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

by C. D. Baker

  The darkening sky had clouded and was now heavy and gray. A brief shower dampened the wayfarers, and their thoughts turned to other things.

  “More rain is coming, Wil,” said Heinrich. “We’re all tired and your wife is coughing. It’s time we found an inn.”

  The young man nodded and looked about the busy streets. From atop his braying friend, Pieter pointed to a corner with his staff. “I remember a good roof over there,” he said. “And they have good beer.”

  The group followed the old man’s directions and was soon facing a busy tavern. Curiously, three seabirds were perched on the crooked ridge of the building’s roof, crying lightly and shaking themselves loose of the rain. Frieda stared at them for a moment, then smiled to herself.

  Finally, with Paulus stabled and their provisions locked away, Wil and his fellows gathered around a wide planked table within the warm confines of the inn. Here they reached hungrily for salted Rhine codfish and hearty ales. The hearth fire choked under a poor draught, but fresh rye bread and a few roasted joints of pork kept any from complaining.

  That night in Mainz was like few others. Good food, uproarious tales, and an engaging mix of patrons made for hours of well-deserved pleasure. Maria spent most of the long evening half-hidden in the safety of Heinrich’s broad shadow. Frieda positioned herself strategically near her less-than-happy husband and away from the grasping hands of harmless but coarse and unseemly men. Laughing, she managed to hold her own against the leering taunts of the uncouth diners as well as the barbs of their jealous companions. Wil, however, found himself spending much of the evening trading blows with the bumbling fools who pressed his young bride beyond the rules of tavern fun.

  It was late when Wil’s exhausted company found their way to their beds. They had rented one room, it being covered in a thick layer of straw upon which all fell fast asleep. Morning came quickly and the company roused slowly. Stretching and yawning, most complained loudly of Pieter’s persistent and unfortunate digestive failures. Quickly leaving the room, the group gathered for a first meal of red wine and bread. Then, well before the midmorning bells of terce, the pilgrims, their donkey, and their dog stood alongside the docks, waiting for a ferry to take them across the Rhine.

  “Soon, lad,” muttered Heinrich. “Soon we’ll be home.”

  Wil looked wistfully across the river. He often thought of his brother, Karl, but seeing the crossing and knowing they were a mere two days or so from Weyer filled his mind with memories. He turned to his father. “Do you think of him too?”

  “Karl?”

  “Ja.”

  “I do. Every day. I was just remembering him now.”

  “And me.”

  Both men fell quiet. They stared blankly at the green treetops of the eastern shore lying beyond the busy docks. “He was a good lad.” Heinrich choked. “No bad bone in him.”

  Wil nodded.

  “I …” Heinrich sighed and wiped his eye. “My sorrow keeps him close to me. I pray I shall feel it always.”

  Wil looked at his father sadly. “Can you not feel joy in his memory as well?”

  The baker drew a deep breath. “Sadness seems easier to carry than joy. It is not what I would wish for you or any other, but it is my way, methinks. Perhaps in time, lad. Perhaps in time.”

  Wil nodded. “And what of Mother?”

  Thoughts of Marta filled his heart with darkness and shame. Heinrich felt suddenly sick. “I… I only ever wished her well. I could hardly bear her, lad, but I hold no hate for her. I am both sickened and saddened for her, I fear, and that makes me ashamed.”

  “She is a hard woman.”

  “She is your mother. She loved you.”

  Wil kicked a stone from under his foot. His face tightened with a confusion of feeling few besides his father could understand. “No doubt she is dead. She was dying with fever even before I poisoned her.”

  “You did not poison her. It was Pious. And if she is dead, he needs to pay for that crime.”

  “We’ve no witness.”

  Heinrich thought for a long moment. “What of Anka? She knew of Pious’s instructions to you.”

  Wil shrugged.

  “But she had a motive to keep your mother alive. You promised her land.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true enough.” Wil paused. “But she’d never swear an oath against Pious, never. She fears him like Mother did.”

  “Would Pious even accuse you?”

  Wil shook his head. “No. I’ve given him cause to fear me some; I know of things. I think he’d rather let the matter lie.”

  Heinrich wasn’t so sure. “Well, we needs first see your mother … or her grave.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  HOME?

  Alwin was, no doubt, a hunted fugitive. On numerous occasions he had offered to spare his fellows all risk by leaving them, but his pleas were soundly rejected. Heinrich had sternly reminded him of his prior vow. Now that they were nearing the lands of his home, he was secretly happy that he had made such a vow. He wanted to stand once more on the “Golden Ground” where he had been raised. He wanted to see, once more, the manorland of Villmar’s abbey, and he was overjoyed to imagine seeing it with his beloved friends at his side.

  So, walking warily behind the hedges and hurrying cross-country along the banks of the Emsbach, Alwin and the rest of Wil’s company detoured Limburg, then arrived in Oberbrechen, where they followed the southeastern bank of the beloved Laubusbach until they arrived atop the slope overlooking Weyer. It was Sunday, the twenty-first day of July in the Year of Grace 1213.

  At long last, the weary pilgrims now stared into the smoky green hollow of home. For those who had lived there, it was a moment of true homecoming, a time of returning to that singular place of belonging. They were suddenly awash with unnamed images of times past, of long-lost family and dear friends, a blur of memories bathed in colors, sounds, and scents. It was home—that inimitable place to which roots yearned to cling and the place from which all the world is measured.

  Heinrich’s eye filled with tears, and he could see little more than a blur of thatch beneath a wide landscape of green as he peered into Weyer. The village, still ruled by the monks of Villmar, was tucked tightly in its nestling hollow like it had been for more than four centuries. Beyond it lay the wide horizon dipped with gentle valleys and striped with forests and fields. The summer sky was grand—bright blue and blotched with puffy white clouds. Heinrich wiped his eye and looked up, smiling. He fixed his gaze on a chubby cloud overhead. Emma, he chuckled. Emma, you’re welcoming me home! The man’s mind swept him quickly to his Butterfly Frau and her wonderful hovel. He could see her illuminated pages, her gardens, her smiles.

  The baker sighed, then turned his face to the haphazard assortment of hovels and sheds that was so very familiar. His mind flew from his boyhood along the babbling Laubusbach to the anxious day he had left his family behind. He closed his eye and drew deeply of the fresh, grass-scented air. He lifted Karl’s cross from his belt and held it to his heart. His mind carried him to memories of the cheerful lad laughing and dashing about the footpaths below.

  Heinrich sniffled, then kissed the wooden cross. He stared blankly into the waters of the silver Laubusbach below and pictured his father and his poor mother, the angry face of Baldric, and the imploring eyes of Ingelbert. A vision of Katharina and the Christmas star raised bumps on his skin, and the terror of that horrid night of feud turned his belly sour. Memories of feast days and harvests, of bitter winters and warm Sabbaths, of people beloved and others hated, all quickly melded into a single impression of what had been—in a word—his life.

  And so it was for the others. Each crooked rooftop made for a memory either good or bad, but all surely familiar. And in the comfort of habituation, in the security of habit, an oppressive temptation began to climb from this “Golden Ground” through the soles of weary feet and toward the hearts of each melancholy pilgrim.

  “Will be good to be home again, methinks,” muttered He
inrich. “I miss what I know.”

  “Ja,” added Otto. “Enough of this crusade or pilgrimage … or whatever it has been! I want to be back in m’own bed under m’own roof.”

  Maria smiled politely, but she looked at the village with some reservation. For a girl of a mere six years, she was wise and insightful. She had wanted to share in her father’s hopes, but a sense of dread had kept her still. She walked away from the others to search the field for some flowers to pick but saw none, and then turned her face to Friederich, who was solemn and troubled. “Friederich?”

  The boy wrinkled his smudged face and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Something is amiss,” he whispered.

  Wil had been standing quietly with one hand in his wife’s and the other wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. He withdrew the blade from his belt and stared at its inscription. “‘Vrijheid altijd,’ ‘freedom always, ‘Frieda,” he said. He stared down on his village and wondered.

  Tomas shifted uneasily on his feet. He, too, had learned to treasure his freedom, and he was no more certain than Wil of the conditions that now faced them all. “So are we free or bound?”

  The company turned away from the view and faced one another. “Eh?” asked Pieter.

  “I say, are we free or bound? We’ve all wondered about it since we began the journey home, but none would e’er speak of it.” Tomas turned his face to Heinrich. “What say you?”

  The baker shook his head. “I … I cannot surely say. The law says if we live for a year and a day unclaimed by our lord we are free.”

  “That’s what Pieter says the law is,” added Alwin. “I am not so sure of this.”

  “But we’ve served on crusade!” blurted Otto. His green eyes were now blazing, and a tone of insistence laced his words. “By the saints, I’ll not be bound again! We paid our price. The lives of the others should have been manumission enough.”

  Wil nodded. “Ja, Otto. It should be so. Weyer’s paid the debt for us all with the lives of many. You, Otto, have given your brother, Lothar, and I m’brother, Karl. Ingrid and Beatrix are gone, and m’cousins Wolfhard and Richarda are probably dead as well. Weyer sent more than a score to the cause, and I doubt any are come home.”

  “It will not matter,” said Pieter slowly. He sighed and knelt by Solomon. “Perhaps I’ve put my hopes for you ahead of the facts. I fear the order is what it is. It cannot abide its folk declaring themselves free. The lords and the churchmen see you as bound to them. They conspire to keep you in your place under the ruse of it being for common good. But what they say we are and who we really are is oft not the same at all.” The priest turned to the baker. “Heinrich, do you really believe that the abbot shall deem you free?”

  The man looked at his feet and shrugged.

  Pieter drew close. “But do you want your freedom?”

  Heinrich raised his face angrily. “Of course!”

  “Are you so sure?” The old priest peered deeply into Heinrich’s soul. He knew the baker had been badly bitten by sentiment and nostalgia. The siren call of security in things familiar had already begun to tempt the exhausted man away from his calling. “Are you?”

  The company stared at the man quietly. His answer would guide them all. Heinrich turned his face toward the village once again and toward the clearing where Emma’s cottage once stood. Oh, Emma, would that you were here. A breeze brushed the field of grasses at his feet, and as it whispered by his ear, it was as if he could hear the beloved illuminator’s voice.

  … Come flutter ‘tween flowers and sail o’er the trees

  Or light on m’finger and dance in the breeze.

  Since change is your birthright, fly free and be bold

  And fear not the tempest, the darkness, or cold.

  Press on to new places, seek color and light,

  Find smiles and laughter and joy on your flight….

  Filled with fresh vision, Heinrich answered boldly, “Ja! I will not yield that which God has granted me: liberty!”

  A loud cheer rose up around him. “Aye! And neither shall I!” cried Otto.

  “Nor I!” cried the others.

  Pieter was leaning on his staff and smiling broadly. “Men may call us bound or free, foolish or wise, brave or cowardly, even saintly or wicked, but it is heaven that has already declared who we truly are.

  “Hear this, my precious ones: we will live as we have learned to want. Freedom comes from the wanting.” He stretched his arms over his beloved and pronounced, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free! Behold, old things are passed away; all things are become new. Forgetting those things that lie behind, let us reach forth unto those things that lie ahead!” He then lifted his face to heaven. “God is good; His mercies endure forever! O Lord, protect us from our enemies. May God have mercy on us all. Amen.”

  The circle echoed, “Amen.”

  The company faced one another with hearts lifted, then turned to look at Weyer once again. “So will you enter to make your claims, or do we go elsewhere?” Helmut asked.

  Wil shuffled uneasily. “I think—”

  “I needs first find my wife,” blurted Heinrich flatly. “It is a matter above all else. Then I must know about my bakery and my land, else I shall never rest.” He laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and looked at him squarely. “I do sincerely pray for your mother’s good health, lad. I’ll not pretend a heart of great affection, but I do wish for her well-being.”

  Wil nodded, then added, “And I pray for the law to fall upon Pious.”

  It was noon, and the bells of sext pealed gently over Weyer when the homecoming crusaders descended the eastern slope that rimmed the village. They soon stood in the shade of gray-barked beech trees and old oaks, of pungent pine and ash. At their feet bubbled the happy Laubusbach as it had since time was not recorded. Heinrich reached into his satchel and retrieved the stone he had carried for all these years. He held it in his palm and stared at it quietly until Frieda joined him.

  “Your baker’s mark,” she said.

  The baker nodded. “Ja. I etched it on this streambed stone before I left as a keepsake from home. Your husband and his brother made the shape. It was long ago along some dusty footpath.”

  “Ha!” laughed Wil. “I remember the day. Karl was so happy. He saw the cross in the He saw the cross in everything.”

  Heinrich smiled. “No artisan in all the empire could have done as well as you two. I stamped it into a thousand loaves, methinks, and each one with pride.”

  Alwin laughed. “Only you would stamp oat bread!”

  The company chuckled. “Tis true enough. I thought the poor should be granted a bit of art as well as all the others,” answered Heinrich.

  The baker knelt by the stream and let its waters rush over the little stone. “I baked bread for the table, but Emma gave us the bread of life. I shall miss her always.”

  Wil squatted by his father’s side. “I remember playing in her gardens, and I remember how she’d hug me and I’d disappear in her bosoms!” The group laughed. “I used to run from her so I’d not smother!”

  “Ha! Ha!” roared Heinrich. “I remember well.”

  “And what of the Magi?” quizzed Frieda. “I’ve heard so much about the Magi.”

  Wil pointed upstream. “There, a quarter hour’s walk or so. They were like three giants protecting us from all danger.”

  Maria giggled. “I was lost once, but I saw them and then I could find my way home.”

  “Lost?”

  The girl blushed.

  “Ja?” scolded Frieda playfully. “That’s two times now!”

  Heinrich stood and faced Alwin. “You, me, and Brother Lukas had some adventures here of our own.”

  The knight nodded. “Indeed. You saved my life once. Not far over that ridge.” He turned toward the village and drew a deep breath. “My beard is long now and my hair as well. I’ve not been here since you left. I doubt any will remember me.

  Pieter was concerned. “If they do, you’ll be arre
sted by the reeve. No doubt word of your troubles has found this place. Heinrich, how many bear arms in the village?”

  The baker turned to his son. “Wil?”

  “We’d about a dozen freemen last year, counting old Oskar and that dimwit Rolf of Metz. So I’d venture about ten worth fearing. Only Ludwig has a crossbow; the others have swords, and methinks Yeoman Franz has a halberd. Only he and Yeoman Rudi serve in combat; the others pay the scutage. But everyone hides slaughter blades, and many have pig mallets, which are as good as a warrior’s hammer.”

  At the mention of Ludwig, Heinrich scowled. The man was Katharina’s cruel husband.

  Pieter frowned. “So you’ve a full tithing to face if the reeve sounds the horn. And you’d have the others with their hoes and mallets and such.” He faced Heinrich and Wil. “You two would not easily raise arms against your own, and you, Alwin, knight or no, would be badly outnumbered. All of us would soon be bound, gagged, and hauled away.” He set his finger by his nose and thought carefully. “We needs have a care. Weyer was once home to some of you, but it may no longer be. Can y’not check on your wife and bakery without the whole place knowing?”

  Heinrich thought carefully. “This is Sunday, and most are either drunk or sleeping….”

  “We can wait until dark and find Herwin,” blurted Tomas.

  “Herwin!” cried Heinrich. “Is he still alive?”

  “Aye!”

  “He must be old by now.” Heinrich was smiling. “He’s as good a man as ever walked the earth. He loves the soil almost as much as he loves his wife.”

  “Loved his wife, Father. Varina died on Martinmas Eve the year you left.”

  Heinrich groaned. Varina was a good woman, and she had brought great joy to Herwin. “And what of their children?”

  “Wulf lives with Herwin along with a wife and one son. Irma died in childbirth about two years ago. The other girls married men from Oberbrechen and Selters.”