Dietrich rose on his squat legs. “We needs not risk venturing over the Lahn again.” He lowered his tone. “Would be better to draw them. Arnold, you’ve ways to spread a rumor?”
“Aye.”
“Good. Make it known we’ve a mind to come for them. That ought draw the vermin to us like moths to a flame.”
Baldric extended his hand for silence. He stared into the low fire of his hearth. Heinrich thought him to be an old man now, etched and shadowed by the firelight. “Aye. Methinks it to be a good plan. They would most likely set their strike on the night before Sabbath. The Lahn’s high, so they shall cross into Villmar on the bridge. They’ll skirt the abbey walls and go wide round Villmar village. Then they’ll come upslope toward our ridge. We needs meet them at the crest… we can take their bodies into the heavy wood in the east.”
Chapter 9
GUILT AND MYSTERY
Two weeks later, at the bells of compline, Baldric, Arnold, Dietrich, Heinrich, Herwin, and Telek were lying prone in a wet ditch. Despite the April evening’s rainstorm, they waited patiently, certain that their enemies would be moving that very night. Arnold had passed a false report to a peddler of when he and his kin would be crossing the Lahn to strike the Gunnars. It was surely hoped that the fools would take the bait and think themselves clever in striking the night before.
It was hard to see the wide, gentle valley that spread before them, for the setting sun was hidden by heavy, gray clouds and the rain was falling hard. Behind the six men the steep slope dropped into smoky Weyer. From time to time young Heinrich cast a woeful glance backward.
The lad was shivering and near tears; totally unprepared to fight. He now knew it was the Gunnars that had killed his father and raped his aunt, but he was told that his own kin had robbed, burned, and murdered Gunnars as well. Furthermore, Heinrich had met an oblate named Alwin who was the son of a Gunnar killed on the same night of Kurt’s death. Perhaps m’own father slayed his, he thought. Heinrich knew Alwin to be a good lad. He did not seem like the demon-possessed monsters his kin were portrayed to be. Lying in the rain, he once more wondered if his family’s cause was a righteous one. He wanted to turn and run, yet that would add to the shame already heavy on his heart, and he wanted desperately to be free from such misery. He could only hope the Gunnars never came.
As darkness fell the Weyer men began to worry. “They’d yet be coming,” argued Dietrich. “We needs wait till matins. Arnold, be sure yer wagon’s still tied tight.”
“Ja? If by the bells they’ve not come, we’re out of this cursed rain!” grumbled Arnold. He had no sooner spoken, however, when voices were heard on the roadway some thirty rods ahead. A small, swinging lantern illuminated a short column of men emerging from the cover of rain and mist.
Heinrich and his fellows nervously checked their weapons. Most had knives or hammers; Baldric a swine-mallet. The Weyer men quickly divided to cover both sides of the narrow road as the voices drew steadily closer. None knew yet if they were Gunnars or simple passersby.
Baldric and his company listened carefully. The rain slowed to a drizzle and the muffled voices grew louder. They were within five rods when one of them could be heard plainly. “We’ve eight to their three! Ha, ‘tis time to avenge Cousin Manfred.”
The Weyer men coiled their legs—it was nearly time. An agonizing moment passed, then another, and finally Baldric’s cry pierced the night air. Shouting like mad hellions bursting from the confines of Hades, Baldric’s men sprang forward at the unsuspecting Gunnars. With Arnold on one side and Herwin on the other, the woodward swung his mallet into two silhouettes. From the other ditch Dietrich led Telek and Heinrich into the mêlée.
Poor, confused Heinrich heeded Baldric’s cry and sprinted toward his foes on legs leading where his heart could not. But something rose quickly within him; a sudden fury filled his chest and he rushed at a shadow like a boar barrelling toward its prey. Perhaps it was fifteen years of rage that now boiled over, or perhaps it was the blood of the ancient Celts and Franks that flowed in his veins. Whatever the cause, the lad fought like a man possessed. He stuck his first foe hard with a slaughter knife. The man cried out as Heinrich yanked free his short blade and swiped at another, then another. For a few moments the young man felt nothing but violent anger, then it was over.
None of the Gunnars escaped the ambush. They lay strewn about the muddy roadway, some groaning, others still and lifeless. “Ha!” boomed Baldric as he embraced his brother. “And you, Dietrich, good friend!” The three clasped hands and cheered their victory under sheets of rain. But Herwin was on his knees weeping and rocking atop the huge body of Telek. None had expected such a giant of a man to be felled, but the deep slash across his throat was more than any mortal could survive.