Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Page 10

  The room was quiet. The little minstrel sighed. “So that is my tale.”

  Pieter nodded, approving the man’s decision. “You’ve done well, minstrel. You followed your heart along the path of love.”

  Benedetto shrugged. “I have failed in many ways. My heart is often weak.”

  “I am proud to be your friend.”

  The minstrel’s spirit soared. He smiled happily. He had often remembered the old man’s rebuke by the shores of this very lake. It had been a worthy gift at the proper time. Now he was glad to have the man’s approval. Blushing, he reached for the lute ever hanging at his back. “So—” he winked at Maria “—shall we?”

  Maria’s face brightened. “Ja!” she exclaimed eagerly.

  “Pieter, we’ve a song for you. Many times we talked of your return, and we pretended to sing it to you.

  “You see, when Maria was near death, she had dreams … many dreams and visions. When I found her, we spoke often of them and, together, we wrote a song. She loved me to sing it as she fell to sleep. I call it ‘Maria’s Song.’”

  The girl blushed. “You wrote it.”

  “Si, but you gave me the visions!” Benedetto smiled and plucked a few notes. Maria nodded and closed her eyes as the minstrel began to strum a pleasant, dreamy tune—one melodic for its time and enchanting.

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

  Let us fly amongst the songbirds, in the springtime meadows run.

  For with butterflies I’ve floated, toward the heavens I have raced;

  In the valley of the flowers I have danced in God’s embrace.

  Like the moths and like the magpies, like the seabirds and the bees,

  We are children of the Master borne by currents in the breeze.

  We are butterflies emerging, we are buds about to burst.

  We are spirits soaring freely far from hunger and from thirst.

  Let us tiptoe on the sunbeams and swim across the sky;

  Let us slide along the rainbows and sing from heaven high!

  Chapter Six

  GOD WITH US

  In San Fruttuoso, Heinrich stood beneath an umbrella pine and stared unseeing at the blue bay. He had kept his suffering deep within—he thought it uncharitable to burden others with his private sorrows. But no day had passed without his heart rending over the loss of Karl. He had walked day and night along the quiet beach and he had sat alone in the citrus groves, but he had found no solace.

  It would have helped the man if Wil had forgiven him, if his eldest could have shared in his grief. He had attempted to engage his son on a few occasions, but the lad would simply not respond. Heinrich finally had, perhaps wisely, chosen to offer distance in the hope that time might serve a healing course.

  The man sighed and looked upward at the underside of the tall pine. Memories of Sister Anoush and the church of Santa Maria in Domnica filled his mind. The church had a garden shaded by just such a tree. He stared at the green needles and shuddered as he remembered his descent into misery. Thanks be to God for the blessed sister and her kindness.

  “I’ve seen only sadness in your eyes since the day you came,” said Stefano from behind.

  Startled, Heinrich spun about. “Eh?”

  The monk looked at the man kindly. “I said, you seem always sad.”

  Heinrich shrugged.

  “Is it Karl that weighs so heavy on your heart?”

  The baker nodded.

  “I’ve no children of my own, so I dare not claim to know your grief. But I surely believe you suffer for it.”

  “I see his face and hear his voice everywhere,” Heinrich murmured.

  Stefano looked carefully at the man. “And why not? You loved him.”

  The two stood quietly for a few moments before the monk added, “And you suffer for the want of Wil’s forgiveness as well.”

  “Ja.” Heinrich sat down and tossed a stone. “I’ve told him I am sorry, I’ve admitted all I know, and I’ve asked his forgiveness …”

  “Ah, my friend, the lad loves you, I am sure of it. He will forgive you in time. His love assures that.”

  Heinrich turned a hopeful eye to the monk. “It would be a good thing.”

  Stefano nodded. “Indeed.” The monk’s gaze drifted over the bay, and he soon lost himself in reflection. He and the baker sat quietly by the shore as the waves lapped lightly and gentle breezes blew. In time the monk spoke. “I fear we oft miss the mark when we think only of forgiveness.”

  Heinrich turned his face toward the man.

  “It is wondrous, to be sure, but it is only part of something far greater. I used to walk about this very shore pleading for God’s mercy. Day and night I groaned and beat upon my breast. Then, when I felt I had finally received His forgiveness, I would spend many days praising Him for it. It was all I knew of Him.

  “One warm evening, I was rebuked for these things by a wise monk from Cypress. He taught me that God’s mercy is not His only gift, it is just the beginning of gifts.” Stefano leaned close to Heinrich. “My friend, He offers us so much more than forgiveness; He offers us the whole of His love.”

  The baker stared thoughtfully at the monk. He, too, had spent years seeking mercy. He had spent precious few moments considering the immeasurable vastness of God’s love.

  “Forgiveness, my brother, is something God does for us, but love is what He is for us.”

  Heinrich wondered, but suddenly enlivened by the monk’s good news, his mind began to whirl. A voice from one side interrupted his thoughts.

  “‘Tis a good day.”

  The two men turned. “Ah, Frieda. Yes, of course,” answered Stefano, slightly annoyed at the intrusion.

  The girl stepped alongside the pair. “I wonder about Pieter and the others. Do you think they’ll celebrate the Advent with Maria and Anna?”

  Heinrich answered. “Well, we can only hope.”

  Frieda stared quietly at the water and wrapped a thin blanket over her shoulders. She had braided her hair and was dressed in her new black gown. Heinrich thought her to be beautiful, and he sensed Wil had noticed as well.

  “How is my son?”

  “He grows better every day,” Frieda answered with a kindly smile. “His wounds are fast healing and—he is different than before the San Marco.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Heinrich mumbled with a sudden quality of self-pity.

  Frieda looked at the man with compassion but answered firmly, “He’s cause to be angry with you.”

  The man was surprised. He was also weary and frustrated. “How would you know about that?”

  “By your words, sir, by your own words.”

  Heinrich fell silent. He had shared a great deal of his past with the girl while in camp in Genoa and here at San Fruttuoso as well. “I thought to protect them all from m’self by my penance.”

  “Who?”

  “Wil and his brother … m’wife as well.”

  Frieda thought for a moment. “True enough. But you also wanted to cleanse your own soul, and you failed to consider the cost to them.”

  Heinrich recoiled from her remarks and fell silent. Always inward, always melancholy, the man retreated deep within himself. She’d be right to say it; ‘tis truth in her words, he thought. I did not consider the cost in full. The weight of shame lay heavy on his spirit when he felt the touch of the damsel’s hand on his arm.

  “Good sir, I do not blame you, nor do I think Wil blames you. He only needs to know that you know. He needs to know that you understand how terrible the cost was to him and to Karl… and to their mother.”

  Heinrich nodded and glanced at Stefano. “You are wise beyond your years, Frieda, and you humble me. I still have much to learn.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked away.

  The season of Advent brought some sadness to the cloister. Old Brother Nectarious was found cold in his bed, but the smile locked upon his face gave the community a bit of peace as they prepared him for burial. Another w
as quite ill—a young monk who had arrived just two years prior from an abbey in Lombardy. His absence from the chapter was an immediate loss, for he was the only one blessed with a voice pleasing in song. The Rule of Benedict had expressly required readings at meals and singing be done by those so gifted. “Monastics will read and sing, not according to rank, but according to their ability to benefit their hearers.” It was a simple enough rule, and the vacancy left by the young man’s absence was making many a painful moment for the brethren and guests alike!

  Though the monks were required to eat in silence (except for the readings), they were happy to invite their guests to a later meal offered for their pleasure. The children had followed the monks’ schedule rather closely—from the fifteenth day of September until the beginning of Lent they ate in the midafternoon. From Lent to Easter they would be eating their main meal in the evening. So for the feast of Christmas, the monks invited their guests to a gracious meal beginning just before the bells of compline.

  Seated on long benches along their trestle tables, the children stared open mouthed at the happy presentation the delighted brethren offered. Without a prior, the monks seemed happy to stretch the limits of moderation, if only a little. Heinrich had helped bake loaves of honey-laced rolls—his duties in the bakery had been assigned weeks earlier. To the hurrahs of the company, the man bowed deeply as baskets of his handiwork were passed about.

  “And have them try my focaccia!” cried Patroclus. Focaccia was a flatbread topped according to the season. Patroclus had heaped anchovies and boiled mushrooms atop the many loaves, along with slices of fresh olives and chopped garlic. Eager hands reached for it!

  The breads were followed by platters of roasted boar meat, still sizzling from the spit, and steaming shellfish. “Something green and something blue!” cried Stefano as he set them before the flying fingers of the children. A plate of bream seasoned with pine nuts was set beside a fricassee of ground almonds, juniper berries, olive oil, and rabbit on a bed of greens.

  Frieda and Wil sat together and said little as they stuffed themselves. Wil had long since set the offense of the girl’s rebuke aside, though he had not broached the subject again. They laughed and reached for mead and ale.

  “Was it worth the work?” cried Wil to his company.

  “Aye!” they shouted. Indeed, for every bite they took they had a memory. Whether threshing or netting fish, shaking olives or crushing them, hunting boar with Brother Risto, or filling the boats with lemons, the children had spent these past ten weeks hard at work. “And what ‘ave you done?” shouted one playfully.

  Wil nodded and stood. The room fell quiet. “My brothers and sisters, I am thankful to God for my life and thankful to each of you for helping Him to save it. Frieda has been my faithful nurse, and I owe her much.” He turned an affectionate eye toward the blushing maiden and continued. “My strength is fast returning. None can know how much I wish to climb an olive tree or carry a load of lemons! Soon I will be working by your sides. Until then, I am banished to the monks’ chamber, where I copy Scripture with them.” He held up ink-stained hands and laughed. “Ink, not calluses!”

  The room cheered and the lad sat down. He had regained much of his former weight, though he had always been lean. His skin had good color; his eyes were clear. Sharp featured and handsome—his scars not with standing—he inspired all who were near with a certain presence that defied words. His long blond hair and keen blue eyes conveyed a sense of regal disposition and authority. The son of a baker, he seemed more a prince.

  Frieda, however, saw things more deeply. She had known the arrogance of his former self, the brooding selfishness that had so offended her. Through their short acquaintance, however, she had noticed the seeds of humility taking root in a heart softened by sorrows. The young man now seemed to be evidencing the presence of true strength and character. She had seen it in small ways: the way he helped the little ones, the way he worked with the monks, the way he touched her hand. She could see a change in his eyes; they had become softer, more apt to reflect the feeling of another’s sadness. All that is, except his father’s.

  It was the Epiphany, January 6 in the year of our Lord 1213—the feast that celebrated the wise men’s visit with the Holy Child. The twelve days of Christmas were now ending, and quiet had settled over San Fruttuoso. After an ample midday meal and when the offices of the day were served, Brother Stefano summoned Wil to a quiet place in the arcade.

  “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 abundan
ce 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.