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

by C. D. Baker

  Alwin muttered under his breath, “I should have plied the key keeper!”

  “Well, you didn’t,” said Tomas. “But here we are. I say let’s go with what we have.”

  Helmut was trembling. “But why wouldn’t he have locked it in the strongbox?”

  Alwin shook his head. “I doubt the prior has his own.”

  The five squatted quietly, and then Friederich whispered, “Well, we’re here. Let’s be on with it.”

  They clasped hands. “For Wil and Heinrich, then,” whispered Alwin. “Let us go with God.”

  Otto was placed as a watchman where the group had paused. His duty was to keep an eye on that side of the cloister. Tomas was sent forward, beyond the turn and deeper along the corridor serving the offices. Alwin followed Helmut and Friederich to the corner, where they turned right. He would fix his eye on the sleeping guard whom the two lads sneaked past.

  The rain began to fall harder, suddenly in great sheets. Alwin prayed that no thunder would follow. “Keep sleeping, my friend. Keep sleeping.”

  Friederich was only seven, but he knew what grave consequences both he and his comrades would face if they were discovered. With steely determination, the little lad ran his fingers over the shape of his ring of keys. Some were long, some fat; some had a wide end, some narrow. He ran his forefinger over the keyhole of the prior’s door and closed his eyes, imagining its shape. Then, swiftly sorting through the keys once more, he picked one. The lad took a deep breath and lifted it to the hole. He slid it in ever so silently and gave it a twist.

  Nothing moved.

  Undaunted, the boy tried again, and then again. Suddenly near tears, he closed his eyes and let his fingers run over the whole of the ring once more.

  “Hurry!” whispered Helmut. “Please!”

  Friederich’s eyes stayed closed. He drew a slow breath through his nostrils and felt for the one key that might save them all, the single iron tool that would open the doors of hope. His fingers held fast on one. He could not move them past it. With a smile, he knew. The lad took the squat, short-shafted key and lifted it to the door. He slid it quietly, but confidently, forward. He turned it in its hole.

  Click, snap, creak. The door opened!

  “Oh, thank You, Jesus!” squeaked Helmut. The two shuffled quickly into the room. It was black as pitch, and the boys strained to see. “The desk should be by the window, Helmut,” whispered Friederich.

  The trembling boy inched his way forward with arms outstretched. His knee bumped an unseen stool, which scraped loudly across the stone floor. The boys froze.

  In the corridor, Alwin nearly cried out at the sound. It was muffled by the rain, but to his peaked senses, it sounded like the crash of a cymbal! The guard shifted slightly on his seat, and Alwin prepared to pounce. His hands gripped his sword tightly, and he gritted his teeth.

  “Go around,” urged Friederich quietly.

  Helmut moved to one side, then inched forward again. His hands guided him along a table, then past the high back of a chair. Nothing.

  “Move farther down the room,” urged Friederich.

  Helmut crept forward. He felt his heart pounding within his chest, and his breath was short and rapid. A flash of distant lightning lit the room suddenly, and the lad saw the desk just before him. He reached forward. His fingers ran along the well-worn wood of the top, past an inkwell and its quill, past a few dry leafs of parchment and an unseen Book of Hours. They lingered for a moment on the lead seal of a large letter. Had he known, he would have been surprised to be touching a document sealed by the pope.

  At last, his hand bumped lightly against a pear-wood box. The lad held his breath and lifted the lid. “I have it!” The boy slowly released his breath.

  A low, distant rumble rolled through the abbey. “Hurry, Helmut!”

  “I have it!” he answered.

  “How do you know it’s it?”

  “It’s the only parchment in there.” The deed done, the boys hurried across the dark room, lighted once more by the approaching storm.

  The thunder had done what Alwin had feared it might. The guard was now shifting and becoming restless in his sleep. Hurry, lads! he pleaded silently.

  Wisely, Friederich had kept his fingers on the right key, and he quickly locked the door behind them. Then, like a young cat and its kitten, the pair dashed silently past the guard and rejoined their fellows now gathering around the corner.

  “God be praised!” whispered Alwin. “I was thinking that we should get the keys back to the monk. It’ll keep suspicion away from us.”

  All agreed, and in mere moments the cellar door was reopened and the key ring placed neatly on the sleeping monk’s belt. “Now, Tomas, lead us out the other gate!”

  The five dashed around the cloister and through the abbey’s gardens. Like flying ghosts, they bolted through the rain toward the north gate, known by the monks as the lesser gate. It led to a narrow meadow and the docks along the Lahn. The gate was sometimes guarded on the outside, and, just as Tomas had promised, therefore not locked on the inside. The porter, no doubt a sleeping novice, was out of sight. Tomas pulled the door open slowly and looked about for the guard. Seeing no one, he bade his fellows follow, and the five sprinted to safety.

  “You’ve done well!” exclaimed Pieter as Alwin’s company presented the fruit of their daring adventure. “You brave scoundrels!” The old man laughed, and the gathered circle cheered as Pieter studied the note by the fire. “By the saints, I believe it says exactly what the Jew said it would!”

  Alwin smiled and drew a long drink from a flask of mead. Wilda had returned with a rucksack filled with provisions. She handed the knight a block of cheese.

  “Thanks, woman,” said Alwin. He fixed his dark eyes on Wilda and the woman blushed.

  Pieter read the document once more. “Truly, a gift from a merciful Lord,” he cried.

  “What does it say?” blurted Friederich.

  The old man nodded. “Aye, lad. Hear this, all of you. I hold in m’hand the debt owed to Beniamino the Jew by Lord Heribert of Runkel! Ha, clever heathen! The original sum is for five hundred pounds of silver plus a usurious interest of twenty pounds on the hundred. No doubt the prior thinks he has quite a hold on the lord, but it is we who hold it! The prior cannot collect without it!”

  The pilgrims cheered. Tomas stepped forward. “And well sell it back to whom … the prior or Lord Heribert?”

  Pieter grinned mischievously. “To whoever releases Heinrich.”

  Frieda blurted, “And what of Wil?”

  The group fell silent. “Fair sister,” answered Pieter, “we are all still working on that problem. I do not yet know exactly what well do. A charge of one murder and suspicions of two others, all foresworn by a priest and supported by a witness, is beyond purchase, even with this. All the manor knows of it. The archbishop even knows of it. Heinrich, on the other hand, could be released at the court’s will, or the will of the prior. They could more easily decide the killing was a matter of self-defense or of some nighttime confusion.”

  “But could we not try to use it for Wil as well?” Frieda pleaded.

  Alwin answered kindly. “No. That would overreach its value. Trust me in this. I’ve seen these kinds of things before. If you ask too much, you get nothing! Now hear me, girl. We’ve the sly Arnold and our own clever Pieter. We’ve also the courage of four good lads, the magic of a minstrel, the love of three women, and an angel. And we’ve my own sword. Add to these our prayers and the mercies of heaven, and you must take heart. We will surely find a way to save Wil as well.”

  Otto scratched his head and then took a crust of bread from Maria. “So tell me how this plan for Heinrich is to work.”

  Pieter looked around the ring of faces staring at him. The first light of a new dawn was brightening the sky, and the man knew that time was not their friend. “Actually, we now have the tool but not yet the way. What say you all?”

  The pilgrims murmured amongst themselves until Kath
arina spoke. “Arnold and I can meet with Prior Mattias by terce. I am the grieving widow … he’ll see me, and he always sees Arnold, for he’s frightened of what things the man knows about his monks.” She looked at the pilgrims ringing the small fire and pleaded with them. “I spend my days spinning and weaving. Methinks I am able to weave a web for the prior. I beg you, leave this matter to Arnold and me. You need to be about the business of Wil.”

  The group hesitated until Wilda stood by the woman’s side. “She is to be trusted. I know her heart.”

  Alwin nodded. “Pieter, I, too, believe the woman. With Arnold, I believe she can make this happen. We need to trust them both…. I think Heinrich would.”

  “It is agreed then?” Pieter asked.

  The company nodded. The old man took a deep breath and laid his staff by Solomon. He moved toward Katharina and faced her squarely, peering deeply into her eyes. Then, laying his hands on her head, he prayed over her and the deed to be done, kissed the wooden cross hanging around his neck, and smiled. The gleam had returned to his eye. “Go, woman. Go with God. And may the angels be ready!”

  It was before the bells of terce when Katharina strode boldly along Weyer’s footpaths and rapped on Arnold’s door. It was flung open, and the nearly crazed man dragged the startled woman into his home. “Where’ve y’been?” he growled. “I near soiled m’drawers at prime. I heard riders along the road going hard to Villmar. And where’s the others?”

  “Not to worry, sir,” answered Katharina softly. She lifted the square parchment from inside her gown. “We have it!”

  Arnold gasped. “I… I can hardly believe it! And it is what we thought? The Jew did not lie?”

  Katharina laughed. “It is exactly what he said.”

  Arnold grinned and filled two clay goblets with red wine. He passed one to Katharina. “Then we must find the prior. He’s most likely taking Mass now, but before terce hell be walking amongst the workshops.”

  “Where should we meet him?”

  Arnold thought for a moment. “It won’t matter. When he sees me, I’ll have his ear. But I doubt you can help. The monks would want you kept from sight. I think you ought to remain here.”

  Katharina frowned. “I think not. I will walk with you to the abbey, then wait beyond its walls.”

  “But you’ve naught to say! I don’t need you now!”

  The woman looked at the man closely. “I will not interfere, but I must come. If you take the parchment inside the cloister, the prior will have you arrested at once. If you leave it here, he could easily send riders to Weyer before we could return. I will keep the parchment on my person. If he needs proof we have it, you can bring him to the portal.”

  Arnold took a drink. He looked at the woman with newfound respect. “You’ve reasoned this well.”

  Katharina blushed.

  “So let’s be off then!” He finished his wine and laughed. “It feels so much better to do a good thing! Ha! If I had only known before!”

  The bells of terce echoed over Münster when Pieter finally turned to Frieda. “So, girl. Do you agree?”

  The young woman was exhausted, and her face was taut with strain and worry. The group waited. “There is much risk and little certainty in it.”

  No one answered until Tomas stood. He tossed a bit of kindling into the small fire. “Frieda, we need to act quickly. Wilda’s priest says the trial may be on Friday. If that’s so, we’ve only three days. We cannot wait another day to begin apian.”

  “We have no other way, Frieda,” added Helmut. Otto and the others nodded in agreement.

  Maria took Frieda’s hand. “You must agree, else well not do it.”

  Frieda knelt before her sister-in-law and took her in her arms. “I am so afraid, Maria. I’m so afraid we’ll fail.” She looked at her friends. “Pieter, pray for us. I think you are right. We’ve no other way.”

  With sighs of relief, the pilgrims gathered beneath Pieter’s outstretched arms and received his blessing. Their plan had been painstakingly wrought over heated debate for these many hours. For each of them, having a plan was, itself, a comfort. Hearing Pieter’s words pronounced so boldly over them filled them each with fresh courage. When he finished, the priest turned to Tomas and Otto. “Lads, are you sure of your duties?”

  “We are,” they answered together.

  Pieter nodded. He was uneasy but walked quietly away into the deep wood. He found a large beech tree and leaned into its smooth bark with a groan. Solomon joined him, and the two sat for a quarter hour in comfortable silence. “Old friend,” the man said to his beloved dog, “I am not so sure of this. These lads will need to sin and sin grievously, and they are prepared to do it with nary a doubt. I do not know if I ought to fear for their souls or admire them!” He tossed a twig away. “When two virtues are in collision, my soul cries out for wisdom. We will soon have truth-telling opposed to justice. Ach, it should never come to this.”

  “You choose the higher virtue, Pieter,” said Frieda. The young woman had sought out her friend. “I thought you once told me that.”

  Pieter nodded. “Well, I oft forget what I once knew.” He smiled wearily. “Your counsel is right. In this world of sorrows we don’t often have pure choices. We are to pray for wisdom—wisdom to see the higher virtue. Thank you, my dear sister.”

  Frieda colored with embarrassment. Pieter took her hand and stroked her hair. “You are a beautiful young woman, someday soon to be a young mother. You will be a blessing to your husband and to the little ones who shall clutch your gown. I can see them, happy and bright. One will be like ‘is father: spirited and willful, brave … and a bit prideful!”

  Frieda laughed.

  “And another will be like you: spirited and wise, brave … and charitable. As for the rest, a blend of good things, to be sure!”

  The young woman was beet red by now, but laughing, and Pieter was glad to see it. The man took both her smooth young hands in his. “Dear Frieda, these next days shall not be days of tepid waters, but rather days of ice or boil. We must all be brave. By compline on Friday, we will have been sorely tested, hammered into yet a finer shape atop the anvil. In the end, whether we fail or whether not, we shall be different … and we shall have lived life very much alive.” Pieter stared wistfully into the bright forest. He took a deep breath and smiled. “But I believe it shall be a good day. I can feel it in my bones.”

  According to plan, Katharina faded into the shadows of Villmar’s inn as Arnold rapped loudly on the abbey door. The man turned and winked at the woman before a young porter bade him enter. “Thanks be to God.”

  “Quite,” grumbled Arnold. “No kisses, no prayers, and my feet are clean enough, thank you. I’m to see Prior Mattias on urgent business.”

  Egidius the porter bowed. “You are Arnold of Weyer.”

  “Of course, y’dolt.”

  The monk scurried away as Arnold wandered among the gardens of the cloister grounds. He looked at the stone walls now penning him within another world. They were higher than two men and were intended to keep sin and corruption out, as well as to keep the attention of the brethren on things godly.

  Of course, honest work was godly to be sure, so within the walls were numerous workshops where lay monks labored to build barrels or hammer tin, to work with iron or dye wool. Both the lay monks and the choir monks shared tasks in the gardens, which, in this July, were lush with the vegetables of the season. Barns were filled with last month’s hay and the first bushels of harvested oats. The brewery was always making beer, and the bakery filled its corner of the courtyard with the aroma of heaven. Arnold wandered about all this with a suspicious eye. He had never believed the monks to be sincere. He thought them to be joyless, self-serving hypocrites. His eye fell on the cider press and a row of empty barrels. “In two months, they’ll be making cider and selling it for a profit!”

  A kindly, rotund little monk waddled toward the man with an offer of cheese and a tankard of beer. “May I serve thee?”


  Arnold took the beer and drank a long draught. He swallowed the cheese and glared at the simple man before him.

  The monk smiled. “I am Brother Johann, the cantor. Are you seeking something, my friend?”

  “I’m not yer friend, shaveling. But, aye! I’m seeking joy and wisdom … and long-suffering for the likes of you!” Arnold sneered.

  “Ah, well, then you’ve come to the right place!”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Why?”

  “Look about. Not so much as a smile. So much for joy. I’d not dare bother one of your brothers with a good laugh—they wouldn’t want to be distracted from their piety!”

  The monk grinned.

  “If they were wise, they’d not be hiding behind these walls. They’ve no silver, no women …”

  “My friend, I fear you’ve much to teach us. See those barrels?”

  “Aye.”

  “In September they are filled with red apples. Most are firm and sweet. By October, we find a few that are soft and brown, their neighbors as well.”

  “So?”

  “So it is the same with us. In good season, the brethren are charitable and selfless. In time, sin corrupts one, then the other. We need our barrel dumped from time to time!”

  Arnold grunted. He was planning to do some dumping of his own.

  The monk continued. “In thanks for your keen sight, allow me to share this small thing I have learned: when you seek joy, seek it humbly, for you shall not be joyful until your old affections are taken away. When you seek patience, have a care, for you shall not have it until you have been sorely tested. When you seek wisdom, tremble, for first you must be stripped of all you thought was true.” The wise monk took Arnold’s hand and looked deeply into his soul. “We are not all what you believe us to be.”

  Arnold spat. “I’m waiting for Mattias. The fool porter went looking for him.”