Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Page 32

  “Where has he been?”

  Numbers of them hurried to stand over Heinrich and Wil, where they stared at the two in the dim torchlight. Wil scowled and countered a few mocking words with answers of his own. But those looking at Heinrich were stunned. “Are you sure ‘tis him, Reeve?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis him, sure enough. Ask Herwin.”

  The frail fellow nodded. “Ja, it is he. ‘Tis m’old friend come home.”

  The folk stared at the one-eyed, one-armed, bearded man in disbelief. “He’s different. He’s old and … and …”

  “And he looks like a freeman,” grumbled one.

  The others nodded. “Aye. Look at his clothes. And they say he had a sword.”

  “Well, he’s come home now!” mocked one.

  “Aye. He’s come home to hang.”

  Alwin and Tomas stayed hidden until the reeve had carted his prisoners away and the curious peasants had returned to their hovels, shaking their heads in disbelief over the night’s events. Stealthily, the knight approached Herwin’s door and knocked quietly. The trembling thatcher opened it slowly, and then, astonished, he bade the knight and Tomas inside. “Come quickly!” he whispered.

  Once inside the hovel, Alwin listened carefully as Herwin offered what details he could of the matters at hand. He and Tomas gave a sketchy review of the past year’s events and assured the man that the baker and his son would not be abandoned to their troubles.

  “We shall help you as we can,” said Herwin. “But Alwin, have a care. The Templars search the lands for you often. They want you hanged, sir. They say you turned your sword against your own.”

  The knight nodded. “I know what they say. Herwin, you’ve known me many years. I tell you this: I turned my sword against evil. That, my friend, is my duty under God.”

  Saying no more, the two turned toward the door and slipped away. They hurried through the night to the Magi, where they told all of the night’s worsening events. The pilgrims groaned with the news. Otto’s story had been tragedy enough, but this was far worse. “Wil’s charges are grievous, and I fear Heinrich’s fate is sealed,” moaned Alwin. “Our baker struck a man dead in full view of many.”

  Frieda started to sob loudly. “This cannot be! I knew we should not have come here!” She stood and paced about the campfire. “Oh, what do we do? What do we do?”

  Maria sniffled as she leaned into Pieter’s side. The old man patted her head and stared into the low flames. His mind was spinning, and he sat with his gaze fixed on the fire for an hour or so. No one disturbed him; no one spoke. With Maria at his one side, Frieda had come to his other. Across his legs sprawled Solomon. Around the fire the other troubled pilgrims sat silently.

  Pieter did not speak. It was as if he were in a trance, as if his spirit had left his body and were floating somewhere far beyond sight. Finally, his mouth moved and he whispered, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He took a deep breath and turned his face solemnly toward his fellows. “Yes?”

  The group looked at one another. Maria looked at him. “Papa Pieter, what shall we do?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  The circle murmured. Friederich wrinkled his nose. “Then what were you thinking about?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Alwin tossed a stone into the fire and groused under his breath, “We need a plan, Pieter. And we need to be quick about it.”

  The old man rose and leaned heavily on his staff. “The dog’s been uneasy since we’ve come here. I don’t know why. And I have as well.” He stared into the small red-coal fire. Frieda thought he looked suddenly beaten. His face is so thin, she thought, and the light has left his eyes. Dark shadows etched his cheeks, and he looked almost ghostly. The girl shuddered.

  “The day soon comes, my beloved, when you’ll not have me to guide you. I am weary, and my mind is beginning to fail. So I was not thinking, but praying.” He smiled a little. “It is good to be free of my mind sometimes. We are not called to know all things, but to trust in the One who does.” Pieter’s voice became gentle, and he looked into each distressed face. “When I am gone, you still have Him. You’d best learn now to run there first. I will not talk of things to do until each of you has begged heaven for counsel on this grievous matter. I cannot do this alone; we need each other.” With that, he walked away.

  Alwin, the former monk, nodded. He hung his head in shame, for he knew that when he had abandoned his vow, he had nearly abandoned his faith. The Church had failed him, yet God had not. The troubled but devout Christian knight fell to his knees and began a prayer of such heart-wrenching despair that the others soon knelt close by his side. Then each in turn—some in whispers, some unheard—lifted his or her supplications to the One who held all things in His grasp, to the One who might grant these harmless lambs minds as clever as serpents.

  From deep in the wood, Pieter watched with joy as his beloved prayed. And when their heads were lifted, he walked boldly toward them, refreshed anew by hope, inspired by this remnant that would surely pass truth to generations not yet born. “Now, to work,” he said. “First, we needs move our camp to the Matins Stone I’ve heard of. We are not safe here. Douse the flames now, bury the embers, and scatter brush about.”

  The company’s spirits were lifted by Pieter’s newfound vigor, and they hurried to task obediently. Tomas led them eastward for about an hour through the heavy wood until they arrived at an odd-shaped boulder known in legend as the Matins Stone. According to local lore, the stone would rotate at the ringing of matins bells, as long as no eyes were upon it. It was also said to be a favored haven for the witches of the region.

  Pieter ordered Paulus to be unloaded and tethered to a tree. He wanted their provisions hidden about the forest, and he insisted that Heinrich’s and Wil’s satchels be buried under brush for safekeeping. “Just someone remember where all this is, for I shall surely forget!”

  A fire was built and some food distributed. Pieter then summoned all to his side. “The sun should rise in about two hours, me thinks. When it does, we must act and act quickly.” He turned to Alwin. “You must remain as our reserve. You cannot be discovered. If you are, we’ll lose the sword we may need.” He whirled around to Otto and Helmut. “You two must stay with Alwin and protect Frieda and Maria, here, at our camp. Helmut, you’ve been practicing with Wil’s bow. Maybe you can hunt us a stag or a boar?”

  Otto protested loudly.

  “Nay! Otto, you must now stay away from the village. Tomas can guide me.”

  Frieda jutted her jaw forward. “I will not stay behind!”

  Pieter narrowed his eyes. “You are a fair damsel in a place I do not know.”

  “I will not stay behind. He is my husband.”

  Alwin objected. “This is not a woman’s business!”

  Frieda spun about and lashed the man with a fiery tongue. “Woman’s business? Is not a husband’s life a woman’s business?” The young woman’s nostrils flared like an angry mare’s, and she stomped her foot defiantly. Before any could speak, she snatched a burning faggot from the fire and reached toward Alwin’s beard. “Say again I may not go, monk, and I’ll set your face afire!”

  Alwin did not move. He fixed his eyes on Frieda’s, then tilted them toward Pieter. The old priest shrugged, and Alwin yielded. “Go, then, sister,” he mumbled. “Go with God.”

  Frieda flung the faggot back to the fire and stormed away. Pieter raised his brows and smiled at the others. “Well then, here it is. We can do nothing until we know more. We do not know where the two are being held or when they might face their trial.

  “So, I shall take Tomas, Friederich, Benedetto, and Frieda with me to the abbey and shall do my best to learn what we may.”

  Benedetto nearly swooned when he heard his name. He had done his best to keep from view. “But, Padre, what can I do?” If the sun were up, the others could have seen how very pale the little man had become!

  Pieter shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

 
“But—”

  “But I shall know when I need to know. Trust that.”

  “But why are we all going?” the minstrel pleaded.

  Now the others began to scowl. “You don’t want to help?” barked Helmut.

  Benedetto licked his lips and answered carefully. “I… si, of course I want to help, but I wonder if I can.”

  “You can,” snapped Friederich. “Your lute is oft as good a weapon as Pieter’s wit or Alwin’s sword.”

  “Enough of this,” interrupted Pieter. “First, we learn what we can. Knowledge is power.”

  Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice came from the darkness. “I can help you.”

  Startled, the group spun around and faced the silhouette of a shape drifting toward them. Maria gasped. To her it was as though a woodland spirit was approaching. “Do not be afraid,” the voice added serenely. “I am here to help you.” It was then that the figure emerged into the firelight of the camp, and all mouths dropped open.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A JEW, A WITCH, AND A MONK

  I am sorry, son,” lamented Heinrich as he awoke. The two had been tossed into the small jail at the abbey’s garrison. The baker’s head was covered with dried blood, and he was dizzy.

  “No, it was me. It was me they were after.” Wil took a deep breath. “I was a fool to ever trust that devil Pious. I did not murder Mother, but it was at my hand she died.”

  Heinrich sat quietly, listening to the snoring guard sleeping outside the door. Wil changed the subject. “I saw the reeve strike you.”

  “Well, I didn’t!” grumbled the baker. “Never saw it coming.”

  “No, I suppose not. You know, the townsfolk could hardly believe it was you lying there. One said you looked like a freeman.”

  The word sounded good to Heinrich. “And so I am … so we are.” He squirmed in his place. The guards had not released either from their bonds. Straining to see Wil in the darkness, he said, “And so we shall ever be! I want the land of m’fathers to be yours someday. But I’d rather leave you with your freedom than a plot of dirt!”

  “Greetings,” said another voice.

  Startled, father and son looked blankly into the black. “Who’s there?”

  “I am Beniamino.” The man’s voice sounded old but still vigorous.

  “Beniamino?” answered Wil. “What kind of name is that?”

  “I am from the kingdom of the two Sicilies.”

  “You speak our tongue.”

  “Ja, si, oui, sim! I speak many tongues. I am a moneylender and so I must.”

  “A Jew?” snapped Wil.

  “Ja. A Jew. But I do not eat babies or steal money from the dead.”

  Wil spat. He had oft been told of these strange people and their dangerous ways. A village elder had once said they spread evil in their path. He had said they were tricksters of a high order. “Keep away.”

  The man laughed. “I’d prefer to. You stink.”

  Wil grumbled. “If I wasn’t bound, I’d smash that big nose of yours.”

  “And how do you know I’ve a big nose?”

  “You all do. I’ve heard it from the priests.”

  “Ah … but I thought you said you ought not have trusted your priest.”

  Wil grunted. He could hear the grin in the man’s tone.

  Heinrich was wary. He wished he knew where the Jew was standing. Being bound and lying on the floor made him feel vulnerable. “Why are you here? Who did you steal from?”

  “Ha! Ha!” laughed Beniamino quietly. “Do you think I could be caught? No, I’m here for quite another reason.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That is why I am here.”

  “What is why you are here?”

  The old Jew was, indeed, smiling in the dark. “I am here so that I do not say why I am here.”

  “Go to Jerusalem and die,” grumbled Wil.

  “Ah, my dear boy. And why are you here?”

  “None of your concern.”

  “He is falsely accused of murdering his mother,” Heinrich answered.

  Beniamino said nothing for a long moment. When he answered, his tone had changed. “So I heard you say. A more horrid crime I do not know. When you hang, know that I shall be dancing.”

  If Heinrich could have, he would have torn the man’s throat out of his neck. He cursed and flailed about the floor until, panting and exasperated, he simply groaned. “He did not murder his mother!”

  Beniamino was an old man and wise. Traveling Christendom he had become wily and intuitive. The anguish in Heinrich’s voice was genuine. “Then who, good sir, did?”

  “The priest.”

  In the darkness, Beniamino’s lips twitched. “The priest?”

  “Aye. Father Pious, the priest of our village, Weyer.”

  “I passed through your charming hamlet early this morning. But why would the priest kill the lad’s mother?”

  “He wanted my land, and he’s always coveted my bakery. He thought it could further his ambitions.”

  Beniamino was quiet. “So, you are the lad’s father, and the woman was your wife.”

  “Aye.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “What does it matter?” Heinrich groused.

  “Oh, it doesn’t really. But since you wondered about me, I thought I’d return the kindness.”

  Wil grumbled at the man’s sarcasm, but the baker had no ear for such. He answered plainly. “Well, I killed a man defending my son from false arrest. Now, sir, why are you here?”

  The Jew thought for a moment. He felt sudden pity for the two. “It cannot hurt to tell a little of it to dead men,” he answered in a whisper. “It seems the clever prior thought it was better that I spend the night far away from his brethren. As I recall, he said, Temptation and good wine might pry loose thy lips.’ So, I was sent here to sleep … with a kind apology, I should add.”

  Heinrich did not understand. “Seems like an odd way of business.”

  Beniamino chuckled. “Dear man, not so much odd as careful. You see, I am a man with a secret, and secrets, my friend, have value! So I willingly suffer the unpleasantness of one night to secure the profit of this particular secret I bear.”

  “Sounds like Uncle Arnold,” muttered Wil.

  “Uncle Arnold?”

  “Aye,” answered Heinrich. “My old uncle peddles secrets in the village. You would like him.”

  “Ha! Perhaps.”

  Heinrich’s curiosity was stirred. “Can y’not tell us something of this?” he asked.

  The Jew hesitated, then laughed quietly. “It is true; secrets are very hard to keep. It is so tasty to let them roll over one’s tongue and out one’s lips!”

  “Then tell us, Jew!” growled Wil. “What could it hurt?”

  Beniamino chuckled. “Such spirit from one who will soon hang for a crime he did not do.”

  “So you believe us?” asked Heinrich.

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I know the sound of a father’s pain.” The jail was quiet. At last, Beniamino sighed. “Ah, well. I’ve no bread to share with you, so why not share a secret?” He felt his way toward Heinrich and cut him loose with a sharp knife, then stood over Wil. “I should let you lie there for your lack of courtesy.”

  “Then let me,” Wil growled.

  “As you wish then.” Beniamino took a seat between the two and proceeded to speak in a low voice. “So you want to know my business. Fine. I am to remain here in utter silence until I leave in the morning. I’ve assured the prior, on risk of future dealings, that I will travel far away with no single word to another.” He smiled. “Ah, the web of Christian politics.

  “I am a moneylender and am welcome in the company of your churchmen. You see, my business is to loan money to desperate Christian warlords at a high interest.”

  “Usury,” grunted Wil. “Tis a sin.”

  Beniamino grinned. “Well, only between either Christians and Christians or Jews and Jews. It is
not so much a problem between a Christian and a Jew.”

  “The tricks of lawyers,” muttered Heinrich.

  “Indeed.” Beniamino went on. “At first the lords pay a little back so they can borrow more. I happily loan them more, and soon they refuse to pay. This, you see, delights me beyond words, for I then sell the note of debt to your bishops or abbots for my profit. They, in turn, add their own profit to the value of the debt, then demand payment from the lords under threat of excommunication… a power a poor Jew simply does not have.”

  “A shrewd business, to be sure,” interrupted Wil.

  “Indeed. What is the best, however, is when a note is bought by an ambitious man like your prior. He was willing to pay more than my normal price to keep the abbot from knowing. You should have seen him smile when he set my little parchment in his box!”

  “Prior Mattias?” asked Heinrich.

  “Ja, it is he.”

  “But why would he be so anxious to buy a debt from you?”

  “Here’s the wonder of it: the debt was between myself and the abbey’s protector, Lord Heribert of Runkel!”

  “Heribert!” exclaimed Wil.

  “Shh, lad!”

  Wil’s mind was racing. “What would Prior Mattias do with a debt owed by Heribert? And why would he not tell the abbot?”

  “I am rather certain that the man intends to wrest something of great value from either the lord or the abbot. If the abbot needs to press the lord, he might reward Mattias for providing a way. Or it may be that your prior will conduct a private business for profits of his own.”

  Heinrich was dumbstruck. He had known Mattias to be a shrewd man, particularly when in league with the steward. “And Lord Heribert’s steward?”

  “Ah, yes, Hagan. He is a cursed thief to be sure, a man of avarice. He sent Lord Heribert to me in the first place. I suppose it shall be he who will act as judge in your trials. It is my belief that he and Mattias are conspiring together in this.”

  Heinrich grumbled. “I know him. He’s a wicked demon if ever one lived.”

  “Indeed. And he is in a good position to plot with Mattias either for or against either the abbot or the lord.”