Adventure of Frieda 1

The woods thin at last, and Bruchsal opens below in a wash of carts, hens, and market cries. Frieda and her companions reach the road above the town as if they have simply come from any pilgrim path, not a hunted trail.

Ahead, a pair of riders linger near the inn yard, watching the street as if they own it. One wears the sober cut of a bishop's man beneath a travel cloak.

Matthis tightens his grip on the hidden ledger bundle, then nods toward a butcher's lane that runs behind the stalls and into the lower quarter.

Frieda sees the opening plainly now, the inn watched by scouts on one side and the safer back streets on the other. If she can thread the witnesses through the market and reach a safe house, the road to the Inquisitor stays open.

Frieda slips off the road and into the butcher's lane, keeping her cloak close as the noise of Bruchsal swallows her footsteps.

A hanging side of beef swings over the passage, and a stray splash from the wash trough darkens the stones at her boots.

The Witness ducks in behind her, then Matthis follows with the ledger bundle hugged tight beneath his arm.

At the far mouth of the lane, a market boy pauses with an empty basket and looks straight toward them.

Frieda reaches the bend unseen, but the wet stones leave a clear smear where her boot skids, and the boy starts to turn his head.

Frieda eases up behind the boy and pats his head like he is someone’s little nephew, not a lookout. The market noise keeps rolling, and the boy’s shoulders loosen at once.

The boy grins despite himself, and his eyes slide away from the wet smear on the stones. Behind him, the lane mouth stays clear.

Matthis shifts the ledger bundle higher under his arm and edges a step deeper into the shadow of the butcher’s wall. Sir Eleutherius remains at the bend, still as a post, keeping the street behind them in his sight.

He ducks out from the lane mouth at once, glancing back to make sure she follows. His basket knocks the wall, and the wet smear on the stones is left where it is, plain for anyone sharp enough to look.

Matthis tightens their grip on the ledger bundle and folds into the shadow after him. Sir Eleutherius turns from the street and falls in behind, his hand near his sword, giving the lane one last hard look.

The boy leads them past hanging cuts and a sloshing trough, then along a narrow side passage toward the mill house yard. The town noise dims behind the butcher’s wall, but the back door ahead stands half-open, with a stranger’s boots marked in fresh mud beside it.

Frieda keeps her pace easy, as if the lane were only another market walk. The butcher’s wall closes around them, and the half-open back door ahead takes on the look of a waiting decision.

She reaches the yard without hurry. The fresh mud by the door is still wet, and the prints point inward, as if someone has just slipped through and meant to be followed.

The Witness lingers by the wall, watching the doorway with a pale, prayerful stillness. Matthis angles the ledger bundle tighter under an arm, and Sir Eleutherius slows behind Frieda, eyes on the threshold.

From inside comes a scrape of wood, then a hushed voice cut off too quickly. The open door hangs wider by a finger’s breadth, and the mud prints seem freshly made, leading deeper into the mill house yard.

Frieda lifts her knuckles and gives the back door a light tap. The wood gives under her hand, and she eases it wider at once.

A rush of warm grain dust and sour mash breathes out of the mill house. Inside, a narrow passage is empty for half a heartbeat, then a shadow shifts beyond the jamb.

The boy recoils at the open doorway, then darts his gaze toward the lane as if expecting boots at his back.

Matthis tightens around the ledger bundle and steps half a pace in front of the witnesses. Sir Eleutherius squares himself beside Frieda, one hand lifting from his sword as he watches the dark interior.

From within, a chair scrapes hard across the floor. The open door swings another handspan, and a thin smear of fresh mud shows on the inner sill, as if someone has just crossed it with haste.

Frieda steps through the mill house threshold, and the warm, dusty air closes around her. The passage bends inward, cramped and dim, with the scrape of a chair still ringing somewhere ahead.

Her voice carries into the room. The boy outside flinches at the sound, and Matthis tightens their grip on the ledger bundle as if expecting an answer to turn into trouble.

A man appears in the inner doorway, broad-shouldered and flour-dusted, with one hand still on the chair he has shoved aside. Behind him, a back room stands half-lit, and the fresh mud on the sill marks a hurried crossing.

Master Henn looks from Frieda to the others, then toward the open yard. His jaw hardens, but he steps back from the doorway, making room without fully relaxing.

He shifts the chair fully aside and opens the back room wider. The mill house quiets at once, save for the faint creak of wood and the hush of the open yard beyond.

Matthis eases the ledger bundle closer to their chest, and the Market Boy edges toward the yard, still pale but no longer ready to bolt. Master Henn jerks his chin toward the back room, where the darkness now stands open like a promise.