Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Page 26

  Conversations fell to whispers, then ended altogether as blank stares were fixed at the horizon. The way of the past had cast its spell.

  “Enough!” cried Pieter suddenly. “Enough of this. You have left the old order behind. Do not go back to it. You must live life freely and without fear, bound only by the laws of grace.” His voice was firm but not harsh. He leaned on his staff and reached for Maria. “Believe in what you have become.”

  Sudden chills of inspiration tingled along his listeners’ spines, and in that moment the power of evil oppression was broken. Heaven had sprinkled the old man’s mouth with admonitions of hope, and the brave pilgrims were now ready to press on.

  Heinrich and Alwin shifted Paulus’s sacks to make room for Pieter. “He’ll not be refusing us again,” insisted the baker. “He will do as we say!”

  Alwin looked at Pieter and shook his head. “How old is he?”

  “Nearly seventy-eight,” Frieda replied. “But my heart tells me he still has much to teach us. He’ll not be taken from us yet.”

  The sun was directly overhead when Pieter was finally hoisted upon Paulus. He did not complain nearly as much as the beast below him, though he admitted a certain wounded pride. “Ah, it is what it is,” he finally muttered. “Lead on, Wil. Lead us on.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A FAREWELL, A MONKEY, AND A CARAVAN

  The region of Liestal lay southeast of Basel. It was a land of lumpy-shouldered mountains and easy valleys. Small fields of spelt and rye checkered clearings here and there, and hardwood forests covered what was not green with pasture. It was a quiet place, save for the bountiful numbers of songbirds fluttering happily amongst the heavy boughs. Tucked out of sight were the timber farmsteads of the mountain peasants. From their hidden chimneys, thin columns of smoke streamed slowly upward like white ribbons, rising from the unseen hearths hidden deep within the mountains’ many nooks.

  Rudolf was flushed with excitement. It had been just over a year since he had left his family to join with a different band of crusaders that had passed nearby. He began to point to familiar landmarks—first a few, then many more as they grew closer. “There! Herr Ernst’s well! And see, down there, old Emil’s mill.”

  He began to trot ahead, down a long descent toward a waiting valley. Laughing, the others followed close behind, with poor Pieter grumbling atop his bouncing perch. At last, Rudolf stopped. He held his breath and licked his lips nervously as he and his friends faced the homestead.

  The house was a long rectangular structure, “built of mostly hardwood logs, judging by the bark still hanging on some,” reckoned Heinrich. The baker stared at the rock chimney standing proudly at one end. “Better than a smoke-hole!”

  The scene was made all the more inviting by the low mooing of milk cows grazing in a nearby meadow. To their deep song was added the grunts of contented swine rooting mast from the woodland floor and the clucking of hens bobbing and scratching along the footpath. The pilgrims looked about, enchanted by the healing green of the forest, the farmyard’s comforting sounds, the sprinkling of colorful wildflowers, and the warm rays of golden sunshine piercing between leafy boughs. And were that not blissful enough, the air was soon sweetened with a singsong melody of the Hausfrau.

  Backe, backe Kuchen, der Backer hat gerufen!

  Wer will guten Kuchen backen, der muss haben sieben Sachen:

  Eier und Schmalz, Butter und Salz, Milch und Mehl, Safran macht den Kuchen gehl Schieb in den of en rein!

  (Bake, bake the cakes, the baker has cried!

  Who wants good cakes baked, he must have seven things:

  Eggs and lard, butter and salt, milk and flour,

  Saffron makes the cakes yellow. Shove them in the oven pure!)

  Rudolf’s eyes watered and a lump filled his throat. He had heard that rhyme for the whole of his life. Pieter dismounted and wrapped an arm about the lad. “You are home, boy. Go and greet them.”

  The lad embraced Pieter. “God bless you, Father. God bless you always.” He turned, then sprinted toward his timber home, where he flung open the door and disappeared into the darkness behind. The singing stopped abruptly. Silence seized the woodland, and nothing stirred until cries of joy rose to heaven as Gerda ran to her son.

  Maria and Frieda had been holding hands anxiously. At the sound of Gerda’s happy cries, they burst into tears. It was a precious moment, indeed, one filled with shining eyes and broad smiles.

  Then, to the pilgrims’ right, the earth suddenly shook with the sound of feet crashing through the woodland brush. Storming toward the opened door of his home charged the barrel-chested, bearded man of the house, Dieder. Hearing the shrieks of his wife in the trees beyond the fences, the bear of a man roared past the amused travelers and burst through his doorway, axe in hand and readied for battle. Again, utter silence seized the moment until, unashamed, Dieder bawled loudly, like a small boy swept away by utter joy.

  “Ha, ha!” laughed Pieter. “Wonderful!” He skipped about on his bowed legs with his face flushed by his glad heart. “I love it!” he cried. “Sing, O ye angels! Sing!”

  The group waited in their place until the household settled. In a few moments Dieder and his plump wife emerged from their doorway with arms stretched as wide as their smiles. They called to the pilgrims with shouts of thanksgiving. As Gerda hurried toward Pieter eagerly, the teetering old fellow suddenly had cause to fear! He braced himself as the happy woman fell upon him and lifted him off his feet with both arms wrapped tightly round his bony waist. “Father! You found him … you found my boy!”

  Gasping for air, Pieter wheezed, “Ja, God be praised! Please … I can’t breathe!”

  “Ha!” roared Dieder. He pried Pieter from his wife’s embrace and squeezed the old man’s aged hand with one of his huge paws.

  “Aahh!” cried Pieter. “Aye, aye, you are surely welcome!”

  Dieder pulled the limp-limbed priest to his chest and hugged him crying, “Ah! Old fellow! God be praised indeed!”

  From the sheep pen, a young girl came running. “Rudi!” she cried. It was Beatrix, his younger sister. The lad ran to meet her, and the two greeted each other with joy.

  Sore and breathless, Pieter grinned, and at the sight of his snaggletooth, the farmer roared with laughter. “Come! Come in and eat with us, all of you!”

  The rest of that day was spent in tale-telling and feasting. Gerda scurried about her kitchen delivering baskets of freshly baked cakes and loaves of spelt bread to her guests. She raced to her larder for sundry berry preserves as Heinrich studied her bread. “Ah, good woman,” he exclaimed as she returned, “a finer bread I’ve not tasted.”

  Gerda blushed.

  “Tis true. I am a baker by trade, and I’ve an eye for these things.”

  “Only one eye!” laughed Otto.

  “Ach! So be it.” Heinrich feigned anger. He turned to Gerda. “Long ago I was reminded that the baker is the priest of the kitchen table. Like the Eucharist at the altar, bread gives us life. It may seem a simple thing, but it is bread that our Lord chose as His body for us.”

  “And it is feasts like this one that is our Lord’s vision for his true kingdom!” Alwin stood, his dark eyes swollen red with emotion. “Look about, all of you. What do you see? I see love and charity. I see kindness and grace. See the table, about to be filled with the bounty of God’s goodness.” The knight’s voice thickened with the lump filling his throat. “Oh, dear Heinrich, dear Gerda … bake your bread always with thanksgiving … it is a taste of the feast to come.”

  Dieder stood and toasted the knight with a fresh tankard of ale. “To the kingdom, then!”

  “Hurrah!” cheered the diners.

  Then, with the frothy tankard fixed securely in his grip, Dieder lifted his eyes upward. “O Lord of field and forest, rivers and seas, I thank You for our Rudi, and I thank You for our brothers and sisters round m’table who’ve brought him home. Forgive us our failings. Heal our weaknesses. Strengthen our charity. Amen.” />
  “Amen.”

  Wil had listened to many prayers, mostly in Latin. But here he heard a humble, grateful man lift his voice directly to the Almighty in the common tongue. There was such simple honesty in the man’s tone and such directness in his words that Wil thought all heaven was surely moved. Perhaps it was.

  With an unwavering smile stretched as far across her face as it might go, Gerda then filled the table with platters of salted pork, entrails, mutton, cheeses, and numbers of summer vegetables. She poured mead generously amongst the young ones, while Dieder reached for some ale and a bottle of good red wine for Pieter, Heinrich, Alwin, and himself.

  Later, three chickens and a duck were boiled in beer, and a slab of venison was set to sizzling on a spit above a snapping fire. Before long, the stuffed pilgrims lounged about the summer evening like spoiled little lords and ladies. They spoke of the crusade, of adventures, and of friends lost. Wil informed a saddened Dieder of Karl’s death. Then others spoke of the terror of the San Marco, the wonders of San Fruttuoso, and of the journey north.

  At long last, night fell. The sounds of a woodland’s summer evening calmed all hearts with as soothing a lullaby as ever was sung, and, one by one, the pilgrims fell to a peaceful sleep in the embrace of the kindly mountains near Liestal.

  It was a sad farewell when Rudolf was left behind. He, too, had changed. But his world was unusually suited to both what the boy had been and to what he had become. For the travelers, though, thoughts turned to things ahead, particularly Weyer and the troubles that might be waiting. Until then, many more leagues needed to be traveled.

  It was early in the second week of July when Wil’s company looked down on the walls of Basel. The city brought them nothing but dread, and none wanted to enter. “But, Wil, we are now in need of foodstuffs,” insisted Otto.

  “Dieder gave us a good supply.”

  “Ja, but it is not enough.”

  “We can cross on the ferries and find food in the Rhine Valley.”

  Otto spat. “In a place like Dunkeldorf?”

  The group fell quiet. Pieter hung his head sheepishly, remembering his own failings in that horrible town, but it was Frieda who gasped at the name. “No! I’ll not go near that awful place.”

  Wil laid his arm around her and whispered words of comfort. It was in Dunkeldorf where she had been rescued by Wil’s company, along with her now-departed brother and sister. She shuddered.

  “Then we need to travel west of the Rhine and cross at Mainz,” stated Alwin flatly.

  The group discussed the plan until there was general agreement. Heinrich added rather insistently, “Aye, but we still need to send someone into Basel for provisions.”

  Alwin agreed. “I think it best as well. The prices ought to be better here than from some thieving merchant along the way. The free villages along the borders by France are the worst.”

  Wil nodded. “Then you, Father, along with Helmut, Tomas, and m’self will go. You others make a camp off the roadway.”

  Otto and Friederich grumbled some, but Benedetto was greatly relieved. He made his way to Solomon’s side and sat beside the dog, nearly out of view.

  “And how long before we send someone to find you?” Friederich cast a sideways glance at Pieter.

  The priest smiled weakly. “They’ll be back in proper time, lad. Not like some fool priest.”

  A conversation quickly ensued in which a list of necessary items was made. Frieda wanted more thread and a needle; Maria asked for honey for Pieter’s sake; the others added various items such as salt, fishing nets for the Rhine, fresh flint, replacement arrows for Wil, and a whetstone for the blades. “Several baskets of flour would be good,” added Frieda. “We lost most of ours in Olten.”

  “And what about some vegetables … late peas and the like?”

  Helmut added more. “What of some fresh-baked bread? What we have is hard as stones. And I’d like a few turnips, some garlic and onions, some—”

  “My, how times have changed!” mused Pieter. “Might I add some butter, a bottle of French wine … perhaps from Bordeaux … no, Provence … no, make that the region of Lyons—”

  “It’ll be red,” grumbled Heinrich. “Is that all?”

  Alwin stepped forward hesitantly. “It would cost much, very much, but what of a sword for me? I fear we might need one.”

  The group hesitated. Swords were very expensive. Heinrich thought it a wise purchase however. “How much is one of our lives worth? We need Alwin’s arm.”

  “Why not give him your sword?” challenged Otto.

  Wil stepped forward. “What money we’ll spend is mostly m’father’s! His sword is his to use, and he uses it well. We’ll buy Alwin what we can.”

  The matter settled, Frieda asked for one more thing. “If you could find a bowl of ink, sir, it would make me glad.”

  “Ink?”

  “Ja.”

  “What are you writing, anyway?”

  Frieda flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, I’ll show you another time.”

  The group was intrigued by the secret. “Eh?” quizzed Tomas. “Why another time?”

  “I’m not yet finished.”

  “Finished with what?” challenged Friederich.

  Frieda turned to Wil with imploring eyes. He came to her defense. “Enough. She’ll reveal it when she’s ready.”

  The matter settled for the time being, Heinrich shrugged. “Aye, girl. Ink it is.”

  The four made their way toward the city on a roadway filled with travelers. Every manner of cart and wagon groaned between men-at-arms, pious pilgrims, merchants with heavy-laden horses, and clerics bearing crosses. It was a noisy, uncomfortable press of people dressed in woolens on a hot summer day.

  “Everyone stinks,” groused Tomas.

  As they neared the city gate, Heinrich handed each shopper some coins and assigned a list of wares to purchase. When they entered the marketplace, the four divided with a plan to meet by the gate again at the bells of nones.

  Bidding the other two good fortune, Heinrich and Wil walked together into the market and scanned the tables of produce that were brought into the city each day from the farms dotting the countryside. Cheese was abundant, along with various assortments of green vegetables. Fish was plentiful, particularly codfish from the Rhine. Game was scarce, of course, considering that the local lords refused to allow hunting by anyone other than their own huntsmen. But joints of pork and heavy slabs of ox-meat were plentiful and hung on iron hooks alongside droop-legged fowl and mutton.

  Heinrich was pleased to walk alone with his son, and the two spoke earnestly of things past and things to come. Heinrich was informed—in rather great detail—of the events in Weyer since his leaving, and Heinrich, in turn, told more of his own story. Sitting under a linden and sharing a jar of beer, the two nearly lost track of time. For each, the other’s accounting was a fascinating glimpse into the soul. It quickly became a time of mutual repentance and the beginning of healing. A loud voice interrupted their conversation.

  “Do you like m’monkey?”

  “What?”

  A strange old man with a monkey on his shoulder leaned forward. He was fat and bald, and the reek of his foul breath was overpowering. Father and son winced. “I say, do you like m’monkey?”

  Heinrich looked at the wide-eyed creature. “I suppose I do.”

  “Good, then have him.” The man set the four-legged little beast on Heinrich’s shoulder.

  Objecting loudly, Heinrich stood, and the monkey bit him on the ear. “Ahhh!” cried the baker. He swatted the dodging animal as it scooted back and forth across the man’s broad shoulders.

  Wil roared with laughter—as did the gathering crowd—while the old rogue watched through squinting eyes. At last, however, the trickster began to shout. “Thief! Thief! He stole my monkey! Call the guard!”

  “What!” roared Wil. His father was too busy to respond. He was dancing about the marketplace trying to shed himself of the mean-spirited c
reature. “He’s no thief!” the young man cried furiously.

  A troop of soldiers came trotting around the corner. “Thief!” cried the old man, pointing at Heinrich. “Thief!” The commander immediately rushed toward the hapless baker and knocked him to the ground. The chattering monkey dashed away, running wildly in a wide circle around the laughing crowd until bounding upon his master’s shoulder and kissing the old man on the cheek. “Oh, thank you, officer,” cried the man, bowing. “This fellow tried to steal my little friend here. You were a witness. Arrest him at once.”

  Wil bounded to the soldiers. “The man’s a liar! Arrest him.”

  By now, Heinrich had gathered his wits and climbed to his feet under the points of two lances.

  “Hold fast, stranger. He says you tried to steal his monkey.”

  “He’s a liar.”

  The soldier looked about the crowd. “Have we any witnesses?”

  “Oui,” came a voice. It belonged to a lovely young damsel dressed in a flowing silk gown. She peered from beneath a gauze wimple that covered her hair piled neatly atop her head. She pointed to Heinrich. “He is a thief.”

  It was enough. The guards grabbed both father and son and began to drag them away when the old man cried out again, “Hold, sirs. Hold a moment.”

  “What?”

  “Well, truth be told, this fellow caused me no harm. Perhaps he might just pay me for m’trouble, and we can let the matter rest.”

  “He’ll pay nothing!” shouted Wil. A soldier slapped him.

  The officer nodded to the old man. “And how much would be fair?”

  “Well, he gave m’little friend quite a scare and me as well. And he ought be taught a lesson for the sake of other helpless folk such as m’self. I should say… hmm … methinks a shilling should do.”

  “Burn in hell, old man,” cried Wil. A fist knocked him to the ground.

  “Two shillings, now,” grumbled the guard. “Else we’ll invite you to our little feast in the dungeon.”