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

by C. D. Baker

  As the priest untied the bag, he stared inside and informed Heinrich that the coins were likely minted in Sicily. “Ducats … they’re precious and valued all over Christendom.”

  “Aye.” Heinrich picked one out and set it aside. “I’ve a special use for this one,” he said. He then grabbed a handful and began dropping them one at a time into Pieter’s joined palms. As they fell, each counted coin clinked atop the others like the sound of rain on thirsty ground, and when the counting was done, the two men looked at one another in astonishment.

  “Amazing!”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “How can it be so?”

  “Forty!” exclaimed Heinrich.

  Pieter grinned. “Ah, the angels are surely with us. One gold coin for each child! God be praised!”

  The pair returned to their company and immediately disclosed the plan to leave within the hour and to travel by night until they were beyond the wrath of Genoa. Surprised, the children were immediately anxious. Travel by night was a fearsome thing. Evil was known to lurk in darkness—highwaymen, wicked villains, beasts, spirits, and dreaded creatures of legend. They might become lost to wander endlessly in the mountains rising steeply from the sea. Or they might stumble upon some unseen precipice, only to fall into the merciless black waters below. “Pieter,” said Otto, “surely not by night.”

  The priest understood, as did Heinrich. The baker, too, had ventured out in darkness along some fearsome trails. He thought of the Bohemian swamp and shuddered. Pieter nodded. “Ja, but know this: your enemies fear as well. You’ve suffered far more than they, and your sufferings have made you stronger than them all.”

  “But you’ve not yet said where we’ll be going?” Otto asked.

  “We’ve spies about, Otto, so I cannot say. I ask that you trust Herr Heinrich and m’self until we’ve begun our journey.”

  Still worried, the lad nonetheless agreed.

  “Good. Now we must make ready. Have you organized the groups according to Heinrich’s plan?”

  “Ja.”

  “Have we any sort of buckets or flasks?”

  “We’ve a few things among us,” answered Helmut. “A few pots, some clay jars, and the like.”

  “It will have to do.” Heinrich cast a worried eye at Paul’s group now assembled and receiving instructions from their commanders. Brave lads, all… and maids as well, he thought. If they only knew what sorrows are waiting in Rome. He shook his shaggy head and walked toward them.

  Paul turned to greet the man. “Godspeed to you and yours, Herr Heinrich.”

  “And to you, son.” The man studied three rows of about twenty crusaders each. Most still carried wooden crosses stuffed defiantly in their belts. Their breasts still boasted embroidered red crosses—faded and tattered though they were. “Is there to be no changing your mind on this?”

  “Nay, m’lord. We are fixed to do what we must to save our crusade.”

  “You truly believe the pope will give you guidance?”

  Paul nodded confidently. “He shall equip us to carry on our crusade.”

  Heinrich sighed sadly. “Each of your followers has been offered a fair chance to join with us?”

  “Aye.”

  “And none of yours wishes to refuse your night’s raid on the city?”

  “Aye.”

  Heinrich looked at Paul’s gathering comrades quietly. Brave, but so foolish, he thought. Realizing he could not stop them, he relented. “Well then, walk with me for a moment.” He led Paul a short distance from all the others and extended his hand. In the center of his palm was a gold coin. “Take this, my son. Take it to Rome. Find the church called Santa Maria in Domnica, and there you must give it to Sister Anoush. Tell her of me; tell her I’ve sent you. Tell her ‘the worm is no more.’ She will help you in ways beyond what the mere value of this gold could ever do.”

  Puzzled but grateful, Paul received the coin and closed his fingers around it tightly. He looked into Heinrich’s face with sincere gratitude and nodded.

  Each camp reviewed its particular plan one final time. For Paul, the strategy of the night’s robbery was complicated and perilous. He had decided to send seven groups of five through the gates along the northern arc of the city wall, the rest in trios through the carefully guarded southern gates. He had assigned most to the neighborhoods of the wealthy, though his group was intending to pilfer the Commenda—the hospice for travelers en route to Palestine. After the raid, they’d make their way quickly southward in hopes of eventually gaining an audience with the pope in his Lateran Palace.

  Meanwhile, Pieter’s captains checked their commands carefully to be sure all were accounted for and what few possessions they had were not forgotten. Frieda changed Wil’s bandages before others tied the young man securely to his litter. Pieter prayed for his new flock, then for Paul’s, pleading in grave tones for the safety of both and a happy end to their suffering.

  Then, as the bells of compline prayers began to echo over the rooftops of Genoa, the two bands of crusaders bade their reluctant farewell. With tears, both companies embraced and wished one another Godspeed. They now suffered that painful moment when friendships lose their breath to become mere memories, when the sharing of life ends and reminiscing begins. For these veterans of hardship, purposes were no longer held in common, and new paths would lead them to different places. So while one was yet called “crusader,” the other would now be called “pilgrim.” And with that simple change in title, that subtle shift in name, destinies would be forever divided. They would never meet again.

  Night fell quickly as Wil’s company hurried away from Genoa. As fearsome as the darkness was, however, it did not quench the relief felt by leaving the unfriendly city behind.

  The road was narrow but remarkably free from ruts. It had been cut through the mountains by the Roman legions centuries before and followed the arching Ligurian coastline from Genoa to all parts south. The forty pilgrims could not see it, but just two rods beyond the road’s shoulder were steep slopes and stark cliffs dropping to the rock-edged sea. It was enough that they could hear the menacing rumbling far below.

  Pieter had not yet disclosed his destination to any but Heinrich. He had been nagged by a sense of watching eyes since he had spotted the hooded figures in the shadows the night prior. He had felt them while begging in Genoa and said nothing; he had felt them upon his return. He had felt them again as the camps divided and felt them even now, deep in the darkness and more than a league from the city. Consequently, he had been reluctant to share his plan out loud or to even pass it secretly among the many wagging tongues of his flock. Spies? Highwaymen? Spirits? I know not, but I sense they are very real! he said to himself.

  At long last, however, it was necessary to rest, if only briefly. Heinrich, Otto, Rudolf, and Helmut had been carrying Wil’s litter since they had left camp, and their arms ached. Wil had remained awake through most of the journey, doing his best not to reveal the pain each stumbling foot brought to his wounded body. The smallest children were exhausted, though not a single one complained.

  The left shoulder of the roadway was narrow and etched tightly into the steep, pine-covered mountains rising sharply alongside it. Pieter was now anxious, for being bordered on one side by the mountain and the other by sea-cliffs made his company vulnerable to any pursuit by Genoese men-at-arms. Fearing that the wrath of the podesta might have already been kindled by Paul’s ill-timed raid, he counseled Heinrich to hurry the travelers along. “We must find rest away from the road. Pray we find a break in this eternal wall of mountains!”

  “How far have we come?”

  Pieter answered in a whisper. “From camp I reckoned us to be about five or six leagues away. With Wil and the condition of the children, I fear we’ll do little more than two leagues a day. We need to find refuge off the road and travel only by night.”

  Heinrich nodded and returned to Wil’s litter. He put a firm hand on its handle. “Up, lads,” he said. “We’ve a bit farther
to go.”

  The company stumbled along in the darkness as a cool mist added yet more misery. Unseen clouds then released gentle showers of rain. It was another hour before Pieter finally found a wide clearing to his left. Hoping to have found a pathway of sorts, he fumbled through wet pine boughs and tripped along rocks as he followed a ravine away from the road. “Come, children!” he urged.

  Stumbling and falling, they pressed their way deeper into a dripping blackness that finally blinded them. “Enough!” cried Heinrich from the middle of the column. “Pieter, enough. We’ve nearly dropped Wil a dozen times, and none can see.”

  The old man’s voice came from somewhere ahead. “Ja. I fear I can see nothing more. Here we shall rest.”

  Wet and shivering, the pilgrims searched for one another with groping hands. Finally they formed a tight huddle in the base of the ravine where they lay until a gray dawn wakened them from their uncomfortable slumber. Groggy and miserable, they said little as they waited for Heinrich and Pieter to command them. Not far from their hideout they could hear the rumble of carts and horses along the roadway. “Dare we venture out?” queried Heinrich.

  The old priest wasn’t sure. “We’ve probably four leagues to travel or more. At night we might travel a league, maybe two. We could travel farther by day, but I fear the provost guard may be about.”

  Heinrich grumbled. “Well then, it seems wise to hide by day. If we move deeper into the mountains, we might build a fire until dusk.”

  “And food?”

  “We’ve none.”

  “Water we can collect from puddles.”

  “Aye, priest. A plan a day is all we need.”

  The two agreed quietly, and soon the column was picking its way carefully through the heavy brush of the deepening ravine, eventually emerging into a wide grassy glade dotted with hornbeam, wild nut trees, and pines. “Ha, look!” laughed Pieter joyfully. “Almond trees and chestnuts … pinecones all over the ground. Otto, the almonds should be ripe for shaking. Send one tithing to gather what they will; then break them open with rocks. But hear me now—let no one eat the bitters. Just a few will poison you.”

  “And the chestnuts?” asked Frieda.

  “Yes, my dear. We are a bit early for them, but let’s give them a go. Break the husks and we’ll roast them.”

  Heinrich checked on Wil, who was lying uncomfortably on his litter. The young man’s wounds needed dressing and he was thirsty. “Frieda, we need fresh bandages.”

  “Aye, sir. So I’ve seen. I’ve m’bucket to gather water, and you can help with the compresses.”

  “And, Otto,” called Heinrich, “send the others to find dry wood. I’ll flint a fire there, atop that rock.”

  So with many hands scattered across the soggy forest floor, the company quickly gathered pine nuts and almonds, chestnuts and even great handsful of mushrooms. To the delight of all, by midmorning a smoky fire was snapping cheerfully, and pots were boiling with a bounty of what treasures the Ligurian woodland offered. The day was still heavy, however; an eastern wind had brought dark clouds and more showers.

  Wil was soon helped to his feet, a remarkable event considering the wounds he had suffered just days before. He leaned against a stubby, silver-leafed almond tree and smiled at his cheering comrades. “Soon, my friends, I shall lead you on m’egs!”

  Frieda stood watchfully by his side and steadied him as he sat near the fire. His wounds had been bathed and his bandages replaced. Grimacing from time to time, the young man was truly grateful to be alive and had spent many an hour reflecting on his miraculous salvation. An occasional wistful glance from his father was the one troubling circumstance that weighed heavily on him, however, and he turned his face away.

  By late afternoon, Heinrich felt uneasy for other reasons. He walked slowly to Pieter and bent low to his ear. “I feel someone watching us.”

  “Ja. Me as well.”

  “I fear we’ve been followed.”

  Pieter nodded. “Solomon’s ears have been up and his snout lifted all the day long.”

  Heinrich fingered the bone handle of his dagger and leaned closer. “I’ll make a wide circle.”

  The old priest drew an anxious breath. “Take another with you.”

  Heinrich hesitated, then agreed. “Who?”

  “Heinz. He’s the nose of a fox and is quicker than all the rest.”

  Without another word the baker casually edged Heinz to the margins of the camp. Then, like shadows under light, they vanished.

  As a diversion, Pieter gathered his company and circled them close to the fire, where he began to spin them tales of old. Like he had done so often before, he thrust his staff into the air as if he were St. George slaying the dragon or the mighty Hermann, chief of the Germans who slaughtered the legionnaires of Rome. He stirred cherished memories of their homelands as he whispered of woodland sprites and elfish kings. When he spoke of the Saracens, the whole of the company stood and jeered; when he spoke of the Templars, they cheered and hurrahed! He made them weep for the hideous drowning of fair Minna and cringe at the nature-spirits hiding in the mists of the fateful Rhine.

  Meanwhile, Heinrich and Heinz crept carefully across the needled carpet. Crouching under a dripping canopy of knotty branches, the baker peered into the brushy woodland. “Do you see anything?”

  Heinz shook his head, then cocked it. “There!” he whispered.

  Heinrich had heard it as well. A snap, then a rustle. He gripped his dagger firmly and moved forward. Step by step, the pair inched its way across the ravine. They stopped again as Heinz lifted his finger. “There.” He pointed slowly.

  Heinrich’s eye followed it into a grove of pines where three hooded figures were squatting close together, facing the smoke of the camp. They appeared to be straining to listen, fixed on something. The baker’s heart beat more quickly. He turned to Heinz and whispered. “Boy, hold fast.” Silently and slowly, he crept toward the figures. As he drew closer, his mouth dried and his breathing quickened. A jay chattered nearby and a dove cooed. A squirrel rustled to one side, some unseen creature to the other. The man held still, then moved again, slowly through a bed of wet ferns to the cover of a low clump of myrtle.

  The three spies had not heard a sound and surely had not anticipated Heinrich’s flanking maneuver, but one suddenly stood and nervously turned his head from one side to the other. Perhaps he had realized that the burly, one-armed man was missing. Perhaps he sensed eyes now fixed on him.

  Heinrich stopped and crouched yet lower as the figure spun abruptly in his direction. The baker’s view was partially obscured by wild shrubs, but he was able to see that the face was young. The other two now stood, and all three drew short-swords from within their capes.

  The dull silver frightened Heinz, who had been watching from a tangle of leafy saplings a safe distance away. He wanted to run, to sprint wildly away, but he held fast. His eyes darted from the three to Heinrich and back again, and they stretched wide when the baker began to move forward.

  The man’s jaw was set. He had faced more danger in his day than three slender youths, armed or not. He left his low cover and slid his booted feet quietly along the wet woodland floor, pausing only when eyes swept toward him. Closer he moved, then closer still. The heavens abruptly opened, and a heavy rain shower began to fall loudly through the trees. Like a veteran warrior, Heinrich seized the moment and rushed forward. “Ho there!” he cried with a menacing tone. “Hold fast!”

  The startled spies whirled about.

  “Your names!” shouted the baker as he approached.

  For a moment, the three stood slack jawed as the shaggy Teuton strode ever closer. Then, as if suddenly awakened from a trance, two sprinted in different directions, leaving their leader behind.

  The flash of the figure’s drawn sword changed everything. Heinrich snarled and clutched his dagger. With a shout, he charged forward as the youth planted his feet and crouched, sword at the ready.

  Then, when Heinrich’s hard-
set face was plain to see, the lad lunged forward. The heavy-limbed man dodged the youth’s sword with surprising skill and countered with a vicious swipe at his head, slicing the hood along the ear. With a loud cry, the spy stumbled backward, only to lunge again. His sword missed its mark, and Heinrich countered with another savage swipe. The youth’s agile frame quickly veered, barely avoiding the severing of his throat, but it was enough for him. He turned on his heels and bounded away.

  With the spies having disappeared in the misty cover of the forest, Heinz ran to Heinrich’s side. “Herr Heinrich!”

  “Aye, lad. All’s we’ll.”

  Heinz was shaking. “God be praised, I wasn’t so sure you’d—”

  “Eh? You thought me no match for three?” Heinrich winked. “Well, perhaps you’re right, but we’ve lived to see another day!” He looked at his dagger and saw a line of deep red along its edge. He wiped it on his leggings and looked into the forest. “That should send him running.”

  The pair returned to the camp, which was now completely silent. “Alles klar,” announced Heinrich.

  A cheer rose up as Frieda ran to Heinrich’s side. “We heard the shouts in the wood!”

  “Ja, girl. We’d spies on the hillside there.” He pointed vaguely.

  “Did you have a look?” asked the priest.

  “There were three, but I only saw the face of one. It was somewhat familiar to me, though …”

  “Perhaps the same three as I saw,” muttered Pieter.

  “He was young, near Wil’s age, and dark eyed, but ‘tis all I can recall. I wounded him in the ear or side of the head.”

  “Enough to send him back to Genoa?”

  Heinrich shrugged. “We can hope.”

  Pieter leaned on his staff and called for Solomon. The dog had given chase and disappeared into the mountain. “Otto, call your captains. We leave at once.”

  Dusk was short lived and night fell quickly. To the delight of all, Solomon had returned with a mouthful of brown wool—either from someone’s leggings or sleeve. “A fine loom,” observed Frieda. “Expensive.”