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

  “Enough reminiscing, Heinrich. What’s our plan?” Alwin said with an impatient bite. “I see a group assembling for a Sabbath forest walk over there, and more are starting to mill about. I’d not want us seen until we’re ready.”

  Heinrich nodded and stared across the stream into the village. “My bakery is just beyond those sheds. Since we’re here, let me have a quick look.”

  Pieter frowned. “If you must, but hurry and, by heaven, don’t be seen!”

  Stooping low behind the cover of brush, the baker and his son left the others and made their way across the ford toward the bakery standing just beyond a shed. They crept slowly and cautiously forward, then stretched their heads to have a look.

  “There.” Heinrich choked. “My bakery.” His thoughts ran to the day he baked his first loaf of bread in the building built by Katharina’s father. Then he remembered that glorious day when it was sold to him by the abbot. A good day, indeed! he thought. The man looked at the sturdy building and remembered so many days within its walls. He closed his eye and imagined he could smell the bake. He wondered who was stoking the ovens and kneading the dough. Then he wondered how he could ever come back. He turned to his son. “What would a baker be without a bakery?”

  “A baker still,” answered Wil quietly. “And a good one. He’d still be a father, a husband, and a friend as well. But it is still yours by right of law.”

  The man took a hopeful breath but shook his head. “I’m not so certain.” He turned his face toward the village. From a distance, the place had felt warm and inviting. Up close, however, it seemed oddly unfamiliar. It was as if he had become a stranger. He said nothing to Wil, but he was suddenly anxious, like prey precariously positioned at the edge of a snare. He motioned for his son to follow him back to the others waiting nervously across the stream.

  “Now what?” asked Otto as the pair returned. “I’d like to see m’papa.”

  Heinrich looked at Wil, then at the sandy-haired lad.

  “And what about Mutti?” asked Maria.

  Wil nodded and set a kindly hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Otto, well get you home soon enough. We need to think a bit more on this.”

  Friederich, Benedetto, and Helmut said nothing. They had all been anxious about the others’ homecoming. In the first place, they feared being arrested as fugitives along with the others. They also were terrified of being charged as accomplices of Alwin. But they also wondered about their own fate if their fellows were able to make Weyer their home again. Friederich finally spoke. “You ought to go in at night. We all feel danger here.”

  Wil looked at his friend. He thought the eight-year-old’s face seemed tight and haggard. Friederich’s hands were trembling, and Frieda put her arm around him. As if she knew what troubled the little boy’s heart, she kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll be safe with us, and whatever happens, you’ve a home with us.”

  “He’s right, Wil,” said Helmut. “It’d be safer at night.”

  The pilgrims murmured amongst themselves and finally agreed. “Just past compline bells then,” said Wil.

  The company retreated to the fern-softened environs of the Magi, which stood within a brief walk of the boundary pole of Villmar’s manorlands. Here, in this place of fond memories and cool air, the pilgrims lounged, albeit warily. Pieter patiently listened to Heinrich and Wil chatter about Brother Lukas and the Butterfly Frau, of Richard and Ingly, of things magical and things tragic. But when talk finally turned toward things more imminent, the priest became ever more insistent that those from Weyer give heed to the likelihood of their abandoning home for a new life of freedom elsewhere. To this, angry objections were offered. Wil paced about the wood, confused and struggling to answer the challenges his old friend posed. Heinrich was equally distressed. He was no longer living in his dreams but rather standing at the very edge of his former master’s manor. A gnawing realization crawled over him. Perhaps the old man is right Maybe I cannot be home and be free.

  The group finally settled quietly midst the lengthening shadows as summer sunbeams slanted their way between great timbers, splashing golden patches throughout the brushy woodland floor. Soon, twilight would fall, and the long-awaited bells of compline would echo from the stout tower of Weyer’s brownstone church. Frieda and Maria had built a small fire upon which they had boiled water for a stew of vegetables, mushrooms, and pork. Heinrich stared into the steaming pot and thought wistfully of Katharina once more. He sighed.

  The company whispered amongst themselves, and the light began to fade. A flask of ale was passed around the circle, and soon Benedetto strummed softly on his lute. He smiled at Maria with dark eyes now twinkling in the firelight.

  Not far away, Weyer’s church bell rang. Its deep, soulful peals rolled through darkening woodlands in slow, rhythmic waves, and each pilgrim’s heart began to race. “Tis time,” said Wil as he stood. The young man secured his dagger in his belt and gripped his bow tightly. Emmanuel, he said to himself, I needs leave you here. He handed the bow to Helmut while staring at its inscription. “‘Vincit qui patior,’” he whispered. “‘He who suffers, conquers.’ Indeed.”

  Heinrich and Alwin, Otto and Tomas joined Wil. “We’re ready,” the baker said.

  Wil looked at his fellows and nodded. He reached for his wife and embraced her, then kissed her tenderly. “Frieda, I shall return with news. Then we’ll make a plan. Take care of Maria and the others.”

  The young woman nodded. She lingered in Wil’s embrace until he lifted her arms gently from his sides. “Have no fear, wife. I shall be back.”

  Pieter stepped forward. “I should like to come with you. I’ve little strength in my arms, but I’ve yet m’wits.”

  Wil laid a hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “Ah, indeed you do. Use them to help the others.” The lad leaned low and whispered into the stoop-shouldered priest’s ear. “If we do not return by dawn, come looking, but come alone.”

  Pieter nodded. “Ja, me and the hosts of heaven!”

  Helmut was made second in command, just below Pieter, and was told to keep those remaining safe in the woodland near the Magi. “If you must,” Wil further instructed, “take them east into the heavier forests by the Matins Stone. Maria, can you find it?”

  Maria twisted her face and rolled a finger through her braids. “I was there twice,” she said. “Both times with Karl. I think I remember.”

  Heinrich looked at the little girl with a furrowed brow. “That rock is off the manor! You and your brother could have been beaten … or worse! I thought you were an obedient child!”

  Maria giggled. “Sometimes!”

  “No matter now, Father. If they need to hide, shell take them there. Otherwise, we meet here, at the Magi by dawn. Helmut and Pieter, keep a sharp eye on our satchels, and keep the two beasts quiet! If Paulus brays, hell bring you trouble for sure.”

  The young man turned to look carefully at Alwin. The knight was staring into the dark canopy of leaves above and muttering a prayer. “I still say you should wait behind.”

  Alwin said nothing for a moment, then adjusted his sword. “Nay. You may need me yet. I’ll surely not be known under cover of darkness, and well be out of the village by light.”

  Wil nodded. “Otto, are you ready?”

  Otto was nervous and wringing his hands lightly. “Ja.”

  “Then we go.”

  With no more to be said, Wil led Heinrich, Alwin, Otto, and Tomas toward the small bridge that arched over the Laubusbach. Once they crossed the bridge, the path would lead them past the ruins of Emma’s cottage and into the sleepy village. It was a warm summer night, almost sultry. Few hearths were burning, though a thin, eye-burning haze hung lightly along the footpaths and alleyways.

  Otto’s hovel was positioned as the farthest hut from the village center—a place believed fitting for all millers, tradesmen cursed for their thieving ways. The group arrived at its door quietly. Inside, an unattended candle burned, and through the one window, the lad could
see his snoring father stretched atop a straw mattress. The young crusader swallowed hard and looked to Wil for courage. His fists were clenched and he did not speak.

  “He will be glad to see you,” whispered Wil.

  “Do you think so?” choked Otto.

  Heinrich laid a hand on the lad’s broad shoulder. “I’d be proud of you, boy. And I’d have a feast to welcome you!”

  Otto smiled. “If there’s trouble, I’ll be at the Magi by dawn.”

  “There’ll be no trouble, friend,” answered Wil confidently. “You’re home.”

  With that, all clasped hands, and the lad was left to rally his courage alone. The four others faded into the shadows, their silhouettes gliding silently past a half-dozen darkened buildings. They crouched and turned to watch Otto walk through his door.

  It was a long pause before a voice suddenly boomed from within the boy’s hut. “Otto! By the saints, you little fool! Where’s yer brother?” Within moments Otto’s father began to curse and shout. A few sleepy villagers in nearby huts groused a bit, and then a few staggered to their doorways. “Shut yer mouth, miller!”

  “Burn in hell!” the angry man answered.

  “A curse on yer children!” roared a drunken man.

  The miller burst from his door and dragged Otto by the hair into the path. “A curse you say? A curse? I’ve been cursed with this coward!” To the dismay of Wil’s group, he punched the poor lad in the belly and threw him to the ground. “He let his brother die on that fool’s crusade! He broke his vow to me and to the Holy Church! Come, all of you! See this worthless scrap of dung who calls himself m’son!”

  Wil’s band watched in disbelief as bleary-eyed villagers emerged from their huts and gathered on the narrow street. A menacing group moved toward Otto, shouting curses. “You, boy, tell me where’s m’ Ingrid?” growled one.

  A mother suddenly shrieked, “And where’s my little Oskar?” More names flew from angry, grief-stricken lips as more and more villagers funneled their way toward the miller and his terrified son.

  “My Bruno is gone!”

  “And m’Etta and m’baby Pepin!”

  Names of lost children rose from the gathering mob as the forlorn folk of Weyer finally released their sorrow. Shaking their fists at their unseen God, bitter fathers shouted blasphemies at the stars. It was the mothers, however, who shook the heavens with great shrieks of sorrow as these broken women finally faced the tragic truth of their heart-wrenching loss. Seeing poor Otto stand before them alone and with no news of the others was their final proof that their own sons and daughters would not return the way they had left; they’d not be marching home together; they’d not be coming home at all.

  For Otto’s comrades hiding in the nearby shadows, the sudden turn of events was startling. They stared wide eyed as the clamor drew yet others. It seemed barely a quarter hour had passed when much of Weyer was aroused, its streets now aglow in torchlight. “What of Otto?” blurted Wil. “What will they do to him?”

  Heinrich licked his dry lips. “I … I don’t know. He’s no runaway; he’s committed no crime.”

  “But listen. They’re calling him ‘devil’ and ‘murderer.’ There, that one called him ‘son of Lucifer!’”

  Indeed, the grief of the village folk was turning toward vengeance. “Why him?” cried one. “Why did he live and not the others?”

  Otto’s voice cracked above the din, “But others may come even yet!”

  “Liar! You’re the only one shameless enough to come back. You betrayed the faith, and now you come back? You need a flogging! You ought be hanged!”

  “He’ll not be harmed,” growled Alwin. The knight had already drawn his sword.

  “Hold fast,” urged Heinrich. “Listen.”

  The reeve had summoned two armed deputies, and the three now shouldered their way through the crowd. The man turned his voice against the folk. “Nay! The boy is not to be harmed!”

  The mob grumbled and fell quiet. “Now hear me! Any who lays a hard hand on the lad, save his father, is to be punished by the law. He’s but a boy come home. ‘Tis you fools who sent yer waifs on crusade.”

  “No!” answered many. “We told them not to go. We barred our doors and tied them fast.”

  Reeve Edwin laughed. “Ha! A pitiful lie to ease the conscience. You’d best have the priests say a prayer for that.” He turned to Otto’s father. “He’s yours. Do as y’please, but if another interferes, I’ll bring justice on your heads.”

  The miller spat, then grabbed Otto by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him inside his hovel. Then, to the sound of Otto’s pitiful cries, the folk of Weyer drifted slowly to their own homes.

  Heinrich cursed in the shadows. “Well not leave the lad with the likes of him.”

  Tomas had said nothing. Like Otto, he, too, had felt the whip, only it had been wielded by monks. “Leave Otto to me,” he whispered. “Ill set him loose, and we’ll meet at the Magi.”

  Wil looked carefully at the stone-faced lad. He had learned to trust Tomas, even respect him. He and others had marveled at what change a little patience and some grace had wrought in the young man’s heart. “We all will go.”

  Otto cried out again.

  “No,” said Alwin firmly. “I’ll go with Tomas. You two have other business, and we must all be away afore dawn.”

  Wil nodded reluctantly. Alwin was right; the two of them should be enough. “Then well meet at the Magi.”

  The four separated, and soon father and son were padding softly along Weyer’s footpaths. Behind closing doors, mothers could be heard sobbing softly. These folk did love their children, sometimes more, it seemed, than the lords who’d beat their little ones for dropping a comfit. They loved them and missed them, and their hearts were torn by the knowledge that they had released them to die on a fool’s errand.

  “There.” Wil pointed. “Home!”

  Heinrich and his son stood in the shadow of an ox-shed and faced their two-room hovel quietly. For Heinrich, it was a moment like few others. There, before him, was the simple wattle-and-daub cottage that had sheltered him since the day of his birth. It was here that his mother had died. It was here that all his children had been conceived and born—and where two had died. Under this very thatch he had laughed and wept for so many of his thirty-nine years. Built by the sweat of his father, it was still his along with the adjacent garden plot and fowl coop. The baker took a deep breath and stepped forward boldly.

  Arriving at the door, Heinrich paused. “Just open it, Father,” insisted Wil. “It is our house!”

  Heinrich hesitated, then knocked. A booming voice thundered from within. “Can a man not sleep this night! Who goes?”

  Heinrich set his jaw. It was not Marta’s voice. “Heinrich of Weyer, owner of this place!”

  The door flew open, and a large man held a candle angrily toward Heinrich’s hardened face. Seeing the patched eye, the wrapped stump, and the handle of a sword, the man stepped back. “So what’s yer business?”

  Heinrich pushed his way past the man and into his former home. Wil followed with his dagger drawn. Putting his hand on the hilt of his sword, the baker turned a stiff eye toward the startled family within. “Hear me, thieves, and hear me once. I am Heinrich of Weyer, son of Kurt of Jost. This house is mine and mine alone. It was given me by my father, and I shall pass it to my son.”

  The hovel had become home to six: a yeoman, his wife, two grown sons, and two young daughters. The yeoman was a burly, brown-haired fellow from a village near Wetzlar. He was about Heinrich’s age, and his sons were broad-shouldered lads who now reached for their swords. The yeoman grabbed Heinrich by the cloth of his tunic. “I am Horst, a freeman and owner of this cottage. I bought it from the priest for a high price that is paid in full. Any who tries to take it shall need to take it by force!” The women faded into the sleeping chamber as the man’s sons stepped forward.

  Heinrich shoved the yeoman, then jerked his sword from its scabbard as he answered, “We
’ve two to your three. If you think that makes you the rightful owner to this place, you’re wrong.”

  Horst growled and took hold of a sword of his own. “We can strike you dead where y’stand, fool.”

  “Or you can prove your claim in the morning in the abbey.”

  “The law says it is mine. I’ve no need to prove anything to anyone.”

  Heinrich snarled, “The law be damned! This is my home! This is my chattel. The land is mine and the bakery, too!”

  “None is yours!” roared the yeoman. “This miserable house, the garden, and the coop are all mine. And the bakery is owned by the church, along with your land.”

  Wil had remained oddly quiet. “What of the woman who once lived here?”

  “Dead.” The answer was hard and unsympathetic. Horst’s eyes now fixed on Wil’s.

  “She was my mother,” hissed Wil through clenched teeth.

  The family murmured. Horst nodded and turned to Heinrich. “And she was yer wife?”

  “Ja.”

  “She was murdered, we’re told.”

  “Murdered! By who?”

  All eyes turned to Wil. “By her son,” Horst answered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TROUBLE IN WEYER

  Wil paled. He looked blankly at his father, then at the family staring at him. “I… I did not!”

  “Father Pious says you poisoned yer own mother, then ran away on that crusade of idiots. He said you killed a monk and an abbey guard.”

  “He’s a liar!” roared Wil.

  Horst smirked and turned to Heinrich. “And you are the father?”

  “Aye.”

  “The priest says you were killed in the northland.”

  “Well, I wasn’t.”

  Horst shrugged. “Might as well have been. You were declared dead, and yer wife gave the Holy Church all you owned. As she was dying, Father Pious told her the boy had poisoned her. He says she died cursing the two of you.”

  “No!” cried Wil. “No!”

  “Hold, boy! Hold fast,” commanded Heinrich. The baker curled his lip. “I’ve come back to life to claim what’s mine. The boy’s no killer. You own what you have by fraud and thievery. You’ll not keep it, not for long.”