Quest of Hope(160)
Heinrich wanted to run. His mind whirled. My punishment! he thought. For all the lies, for all m’evil doing, oh dear God! His heart pounded and his belly turned. He had no clever retort; he’d no place to go but to truthfulness. “Aye!” he blurted.
“I serve the archbishop in many ways, and it is my duty to see that his holiness earns a good profit for his diocese. I suppose that end is hardly served by hanging a good baker in Salzburg’s market square, do you agree?”
“Ja.”
“Naturally. So, then. You came into my employ in or around the first day of December in the year past.”
“Actually sire, ‘twas mid-November.”
Laszlo chuckled. “Of course. I shall have my secretary set the date for November the fifteenth. One year and one day from that date sets you free. You’ve already served us in these environs for five months! So, you shall remain another seven and may come to me after the sixteenth day of November next for your passport.”
Heinrich trembled. Another seven months! He groaned. Yet I shall be free … and Wil, Karl, and Marta, and I’d still have the bakery. His spirits lifted. He stood and bowed to Laszlo. “Aye, sire, until November.”
Honor among men of commerce is a rare thing. For whatever reason, the tinkling of coins is a bewitching music that has the power to incite every vice and cruel ploy of the imagination. It seems that the seductive twins of wealth and power are indeed Sirens whose presence ought alarm both those whom they seek and those who scent their presence. Heinrich, therefore, was without excuse. He had often suffered the wiles of men more clever than he. Laszlo’s odd offer ought to have piqued his suspicions; he should have dared ask others about the man. So, upon his learning of Laszlo’s deception, he should have been neither surprised nor angered at anyone other than himself.
After spending all the summer and most of the autumn that followed dreaming of his life of liberty, it was drunken, miserable Ladislav who finally dared expose the truth of the matter. “Fool!” slurred the master. “Ha, ha! Dolt, stupid king of idiots!” He laughed. “Laszlo has no authority to grant y’freedom!”
Heinrich jumped to his feet. “You’d be lyin’, y’ drunken Slav!”
“No, he’s not lying to you,” answered a sober, well-groomed soldier standing near. “And you’ve not lived in the city, anyway, you’ve been here, in Hallein.” He narrowed his eye at the astonished Heinrich. “Are you a runaway, then?”
Heinrich panicked. “N-nay, sire. I… I am servile to… to a Lord Dietmar of Gratz.”
The soldier nodded. Ladislav laughed out loud. “Ha! Good one!”
Heinrich turned away. It was Sabbath evening, the fourteenth day of November. He wanted to cry, to kill someone, to run. He stormed into his dormitory and gathered his things. He jerked the dagger from his belt and considered driving it into the belly of Laszlo. He stuffed it back into its sheath and packed his satchel. He trotted past the bakery, ignoring the greetings of his apprentices, then paused to return. He chased the workers from view and plunged his hand into the salt bin where he helped himself to a month’s salary. It was a crime that could cost him dearly. “And now some extra for Laszlo’s lie!” Heinrich scooped more salt into his sack and hung it on his shoulders.
The angry man strode from the bakery and descended from the village to spend that night in an abandoned stable. The next morning he decided he would follow the Salzach upstream through the mountains until he crossed paths with some caravan. He was relieved that the month had been unusually warm. “Southern breezes—just as Dietmar said might come.” With that, Heinrich suddenly recalled the ring Dietmar had given him. He paused and pulled it from deep within his satchel. He stared at it for a moment. ‘Take this to the tinker by the well, ’Dietmar had said. Heinrich hesitated. Why? I wonder what this could be about? The man turned wearily for Salzburg.
Heinrich arrived on Wednesday at noon. It was market day and the city’s main well was positioned in the very center of the square. The ground was covered with colorful tents and booths that offered every imaginable trinket or staple from all ends of the empire. Ells of woven cloth, baskets offish, pretzels, spices, woollens, salted pork, barrels of kraut, kegs of ale; it was a seemingly endless, wonderful blend of color and sound that was nothing like Heinrich had ever seen. He wanted to pause at every table to study the work of the goldsmiths, the leatherworkers, and the glassblowers. He would have lingered over the bakers’ wares, but a sense of fear hung over him like a pall. He glanced up at the castle staring from high atop its cliff and he knew he must hurry.