“A few might,” Kuno said, hope coloring his voice. “There are at least three other former crusaders living at Disibodenberg, and I believe the brewer had a stint in the archbishop’s army. It is not much, but it is something.”
“The monks could organize and supervise the preparations,” I suggested.
The abbot thought for a moment, then turned to the brothers. “I call a grand meeting for this afternoon. See to it that the announcement is made in town.”
18
July 1122
Disibodenberg’s leading citizens arrived at Abbot Kuno’s conference. Renfred was there, as well as Johann the blacksmith, Gunther the stonemason, and several craftsmen and traders whose businesses provided services to the abbey. The town’s parish priest, Father Diepold, came as well. They all vowed to stay and defend the town, and by the end of the day, vulnerable points were identified, plans drawn, and roles assigned for the work that was to begin the next morning. At nightfall, a rotating system of sentries was set up to supplement the watch at the gate, where the regular guard was known to take naps on duty.
After prime, the abbot and Brother Wigbert went down to the town square where all the able-bodied men over the age of fifteen had already assembled. Those who had been selected to dig the ditch had brought spades and went off to start immediately, working south and north of the high road all the way to the forest. Another group was dispatched to procure supplies of food and firewood, and the rest followed the monks to the abbey, where Volmar and I showed them the areas where rotten beams left the compound open to intrusion. Those gaps would be filled with the earth from the ditch and strengthened with the timbers from dismantled scaffoldings.
When we came to the hole at the back of the garden, I could not tell from Brother Wigbert’s face if he suspected anything. Not that it mattered in that moment.
“Shouldn’t we dig a ditch around the abbey too?” Kuno asked anxiously.
“The forest is too close,” I repeated what I had said the day before. “It would be cumbersome to bring horses up the slope through the trees. If they approach here, it will be on foot.”
“So despite the hill and the cover of the woods, this wall is still vulnerable?” The abbot looked at me as if I were some battle-tested general.
I spread my hands. “There is no guarantee, I suppose.”
“Then we will have to use the old watchtower and have archers there as well,” he decided, which impressed me, for he was clearly scared. As was I.
“Father, I am a good archer,” Volmar offered, not without a boasting note in his voice. “I can supervise the defenses here.”
The abbot looked surprised, but this was no time to ask questions. In a place of scant military expertise, any talent was welcome. “Very well. Now let’s inspect the tower to ensure the steps are solid. If need be, we will have the master carpenter fix them.”
As we crossed the courtyard, I felt cautiously optimistic that we might yet defend ourselves.
After four days of intense work, Disibodenberg was as prepared as it could be, but there was no sign of the mercenaries. The plan was that if the sentries spotted anything, women, children, and the infirm would be moved into the abbey precincts, and everyone else would take their pre-assigned positions—with bows and arrows or slings along the walls, and with any tools they had in their possession below to try to fight off those who managed to get inside.
During those preparations, Renfred regaled anybody who would listen with tales of the battering rams and catapults the crusaders had used to break down Saracen defenses to recapture holy sites in Outremer. At one point, he recalled how the infidel had taken to pouring boiling tar down on the attacking Christians during the siege of Antioch, decimating their ranks. Disibodenberg did not have enough tar to turn into such a weapon; instead, someone suggested having large cauldrons of boiling water at the ready, and women were dispatched to gather brushwood for bonfires to be set up in the square.
Another week went by, and the state of high alert had begun to wane. The emergency plan was still in effect, but taverns and public areas filled again with people eager for gossip and entertainment to take their minds off worrisome thoughts.
Then, at dawn on a Monday, a group of peasants from an outlying village arrived on foot, barely alive with fear and exhaustion, soot covering their faces and clothes. Their homes and granaries had been burned and their bread, cheese, and livestock carried away. They had barely escaped with their lives. Disibodenberg was put back on alert, and just in time because an urgent sound of bells broke the tense quiet of the early afternoon, signifying that the enemy was in sight.
One of the lookouts came running to the abbot to report that a force of about sixty men had emerged from the forest to the west. When they had seen the ditch and the defenders on the walls, they had stopped to confer in the fields about a mile from the gate.
“Are they still at it?” The abbot was composed and efficient, but his face was taut with fear. We had just come out of the vestry of the parish church that had become a headquarters of sorts.
“They are, Father,” the boy replied.
I split from the group and hurried up to the infirmary. I climbed a ladder to the roof and perched at the edge. It was a perfect vantage point because it rose above the abbey wall, and I could see over the roofs of
