And there, surrounded by yellowing barley gently undulating in the summer breeze, a band of soldiers was milling about as their leaders held council apart, restraining their warhorses and casting occasional glances toward Disibodenberg. These men, I realized, already had innocent blood on their hands and were looking for more. How was such a sin to be redeemed? Certainly not by anchoresses flogging and starving themselves.
Amid such grim reflections, I was nonetheless relieved to see that they looked nothing like the crusaders Renfred had described; instead of shiny plates of armor, shields, and helmets, all they wore were gambesons without even chain mail. Clearly, they had not expected resistance.
“Lucky for us they left their armor behind to keep clean for the big battle.” Volmar’s voice reached me, echoing my thoughts.
I looked around, startled.
“Here!” He was on the wall above the herb garden, partially hidden by the fruit trees. “Be careful!” he shouted as I turned to face him.
“You too! You know how rotten those beams are.”
Volmar grinned. “I’ll be fine.”
I glanced back toward the fields and felt a twinge of apprehension. The mercenary leaders had rejoined the rest of the group but were careful not to make any gestures that would betray their intentions. I observed them with bated breath, and it seemed to stretch for eternity.
Then they moved, and my heart sank. They came about a quarter of a mile closer and reined in their horses again. Some reached into their saddlebags, pulling out bows and setting out to string them. When they were ready, the remaining men launched a final attack at speed while the archers held back to provide cover. The first arrows flew from the mercenaries’ side, and two of our men on the wall fell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Volmar running back to the archers he had posted in the watchtower. This is not going to work, I thought desperately. There was no leader to tell the defenders when to shoot, and the timing seemed crucial.
Just then, the first arrows were launched from the town wall, and a few cheers went up. I looked around the edge of the roof as Volmar appeared at the top of the watchtower, and we could see each other across the courtyard. I jabbed a finger toward the town. You need to move there; they need reinforcements! But he was scanning the woods for a sign of an assault from there.
I understood why; the knights from Sponheim had spoken of at least eighty men. But I kept shaking my head while pointing urgently toward the town—that was where the attack was definitely happening.
Finally, Volmar signaled to his men, and I climbed down and ran into the courtyard just as they were hurrying by. “I am going to organize a watch here and send word if we see anything!” I shouted as they disappeared through the gate.
Volmar’s archers had arrived just in time. A few of the mercenaries had been hit on the way, but most had made it to the wall. The hail of stones was keeping them temporarily at bay. The new arrows swished down and laid another five dead, but more than a dozen men came all the way up to the ditch, dismounted, and tried to climb the earth rampart, swords in hand. The angle was too steep for a successful bow shot, but right then a cauldron of boiling water was hauled onto the wall. The sight of the rising steam sent the attackers fleeing, including the ones in the ditch who were now scrambling up the other side.
Renfred, proudly in charge of that part, grinned at Volmar. “These bastards must have heard tales from the crusade. Those armies were full of men for hire too.”
His assistants were about to tip the pot over when Volmar raised a hand to stop them. He had, he later told me, an idea. They looked puzzled but obeyed. The attackers were in full retreat, mounting their horses and galloping away across the field. Volmar watched them for a while, then turned to Renfred. “It is better they don’t know we only have water here. Let them think it is tar. Maybe this will keep them from coming back.”
That evening, the weary but jubilant townsfolk set up tables in the square under the clear summer sky and made a celebratory feast of roasted geese, fried bacon, cheese, and fruit pies, to which they invited the monks. After the meal, I joined the elders’ table, where the day’s events were being reviewed. The moon had risen, the fires crackled, and the mood, fueled by ale, was cheery. Everyone realized how lucky we had been, for despite the defiant posture, the town was ill-equipped for a siege or a serious fight. Volmar admitted that the archers, though they had had some success in taking out the attackers, had wasted many arrows, and their aim was far from perfect under the pressure of an unfamiliar situation. Fortunately, the mercenaries had overestimated our defenses and had chosen not to risk losses before the main battle.
Renfred offered another reason to be grateful. “Flaming arrows are a horrible weapon,” he said, his speech already a little slurred. “They land on roofs and cause fires that can destroy a town from the inside in no time without the enemy setting foot through the gate. I only thought about it after it was all over.”
We looked fearfully at one another. A few richer houses were built out of stone, but most dwellings were timber and would have burned up like heaps of twigs. “God protected Disibodenberg from a terrible fate today, praised be His name.” The abbot crossed himself.
“Amen!”
“God also chose Hildegard to send us a message of courage!” Renfred exclaimed, emboldened by the ale. “She convinced us to stay and fight. Let’s drink to her health!”
They raised their cups with a cheerful noise, splashing some of the
