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

by C. D. Baker

  Dorothea chilled. Aside from her innkeeper and a few servants, this meddlesome churchman was the only one to know of Wil’s company. One of her guards had spotted him prowling the gardens by the hall’s windows during breakfast. If he speaks, she thought, all is lost.

  In the dim light of a single yellow candle, the travelers stared at the heavy shadows of the cellar. Each sat deep in private thought, wrestling with conflicting urges of both fear and duty. Wil leaned against his bride with one hand clutched firmly around Emmanuel. At last, the young man broke the silence. He kissed fair Frieda and stood determinedly. “Dorothea needs me on the wall!” he blurted. “This town has treated us well. I’ll not let it fall without raising my hand for it.”

  “Aye, lad! I am with you!” cried Heinrich. The baker turned to the others. “Pieter, Maria, Frieda … remain here with any other who wishes to stay.”

  Frieda rose. “I’ll not stay—”

  Wil put his hand on his wife’s arm. “Ja! You will stay. I demand it. You must keep Maria safe.”

  Frieda stiffened. She would not give in easily and pulled away. “I go where you go!”

  “No! Obey me in this, wife! I need you to stay by Maria.”

  “What shall we do?” asked Otto.

  Wil and Heinrich looked at each other as Alwin joined them. “No, this will not do. Listen well. The Templars demand justice at all cost. They will burn the whole of Christendom to find me and those who rescued me. I must surrender myself and quickly. I’ll confess all deeds and swear by the Holy Virgin that it was Otto’s men who saved me and left me here to heal.” With that, the man abruptly shuffled through the damp cellar toward the squat ladder amidst shocked protests from his comrades.

  “No!” cried Heinrich. “They’ll hang you on the square afore terce!”

  “Ja, and then spare the town. You’ll not dissuade me again.” Alwin reached for a rung. “I am not the warrior I once was. I even forgot my sword this morning!”

  Pieter stood and leaned heavily on his staff as he called after the man. “Good Alwin, one moment. Please, my son. Hanging you shall not stay their swords against those who have given you shelter.”

  “It will save some.”

  Pieter nodded. “Perhaps. But I should also say that your story shan’t hold under scrutiny. What of Burgdorf?”

  Alwin hesitated. “I’ll… I’ll be ready for that. No, you cannot change my mind in this. It is the only way.”

  Pieter sighed. “Then I ask you this: would you pause just a brief moment so that I might share the holy doctrines, hear thy confession, and pray over thy soul? It would give me peace.”

  Alwin hesitated.

  “Please,” urged Heinrich. “My friend, I beg you. At least do this.”

  Alwin released the rung and turned toward Pieter. The old man’s craggy face looked sad yet consoling; Heinrich’s, familiar and assuring. It would be comforting to be alone under his hanging hood with these images as his final companions. He nodded. “Very well, but be brief, Father Pieter.”

  “Good, my son.” Pieter reached for the candle and lifted it to cast a soft yellow light about the dusty room. He eyed a clear spot on the floor at its very center, away from the stacks of sundry wares piled about. “There, brother. We shall kneel together there.”

  The priest handed Heinrich the candle and hobbled behind Alwin to the place where he bade his penitent bend to both knees. Still holding his staff, he laid one hand atop Alwin’s head. “Alwin of Gunnar, prepare thy soul to be received in thy Savior’s embrace.”

  Alwin bowed and folded his hands.

  “First, do you confess belief in the truths of the Apostles’ Creed?

  “I do.”

  “Does thine heart lean upon our Savior by faith alone for the forgiveness of sin?”

  “Ja, Father Pieter. It does so lean.” Confused by priest’s unusual liturgy, he opened his mouth to add, “But I—”

  “Might I ask if you have been perfect as he is perfect: in thought, word, and deed?”

  Confused, Alwin answered obediently, “No, but—”

  Pieter smiled. “Ah, good, my son, the truth lives within you. Do you then lean upon the perfection of our Savior and receive it as His gift for thine own perfection?”

  “I… I… suppose I do, but—”

  “Gratia Dei tibi! Now, recite the confíteor if you must.”

  Baffled, Alwin shrugged, then bowed his head low to the ground. With a groaning, heartfelt voice, the penitent began. “I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy apostles Peter—”

  He never finished. To the astonishment of all, Pieter slowly raised his staff over the praying man, and with both hands he swung the sturdy stick against his head! Alwin slumped to his side, unconscious. “Quick! Tie him up!” Pieter cried.

  At first, none moved. Speechless and utterly stunned by the old fellow’s surprise, they simply stared at one another slack jawed.

  “Quickly!” barked Pieter.

  With that, many hands scrambled through the darkness to run fingers over dusty crates and jars, broken shelves and baskets. “Here!” shouted Helmut. “Here’s rope!”

  “Good! Tie him up and find a rag to bind his mouth.” Pieter whirled about and faced the dumbstruck face of Wil. “Now what?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, now what?”

  The sounds of heavy horses suddenly shook the earth above them all. “They’ve broken through the gate!” exclaimed Otto.

  Tomas spoke. “We’ve new clothes. If they’d be searching for the arsons of Burgdorf, they’d be looking for youths dressed in black.”

  Heinrich answered, “True enough. But if they find us all together here—”

  “And they’ll likely remember me,” interrupted Benedetto. “They’ll know I played to distract them.”

  The group was quiet. “So how do we disguise you?” grumbled Rudolf.

  The cellar fell utterly silent until Maria chimed, “All lords have minstrels! Would be common for one to be here, too! They won’t remember your face.”

  “She’s right, Benedetto. You should be safe if you claim to sing for the lord’s court.”

  “And the rest of us?” chimed Helmut. “Ought we not hide here as well?”

  “No, methinks Dorothea was wrong,” Heinrich said. “The army will search the burgher-house from top to bottom. If they find us here, they’ll know. We ought spread into the town and hide amongst the folk.”

  “We’ve the servants to fear,” said Helmut. “Others may know we’ve come, but only the servants know we’ve new clothes.”

  “The servants are few and loyal to the house. None would confess, I swear it,” said Friederich. “I’ve lived here, I know. But the priest surely knows. He didn’t trust Dorothea’s message … I heard him tell a novice that something was amiss, and he’s oft seen spyin’ about the gardens.”

  “Then it’s the priest,” muttered Heinrich.

  Maria asked nervously, “But are you sure?”

  “Ja. I know he does,” Friederich continued angrily. “I can feel when he’s about, and I felt his prying eyes at first meal. Perhaps he was listening under the windows.”

  Frieda had been hovering over the unconscious Alwin. “Thank God, he’s breathing evenly, Pieter. You might have killed him!”

  Pieter shrugged. “There are some advantages to knowing one’s weakness, my dear girl. But I confirmed the condition of his soul to give me peace if I was wrong.” The priest smiled. “Either way, be assured Alwin would have been in a good way.”

  Frieda shook her head in disbelief as Wil and Heinrich summoned Pieter to come close. After a few moments of consultation, Wil turned to the group now gathered around the candle. Above, muffled screams could be heard, and more horses thundered through the streets. “My father is right. We cannot all stay here. So, we’ve a plan. We’ll hide Alwin behind those sacks, and we’ll leave Benedetto here to watch over him.
The rest of us will spread into the town and hide with other townsfolk as if we are one of them. Pieter will linger near the gate; none should bother with an old priest. When he thinks you can pass safely, he’ll make himself easy to see. So when you see him plainly, get through the gate and beyond the walls. Pieter will keep an accounting.”

  “And if they close the gate?” asked Helmut.

  The cellar was quiet.

  Pieter stroked his beard. “Then we hide until the day it opens.”

  Heinrich nodded. “Now listen. If you are challenged by anyone, do not act like a fugitive, else you’ll be taken as one.” His voice became firm. “You know who you are: free travelers … so act like it.”

  “Just use your wits and get out as you can,” said Wil. “Pieter says the road north takes a hard turn at the base of a mountain about a half league away. He says he thinks there is a water pool to the east side of the highway. We’ll meet there. Now, I’ll keep m’wife with me. M’father’s to take Maria. Would be good for you others to stay apart.” Wil peered through the heavy shadows and took a deep breath. “When the time is right, I’ll come back for Alwin and the minstrel. So is it clear?”

  The company nodded soberly. “Godspeed, everyone,” murmured Rudolf.

  Wil took Frieda’s hand and looked tenderly at his sister. “Fear not. All will be well.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  RELIEF

  Dorothea’s heart pounded as the town’s priest drew near. “He’s … he’s a mad fool,” she stammered to the Templar. “He has visions of virgins attending him at his bed, and he thinks snakes slide out his nose at Hallowmas. Whatever he has to say is a lie or some fantastic deceit. If you want justice, Brother Knight, do not listen to his words.”

  Brother Cyrill said nothing. He was distracted by the vile behavior of Sir Roland’s men, who were continuing their savage rampage of bloodletting and rape. As the priest called out, he paid him little notice.

  “Brother,” panted the priest, “we’ve Cathari by the inn’s stable and the black—”

  The man did not finish. An arrow, seemingly from nowhere, flew and struck the priest in the center of his back. He gasped and fell forward to the ground, where he flopped about with one arm reaching futilely for the shaft. The Templar whirled about, scanning every shadow until another arrow hissed through the air and penetrated his thigh. Screaming, the knight fell backward. Dorothea turned and ran as a company of brown-robed sergeants stormed toward their fallen captain.

  “The stable!” he cried. “Cathari in the stable by the inn!” The Templar grabbed hold of two fellows and lifted himself to his feet. He pointed to the priest. “See if he is alive. He had more to tell.”

  The priest was lifted and found still breathing, though weakly. “He’s alive!”

  “Bring him to me!” barked Cyrill. “Let him talk afore he dies.”

  The sergeants pulled the priest to a standing position and dragged him limp legged to their commander. The Templar lifted the man’s head by his hair. “Tell me! Tell me more!”

  The priest’s eyes fluttered as he struggled to whisper. “Cathari… stable … black …”

  “And what of the murderer? We’re in search of a murderer!”

  An arrow sang again, this time piercing the priest’s neck. The man went limp, and his holders dropped him to the ground. Into the vacancy immediately flew another shaft, hitting the Templar captain squarely in the eye. Falling backward with a sickening cry, the man landed dead upon the ground.

  “Find him!” cried a voice. As men went running in the supposed direction of the archer, others mounted their horses in search of the other Templar knight. Once found, he was informed of his comrade’s death and of the priest’s words. Messengers were sent in all directions, and within the hour, much of the army had descended upon the inn and its adjoining stable.

  “Innkeeper!” cried the Templar.

  The door opened slowly, and a trembling man came out. “He is not here, my lord knight.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone to Bern, m’lord.”

  “Bern?”

  “Aye, sir. With Lord Bernard.”

  At the Templar’s signal, several footmen appeared with torches and tossed them into the inn and into every building nearby, including the stable. The army tightened its noose around this corner of the town as white smoke poured through thatched roofs. Soon flames licked the morning sky, and within moments, a stream of terrified folk poured into the streets from their burning cover.

  A large company of horsemen trotted dispassionately among the coughing wretches and looked with only mild interest at a one-armed man and a little girl dragging a stubborn donkey into a smoky alley. Something else caught their attention, however. A comrade spotted a particularly closely huddled group just beyond the heat of a large warehouse that was belching flame and smoke. The lay commander summoned the Templar. “There.” He pointed. “Something’s odd about them. See, the others are running hither and yon, thinking only of themselves or their children. These are different. They seem unwilling to leave each other.”

  “Good eye, soldier,” mumbled the Templar. He nudged his horse closer as he motioned for more soldiers to join him. “Circle them and move them from the smoke!”

  In short order, the terrified group of men, women, and children was herded down the street and into the square by the fishpond near Dorothea’s burgher-house. The Templar ordered the prisoners to spread apart.

  Suddenly, one of Roland’s knights shouted. “Over there, sir. A group in black!”

  The Templar plowed past the crowd with a drawn sword and came upon a handful of gaunt youths dressed in black tunics and leggings. From another part of the street, a footman appeared, dragging by the hair a young woman dressed in a black gown. The Templar commanded silence. He ordered all those dressed in black to be brought before him. “Where is my prisoner?” he roared.

  Confused, all were silent.

  Another of Roland’s knights dismounted and knelt by a little girl who was clutching her mother’s legs nearby. He took her by the hand. “My dear, can you help us?”

  “Non. Ju n’parli …” The tyke’s mother quickly clapped her hand over the girl’s mouth, but it was too late.

  The soldier abruptly stiffened. “Langue d’oc! She speaks with dialect. Cathari to be sure.”

  At the word, a great cheer resounded in the ranks. The Templar nodded and dismounted his horse. “Can you speak their language?”

  “Oui, a little. But I am Catholic.”

  The Templar smiled. “As you say. Ask them to swear by whatever God they worship that every one of them is here in our little net.”

  The man posed the question, and an apparent leader stepped forward. He spoke in fluent German. “Mein Brüder, we may not lie. One of ours is missing.” The man pointed to the stable that had been reduced to ash and charcoaled timber. “I last saw him enter there, and he never came out.”

  The Templar grabbed the man by the throat. “Tell me, demon, if he is the one who killed my brethren, if he is the betrayer you protect.”

  “Oh, not that poor man—”

  “Liar!” The knight threw the fellow to the ground. “Another sound and I shall cut your tongue from your blasphemous head m’self.” He ordered men to search the ruins of the stable. “We shall see what we find, Cathar, and if you lied to us, you and yours will perish this day.”

  “Kill him now,” roared Roland as his horse trotted to the scene. “Kill them all now. What’s the wait?”

  “First we see what’s in the stable. Then proper justice shall be served.”

  Within a quarter hour, a sooty soldier ran out of the stable and to the commanders. Whispering to both men, he led them to the place where the charred remains of a faceless body lay near a blackened Templar sword. “As I thought!” growled the Templar as he covered his nose. “Search him.”

  A footman delicately picked his fingers within the burned remains of the victim’s clothing lookin
g for any sign or symbol of identity. He found nothing in the man’s shirt or sleeves or around his neck. But when he came to a pouch sewn on the side of the man’s leggings, he paused.

  “Well, what is it?”

  The soldier reached carefully inside the yet-intact pouch and retrieved two blackened eggs.

  “Ha! It must be he!” shouted the Templar. “He is not a Cathar, for they are forbidden eggs. The sword, the eggs, the black clothing on those youths … ‘tis quite enough. Slaughter them all!”

  Once word of slaughter had echoed throughout Olten, drunken soldiers carousing the taverns abandoned their tankards to join in the holy dispatch. It was during that horrid distraction that Wil’s company realized its opportunity.

  Heinrich and Maria had rescued Paulus just moments before the disaster and had led the beast warily to the gardens behind Dorothea’s hall. “Maria,” whispered Heinrich, “no doubt Wil shall come soon. When he does, you’ll flee with Frieda. Your brother and I will get Alwin and Benedetto. Do you understand?” He had barely finished speaking when Wil and Frieda came crashing through the bushes, flushed and wide eyed. “The gate is still open… the town’s guards are helping many escape. Seems the army is busy elsewhere. We must go—now!”

  “Aye, lad.”

  Solomon leapt through an open window and pounced happily on Maria. “Oh, we almost forgot him!” she gasped.

  “Frieda, take Maria… and Solomon … and go now. Pieter is at the right side of the gate by a barrel. Hurry and keep an eye for him. When you see him, move quickly through the gate. Do not come back… not for anything!”

  As the two girls and the two animals hurried away, Heinrich followed Wil in a wild race to the subceliar, where Benedetto was trembling behind a barrel. “Here!” he cried.

  “Good. You’ve been spared. And Alwin?”

  “He’s awake and not very happy.”

  “Alwin?”

  From behind his screen of sacks, the man grunted angrily through the cloth binding his mouth.

  Heinrich informed the man of matters at hand as he and Wil released him from his bonds. The four men then climbed up the short ladder to the main cellar, then up the tight stairway leading to the main floor.