Pilgrims of Promise (14 page)

Wil sighed. The vineyard was terraced into the mountain’s breast, and from that vantage one could see the cloister below. The young man turned his face toward the youthful, gangly bodies of his comrades, and he watched them frolic and play under the Sabbath sun.

“It is like paradise here,” he said. “The air smells sweet, the water is clean and warm. The sky is usually blue, and at night it is filled with stars.” He faced Stefano. “Are you at risk of pirates?”

“We’ve none for years. The Venetians swept most of them from the eastern sea and the Genoese from these parts. The times they did come, we spilled their blood ourselves.”

“You’ll teach the boys to fight?”

“Aye, but more to pray.”

Wil nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve no right to hold them. Seems a good thing for them to stay. Have you talked to my … my father?”

“I have. He agrees with you.”

Wil said nothing for a moment, then mumbled, “You think me wrong and stiff necked toward him.”

“No man can force another to forgive. Your father has admitted his failings. I’ve heard you say that he has clearly confessed to you the great loss he caused your family. You said he was particular in his confession. He can do no more.”

The young man looked away. “When I see him shuffling about, he seems old to me. Sometimes I feel pity for him, but… but…”

“He does not want your pity, my son.”

Wil stared at the sky, then at the palms. It was early April, and all the world felt fresh. Easter was fast coming, and he thought of new beginnings. “I suppose I am no better than he, brother. I know this in my mind. And Pieter reminds me that
my
hard heart may be the greatest sin of all. These things I know, yet I cannot say the words to him.”

Easter Sunday came on the fourteenth of April. It was a rainy day, but Father Frederico offered such a pleasant surprise that none gave it mind. He preached a brief homily to the monks, then turned to his guests and delivered a simple farewell message translated into German by Stefano. The pilgrims sat fixed on the man as he spoke of Christ as the Way of suffering, the Truth incarnate, and the Life to whom all belonged. They had traveled along their own journey of sorrows, and to imagine the Christ as having endured the same—and more—was oddly comforting. The God they worshiped was not without empathy; He had, indeed, touched His feet upon a world beset by hardship—upon the very world they themselves had been called to endure.

For Heinrich, the sudden realization that it was the Christ who had pursued him all along his own burdensome path was a moment of particular inspiration. The man nearly cried out.
This Christ, this Jesus, is the One to whom the others had been pointing! It is He who has given me sight; it is He who has set me free. The truth is alive and it is He!

For all of them, the notion of new life as new persons—changed persons, redeemed ones—was one that abruptly began to create a change in their thinking. A vague excitement stirred in their bellies, an anticipation of a resurrection yet undefined. It was a message of mystery: They would soon become that which they already were; they would soon belong where they already did. For these former crusaders and their beloved baker, the priest’s homily was one never to be forgotten.

The holy day was spent peacefully. The monks provided a generous feast, complete with many of the treats Heinrich and the Frenchman had concocted during Lent. But alas, the blessed day soon passed, and night fell upon a somber group of fellows preparing to bid one another a sad farewell on the morning to follow.

A misty dawn greeted the bells of prime. The church bell pealed slowly, most thought even sadly. Within the hour Wil and his company were fed and prayed over. Most fought tears as they assembled along the sandy beach they had learned to love so very much.

Heinrich stood erect and ready. He had gained weight, and his spirit had healed some, though the distance between him and his son was becoming a great source of frustration. The gentle man had allowed the monks’ barber to trim his hair and beard. His eye patch and old boots were oiled, his vest repaired. The Stedinger dagger was stuffed into his belt, and over his shoulder was slung his satchel, still bearing his Laubusbach stone and the pouch of Anoush’s gold. He had offered the monks one gold coin for each child remaining, but they would not have it. Instead, they filled the remaining space in his satchel with foodstuffs enough for the journey to Arona.

“Heinrich,” said Brother Petroclus as he approached with Stefano and the brethren. “Heinrich, we have prayed over all of you this morning.”

“Thanks be to every one of you,” answered the baker. He cleared his throat, stiffened, and then nervously offered, “And may God above always light your way with His truth and give you a life of belonging.”

Stefano translated, and the amazed brethren stood dumfounded, astonished at the simple man’s profound blessing. Brother Petroclus finally spoke. “Dear man, we receive your kindness with gratitude. Thanks be to God.

“Now this, my son.” The monk turned to another and received a sheathed sword in the palms of his outstretched hands. He then returned to the baker. “Heinrich of Weyer, it was the desire of our late brother, Nectarious, to have this presented to you for the protection of your young pilgrims.”

Heinrich’s eye widened as he took the gift. A pang of fear ran through him suddenly.
I am a bound man, not permitted a weapon,
he thought.

“Draw the sword, Heinrich,” said Petroclus. “Draw the sword.”

The baker held the sheath between his knees and drew the gleaming sword into the morning’s light. It was a heavy short-sword, about the length of his arm. It was perfect for one-handed use by a strong man.

“Look, there.” Petroclus pointed to the inscription. “‘
Veritas Regnare
… Truth Reigns.’ According to a note our old brother left, this was his own sword in Palestine. I saw it used here against Saracen pirates. It has drawn much blood in the cause of good.

“Now, we must tie it at your hip so you can draw it without using your knees!”

Heinrich let the sun glimmer on the sharp edge of the blade. “I’ve no words at all,” he offered.

“None needed.” Stefano laughed. “Old Nectarious can’t hear you!”

The children laughed. Then Wil stepped forward. The lad was dressed in his new black garments, like the others. His leggings were of heavy cloth, his hooded tunic a bit thinner. A braided leather belt girded his waist. He had been given good shoes that laced at his ankles. A thick blanket was tied to his back alongside the quiver slung over his shoulder. The smith had sharpened his arrowheads and oiled his bow with resin and beeswax before wrapping it in canvas. The lad held Emmanuel proudly and adjusted his satchel. It had been repaired and oiled and filled with provisions. He raised his hands over the company and spoke. “Brothers and sisters, ‘tis time. Those leaving with me need join me now.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Frieda stepped forward. She moved through her companions gracefully, touching and kissing many until she emerged to walk boldly to Wil’s side. The girl was dressed in a hooded black gown that fell to her feet. She walked in comfortable shoes not unlike Wil’s. She had also been given a new satchel filled for the journey, and across her back was tied a blanket. In her belt she had placed a bouquet of springtime flowers, and her braids were tied with thin green vines.

Next came fifteen-year-old Helmut, the lad from the region of Bremen in the far north of the German empire. His hair had been trimmed, and his narrow face had filled a little. He had followed Wil for many miles and would follow him again. Rudolf of Liestal was the next to step forward. Broad shouldered and kindly, hardworking like his parents in the mountains so far away, he was ready to make his way home.

Thirty-four other pairs of feet began to rock. Eyes darted about and a dull murmur spread. Wil was surprised. He thought at least four or five others were coming. “Do any others wish to join us?”

The group fell silent, many now looking downward.

“Do not be ashamed!” said Wil. “If you have chosen to stay, you have chosen wisely. I wish you the peace of God.” He cast a quick look at Ava, the feisty little redhead. He thought she would surely have joined them.

The girl smiled and winked. “I like the sunshine,” she quipped.

Wil laughed—they all laughed. Then, with no more ceremony but many tears, those few who were leaving embraced those many who had chosen to remain. Heartfelt thanks were offered to the good monks of San Fruttuoso, and their journey was begun.

Brother Stefano helped row the boat carrying the five pilgrims away from their refuge. It was a quiet journey under a clearing sky that turned the waters of the bay deep blue. Light morning breezes nudged the curling mists away, and Wil’s small company stared silently at the green mountains now emerging into full view. The heat of the sun, the rhythmic glide of the boat, and the melodic cries of seabirds left most drifting toward sleep. Wil imagined Pieter with Maria.
He’d have been there with her all this winter past,
he mused.
Soon she’ll pick him springtime flowers by the bushel
He took a deep breath, then groaned inwardly as the unbidden thought came.
Unless the monks buried her.

As the craft moved from the bay and into the open sea, however, all began to stir. The breezes that had chased the mists had also nudged the water into easy swells. The small boat now dipped and rose lightly, occasionally plowing through a disappearing furrow that splashed the crew with a refreshing spray.

It was all too soon for Heinrich when the oarsmen pulled their final stroke and slid the craft against the pebbly shoreline of Camogli’s cove. Most of the village’s fishermen were far into the sea, having left a few old men behind to mend nets and pitch some leaky hulls. The baker noticed pairs of village women ambling along the brick streets. Each had one elbow wrapped round a friend’s while the other cradled a basket filled with bread or cheese. He smiled and waved politely at an old woman who returned his gesture with a toothless grin.

“From here you know your way?” asked Stefano.

“
Ja
,” answered Heinrich. “The lad and I reviewed the route with Pieter before he left, and you agreed it to be a good one.”

The monk nodded. “At least as far as Arona. From there, you need pray to God.” He smiled.

Wil joined the pair. “After Arona we’ll find no monasteries until the far side of the mountains.”

“They are there for those who seek them,” answered Stefano.

“Well, methinks I should have sought them on our journey south when I’d so many little souls to tend. Pieter suggested it at camp a few times, but he said he knew of very few close to our route, especially on our mountain trails. And I refused to stray from the quickest route … we all thought we were too far behind the others.”

“Perhaps you need to heed the words of the old man more. We brothers are here to serve others as a place of refuge in a dangerous world.”

“Well, I’d reasons to not trust most monks in those times.” He cast a quick glance at his father. “So I gave the idea little thought.”

“Some brothers you should not trust. When I was a novice, I caught a monk in a grievous act. I could not understand. His piety and devotion were an inspiration to all of us. My dean told me this: he said, ‘Where the light is brightest, the shadows are darkest.’ Remember that, lad.”

A weathered old woman suddenly appeared at Stefano’s side and pointed to the castle. “C’
é un ragazzo nel prigione!”