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

by C. D. Baker

  The very word sent chills through both father and son. Heinrich clenched his teeth. “Sirs, methinks a shilling and a beg of pardon from my son should do. I’ve no more than a shilling on m’person anyway. ‘Tis all I’ve left after a long journey.”

  Wil was impressed. His father had learned a few things since his days in Weyer!

  Annoyed, the officer agreed, and Heinrich picked carefully through his satchel. His fingers found the silver, and he carefully counted twelve pennies. He lifted them from his bag in a closed fist and presented them to the officer.

  Releasing their prisoners with a shove, the soldiers grunted. They took four pennies for themselves, then handed the old scoundrel his eight as Heinrich and Wil walked slowly away. “Old bag of gas,” grumbled Wil. The pair turned to see the man who now beckoned his apparent accomplice to his side. He handed the damsel some coins, and the two waved at the hapless pilgrims.

  “I hate this place,” said Wil as he rubbed his jaw. “Let’s be off.”

  The pair hurried to buy the items on their lists, then paused briefly in the square by the fish market. Their eyes scanned the brownstone buildings, the towers of the churches, and the passersby. A few men sitting nearby were talking of the dangers in the Rhine Valley, both along the east and west banks. “Outlaws and mercenaries, errant knights and rebels are everywhere. The war never ends and the innocent pay the bills. It’s best to board a riverboat or travel with a caravan if you can find one. The boats are costly, but there ought to be numbers of caravans headed toward the Champagne fairs this time of year. And the road north is flat and easy walking.”

  Heinrich listened carefully. He’d had his fill of troubles and wanted no more. “These caravans—they’ll let us travel with them?”

  “For a lesser fee than a boat. They hire men-at-arms to guard them, so they charge others to sleep under their watch.”

  Heinrich nodded. “Seems fair enough. I’d not travel with infidels, though.”

  The others agreed. “Times go bad for them … as they should. Landless crusaders fill the ranks of the highwaymen, and they want nothing but vengeance on the cursed devils.”

  The following morning, the company agreed they’d forego the expense of sailing the river and would venture north along the west bank of the Rhine in hopes of finding a caravan. With Pieter riding Paulus, they followed the highway as it bent northward across a landscape that had become flat and easy to walk. They were quickly unsettled, however, when they realized they were among a very few travelers on what should have been a crowded thoroughfare. After all, it was this road that led the way to the fairs at Champagne, to Paris and Strasbourg, and even to dreary Bruges and the Low Countries.

  “Keep a sharp eye about,” said Alwin. “Tis all we can do.”

  The group marched north quickly but cautiously. Few words were spoken as all eyes were kept fixed on distant points. At the end of the second day, they made camp in a light wood about three bowshots beyond the red-block walls of a free, growing village called Neuf-Brisach. It was on the morning of the next day when it seemed good fortune found them.

  “Look,” cried Helmut. “A caravan!” The lad pointed to the north gate of the town from which a column of wagons and horsemen was emerging. The company hurried forward to have a better look, and as they drew near, they smiled.

  Led by an armored knight in gaily colored robes and accompanied by a cacophony of sounds, a long line of persons, beasts, and sundry vehicles streamed forward. Heavy-laden packhorses followed yawning servants, and strong-backed Frisians yielded to the cries of the carters as they hauled many numbers of canvas-covered wagons and two-wheeled carts

  A host of walkers were intermixed, including freemen of middling means dressed in knee-length tunics and well-loomed leggings. Pilgrims in broad hats, servants under heavy packs, and knots of monks moved along as well; the shavelings were working hard to keep their eyes from lingering on the sampling of “erring sisters” strutting about. Here and there were a few jugglers, and two balladeers were singing a farewell song to the captain of Neuf-Breisach’s guard. Benedetto wrinkled his nose. “German music … always about bloodshed and honor!”

  Ambling along either side of the column were two lines of disinterested and rather unseemly men-at-arms mounted on a collection of palfreys and a few chargers. These were mercenaries, mostly landless knights with swords for hire. Dressed in flowing gowns of silk or linen, numbers of ladies were traveling as well. These rode sidesaddle on elegant Spanish-Normans or on small coursers.

  But Wil’s company took the greatest delight in the assortment of animals accompanying the parade. Besides carts of swine and fowl, hounds and cats scampered about as pets of the lords and ladies. Hooded falcons rode tethered to perches affixed to numerous wagons.

  “And see!” exclaimed Otto. “In those cages. A black bear, and there … a strange bird …”

  “Tis an ostrich,” added Pieter.

  “Oh.”

  “They make huge eggs.” Pieter licked his lips.

  “And see there.” Tomas pointed. “Giant cats with spots.”

  “Leopards from the Dark Continent,” replied Pieter. “And over there, carrying that fat lord on his litter, are men from that very same place.” The company stared at the oil-black skin of the giant men who had been brought from the mysterious land of spirits and odd tales.

  It was a passing cart carrying a group of chattering monkeys, however, that seized Heinrich’s attention. The baker growled. “Wil, see that one!” He pointed to one particular little creature who was pointing back and chortling. “Tis that blasted devil from Basel!” he shouted.

  Frieda laughed. “How do you know it’s the same one?”

  Heinrich rubbed his bitten ear lightly and swept his eye across the scene in search of the old swindler and his young accomplice. He shrugged.

  “Well, should we join them?” asked Alwin.

  Wil looked about his group. His companions were nodding hopefully. After all, they had just spent two days walking in tremulous fear, and the caravan seemed safe enough. “Well?”

  “Ja!” was the unanimous response. Wil turned to Heinrich. “Help me find the master, then, and we’ll pay the fee.”

  Wil’s company joined the caravan at the rear, behind the lord’s servants but still within the protective reach of the soldiers. They walked happily along the highway northward, past numerous villages recently liberated from the diocese and from their local lords. It seemed that concessions were being successfully wrangled from the feudal order. With cities rapidly expanding and towns emerging across the countryside, serfs had been fleeing their lords’ lands and successfully finding both refuge and employment elsewhere. Inspired by news of the Stedingers and others, peasant rebellions were strengthening in frequency and in effect. The brave village folk were slowly reclaiming some semblance of their divine birthright that had been long since suffocated: liberty.

  The landscape was still flat and easy to walk, so the caravan made good time as it passed by Colmar and drew close to Strasbourg. It passed meadows of orange-red poppies and sparkling ponds of turquoise blue. “Each land has its own beauty,” said Pieter as the column was halted for a wagon repair. He looked upward and pointed to a skyscape of fluffy white clouds. “Do you see, baker?”

  Heinrich lifted his eye to the sky boldly. It was a simple act for most but a demonstration of much more for him. “Aye, Pieter. I lookup often now.”

  Alwin smiled and nodded. “God be praised, good fellow. A curse on those fools who bound you otherwise. They had no right.”

  Pieter’s gaze drifted across the land until his eyes rested peacefully on a barley field moving softly in the breeze. He followed the wending of its green grasses as they yielded to the skipping currents of air. “The angels are playing again,” he mused.

  The others watched as a stronger breeze etched the green field with dashing paths of silver made bright by the sun’s reflection on the bending blades. A couple of merchantmen walked by, complet
ely unaware of the sky above but pausing briefly to look at the healthy field of grain. Their conversation turned to prices of springtime plantings and the likely harvests in the month to come.

  Pieter sighed. “It is my observation that all men are either poets or merchants. Poets see beauty for what it is; merchants see it for what it does!”

  Alwin agreed. “I daresay we are in a long line of merchants who’d squeeze deniers from the stones at our feet if they could! Look there.” He pointed at three squabbling peddlers. “One sells cloth; the other, metals; the third, feathers. They’ve naught in common but greed.”

  Heinrich grunted. “They’d quarrel over a comfit.”

  Pieter nodded and studied the column. “Seems we’ll be spending the day with the song of hammers. That wagon’s leaning badly, and it looks like an axle broke on the other.”

  Wil joined the three and heard the news that the caravan would need to make an early camp. “Will we ever come to Weyer!” he groused.

  “I shouldn’t be so much in a hurry about it, lad,” answered Alwin. “Much can happen in a year’s time.”

  “I swear, if that old hag Anka stole our land or if Pious stole the bakery, I’ll lay them both in new graves!”

  Heinrich darkened. “We own both for all time. It is the law.”

  Pieter sighed. “Nothing is owned for all time, baker. Omnia mutantur. All things are changing.”

  “No!” retorted Wil and his father simultaneously. Heinrich’s face tightened. “The land was m’father’s father’s. It is only a half hide, but it is my half hide! The bakery is mine by law as well. The abbot bartered it to me in fair exchange for land I inherited from a dear friend. No other shall have it!”

  Wil felt suddenly anxious, and he turned sheepishly to his father. “I … I did swear to Father Albert that I’d give a quarter of our land to Frau Anka if mother is alive when we return.”

  Heinrich stared blankly at his son. “A quarter of our land? By the saints, boy! That would be seven hectares!”

  “Enough to feed a family for six months,” added Otto as he joined them.

  “Aye!” The baker’s face was flushed.

  “But she gets it only if mother is alive when we return,” blurted Wil.

  Heinrich’s conscience was suddenly snagged. He would prefer to keep his seven hectares, to find them plowed and planted and still recorded in his name. Yet choosing a plot of earth over the life of his insufferable wife was shaming. “I … I … well, what’s right is right, boy. Pray you’ve yet a mother.”

  Otto interrupted. “My mother died soon after Lothar was born.”

  “I know, lad,” answered Heinrich. “Your mother was a good woman.”

  “She hated my father.”

  Heinrich was not sure how to answer. “I wouldn’t know much about that. Your mother seemed content enough when she came for bread. Your father kept a distance from me, and I ne’er knew him very well… even though he was baptized the same year as m’self. He has a strong way about him, and it was good when he got the mill. Better him than that fool Dietrich, I thought. He’ll be happy to see you.”

  Otto shook his head. “He swore he’d beat me and throw me out of the village if I didn’t bring Lothar back unscathed.” The lad’s voice became thick, and he wrung his hands. “He loved m’brother like no other. After the wild Schwein killed my sister, he was never the same. Then Lothar was born and Mutti died.”

  “I remember when your sister was killed,” said Wil. “It was horrible.”

  “My father found her lying with two dead lambs. He said she had been torn in pieces. He keeps a lock of her hair tied round his neck on a cord.”

  The group fell quiet while they made camp for the coming night. Wil ordered a few to tasks, and then built a small fire and sat by Otto and Tomas as they spoke of home. Frieda and Maria had spotted mushrooms on some trees in a woodland they had passed, and the pair imagined adding these to the afternoon meal along with a sprinkling of poppy petals.

  “Wil, we’d like to gather some mushrooms from the wood,” Frieda said. She pointed to a dark stand of forest not far from the roadway.

  Wil was lost in his conversation. With a distracted wave of his hand, he sent the two smiling girls away, and within a short time, Frieda and Maria were skipping across a narrow field with baskets on their elbows.

  The day was warm, almost hot. An hour or so before, distant bells had rung the hour of nones. But, as this was near the middle of July, the day would be long. The young woman and her little sister sang happily as they dashed through waist-high barley. Their flaxen braids shimmered golden under the bright sun, and their pink skin flushed with joy as they raced toward the cool of the woodland shade. In moments, the pair disappeared from sight, swallowed into the shadows of the silent forest.

  Chapter Sixteen

  FOREST HAUNTS AND A MERRY INN

  As though drawn by an invisible spirit of some ancient myth, the two hurried deeper and deeper into a magical realm of heavy timbers and soft ferns. The air smelled musty, and the earth beneath them was padded with the crumbled black residue of centuries. Now quiet, the girls slowed their pace and looked about carefully. A slow, creeping sense of dread had just begun to crawl over Frieda when Maria’s happy voice cried out, “There!”

  The tyke sprinted toward a damp, shallow dish in the forest floor that was covered with mushrooms. She stopped at the edge of the heavily shaded clearing. “Frieda! Look how many!”

  Indeed, before the two girls stood a veritable world of mushrooms on their stout, singular pillars like a field of multicolored umbrellas. Frieda smiled. “There, steinpilz, the fat brown ones. And there, see the pretty blue caps? They’re blewits, and those huge gold ones! Those are pfifferling and they’re delicious! I remember them from m’Mutti’s kitchen.”

  The two girls stared wide eyed at the enchanting glade. Covering the moist earth was a host of varieties. Some flat, some rounded, many brown, others red or blue. A large arc of fairy-ring mushrooms encircled a splattering of dark-capped ones standing tall on their cream-colored pillars. Ledge like flattops grew from the sides of rotting logs, and white-toothed semmelstoppelpilz mingled with many others to boast nearly every color of the rainbow.

  Frieda led Maria carefully into their newfound mushroom kingdom. The two tiptoed gingerly among the host of fungi at their feet, staring incredulously at their treasure. “These are too soon ready,” whispered Frieda. “It is summer; most are not ready until St. Michael’s!”

  Maria nodded, suddenly a little fearful. “Are they witched?”

  Frieda paused. The word had always frightened her. She looked about for any sign of spell-casting or charms. “I… I… methinks not.”

  Maria waited as Frieda thought hard to provide some other explanation. “It is cool here. Perhaps they grow differently in this wood.”

  The answer seemed right enough, and, relieved, the girls were soon bobbing amongst the little pedestals, snatching this one and that with grasping hands. It took very little time to fill the baskets, and with broad smiles the pair stood and faced one another proudly. “Well, methinks we’ve too many!” boasted Frieda. She set down her overflowing basket and Maria giggled.

  “We’ve enough to feed the whole of the caravan!”

  “Aye. But we wanted poppies as well,” answered Frieda.

  They looked about. “We should find a more sunny place,” said Maria.

  Frieda turned in circles. “I saw lots of them along the highway. Shall we go that way?”

  Maria stared vacantly at what suddenly seemed to be endless forest. She shrugged. “I’ll follow you.”

  So the two wanderers began a brisk walk with their baskets in hand. They spoke of things touching both their hearts, and Frieda probed Maria on the secret particulars of Wil’s past. “He was always kind, but he liked to be alone mostly,” Maria said as she thought carefully. “He seemed to be unhappy a lot.”

  Frieda nodded.

  “Mutti was usually angry with him
.”

  “For cause?”

  The little girl shrugged. “Methinks not. Mutti was angry with everyone. Karl worked hard to please her, though, more than Wil did.”

  “And you?”

  Maria stopped and her face fell. “I tried to be good, but she thought this”—she lifted her deformed arm—“was a punishment. I think she was ashamed of me.”

  Frieda set her basket down and hugged the girl. “No one is ashamed of you, Maria.”

  The maiden smiled.

  Scanning the forest, the two spotted a distant dip in which a pool was likely lying. They hurried forward and, to their delight, they did, indeed, come upon a clear spring filled with crystal water and laced with watercress. “Ah, Maria, we should have brought another basket!”

  They removed some of their mushrooms and topped their baskets with the green water plant. They took long, refreshing draughts of water and sat to speak of times past once more. It was a restful conversation that wandered between Frieda’s life as the daughter of a lord to Maria’s and the particulars of Weyer. Frieda spoke in somber tones of her lost siblings and her father’s shame and lovingly of her mother. Maria giggled over May Day tales and cried a little when she remembered Karl playing bladder ball with his friends.

  Frieda turned the talk toward Wil again but suddenly stopped. An uncomfortable breeze had chilled her, and she sat erect, looking about with wide eyes. The woodland had become ghostly quiet, and the shadows had slowly thickened around the two like creeping villains enclosing their prey. Frieda took short, anxious breaths. She stood and whirled about, first this way, then that.

  Sensing her sudden fear, Maria stood and clutched Frieda’s gown, scanning the view for whatever had given Frieda such unease.

  “Maria, I think … I think we’re lost,” murmured Frieda.

  The word struck terror like few others. “Lost!” exclaimed the little girl. Her eyes arced upward and widened. “But it will be dark! And what of trolls? What of wild boar or bear? What of spirits? What of—”