm. A monumental amount of wood had been stripped from the mountainsides in order to fire the huge furnaces necessary to produce the salt. The relatively small quantities taken for the personal comfort of the workers was barely noticed.
Hallein’s salt mines had been closed for several centuries. In ancient times the Dürnberg Mountains had been mined by the Celts who carved tunnels deep into the mountains. Here they had chiseled clumps of red salt from the narrow veins that spidered their way through the mountain. The clumps were then carried outside where they were smashed into granules, washed, and poured into barrels. One Sabbath afternoon, however, Heinrich learned of the archbishop’s better way. His curiosity called him up the trail from the village to the mine entrance, where he hesitated. He drew a deep breath and picked up a pine-torch. He lit it on the coal bucket and stepped timidly into the tunnel where he immediately saw a dull, curling flame some distance ahead. He walked slowly toward the light until he came upon a sleepy guard dozing against a timber brace.