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

by C. D. Baker

  That evening the band enjoyed a lively feast of good beer and tasty foods. By midnight, however, Tomas had indulged far beyond his limit and was sick in the alleys of Vercelli, leaving his fellows to settle into easy conversation with a silk merchant born in Oppenheim. “Ja, I’ve heard things of your crusade. Seems your leader’s father was hanged in Cologne.”

  “Our leader?” quizzed Helmut.

  “Nicholas of Cologne,” answered Frieda.

  “Devil’s son,” answered Helmut. “I hope he’s dead!”

  The merchant raised his brows. “Ja? Well, I have heard nothing of Nicholas, but well before Advent, methinks, an angry mob dragged his father into the streets of the city. They said the scoundrel had deceived them all. Then they hanged him and promised to do the same to Nicholas.”

  Wil grumbled. Nicholas was not his leader, but Nicholas’s vision in the springtime past had certainly inspired the whole of the Christian world and affected the destinies of countless children, himself included. Thinking of being seduced by madness was troubling. ‘Tis bad enough we failed, he thought. But now to know we were dolts as well!

  Somehow sensing his thoughts, Frieda leaned close and whispered, “The vision could have been true. How were we to know?”

  Wil shrugged. He felt foolish no matter how it might be explained.

  “Your hearts were good in the crusade, son. ‘Tis the heart that matters,” Heinrich offered.

  “Well, a bounty of good hearts are not beating now,” muttered Wil. “Next time methinks the heart and the head ought consider one another.”

  “Ha! Well said, lad,” roared the merchant. “Well said, indeed! Would that all might see the world that way. Now, to other things. Where be y’travelin’?”

  “North,” answered Heinrich. “Home.”

  The man nodded. “Home is a worthy destination. I left my Oppenheim many years ago to fight the infidels. I served well, but my desires were fired by two things: a dark-haired beauty and the magic of silk—the both of them smooth and soft. Ja! Well, time came for me to make a choice. I found the woman to be quickly bothersome … in truth, a vicious shrew! So I chose the silk!” He laughed and poured himself more wine.

  “Now I spend my life traveling south of the mountains in wintertime and north in summer. I buy silk from the Venetians, sell it at the fairs, and then hide my money in the nearest Templar strongbox. They keep a fair accounting. We dare not carry much with us, of course. We’ve hired soldiers as you see, but sometimes the highwaymen come in whole armies. Here especially, what with the Visconti from Milan. They would seize all of Lombardy and the Piedmont if they could. Perhaps they shall in time.”

  At the sound of the word Visconti, Wil and Frieda chilled. The memories of their horrid days in the Verdi castle at Domodossola would never leave either of them. There, many had perished in awful ways, including three of their comrades. There, too, were other losses. For Wil, it was there where the Visconti had exposed his cowardice and the Verdi damsel his pride. It was there where Frieda had lost respect for him.

  The two looked at each other until Wil turned away and stared at the ground. Frieda reached her hand forward and touched his. Refusing to look up, he mumbled, “Now I really am ashamed. First to be so easily fooled by a false vision, then to be reminded again of my deeds in that cursed castle.”

  “No more of that,” answered the maiden. “We’ve all something to regret, but we must not let our regrets rule us, else they become who we are. Your father taught me that.”

  Wil said nothing. He was surprised by her remark and wondered what other things she had learned from his father. He cast a look at Heinrich, who was chatting with the merchant. “Well, ‘tis time for sleep,” he muttered.

  The night passed quickly, and soon the pilgrims were enjoying a first meal of porridge and honey, fresh bread and red wine. “So now we part,” the generous merchant said with a satisfied smile. He belched. “Was a pleasure to meet fellow survivors from crusade! I wish you all Godspeed.”

  With hails and grateful waves, the pilgrims then left Vercelli, soon to travel north across lands dotted with poor villages. Throughout the day Wil rolled the name “survivor” over and over in his mind. He liked the sound of it; it had redeemed his sense of failure in some small way. “Strange how a name can change a way of thinking,” he blurted.

  “What?” answered Frieda.

  “A name. I say it’s odd how calling someone something can change things. The merchant called us ‘survivors.’ Now I look at all of us differently.”

  Tomas sneered. He was often apt to sneer, for he took delight in casting shadows. “Ha! Wil, y’think to be honored by ‘surviving’? Ha! Cowards are survivors, too!” He laughed and pointed his finger. “Tis easy to see that you’re desperate to claim something good from all this!”

  “Shut yer mouth,” snapped Wil.

  “Aye, Tomas!” blurted Helmut. “Shut it, or I’ll shut it with m’fist!”

  The group stopped walking. Tomas leaned his face close to Helmut’s and, daring the other to make good on his threat, he opened his mouth as wide as he could. With both forefingers he pointed to the gaping black cavern, goading the other with some indiscernible grunts.

  To Tomas’s great surprise, Helmut struck and struck hard, knocking the startled boy to the ground. He lay flat on his back, stunned and dizzy.

  “Up, y’dung-breathed dolt!” challenged Helmut. “I’ve tired of yer whining, yer troublemaking talk. Stand up so I can beat you down again!”

  “Enough, lads!” boomed Heinrich as he separated the pair. “Tomas, you’d be bleeding.” He uncorked a flask. “Wash your face with this.”

  Tomas poured warm beer over his swelling lips. He glared at the lanky Helmut and then muttered a few oaths and wandered off the road.

  Wil nodded his thanks to his ally but assured him that he was perfectly capable of handling Tomas on his own. “Now, are we ready?”

  A chorus of “ayes” answered, and the pilgrims were off again. They now marched quietly with Tomas some distance in the rear. They crossed the Piedmont under stormy skies, and it seemed that the weather grew more foul with each passing league.

  Finally, at twilight on the twenty-fourth day of April, the six arrived at the southern shoreline of Lago Maggiore, where they made camp under a grove of trees. For the whole of the past ten days, Frieda and Wil had been restrained in their anxiety over the likely news of Maria. Neither wanted to mention the matter, each choosing to wrestle privately with their own expectations. Frieda retreated to her quill and parchment whenever she might steal the time. It was her way of escape. For his part, Wil found solace with Emmanuel, practicing with the bow at eventide and dawn.

  As for Heinrich, the matter was more troubling than sad. Who? he had oft wondered. Who sired this girl? It was said that Maria was born in late May. According to Heinrich’s rough counting, that would mean Marta would have conceived in late August—many weeks prior to his departure. Knowing that his wife had banned his touch long before then, the frustrated man was left to speculate. His mind struggled to recall the men of Weyer. She hated all men, he thought. Who? Such tortuous thoughts cost him his sleep, and he left the camp one night to roam under a clearing sky. Who? Ach! All her boasts of right living, and all her charges against me and my “secret sins”! The man pounded his fist against his thigh. “Mem Gott!” he cried.

  Despite the dark, brooding cloud of dread hovering over the weary travelers, morning delivered sunshine and mist. The band arose quickly and followed a clench-jawed Wil as he led them on a hurried march along the western shore of the lake. Before noon, the town walls and clay roofs of Arona were in full view along with the silhouettes of the rising Alps beyond.

  At long last, Wil and his five companions entered the town and hurried through its streets to the abbey. It was Thursday, and the market was closed, save for a few fish sellers and one badly crippled woman pleading with passersby to buy her plaited baskets. Brushing past a priest, a few carts, and two s
oldiers on patrol, the group made its way to the portal of the Abbey of Saints Gratian and Felinus. Pale faced and perspiring, Wil took a deep breath and rapped loudly on the door.

  A young porter answered. “Deo gratias. Thanks be to God!”

  “And to you. We come in search of two fair maids, an old priest, and two lads.”

  The porter twisted his face and shrugged. “Momento.” He dashed away to return with the prior.

  “Thanks be to God. Grüssen. Come in, be fed.” The prior bowed and kissed each on the cheek. He commanded two brothers to fetch trays of food and beverage as he led the others past gardens green with the fresh bloom of springtime and swollen with buds. The air was warm and humid, filled with the pungent odor of fresh manure.

  Wil’s company followed quietly, scanning the workshops and courtyards for any sign of their two fellows. At last they arrived at the prior’s chamber, where they removed their shoes and submitted to prayers and a ritual foot washing. They nibbled impatiently on flatbread and cheese and then finally faced the prior.

  “So, my children, how can we serve you?”

  “We come seeking two fair maidens, an old priest, and two lads. Have you seen them?”

  “Ah, si! And your name, young sir?”

  “Wilhelm of Weyer.”

  The prior smiled and clapped his hands. “Si! Si! Pieter said you’d come. Ha! God be praised.”

  “So he is here?” Wil’s brows were arched hopefully.

  “No, no, my son. He is not here.”

  Wil’s expression darkened. “No riddles.”

  “Your pardon. No riddles indeed. Pieter is with the others in Signora Cosetta’s castle.”

  The group murmured. “The castle on the cliff?” barked Helmut.

  “Si, si. The road leading to it is just beyond the north gate. You need only follow it up the back of the mountain and tell the gate guard that you have been sent by the abbey.”

  Frieda nudged Wil to ask that which all had been afraid to ask. He nodded and took a deep breath. “Prior, are our two girls with them?”

  “Only one, my son. A sadder day there has never been for us.”

  Wil was staggered by the news, and Frieda sobbed. Bravely, the young man lifted his quivering chin. “Ja, brother. ‘Tis as I had feared. Many thanks for your charity, but we must find Pieter.”

  Heinrich had remained quiet, but his heart was suddenly broken for the pain now evidenced on his son’s face. He stretched his hand tentatively toward the lad’s shoulder.

  Wil paused to let the baker’s palm rest lightly. The warmth and strength of his father’s touch felt comforting for a moment. Then Wil pulled away and hurried ahead, wishing to run and weep where none might see him. If only! he groaned inwardly. If only she knew of my love for her and my shame.

  Frieda hurried to his side. “Wil, she forgave you long before she was ever sick.”

  Wil pursed his lips.

  “She was my friend. We spoke often. I’ve told you this before, yet you will not believe me. Please, Wil, trust me in this. She has forgiven you.”

  Wil would not yield. For him, grace needed to be earned—a paradox of residual pride. He could not imagine how he might be truly forgiven without evidencing the agony of a guilt-ridden confession. He wanted to rend his heart at Maria’s feet, to pour out his shame in salted tears of blood. It was simply not enough to be granted pardon without penalty.

  “She was a light-bearer, Wil. She was sent to show us the way.”

  The lad choked. “Then I am yet blind.”

  Frieda took his hand. “No more than I. Pieter says, ‘We see through the glass darkly.’ None travels the path without stumbling. Even Maria once stomped her little feet in anger at m’sister!”

  “Aye?”

  Frieda smiled. “It was a great relief to see she was not without her own faults!”

  Wil dismissed the comment. “I pitied her so. Her arm gave cause for many to mock, yet she offered only kindness in return.”

  The company pressed its way through the crowded streets and alleyways of Arona, past carts laden with fish or barrels of olive oil. Shopkeepers hawked their wares, working hard to sell the disinterested pilgrims an assortment of colorful products such as blessed trinkets, straw hats, foodstuffs, and even kittens. On any other day the group would have enjoyed the scene, especially since Heinrich was carrying a pouch filled with gold and silver coins!

  “There!” cried Rudolf. “There! Look between the roofs and you’ll see the castle.”

  All heads bent backward, and soon the pilgrims’ faces were fixed on the foreboding gray fortress perched high atop a sheer cliff rising from the shores of the lake. A few helmets glittered in the sun between the merlons, and Wil cursed. “I’m in no mood for this,” he grumbled.

  The six emerged from Arona through its north gate and soon stood at the foot of the massive cliff. “We need to follow that road like the monk said.” Heinrich surveyed their location. He scanned the crowded roadway now clogged with ox-drawn carts and horses. He turned his face to the flat waters of the lake and suddenly wished they might all just sleep along the peaceful shore.

  During the pause it was Rudolf who suddenly realized the obvious. “Wil, you didn’t ask the prior who died!”

  Wil’s jaw loosed and he turned to Rudolf. “What?”

  “Who died? Which girl?”

  “What a fool I am!”

  Frieda was reluctant to let hope rise in her chest. “But, but, Wil, methinks we know—”

  “You can’t be sure just yet,” interrupted Heinrich. “You only know one thing… that only one is lost.”

  “And that is sad enough,” added Frieda. “I loved them both.”

  “Ja,” said Wil. “And I as well. Yet I cannot hope but wish it is my sister who lives.”

  Tomas had said nothing all that morning. He had always liked Maria, though he often secretly wished misery for Wil. He grumbled, “Enough talk.”

  “Aye!” answered Wil with fresh life in his voice. “Aye. To the castle!”

  “Si, you seek Father Pieter? Si.” A guard led the anxious pilgrims through the Rocca di Arona slowly. He began to sing as he strolled, pausing to chat from time to time and stopping once for a tall clay goblet of red wine. Finally, the soldier pointed to the figure of an old man lying flat on his back in the middle of a rose garden. “Pieter.”

  In an instant, Wil and Frieda sprinted forward. “Pieter! Pieter!” they cried.

  The napping old fellow didn’t stir until the shadow of six encircling forms blocked his face from the warmth of the noontime sun. “Eh?” He lifted himself to one elbow and shielded his eyes with the other. “What—?”

  “Pieter!” exclaimed Wil. “‘Tis us! We’ve come!”

  The old priest nearly leapt to his feet. He shouted his hosannas loudly as he took hold of his staff. “Ha!” He spread his arms wide. “God be praised!” Beaming his familiar gaping, one-toothed smile, he embraced them each. “Wil! My Frieda! Good Helmut and Rudolf! And m’friend for all time, Heinrich! Laus Deo!” Pieter was weeping for joy. He turned to the sixth figure and began to open his arms before he recognized the face. “Tomas?” He dropped his arms and stared.

  “Ja. Tomas.” The young man’s face was hard.

  Pieter was flabbergasted. “I… I… well, I—”

  “We rescued him from the Dragonara,” offered Heinrich. “He wishes to go home with us.”

  Pieter smiled with reservation. “Well, God’s will be done.” He extended his hand.

  Tomas stared at the old man for a long moment, then smiled wickedly. He placed his hand firmly in Pieter’s and hissed, “God’s will, then.”

  “Pieter,” blurted Wil, “we must know of Maria’s fate.” His voice trembled at the sound of his sister’s name. “Is she the one?”

  “Ja,” answered Pieter matter-of-factly.

  Wil’s heart sank and Frieda groaned. “I feared as much.”

  Suddenly realizing the confusion, Pieter cried, “Nay, lad. Mar
ia lives!”

  Shocked, Wil felt suddenly limp. “She lives? She truly lives?”

  “Aye, lad! She lives! Come quickly. She is tending the signora’s gardens.”

  Stunned and staring in disbelief, Wil and Frieda cried out for joy, then quickly turned to follow Pieter. They scrambled through the castle bailey, up the stone steps, past dozing soldiers on the battlements, and into the lord’s private courtyard. Then they stopped, for there in the center of a rose garden, beneath an arbor of honeysuckle stooped Maria.

  Wil smiled a smile such as none had ever seen. His skin tingled and his belly fluttered. Dropping his bow, he ran toward his sister with arms stretched outward. “Maria!” he cried jubilantly. “Maria!”

  The little girl looked up, curious, then stood, her little lips pursed in uncertainty. Suddenly recognizing her brother racing toward her, she burst into tears. She had barely taken a few steps toward him when he swept her off her feet and into his embrace.

  “Oh, dear Maria, my sister! Oh, I love you so!” Wil sobbed.

  Maria held him tightly. She could not yet speak, but the joy she felt filled the whole of the castle with sunshine. A group of courtiers and workmen paused to line the garden and cheer. They knew her sad story and celebrated the fulfillment of her dream.

  Hearing the joyous uproar, Signora Cosetta emerged from the shade of her arcade. She was a dark, plump matrona of some fifty years. She hurried toward the garden with her gown lifted high off her ankles and her gray braids tumbling off her head. “Maria! Maria!” She scooped the little girl from Wil’s arms and held her close, crying loudly to the Holy Mother and praising the saints for the maid’s good fortune.

  Frieda would wait no longer, and she pulled the laughing little girl from Cosetta’s grip and held her tightly. Then, finally, after hearts had quieted, Wil introduced his companions. “Maria, this is Rudolf. He is the son of the kindly yeoman near Liestal.”