Pilgrims of Promise (35 page)

Maria took her hand. “Listen!” she whispered.

The two became perfectly still.

“There!” answered Frieda. “I think I heard a voice.” The two stared blankly into the thickening blackness of the wood. The muffled trumpeting of a horn faded away.

“Here!” shouted Frieda suddenly. “Here! We are here!” The young woman ran toward the sounds, stumbling and tripping in the increasing darkness. Maria raced behind her, shouting frantically. The two crashed through brush and bramble until finally pausing to listen again.

“Do you hear anything?” whispered Maria.

Unable to hold back her tears, Frieda shook her head.

Maria looked up with imploring, trusting eyes. She took the young woman’s hand in hers and waited.

Frieda stared fearfully at the dark images of trees now rising about her like so many silent creatures of the night. She shivered and spun about.
We are lost!
she thought.
Lost!

“In the morning, then?” asked Maria. “Shall we wait until the morning?”

“I… I… yes, of course. In the morning they’ll surely find us.”

The two said nothing more but felt their way to a clearing they could barely see. All had become shadows and shades, mere hints of blacks and grays with eerie slivers of silver sent from an unfriendly moon. They crouched nervously against a wide trunk and held each other tightly as the sounds of the night stirred about them.

Neither dared to sleep. They had spent many hours at the knees of elders who had told them of the woodland spirits, of the secret kingdoms of wicked gnomes, and of dragon’s lairs. “On the half-moon, sprites go to war with fairies,” Maria whispered.

“Tis a crescent moon tonight, methinks.”

“On crescent moons the spell-casters meet in the hall of the toad queen. They seek the tongues of little girls,” Maria whispered in a tightening voice.

Frieda opened her mouth to answer but suddenly remembered the daughter of her father’s bailiff who was born mute under a crescent moon. “We mustn’t think of these things.”

At that moment, an owl burst from its unseen perch and swooped overhead, flapping its wings violently. The startled girls cried out, then held each other all the more tightly. The curtain of night now hung fully over the wood. The air was heavy, and a silent mist began to gather along the forest floor. Staring into nothingness, the pair trembled. New shadows seemed to appear, then disappear, only to give rise to another here and yet more there. It was as though the woodland was silently taunting them, daring them to move from their place and wander amidst the hauntings.

Maria and Frieda held each and leaned into the smooth bark of a night-blackened beech. The older maiden closed her eyes and sang to the little one her “Maria’s Song.”

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

The words comforted them both, and Frieda’s confident tone soon filled them with courage to endure the blackness of the forest. When the song was over, the two settled under their black canopy to imagine sunbeams and springtime meadows, rainbows and butterflies—and a splendid valley of wildflowers.

And so they waited until the morning songbirds coaxed the darkness to yield. And yield it did, for despite its stubborn, stiff-necked pride, the forest did not rule the sun; it could command nothing and finally submitted to the insistent sky above.

“Maria! The morning is finally come!”

The little girl nodded wearily, greatly relieved to have survived the ghostly terrors of the night.

“Now we need move.”

“Where?”

Frieda looked about. She licked her dry lips, then ran her fingers through the dew at her feet. She turned her face to the treetops and closed her eyes. She finally took a deep breath and spoke to her little companion with a commanding voice. “There.” She stared at a wide sunbeam pointing to a bright patch some distance ahead.

“Why there?”

“I don’t know. But it beckons me somehow.”

The two walked hopefully toward the clearing and finally emerged into a small glade filled with soft ferns and the sweet smell of a nearby grove of pines. “Look up!” cried Maria.

Three seabirds swooped toward the pair and cried loudly. They dove deeply and then sped to the sky, only to fly in rapid circles and dive again. “They’re calling us,” marveled Maria.

Frieda stared at the three birds as they glided toward her. Their white underbellies were clean looking, their gray wings preened and healthy. “What are they doing here? I’ve only seen them by the sea.”

Maria stared at them for a long while, laughing at their chatter. “They are waterbirds. Maybe they’ll lead us to the Rhine!”

Frieda smiled. “Ah! Of course. So we should follow them!”

And follow them they did. Doing their best to keep one eye on the birds and the other on the path ahead, the two sisters ran. The three gulls cried happily overhead, sweeping eastward as they soared away, only to reappear above the heads of the racing girls. On and on they ran, pausing for nothing, now certain of their faithful escort. They dashed through stands of hardwoods, through bloom-spotted clearings, beneath the boughs of heavy spruce, and over fallen timber. At last, they paused, panting. Maria claimed she had heard a voice. They listened carefully.

“Frieda!” came a faint cry. “Maria!” A horn sounded.

“Here!” the two screeched. “Here!”

Running toward the sounds, they soon heard more. Now laughing and waving to the three birds above, the two emerged from the forest and charged across the grain fields by the Rhine. Downstream about a half league, they could see several figures now running toward them. The two sprinted until their legs burned. Closer
and
closer they came until, at last—at long last—Frieda’s eyes fell on her desperate husband’s face.

The young bride dashed forward. Closer and closer she came until, to the loud cheers of her comrades, Frieda fell into the happy embrace of her exhausted groom.

“No more adventures,” said Wil wearily. He was still holding Frieda’s hand in his as the relieved pilgrims returned to Pieter and Paulus. “I just want to sit in my poor hovel and bake bread with m’father. I want to enjoy feast days with the village and hear Father Albert do his Mass. I want no more of this.”

“And what of Pious?” grumbled Otto.

“What of him?” growled Wil.

“You said you wanted to hear Father Albert do the Mass, but it is usually Pious.”

Wil spat and his father grumbled, “Pious needs to burn in the Pit.”

Pieter sighed. “I’ve heard much about the man. Seems he is in need of redemption.”

Tomas stood. He cast a faraway look at the empty roadway leading toward home. “Pious is a wicked fool.” He touched his half-ear and looked at Heinrich. “You took m’ear, but he nearly took m’soul. He had me lie and cheat others. He’s more wicked than your uncle, Arnold.”

Heinrich agreed. “
Ja,
lad. ‘Tis true. Uncle Arnold with his penny sins is vile and cruel, but Pious … I have no words for him.”

Pieter laid a hand gently on Tomas’s shoulder. The two had spoken often of late, and Pieter had helped soften the lad with grace and wisdom. “We all become the ugliest face of our idols. If we worship wealth, we become greedy. If we worship power, we become tyrants. From what I have heard, it seems this Father Pious worships stature and has become utterly vain. He has hated others and become a murderer.”

“Vanity? Murder? More than these, Pieter,” growled Heinrich. “He is all things wicked! The lusts of his fat-pressed heart are boundless.”

Wil nodded. “As evil a man as I’ve ever known, Pieter. And he wears the robes and the tonsure.”

Pieter nodded sadly. “It is the mask of false faith that is, perhaps, the worst face of all.” He took a deep breath. “I confess my fear for you in Weyer. He shall not happily welcome any of you, save Tomas, perhaps.”

The lad grunted. “He’ll not have me doing his bidding again.”

Otto threw a stick onto the morning fire. “So what awaits us in Weyer?”

The circle was quiet. Frieda looked at her husband’s darkening face and took his hand. Maria cuddled against Heinrich’s broad chest, and Otto faced Tomas blankly. Who could know?

Now beyond the protection of the caravan, the travelers made their way warily along the left bank of the Rhine, pausing briefly in the city of Strasbourg for provisions. Their purchases made, the group then returned to the highway and moved toward Mainz, which lay some forty leagues beyond. Paulus slowed them slightly, but traveling the flat highway under a blue sky afforded the company a pace of some five leagues per day.

During the eight days since leaving the caravan, the group had been accosted only twice. A pair of drunken rogues had emerged from some rocky cover and made a bumbling effort to drag Frieda away while she was drawing water from a well. It was Helmut who heard the girl’s cries, but it was Wil who hastily launched two arrows from his bow, each missing its distant target but landing close enough to frighten the brigands away. Suffering only a torn gown and a bruised cheek, Frieda found herself sobbing in her husband’s arms once more.

The following day, two ruffians armed with weighted staffs accosted the weary band. They believed it was God’s will that they should punish any returning child crusaders. But judging the quality of their clothing and the unbroken spirit in their lifted chins, the men determined them to be pilgrims and “not that unfaithful rabble daring to return home.” Fortunately, Wil and his company managed to restrain their tongues and avoid a bruising brawl.

Finally, on the evening of Friday, the nineteenth of July, the weary travelers arrived in the busy city of Mainz, where they sought lodging at an inn near the scaffolded cathedral. Mainz was an ancient city lying directly on the river of myth and legend. Its narrow streets were crowded with all manner of peddlers, clerics, and fools. It reeked of manure and human waste, of garbage and standing water. It was filled with sundry buildings made of plankboards, clay, or wattle. Thatch covered most of the pitiful hovels that crowded the poor neighborhoods, as well as the countless assortments of sheds, barns, and workhouses set haphazardly about. It was place where a single torch might destroy everything in sight within moments.

Everything in sight, that is, except for the cathedral climbing high above the lesser sights scattered at its feet. From here the Archbishop Siegfried ruled his expansive diocese. His miter commanded souls as far south as the Italian Alps and nearly to the city of Bremen in the north—from the vineyards of the Rhine’s west banks to the markets of Augsburg in the east. His diocese was rich and prospering. His feudal territories had grown to such proportions as might corrupt even the most honorable men, and so Alwin reminded his companions that “the wearer of the pallium and buskins in Mainz is another cleric to fear.”

“Siegfried is an arse. I don’t like him,” Pieter crowed from his perch atop Paulus. “I’ve crisscrossed his little church-dom most of my life. I’ve found little true piety. The dolt is a count of the empire, like that fool Conrad before him. His tastes are high. Look, the alms boxes are emptied on this cathedral, while the poor under his very nose suffer! Maybe God shall burn this one down like he did the old one.”

Wil hurried his company through the city, past the wharves where wool was piled high in great bales and countless ells of linen were rolled and stacked. The marketplace was nearly empty except for a few Jews in rich robes and pointed hats chattering by their booth. “Money-lending Jews do well here,” said Alwin. “They do in England as well. The Christians in London are quick to borrow from them, but few have paid them back! ‘Tis little wonder they charge such outrageous fees.”