Pilgrims of Promise: A Novel (The Journey of Souls Series) Page 9

  A fresh-faced porter opened the small door. “Thanks be to God.”

  “Blessings, my son,” answered Pieter. “We seek the two fair-haired girls left in the care of your infirmer two months ago.”

  The young monk hesitated for a moment. “I know little, for I am only just arrived from Milan. But come, follow me.”

  Anxiously, the three followed the quiet porter through the cloister grounds and past gardens now lying fallow in wait for the warm sun of spring. Pieter cast his eyes on the many thorny rosebushes and imagined Anna and Maria standing amidst them on a summer’s day. Perhaps it was the girls’ names, perhaps the Italian brick, but for whatever reason, the priest’s mind suddenly flew to its place of secret comfort, the place no other living soul knew—the cherished memories of his long-departed wife, his beloved Anna Maria. She, too, had perished from fever, and all these years later the old man still grieved. A lump filled his throat.

  The young porter walked quickly past the refectory, the chapel, and a building judged to be the herbarium by the musky scent escaping through its opened windows. They then rounded a corner where Otto spotted a small graveyard against a far wall beneath a grove of squat olive trees. He nudged Heinz. “There,” he whispered with a groan. “A fresh grave with a pine wreath.”

  Heinz nodded and pursed his lips. Around another corner they passed the arcade that lined the dormitory, then walked along a series of small workshops until the porter finally delivered the trio to the prior’s chamber. “The abbot is not in residence. He is presenting a matter to the curio in Rome.” He lowered his voice. “I’m told he prefers the weather there between Martinmas and Holy Week.”

  Pieter grunted.

  The young man knocked rather timidly on the door as Pieter tapped his foot impatiently. “I wonder if he’s napping.” The porter knocked again, still softly. Now no longer able to restrain himself, Pieter wrapped the oak loudly with his staff. “Someone open this cursed door!”

  Within moments, a dark-eyed, elderly monk answered with a yawn. “Prego, come, enter in.” He rubbed his eyes as he offered a quick prayer for the three and kissed them. He then turned to his porter. “Have the deans assembled to pray over these and wash their feet. Have the kitchener prepare a—”

  “No!” interrupted Pieter impatiently. “Hear me. We come in search of two fair-haired maidens left in your care a fortnight or so before St. Michael’s.”

  The prior nodded. “Ah, si. Brother Chiovo spent many an hour with them.”

  “And?” blurted Pieter.

  The man lowered his head. “Ah, mein Freund, Brother Chiovo served them day and night by the reliquary of the church. He had hoped the relics might bring a miracle. For one, it seems they did, God be praised. But for the other blessed cherub, they did not. She died and was buried beneath the olives on the fourth day of October … a bright Thursday. I remember it well. No sadder day has so darkened the sun in this place.”

  Tears began to course down the pilgrims’ cheeks. They stood bravely and waited as the prior continued. “The two of them shall have a place in our hearts forever. They brought joy to all and served one another so very devotedly.”

  Pieter was now trembling and dismayed. He finally blurted. “Tell us!” he cried. “Who is buried here?”

  The prior answered sadly, “The child called Anna.”

  No one said a word. The boys rocked awkwardly on their feet. Pieter was dumbstruck. Confused by opposing emotions, he squeezed his staff and groaned inwardly. He could not imagine that Maria had survived. It was beyond comprehension. Yet neither could he imagine the loss of Anna. She had been in improving health when he kissed her farewell. Her eyes had been bright and keen. Indeed, the man grieved for her loss, but grief had not been his first emotion—relief was, and he felt ashamed. “I … I have no words,” the old man muttered. He looked down and shook his head. What manner of man am I? he wondered.

  “Did she suffer?” blurted Otto.

  The prior answered gravely. “Si… I fear some, lad. On St. Michael’s Eve a fever spread over her quickly. Brother Chiovo feared cerebritis, for the girl complained of severe pain in her head.”

  Heinz wiped tears off his face. “Was she happy here?”

  “Yes, my son. Very. She cared for Maria with great joy and laughed often with the other oblates in our care. And Maria recovered in time for the two to play happily for a few days before the fever came. But come, let us walk to the grave.”

  The pilgrims followed the old monk slowly through the cloister grounds until they stood before the grave the boys had seen earlier. Solomon curled up alongside the sagging mound of earth and laid his chin atop the pine branches. “Maria comes each week with a fresh wreath.”

  Pieter and his boys stood respectfully silent by Anna’s grave for a few moments. The old man then knelt and prayed over her remains. “Now may the Lord of peace Himself give you peace always in every way.” Pieter stood and turned to the prior. “Thanks be to God for your care of them both. His ways are His alone. May the little one rest well.

  “But I now needs ask of Maria. Is she here with the other children?”

  “Nay, my friend. Before he left for Rome, our abbot instructed us to send Maria to the castle.” He pointed to the fortress perched high above the shore. “It seems the girl accompanied Chiovo on his trips to serve the old lord, and the lord’s lady fancied her. She paid a handsome sum to have the child released to her own household.”

  Pieter groaned and faced the imposing castle. “Well, we’ve come to take her home.”

  The prior shrugged. “A problem, perhaps. Signore Salito is very ill, and the girl brings him comfort. She and another sing to him.”

  Pieter darkened. “They have no right to hold her!”

  The prior said nothing, and the boys felt suddenly nervous.

  “Maria belongs with us!” stated Pieter flatly. “Shell be no servant to any! Brother, many thanks for your kindness and good care of our girls. May God’s bounty fall upon all who served them, but if our little sister Maria has suffered in that castle, then I pray God’s wrath consume your abbot!”

  “But, sir, I vow to you—”

  “Come, lads. We need be about our business!” With that command, Pieter planted his staff hard into the earth and spun around. He led his two boys and his trotting dog quickly through the courtyards of the cloister and out the portal.

  “Should we not have made a thanks gift to them?” quizzed Otto.

  “Humph! It would seem the lord has paid our debt for us.” Pieter’s anger did not fade. He had very much hoped that Maria would greet them within the safe boundaries of the monastery. Now he had no idea what kind of circumstance the girl was enduring. Grinding his gums, the old fellow marched through Arona. He focused all his anger on the castle looming over the town’s walls and prayed for an army of angels to sweep from heaven’s gate and stand by him. What if they refuse us? he wondered. What if they will not release her?

  The three turned to wind their way up the western slope leading to the Rocca di Arona. They followed a steep, curving road and arrived at the gate panting. “A good place for a keep,” muttered Pieter. He approached the sentry at the north gate.

  “Si?”

  “Buon giorno. I am come to see the fair child.”

  “Si?”

  “The fair child, Maria.”

  “Ah!” The soldier smiled. “Maria. Yes, yes. Come in.”

  Pieter was surprised at the welcome. He had expected a grousing guard to bar the gate with the point of a lance. Somewhat relieved, he crossed under the raised portcullis and through the deep walls. Once inside he looked about quickly for any sign of Maria’s golden hair. Disappointed, he surveyed the castle. The fortress had been built in three tiers that stepped up to the very top of the mountain. It was of gray stone, and Pieter thought it to be sturdy, though not well designed. This lord has no love of warfare, else I’d see an inner curtain, turrets, and balconies.

  They climbed the stairs leading to
the wall walk, and from there they paused to look about. To the south side the narrow list was filled with gardens, orchards, and a fishpond. At its edge was a sheer cliff that fell to Arona. To the east, another sheer cliff dropped to the shores of the lake. Only two sides to defend, thought Pieter. Having once been a warrior himself, he enjoyed considering such things. Only two sides for escape, however, and methinks the future may hold a kidnapping.

  Pieter was further surprised to see few men-at-arms. Instead of milling knights and footmen, the bailey was busy with every manner of beast as well as peasants hauling carts about. Numbers of noisy workshops were at task with the hammering of iron or sawing of wood. Amidst the workers shuffled a few courtiers in their fine clothing, as well as many numbers of laughing children. Pieter strained to see a yellow head amongst the dark throng below.

  “Here, Pater,” announced the soldier. “Here is the constable’s chamber. He shall help you.”

  The old man nodded and stepped inside a small dark room where he met a coarse-looking fat fellow sitting at a squat table. “Peace to thee,” offered Pieter. He lifted the cross from around his neck and held it out for the man to see. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, pax semper vobiscum”

  “Eh?”

  Pieter had hoped to impress the constable with his holy credentials. They were convenient tools from time to time. But the man seemed unmoved. “My son, we are here for the fair child of the northland, Maria.”

  The constable nodded and took a long drink of red wine from a glazed clay goblet. “Maria?”

  “Si.”

  The man belched. “I am Borgo. You needs speak to the signora, Signora Cosetta.” Borgo gnawed on a piece of cheese and took another drink. He then tore a large piece of bread from a brown loaf and dipped it into a bowl of olive oil as Pieter and his companions waited with feigned respect. When Borgo belched and reached for more food, Pieter began to bounce his staff lightly on the floor, and the man stopped chewing. “Si? Yes, yes. No need to hurry. One moment.”

  The constable ate and drank a little more, and then stood and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He wrapped his belly in a fine red sash, donned a dashing otter cap, and curled his finger. “Follow me.”

  Borgo led the three visitors and their dog in the direction of the castle’s highest tier, where the lord’s apartments were built alongside the great hall. In the village at the base of the cliff, the bells of the Chiesa dei S. Martiri rang the hour of nones.

  Borgo’s pace was slow, but the man had come very much alive. Passing through the central bailey, he paused to chat with friends and to bark playfully at others. Laughing robustly, he gestured crudely to a few passing maids. “Bella donna!” he cried. A young sergeant handed him an apple and a flask of wine. He stopped to drain the flask, and he tossed the apple to a beggar in the shadows. “Ha, the sun shines again!”

  Pieter wanted to shout at the oaf. Instead he muttered to himself, “Ach, mein Gott! Could a grown man move any slower?”

  Borgo stopped again, this time to pick from a peddler’s cart three smoked fishes, which he tossed to the three behind him with a mischievous grin. He then swaggered toward the acougue and grabbed a fistful of meat scraps for Solomon. “Now,” he belched loudly. “Now we go to the signora’s “

  They entered the lord’s courtyard through a guarded gate and passed numbers of resting gardens placed neatly around a statue of the Holy Mother. A few well-dressed men-at-arms stood along the walls; others lounged atop the ramparts, keeping a casual watch. A tonsured head appeared beneath an arcade, and Pieter immediately recognized Brother Chiovo. “Ho, brother!” cried Pieter.

  The large-bellied monk turned and faced the four, blank faced. Then a huge smile stretched across his face. “Father Pieter!” he answered as he came running. The two black-robed men embraced. “Father Pieter! God be praised!”

  Pieter laughed, happy to see the good monk. “Oh, good Chiovo! Oh, my friend, I must find Maria.”

  “Of course! And wait until she sees you!”

  “Is she here?”

  “Si! And doing very well.” Chiovo’s face abruptly fell. “We lost your Anna.”

  Pieter nodded somberly. “We know. We were at the abbey.”

  “Ah, yes … God’s will be done.” He sighed, then laid his hand on Pieter’s shoulder. “Come, follow me. All of you.”

  Chiovo hurried through Lord Salito’s great hall and into a private courtyard, where he bade Pieter sit with his lads on a bench beneath a rose arbor. He winked and then disappeared into the shadows of the castle.

  “Please hurry!” said Otto. “I can hardly wait another moment.”

  Pieter said nothing but stared at the doorway leading to the hall. The day was fast ending, and long shadows had begun to stretch from the statues of saints rimming the courtyard. The air now brought a touch of November chill, yet the man paid no heed. He had fixed his face to the doorway, and nothing else mattered. Pieter’s heart pounded and his legs felt weak. His fingers tapped anxiously on his staff until, at last—at long last—he heard the voice of a child echoing faintly inside. It was a musical voice, high and cheery. It was her voice.

  Pieter and his boys drew deep breaths. Then, like the bursting of the sun from behind a heavy cloud, flaxen-haired Maria emerged from the darkened hall. She obediently stepped into the daylight, ignorant of the surprise waiting for her. For a moment, she simply stood in her place and looked about innocently. She wondered why Chiovo had been so mysterious and why he was waiting in the hall behind her.

  Pieter stared speechlessly. It was as though more joy had filled his heart than he could contain, and he could do nothing but gawk in wonder. He stared through tear-blurred eyes at the beautiful maiden, and then suddenly dropped his staff and rushed toward her with arms outstretched. “Maria!” he cried.

  The child’s jaw dropped and she trembled. “Papa Pieter!” she squealed. She raced across the courtyard. “Papa Pieter!”

  The two fell into one another’s embrace, weeping and laughing. Solomon was leaping and barking happily, and the boys charged forward to wrap the pair with their arms, glad hearted and shouting. Oh, what a glorious reunion! It was hope realized, dreams come true; it was that rare moment when miracles are plainly seen and the goodness of God unquestioned.

  Soon all four were chattering wildly, wiping tears and laughing. “Papa Pieter, I missed you so! And you, Otto and Heinz.”

  “We oft wondered if we’d see you again.” Otto shook his head. “I am so—”

  “Aye! Me, too!” Heinz’s face was bright and cheery. “It was hard going away.”

  Maria nodded. “But you had to go. I wanted you to go.”

  Chiovo handed Pieter his staff. “The signora has agreed to speak with you in the morning. Until then, my friends, you are to stay in the guest quarters, where food and refreshment await you.”

  The old man thanked the monk. “In a moment, brother, just one moment.” He retrieved the cross stuffed in his belt and slowly handed it to Maria. “Ah, my dear. This is your cross, the one Karl carried for you on his journey, the one sworn to be returned to your hand.”

  The girl took the cross lovingly. “Karl is gone from us,” she suddenly choked.

  Astonished, Pieter nodded. “But how did you know?”

  She wiped her eyes. “I had dreams, Papa. I saw him lying in some flowers that were tended by angels.”

  The boys felt chills run down their spines.

  “But all is well for him. He is at peace and happy. I know it.”

  Pieter’s throat swelled, and he laid his hand atop her head. A mystery to be sure, he thought. “‘Tis true, my dear. Karl is with the angels now. We lost him near Genoa.”

  Maria kissed the cross. “He was a dear brother and I loved him.”

  Pieter took her under his arm and held her tightly.

  “And Wil lives,” she then stated confidently.

  “Aye, sister. So he does,” answered Pieter incredulously. “He will join us here in t
he spring, with others.”

  Maria smiled and, with her good hand, touched both of her crosses. “Thank you, Papa. Thank you for coming back.”

  Eventually, Pieter and the boys were led to a comfortable chamber adjacent to the lord’s apartments. They were given a modest-sized room with one bed and a snapping hearth. Servants delivered trays of olives and fruits, some roasted duck and baked fish. Four silver goblets accompanied a tankard of red wine, and a basket of bread was set neatly in the middle of the table.

  The signora had given permission for Maria to take her evening supper with her friends, and the little girl quickly joined them at the table. Wanting to know everything, the group shared tales of the lost crusade, memory to memory, from one tragedy to the next. In turns they spoke of the San Marco, the miracle of Wil’s survival, of San Fruttuoso, and of hopes to return home. Maria talked of Anna and the abbey, of the lord and lady—and her special friend, a donkey named Paulus.

  The conversation had continued for over an hour when Pieter noticed Maria beginning to glance frequently at the closed door. “Maria, are you expecting someone?” Pieter asked.

  The girl’s cheeks flushed pink, and she looked at her plate. “No.”

  Pieter thought her answer to be strained. “Are you sure?”

  “Ja.”

  “Hmm. Well then, please pass the wine!”

  The old man had barely filled his goblet, however, when the door was flung open. All heads turned with a start and Maria giggled. There, to the utter astonishment of all, stood a familiar face. “Benedetto?” cried Pieter.

  “Si!” laughed the minstrel. “Si, ‘tis me!” He ran to a very astonished Pieter and the boys and embraced them each. “You look well, all of you! And you’ve a dog?”

  “Aye. Solomon is his name. ‘Tis a long story! But tell me, my friend, how is it you are here?”

  The small man flopped onto the bed and shook his head. “Well, it comes to this: my heart was so wounded by our sufferings that I thought I could endure no more. I wanted only my simple life again. I thought to return to my dock, where I was known and where I had sung so many songs.” He pulled at his pointy black beard. “I hurried north, back to Fiesch before the snows. Soon after Michaelmas I was playing my lute along the Rhône, but it was not the same. I could think only of the two left here … and of you all. The dock gave me no joy, no peace. It was as if I no longer belonged there. So I came running back … nearly freezing in the Simplon, but I arrived in Arona to find Anna’s grave and Maria here in this kindly place.”