Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Read online

  “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!”

  “Si?” answered Stefano.

  The woman nodded, then pointed to the Germans. “C’ é un ragazzo nel prigione, ragazzo come quelli.”

  Brother Stefano thanked the woman and turned to Heinrich. “She says a youth like these is in the prison.”

  “Probably a crusader,” blurted Frieda.

  “I fear for any held in Dragonara’s dungeon,” murmured Stefano. All heads turned toward the grim castle perched on the sea cliffs to their left. The fortress was dark and foreboding, even on a sunny spring day such as this. Heavy shadows filled hollow chambers, and it faced the sea as though it were daring the deep waters to rise against it. Workmen could be seen crawling from scaffold to plank with heavy ropes and mortar. Heaps of quarried stone lay piled at the fortress’s feet, waiting to be added like so many new scales on the ribs of this Castle of the Dragonslayer.

  Frieda shuddered and whispered to Helmut, “No good thing is in that place.”

  “What do we do about it?” asked Helmut.

  “We cannot leave him,” said Rudolf.

  Heinrich had been thinking. He whispered to Wil and the two nodded. “Brother Stefano, could you stay here with the others? Wil and I have a plan.”

  Frieda stepped forward. “If you two are going to the castle, you’d best take us all.”

  “Nay!” snapped Wil. “One look at you and you’ll be kept as their toy till the end of time. Helmut and Rudolf needs stay by you until we come back.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then hurry on your way.”

  The words stung and the girl winced. His answer suggested no more interest in her welfare than for that of some stray cat. “Hurry on my way?” she retorted. “That’s all? Just hurry along and have a life?”

  Heinrich’s lips twitched upward just a bit. My son, he thought, has received little training in the curious ways of a woman! “He only meant you ought to ‘hurry’ on your way,” the baker quickly said. “He fears for your safety.”

  Wil stared blankly at the two. He could not imagine why the girl’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were flashing fire.

  Helmut had paid little attention to the exchange. “What advantage is two of you?” he asked.

  “What?” Wil’s mind had been elsewhere.

  “Why the two of you? It seems we ought to put only one at risk. Wil’s going gains us nothing.”

  Heinrich quickly agreed. “Well said. Wil, I’ll go m’self. I’ve some experience in these things.” He removed his satchel and hung a small pouch on his belt.

  Wil opened his mouth to protest, but the steely gaze of Frieda held his tongue. He nodded.

  Stefano interrupted. “Surely, Heinrich, I should come. The robes of a monk oft have more power than a sword.”

  Heinrich hesitated, then Wil nodded, and in moments Heinrich and Brother Stefano were crossing the bridge leading to the half-built castle. The monk took a deep breath. “So, baker, fortes fortuna adiuvat!”

  “What?”

  “Fortune favors the brave.”

  Heinrich nodded. He surely hoped so.

  Chapter Seven

  A SON REMEMBERED, A SISTER FOUND

  The baker and the monk approached the castle gate.

  “Ho there,” said Heinrich firmly.

  “Si?”

  The one-eyed man reached into the pouch and retrieved five silver pennies. “Bambino,” he said. “The boy in the prison.”

  The guard stared at the coins. “Bambino?”

  “Si,” answered the baker. “Bambino, prigione.”

  The guard nodded, now very much awake. He looked at Heinrich, then the pennies and then at the bulging coin pouch on the man’s belt. He turned a sheepish face toward the silent monk and grunted. He ran down a corridor only to return with two others, one apparently the castellan.

  The officer addressed Heinrich stiffly. When he finished, the baker simply held out his hand and said once more, “Bambino, prigione.”

  The castellan sneered at the pittance being offered.

  That, Heinrich understood. He nodded and reached slowly into the pouch to pinch a few more pennies. He held out seven.

  The officer shook his head, and his comrade drew a dagger. Heinrich spat and quickly drew his sword, dropping the silver to the stone floor. To everyone’s surprise, the monk then pulled a short-sword from within his robe. With unnerving confidence, the baker snarled, “Bambino!”

  The castellan was fairly certain his men could dispatch the foreign barbarian, but at what cost? The man looked like a veteran of many battles. His patched eye and stump were no doubt losses for which others had paid dearly. But what would they do with the meddling monk? Perhaps the pouch for the prisoner was the easier way. He pointed at Heinrich’s belt with the point of his sword. “Bambino.”

  Heinrich nodded and backed up slowly. He replaced his sword in its sheath and unhooked the pouch. He bounced it in his hand, keeping it from the castellan’s grasp. “Bambino “

  The deal was struck, and in moments a tall thin lad in tattered leggings was dragged into the light. The boy took one look and sneered. “Well, by the Holy Mother, it’s Herr Heinrich himself.”

  The baker was confused. How does he know m’name? he wondered. He wisely said nothing as he traded his silver for the black-haired youth. With no more words, the boy’s bonds were cut and the three hurried away.

  It had been more than an hour since Heinrich and Stefano had left, and Wil found himself surprisingly anxious. His stomach tightened, and an odd sense of remorse began to blend with his fears. Imagining his father imprisoned or worse troubled him more than he would have expected, and he prayed no harm had befallen the faithful monk.

  Frieda suddenly cried out, “They’re coming!”

  The four burst from their cover and ran to meet the others. The rescued prisoner was hooded and walked on bare feet with his head down, but when Wil and the others arrived, he lifted his face and curled his lip with a snicker.

  “Tomas!” cried Frieda.

  Wil froze. Tomas had been his nemesis from the early weeks of the crusade. Before that he had been his helper in the family bakery. Wil clenched his jaw. “You again. The last we saw you, you were with that Dark Lord in the wood by Genoa.”

  “The last I saw you, you were hiding off the roadway south of here.”

  Heinrich took the young man by the arm. “You? You were the spy?”

  Tomas smirked. “Ja. Me and two others.” Suddenly, his face darkened and he threw back his hood. He turned his head for all to see the red scar on his right cheek and what was left of his ear. “You, y’swine, y’cut my ear in two.”

  “You ought thank the saints I didn’t carve your throat!” snapped the baker with a growl.

  Tomas looked at the others. When his eyes fell on Frieda, he smiled wickedly. “Ah, Frieda. I have surely missed your fine company.”

  The young woman looked away.

  Wil pressed his face close to the lad’s. “Tomas, I’ll tell you this. You’re free enough now,” he growled. “We’ve paid the price for you. Now go away.”

  The black-haired boy’s face changed abruptly, every trace of arrogance fleeing. He had assumed they would help him. “Go away? They’ll kill me! The lord we followed sent us to scrump the city the same night your crusaders did. Nearly all of m’fellows were caught, most hanged.” His voice became strained. “I was sent to follow you. But when I came back with m’wounds, I found the lord wa
s imprisoned as well. Afore I could get away, I was caught on the road and dragged here. Some priest saved me from the gallows, but … but if they find me again, they’ll hang me for sure.”

  “When did you last eat?” asked Rudolf.

  “Some days past,” Tomas answered, now submissive.

  Rudolf reached into his satchel as Wil kicked the ground and cursed.

  Heinrich was still confused. “Wil, you know him?”

  Wil grunted. “He apprenticed in our bakery.”

  Heinrich studied Tomas carefully. “You are from Weyer?”

  “No, Villmar. The monks raised me there, then sent me to Weyer to help in your bakery when you left.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve no parents that I know. I’m told I was dumped in a shearing shed. None knew m’mother, but some say m’father was a shepherd near Arfurt.”

  Heinrich chilled. The only shepherds from Arfurt he knew were Gunnars, the family long hated by his own. “‘Tis a sad tale.”

  “Humph,” the lad snorted. “Sad enough.”

  The baker drew Wil aside and whispered, “Methinks we’ve little choice here. We cannot leave him to hang. He’s one of us.”

  “One of us? Are you mad? He has been nothing but cause for trouble and abandoned the holy cause of crusade to consort with evil men. What makes him one of us?”

  Heinrich paused. It was a better question than he had considered. “Well, son, he speaks our tongue, he lives in our village—”

  “Wil, you’ve no choice in this,” interrupted Frieda in a hushed tone. “We’ve enjoyed Christian charity all this winter past—you more than all. We cannot deny another, not even Tomas.”

  Reluctantly, Wil shrugged his assent. The band of pilgrims was now numbered at six.

  Stefano had waited quietly at the edges of the conversation, but the hour was growing late. “I fear I am late for my duties,” he announced, “so I must bid you farewell.” He looked at Tomas. “My son, Deus vobiscum, may God go with you.” He raised his hands over the others. “May the Lord direct your hearts unto the love of God and into the patience of Christ.”

  Wil reached for the monk’s hand and grasped it firmly. “Our thanks, Brother Stefano, for your charity and your wisdom.”

  Stefano embraced Wil, then Heinrich, then each of the others. He prayed over the pilgrims and reluctantly returned to his boat, where his brothers were patiently waiting. Then, with a sad wave, the two groups parted company, never to see one another again.

  By nightfall, Tomas proved himself to be of some value. He knew of an obscure trail that would lead the pilgrims safely around Genoa and deliver them to the main roadway north, in the foothills just beyond the city. All agreed that they ought not to risk the podesta’s wrath. The city’s guard was doubtlessly still fomenting over the night of grand theft. But Heinrich, Wil, and Frieda refused to leave Liguria without one final farewell to Karl, whose body was buried along the roadway just above Genoa.

  The boy’s grave had been dug in the “Angels’ Garden” nearly seven months before. On the curving highway descending from the mountains to the city, the good lad had been lost to a reckless company of horsemen and their wagoner. Wil and Frieda could not blot the moment from their memories, and Heinrich’s imagination lost nothing in conjuring the horrific event.

  Indeed, while others slept, poor Heinrich walked about in the mountain’s wood, lamenting the loss of his beloved child. Guilt heaped itself upon grief, and the weight of the burden was intolerable. He simply could not forgive himself for failing to reveal his true identity to Karl before it was too late. Would his cheerful, loving, and kindhearted son have forgiven and welcomed his father? Would Karl still be alive if he had been there to protect him? Heinrich could find no satisfying answers to these questions.

  At dawn the man returned to the camp. He was drained, and his face looked sallow and drawn. He stood silently and waited bravely, and the sight of such a crushed soul caused more than one heart to clench in sympathy. Frieda ran to the man and held him tightly. “I loved him too, Herr Heinrich,” she whispered. “I loved him too.”

  Wil stared at his father and wondered how a man so broken could have been as callous as others had once said. His mother had told him and Karl over and over again how uncaring, how utterly selfish, and how dangerous a man he was. Looking at him now, Wil wondered.

  With few words the company gathered themselves and followed Wil upward along the crowded roadway. Most passersby thought them to be pilgrims from some holy order. Their black garments and somber faces even convinced a few to toss them pennies.

  It was well before noon when Wil slowed his walk to study the shoulder of the highway in earnest. The grave had been dug on the east side in a clearing filled with wildflowers. It was mid-April, and he was sure some would be in fresh bloom. He wondered if Frieda’s cross would still be there.

  The pilgrims followed their leader quietly, respecting the loss that both he and his father so sorely suffered. Even Tomas admitted that he had liked Karl, though he had thought him a bit annoying from time to time. “His riddles could drive a monk to madness,” the young man offered awkwardly.

  No one answered. Finally Wil stopped. He beckoned Frieda close, and the two peered ahead at a distant clearing on the downside of a curve. From this vantage it looked peculiar, but something about it seemed familiar. The two ran forward with Heinrich close behind.

  “Oh, by the saints,” said Frieda in a hushed tone. “He is here.”

  Wil dashed ahead and fell to his knees. Frieda and Heinrich quickly joined him, and the three stared sadly at the sinking mound of stones half covered by winter debris. Wil leaned forward and began to pick away dead weeds and crumbling petals when he spotted the wooden cross lying on its side. The sight of it brought a flood of memories to his mind, and his vision swam into a blur. “See, Father … Frieda’s cross,” he choked.

  The man’s gaze rested on the simple apple-wood cross as Wil and Frieda slowly set it upright. He could only imagine what sorrows that cross had witnessed, what sufferings it had borne along his sons’ crusade of tears. He then laid his hand atop the grave and groaned woefully. It was a painful thing to be separated from his beloved boy by such a thin screen of dirt and rock. He only wished he could hug the happy lad one last time. Heinrich fell to the ground alongside the mound and cried out for heaven’s mercy.

  Wil drew short, shallow breaths and tried for all the world to hold back his tears. Unable to bear the raw agony of his father’s grief, he retreated to the far side of the road and leaned against a tree, very much alone. Alas, there in his solitude he could not hold the flood tide of sorrow any longer. He covered his face with his hands and was soon weeping.

  Large salty droplets also fell from Frieda’s cheeks as she cleaned every bit of bramble off the grave. Humming softly as a mother would when tending one she loves, she smiled lovingly as she pictured the boy’s red curls and ready smile. “Ah, Karl,” she whispered, “you know the answer to the riddle now, don’t you?” She reached for a few early blooms and sprinkled them atop the mound.

  In time, Wil composed himself and started for the grave again. He stopped, however, and stared at his father, who was yet lying on the ground, still as death. The lad watched and considered this final evidence of the man’s heart. “Uncaring?” It hardly seems so. “Dangerous?” I remember how he was so easily tricked by the steward. “Selfish?” Perhaps. But I don’t recall the times he was, other than his leaving us, and I’ve not seen a sign of it in all these months.

  Wil’s thoughts took him to the Weyer of his childhood, and memories of his father began to take a more pleasant place alongside those of Karl. He liked to laugh but was too easily shamed by others, he remembered. Ah, the Magi and the Laubusbach … he and Karl loved them so. And old Emma and Lukas…. Odd they should be such friends to the man he was said to be.

  Frieda’s touch returned him to the present. “Wil, perhaps ‘tis time?”

  The young man nodded. He w
alked to his father and nudged him with his boot. Heinrich lurched with a start. “What?”

  “‘Tis time.”

  The man’s eye lingered on the well-groomed grave for another moment. It was hard for him to leave it, harder than he had imagined. He stared, emptied of all joy, drained of things happy. At last, he rolled to his knees and bowed his head. He prayed loudly and without reservation, pleading with the saints, the Holy Mother, and the Christ to share the bounty of heaven “with my good boy, Karl,” to “show the boy mercy at the Judgment to come,” and to “grant him all joy until the day I see him again.” Then, knowing he could do no more, he stood slowly to his feet. With a heavy sigh, he turned to Wil and waited to press his journey home.

  The April air was noticeably cooler in the Appenines than it had been by the sea, but it was comfortable in the daytime hours and surprisingly dry. Wil’s company pressed through the mountains under the watch of numerous castle keeps perched on ledges high above their path. The Ligurian lords who ruled them were in ever-changing tangles of alliances that kept their lives and fortunes in perpetual jeopardy.

  The six pilgrims camped at the eastern base of the mountains on a stony shore of the narrow Scrivia, and in the morning they bathed in the river’s rushing water. It was cold and bracing—almost sacramental. Few words were spoken, but somehow they believed they needed to be refreshed in body and in spirit. It was as though the chilly dip in running water might wash away the salty stains of heavy tears.

  Renewed and refreshed, they then journeyed northward along the Scrivia toward the crossroads town of Tortona, where they detoured westward in the direction of Allesandria. The days were mercifully dry, and the sky was blue. The highways were not crowded, and the pilgrims made good time.

  They forded the shallow Po, then made their way to the stone walls of Vercelli, where they set up camp alongside a small caravan of merchants crossing the Piedmont from Milan to Turin. The caravan was made up of some score of merchants led by their elected doyen—a gruff, former Norman crusader named Robert Fitzhugh. The band, or “guild,” included several spice purveyors delivering seasonings from the eastern Mediterranean, a wine seller, an oil merchant, a few potters, several cloth merchants, and sundry others all riding in wagons groaning under the weight of a bounty of goods purchased from the lands of Islam.