It was midday and the bells of sext rang out as the Templars approached the bakery. At the order of the knight, the group dismounted and aligned themselves into a perfect row, facing east. They bent on their knees and prayed, and when they were finished the knight led them to the bakery door. “God be with you, baker.”
Heinrich bowed. “And to you, sir knight.”
“Have you a bit of bread we might buy?”
“Of course, sire. But it would please the abbot, methinks, to grant our poor bread as a gift.”
“With thanks, good man, but the abbot provides for us in other ways. Take this penny and we’d be forever in your debt.”
Heinrich took the silver Pfennig and filled a basket with bread and two pretzels. “I… I am so very sorry, brother, but I have naught but rye bread.”
The knight grunted and stared at the dark rolls. “Rye,” he sighed. “But, lad, it could be worse … it could’ve been oats!” The man laughed and slapped Heinrich on the shoulder. “’Tis good, son, good enough.”
Heinrich smiled and turned his eye to the squire who had finished hitching the horses to a nearby rail. It was Alwin, the Gunnar. Heinrich watched the lad as he recited words in Latin. Then, the novice began to walk about in a large circle, stopping to act out some strange movements. His odd behavior captured Heinrich’s attention.
“He’s doing a penance for losing a shoe,” offered one of the brothers.
“But… what is he doing?”
“Each day at the bells of sext he is required to act the fourteen Stations of the Cross. There … he’s at number seven, the second fall of the Savior. Next he shall bless the women of Jerusalem, then … there … he falls for the third time.”
Heinrich watched, spellbound. The lad seemed to suffer the very emotions of Christ at each act. “The man is truly devout.”
“Aye. There, he is dying on the Cross.”
Alwin’s face twisted as he stretched his arms wide. He groaned as if he felt the very anguish of Jesus, then turned his head upright toward heaven and cried, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani!”He fell to the ground, paused, then rolled to lie still as if shrouded in his tomb.
“There, the fourteenth station.”
Heinrich was speechless, taken as much by Alwin’s sincerity as he was by his precision and drama.
Finished, Alwin was summoned to greet Heinrich. “Good baker, this is Alwin, a squire-novice in training and soon to take his vows.”
“Hello again, Heinrich.” Alwin smiled and extended his hand.
Heinrich was uncomfortable. His own many hours of penance suddenly seemed pitifully lacking. He took the lad’s hand and released it quickly. Heinrich ventured a quick look into the squire’s face. Touched by God, he thought. Indeed, there was an intelligence and a charity in the lad’s eyes that set him apart from others. He was about fifteen, Heinrich guessed. Five years younger than Heinrich, the young man was tall, strong, dark-eyed and blond. He was devoted to his faith and to his masters in the preceptory, and would, no doubt, take his vows soon. Eager and faithful, he was beloved by his brethren and the favored friend to all.
Alwin smiled. “We have not met since the bailiff was searching for your uncle’s murderer.”
“Aye.”
“All agreed it was a poacher.”
Heinrich shrugged and shuffled. He could not free himself from the images of the dead Gunnars dumped in that muddy grave. His cousins … perhaps uncles to him? A brother? he wondered.
“Well, we needs be off. I hope to see you again.”
Heinrich nodded.
“I hope we might be friends!”
The baker’s mouth went dry.
Chapter 12
THE BROWN SERPENT
Father Pious warned Arnold to stay away from Emma’s hovel on All-Saint’s Day. He made it very clear that to interfere in the dark world of spirits and shadows would bring only trouble to Arnold and the entire village. Father Pious insisted that he would keep an eye on the woman and her unfortunate son, and his vigilance would be enough. Arnold mumbled a grudging assent and returned to his drunken brooding.
Richard was brooding as well. Since the injury to his hand he had not been the same man he once was. The kind words of Emma, the urgings of Brother Lukas, and the sympathies of Heinrich did little to encourage him. Even his new position as Weyer’s forester did nothing to bring him out of his deep melancholy.
By nightfall of All-Saint’s Day, Richard had left the hovel to go wandering in search of a willing maiden while his father staggered to the mill to find Dietrich. “F-friend, g-g-good and true friend,” slurred Arnold. “We’ve needs to put something to r-rest this night.”