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

  “Quickly, let me see him!” ordered Pieter impatiently. He and Heinrich rolled the motionless lad to his back and looked him over hopefully. But, alas, none saw any signs of life. His color was drained, his skin ghostly white, and his lips faded purple. His limbs and torso had been sliced into red ribbons; a long gash split his left cheek. Heinrich looked to Pieter with a forlorn, despairing face and silently implored the old priest to do something.

  Pieter stared at the face of his beloved young friend and wanted to weep. A breeze tousled his hair and seemed to carry a message to him. He suddenly looked up, for he thought he could hear Karl’s voice whispering to him, “But there are miracles, Pieter.” The old man nodded to the unseen face and, to the astonishment of the others, answered out loud. “Aye, lad, there are miracles indeed!” He abruptly bent low to lay his head on Wil’s chest, then rolled the lad on his belly and pressed hard on his back.

  “What—?”

  “Not now, Heinrich!”

  Water suddenly gushed from the boy’s lungs as Pieter pressed firmly. He quickly folded Wil’s hands under his face and alternated pulls on his bent elbows with pushes on his back. The children stared dumfounded as the man kept pressing and pulling, pulling and pressing, all the while pleading with heaven for mercy. Some thought he had surely gone mad.

  At last, blood began to ooze more generously from the lad’s wounds, and Pieter shouted for joy. The children now believed he had truly lost his mind. He rolled Wil to his back and listened to a heart beating very, very weakly. “God be praised!” shouted the old man. “Now, where’s m’thread?”

  At that moment, all heads spun about to see three of their fellows sprinting wildly across the rocks, racing away from a shouting guildsman chasing them with a brandished knife. At once Heinrich jumped to his feet and drew his dagger. He moved toward the man as the imps scampered past him with a handful of supplies.

  “Father Pieter!” cried Ava as she fell at the priest’s feet panting. She proudly opened her palm and presented Pieter with two thin needles, both slightly arced.

  “Perfect!” cried Pieter.

  Heinz arrived next with a ball of thread and a smile as wide as the blue horizon. “Thread!” he boasted.

  “Aye, lad, well done!”

  The third comrade presented a stout candle and an armload of cloth. He handed Pieter his treasure with a nervous glance backward.

  Meanwhile, Heinrich held the cursing sailmaker at bay with the point of his long dagger. “Hear me, whether you understand me or not!”

  The man growled. “Ladro!”

  Heinrich nodded. “Aye, take this.” He tilted his head toward his satchel and motioned for the man to back away. When the man had taken several steps backward, Heinrich put the dagger in his teeth and plunged his hand into his coin pouch. He produced five silver pennies and tossed them to the grumbling fellow.

  The sailmaker picked up his pennies and narrowed his gaze at the broad-shouldered, shaggy German’s menacing appearance and glistening dagger. Deciding he’d be better off not pressing the matter, he turned away, leaving a string of blasphemies in his wake.

  By now Pieter was working furiously over the unconscious Wil. Surrounded by nearly two score of gawking onlookers, he barked orders to many. “You boys … build us a fire there.” He tossed his head toward an empty field about two bowshots south. “You four, tear this cloth into strips. You, Otto!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Scour the shore for anything we might use for a night’s camp; then take a counting of our company.”

  Heinrich hurried to Pieter’s side. “Shall he live?”

  The old man looked up with a resolute expression. “Ja! Somehow I can feel it! Now help me press cloth into these wounds till I sew them.”

  The baker nodded and took hold of a handful of bandages that he pressed firmly on Wil’s most severe wounds. “Ah, dear boy, you must fight!” He turned toward Pieter, whose fingers were nimbly dragging thread across the wax candles. “I’ve not yet seen Karl. I fear the worst.”

  Pieter looked up sadly. “I’ve not time now, Heinrich. We must save this one.” The old man wondered why Heinrich made no query of Maria.

  It was two hours of careful stitching before Pieter released a heavy sigh. Wil had narrowly escaped the attempted butchery of the San Marco’s evil crew, but whether he’d survive his wounds was yet to be known. The late September sky was darkening quickly, and word of the crusaders’ presence had drawn s more children to the southern end of Genoa where Pieter’s camp was now forming around a large driftwood fire. Wil was carried carefully to the fire’s edge, and Pieter attended him anxiously with Heinrich close by his side.

  Though Wil’s future still teetered in the balance of destiny, Otto bore despairing news of the others. Four fellow crusaders had perished, including Gertrude and Conrad, whose bodies had washed ashore with the evening tide. According to Otto’s count, of those who had followed Wil into Genoa, only eleven had survived. But now, this company added to the other young crusaders numbered more than three score and was growing.

  Searching the young faces by firelight for any sign of Karl, Heinrich had come to his own conclusions when he confronted Pieter once more. “Father, I beg you. Tell me of Karl.” Etched in shadow, Heinrich’s face was drawn in grief.

  Pieter nodded and bathed Wil’s bandaged wounds with another cup of salt water.

  “Did you hear me, Pieter?”

  “Ja, my friend.” The priest stood, took a long, trembling breath, and faced the anxious man tenderly. “Dear Friend, your good son is with the angels.”

  Heinrich closed his eye and struggled to breathe. He groaned, then staggered backward with an anguished cry. Pieter stretched a tender hand toward the grief-stricken wretch and prayed for him quietly. “And Maria was left with the good brothers in Arona.”

  The baker mumbled a few incoherent words, then retreated into the darkness, sobbing. He left the light of the campfire far behind as he hurried angrily along the turbulent shoreline. Alone under a magnificent night’s sky, he paused to stare at the silvery silk of the water’s surface as his gaze blurred behind a curtain of tears.

  His mind carried him to happier days in Weyer, times when hope had not yet faded. He could feel his little boy crawling up on his lap and wished only that he might wrap two arms around him once again. He could see his beloved Karl romping about Weyer, wrestling with his brother in the tall grass of summers past, selling bread along the Münster road, and bidding him a sad farewell. He drew some comfort from the happy images and even smiled sadly. But this was a loss he could not bear, and the man collapsed to the ground in despair as the sea rumbled and hissed at him from the crevices of the rocks.

  In the whispers of the surf, he heard Emma’s voice again, and in the deeper tones he heard the gentle words of Brother Lukas. He set his jaw, turned his face, and looked far up into the sky, past the merciful moon and beyond the twinkling of kindly stars. His throat swelled as he thought of Karl smiling from above, free to laugh, free to sing, free to dance in the gardens of heaven.

  At dawn’s first light, the currents of melancholy, exhaustion, hunger, and privation swept over Heinrich and Pieter like a rush of unwelcome waters. Wil was sleeping restlessly in a state of fever while a host of children milled about the field without food, proper clothing, or purpose. Their want was now a burden stacked atop the broad shoulders of Heinrich and leaning upon the clever craft of Pieter.

  Heinrich had returned to Wil’s side in the dark hours before dawn, still grieving in unspeakable agony, yet so thoroughly exhausted that his heart was fast becoming numb. Poor Frieda had spent the night in silent vigil by the shrouded corpses of her sister, Gertrude, and her friend Conrad. The whole of the camp had grown larger through the night, and Otto stumbled to Pieter’s side with a dutiful report.

  “Our numbers now are four score and six,” he mumbled.

  Pieter wanted to weep, but he clenched his jaw and looked about thoughtfully. Four score and six;
no food, no shelter, no medicine for Wil. Me, a useless old man; the baker, broken in grief; they, an ever-growing flock of starving castaways. What can I do? He squeezed his crook hard and looked to heaven. “O my God, give me strength.” Finally, he took a deep breath to call for all to join him by a nearby cypress tree.

  As a large company followed the white-headed man and his shaggy dog, he bade any hands willing to begin scooping four graves. In good time the graves were dug and a pile of rocks collected. Then all fell silent as Otto led those bearing the remains of Gertrude, Conrad, and two unnamed souls toward them.

  Each shrouded body was laid gently in its grave midst muffled sobs and tears. Frieda knelt by her sister’s body, while Otto and Heinz remained steadfast alongside their comrade Conrad. Pieter leaned hard on his staff and raised his arms over the assembly of lost crusaders. “I am Pieter, once monk, now priest to all in need. Bless you all in the name of our Lord.” He then lifted his eyes to heaven, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…” He proceeded to pray for the souls now departed, for those yet in peril, and for the hearts of grieving parents in so many faraway places. He blessed the brave ones gathered near, urged God’s judgment on those who would cause His lambs more harm, and finished his prayer with a verse from the Thirty-Fourth Psalm: “I will bless the Lord at all times, His praise shall be always in my mouth.”

  The bodies were reverently covered with dirt; their shallow graves then mounded with small rocks and stones. Four crosses were offered by four crusaders and were set securely above each head. Lying in their graves facing east, toward the Jerusalem they had not seen, the four were then left to wait for the resurrection to come.

  It was midmorning when tears had dried and huddles of hapless children began to form. It was then that Heinrich emerged from his own grief to join Pieter. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “Pieter, I shall carry m’loss always. But now we must find a way to help these others. We’ve need for a plan.”

  Pieter stared at the red-eyed man with admiration. One eyed, one armed, scarred in body and in soul, yet thinking of others. Encouraged and inspired, the priest welcomed his new friend into his embrace. “Heinrich, Heinrich, my son … may God’s blessings be upon you.” He took a deep breath and faced the throng of tattered children. “Heinrich, our God is a God of scars. Wounded people serve others well.”

  “Then these poor wretches ought bring joy to many.”

  Pieter chuckled. “I was thinking of you!”

  The children were stirring amongst themselves. Many wished to go home. Others were more defiant. “We’ll not fail in this!” shouted one. “I say we press on, on to Jerusalem!”

  “Aye!” cried another. Fists were raised into the air, and a weak hurrah was sounded.

  Paul, a quiet lad from Cologne who had taken Gertrude’s place on the San Marco, stepped forward with a number of boys at either side. “Sirs, a word?”

  The two men stood and greeted the young man. He seemed to be about Wil’s age, calm and resolute. “I’ve traveled with my comrades from Cologne. We followed Nicholas’s column along the west bank of the Rhine from Mainz, but we fell behind in the great mountains somewhere in France. Now we’ve word that Nicholas did not board a ship at all but is marching to Rome with many of our fellows.”

  Pieter grumbled.

  “I’ve met with m’own company, and many wish to follow. The Holy Father shall set all this to right.”

  In a single voice, Pieter and Heinrich objected loudly.

  The lad was undaunted. “No, sirs. We shall press on.”

  Pieter sighed. It would mean fewer mouths to feed and care for, yet his heart ached for them. “How many would you take?”

  “We took a counting. About half say they’ll join us, including some of yours.”

  Pieter was alarmed. “Some of mine?”

  “Aye, Father.” Paul pointed to a small knot of children standing proud and erect, determined to continue their quest. The priest’s throat swelled. “Ah, Leo and Oswald, little Pepin and Edel…” He sighed and turned to Paul. “Good lad, you are needed here with us. We need your help.”

  Paul smiled, aware of the ploy. He answered firmly. “Thanks be to you, Father Pieter. Your heart is good, but we’ve our duty and you’ll not dissuade us. We leave for Rome on the morrow, and in the meanwhile we shall find food enough for all and what medicines you need.”

  Heinrich had said nothing. He looked about the haggard young crusaders with a mixture of admiration and dread. Looking upon each face, he wondered about the broken hearts of countless mothers in villages all across Christendom.

  Too weary to contrive any clever schemes of dissuasion, Pieter yielded. “Then I’ve need of the following: bayberry bark … ground or whole, leaves of sage, willow bark in any form, chickweed, and comfrey root in a heavy quantity. Now might I ask how you propose to acquire these things?”

  Paul shuffled awkwardly on his feet. “Sir, this city’s done naught but harm us. We think it ought offer what we’ve need of.”

  “So you’re going to steal it.” Pieter’s face darkened ominously.

  “Aye, Father.”

  The priest and Heinrich looked at each other for a long moment, then at the growing host of hungry faces. Heinrich was about to reach for the gold of Anoush still riding in his satchel when Pieter answered. “God’s will be done.”

  Heinrich was surprised, and even Paul raised his brows in surprise. “But…”

  “Hold your tongues; I’m too weary to argue about it.” He whispered to Heinrich, “No amount of money in any of our purses could buy enough of what is needed.”

  Pieter turned back to Paul. “A man has a right to keep what is his, that is true enough, so long as none in his view is starving. Look about you. These innocents have been beaten and worse, cast out like so much rubbish by Liguria’s most wealthy families. I need say no more.”

  Paul agreed knowingly. “My spies tell me that for now the city’s glad we’ve moved beyond. We’ve spread the word that we’re off to Rome.”

  Pieter nodded and then faced the sky and drew warm air through his nose. “We must speak with those who will not follow you, Paul. ‘Tis too late for them to cross the Alps, and we cannot travel far with Wil. Yet we also must not stay here much longer.

  “Can y’not delay one more day? We must allow Wil a little longer to heal and give ourselves time for a plan.”

  Paul wrinkled his nose. “Aye, perhaps. But we must be off soon.”

  “Thank you,” answered Pieter. He beckoned Heinrich follow him away from the others, where they spent the next hour discussing their plight. They considered their numbers, the risks and advantages, as well as the season.

  “Now, Friend, ‘tis plain to me it is far too late to begin a march home,” said Pieter.

  The baker nodded. “And Wil cannot travel for some time.”

  Pieter sat thoughtfully. “Well, he cannot travel very far, but we must leave this place. The salt water is good for his wounds, but I fear for him if we stay here. With good herbs and some nourishment the lad may have a chance.”

  “So we need to find shelter for these many children, no doubt until Holy Week or beyond.”

  “Aye. And we’ve the little matter of feeding them … nearly a hundred souls. The olive harvest is yet weeks away, and I’ve little faith in either the folk or the churchmen here in Genoa.”

  Soon after the bells of terce, Paul reported to Pieter and Heinrich that he had divided the camp between those who would follow him to Rome and those who would not. “My group is over there. We’ll be returning to the city for another day’s begging.” Turning away, he hurried to the head of a line of some three score threadbare, bony urchins on bare feet. Wooden crosses were still tucked in each belt, and heads were held high.

  Pieter sighed, then called for those from his original company who intended to remain with him. As the three gathered, he introduced them to Heinrich. “This little scamp is Heinz. Neither he nor I remember when he joine
d us, but he has been a worthy crusader. The children often call him ‘Elfman.’” Pieter looked affectionately at the impish boy of about nine. He was a winsome lad with squinty eyes and an upturned nose.

  Heinrich smiled and clasped his hand. “You’ve the look of a clever elf!” he chuckled.

  Pieter smiled and turned to Heinrich. “Now surely you must know Otto?”

  Heinrich turned toward the stout lad and studied him carefully. The boy was about Karl’s age, thirteen. He was sandy haired, green eyed, and freckled. “Ah, you’d be from Weyer, the new miller’s son!” He laid his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it with affection. “I remember your father and, as I think of it, even you. You were quite a bit smaller in those times!”

  Otto smiled. “Ja, Herr Heinrich. M’papa spoke oft of you and your bakery. He said you made the best bread in all the empire!”

  Heinrich laughed. “Finally, a miller who’d be a truthful man! We needs talk of Weyer some.”

  “Otto lost his brother Lothar along the way.”

  The lad hung his head. “I carried his cross with me all the way to the San Marco, but I lost it in the sea.”

  “Ah,” answered Heinrich sympathetically. “And what of your own cross?”

  “I left it at Lothar’s grave in Dunkeldorf.”

  Grumbles followed the word Dunkeldorf.

  “And my cross is lost, too,” added Frieda.

  All eyes turned toward the young woman of nearly seventeen. She was still grieving her sister’s death, yet bore her sadness with remarkable dignity. “I lost it in the sea as well, Otto.”

  “It was made for you by Wil,” added Pieter.

  “Yes. He made them for us at… at…”

  “Ah, Heinrich, do you remember Frieda?” Pieter interrupted.

  The man nodded. He remembered her from Basel because he had so feared for her there. “Indeed.” He bowed politely. “You were about to say where Wil made the cross for you?”