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

by C. D. Baker

  Other books in the Journey of Souls series

  Crusade of Tears

  Quest of Hope

  Copyright ©2010 C.D. Baker

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1456406639

  ISBN-13: 9781456406639

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-045-3

  To those glad hearts redeemed

  to their adoption

  Editor’s note: Please find at the back of this book powerful discussion questions for group or personal study (Readers’ Guide), as well as a helpful glossary for clarification of terminology and historical information.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Chapter One Scars of Mercy

  Chapter Two Suffer the Children

  Chapter Three The Search for Eden’s Gate

  Chapter Four The Bay of Respite

  Chapter Five Maria’s Song

  Chapter Six God With Us

  Chapter Seven A Son Remembered, A Sister Found

  Chapter Eight Homeward Bound

  Chapter Nine The Wager

  Chapter Ten Love in the Brünig Pass

  Chapter Eleven To Arms!

  Chapter Twelve Friends Found, Friends Lost

  Chapter Thirteen Trouble in Olten

  Chapter Fourteen Relief

  Chapter Fifteen A Farewell, A Monkey, And A Caravan

  Chapter Sixteen Forest Haunts and a Merry Inn

  Chapter Seventeen Home?

  Chapter Eighteen Trouble in Weyer

  Chapter Nineteen A Jew, A Witch, and A Monk

  Chapter Twenty A Collaboration of Love

  Chapter Twenty-one Tension in Villmar

  Chapter Twenty-two Wise As Serpents

  Chapter Twenty-three The Ordeal

  Chapter Twenty-four Wayfarers Once More

  Chapter Twenty-five Changes by the Kiss

  Chapter Twenty-six The Bees of Renwick

  Chapter Twenty-seven The Angels Sing

  Chapter Twenty-eight Crowns Along the Shores of Promise

  The Chronicles of Frieda

  Readers’ Guide

  Glossary

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is the third volume in a series that has taken ten years to write. It is, therefore, a fortunate repetition for me to extend thanks to my wife, Susan, for her remarkable contributions of patience and grace. She has been a delightful research companion and a supportive critic. Without her I would have had no compass for this journey.

  I must also applaud my circle of draft critics for their generous support of this project, particularly Dr. Father Rock Schuler, Mr. Edward Englert, Rev. Matthew Colflesh, Mrs. Karen Buck, Mr. David Baker III, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles and Elizabeth Baker.

  To my agent, Lee Hough, another hearty thanks. He has been a faithful advocate and friend. Craig Bubeck and his editorial team at RiverOak cannot go unmentioned. They and their marketing associates deserve recognition for their outstanding professional oversight. My German instructors, Joseph and Elizabeth Christ, have provided enthusiastic support and helpful guidance.

  Again I extend my deep appreciation to the Roths, Wickers, Klums, and Lauxes of Weyer, Germany. They endured many selfless hours by foot, car, train, and plane teaching me much about their homeland. Their contribution to my work is incalculable.

  Many other kind persons throughout Germany, Switzerland, and Italy helped my research in innumerable ways. In Germany I was ably assisted by Ms. Saskia Langkau of Münden, Mr. Eberhard Wigro of St. Boniface’s Church in Hameln, and particularly by the Rev. Peter Meinert of St. Gallus Church in Altenesch. To these and to all the unnamed curators, passersby, hosts, and helpful guides who provided assistance, I offer my sincerest thanks.

  Finally, allow me to express my gratitude to God for His goodness to this struggling writer. His hand has been clearly present from the outset, and I pray my work may bring Him at least a portion of the honor He alone is due.

  INTRODUCTION

  The councils of Christendom’s kings fell silent and the halls of her mighty knights were stilled. By the solemn prayers of Hallowmas in the year 1212, news of the failed Children’s Crusade had been whispered along the winding byways of Europe and filled countless hearts with grief. From the pope’s lavish palace to the damp recesses of far-flung parish churches, a collective groan was lifted to heaven.

  The records tell us that a frustrated Pope Innocent III soon scolded Europe’s knights for hiding within their castles while leaving the children of Christendom to serve the holy cause in their stead. It was a complaint that more likely caused harm to his crusading vision than it did to inspire his princes. His successor, Gregory IX, elected in 1227, would offer a more fitting tribute to the young crusaders. He erected the Chapel of New Innocents in memory of those children who drowned by shipwreck. Its ruins can still be found on the sunny island of San Pietro, which lies in the crystal-blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea near the coast of Sardinia.

  Other facts appear in the chronicles of at least four credible witnesses. The annals of Brother Alberic of Trois Fontaines, Brother Godfrey of St. Pantaleon, Bishop Sicard of Cremona, and one M. Paris are supported by oral tradition and the later writings of Roger Bacon. Accordingly, we have learned that many adults chose to blame the surviving children for the failure of the crusade rather than face their own complicity in the matter. They accused them as having failed in their faith and, consequently, subjected the helpless lambs who ventured home to the most vile acts of human imagination.

  Despite the incredulous imputation of blame by many adults, villages and towns across Germany and France were also filled with anguished parents who rued the day that their beloved sons and daughters had taken the Cross for such a hopeless and ill-reasoned cause. An angry mob gathered in the city of Cologne, where Nicholas—the German crusade’s self-proclaimed boy prophet—had previously excited the imagination of many. Venting their fury, enraged men dragged Nicholas’s father from his house and hanged him. Nicholas himself was never found. He quickly became a character of legend, some believing that he was sold into slavery in North Africa only to escape and eventually take arms against Islam in the Fifth Crusade. His twelve-year-old French counterpart, Stephan, vanished from history’s record altogether.

  Despite the disquieting loss of legions of children to misplaced devotion and the discontent of the masses yet yoked to bondage, the stubborn grip of an aging order held Christendom fast. The lords attached themselves greedily to the determined cause of popes who sanctioned several more crusades. These failed efforts would be pitiful shadows of the mighty First Crusade. Far from defending brothers in Christ from the cruel expansionist swords of Islam, they degenerated into little more than pillaging adventures that resulted only in furthering the cause of hatred.

  By the close of the thirteenth century, interest in Rome’s old crusading vision had finally waned beyond revival, and the pleas of exasperated popes went unheeded. Many had become weary of bloodshed, corruption, and tyranny. The embarrassment of the Children’s Crusade had ignited a simmering dissatisfaction that, fueled by Europe’s exhaustion, ultimately contributed to the end of the crusading era. A new vision of the future was arising, and its messengers would be quite different from those of the past. Devout monks, restive poets, courageous scholars, and defiant peasants—motivated by the insufferable errors of their world—would put feet to change.

  Against the abuses of Roman authority—no doubt because of them—a contrasting way of faith began to emerge. Christian men and women such as St. Francis and St. Cl
are of Assisi began to proclaim the Christ of the Gospels. Denying themselves, Francis and Clare carried words of love and compassion out of the monasteries and directly to the weary people of Italy. Their words and those of others would spread and gradually awaken the hearts of Christendom’s long-suffering folk. Their legacy would warm the soul of Christian Europe in powerful ways.

  While such matters stirred, the political power of the Roman Church weakened, and the slow rise of nation-states began. However, it would not be enough for power to simply slide from pontiff to king. The age that had gone before would simply not allow it. The people had borne the weight of oppression for so long that it had made them muscular, and truth had invigorated their spirit. The natural consequence of truth, of course, is the rise of liberty. Political institutions formed that recognized the divine rights of both kings and persons. It was Magna Carta—guided by the enlightened hand of Archbishop Stephan Langton and escorted to the future by the “Flower of Chivalry,” Sir William Marshall—that laid a framework for the liberties of the English-speaking world.

  The world of this story was at the beginning of all these things, when an old age was sputtering in its death rattle and the faint heartbeat of another life had begun. The disquieting events of the Children’s Crusade became joined to centuries of hardship as more kindling for the fires of liberation. Like dough broken and pounded by the baker’s hand, the lives of many had been kneaded and pressed so that another era might finally rise fresh and fragrant. Those who had endured the troubles of the past had suffered along their way, but their tears of sorrow had swelled the river of promise where currents of truth would lead others to new life.

  So, now come, join our brave companions one more time. They have struggled to overcome great things, but their journey has not yet ended. Like the world around them, theirs is a season of change, a destiny of new beginnings, a time to lay hold of that which they have become.

  Nova Vita

  Chapter One

  SCARS OF MERCY

  There are moments in the times of men when the hearts of angels fail, and their legions join with breathless mortals to plead before the throne of grace. And in this sacred pause, it is as though all the world lies in wait for mercies to rain from heaven, for the mighty hand of God to stay contrary winds, and for a troubled few to find deliverance in the triumphant herald of a kindly Providence.

  It was a moment such as this, on the twenty-eighth day of September in the year of our Lord 1212, when the sun shone brightly over the salt-splashed rocks of Genoa’s jetty. Far above the few stray clouds, beyond the yellow star, a host of heavenly beings looked on as their fellow warriors battled the servants of evil to save the lifeblood of one and the spirit of another.

  Below, atop the jagged black rocks, a weary and frightened old man begged his God to deliver them from the day’s sorrow, while another stood in the pounding surf with his face uplifted, abandoning all ways except the way of faith.

  “Help!” cried the desperate, shrill voices of a company of children floundering in the sea. “Help us!”

  Pieter tore his attention from the plummeting body of young Wil and cast his gaze across the water at the flailing arms of his precious ones. The old man roared to the anxious cluster of children standing slack jawed by his side. “Everyone! All who can swim, go! Save these as you can!”

  Without hesitation, the brave young lads and maidens clambered down the dark rocks and plunged into the water. As the relentless waves pushed them backward again and again, they coughed and sputtered their way from the jetty’s safe edge to depths where bare toes could no longer bounce upon the sea’s gravel bed. Those who were able swam awkwardly toward the frantic, grasping hands of their floundering comrades.

  Bellowing cries of anguish, Heinrich could do no more than rock forward and back again, pleading with his God, the angels, Mother Mary, and all the saints gone before to give strength to these failing children—and to spare his beloved sons. He fixed his eye on the spot where he had seen Wil enter the sea after leaping from the cursed, wicked ship of devils. Does he still live, or is he lost? He scanned the bobbing heads between the jetty and the vessel for a glimpse of red hair. “Oh, that Karl is among them!” he cried.

  Many of the child crusaders who had jumped ship took hold of an assortment of debris that they had wisely thrown overboard. These fortunate ones clung desperately to their dubious crafts and slowly, so terribly slowly, struggled closer to the waiting jetty and the anxious hands stretched toward them.

  Pieter stumbled about the rocks, rushing in and out of the water with one sputtering child after another in his grasp. Heinrich, too, dragged coughing crusaders to safety, all the while shouting for his children. He ran from one child to the next, lifting chins and turning faces. He did not find either lad.

  He looked up into the sky, brokenhearted and desperate—all hope was fast fading. Then the voice of a young woman reached his ear. “Sir Friend, he shall live.”

  For a moment Heinrich said nothing. He closed his eye in disbelief and then opened it in faith. “Aye, girl, so he shall!” The man stood upright and boldly rushed once more to the water’s edge. There, joined by Pieter, dripping Solomon, and a growing host of believers, Heinrich faced the blue water of the rolling sea.

  A gull called overhead, and then another echoed the lonely call as a wave splashed loudly to one side. For a quiet moment all watched in utter silence, until Heinrich cried the sound of heaven’s joy. “There! There is my son!”

  In an instant, a flock of pointing fingers gestured excitedly toward the golden head of Wil, half-submerged, yet clearly visible in the roll of the sea. As though with one voice, Heinrich and Pieter shouted for swimmers to race out with what flotsam had washed ashore. The lad’s father could barely restrain himself as he splashed into the surf, urging Rudolf, Paul, Helmut, and an exhausted, though bravely determined, Otto to the rescue. The four paddled furiously toward their friend.

  Pieter joined Heinrich, and both men stood chest deep in water, shouting encouragement to the brave crusaders. Little Heinz plunged into the water followed by Frieda, her sister Gertrude, and nearly a dozen others. Poor Heinrich cursed his missing arm as he stared helplessly at the flotilla of swimmers challenging the sea to save his son. He watched breathlessly as Wil’s head rose in the swells, and with each roll his pounding heart leapt for joy. For a moment the lad disappeared from sight in the troughs, and the man’s mind flew to Karl. “Pieter,” he said anxiously, “what about my Karl?”

  Pieter pursed his lips. “Pray for Wil, my son. Well speak of Karl soon enough.”

  The answer chilled Heinrich, but before he could reply, desperate cries from the water drew his attention. He craned his neck but saw little more than furious splashing and lurching bodies. “Trouble, Pieter!”

  The old man nodded. “What I would give for the strength of my youth!”

  The children standing on the jetty watched nervously as their fellows floundered in the deep waters. From their vantage point, the scene near Wil had become chaotic. Most of the swimmers had turned back and were now crawling against the current toward the safety of the black rocks. However, it seemed as though Wil had somehow been snatched from the water and laid atop a floating litter.

  Finally, the first swimmers returned and were pulled from the sea by the hands of their fellows. Others came behind, most coughing, gasping for air, and some in tears. Frieda staggered onto the shore wailing in grief. Her hair hung in dripping strands across her heaving shoulders, and her eyes were wide with terror. Heinrich and Pieter ran to her as Heinz collapsed at her feet.

  “Gertrude!” she shrieked. “My sister!”

  Pieter placed his arm around her, and she fell into his embrace sobbing and trembling. Dripping wet and gasping for breath, Heinz turned a sad face to Heinrich. “Gertrude … drowned.”

  Heinrich paled. “I remember her.”

  The young boy nodded. “We got near … Wil … and she just… sank.”

  Heinrich tur
ned a quick, though compassionate, glance toward Frieda before hurrying back to the water’s edge. Coming toward him, ever so slowly, was Wil, guided by four rescuers. He had been balanced facedown along a plank. His limbs dangled limply over the sides, and he was close enough now for Heinrich to see swirls of blood around the satchel still slung across his shoulder. “Pieter! Come quickly!”

  The man gave Frieda a tender squeeze and then made his way for the surf, where he waited alongside the anxious baker.

  “See … there is blood in the water.”

  Pieter nodded. “With that much, ‘tis a good chance he’s alive, though perhaps not for long. He must be badly cut. I‘ll need thread, wax, and a good needle.” He thought for a moment, then summoned little Heinz, Ava, and another strapping lad. “You three, hear me well. Run as fast as your legs will carry you to the sailmaker’s shop along that path, right over there. Tell him we need a roll of thin thread, a candle, some sailcloth, and a stitching needle. Tell him we‘ll pay later, but you must hurry! ‘Tis most urgent.”

  Heinz narrowed his squinty eyes. “And if he won’t give ‘em up, or if he isn’t there?”

  Without a blink the priest replied, “Then take what we need and run like the wind!”

  The three sprinted away as Pieter splashed behind Heinrich into deeper water, where they awaited the four exhausted lads slowly lurching toward them. “Good men!” cried Heinrich. “A little farther now … just a bit more!”

  Straining forward, Heinrich and Pieter stretched out their hands. At last, Heinrich laid his thick fingers on the arm of Otto and pulled him toward shore. Pieter grabbed hold of Rudolf and the group rolled forward in a gentle swell. Falling, stumbling, and tripping about the wet rocks, all hands seized Wil’s body and slid him off the board and into a cumbersome six-way embrace as they struggled to carry him to the flat boulder Pieter had so calmly sat upon that very morning. “Methinks he’s nearly dead!” cried Otto.