Hammer of the Witch Page 12

  My mind wasn’t on the ride or the discomfort of my still-sore bottom bouncing on the saddle. It was on what the heck we were going to do once we reached Trier.

  I realized I’d hit the nail on the head—opportunity was key here, wasn’t it? We needed the opportunity to get in and get out, and that called for a plan to keep the guards occupied, something to distract them so they’d never have the chance to attack us. Or at least, give us a bit of an advantage over them. We needed to stay a step ahead, to have enough time to get Grant, Brida, Irmla, and anyone else we could grab out of the dungeon and onto the cart, and hopefully halfway out of Trier before the guards realized what was happening. What we needed was a diversion.

  But what? What could a bunch of piss-poor farmers and one teenager from the future do?

  Something niggled at the back of my brain, an unformed thought, a bit of information I felt was important but couldn’t quite fully grasp. What was it?

  I had a memory of Grant and I when we first arrived in Trier. When we left Wilhelm and the oxen with Schmidt, we’d gone to the Stone Sow to find Ordulf, the baron’s steward.

  I’d liked Ordulf. He was a big, burly man with a walrus mustache and a tough guy attitude, but beneath his rough exterior, I thought he was a big softy. I think Ordulf hired us because we were young and probably looked like we needed a meal and a roof over our heads. Which we did.

  It occurred to me that Ordulf would be a good person to have on our side when we went in to get the prisoners, and I wondered how committed he was to Meier.

  “Wilhelm, do you or your friends know Ordulf, the baron’s steward?”

  One of the farmers barked a laugh. “Everyone knows Ordulf. Everyone who’s ever spent time in the Trier taverns does, anyway.”

  Another nodded. “Yes. Ordulf is one of the few men who can drink his weight in ale and still walk upright at night’s end.”

  “He’s worked for Meier a long time, huh?” I was fishing for information, not quite sure where I was going with this line of questioning but feeling it was somehow important.

  Wilhelm answered this time, although without the slightest trace of humor in his voice, sarcastic or otherwise. “Ordulf’s father was steward of the manor for Meier’s father. When Meier’s father died and Meier became baron, he retired Ordulf’s father and raised Ordulf to the steward’s position.”

  “But Ordulf’s been known to talk when he’s in his cups, and he isn’t fond of Meier at all. In fact, he blames Meier for his father’s death.” A small, wiry man who’d been introduced as Kurt Kruger spoke up. “I heard him myself one night last summer. Oh, my throat was mightily parched that night, and I ventured into the Stone Sow for a drink to wash the dust of the road from it. Ordulf had been there for hours already, I think. He said his father died from a broken spirit after Meier retired him. In fact Ordulf claims he accepted the position only because his father bade him do it.”

  Wilhelm sniffed. “We should not take to heart what a man says while drunk.” He directed a stern glare at me. “Why do you want to know about Ordulf?”

  I shook my head at him. “Never mind. I was just thinking out loud.”

  I was too, in a way. I was trying to puzzle out why Ordulf suddenly seemed so important. Hearing Ordulf might not be as committed to Meier as one might think a house steward should be made me happy, though. If we needed him, which I suspected we would, he might be willing to help.

  If only I could remember what it was about Ordulf that seemed so freaking important. Was it the man himself, or something he had, or something he knew? A headache began to knock at the inside of my skull, banging with each step Samson took.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. The horse’s hooves beat a muffled sound on the dirt road and echoed inside my head. The headache grew until the pain forced me to close my eyes against the glare of the newly risen sun.

  God, this was awful. Was it a migraine? I’d never had one before. Headaches, sure, but this was so much worse. The pain speared both my eyes. Was it possible to black out from a migraine? I could picture myself toppling off Samson’s back and cracking my skull open or breaking my neck in the fall—

  Wait.

  Black.

  The word repeated over and over in my head. It was important and brought me right back to Ordulf. That’s when I finally remembered what was so critical about Ordulf and our mission to rescue the people accused of witchcraft.

  We needed a diversion, and Ordulf had the means to supply us with one.

  In a moment of clarity so sharp I almost forgot about the wicked pain in my head, I remembered seeing barrels in the stable and what Ordulf had said about them. Damn black powder. Baron Meier is fascinated with the stuff. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t blow us all up someday.

  That’s what I’d been trying to remember! The black powder Meier had stored in the stables at the manor. Ordulf was afraid Meier would blow everyone in the house sky high because black powder was volatile. It was used to make explosives.

  Including, if I remembered chemistry class correctly—and I did since that class was one of the few to catch and hold my interest for longer than five minutes—fireworks.

  An adrenaline spike flooded me, energizing me, and my headache disappeared. “Wilhelm! We do need Ordulf. We’re going to need to find him when we get to Trier. We need to get him to help us.”

  “Why do we need Ordulf?”

  “Because he’s going to help us make such a huge diversion, nobody will notice us sneaking into the manor or freeing the prisoners in the dungeon. I guarantee it.”

  THE TRIP back to Trier seemed to take twice as long as the journey from the city to the farm had taken. It was probably just my nerves jangling, now that I had a plan of sorts in mind. It was a crazy plan, sure, but still better than none at all, which is what I’d had that morning when we’d set out.

  When the city came into view and I saw the bridge, my heart began banging at my sternum, the blood pounding in my ears. How could I ever think a seventeen-year-old kid could possibly pull off a stunt like this?

  The answer was, I had to do it. I had to find a way to make it work. Grant’s life and our return to our own time depended on it. I don’t think I ever felt the weight of responsibility as much as I did just then.

  We pulled off to the side of the road while the bridge was still in the distance. The men who were riding in the cart lay down and covered themselves with old blankets. Wilhelm and Kruger, the cart driver, and I spread fragrant bundles of hay over the blankets and placed baskets of onions and potatoes along the sides. As a final touch, we dumped dozens of fat cabbage heads over the hay. When we were finished, the cart looked like just another wagon of farm goods bound for the Trier market.

  Samson and I led the way over the bridge. Just as we’d hoped, our little procession appeared so ordinary, so commonplace, nobody even blinked an eye at us. We attracted zero attention as we crossed over into the city limits and made our way through the streets to the now-familiar building that housed Schmidt’s stables.

  We found Schmidt inside the stables, working at an anvil near a forge. He wore trousers and a brown leather apron but nothing else as he pounded a red-hot horseshoe with a hammer. Sparks flew, and I wondered how he avoided being burned by them. Then I realized he was probably so used to the sizzle of hot sparks that he just didn’t feel it anymore. His skin was most likely as leathery as his apron from years of exposure.

  His face was bright red above his drooping, bushy mustache, and he didn’t look up when Wilhelm and I entered the stable. He was too involved in what he was doing to notice us.

  Schmidt’s huge arm muscles bulged—he had amazing guns for a medieval dude who wouldn’t know what a gym was even if he saw one—each time the hammer rose and fell. He held the glowing metal horseshoe secure with a pair of tongs, keeping it from moving under the force of his blows. Finally he dunked the cooling metal into a vat of water, sending up a cloud of steam. He removed the shoe and held it up, twisting it this way and that. I
suppose it met his approval because he grunted and then hung it on a conveniently placed nail.

  Wilhelm stepped forward, calling out, “Schmidt! We’ve come to speak with you.”

  “Wilhelm! I didn’t expect to see you here so soon.” Schmidt squinted through the smoky haze that hung over his forge. “Ah, I see the boy found you. Where is Samson?”

  “Right outside, sir. He’s fine.” I nodded to Schmidt. “Thank you for lending him to me.”

  Schmidt cocked his head, his gaze flicking between Wilhelm and myself. “Just the two of you? I thought there might be more, er, visitors to Trier.”

  Wilhelm glanced around, but there was no one to overhear the conversation. “There are more.”

  “Good. Things have gone too far. Have you word on your wife and daughter yet?” Schmidt laid the massive hammer on the anvil and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “No,” Wilhelm said. “We’ve just now arrived in Trier.”

  “I assume you have a plan?” He looked at me. “And it involves borrowing my horse for a while longer?”

  “It does.” I spread my hands. “We need more than Samson, Mr. Schmidt. The oxen don’t move fast enough. We need to trade them out for a team of horses to pull a cart.”

  Schmidt laughed and looked incredulous. “A team of horses, no less! And whose horses shall I lend you?”

  I lifted a shoulder and tossed him a lopsided grin. “Does either Meier or von Schönenberg keep any horses here?”

  “Oh ho! So you have a death wish, then?” Schmidt chuckled again and smirked. “The baron and archbishop own their own stables and have little use for mine. However, it so happens the baron has recently acquired a fine set of workhorses and has no room in his stable for them. He is boarding them here.”

  “Excellent!” I rubbed my hands together. “That’d be perfect.”

  “Oh, wait a moment. I didn’t say I’d give them to you. If I were caught, the baron would have my hands cut off for daring to loan out his property without his permission. It would be a sin equal to theft in his mind, and I’ve no wish to see the inside of his dungeon for myself.”

  Wilhelm took a step forward. “They have my Irmla and Brida. Tomorrow they will be tried for witchcraft. You know they are innocent, Schmidt. Them, and so many like them. You said yourself we’ve allowed this evil to go unchecked for too long. The Church is wrong to condemn so many innocent souls to the stakes!”

  “That was before I knew you were going to ask me for the baron’s horses!” Schmidt wiped his hands on his apron and scowled.

  “Who will be next, Schmidt? Your wife? One of your daughters or sons? How will you feel about the baron’s horses if they come to drag your children from their beds in the middle of the night?” Wilhelm spread his hands in an imploring gesture. “Please, Schmidt. I must try to save my wife and daughter.”

  I pitched in before Schmidt could say no. “You can say we stole the horses, if you want. Meier will believe that. So will von Schönenberg. Trust me.” I didn’t tell him von Schönenberg already thought of me as a thief because I’d stolen the book from him. It would be natural for him to believe I would steal horses too.

  For a minute I thought Schmidt was going to say no anyway, but then he finally sighed. “Fine. They’re over there, in the second and third stalls. A fine pair of grays. Worth more than either one of you, I’d imagine.”

  “Thank you, Schmidt. Thank you.” Wilhelm strode forward and reached out, clasping Schmidt’s forearm in a medieval version of a handshake.

  “I suppose you won’t be returning Samson now either, eh?” Schmidt looked over Wilhelm’s shoulder at me. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Take care of him. Send him back to me when you can.”

  I bobbed my head in a nod. “I will. I promise.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  WILHELM GESTURED for me to follow him to the stalls. “Come, boy. Let’s get the horses traded out with the oxen. We have little time left.” As we headed there, I heard Schmidt begin hammering another shoe on his anvil.

  The grays were big, solid horses obviously bred for heavy work. They weren’t as big as Samson, but they weren’t far from his size, either. They were a nearly matched pair, gray in color with lighter spots dappled on their rumps. Their manes, tails, and the fringe of hair around their feet were dark gray.

  The two horses nickered and lifted their noses in greeting when we approached their stalls but stood quietly while Wilhelm put them in their traces. They followed placidly when we led them out of their stalls and through the stable to the front, where Kruger had already freed the oxen from their yoke and readied the cart for the horses.

  The oxen grazed in a small corral attached to the side of the stable. They seemed completely indifferent to the change in their circumstance, and had no interest at all in the horses who took their places at the head of the cart. Then again, if I’d just hauled a heavy cart all the way from the Bauer farm, I wouldn’t want to look at it again either.

  Samson stood quietly next to the cart, although he seemed to look down his long nose at the pair of grays. I climbed up on the cart and swung myself over onto his saddle. As stiff and sore as I was, mounting up seemed easier each time I did it.

  Wilhelm made short work of hooking the grays up in the complicated—at least to me—system of leather straps. He scrambled up next to Kruger and took the reins. “Hiya!” he called out, flicking the reins across the broad backs of the grays. They stepped off in unison, pulling the cart behind them with ease.

  That had gone better than I’d hoped. The grays could probably move far more quickly than the oxen and would haul the cart out of the city and deep into the country much faster. At least they would give us a better chance of outdistancing whoever Meier and von Schönenberg sent after us once they found out we’d escaped with the accused witches.

  I called out to Wilhelm. “We need to head over to the Stone Sow.”

  Wilhelm nodded, although I could still see his doubt over whether my insistence to involve Ordulf in our plan was smart. I couldn’t fault him for doubting me—I hadn’t explained everything to him in detail. Mostly because I didn’t know all the details myself yet. I didn’t have a fully formed, thought-out plan. I only knew Ordulf could get us the black powder we needed.

  The streets of Trier hadn’t changed since I’d left it the day before. They were still filthy, and the air stank. I couldn’t wait to grab Grant and get the hell out of medieval Germany, if for nothing else than to give my nose a freaking break from the constant, persistent, rotten stench. Not to mention the longer I stayed, the more likely it was that I’d contract something nasty—like the bubonic plague, for instance. I thought I remembered Merlin saying something in history class about the Black Death wiping out roughly 75 percent of the world’s population sometime in the 1300s. With my luck, the ugly little bug was still here two hundred years later, lurking somewhere in the muck-filled streets, waiting for me.

  Wilhelm took the reins of the cart while I rode Samson. Samson and I were becoming fast friends. We understood each other. He understood I knew next to nothing about horses and therefore he was technically in charge, and I understood he could buck me off and stomp me into human oatmeal if he wanted to do so. The relationship seemed to work for us.

  I noticed people staring at us as we threaded our way through the narrow streets of the city. It was unusual to see a kid riding a beautiful horse like Samson or to see a pair of perfectly matched gray horses pulling a rough farmer’s cart. Farmers couldn’t afford horses. Indeed, they usually couldn’t afford oxen—they rented oxen from the baron to plow their fields.

  Their suspicions and curiosity couldn’t be helped. We didn’t stop to offer any explanations either. At the very least, it would give the good people of Trier something to gossip about for months to come. Especially if we were successful in freeing the accused from the prison.

  The cart rumbled over the streets, making a turn now and then. Samson followed along with little direction
from me. It was as if he knew where we were going, as if he was smarter than any of us. I needed a superhero right then. Why not the horse? Super Samson. He could have his own line of merchandise. What would pass as medieval merchandising? Carved wooden action hero dolls? Chamber pots painted with Samson’s likeness? Maybe. It wasn’t any crazier than some of the merchandising from my own time. My mom told me she once had a pet rock. Seriously. A rock. It came in a little box with air holes. For a freaking rock.

  Speaking of rocks, we turned another corner, and there was the sign for the Stone Sow hanging in front of the tavern just as I remembered it. The cart kept going, and I followed on Samson. We didn’t want to park right in front of the building. It was too risky. Although it was late afternoon, there was still plenty of light for anyone to easily see us. We didn’t want anyone snooping around the cart with our men hidden under bushels of vegetables and hay. Instead, we pulled into a darkened alley and left the cart and Samson there, along with Kruger, who would keep an eye on both.

  Wilhelm and I returned to the Stone Sow alone. We had no idea if Ordulf was there or if he was at the manor, but we needed to try. I really hoped he was at the tavern. It would be easier and safer to talk to him here, especially if he’d been drinking, than if he was sober and at the manor surrounded by servants or where Meier might overhear. Besides, a wasted Ordulf would be a lot easier to convince to help us.

  We entered and were immediately assaulted by the stench of body odor, smoke, and alcohol. My eyes burned and my throat tightened, but I fought through it, knowing I’d adjust to it in a few minutes. I squinted in the dim light, searching the tables for a familiar face. When I spotted him, I tugged on Wilhelm’s sleeve and pointed.

  Ordulf was seated near the rear of the room, under one of the wall sconces. His thick walrus mustache was dripping with foam from his mug of ale. The remains of a trencher of food was pushed to one side. He looked toasted, and best of all, he was alone.