Tom Melley
THE WARRIOR
OF THE LORD
A Crusader Novel
He’d given up cursing days like this long ago. With his face in the deep snow, he merely groaned, then rolled onto his back and gasped, white breath billowing from his lungs. The icy cold penetrated his leather jerkin through to his sweat-soaked skin and soothed the burning welts on his shoulders. He wished he could simply close his eyes, stop looking at the pale winter sun – which today fought weakly against the grey veils of cloud – and dream of his former, comfortable monastery life.
But there wasn’t time.
Walter scrambled to his feet in the knee-deep snow, using his left foot to lift up his heavy shield, with which he fended off the repeated blows of a hissing sword. Small oak chips splintered away and whizzed through the frosty air. In his right hand he grasped a two-foot club made of hard alder wood, and aimed a blow at his opponent’s shins.
“That was laughably predictable,” cried Hildebrand, leaping back nimbly, turning to his left and slapping the flat of his blade painfully against Walter’s shoulder blades. Walter fell forward again into the snow and wished he were somewhere far away.
“Good God, it’s not a writing quill, it’s a club! Use it the way I showed you.”
Walter lifted his head, sat up, spat out snow and ice and retorted indignantly, “If it were a sword, you’d only have one leg, Master. The club is too heavy!”
“The club for the squire, the sword for the knight,” replied Hildebrand, ignoring the rebuke. His protégé was undoubtedly right, even if Hildebrand didn’t want to admit it. Curses, I’m getting old and can hardly stand up to a former monastery student.
Hugo of Westereck, the boy’s father, had commanded Hildebrand, the castle steward, to retrieve his second son from the Loccum monastery almost two years ago and train him as a squire. Walter was originally expected to follow a spiritual path, but his older brother Herman sustained an incurable back injury from a hunting accident, which confined him to his bed and saw him slowly wither. Hugo feared that Hermann wasn’t able to succeed him as heir, and thus recalled his youngest son to the court.
At the time, Hildebrand thought this decision unwise. Walter had been reared by Cistercian monks from an early age. It seemed to Hildebrand that training an effeminate, habit-wearing eighteen-year-old into a fully fledged knight and fighter would be impossible. But he was wrong. At first, Walter was reluctant to submit to his destiny, but eventually bowed to his father’s will and began to learn the arts of warfare more quickly than expected.
“Stand up, we’re going back to the castle,” Hildebrand commanded irritably, adding, “Tonight is the feast in honour of the Three Holy Kings. I don’t want to be late.”
“Don’t worry, neither do I. You can fill your belly with wine until you fall down, then at least I’ll have some peace in the morning,” muttered Walter, getting to his feet and dusting snow off his thin linen tunic.
“Watch your tongue! I heard that. We’ll see which of us slides under the table first. Now pick up your things, we’re going back to the horses. It’s time you put on your woollen cloak, you’re blue in the face.”
Hildebrand followed the squire, who sighed with relief as they trudged to the animals tethered under a mighty oak, snorting impatiently, at the edge of the castle commons. The knight couldn’t help but smile. His lanky protégé was now as nimble with the practice sword as he was with his mouth. The hard daily training had made a sinewy man out of him, exceptionally skilled with the horse, shield and lance.
He’d long ceased behaving like a monk. All the women at the castle – young maids and mature servants alike – were enchanted by the mischievous glint in his light blue eyes, his thick, tangled hair and slender figure. He’d gladly given in to countless carnal temptations, as Hildebrand had heard.
Walter tore his wool cloak from the horse with trembling fingers and threw it over himself. Then he lashed his shield and club to the saddle and held his master’s stirrup for him to climb up. Finally, he swung himself up onto his mount and they rode slowly uphill to the castle.
Westereck Castle, situated on a rocky promontory that gradually flattened out into the valley, had recently been rebuilt and renovated. Below it in the Genista valley wound the ancient trade road connecting Lübeck and Magdeburg, which brought the lord of the castle profitable toll revenues.
A thirty-foot high, five-foot wide outer wall connected the four round towers, two of which jutted unfinished like broken tooth stumps into the leaden sky. Snow-covered wooden scaffolds leaned against them, one supporting a crane that stretched is arm over the half-finished parapet. The two-storey palas – from whose chimney rose a vertical plume of bluish smoke from the hearth fire – and all of the outbuildings were finished, as was the defiant gatehouse with its portcullis and drawbridge.
However, the broad moat was still barely five feet deep and was now filled with snow. A harsh winter had abruptly ended all construction work with severe frosts and heavy snowfall.
The previous year, all that stood in this place were the keep, built with rough field stones, and a few mud huts, encircled by wooden palisades. But that weir offered little protection in times of war.
The horses’ hooves thudded on the icy drawbridge, the sound echoing loudly in the arched gatehouse. The two riders followed a winding alley between high walls and arrived in the narrow inner courtyard in front of the palas, which housed the great hall. The smell of burning logs, roasting meat and hearty soup hung in the icy air.
Walter dismounted with a groan, wishing he could run straight to the kitchen, the warmest place on the estate. But, as he did every day after a ride, he first led the horses to the stables to unsaddle, water and carefully groom them with a hard brush.
Lastly, he would rub himself down with a homemade ointment to ease the pain of the reddish-blue welts on his arms, legs and shoulders sustained during weapons training.
The recipe was given to him by the infirmarius of the Loccum monastery, Brother Gerold. A reminder of his school days there. The healing mixture contained tree resin, pork fat, honey and dried marigolds. It worked wonderfully, but unfortunately he needed it all too often.
Hildebrand dismounted and threw Walter the reins.
“Take…”
“…them to the stables, yeah, yeah…” Walter interrupted, rolling his eyes.
“You actually can read minds. You should perform tonight with the jugglers your father ordered for the feast, you’re sure to be applauded,” the knight mocked. “Do your duties, I’ll see you later at the feast. Don’t forget your knife, you’ll cut my meat at the table, as is the custom.”
The knight adjusted his sword belt and entered the great hall through the double oak doors.
Noise flooded out into the courtyard. Loud laughter, clattering tableware, beer barrels rumbling over the stone floor and heavy beechwood tabletops being set down on wooden trestles with a crash. The servants were preparing the feast to honour the Three Kings.
A few musicians were rehearsing with flutes, bagpipes and drums. The heavy door closed again behind Hildebrand and muffled the sounds. Walter returned his attention to the horses and led them into the stables at the far end of the courtyard.
To his surprise, the low-ceilinged room was lit by two tallow candles, which stood on the sills of the windows sealed with boards and moss. He shrugged and led the two animals into their enclosures, removed their bridles and saddles and hung these from iron hooks on the wall.
“I could help you groom them,” a voice whispered behind him. He spun around in fright to look into a girl’s glistening green eyes – Maria, the only daughter of the stonemason Hartmut, who had his own workshop and rooms within the castle grounds for the duration of the construction work. Although she bore the name of a saint, she behaved in a less than godly manner as soon as she was alone with Walter.
Reddish-blonde ringlets curled out from under her plain linen bonnet, her round face covered in freckles and smiling at him. She wore a robe of coarsely woven grey wool, tied tightly around her wide hips with a thin leather belt, her bosom thrust toward him. Walter knew what her breasts looked like under her dress, and how they felt.
“That’s kind of you, Maria,” he said, stroking her cheek. “But I can do it alone.”
“I could groom you too,” she cooed, placing a hand on his groin.
“Not today. I’m exhausted and broken.” He gently removed her hand.
“That’s because you romped in the hay with that kitchen maid last night. Gerlind told me the kind of contortions you practised with her. Come on, compared to that rough wench, I’ll be very gentle.”
“Maria, believe me, I’m dead on my feet and weak as a sack of corn. Anyway, the feast is about to begin and I have to be at my master’s side to serve him. Perhaps there’ll be time later,” he replied, pushing her away gently.
“The night is still terribly young and you don’t know what you’re missing,” she sulked, pushing out her lower lip.
“Yes, I do. Go, please. We’ll see each other later, I promise.”
“No wonder some people call you honey tongue. You’re so sweet when you lie. But I’ll take you at your word, and don’t you dare take someone else before me after the feast,” she said with an impish smile, kissing him quickly on the cheek and running outside.
Walter shook his head. At some point I should probably settle on one, before they all pull each other’s hair out.
He turned back to the horses and filled their feeding troughs with oats.
After finishing his work, he rubbed himself down with the ointment in his chamber in the servants’ quarters, dressed himself in a blue linen robe and sauntered over to the great hall. Through the open doors floated the melodies of harps, flutes and lutes.
His father stood to the right of the entrance under one of the tall iron candelabras, two dozen of which lit up the great hall, each with eight arms holding fat beeswax candles.
Hugo of Westereck was solidly built and half a head shorter than his son. A small belly bulged above his leather belt, which encircled a magnificent dark red robe of Flemish cloth with gold braiding. His dark, wavy hair was streaked with grey and his short goatee framed his almost wrinkle-free, sun-browned face.
His blue-grey eyes were kind and his thin lips often widened into a smile that formed small dimples at the corners of his mouth.
He was a prudent and thoughtful man, strict at times, yet good-humoured. He valued loyalty very highly, as well as courage and valour. At the castle it was said that he had loved his wife Irmentraud so deeply that, after she died the year Walter was born, he’d never touched another woman.
“Welcome, son. Sir Hildebrand tells me you’re making great progress with horses and weapons. How are you?”
“I’m well, father. My back aches, I’m covered in scrapes and welts, and it feels as though two of my toes have frozen off. My master takes his work very seriously, and I him,” replied Walter with a wink.
Hugo laughed and pointed to the head of the table in the middle of the hall. “That’s as it should be. He’s waiting for you. Take your place at his side and feast with us.”
“Is my brother Hermann here today?” asked Walter. A shadow flitted across his father’s face. “He’s doing well, but he’s too weak to leave his bed.”
“Then I’ll take him something from the table later. That’ll cheer him up.”
“You’re a good son and brother. He’ll be pleased,” Hugo praised him. Walter bowed and walked over to Hildebrand.
In the centre of the great hall stood a long table, sumptuously laden with dishes and beverages. Over a hundred guests were crowded around it on benches, cushions and knee-high barrels.
The head of the table was reserved for the lord of the house and Hildebrand sat to his right, drinking long draughts of diluted cinnamon wine from a clay mug. Opposite him sat the stout castle chaplain, Reinhold, his fingers dripping with fat as he sank his crooked teeth into a crispy goose drumstick. Other than that, Hugo of Westereck thought little of hierarchical seating at the table.
The knights who administered his surrounding properties, the builder, stonemason, carpenter, blacksmith and rope maker sat peacefully and cheerfully beside freemen, indentured men, men-at-arms and squires. The women, maids and serving staff had their own table beside the exit, which was lively and loud.
An ox, two dozen sheep, ten geese and a large number of chickens had given their lives for the feast. Those gathered here were happy to forget the hard daily slog and harsh winter for a while, filling their bellies with a rare selection of meats and freshly baked bread.
Wine and beer flowed in abundance down thirsty throats, the entertainers encouraged them to dance, and the exuberant guests clapped, stamped and shouted in time to the drums and bagpipes.
At an advanced hour, a thin, blond man stepped up to the head of the table. Hugo of Westereck stood up, spread out his arms and asked for quiet. The expectant guests fell silent, a few of them suppressing belches.
“I’m pleased to see you all enjoying yourselves on this day on which, a long time ago, the Three Holy Kings from the Orient found their way to our Lord Jesus,” cried Hugo. He paused briefly before continuing, “Today’s feast in honour of our Saviour is to be graced by an extraordinary man. Join me now in listening to the songs of the famous singer Heinrich of Morungen.”
There was a roar of applause as the minstrel, dressed in a dark green robe, took a seat on a wooden crate. On his head he wore a scarlet beret with three silver bells that jingled quietly as he bowed this way and that. Under his left arm was a lute, and he gave the strings a slow strum.
The guests looked on in awe. It wasn’t every day that they got to see such a famous troubadour. These travelling minstrels brought fascinating news, mostly from the court of the Emperor, of the heroic deeds of dukes and noble knights. They passed on sagas and legends from the distant past and were notorious for their lewd, satirical songs.
“First of all, my thanks to you, Sir Hugo,” cried Heinrich. His voice was deep and velvety, yet audible in the farthest corner of the great hall. “I’ve been at your castle since yesterday. I’ve asked around and I can tell you, you are blessed to have all these happy, God-fearing and hard-working people who are loyal to you. I’ve also enquired about your youngest son, who has not been with you very long. But I see he has turned out well.” The minstrel smiled and bowed in Walter’s direction.
“I also heard that, although he was raised in a monastery, he has truly made himself acquainted here with the sweet, worldly bells of temptation,” he added, grinning and indicating the women’s table with a sweeping gesture.
Deafening laughter echoed off the walls. Walter blushed, as did a few of the young girls.
The minstrel waved a hand to calm the roaring crowd. “Don’t worry, it could have turned out worse for him! I’d like to sing the young man a song about a poor knight’s love for a noble lady. Take note, people, this is a true story and it happened just like this!”
He strummed and sang:
“A knight with pluck and vim
met a lady fair and fine.
He offered life and limb
to be near her for all time.
Many pains he did endure
and for her sake he parried.
Alas, her soul was still too pure
and she was also married.
The hero’s love burned fierce and bright
and though it was a sin,
his heart was happy of a night,
when she did let him in.
Yet here she laid the truth out bare,
his torment was in vain,
she told him never would she dare
her husband to betray.
Then he knelt down before her
and promised, heart in hand,
he’d take his leave and not return,
would vanish from the land.
He rose to leave her, knowing
there was nothing he could muster.
To his dismay, as he was going
on the threshold stood her husband.
The knight he felt the cold steel blade
plunge into his heart.
His eyes were fixed upon the lady,
as he painfully did depart.
The husband then, still full of ire,
did set upon his wife.
Her head it fell into the mire,
and she too gave her life.
Years after the grim transgression
to a tournament he rode,
and there he learned his lesson
and reaped the seeds he’d sowed.
A hundred knights filled him with dread,
each holding up a shield,
on which the lady’s painted head
his wickedness revealed.
He fled to a far-off foreign land,
seeking refuge there.
But the shame was always near at hand,
he found no peace or cheer.
There he died, his mind askew,
in shame and worldly plight.
For that’s power of love that’s true
and a horde of noble knights!”
When the minstrel’s song ended, there was a deep, almost reverent silence in the hall, then a thunderous roar of applause, and the troubadour smiled and bowed.
Walter was one of the first to spring to his feet and ask for more songs. His father glanced at Hildebrand, who winked at him. He looked thoughtfully at his son. The old weapons master kept him apprised of Walter’s sexual adventures. He could only hope his offspring didn’t get involved with the daughter or wife of one of his liegemen. The minstrel’s song exalted courtly love, but the young knight in his verses met with an early death.
The steward would keep a watchful eye on his young squire. Hildebrand had learned a long time ago what it meant to get too close to a high-ranking lady, as he’d once confided in Hugo. Except that he wasn’t the one who lost his life – that was the fate of one of his rival’s men. After that, Hildebrand had to leave his homeland and embark on a pilgrimage of penance to the Holy Land, which ultimately earned him forgiveness but no material gains.
Hugo leaned back and sipped his wine. His face hardened for a moment as he gazed at the glinting dagger on the wooden plate in front of him.
War will come when winter ends. I need a fully fledged fighter and heir at my side, in case Count Lauenau extends his sharp talons to claw greedily at Westereck’s borders.
The dark circle at the centre of the pale yellow disc of plaited straw was barely visible from a hundred paces. There were three arrows in it, and a fourth struck with a dry pop.
“If your father sees you, he’ll rage like a wounded bull. And... it’s bloody cold!”
Unmoved by her fretful servant’s complaints, Yolanda set a new arrow to her bowstring. “Then at least he’d be talking to me. He forbade me from hunting, not archery. I’ve been practising here for as long as I can remember. I’m not about to stop just because he decides after all these years to come and live with us instead of at Castle Lauenau. And don’t make such a fuss. It’s warm under your fur cloak.”
She raised her bow, drew the string back and released it. The arrow sped toward the target with a buzz.
Irmtraud had spent half her life in the service of the House of Lauenau. She narrowed her eyes and said sullenly, “Another direct hit. Count Konrad will punish you severely if you insist on occupying yourself with weapons instead of embroidery wool.”
Yolanda glanced apprehensively at Hohnstein Castle’s looming keep. It was built of solid red rock and its parapet seemed to scrape the leaden sky.
“The old man is busy and Wilfried’s with him. They’re holding a war council with their liegemen all morning. If he absolutely has to have embellished robes, I’m sure my mother will be happy to make them for him,” she said lightly.
“You’re a young noblewoman, not a knight like your brother Wilfried,” replied Irmtraud, planting her hands on her broad hips. “And the way you look... wearing nothing but your green bodice over a woollen dress, and no head covering. I’ll be to blame if you catch a cold!”
“He’s my half-brother, my father’s son, not my mother’s, as you know. Green is my favourite colour and I have enough hair on my head, unlike you,” Yolanda retorted irritably, holding up the thick, raven-black braid that hung over her right shoulder. “That’s enough for today, it’s almost midday and I need to eat,” she added, picking her way down the slope of the rock plateau on which the castle was built, to collect her arrows.
The servant watched her pensively. The Count and his son were both concerned for Yolanda’s welfare, but for different reasons.
The wily Konrad was waiting for an opportunity to marry her off profitably. Since early childhood, the proud Wilfried had idolised his half-sister, who was three years younger. Her God-fearing mother Lutradis – a fading beauty of few words, who had brought Yolanda into the world shortly after marrying the Count – was trying to keep her child close to her for as long as possible. Yolanda was her most valuable possession now that her dower, Hohnstein Castle and the surrounding landholdings, had passed to the Count of Lauenau after their marriage.
No wonder the Countess’ daughter still had no husband although she had long since reached marriageable age.
Perhaps that was the reason the usually cheerful and confident Yolanda had become increasingly quiet and reserved since last summer, when her father had brusquely rejected the courtship of a handsome but penniless knight from Nordhausen.
“You’re asleep with your eyes open, Irmtraud,” said Yolanda, snapping the servant out of her reverie and pressing the bow and arrows into her hands. “Give these back to the captain of the guard. Fetch us some food and bring it to my room. I’m going to change my clothes.”
“But you’re supposed to join your mother...”
“With God’s help I can lift my own spoon,” said Yolanda, cutting her short. “Tell her I have a belly ache. I’m not in the mood for company.”
As usual, thought Irmtraud, curtseying.
Yolanda gathered her skirts and trudged through the harsh, ankle-deep snow up to the castle. It wasn’t far, but it was steep. She was panting when she reached the gatehouse. The two gates constructed from rough oak planks were open, leaning against the interior of the wall. The iron portcullis in the high stone arch bared its pointed teeth.
She tapped the snow off her wet deer leather boots. The guard had retreated to the small guardhouse to the left of the entrance to shelter from the cold. Hearing the sound, he appeared in a stained felt jerkin with a short spear in his hand, opening the door just a crack before nodding and closing it again without a word.
The path across the outer bailey, past the stables, the servants’ quarters and the outbuildings, and up to the main castle was empty at this hour. She stopped for a moment by the chest-high western wall of the castle, to catch her breath.
She loved being up here looking down into the expansive valley, the little Hardt stream snaking through it.
In the distance was the old King’s Road that led from Nordhausen to beyond Halberstadt. She could see a long way across the Harz foreland, where the mountains flattened out against the horizon like grey waves. She had never seen the ocean, but occasional travellers, minstrels and merchants who found their way to the castle spoke of a sense of freedom inspired by the sea, distant lands, people of different colours and strange animals.
Yolanda sighed deeply, turned away and passed through another gate, much smaller than the first, into the inner courtyard. To her left rose a three-storey palas with a slate roof. It contained the great hall – almost sixty feet long and ten feet high. Above that were the chambers of the lords and ladies, and the servant’s cramped quarters were on the top level.
The palas abutted the mighty, square keep made of rough, red porphyry stone, looming almost fifty feet into the air. To the right stood a thatched, timber-framed building, thick smoke rising slowly from its chimney. It contained the kitchen, where the midday meal was being prepared.
Yolanda opened a side door to the palas and scaled the steep wooden stairs up to the living quarters. She almost opened the door to her old room out of habit, but pulled her hand back at the last moment. Since last spring, when her father had taken up permanent residence at Hohnstein, the spacious bower belonged to him and she had to make do with a dreadfully small room on the floor above.
She was about to turn away bitterly when she heard voices through the slightly open door. Peering through the crack, she saw her father and Wilfried sitting opposite one another on heavy wooden chairs. They were alone – their men had already left. Yolanda lingered with curiosity.
“...Duke Heinrich is a lion without teeth. Emperor Red Beard extracted those years ago and sent him into exile, from which he hurriedly returned as soon as Barbarossa left for the Holy Land. His successes last autumn will be short-lived. He laid waste to the city of Bardowick, which was only weakly defended, and Lübeck was defended by mercenaries, salt traders and tanners, who were about as valiant as cockroaches.”
Count Konrad of Lauenau sneered and leaned back in his high-backed chair. His yellow-green eyes surveyed his son, who looked up angrily.
“I was knighted while defending Lübeck!”
“Yes, yes... Count Adolf of Dassel gave you your spurs. But there’s more to being a knight than just bashing in the heads of three blundering peasants.”
“They were strong knights, who I defeated in battle! Three against one and I killed them!” Wilfried’s beardless, angular face flushed red.
“You dishonourably lopped off their heads instead of demanding ransom money for them. And you still had to hand over the city to the Welf Duke, with bloody hands but with your tails between your legs. What profitable heroism.”
His scornful words hung in the air like poison. Wilfried clenched his jaw and said nothing. His father was once a hardened fighter, but these days his wit was sharper than his sword. He despised weakness and made Wilfried feel like the lowliest stable hand in his presence, despite his knighthood. The siege of Lübeck had ended with the intercessions of the townspeople and the free withdrawal of defenders loyal to the Emperor. He wanted to keep fighting, but the commander, Count Adolf, decided against it.
“Anyway, I have news that the nobles of Holstein have turned their backs on the Welfs again. He’ll be in no position to gather enough men for a spring campaign. So we should secure a large slice of his land in front of our gates. We’ll take Westereck Castle and the surrounding lands. Those belong to the feeble Duke’s inherited properties lying directly between Hohnstein and our lands around Lauenau.”
Konrad lifted a goblet of wine from the small table in front of him and drank it in slow, savouring sips.
Wilfried sat up straight, his eyes sparkling with greed. “It’s about time, too. Give me a hundred men and I’ll reduce Westereck to ash and rubble.”
“Nonsense. I won’t burn down the house I intend to live in. Why else would I have taken up residence here on this rat-infested rock?”
He looked around the room disdainfully. “Hugo of Westereck has greatly expanded his castle. It’s much larger and mightier than Hohnstein, with many men loyal to their lord. Even a thousand warriors couldn’t take it.”
Count Konrad folded his liver-spotted hands under his chin and looked his son directly in the eye. Wilfried met his gaze briefly, then replied quietly, “I’ll surround them, capture some of his loyal followers and flay them in front of the castle walls. Then I’ll fling their limbs at the feet of his men with a trebuchet. Sooner or later they’ll surrender, or slowly starve.”
The Count frowned. “And how long is that supposed to take? The whole spring, the summer and the autumn? We don’t have the time or the money to pay the mercenaries. Sometimes it seems to me that your good sense is as lacking as your bloodlust is excessive. You killed your own mother when you were born. No, that would never work!”
Wilfried was tempted to press his father’s cold eyes into his wrinkly skull with both hands. He composed himself with difficulty, lowered his head and stared hatefully at the stone floor strewn with rushes. His blood thundered in his veins and cold sweat broke out on his high forehead, gluing his curly blond hair to his temples.
“You must learn moderation, son,” Konrad hissed when he saw the rage boiling over in Wilfried. “Command requires a command of oneself. If you want to be my heir, you must conduct yourself calmly and prudently.” He continued in a more conciliatory tone, “Cunning is preferable to senseless slaughter. Without a leader, a pack of wolves becomes scattered, and without Hugo of Westereck, his followers and men-at-arms will scatter like leaves in the autumn. His sons are weak, the old man’s fragile. That’s why the youngest was extracted from the monastery and made a squire. He’s still young and inexperienced, so he is of no danger to us. You must have encountered him during your two years learning Latin, arithmetic and writing at the Loccum monastery. His name is Walter.”
Wilfried’s nodded and sneered. “I know him. A rebellious, scrawny lad who didn’t know his place. I had to beat him several times and I once dislocated his left thumb. After that he spent weeks in the hospital.”
“Really... several times? Truly proud men, those Westerecks. That’s why my plan will work. We’ll hold a tournament here one week after Easter. I’ll invite all the noblemen I know. Followers of the Duke and those true to the Emperor, Welfs and Staufers alike. I’ll offer a handsome prize and every knight who thinks anything of himself will attend. Nowhere else is there more fame, honour and money to be gained than at a large jousting tournament, not even in a God-damned war. Hugo of Westereck will have to take part too if he doesn’t want to lose face.”
Count Konrad let his words sink in, then leaned forward. “Unfortunately, you’re remarkably inept in matters of leadership, but I know you can handle horse, lance and sword skilfully. That hasn’t escaped me. You’ll knock him out of his saddle and no one will object if we defeat him honourably in a tournament.” He held up an admonishing index finger. “That’s the only way to acquire a castle without senseless bloodletting!”
His son had been listening intently. A shrewd plan. The old Count wasn’t called the ‘red fox’ for nothing. And his father’s unexpected praise restored his confidence.
“I won’t disappoint you, you can...” A scratching noise at the door made him pause. He jumped up, went to the door and peered out into the hallway. A black cat with white paws looked at him with round, green eyes and meowed.
He turned back and said snidely, “Just another one of your wife’s useless cats. She has so many, I stumble over them at every turn.”
“I’d rather she occupied herself with cats than squandered my money on founding that expensive convent in Ilfeld. Anyway, they catch rats and mice, which are drawn to the castle in droves in winter. Come back inside and shut the door,” said his father.
Yolanda stood in the narrow stairwell on the floor above and was relieved to hear the door close. She quietly expelled her bated breath and crept along the small hallway.
Her unlovely room was as cold as the frosty winter day outside, because she’d forgotten to close the shutters that morning. A frame stretched with animal skin and jammed into the small window bathed the whitewashed room in gloomy light. A high bed in the centre, covered in grey wool pillows and sandy-coloured sheepskins, took up most of the room. Beside it stood a green painted wooden chest and a pine stool.
She closed the door behind her and sighed, little clouds of vapour billowing from her mouth.
I hate to think what would have happened if Wilfried had caught me eavesdropping. She was afraid of his hard hands, which often left bluish green marks on her white skin these days. She knew neither her father nor her half-brother particularly well. Wilfried had grown up at Castle Lauenau, the ancestral seat of the family, and she here in Hohnstein. During their childhood, she and Wilfried scarcely saw each other during the year, sometimes only at the high feast honouring the birth of Jesus. Their father had seldom visited his second wife, except to administer her considerable estate, which he’d acquired when he married her.
Wilfried had sometimes accompanied the Count, and she remembered the way he’d always stared at her with a covetous glint in his eyes, as though she were a precious jewel. They remained strangers.
Last spring, their father had moved to Hohnstein permanently. He claimed his wife and daughter were the reason – that he wanted to be close to his nearest and dearest, while the Welf Duke Heinrich continued to devastate lands in the north.
Wilfried had become a squire and entered the service of a neighbouring knight, Ludwig of Lohra, only a day’s ride away, and since then he was often a guest at Hohnstein.
Up to that point, there had been no men like him at Hohnstein, only a few shabby castle guards, filthy servants and now and then a dumb, unwashed farm boy with crooked teeth, who brought food to the castle.
By contrast, Wilfried was tall and broad-shouldered, with curly blond hair. His voice was deep and, like his father, he didn’t tolerate objections from subordinates; they carried out his orders obsequiously.
But in her presence, he would become strangely quiet. She quickly realised the power she could exert over him with a bat of the eyelashes or a deep breath that pushed her breasts up in her tightly laced bodice. For the first time, she had felt like a real woman, and she enjoyed it.
Until last summer.
Yolanda pressed her lips into a thin line as she opened the iron-bound wooden chest containing her clothing, remembering the dreadful day on which her life had changed completely – when Wilfried surprised her while she was bathing.
She was alone and assumed she was safely unobserved in the quiet place that she’d found while secretly out riding one day – a small pond in the middle of the dense forest, half-covered in lilies, with clear water and a bed of fine sand. She sometimes bathed there on hot days.
As she had that day. When she stepped out of the water onto the shore, he rushed at her like a hungry predator. He was naked, like her, his sweaty locks hanging tangled across in his face, his eyes smouldering with lust. He pushed her down to the sand and was immediately on top of her.
His moist lips and clammy hands were all over her. He violently forced his rock-hard member between her clenched thighs. She desperately defended herself, screamed like a madwoman, scratched, bit, kicked, but she was powerless against his muscular body and ruthless blows.
Finally, she ended the attempted rape with a fist-sized rock she’d managed to grasp in her desperation. With the last of her strength, she struck Wilfried in the temple and he instantly fell sideways, unconscious. Weeping with fear, shame and rage, she threw on her clothes, swung herself up onto her horse and rode at a swift gallop back to the castle.
Completely beside herself, she went straight to her chamber and paced back and forth. Incest. The surreal word echoed in her head, and she struggled to formulate a single clear thought. Her half-brother seemed to have gone completely mad, but she suspected she wasn’t entirely innocent either.
She would never dare to report the obscene incident to her unloving father, who kept her under lock and key like a priceless possession. In one of the few conversations he’d had with her, he had plainly threatened to shut her in a convent if she didn’t preserve her virginity.
Fortunately, she hadn’t lost that, but her deeply religious mother would blame her for what had happened. She never tired of criticising Yolanda’s indecent, tight clothing, which exposed too much of her femininity.
Without warning, Wilfried had burst into her chamber. His face was twisted into a grimace, thin trickles of blood running from his left temple across his cheek. He held up a white cat, which cried loudly and struggled.
Mother’s favourite cat thought Yolanda fleetingly, before he put his other hand up to her throat, pressed her against the wall and squeezed. Fiery circles danced before her eyes and she gasped for air.
“Look at it,” snarled Wilfried, holding the cat in front of her horrified face, “it’s like you! Pretty, isn’t it? It has beautiful big eyes, is constantly purring around me and is hard to catch. Just like you! But not for me! One day you’ll be...”
He lowered his head, removed his hand from her throat, grabbed the animal and snapped its neck with a hideous crack. Then he flung the bundle of fur through the open window.
“Not a word to anyone! Or that’s exactly what will happen to you!” Wilfried turned and strode from her room, fuming.
Speechless with horror, she slid down the cold stone wall onto the floor, drained of tears.
Anger welled up and displaced her fear. For the first time, she considered fleeing Hohnstein.
And every accursed day after that.
Wilfried made no further attempt to touch her indecently. He behaved as though nothing had happened, but a lustful fire smouldered in his eyes whenever he was near her. Yolanda tried not to let anything show; she joked with the servants, laughed with her mother, trilled in the courtyard when she saw him, and never acknowledged him with a single glance. She wore her feigned self-confidence like protective armour, but the fear often constricted her throat, as though his hand was closing around it again.
It was impossible to avoid him within the confines of the castle. She used every opportunity to escape his company. Today she had pretended to be unwell to avoid eating in the great hall with her family, even though it was the only room with a warming hearth.
Yolanda pulled a thick, woollen blanket from the chest and wrapped herself in it. She then sat on her high bed and waited for Irmtraud, who she hoped would soon bring her hot soup and a large piece of bread.
The tournament she’d overheard mentioned offered a glimmer of hope. A smile flitted across her face.
Encouraging thoughts of escaping her miserable prison and her terrifying half-brother began to take shape. The competition would attract a great number of people to Hohnstein. Knights, squires, noble ladies and girls, minstrels and merchants. There could be an opportunity to mingle anonymously with the departing crowd after the joust.
Yolanda knew where to find the little polished oak chest in which her pious mother kept the heavy leather pouches of silver coins. They were for emergencies and for the convent she wanted to found, as she’d confided in her daughter once, after indulging in too much cinnamon wine in an attempt to drown her loneliness. Enough money for a carefree new life.
She reached a decision: she’d flee and search for the only man who had ever meant anything to her; the man with whom, in fading memories, she had laughed so often; who had cared for her like a father, taught her to ride, shoot a bow and hunt; and then disappeared abruptly all those years ago.
Tepid rain had been pattering on the thatched roofs for days. A few snow-covered sheets of ice loosened, slid slowly down the sloped roofs and sloshed onto the soggy ground of Westereck Castle’s inner courtyard. Spring had arrived just as abruptly as the preceding winter.
Walter sat on a stool under the awning outside the kitchen, reverently sharpening Hildebrand’s sword with a fine whetstone. The steel blade had unusual, wavy patterns that shimmered blue-grey in the light of day. The weapon lay light in the hand and was now so sharp that there were cuts in the leather rag he used to gently polish the blade and the wide blood groove. Walter had never seen anything like it.
“Be careful with that,” Hildebrand warned him, stepping out of the kitchen and sitting in front of him on the crossbeam of the railing that enclosed the roofed area. He was followed by a delicious aroma of roasting meat that wafted tantalisingly into Walter’s nostrils. In his right hand he held a crispy chicken drumstick, which he bit into with relish.
“You should be more worried about me. It’s as sharp as a row of wolf’s teeth,” said Walter, shaking his head. His voice was faintly admonishing.
“That’s all I meant,” mumbled Hildebrand with his mouth full. A smile lit up his eyes and he looked out at the muddy courtyard where the strengthening rain created small bubbles in the puddles.
Walter stole a glance at him. The knight was tall even sitting down. His angular jaw chewed the food slowly and his white-grey beard streaked with black contrasted oddly with his dark, full head of hair, which nearly reached his broad shoulders. His face was lined with deep pockmarks and crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His right eyebrow was separated by a gnarled scar, lending him a dangerous appearance.
Hildebrand turned to look at him. Walter quickly lowered his gaze.
“What?” asked the knight gruffly. “Don’t you like the look of me, little monk?” He spat a piece of gristle into a puddle in front of him.
“Forgive me. I... I... was just wondering how you acquired this unusual weapon. And it would be nice if you didn’t call me little monk. I’m much more skilled with the sword than I am with the quill.”
“As you wish, squire monk. I bought it in Damascus, a city in the Holy Land.”
Walter stopped polishing. “I had no idea! You’ve been there? What else did you acquire there? Fame? Honour? A relic? Did you see the Lord’s tomb?”
Hildebrand’s mouth twisted into an anguished grimace and he tossed the gnawed chicken bone into the courtyard. “Smallpox is what I acquired there, and I barely survived it. And yes, I prayed at the tomb of Jesus for my sins to be forgiven...”
“You must have got the scars in battle against the Saracens, am I right?” asked Walter inquisitively.
“No, that’s a completely different story,” growled the steward, his face stony.
Walter was about to probe further, but a stout man-at-arms called out to them, waving frantically from the entrance of the palas. “Master Hildebrand! Master Hildebrand! You’re to come to my Lord with your squire! He says it’s important!”
The knight acknowledged him, visibly relieved at the interruption, stood up and nodded for Walter to come with him. “You heard him. Bring the weapon, we can continue this conversation later. Come on!”
He crossed the courtyard with long strides. Walter wrapped the whetstone in the leather rag, picked up the sword and scabbard and hurried after him.
The shutters of the high windows were open, letting light into the great hall, and the fresh air flowing through them had driven out the odour of burnt firewood. Hugo of Westereck rose from his seat as they entered and gestured toward the table in front of him. Tureens of steaming turnip stew stood between baskets of bread and wine goblets. “Welcome. Please sit. We’ll eat together,” he said in a friendly tone.
Hildebrand raised his scarred eyebrow questioningly. It wasn’t often that Lord Hugo took his midday meal with others. He sat down on the bench at the table and Walter sat beside him a short distance away.
“Thank you. Before we eat, you must enlighten me. What are we celebrating? Have I forgotten your saint’s day or something?” asked Hildebrand irritably.
“No one puts anything past you, do they? No, everything is fine. Eat and drink and enjoy,” Hugo poured the knight a goblet of wine from a clay jug.
Hildebrand folded his arms in front of his chest. “Now my lord is serving me himself. I won’t drink a sip if you don’t tell me right now what you’re up to!”
Hugo gave a short laugh, then suddenly became serious. “This is what I wanted to tell you: I’ve been invited to a major tournament. It’s to take place the week after Easter, and I hear dozens of houses have already promised to attend and...” he paused for effect, “it will take place at Hohnstein Castle. Count Konrad of Lauenau is the patron. He’s celebrating his son Wilfried’s ascension to knighthood.”
Walter flinched at the name. Hildebrand said nothing. For a while, they heard nothing but the quiet sound of rain through the open windows.
Finally, the knight cleared his throat. His face had turned a peculiar shade of grey. “We’re to take part?” he asked hoarsely.
“We are,” replied Hugo curtly.
“It could be a trap to lure you out of Westereck and arrest you,” said the castle steward, shaking his head.
“I agree. The old fox is clever. If I decline, I’ll be considered a coward amongst the nobility. If I agree, he’ll arrange for my arrest, that much is certain. But I’m urgently needed here. Construction on the castle must continue. However, one of our family should represent us there. I can’t send my eldest. Hermann’s health has improved, but he can only walk with crutches. The only way to save face is for you to take part in the tournament with Walter. As my son, he can bear our coat of arms. The Lauenauer won’t touch him, because it would be dishonourable to detain a squire.”
“Well, he might risk it anyway,” Hildebrand retorted, looking across at Walter, who was nervously scratching his tousled mop of hair.
“He won’t dare. He might be a hard-nosed, devious man, but he has always fought by honest means. Half of Saxony will be there, he’d lose face and a number of supporters if he committed such a shameful act. What’s more, I know Walter will be safe in your care. You’re an experienced tournament rider. I’m giving you an additional task. Find out what the Lauenauer is planning, how many warriors he has in his service, whether he’s strong enough to attack us and what other intentions he has. Fight for me and keep your eyes and ears open,” said Hugo, taking a long draught of wine from his goblet.
“I wouldn’t wager a single piece of copper on the honour of the Lauenauer. Remember, it could become very expensive if we’re thrown from our saddles and have to pay a ransom. A tournament is damned costly, and spying no less,” Hildebrand warned him with an icy expression.
Hugo had a suspicion as to why the knight was so vehemently against the idea. There were rumours about the silent, reserved steward, who had fought in the Holy Land and seen the Lord’s tomb with his own eyes. It was said that he had fought in an armed engagement there, in which he had knocked a good friend and Templar Knight out of his saddle. Unfortunately, the man was caught between his horse’s hooves and trampled to death before the eyes of the horrified spectators. Perhaps this was the truth, which would explain Hildebrand’s reluctance to take part in such events. He’d ask him about it some other time.
Hugo shrugged and replied firmly, “I’m quite convinced you won’t land on the sand between the barriers. Don’t worry about the money, I’ll provide you with plenty of silver.”
Hildebrand narrowed his eyes and his scar seemed to pulsate. “So be it. I’ll obey your command and ride.”
“I thank you for your willingness. I know I’m demanding a lot of you. I’ll announce your participation to Hohnstein today.”
You know little about me, and I hope it stays that way, thought Hildebrand apprehensively.
With a satisfied smile, Hugo turned to Walter. “And you, my son, will not disgrace our house, I’m sure of it.”
The squire had been following the discussion and replied without hesitation, “Of course not. We’ll sweep the floor with all of them and...” He was interrupted by an amused cough from his father.
“Leave the sweeping to the kitchen maids. Simply conduct yourself bravely and stay close to your knight. If you come home in one piece, that’s victory enough. I’ll leave you two alone. I need to go and supervise the stonemason. Eat and drink, we’ll see each other again later. God be with you.”
“God be with you,” replied Walter and Hildebrand with one voice. Hugo got up, gave them both a friendly pat on the shoulder and left them alone.
Walter held his enthusiasm in check. The opportunity to escape the monotony of everyday life at Westereck was tempting – a tournament, a competition between knights, measuring one’s strength against the best, fame, profit and the respect of ladies of high society. It was everything knights were supposed to strive for. And yet a painful memory clouded his excitement.
He took hold of his left thumb under the table and pulled it out of its socket with a quiet, painless click, then let it spring back. It was a small reminder of Wilfried of Lauenau, with whom he’d spent two years at the Loccum Cistercian monastery. The imperious count’s son had attended the abbey at his father’s behest, to learn writing, arithmetic and Latin. The two of them had often clashed, and Walter’s pride couldn’t or wouldn’t let him submit in the presence of the other eight monastery students.
Walter remembered it clearly. A few days before the end of Wilfried’s time there, they came to blows in a sheep pasture. The count’s son was a few years older, strong as a bear and relentless as a sack of field stones, and he laid into Walter without mercy. After a brief, valiant attempt to fight back, Walter lay bruised in a muddy puddle, his face full of blood and soil.
Wilfried of Lauenau didn’t relent. He stamped on Walter’s left hand, twisted his foot and leaned all of his weight on it. The hideous crunching sound was heard even by their classmates, leaning on the fence and watching from a safe distance. Walter’s thumb popped out of its socket; the pain was unbearable and robbed him of the strength even to scream. He reared up wildly and his left fist shot up under his opponent’s tunic and struck Wilfried’s genitals.
The count’s son stumbled backward, his face contorting into a shocked grimace. Clutching his groin with both hands, he fell into the mud beside Walter without a word and vomited in great spasms.
They were both taken to the monastery hospital. Wilfried only remained there a day, Walter three weeks. Afterwards he was commanded by the Abbot of the fellowship to assist in the hospital after classes for half a year, as an aide to the infirmarius. The strict and enterprising Abbot was outraged, and he had an ulterior motive for decreeing this bitter penance. Count Lauenau had paid many times more for his son’s comparatively short education than the Westerecks had provided for Walter’s entire stay. That must be why his son left without punishment.
The two bitter opponents never encountered each other again after this scuffle, and Wilfried was recalled home by his father a short time later.
After that, Walter avoided any kind of disagreement that could cause him bodily pain. To the astonishment of his fellow students, he retained the ability to painlessly twist his left thumb out of its socket, so that it flopped around like a limp lamb’s tail.
Walter wasn’t especially eager to meet the count’s son again; he would be armed this time. Although Walter himself was no longer the weedy monastery student he had been in those days, and now had rigorous combat training under his belt, he felt he was no match for Wilfried’s strength and ruthlessness.
He blinked and turned to the steward, who was chewing and glaring morosely at the table. “I think we need to practise with the horse and lance some more. I’m not good enough to survive a tournament. I can’t believe it... a real tournament.”
“A meeting of ostentatious woodenheads, who risk life and limb for fleeting fame, a few pieces of silver and the screeches of rapturous women, who quickly forget their heroes as soon as they’re knocked off their nags and trampled into the dust with broken limbs,” Hildebrand growled, reaching for his wine. “Squires don’t fight with lances. But yes, we’ll spend every day until Easter toiling until the sweat fills your boots. There won’t be any fun in it – you’ll be my toppler, protecting me from my opponents’ shield partners if I fall in the tumult of a melee. My freedom, my weapons and my horse will then be in your care.”
Walter nodded, reaching for the steaming bowl of hearty stew in which pale, finger-thick strips of meat floated. “Don’t worry. Master, you can count on me.”
The steward had already explained to him that, during the melee – the mass battle part of the tournament – it was about capturing one’s enemy. The armour and mount went to the victor, and the loser was obliged to hand over both or pawn them. A ransom had to be paid for the release of the person, the amount based either on the prisoner’s ability to pay or on their reputation. A squire had the meritorious tasks of protecting his master in the throng, attacking his opponents and knocking them out of their saddles, capturing abandoned horses as winnings and working hard on all sides with his wooden club.
“I’ll rely on courage, prudence and strength, not your loose mouth. This will be your first serious battle, requiring more than just speed and a sharp tongue,” replied Hildebrand peevishly.
“Neither of which will be a disadvantage,” replied Walter defiantly with a full mouth. But he felt dispirited. He pictured Wilfried’s mocking, triumphant face and added quietly, “I know the Lauenauer from my time at the monastery. A ruthless bully even then. I agree, we need to prepare ourselves well.”
Hildebrand looked studied his squire’s face and thought he saw a flicker of trepidation in his eyes.
He’s afraid of this tournament. But not half as much as I am. I had hoped never to see Hohnstein Castle again.
“We still have a lot to do,” said the knight gently. “We’ll spend the rest of the day practising with the club. And tomorrow and the day after and the day after that, until late into the evening. Now hurry up and finish eating, and then saddle the horses. You can fetch me from my chamber when you’ve finished.”
Hildebrand rose to leave. He stopped when he reached the door, breathed in the humid air and gazed with a quiet sigh at the sky, which was as leaden and heavy like his thoughts.