Pilgrims of Promise (12 page)

Pieter and his boys drew deep breaths. Then, like the bursting of the sun from behind a heavy cloud, flaxen-haired Maria emerged from the darkened hall. She obediently stepped into the daylight, ignorant of the surprise waiting for her. For a moment, she simply stood in her place and looked about innocently. She wondered why Chiovo had been so mysterious and why he was waiting in the hall behind her.

Pieter stared speechlessly. It was as though more joy had filled his heart than he could contain, and he could do nothing but gawk in wonder. He stared through tear-blurred eyes at the beautiful maiden, and then suddenly dropped his staff and rushed toward her with arms outstretched. “Maria!” he cried.

The child’s jaw dropped and she trembled. “Papa Pieter!” she squealed. She raced across the courtyard. “Papa Pieter!”

The two fell into one another’s embrace, weeping and laughing. Solomon was leaping and barking happily, and the boys charged forward to wrap the pair with their arms, glad hearted and shouting. Oh, what a glorious reunion! It was hope realized, dreams come true; it was that rare moment when miracles are plainly seen and the goodness of God unquestioned.

Soon all four were chattering wildly, wiping tears and laughing. “Papa Pieter, I missed you so! And you, Otto and Heinz.”

“We oft wondered if we’d see you again.” Otto shook his head. “I am so—”

“Aye! Me, too!” Heinz’s face was bright and cheery. “It was hard going away.”

Maria nodded. “But you had to go. I wanted you to go.”

Chiovo handed Pieter his staff. “The
signora
has agreed to speak with you in the morning. Until then, my friends, you are to stay in the guest quarters, where food and refreshment await you.”

The old man thanked the monk. “In a moment, brother, just one moment.” He retrieved the cross stuffed in his belt and slowly handed it to Maria. “Ah, my dear. This is your cross, the one Karl carried for you on his journey, the one sworn to be returned to your hand.”

The girl took the cross lovingly. “Karl is gone from us,” she suddenly choked.

Astonished, Pieter nodded. “But how did you know?”

She wiped her eyes. “I had dreams, Papa. I saw him lying in some flowers that were tended by angels.”

The boys felt chills run down their spines.

“But all is well for him. He is at peace and happy. I know it.”

Pieter’s throat swelled, and he laid his hand atop her head.
A mystery to be sure
, he thought. “‘Tis true, my dear. Karl is with the angels now. We lost him near Genoa.”

Maria kissed the cross. “He was a dear brother and I loved him.”

Pieter took her under his arm and held her tightly.

“And Wil lives,” she then stated confidently.

“Aye, sister. So he does,” answered Pieter incredulously. “He will join us here in the spring, with others.”

Maria smiled and, with her good hand, touched both of her crosses. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you for coming back.”

Eventually, Pieter and the boys were led to a comfortable chamber adjacent to the lord’s apartments. They were given a modest-sized room with one bed and a snapping hearth. Servants delivered trays of olives and fruits, some roasted duck and baked fish. Four silver goblets accompanied a tankard of red wine, and a basket of bread was set neatly in the middle of the table.

The
signora
had given permission for Maria to take her evening supper with her friends, and the little girl quickly joined them at the table. Wanting to know everything, the group shared tales of the lost crusade, memory to memory, from one tragedy to the next. In turns they spoke of the
San Marco
, the miracle of Wil’s survival, of San Fruttuoso, and of hopes to return home. Maria talked of Anna and the abbey, of the lord and lady—and her special friend, a donkey named Paulus.

The conversation had continued for over an hour when Pieter noticed Maria beginning to glance frequently at the closed door. “Maria, are you expecting someone?” Pieter asked.

The girl’s cheeks flushed pink, and she looked at her plate. “No.”

Pieter thought her answer to be strained. “Are you sure?”

“
Ja
.”

“Hmm. Well then, please pass the wine!”

The old man had barely filled his goblet, however, when the door was flung open. All heads turned with a start and Maria giggled. There, to the utter astonishment of all, stood a familiar face. “Benedetto?” cried Pieter.

“
Si!”
laughed the minstrel. “
Si
, ‘tis me!” He ran to a very astonished Pieter and the boys and embraced them each. “You look well, all of you! And you’ve a dog?”

“Aye. Solomon is his name. ‘Tis a long story! But tell me, my friend, how is it you are here?”

The small man flopped onto the bed and shook his head. “Well, it comes to this: my heart was so wounded by our sufferings that I thought I could endure no more. I wanted only my simple life again. I thought to return to my dock, where I was known and where I had sung so many songs.” He pulled at his pointy black beard. “I hurried north, back to Fiesch before the snows. Soon after Michaelmas I was playing my lute along the Rhône, but it was not the same. I could think only of the two left here … and of you all. The dock gave me no joy, no peace. It was as if I no longer belonged there. So I came running back … nearly freezing in the Simplon, but I arrived in Arona to find Anna’s grave and Maria here in this kindly place.”

The room was quiet. The little minstrel sighed. “So that is my tale.”

Pieter nodded, approving the man’s decision. “You’ve done well, minstrel. You followed your heart along the path of love.”

Benedetto shrugged. “I have failed in many ways. My heart is often weak.”

“I am proud to be your friend.”

The minstrel’s spirit soared. He smiled happily. He had often remembered the old man’s rebuke by the shores of this very lake. It had been a worthy gift at the proper time. Now he was glad to have the man’s approval. Blushing, he reached for the lute ever hanging at his back. “So—” he winked at Maria “—shall we?”

Maria’s face brightened.
“Ja!”
she exclaimed eagerly.

“Pieter, we’ve a song for you. Many times we talked of your return, and we pretended to sing it to you.

“You see, when Maria was near death, she had dreams … many dreams and visions. When I found her, we spoke often of them and, together, we wrote a song. She loved me to sing it as she fell to sleep. I call it ‘Maria’s Song.’”

The girl blushed.
“You
wrote it.”

“
Si
, but
you
gave me the visions!” Benedetto smiled and plucked a few notes. Maria nodded and closed her eyes as the minstrel began to strum a pleasant, dreamy tune—one melodic for its time and enchanting.

  Let me take you by the hand, and let us laugh beneath the sun.

  Let us fly amongst the songbirds, in the springtime meadows run.

  For with butterflies I’ve floated, toward the heavens I have raced;

  In the valley of the flowers I have danced in God’s embrace.

  Like the moths and like the magpies, like the seabirds and the bees,

  We are children of the Master borne by currents in the breeze.

  We are butterflies emerging, we are buds about to burst.

  We are spirits soaring freely far from hunger and from thirst.

  Let us tiptoe on the sunbeams and swim across the sky;

  Let us slide along the rainbows and sing from heaven high!

Chapter Six

GOD WITH US

I
n San Fruttuoso, Heinrich stood beneath an umbrella pine and stared unseeing at the blue bay. He had kept his suffering deep within—he thought it uncharitable to burden others with his private sorrows. But no day had passed without his heart rending over the loss of Karl. He had walked day and night along the quiet beach and he had sat alone in the citrus groves, but he had found no solace.

It would have helped the man if Wil had forgiven him, if his eldest could have shared in his grief. He had attempted to engage his son on a few occasions, but the lad would simply not respond. Heinrich finally had, perhaps wisely, chosen to offer distance in the hope that time might serve a healing course.

The man sighed and looked upward at the underside of the tall pine. Memories of Sister Anoush and the church of
Santa Maria in Domnica
filled his mind. The church had a garden shaded by just such a tree. He stared at the green needles and shuddered as he remembered his descent into misery.
Thanks be to God for the blessed sister and her kindness.

“I’ve seen only sadness in your eyes since the day you came,” said Stefano from behind.

Startled, Heinrich spun about. “Eh?”

The monk looked at the man kindly. “I said, you seem always sad.”

Heinrich shrugged.

“Is it Karl that weighs so heavy on your heart?”

The baker nodded.

“I’ve no children of my own, so I dare not claim to know your grief. But I surely believe you suffer for it.”

“I see his face and hear his voice everywhere,” Heinrich murmured.

Stefano looked carefully at the man. “And why not? You loved him.”

The two stood quietly for a few moments before the monk added, “And you suffer for the want of Wil’s forgiveness as well.”

“
Ja
.” Heinrich sat down and tossed a stone. “I’ve told him I am sorry, I’ve admitted all I know, and I’ve asked his forgiveness …”

“Ah, my friend, the lad loves you, I am sure of it. He will forgive you in time. His love assures that.”

Heinrich turned a hopeful eye to the monk. “It would be a good thing.”

Stefano nodded. “Indeed.” The monk’s gaze drifted over the bay, and he soon lost himself in reflection. He and the baker sat quietly by the shore as the waves lapped lightly and gentle breezes blew. In time the monk spoke. “I fear we oft miss the mark when we think only of forgiveness.”

Heinrich turned his face toward the man.

“It is wondrous, to be sure, but it is only part of something far greater. I used to walk about this very shore pleading for God’s mercy. Day and night I groaned and beat upon my breast. Then, when I felt I had finally received His forgiveness, I would spend many days praising Him for it. It was all I knew of Him.

“One warm evening, I was rebuked for these things by a wise monk from Cypress. He taught me that God’s mercy is not His
only
gift, it is just the beginning of gifts.” Stefano leaned close to Heinrich. “My friend, He offers us so much more than forgiveness; He offers us the whole of His love.”

The baker stared thoughtfully at the monk. He, too, had spent years seeking mercy. He had spent precious few moments considering the immeasurable vastness of God’s love.

“Forgiveness, my brother, is something God
does
for us, but love is what He
is
for us.”

Heinrich wondered, but suddenly enlivened by the monk’s good news, his mind began to whirl. A voice from one side interrupted his thoughts.

“‘Tis a good day.”

The two men turned. “Ah, Frieda. Yes, of course,” answered Stefano, slightly annoyed at the intrusion.

The girl stepped alongside the pair. “I wonder about Pieter and the others. Do you think they’ll celebrate the Advent with Maria and Anna?”

Heinrich answered. “Well, we can only hope.”

Frieda stared quietly at the water and wrapped a thin blanket over her shoulders. She had braided her hair and was dressed in her new black gown. Heinrich thought her to be beautiful, and he sensed Wil had noticed as well.

“How is my son?”

“He grows better every day,” Frieda answered with a kindly smile. “His wounds are fast healing and—he is different than before the
San Marco.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Heinrich mumbled with a sudden quality of self-pity.

Frieda looked at the man with compassion but answered firmly, “He’s cause to be angry with you.”

The man was surprised. He was also weary and frustrated. “How would you know about that?”

“By your words, sir, by your own words.”

Heinrich fell silent. He had shared a great deal of his past with the girl while in camp in Genoa and here at San Fruttuoso as well. “I thought to protect them all from m’self by my penance.”

“Who?”

“Wil and his brother … m’wife as well.”

Frieda thought for a moment. “True enough. But you also wanted to cleanse your own soul, and you failed to consider the cost to them.”

Heinrich recoiled from her remarks and fell silent. Always inward, always melancholy, the man retreated deep within himself.
She’d be right to say it; ‘tis truth in her words,
he thought.
I did not consider the cost in full.
The weight of shame lay heavy on his spirit when he felt the touch of the damsel’s hand on his arm.

“Good sir, I do not blame you, nor do I think Wil blames you. He only needs to know that
you
know. He needs to know that you understand how terrible the cost was to him and to Karl… and to their mother.”

Heinrich nodded and glanced at Stefano. “You are wise beyond your years, Frieda, and you humble me. I still have much to learn.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked away.

The season of Advent brought some sadness to the cloister. Old Brother Nectarious was found cold in his bed, but the smile locked upon his face gave the community a bit of peace as they prepared him for burial. Another was quite ill—a young monk who had arrived just two years prior from an abbey in Lombardy. His absence from the chapter was an immediate loss, for he was the only one blessed with a voice pleasing in song. The Rule of Benedict had expressly required readings at meals and singing be done by those so gifted. “Monastics will read and sing, not according to rank, but according to their ability to benefit their hearers.” It was a simple enough rule, and the vacancy left by the young man’s absence was making many a painful moment for the brethren and guests alike!

Though the monks were required to eat in silence (except for the readings), they were happy to invite their guests to a later meal offered for their pleasure. The children had followed the monks’ schedule rather closely—from the fifteenth day of September until the beginning of Lent they ate in the midafternoon. From Lent to Easter they would be eating their main meal in the evening. So for the feast of Christmas, the monks invited their guests to a gracious meal beginning just before the bells of compline.

Seated on long benches along their trestle tables, the children stared open mouthed at the happy presentation the delighted brethren offered. Without a prior, the monks seemed happy to stretch the limits of moderation, if only a little. Heinrich had helped bake loaves of honey-laced rolls—his duties in the bakery had been assigned weeks earlier. To the hurrahs of the company, the man bowed deeply as baskets of his handiwork were passed about.

“And have them try my
focaccia!”
cried Patroclus. Focaccia was a flatbread topped according to the season. Patroclus had heaped anchovies and boiled mushrooms atop the many loaves, along with slices of fresh olives and chopped garlic. Eager hands reached for it!

The breads were followed by platters of roasted boar meat, still sizzling from the spit, and steaming shellfish. “Something green and something blue!” cried Stefano as he set them before the flying fingers of the children. A plate of bream seasoned with pine nuts was set beside a fricassee of ground almonds, juniper berries, olive oil, and rabbit on a bed of greens.

Frieda and Wil sat together and said little as they stuffed themselves. Wil had long since set the offense of the girl’s rebuke aside, though he had not broached the subject again. They laughed and reached for mead and ale.

“Was it worth the work?” cried Wil to his company.

“Aye!” they shouted. Indeed, for every bite they took they had a memory. Whether threshing or netting fish, shaking olives or crushing them, hunting boar with Brother Risto, or filling the boats with lemons, the children had spent these past ten weeks hard at work. “And what ‘ave
you
done?” shouted one playfully.

Wil nodded and stood. The room fell quiet. “My brothers and sisters, I am thankful to God for my life and thankful to each of you for helping Him to save it. Frieda has been my faithful nurse, and I owe her much.” He turned an affectionate eye toward the blushing maiden and continued. “My strength is fast returning. None can know how much I wish to climb an olive tree or carry a load of lemons! Soon I will be working by your sides. Until then, I am banished to the monks’ chamber, where I copy Scripture with them.” He held up ink-stained hands and laughed. “Ink, not calluses!”

The room cheered and the lad sat down. He had regained much of his former weight, though he had always been lean. His skin had good color; his eyes were clear. Sharp featured and handsome—his scars not with standing—he inspired all who were near with a certain presence that defied words. His long blond hair and keen blue eyes conveyed a sense of regal disposition and authority. The son of a baker, he seemed more a prince.

Frieda, however, saw things more deeply. She had known the arrogance of his former self, the brooding selfishness that had so offended her. Through their short acquaintance, however, she had noticed the seeds of humility taking root in a heart softened by sorrows. The young man now seemed to be evidencing the presence of true strength and character. She had seen it in small ways: the way he helped the little ones, the way he worked with the monks, the way he touched her hand. She could see a change in his eyes; they had become softer, more apt to reflect the feeling of another’s sadness. All that is, except his father’s.

It was the Epiphany, January 6 in the year of our Lord 1213—the feast that celebrated the wise men’s visit with the Holy Child. The twelve days of Christmas were now ending, and quiet had settled over San Fruttuoso. After an ample midday meal and when the offices of the day were served, Brother Stefano summoned Wil to a quiet place in the arcade.