Pilgrims of Promise (31 page)

Realizing that Wil and Heinrich had the situation under control, Alwin quickly turned about in search of more trouble. Sucking air hard into his lungs, he slew an onrushing footman, then cast a wild eye at the terror all about. “There!” he shouted. “Benedetto!”

Joining Alwin, Heinrich and Wil fought their way toward the minstrel. Wil clutched the man’s sleeve. “Come!” he shouted. As Wil had hoped, the army was suddenly confused, but the men knew that they must escape now—in that brief moment of uncertainty.

Pieter watched the four men struggle toward him within the crushing mob. “Hurry!” he cried over the din. “Hurry!” He waved his staff and urged them on, and when he thought them close enough, he ventured into the flood tide to join them.

Fearing for the old fellow’s safety, Wil wrapped his arms around Pieter’s waist and hoisted him over his shoulder. “Hang on, Pieter!” he cried. “Hang on!”

“Keep moving, son!” shouted Heinrich. “Hurry!” The band struggled forward, hard pressed on all sides by the crushing torrent of screaming folk. They finally burst through the narrow, choked gate and sprinted awkwardly forward within the widening stampede into the free air beyond. It was then that the baker looked over his shoulder. “Oh, dear God above!” he exclaimed. “Archers!”

The group ran frantically as a volley of arrows flew toward it. To either side tumbled men, women, and children writhing in pain. Another volley then flew and yet another. Pieter, bouncing along over Wil’s shoulder, lifted his head and groaned. He could see the terror in the faces behind and the agony and pain of those struck. “Have mercy on us, Lord. Have mercy on us!”

The comrades ran on, beyond the reach of the arrows, and did not stop until they were unable to take another step. Gasping for air, they collapsed in a shadowed wood a safe distance from the burning town.

All eyes scanned the carnage and the death strewn about Olten. Thankful to be alive, the five retreated deeper into the wood, where they rested before moving on to join their fellows.

“By God, what happened to me?” Alwin finally croaked. “Methinks my skull is broken!”

“Thy life was spared,” answered Pieter sarcastically.

“You! ‘Twas you who struck me on the head!”

“Aye, and what of it?” The old priest was in no mood for a lecture.

Alwin rubbed his head and grumbled, “Thank you.”

Pieter nodded and grinned.

“Seems a second town now burns in your wake, Pieter!” Alwin said with a painful chuckle.

“Nay.” Wil sighed. “This makes three.”

By midafternoon, the weary pilgrims were reunited by the spring-fed pool Pieter had described. Wil took an immediate accounting of his tired, dirty, and still trembling band and was relieved to confirm that all had survived. A few of their provisions had fallen from Paulus’s back, but all their coins were still safe.

All were accounted for, but all were not well. Pieter collapsed into Otto’s sure hands, and the old fellow was laid gently down upon the green grass. “Pieter?” asked the lad.

“
Ja
, boy. I am weary beyond words.” His voice trailed away and he fainted.

Maria ran to the old man’s side and wiped his face with a rag dipped in the cool water of the pool. “I love you, Papa,” she whispered. Frieda joined her, and soon Pieter stirred, only to smile and drift into a peaceful sleep.

With their beloved shepherd resting, the other travelers circled the pool and quietly rinsed their soot-blackened skin with clean water. Saying little, they each watched the grime swirl slowly away, and they stared into their reflections with wonder. Some had done a similar thing so many months before in a different place and at a time when they had no knowledge of things that were to come. The innocence of their former likeness was now clouded with the residue of a world beset by sorrows. Yet for most, the visions of themselves were not fouled by the stains falling from their bodies, but rather bettered. For the curling shadows drifting by their rippled faces were certain evidence of wisdom gained.

Lowering his fingers from his scar, Wil pulled himself away from the water’s edge and took his bride by the hand. She, still anxious from the day’s horrors, embraced her young husband and began to weep softly. “Oh, Wil, thanks be to God.”

The lad nodded and kissed her before turning to call his company to order. He glanced about the nearby roadway with some concern and then surveyed the faces gathered about him. “We must give Pieter some rest. There, in that forest we should make our camp. ‘Tis out of sight, near this good water, and cool with heavy shade.”

“And what of Dorothea?” challenged Otto.

“
Ja
, Wil. She’s likely in need of help,” added young Friederich. “She was always there for me. We cannot leave her to those devils.”

Wil nodded. He had been thinking the very same thing.

Pieter awoke with a start and opened his eyes to the blue July sky above. “Pray, lad.”

“Eh?”

“Always pray first.”

Wil grunted. “I’m no priest. You pray.”

Pieter took Heinrich’s hand and sat up slowly. With a moan and a heave, he then stood on wobbly legs and sighed wearily. “You need to learn, boy.”

Wil grumbled, then beckoned all to follow him away from the pool and to the cover of a hardwood forest rising steeply against the breast of the round-topped mountain they’d soon cross. The forest floor was free from brush and soft with a thick blanket of rotting leaves. Mighty oaks and beech spread their arms wide and rustled happily in a light, cool breeze. It was a good place to rest.

Friederich smiled and cocked his ears. “The trees say we’re welcome here!”

His remark was met with a few snickers until Otto scolded them all. “He has a special gift, believe me. He hears the whispers of the trees when the breeze blows.”

The boy planted his fists on his hips. “Tis true!”

Maria led Paulus to a young tree and tied him loosely to its trunk. She rubbed his soft muzzle and kissed his long face. “I love you, Paulus!” she whispered. The beast shook his head, as if delighted, then brayed happily.

“A good friend is worth much!” Heinrich chuckled.

The six-year-old giggled.
“Herr
Heinrich—”

“Nay, child. Remember you are to call me ‘Papa’ or
‘Vati.’”
The baker knelt and, with his only hand, took Maria’s only good hand.

The man’s kindness illumined the girl’s pink face with a happy joy that could have softened the blackest heart of Christendom. “
Vati
,” she said. She recited it to herself almost reverently until she pecked Heinrich on the cheek and danced away.

The baker’s eye followed her as she pranced happily midst the sturdy timbers of the forest. Her flaxen hair had been plaited into braids that bounced by each ear. Her new gown was a bit too short and revealed her skinny ankles that rose out of her slightly oversized shoes. Heinrich chuckled. The man was happy for her. He had noticed Frieda’s kindness to her over these past months. Unlike Maria’s mother, Frieda was concerned to shelter the girl from the ridicule that her deformed arm so often prompted. The young bride had charitably offered to sew one of Maria’s sleeves closed.
Two angels among us,
he said to himself.

Within the half hour, Wil’s company had built a small fire and had shared a much-needed meal of cheese and salted pork. With the loss of some provisions from Paulus’s back, it was hoped they’d have enough food for the three-day journey to Basel. However, they were not yet ready to march on. The question still nagging them all was immediately raised once more. “Now, what of Dorothea?” blurted Friederich.

“I’ve not forgotten,” answered Wil.

“And?” Otto’s brows were furrowed and his fists were clenched. Loyal to things right, the stout lad would not rest as long as the beloved lady was at risk.

Heinrich was cautious. “Boys, we cannot venture to Olten now. The highway is filled with those fleeing; the soldiers are likely having their way with whom they will. We cannot save her.”

Friederich’s bony face hardened. The eight-year-old was brave to be sure—and loyal, like Otto. His intuition was more respected than his reasoning, however, so when he insisted they storm the town, the whole of the company rolled their eyes! “But they’ll not be expecting us!” he insisted.

Tomas and Helmut had been whispering together, and Helmut spoke. “First, we needs find a way to see what’s about in the town.” He ran his hands through his long hair. The fifteen-year-old was generally quiet and unassuming—odd traits for the son of a merchant. He was intelligent, however, and well reasoned. “Tomas and I think we ought to go as spies near the walls. Well come back before matins to report what we’ve seen.”

Wil listened. He looked to his father for an opinion, and the baker reluctantly nodded his approval. “Right. No plan without knowledge.”

“Then we have it. Tomas and Helmut will scout the town first, and when they return with news, well make a plan.”

Pieter grumbled a bit and cast a glance at Wil. “And a prayer, lad?”

Wil shrugged. “
Ja,
Father Pieter, please do.” Despite the lessons of their journey, the lad could still be stiff necked and self-reliant—traits apt to yield slowly.

The old man nodded and raised a quiet prayer to heaven for Dorothea’s safekeeping and for the protection of their two scouts. When he was finished, Tomas and Helmut scampered away.

The two did not return to camp by matins as was planned but did arrive sometime past noon of the day following. The night before, they had found themselves close enough to Olten’s gate to hear the drunken slurs of some soldiers draped over a few hitching rails. They had learned that Dorothea was being held in the town’s jail, that Lord Bernard’s house was pillaged and burned, and that his servants had been slaughtered. Dorothea, it seemed, was destined to be tried for harboring “murderous heretics and fugitives of the Church,” namely the Cathari, who had, themselves, been killed by either sword or stake.

The pair had positioned themselves dangerously close to the wall, and when a fresh company of sentries took a position nearby, they feared to move. At dawn, however, all heads had turned toward the sounds of thunder rolling toward the town from the west. To the dismay of the occupiers, Lord Bernard’s soldiers, along with a host of hastily hired mercenaries, stormed the town. The lads seized the opportunity to dash from their cover and watched from a safe distance as Bernard and his men reclaimed their town. Dorothea was surely safe.

Hearing the story, Frieda and Maria both pointed to Pieter. “His prayer!” they cried together.

“God be praised,” said Pieter. He turned to Wil with a look of reprimand. “Pride still shadows you.”

Wil ignored the man’s comment and turned to the others. “We should return to offer our thanks to the lady and to her father.”

The company murmured among themselves until Alwin answered. “Wil, I fear the risk of ill will from either Bernard or his men. I have seen the sort of things that happen when even good men are heated with bloodletting. I think it not safe. Perhaps at a later time we might send a message?”

The others voiced their assent, including Heinrich and Pieter. “My son, we ought not to go back. Some may blame us.”

Wil looked about the nodding group, then agreed. “A message someday then.” The matter was settled.

The pilgrims quietly gathered in a circle around their midday fire and let their thoughts return to Olten. They spoke of those who had helped them: the innkeeper; Lord Bernard’s servants; Dorothea, of course; and even the old Cathar with eggs in his leggings.