Chapter 24: How Justice is Served In Birkenhain Lands

Riding a few paces behind the Count of Rennenberg, Pelle had some time at his hand to reflect on the last hour. There had been warmth in the greeting between the count and Lieselotte. Ingeburg had received a brief hug, too. The Count had left a score of men in Lemdalen as guard for his daughter and grandson, allowing Pelle to bring a half score of Birkenhain guard soldiers. On the count’s behest, Pelle was wearing the coat of arms of the House of Birkenhain, giving any actions of the count legitimacy.

The forge master, Tilke, was also riding with them, for he claimed to know a hidden sally port near the forge. The plan was to ride for the gates with the main force whilst a group of men under Tilke would head for that sally port.

It was shortly after noon, but they had not heard the noon bell from Birkenhain. Even when they drew closer, there was no sign of life. A large part of the town was reduced to ruins where Jew Alley had been burnt down. They crossed the dry moat unopposed and rode the wide main street up to the castle. No man was seen in the streets, but they could see rotting corpses in the side alleys, and the air was heavy with the smell of death.

Approaching the castle proper, they could see that the gate was closed, but no sentry hailed them. Pelle had a sinking feeling, yet he stood in his stirrups and shouted.

“‘Tis I, Pelle, Reeve of Lemdalen! Open the gate! His Grace, the Count of Rennenberg demands entry!”

They could hear movement, and slowly the gate opened. Pelle recognised one of the gatekeepers.

“Saints be blessed!” the man exclaimed. “I had lost all hope.”

“What of our Lord Sigfrid and the Noble Ermegart?” Pelle asked sharply.

The man sadly shook his head. “Our Lord perished from the wounds he received when he rode out to save Jew Alley. His noble mother watched over him to his death, but a week after his burial she died of the plague. Much like everybody else, ‘cept me and a handful of men and wenches. We locked ourselves in the gate tower for a week, and were about the only that survived.”

“How did the plague spread in the castle when the gate was closed?” Pelle queried sharply.

“A few of the men went out into the town to bring in their families. Within three days people started dying, inside and outside.”

“Where did the traitors go?”

“I saw them leave for Tosdalen this morning, what was left of them anyway, after the plague took its toll on them. A dozen men, not more, the abbot with them, may he rot in hell!”

The count looked at Pelle.

“Reeve, I shall lead my men to the abbey. I don’t want the traitor to escape. Are you with us?”

Pelle nodded grimly and gave orders to his soldiers whilst the count also had his men leave the town. They were not even allowed to water their horses for fear of contracting the dreaded plague. The men were shocked Pelle could sense. Their comrades and friends were all dead now, and they felt uprooted. As their horses trotted along the road, Pelle raised his voice.

“We all serve the Noble Lady Lieselotte now, and our dear Lord’s infant son. The accursed former abbot bears the blame for the unrest that caused the plague to spread. We shall hunt him down, and a traitor’s end awaits him!”

Pelle saw grim nods and heard muttered curses against the abbot. Paulus raised his sword over his head.

“Death to the traitors of our good Lord Sigfrid! Long live our Lord Lodewig! Long live the Lady Lieselotte!”

The Birkenhain men answered as one: “Death to the traitors! Hail our Lord!”

Paulus brought his horse alongside Pelle’s. “Reeve, we’re not really bringing in that fat shit as prisoner, are we?”

Pelle gave a grim laugh. “And give him a chance to weasel himself out? Never, this side of hell!”

“I have a length of rope with me,” Paulus said through gritted teeth. “I have a mind to see how long his fat neck can be stretched.”

Pelle kept his voice low. “We must see to it that he’s killed in fighting. Defrocked or not, he has powerful friends.”

It was late afternoon when the rich abbey of Tosdalen came in sight. They could see that the plague had ravaged the surrounding land. Getting nearer they saw activity inside the abbey: wagons were loaded and horses saddled. Monks and armed men were running to and fro, their arms loaded. The count bade his men halt.

“The abbot is fleeing,” he said to his captain and to Pelle. “Reeve, take your men and move to the left. Block the road to Lemdalen. Captain, take a score men and keep to the right. Both of you: the abbot is very rich. Captured alive he may bribe his neck out of the noose. It were best if he met his end in fighting.”

Pelle nodded grimly. “My father’s ash is speaking to me. I shall do your pleasure.”

“Brave man! Now hurry!”

With his half score of soldiers, Pelle hurried westward, aiming to circle the abbey compound and cut off an escape towards Lemdalen. The count meanwhile moved forward at a brisk trot, heading for the main gate of the abbey. Shouts and cries could be heard from the abbey, and then a a score and a half of riders broke from the gate to oppose the approaching riders.

Still hurrying to reach his position, Pelle could see how the count’s captain came to his lord’s help, catching the abbey’s armsmen in their flank. The clash lasted but for a short time only. Too many were the count’s soldiers, and too well armed and trained were they for the ragtag defenders.

“Look, Reeve!” Paulus cried. “Someone’s escaping from that sally port yonder!”

“It’s the abbot!” Pelle snarled spurring his horse into a gallop.

Paulus stayed at Pelle’s side, and the rest of the Birkenhain soldiers followed as best they could. Only two or three men were accompanying the abbot, and they were leading four heavily laden pack horses. Pelle smiled grimly. The abbot’s greed was his undoing.

The fleeing traitor espied Pelle and his men and urged his own horse into a gallop. Pelle barked a grim laugh. Given the man’s girth and weight, there was no horse on earth that could carry him to safety. Already, Pelle was gaining whilst Paulus whose horse was of a lesser breed fell behind. Behind them, Pelle heard the clash of weapons as the Birkenhain soldiers overwhelmed the abbot’s companions with their pack horses. Pelle was not aiming for loot. He was gaining steadily on the abbot whose horse was a magnificent animal but woefully overmatched with the weight of its rider. Already, it stumbled repeatedly in the deep ruts that marked the road to Lemdalen.

Pelle even held back a little to ease things for his fine charger, but still he gained one horse length after the other. The abbot had to hear him now, only a hundred yards behind, and he cast a brief, fearful look over his shoulder. His horse chose this moment to stumble yet again, and its unprepared rider was almost thrown, hanging to the right and clinging to the saddle horn for his dear life. The animal, almost free of its burden came to a stop, and the abbot gained footing. He looked about in panic.

There was an old woodcutter’s shelter not twenty yards away at the side of the road, and the frightened abbot waddled for that perceived safety with the remainder of his breath and strength. Pelle had not strung his bow yet, and he came too late as the abbot slammed the door shut just as Pelle jumped from the saddle. He heard the latch being worked from within, and his frown changed into a grim smile as he regarded the cabin.

It was a sturdy cabin, made of pine wood and less than twenty years old. The roof was thatched, and the only window was high up and small. The abbot was trapped. Slowly, Pelle walked back to his horse and retrieved flint and tinder from the saddle bag. With it, he approached the cabin.

Without a word he squatted down and gathered dry twigs around the tinder. With an oft-practised movement he struck the flint with his knife blade and drew a hot spark. It missed the tinder, but the next spark landed amidst the tinder, and caused a glow. Pelle bent low and blew the flame to life.