Pilgrims of Promise (13 page)

“My son, I’ve a gift for you.”

Surprised, Wil waited.

Stefano reached behind a screen and retrieved a longbow and quiver filled with arrows. Wil’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. “For me?”

“Aye, lad. It seems our departed friend, Brother Nectarious, had a few surprises for us under his bed! He left us notes attached to a number of gifts.” Stefano smiled. “Of course, we are all sworn to poverty, and the hoarding of possessions is a serious offense. His note began with his confession and a plea for the priest to pray loudly and often for his miserable soul… and he left him two gold coins ‘in gratitude’ for the father’s faithful remembrance!

“I shall very much miss the old fellow. Ah, well, to you he left this.” Stefano held the bow for a long moment, almost covetously, then handed it to Wil. “The note says it was given to him while on crusade by a mortally wounded Englishman.”

Wil received the gift in astonishment. He stroked the smooth yew wood and studied the various designs etched on it. “Brother Nectarious was on crusade?”

“
Ja
. Nectarious was once a soldier named Morello. He served under three Christian kings of Jerusalem and fought against the armies of Saladin in the Holy City, in Tiberias, Tyre, Acre, and places I’ve since forgotten.

“This longbow is English yew, the best wood in all the world for archers; heartwood for the inside, sapwood for the front. And notice the etching, here, just above the handle.
‘Vincit qui patior’
—'He who suffers, conquers.’

“He writes that the bow was given a name during a terrible, fearsome slaughter near Acre. The archer named it ‘Emmanuel’… God with us.”

Wil stared at the bow reverently. To imagine this had fired arrows at the infidels in defense of the Cross was staggering to the young man. To hold this instrument of judgment in his own hands, to carry a weapon that had once been in the holy places filled him with awe. “Emmanuel,” he whispered.

“Nectarious believed the bow might serve in your recovery. By pulling its string, you’ll strengthen your arms, your chest, your shoulders, and your back. You’ll needs pull a short distance at a time, and over the weeks to come you’ll find the string coming ever closer to your ear.”

“I’ve ne’er shot one before.”

“We’ll be glad to teach you. None knew the old scoundrel had this hidden, else we’d have used it ourselves! We’ve a few poor bows lying about, but none such as this. You’ll learn quick enough, then you can hunt game for us!”

“Ha!” cried Wil. “Indeed I shall!”

“And here, his quiver and arrows. Seems the heads need sharpening, but the shafts are ash and seem strong enough. The fletching is sound; the feathers look like swan to me. You may want to steam them a bit. Cedar mist is best.”

Wil took the leather quiver and lifted a few of the arrows from it. “Different heads.”

Stefano nodded. “Most are barbed broadheads … good for hunting man or beast. I see two for piercing armor.”

Wil marveled at his gift. “But why for me?”

The monk shrugged. “He does not say.”

Wil pulled on the bowstring and grimaced. “Perhaps by springtime.”

Wil’s company was soon invited to participate in the self-denial of Lent. The monks suggested they forego sweet rolls and mead, excess in any foods, and loud laughter. With so much to be thankful for, the young Christians agreed that taking time to consider the sufferings of Christ was a small thing to do, and so they quickly agreed. The season passed slowly, as one might expect, and the abundance of chores the monks seemed ever to require did not shorten it. Whether fishing or harvesting citrus, mending nets, repairing roofs, or plaiting baskets, many hands were kept very busy.

In this oft-drizzly season, Wil spent whatever time he could with Emmanuel. He gradually increased his draw by working each arm each day. By the Ides of March he was able to release his first arrow. His shot drew loud jeers from his laughing comrades as it careened away from his target and nearly pierced a wheel of cheese by the refectory! But the lad laughed as loud as the rest, thrilled to have the strength to feel the feathers by his cheek.

Heinrich had been kind to his son for these many weeks but had still not received the young man’s forgiveness. It was a burden he was willing to bear, though it was heavy. He had hoped time might have prepared an opportunity to offer his heart, but it had not. He ventured a few comments, but his attempts were dismissed politely. So he spent his days helping the monks’ baker.

The monk had been secretly taught the arts of confectionery by his teacher, a French monk, once a lord in Paris. The man loved testing his skills with jams and egg whites, and together with Heinrich, the two invented any number of crepes and memorable pastries that they tasted in private—the Lent notwithstanding!

But when he was not in the bakery, Heinrich spent long hours walking the shore with his Laubusbach stone rolling between his fingers. He was usually alone but sometimes was seen in the company of Stefano or even Frieda. Frieda loved hearing stories of Heinrich’s life, especially of his times with Emma and Lukas. She oft sat spellbound as the man wandered through the years gone by, and for Heinrich the journey backward was comforting. For him, this season of denial was one of quiet reflection and rest.

Frieda spent her Sabbath days in the sunny arches of the arcade with quills in hand. The monks’ priest, the oft-elusive Father Frederico, had presented her with a precious gift at the Epiphany—quills and ink. Her companions were astonished to then learn that she knew how to write—they had known nothing of her family’s past station.

“I could read that if you’d let me,” said Wil on Palm Sunday. He craned his neck, and the girl quickly turned her parchment away.

“I’d rather you not, for m’hand is poor.”

“I would tell if it were so.”

“I know,” she answered. “Which is exactly why I do not want you watching!” She smiled flirtatiously.

Wil leaned close. The warm air of spring had begun to heat his blood, and the smell of the young woman’s hair enchanted him. “Please?”

Frieda blushed and turned her head shyly.

Smiling, Wil reached his forefinger toward the girl’s face and laid it lightly atop her dimpled chin. “I’d like very much to—”

Before the lad could say another word, the voice of Stefano rang loudly in his ear. “Wil, you’re needed in the vineyard.”

Both Wil and Frieda turned with a start.

“Come with me to the vineyard,” Stefano ordered sternly.

“But ‘tis the Sabbath!” protested Wil.

The monk growled. He was more concerned with pruning the young man’s desires than nipping a twig! “
Ja,
Sabbath indeed. Come, follow me.”

The monk and Wil walked quietly up the slope and paused at the first of many rows of muscat grapes. “I see buds,” began Stefano.

Wil grumbled.

“Beware, my son. What say you to a wedding?”

Wil blushed. “A wedding? Me? Now? Ha, methinks not.”

“Then as I said, beware.”

The monk sat on a rock and bade Wil to follow. He set a weed between his teeth. “Now, on other matters. Seems we’ve but one week more together. According to your father, your journey begins the day past Easter.”

“Aye, brother. I long to know of m’sister. I long to see her. It will be the middle of April before we leave and nearly the end when we arrive.”

Stefano nodded sympathetically. “Are you so certain she is alive?” The question was intended to prepare the lad, but it stung.

“Aye!” snapped Wil as he stood. “I’ll believe nothing else unless I see her grave!”

The monk changed course. “And what shall you say to her?”

The young man threw a stone and thought for a moment. His mind flew to the awful moment in the castle of Domodossola when he denied that Maria was his sister—when he was ashamed of her deformity and the pitiful condition of his other comrades. He could see the haughty smile of the lord’s daughter he had hoped to impress, and he felt sickened by it. “I’ll beg her forgiveness. I betrayed her … and others … and am still ashamed.”

“Should
she forgive you?”

The question confused the lad. “I … I don’t know if she
should
or not. I only know that I
hope
she does.”

“Forgiveness, my son, is the fruit of humility, a gift of grace. It seems that some little children by nature still have that abiding touch of heaven in their spirits. They usually forgive with greater ease than a man. Men want justice, you see … except for themselves, in which case they want mercy. But I say this: woe to him who seeks to be forgiven yet does not forgive. That man is a pathetic fool, one filled with arrogance and the disease of the self. A man like that gives no thought to the wonder of love.”

Wil said nothing. He knew exactly what point the monk was making.

Stefano took a long breath. “Well, on other matters. We need to speak of your pilgrims. First, I must warn you of something. Before All Saints’, a lemon merchant had told two of our brothers that some Genoese soldiers were asking the folk of Camogli if any had seen crusading children. Apparently a young man named Paul caused great mischief in Genoa, and many of his followers were caught.”

Wil chilled. “Do you know their fate?”

“Some were hanged … maybe most.”

Wil shook his head. “And why did you not tell us before this?”

Stefano shrugged. “We wanted you to delight in a deep rest before your next trials. We’ve kept sentries deep in the mountain trail since then and have kept a sharp eye on the bay. We’ve seen or heard nothing since, so we are fairly certain the search is long since over. Nevertheless, you should be wary. The Genoese are spiteful, vengeful people.

“Now, a few more things. We have been approached by a number of boys and girls who would like to stay. Most tell us they were cast away from their homes or had severe lives in their villages. Others seem moved by pious devotion.”

“How many?”

“Several. We’ve not taken a final count, but it seems nearly all the girls and about half the boys.”

Wil stood and began to pace, deep in thought. “Can you take proper care of them?”

Stefano smiled to himself.
A true leader
, he thought. “
Ja,
young sir. We’ve need of more hands and can give them a good life until they know God’s will for themselves. The boys would remain here; we’ve already received permission from our abbot in residence near Savona. We dispatched a messenger after Martinmas in anticipation of this question. Seems the abbot believes well soon have a prior to rule us. He’s been granted some holdings from several benefactors in Milan and has visions of San Fruttuoso blossoming into much more than it is now.”

Wil nodded. “I like it as it is. So what of the girls?”

Stefano brightened. “Ah, I have especially good news for the girls! It seems a new community is to be established near Assisi, one begun by a woman named Clare who’s been given the blessing of the bishop. She was a wealthy lord’s daughter, drawn to the message of Brother Francis—of whom we’ve heard much—and now given to the freedom of poverty. Her holiness has attracted many others who wish to shed the weight of their comforts for the liberty of service.

“We’ve learned of a group of seven ladies from Genoa who will be making their pilgrimage on the feast of the Assumption. A messenger has made secret communication with them, and they have willingly agreed to accept the girls who wish to join them.”

“You know of this Assisi?” asked Wil.

“I once traveled there, about six years ago on my pilgrimage to Rome. It is a marvelous place—a wide valley of olives and rose gardens. Marvelous. However, we are told the community would probably begin in San Damiano, where Clare is at present. I’ve ne’er been there, but I would think your friends would have a good life wherever these women go.”

Wil nodded. “I must trust you in this. Has the order a name?”

“It is no formal order yet, at least not that we’ve been told. Their desire has been approved by Brother Francis of Assisi, however, and some now call themselves the Poor Clares. I would expect the pope’s blessing to be granted in due time.”

“Did you speak to them about all this?”

Stefano shook his head. “Not without the permission of yourself and
Herr
Heinrich.”