Pilgrims of Promise (42 page)

The porter delivered his guests to another earnest young monk, who welcomed them into a small room. This one ordered some novices to bring him bowls of water. He kissed each guest and prayed over them. “I shall wash thy feet in a moment.”

“I already have,” answered the porter.

“Why?”

“It is my duty when the abbot and prior are not about.”

“No, it is mine, brother.”

“No, look to the Rule.”

“I have.”

The porter grunted. “Well, ‘tis done.”

The guestmaster muttered, then fed the amused pilgrims porridge, wheat bread, berry preserves, and one egg each. During the meal, Pieter made an effort to have a conversation with his host, but it was not in the character of the man nor in the order of things for the monk to reciprocate with idle chatter. It was their good fortune, therefore, that the porter returned.

“I am relieved of the gate to take my duties at chapter. I failed to pray a blessing over you.”

The guestmaster growled. “Thou ought to be keeping away from our guests. Thou art not to mingle with visitors.
That
is plain enough in the Rule!”

Pieter quickly interrupted. “As thy guest, brother, I do ask some gift of charity from you. I should be most blessed if the young brother could sit by us for a few moments more.”

The guestmaster grimaced. It was a request that put two rules of his order in opposition. The bells of terce rang, and he needed to go to his prayers. He had arrived late at prime that same morning and had missed the first of the three psalms. He knew he shouldn’t press the patience of the abbot. “Well, uh, yes. We are to be hospitable to strangers.” He bowed, prayed quickly over the group, and then scurried to the church.

The happy porter took a seat by his guests. “I am Brother Egidius, named for a beloved porter of this same gate some years past.”

“I am Pieter, once warrior, once student, once monk, once clerk, and now a priest serving the poor of Christendom. These are my fellow journeymen, pilgrims to the holy places.”

After more friendly conversation with the porter, Pieter finally turned the conversation to the matters at hand. “A peasant told us of some terrible things in one of your villages on the night of Sabbath past.”

Egidius nodded. He looked out into the courtyard anxiously. “Well, Father, I am not to speak of these things, but you are a man of the cloth so … well, hear this. The reeve of that village delivered two peasants to our garrison late in the night. One is under suspicion of killing his mother, a beloved monk of ours, and perhaps an abbey guard as well. He foolishly returned from that wretched crusade of children.”

“Why do you call it a ‘wretched crusade?” challenged Friederich, unable to hold his tongue.

“They should never have gone. If only they could have known that God would not ever send them to such certain misfortune.”

“But the Church wanted it!”

Egidius looked closely at the lad and shook his head. “Were you a crusader?”

Pieter answered for him. “Yes, he was a brave soldier for God.”

The monk bowed his head. “I fear the Holy Church did not do enough to dissuade you. Perhaps the fault should be laid at our feet, for we say you ought seek truth from us. I am told that few of your priests ever tried to stop you.”

“And I am told that, here, in this very abbey, a papal legate sounded the call!” Pieter’s face was tight and anger laced his words.

Surprised, the porter faltered. “I … I have heard the same, brother, but I was not here then. I was on a pilgrimage to the tomb at Aachen. It is said the abbot was not pleased. The pope has such an earnest fervor for crusading that it seems his legate may have been overzealous in this matter. I beg thy forgiveness for the error of my brothers.”

Pieter took a deep breath. “Good monk, it is not you who should beg anything. Now, let us let the matter lie. We’ve other business. The young man falsely charged with murdering his mother is being held in your garrison’s jail?”

Egidius looked up with a start. “You know him?”

“We do.”

“I… I surely must not speak of these things, then. You … you deceived me.”

“Brother,” said Pieter in a fatherly tone, “we ask only this of you: do you know what is to happen to the lad and his father?”

“His father?”

“Aye.”

The monk groaned. Looking nervously into the courtyard, he leaned forward and spoke quietly. “I am told they are to be taken to the castle for trial.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“The trial is today?” blurted Friederich.

“No, little brother. They’ll be taken to the dungeon today, but we think the trial is not for several days … maybe at week’s end. Steward Hagan acts as judge in these matters, and he is en route from business elsewhere. Lord Heribert has no interest in things of the court and has just recently left on a pilgrimage to a shrine in the east. ‘Tis all I know.”

Pieter clasped the man’s hand and prayed over him. “With our thanks, brother. Forgive us our deceit.”

Egidius bowed his head. “I do. And what will you do?”

Pieter looked at his companions, then back to the sympathetic monk. “Surely, I shall pray.”

Chapter Twenty

A COLLABORATION OF LOVE

B
y the bells of sext, most of Weyer’s men had enjoyed a midday meal and were returning to their fields. The day had grown very warm, and the air had become humid. Perspiring and thirsty, Pieter and his worried companions returned to the ridge overlooking the village and scanned the endless green of the landscape beyond. The priest drew a long breath and rested his eyes on a flock of sheep grazing peacefully on a distant slope that was sprinkled with tiny flowers. He smiled. “Oh, if we might only have a day to sleep in the sun in a place like that!”

With a sigh, he turned his eyes toward the smoky nook in which Weyer was nestled. The village was crowded and busy. “We need to find Arnold’s cottage.”

The group hurried down the steep descent past chatting peasants, a team of oxen, and a peddler’s cart until they faced a short row of hovels set against a fence. Tomas immediately pointed to a sturdy cottage with a moss-green barrel by its door. “There! That’d be Arnold’s!”

Nearly running to the open door, Frieda arrived first. “Sir?
Herr
Arnold?”

A narrow-faced, thin old man rose from a stool upon which he had been dozing deep within the shade of his thatch. “Eh? Who calls m’name?” He rubbed his eyes and stepped to the doorway to gawk at the company standing before him. “Tomas?”

“
Ja
. I’ve come home.”

Pieter stepped forward. “I, sir, am Pieter, wandering priest and servant of these friends.”

Arnold spat and waved them off with a mumbled blasphemy.

“Herr
Arnold!” cried Frieda. “You are my husband’s great-uncle!”

The man stared at the young woman, then stepped slowly out of his house. Frieda trembled, waiting nervously. The man’s taut face was hard as iron, and his skin clung to his bones like wet leather wrapped around an old oak. He was lean and gray, and his face was etched with the bitterness of broken dreams. Approaching sixty, the man had bettered nearly all his foes by ruthless cunning, but he had been soured by the vanity lately discovered in such vacant conquest. “Who are you?”

“I am Frieda, wife of Wilhelm … son of Heinrich the baker.”

Arnold said nothing for a long moment. He studied each face before him. He looked at the minstrel. “And who are you, little mouse?”

“I am Benedetto, troubadour and friend to these.”

“And you?”

“I am Friederich of… of… well, I don’t know where I am from.”

Arnold laughed. “I like that,” he said. “A plain-speaking lad. And you, old man, you say you’re a priest. I tell you this: I don’t like priests or shavelings of any sort. They are all deceivers, liars, and pretenders.”

Pieter smiled. He had already judged Arnold to be a cantankerous old devil, but he sensed the man had a keen understanding of the world as it oft was. “Not all, sir, but some, to be sure.”

Arnold grunted. “They walk with bowed heads as if they be humble, yet they do not walk at all—they strut!”

Pieter laughed out loud. “Aye, I’ve seen it m’self! Some only pretend to be forgiven, for they pretend they are sinners!”

“Ha! Good one, old man. I like that one. I shall remember it. Now, why are you here?”

Pieter proceeded to tell Arnold much the man already knew. Arnold listened carefully, feigning ignorance while attempting to discern the hearts of the group now gathered around his table. He asked them of their journey and of their trials, of their present wishes and their fears. At last, he poured them each a generous tankard of warm beer and tore apart a large loaf of wheat bread. “What do you know of my son, Richard?”

Pieter thought for a long moment. “Is he the cousin who traveled with Heinrich to the north?”

“He is.”

The man leaned forward. Pieter took a long draught and set his tankard down. “Heinrich told me that his cousin was killed in combat with the knight who crippled him as a youth. I am sorry.”

Arnold’s eyes misted and he turned away. He rose from his table and went to a small window facing the sheepfold to the rear. The room was quiet as the old man absorbed the news. At last, he returned to the table and sat down again. He poured himself another tankard of beer. “Was his death avenged?”

Pieter nodded. “It was, sir. Your nephew buried your son’s killer in a heap of dung.”

The answer satisfied Arnold. “Good man, that Heinrich, though sometimes I thought him to be too soft, like his mother. My boy, Richard, was spirited like his grandfather and me. ‘Tis fitting he fell fighting.” He took a drink. “I fear his children are perished as well. Have you news of them?”

“No,” said Frieda quietly. “Some of us are still finding our way home.”

Arnold nodded sadly. “A brave thing, that crusade of yours. Foolish, methinks, but brave enough. My son Roland said he had talked to his children—but they said the visions of others was proof enough. They left and have not come back. So now it is only me, Roland, and his terrible wife, Elsbeth. ‘Tis all the kin I’ve left except for Heinrich. Once our family was strong and growing. We kept the code of our forefathers and their cause as well. It was a different time then, and I think I was a different man.”

“You’ve Wil and Maria,” blurted Frieda. “They’d be kin of yours and mine.”

Arnold looked thoughtfully at the young woman. With a nod he answered. “You’ve a kind heart, fair damsel. Have a care with it.” He took another drink. “Wil’s a good lad. He’s spirit like my Richard had.”

No one answered.

“No matter. This life is naught but dark shadows and wicked things. Mine is ending far from what I had expected. There was a time m’brother Baldric and me ruled Weyer! He as woodward of all the abbey lands, and me as forester of the manor. Ha! I learned to fill bags of silver with the secrets of others—secrets they paid to keep hidden. I’ve coins from monks, prelates, peasants, housewives, and even a gold coin from old Pious himself. The Templars keep my money safe, but… but I fear it is not enough to keep me from burning for my sins in the ages to come.” The man shuddered. “I met a demon once, outside the hut of a witch. He made me pay alms to save m’soul then. I suppose I’ll need do the same again.”

Pieter shook his head. “I hear the voice of a man humbled into honesty. As you know, my friend,
‘multi timor, conscientiam pauci verentur
… many fear their reputation, but few their conscience.’ Some take their pride to their grave with a sneer at things to come. It seems your heart is touched by grace.”

Arnold grunted and swallowed another draught.

“Yet, my friend, the conscience can be a tyrant as well. It is not always a wise or proper master.”

Arnold looked at him blank faced. “What kind of priest are you?”

“Oft a bad one, I fear. But one who’s been given small bits of truth along the way. Your nephew is one who has taught me much from his own amazing journey. You ought to spend time with him.”

Arnold grinned a wide, toothless grin. “You are a clever one!”

Pieter laughed. “I love your nephew and his son, so please forgive my feeble attempts to sway you to our cause.” The old priest looked deeply into Arnold’s eyes, and his tone became earnest, even pleading. He leaned forward. “Listen to me, sir. I do not ask your help so that you might purge your soul … forgiveness is not to be earned. I do beg your help simply because it is right.

“You,
Herr
Arnold, have seen men and women at their worst. You know their secrets—secrets of betrayal and lust, wicked, horrid deeds and hypocrisy. You’ve made it your trade. But methinks you have discovered the truth of life’s rotted underbelly. It is an ugly serpent that crawls about us all. Can you not help us spare two of your kin from the stench of such evil?”

Arnold stared evenly into the old man’s face. None spoke as they waited breathlessly for the man to answer. At last, Arnold turned his eyes to Tomas, Friederich, then Benedetto, and, at last, to the imploring face of Frieda. He nodded. “Aye. That I can.”

Elsewhere in Weyer, Herwin and Wulf were desperate to find a way to help the baker and his son. “They’ve no chance, Father,” moaned Wulf. The large man was nursing a deep cut in his scalp from the reeve’s flail.

“We must help them!” cried Herwin. He looked at his table and picked up the dagger that had been knocked from Wil’s hand in the melee. He had found it at sunrise. “This must have a story. It has an inscription.”

“You’d best hide it,” answered Wulf.

“Aye, lad,” Herwin sighed. “I confess that I’ve no idea how to help. Perhaps I’ll just beg mercy from the court.”

“I fear we’ve already been given what mercy is to be had,” grumbled Wulf. “The reeve was good to not arrest us.”

A woman’s voice sounded at the door. “Herwin? Might I speak with you?”

“Frau Katharina! Aye, come in, come in.”

The graceful woman slipped into the cool shade of Herwin’s hut. She sat down sadly on a stool and shuddered. Herwin went to her side and rested his arm kindly over her shoulders.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” Herwin began.

The woman nodded. “He’s to be buried this evening. I’ve washed the body, and others helped me shroud it. Father Albert will pray over him.”

“Oh, my dear, with no husband and no children to care for you, what shall you do?”

“Dear Herwin, I did not come for your sympathy. I shall be well. I am now the free widow of a yeoman with chattels enough. I’ve a dowry with the Templars and two hides of land that I now own.” She stiffened her back and fumbled awkwardly for words. “Old friend, I am told it was Heinrich of Weyer who killed my husband. Is it so?”

Herwin nodded.

Katharina’s heart raced. Her spirit soared, yet she lowered her eyes. “I did not believe it to be true. I thought Heinrich to have been long since dead.”

“So did we all. I still do not know his story.”

Katharina stood motionless, fighting tears and swallowing hard against the knot in her throat. Then, no longer able to dam the flood, she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. Father and son looked at one another in alarm. “Katharina?”

“I miss him so, Herwin. I have missed him for so very long!”

Herwin was confused. “Who?”

Katharina looked sadly into the aging man’s face. Then with a voice tainted by shame, she whispered, “Heinrich.”

Herwin did not answer. He held her kindly as his mind whirled. He had always respected Katharina, and he had been a good friend to her over the many years she had lived in Weyer. The woman had endured much under the heavy hand of her husband. She was known for her charity—sometimes despised for it. He knew she had spent many an hour in old Emma’s gardens, and he knew that Heinrich had a soft place in his heart for her.

“No, Herwin, it is not as you may have heard. Heinrich was a faithful husband to Marta,” said Katharina. “It was
I
who longed for
him.”

Herwin nodded sadly.
Methinks he longed for you as well,
he thought. He lifted her chin and smiled. “Good woman, I know Heinrich’s heart, and I know it was held fast by his duty. And you were a faithful wife to a monster. I oft wished I was a younger, stronger man when I’d hear him beat you.” He brushed her cheek lightly. “I see the purple of a bruise lingers even after he is gone.”