by C. D. Baker
Frieda hesitated and cast a quick glance at Pieter. He shrugged slightly and nodded.
“I… I set my first cross on Karl’s grave.”
Heinrich stiffened and a lump filled his throat. “I see. And did Wil leave his there as well?”
“Nay, sir. He had never carried a cross till then.”
Heinrich thought for a moment, then looked about the little group. “So it seems you have carried one another’s crosses like good Christians ought.”
Pieter smiled kindly at his children. “Aye, Heinrich, ‘tis so. They surely have!”
“And may I ask who has Karl’s cross?”
The three stared at one another before Otto finally answered. “Karl set his first cross on Georg’s grave.”
“Who was Georg?”
“The fat fellow. Do you remember him?”
Heinrich nodded. “Ah, yes, I do. He had a kindly face. I remember him from Basel’s dock.”
Pieter bit his lip. “He saved Karl’s life along the way.”
The baker said nothing.
Otto continued. “Karl then carried Georg’s cross and left it with his sister, Maria, at the cloister. Then he took your daughter’s until he died; now Pieter has it.”
Heinrich turned to Pieter blank faced. “I have no daughter on this earth.”
The group darkened. “She is alive, sir! You needs believe it!” cried Heinz.
The poor man was completely confused. “I … I had a daughter born very many years ago. Her name was Margaretha, but she died soon after her birth.”
“But Maria is Wil and Karl’s sister!”
Heinrich sat down stiffly and shook his head. “If so, my friends, I am sorry for it. I am not her father.”
Pieter’s mind was racing. “When did you leave your village?”
“Six years ago, almost to the day.”
“Pieter,” blurted Otto awkwardly, “do you still have Maria’s cross?”
“Aye, lad,” answered the old man slowly. “Now, enough of this.” He cast a troubled glance at Heinrich. “When Paul’s company returns, we must speak with them once more. I fear Rome shall not welcome them gladly.”
Heinz shook his head. “They’d be a stubborn lot. I’ve talked to many, and they’ve set their minds.”
Pieter sighed. “I fear so. I admire their resolution, but without wisdom, even that is vanity. I fear they see only failure in their crusade, not the wonder of lessons learned.” He laid a kind hand on Heinz’s shoulder. “Know this, boy. Fixing your eyes on failure is like staring into a chasm; it draws you to disaster.”
Chapter Two
SUFFER THE CHILDREN
In the early evening, Paul and his crusaders returned to camp with a few baskets half-filled with a scanty selection of alms. They carefully divided stale bread, a pail of old olives, a few large fish gnawed by the cats of the fish market, a dozen citrus fruits, a few strings of garlic, some onions, and handfuls of sundry vegetables.
“Pieter, the city is completely wretched; it has only two good souls,” declared Paul angrily. “The podesta ordered the beating of three of mine by the Porta del Vacca. Two kindly nuns had pity and took them in. They gave us the herbs you asked for. Use them well, for the cost was high.” He handed Pieter a basket of corked clay jars.
“I tell you, Father, tomorrow night I shall take great joy in pilfering this place as it rightly deserves.” He set his jaw hard and squeezed his fists. “My lads spied the place today, and we know what can be taken with ease. Inside the walls are palaces aplenty!”
Indeed, the free city of Genoa boasted the marble facades of its wealth. Since the days of Rome it had been home to successful traders, but since the great Crusades, Genoa had become one of the mightiest seafaring cities on the earth. Her ships protected cargoes throughout all the Mediterranean, and her mighty armies clashed with the Saracen in far-distant places. Having earned her freedom from the emperor years before, she now crowned her streets with the splendor of her riches.
The mountains that rose steeply from the sea were dotted with castle fortresses and church spires. Gracious gardens, vineyards, and olive groves filled courtyards and grand piazzas. In a large arc around the deep blue harbor, Genoa’s villas proudly vaunted the hoarded wealth of the centuries. Within her rambling stone walls echoed the music of the money changer and the haughty laughter of great gain.
Pieter received the herbs with a cry of joy. “Well done, dear boy! Thanks be to God for those blessed nuns!” He ran toward Wil while shouting for Heinrich. He fell next to the boy’s side and began digging through the basket like a child with new toys. “Ah, ja! Bayberry bark and willow, sage … yes, yes … and chickweed, and, and … aha! Comfrey!”
Rudolf, the lad from Liestal, leaned over Pieter’s shoulder. “May I help, Father?”
“Eh?” Pieter turned about and gawked at the pleasant fourteen-year-old for a moment. “What was that?”
“May I help?”
“Ah, of course. Yes, Rudolf, indeed. Go fetch me some fresh water and three small pails.”
The boy sprinted away.
Another lad, Helmut, stepped close. He was about the same age as Rudolf, wore his sandy hair long like Wil, and turned his light blue eyes on Pieter with an earnest interest. “And me?”
Pieter smiled. “You are …”
“Helmut, Father, of parts near Bremen.”
“Helmut, yes, of course. I need a fire within two narrow rows of rocks built close enough to set m’pans on.”
“Aye, sir.”
Heinrich was kneeling by Wil’s side, bathing his wounds in salt water again. He stroked the lad’s face and wiped the sweat off his brow. “He’s no worse.”
“No worse, some better, methinks,” answered Pieter.
Heinrich scratched his head and peered into Pieter’s basket. “You’ll be making a poultice of the comfrey?”
Pieter brightened. “Ja! You’ve some knowledge?”
“Just a bit gleaned from an old monk.”
“Good. The chickweed makes a good ointment for the wounds as well. I’ll apply the poultice by day and leave the chickweed to work through the night.”
“And an infusion for the fever?”
“Aye, if he’ll swallow. The bayberry bark is best, but I’ll add the leaves of sage … here, can you smell them?” He withdrew a pinch of brown grindings from one of the jars and held them to Heinrich’s nose.
“Yes, that smell reminds me of home. I believe the willow bark can be used for the wounds as well. It has tannins.”
“Hmm. Good idea,” answered Pieter. “Ill use it to make a warm saltwater wash. The willow also goes into the infusion for fever.”
Frieda came to their side and knelt by Wil. She took a rag from Heinrich’s hand and gently dabbed Wil’s face and neck. “I should think all his bandages need changing by now, Pieter,” she said slowly.
The priest nodded and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry, my dear. Gertrude was a dear maiden.”
Frieda nodded and smiled sadly. “Thank you, Father Pieter. She loved you as well. But now we need tend the living, don’t we?”
Pieter said nothing as the girl began to gently unwind the lad’s wraps. She had braided her blonde hair to keep it from falling into her face as she bent over Wil. Her brown eyes were now clear and wide, fixed on her purpose. She handed the stained bandages to others for washing in the sea and worked with Pieter to clean and tend the wounds with comfrey poultices.
By nightfall, Wil’s fever began to break, and the young man tossed uncomfortably on his bed of leaves. But within a few hours he became more peaceful, even serene. Then, at long last, Wilhelm of Weyer opened his eyes and smiled weakly, for there, gazing down at him with warmth and abounding affection, was the firelit face of a very glad-hearted Frieda.
Heinrich wept for joy with the news of Wil’s awakening. He ran to the young man’s side and sat close by him, resting one hand lightly on the lad’s shoulder. He wiped his eye and smiled broadl
y. “Wil, ‘tis so very good to see you!”
Wil stared blankly. In the firelight Heinrich looked menacing and unfamiliar. His beard was long and his hair wild. With a patch on one eye and one arm missing, the man looked like no one he had ever known. He nodded warily.
Frieda laughed. “Wil, ‘tis Friend … the one who saved us in Basel!”
A small light of recognition entered Wil’s expression. “Ja,” he whispered in a weak voice. “Now I remember.”
Heinrich’s heart fluttered. It is time, he thought, time to reveal my identity. His mouth went dry and his tongue thickened, filling his mouth like heavy porridge. His mind raced and his heart pounded. Dare I do this? Will he forgive me? Should he forgive me? He drew a deep breath and leaned close. Barely able to form words, the shaking man spoke in a nervous rush. “Wil, dear lad. Please look at me. I am … I am your father.”
Wil’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. He pursed his lips and looked away.
His stricken father closed his eye and nodded, then bravely stood and stared helplessly at his son. Wil refused to speak. His face remained hard and his expression distant—fixed on some faraway view like the sightless gargoyles of unreachable heights. Heinrich drew a deep breath and stepped back in defeat. No long-sword in all Christendom could have pierced his heart more deeply, nor cloven it so completely as that bitter moment. He wanted to run.
Frieda took his elbow. “Herr Heinrich, he’s weak and confused,” she whispered.
The baker shook his head. “And with every right to anger, dear girl. Every right indeed.”
The two faced each other for a long, silent moment before Heinrich finally turned to find solace in the solitude of the night. Frieda watched him trudge away, and her own heart ached. He will forgive you, she thought. I know that he surely will
By now Pieter had heard the good news and came hurrying to Wil’s side. “Ha! What a fright you gave us, lad!” he cried. “We thought you might be finished.”
Wil offered a weak smile and nodded. “Me, too,” he whispered.
Solomon licked the lad’s face lightly. The dog’s eyes flickered bright and cheery in the light of the crackling fire. Wil chuckled, though a bit painfully.
“Now, Solomon! Leave him be.” Pieter pushed his faithful companion away playfully, then gave thanks over Wil with a prayer of praise. “My God, I love You above all things, with my whole heart and soul….” By the time he had finished, Wil had fallen fast asleep. The old man laughed quietly and lovingly wiped the young man’s forehead with a damp cloth. “God be praised, God be praised!” He then reached for the cross of Maria that he had vowed to return and laid it by the lad’s head. “May God’s mercies be upon you both.”
A cloud-filled sky obscured the stars, and the far edges of the crusaders’ camp were shrouded in blackness. The children huddled around several small fires to keep warm. Pieter was handed a small bit of salted fish, and he worked hard to mash it between his gums. His single tooth always made salted meats a challenge, but he was grateful for the struggle!
He beckoned for Heinrich to come near, and the two huddled quietly in conversation. Paul had agreed to postpone his departure for one more day. Pieter disclosed his immediate plan to move the company to a nearby monastery that he knew. Satisfied, Heinrich agreed, though they both wished they had more time before moving Wil. “There’s to be no changing Paul’s mind,” grumbled Pieter. “I can see it in his eyes.”
“Aye. And once the city’s looted, the guard will hang any they catch.”
The priest nodded. “We must be as far away as we can by dawn’s light. Pray for another miracle on the morrow.”
Heinrich nodded. He had learned that miracles were rare but not impossible.
“My friend, what are we to do when the passes are melted?”
The baker sat quietly, scratching his finger aimlessly on the ground. “I’ve thought of little else other than returning to m’boys.”
Pieter waited.
“I … I suppose when the lad’s able, we shall go home, home to Weyer. ‘Tis where we belong.”
Neither spoke until Pieter offered carefully measured words. “My friend, I know but a little of your story, but methinks you’re not the same man who left Weyer those years past.”
Heinrich nodded. He knew the man spoke true. “And what of it?”
“Forgive me, but were you not a bound man?”
“I am a bound man.” The words sickened him. His stomach twisted and his mind raced. A bound man? Servile? To whom? Who has the right to bind me? The man clenched his jaw.
Pieter hesitated, then asked, “By faith, Heinrich, is Weyer truly where you belong?”
The man was not prepared for such a question. “Of course!” he blurted. “I am Heinrich of Weyer! I was born to men bound there since before time was counted. I was baptized in the Church; I’ve m’bakery, m’half-hide … and m’wife.” His voice sounded suddenly urgent, as if he was straining to argue the case to himself.
Wisely, Pieter remained quiet and listened to the man repeat all the ways in which Weyer claimed him. He learned of the cause and the code, of uncles and friendships, of Emma and Lukas, Richard and Ingly. He heard of harvests and feasts, sacred days and gardens—of butterflies and the Magi; of the bubbling Laubusbach and wending rye. It was a blend of things good and things evil, happy and sad; in short, a harvest of things familiar.
Finally the baker finished. “So, Father, I shall take my son home to his mother … to Weyer.”
Pieter nodded and held his thoughts as he looked about the milling children. “So what of these?”
Heinrich stared at them sadly. “We ought to ask them.”
“Indeed.”
The two men stood and summoned those who had chosen not to follow Paul to Rome. The children came willingly and gathered at their feet. Both men had earned their trust—Heinrich several nights before when he protected so many, Pieter by his clergyman’s robe and his unmistakable wealth of wisdom. As the children waited patiently, Solomon trotted among them and happily accepted their proffered affection.
Yielding to Pieter, Heinrich stepped to one side and carefully studied the faces of those assembled. They were a diverse group of boys and maidens from ages five to sixteen. All were thin, and all were weary.
“My blessed faithful innocents,” began the priest, “God be praised for each one of you. Tomorrow is our last in Genoa, for we must find a safer refuge for a season. But when the winter passes, Herr Heinrich and I need to know how to serve you.”
The group began whispering. After a brief delay, a squeaky voice offered the obvious. “I should like very much to go home.”
The children murmured more loudly.
Pieter nodded. “Where is home, children? Where do you belong?” The names of dozens of places drifted forward. Heidelberg and Worms, Cologne, Mainz, Strasbourg, and Bonn … Freiburg and Basel, Zurich, and St. Gall. The crusaders offered the names of villages and hamlets from Swabia and Franconia, the valleys of the Alps and the flat-lands of Saxony.
A small girl stood. Heinrich thought her to be no more than six or seven. She walked to Pieter and tugged on his sleeve. He bent low to hear her whisper sadly, “I’m afraid to go home.”
Before Pieter could answer, another child cried from the edge of the campfire, “I cannot go home.”
“Why not, boy?”
“I’ll be beaten, now more’n ever. I’ve failed.”
Pieter’s face tightened as a chorus of others agreed. “Tell me how you’ve failed.”
Answers, heretofore repressed, now came quickly. They erupted from aching hearts that had been locked by shame and confusion. “We did not reach the Holy Land, and so we failed God”; “My faith failed me … methinks God must hate me now”; “I was afraid”; “I stole things”; “I cursed Mother Mary” … On and on they listed their failings. Their poor little hearts emptied themselves of guilt like the spewing of poison from the mouth of a serpent.
Heinrich listened silent
ly and understood. He saw his own painful emotions reflected in the contorted, woeful faces of these children and wished they all might be set free. He looked toward the wise old man and waited for his answer.
At last a weeping Pieter turned to Heinrich and said quietly, “Guilt sprouts where shame is planted.”
He wiped his eyes and faced his children. “Oh, my blessed lambs. Fear not, you have not failed. You have walked with angels; you have trod on holy ground. Faith is not proven by things attained, but by walking in love.
“Oh, my children, my tender hearts, I see love abounding all around me! Look at you, each one. There.” He pointed. “One holds another’s hand. And there. There one wipes another’s tear. You, little ones, have borne one another’s burdens. You have been sisters and brothers, protectors and comforters to those who have shared your journey.
“Have you failed? No, most certainly not! Have you suffered? Indeed, and much. But know this: suffering is the path to faith and the doorway to compassion. Your suffering has made your faith stronger because you’ve learned to depend on love; it has softened your hearts toward one another because you’ve learned to feel pain. Sons and daughters of God, be proud of who you have become!”
The children sat spellbound, as did Heinrich. Shivers tingled his spine, and he suddenly wanted to cry out for joy. Pieter had given him hope again—hope to believe.
Lying on his pallet near the fire, Wil heard the message too. His heart was touched in deep places, and a lump filled his throat. Frieda took his hand and smiled.
Pieter leaned on his staff wearily. His face was yellowed in the firelight and etched deeply by flickering shadows. Finally he nodded. “So, my precious ones, what do we do?”
The circle remained quiet, and the old man prayed silently. It was not long before it became clear to him that he, Heinrich, and Wil had been called to redeem the journey of suffering that all had endured; it would be their sacred duty to shepherd these lost lambs to a place of safekeeping. He beckoned the baker to his side and spoke to him quietly for a few moments. Heinrich nodded and clasped Pieter’s hand. Then the pair faced the young crusaders once more.