Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Page 33

  “And you could spoil the secret,” blurted Wil.

  “Yes, I surely could. But it would not profit me to do so. I’ve a handsome sum already set in my strongbox. I’d not want to lose that!”

  “So you’re leaving on the morrow?” asked Heinrich.

  “Ja. At first light.” The man finally cut Wil’s cords, while Heinrich lost himself in thought.

  After a long silence, Heinrich spoke. “Beniamino, might I ask a kindness of you?”

  “You might ask.”

  “When you leave, would you be traveling through Weyer again?”

  “No. I’m going to Limburg.”

  Heinrich’s mind was racing. “The uncle I mentioned—Arnold, the peddler of secrets—methinks he might be willing to pay you for what you know. You would be long gone, and he has never once betrayed a seller. This I know.”

  “Hmm. Would he pay a Jew?”

  “I don’t know. But tell him his nephew says to give you a pound of silver. Tell him Heinrich will pay him back when he is free.”

  Beniamino was quiet, then answered with a smile. “When you are free? Ha! I like that. Ja, my friend. Heinrich, I am an old man. I’ll be spending the rest of my days under the sun in Brindisi with my cousins far to the south. I’ll not be back in these cold forests again! So why not? For you and your stiff-necked boy, I shall gladly tell this uncle. And if he doesn’t believe me?”

  Heinrich thought for a moment. “Tell him I have news of his son, Richard.”

  Beniamino looked carefully at the shadowed figures of the baker and his son. “Done.” He laid a hand on the pair. “You inspire me with your hope. You have not yielded to the moment. May the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob grant you favor.”

  A tall slim woman slipped into the campsite. “Wilda!” cried Tomas and Otto in unison. “Wilda the witch!”

  The company froze. The woman smiled and took a place near Tomas. She was tall and graceful and quite beautiful despite her years. She touched Tomas kindly on the arm and turned to the others. “I am Wilda, daughter of Sieghild known as the witch of Münster. I was a witch, like m’mother, though I was baptized on this Easter past by the priest in Münster.”

  Pieter stepped forward bravely. He extended his hand. “Welcome, Wilda of Münster.”

  The woman smiled and turned her shining blue eyes on Alwin. The knight blushed in the firelight, and his heart fluttered within him. He guessed the woman to be about his own age, perhaps a bit older. Her hair was white, but it was white like a little child’s, not like an aging woman’s. Her skin was smooth, and her eyes twinkled like Pieter’s in the flames. Her smile was warm and tender, conveying an inner joy.

  “I am Alwin, Alwin of Villmar.” He bowed.

  “I know,” she answered.

  Each in turn then made introductions until the circle was completed.

  Wilda spoke again. “I’ve spent most of m’life here, near to this stone. Mother and I lived in these woods. We were not welcome in the villages—at least by most of the priests—and when mother was killed, I was still not welcome, save for the monks at Villmar who fed me sometimes.” She looked at Tomas. “I saw you there last summer.”

  The young man nodded.

  “In the winter past, the new priest in Münster found me by the springs that feed the Laubusbach. I was cold and hungry, and he was kind and fed me. He taught me stories from the Scriptures and showed me to the way of life. I was baptized and then offered a home with a tinker and his wife, where I now live. But I still like to wander this mountain on summer nights.

  “I’ve been listening from the wood, and I know your troubles,” she continued. “Mother said the baker, Heinrich, was kindly and was kin to us. She oft wished she had not cast spells on the village on his account, but she was bitter about her past.”

  Alwin leaned forward. “Kin?”

  Wilda answered, “Ja. She was the baker’s aunt.”

  “His aunt? His aunt? I … I don’t think I ever knew of an aunt… Wait! He once said he had an aunt who was raped and disappeared—”

  “It was she.”

  The circle hushed, and Alwin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It had long been rumored that some of his own Gunnar kin had raped a woman from Weyer a few years before his birth. He had heard the monks speak of the blood feud between his own family and Heinrich’s. It was said that it was vengeance for this rape that had cost him his father and several uncles, though they had never been proven to be the woman’s attackers.

  Pieter invited Wilda to share in some food. He handed her some salted pork and a small wedge of cheese and then sent Maria for a flask of ale. “So, cousin of Heinrich, how can you help us?”

  Wilda proceeded to tell all she knew about the charges against Wil; about both Anka’s and Pious’s parts in the accusations; of the last testament of Heinrich’s wife, Marta; and of the taking of the baker’s property.

  “You are certain that the bakery is rightly owned by the archbishop now?”

  “Yes. Heinrich was declared dead. He had been missing for so long. His widow granted Pious all the family property. When she died, Pious nearly ran to Mainz with his little success, and he came back with new robes and some silver. And, I’m told, he was allowed to add a portion of the bakery revenues to the treasury of the parish.”

  Otto cursed. “You know it was Pious who told Wil to give his mother the poison herb?”

  Wilda was stunned. “I… I never thought it was Wil, but… but Pious?”

  All heads nodded.

  “In Münster we thought it was the hag Anka. The dung-hauler said she’d been a false friend to the widow always and had an eye for their land.”

  “That is true,” Maria answered. “She was Mutti’s friend, but she always talked about the land.”

  “And where was Heinrich all this time? We thought him to be dead.”

  “He was first sent to the north to serve the Church against rebels,” Alwin answered. “Then he was caught up in troubles and went to Rome to do penance. He was returning when he found his son … and daughter, as well as these others on crusade. He had hoped to come home to what is his as a freeman.”

  Wilda sighed. “It cannot be. He should have known that.”

  The knight nodded. “Aye, indeed. None could tell him. It seems he thought he might win the favor of his masters. A fool’s mission, I fear.”

  Pieter looked at the sky. “We needs be on our way. Heinrich and Wil are in grave peril, to be sure. We must learn still more, and we need a plan quickly. Would you come with us, Wilda?”

  The woman shook her head. “The monks in Villmar have been kindly. They’ve learned of my baptism and rejoice in it. But I am not welcome amongst the parish priests in their manor. They still believe me to be a witch, and they all fear me. If I am seen with you, you will be cast aside as well.

  “If you seek help in Weyer, though, I should tell you this. Heinrich’s uncle Arnold lives alone in a comfortable cottage by the sheepfold. You’d know his because it has good thatch and straight walls. He has an old green barrel by his door where he keeps his walking sticks.

  “As these children can tell you, Arnold’s been known all his days as one to fear. Since his son went away with Heinrich, he’s been sullen and broody. But I hear of late he’s in fear of his soul, and he even vouched for Wilhelm. He may be the friend you need.”

  Tomas agreed. “There’s none more shrewd in all these parts than Arnold. If he could be a friend to us, we’d have a friend indeed.”

  Pieter nodded and took a deep breath. He fixed his hand tightly around his staff and called his group together. “Good, we shall see about this Arnold. But first, we must learn more.”

  With that, the company divided, and Pieter’s group hurried downslope toward the Laubusbach. They crossed the stream and entered Weyer while the sun edged over the horizon to their right. They had decided they would simply march through the village and directly to the road leading to the abbey, where they’d beg for food as pilgrims oft did.
Once inside the abbey walls, Pieter believed he might wrest some information from the monks. It was a skill he had not lost. He wanted first to learn of the prisoners’ whereabouts, and then of the time and place of their trial.

  It was Monday, and a parade of peasants was already winding its way through Weyer like it had on every other summer workday for four centuries. Two-wheeled oxcarts lurched along rutted byways, heavy-laden with manure or filled with men being delivered to the fields of winter oats nearly ready for harvesting. Chickens and geese cackled and honked as Pieter planted his staff firmly along Weyer’s footpaths. With his face set hard toward his destination, he ignored the curious housewives pausing to gawk at the strangers passing through.

  At Pieter’s urging, Tomas had lifted his hood over his head. It would serve no purpose to be recognized, but his eyes were needed to guide the others. The group marched past the village well, past the widespread linden tree standing in the center of the commons, and they were soon past the smoke and thatch and hurrying around the base of the knoll upon which the browns tone church was perched. All eyes lingered on the squat building above. “Karl the Great built it,” said Pieter. “‘Charlemagne’ as the French call him. Heinrich told me so. He had hoped to visit the graves of his family. He said he’d a daughter and two sons resting there, as well as his parents and the like.”

  The company pressed up the steep slope leading north from the village. Gasping for breath, Pieter paused for a brief respite, then dragged himself behind his comrades a little farther up the hill. Panting, he once more begged the others’ pardon as he collapsed along the shoulder. Eventually, the pilgrims reached the crest of the ridge and stopped again. They were all breathing hard, so they were glad to rest and marvel at the wide landscape before them. It was as Heinrich and Wil had always described: gentle, rolling fields as far as one could see, and in the center of the view was a dark ribbon of deep green marking the banks of the distant Lahn River.

  Tomas pointed. “There, straight north of us along the river lies the village of Villmar and the abbey. If you follow the river to the left, you might see the towers of Runkel Castle. That’s where they’ll be taken for trial.”

  Frieda strained to see. “There, I think I see a square tower.”

  The others nodded.

  “Ja,” added Friederich. “I see it too. It gives me a fright deep inside.”

  Benedetto trembled. “We’ll not be going there, will we?”

  Ignoring the little man, Tomas continued. “The castle is about two leagues from the abbey and about four leagues from Weyer. It would take less than two hours to get to the dungeon by cart.”

  “Not much time to free them by force,” stated Friederich.

  “By force?” cried Benedetto. “By force? Are you mad?”

  “No, minstrel,” interrupted Pieter. “Have no fear. We’ll not be taking them by force.” He took a deep breath and continued glumly, “Actually, I’ve no idea how we’ll help them or if we’ll be able to do anything more than offer them comfort as they’re hanged. I tell you, friends, they are in terrible danger.”

  Visions of Heinrich and Wil dangling from the gallows in Runkel Castle silenced Pieter’s company for the rest of its descent toward the abbey. The journey would normally have been a pleasant walk under a large sky and through fields glistening with morning dew. Ox-teams dotted the landscape along distant roads beyond the Lahn, and clusters of wool-clad peasants could be seen plodding through thigh-high grain.

  The group soon entered the village of Villmar, a village not unlike Weyer but more directly affected by the business of the abbey set at its edge. Hence, the arrival of strangers prompted little interest from the folk so familiar with such things. Pieter’s company walked through the village curiously, nearly colliding with an old Jew riding atop a swaybacked palfrey. Arriving at the walls of the monastery, Pieter turned to Tomas and to Frieda. “As we agreed, you two will wait over there.” He pointed to a small inn. “Take these pennies, and have a beer and some bread. Tomas, keep away from the door. The abbey’s porter is likely to know you. Frieda, I am sorry, but a female in the cloister makes the monks nervous. You understand?”

  The young woman nodded.

  “Good. We shan’t be more than an hour or so.” Pieter looked at Benedetto and Friederich. “I shall speak; you two must listen and look about. See what you can; hear what you can. Are we ready?”

  The pair nodded. Pieter approached the portal and knocked on the wide oak door with his staff. Immediately, the door opened and the porter greeted his guests with a bow. ‘Thanks be to God.”

  “Indeed. We come in search of charity. We are weary pilgrims in need of a little rest and a merciful morsel or two.”

  The porter looked compassionately at the trio and bade them enter. The young man was dressed in his summer habit: a lightweight, cowled robe with a white scapular and thin sandals. He kissed them each, prayed over them, cupped water over their dusty feet, and begged them to follow him to the guestmaster.

  The pilgrims hurried behind the man through the courtyard of the gray-stone abbey, where brothers were hard at work tending their many gardens or at task in their workshops. Friederich’s eye fell upon a rotund old monk sleeping soundly at the base of a large tree. In his hands he gripped a large ring of keys.

  “That’s Brother Perpetua, our beloved friend who is always either eating or sleeping!” commented the porter. “Though, in fairness, he is the keeper of keys and must be awake most of the night to bid travelers in and out. I am told, however, that the old fellow is usually snoring by the wine cellar door!”

  “Keeper of keys?” mused Pieter. “A new title?”

  “Well, ‘tis not part of the Rule, but Father Abbot says it is his way of reminding us of the authority of the Holy Church. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, my son. The apostles were granted the keys of heaven to bind and loose what they wished on earth.”

  The porter stopped and looked at Pieter with some surprise. “Ah, a priest who knows his Scripture! I thought there were no more.”

  Pieter chuckled. “Well, ‘tis true that there are few left. Seems most of us know our liturgies, but few know the truth!”

  The porter threw back his head and laughed. “Good brother, well said! You make me think of a dear friend who died but a year ago. Brother Lukas was his name.” The young man leaned close to Pieter and spoke softly. “I believe the Holy Bible was written on his heart. He taught me much.”

  Pieter wisely held his tongue. He smiled and laid a kindly hand on the young man. “Then write Scripture on the hearts of others, my son. It is the only way of hope.”

  The porter delivered his guests to another earnest young monk, who welcomed them into a small room. This one ordered some novices to bring him bowls of water. He kissed each guest and prayed over them. “I shall wash thy feet in a moment.”

  “I already have,” answered the porter.

  “Why?”

  “It is my duty when the abbot and prior are not about.”

  “No, it is mine, brother.”

  “No, look to the Rule.”

  “I have.”

  The porter grunted. “Well, ‘tis done.”

  The guestmaster muttered, then fed the amused pilgrims porridge, wheat bread, berry preserves, and one egg each. During the meal, Pieter made an effort to have a conversation with his host, but it was not in the character of the man nor in the order of things for the monk to reciprocate with idle chatter. It was their good fortune, therefore, that the porter returned.

  “I am relieved of the gate to take my duties at chapter. I failed to pray a blessing over you.”

  The guestmaster growled. “Thou ought to be keeping away from our guests. Thou art not to mingle with visitors. That is plain enough in the Rule!”

  Pieter quickly interrupted. “As thy guest, brother, I do ask some gift of charity from you. I should be most blessed if the young brother could sit by us for a few moments more.”

  The gues
tmaster grimaced. It was a request that put two rules of his order in opposition. The bells of terce rang, and he needed to go to his prayers. He had arrived late at prime that same morning and had missed the first of the three psalms. He knew he shouldn’t press the patience of the abbot. “Well, uh, yes. We are to be hospitable to strangers.” He bowed, prayed quickly over the group, and then scurried to the church.

  The happy porter took a seat by his guests. “I am Brother Egidius, named for a beloved porter of this same gate some years past.”

  “I am Pieter, once warrior, once student, once monk, once clerk, and now a priest serving the poor of Christendom. These are my fellow journeymen, pilgrims to the holy places.”

  After more friendly conversation with the porter, Pieter finally turned the conversation to the matters at hand. “A peasant told us of some terrible things in one of your villages on the night of Sabbath past.”

  Egidius nodded. He looked out into the courtyard anxiously. “Well, Father, I am not to speak of these things, but you are a man of the cloth so … well, hear this. The reeve of that village delivered two peasants to our garrison late in the night. One is under suspicion of killing his mother, a beloved monk of ours, and perhaps an abbey guard as well. He foolishly returned from that wretched crusade of children.”

  “Why do you call it a ‘wretched crusade?” challenged Friederich, unable to hold his tongue.

  “They should never have gone. If only they could have known that God would not ever send them to such certain misfortune.”

  “But the Church wanted it!”

  Egidius looked closely at the lad and shook his head. “Were you a crusader?”

  Pieter answered for him. “Yes, he was a brave soldier for God.”

  The monk bowed his head. “I fear the Holy Church did not do enough to dissuade you. Perhaps the fault should be laid at our feet, for we say you ought seek truth from us. I am told that few of your priests ever tried to stop you.”

  “And I am told that, here, in this very abbey, a papal legate sounded the call!” Pieter’s face was tight and anger laced his words.