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

by C. D. Baker

  Heinrich counted everyone, then checked their provisions. “We should have left Paulus behind. It was foolish.”

  “No!” snapped Maria. She wrapped her arm around the donkey’s long face. “No. They might have killed him. And… and Pieter needs him.”

  Heinrich nodded. “Well, ‘tis a miracle we were not seen running with him. If they had been on the walls, they would have seen us for sure.”

  “Godfrey must have delayed them,” said Alwin. “He’s like a fox when he needs to be.”

  Frieda thought she heard the cry of gulls. She looked up. “Wil, we must keep moving.”

  The company stumbled northwestward all that day. With anxious eyes cast behind them, they pressed deep into the twilight darkness. No longer following the Lahn, they traveled on the starlit highway leading to Kassei. The next day they moved off the roadway and paralleled it at a safe distance, keeping a sharp eye on those passing by. The road was crowded with summer traffic—peddlers, pilgrims, clerics, caravans, and men-at-arms—but they did not see the white robes of Templars all that day or the next.

  They continued their journey through a widening landscape decorated with yellow and purple wildflowers sprinkled generously in the clearings between stands of beech and spruce. It was here that Maria pranced happily once more. She gathered enough summer blooms to decorate the hair of the three women and then presented a ringlet of vines for Pieter’s white head.

  The column crossed the Eder River at Fritzlar and then began a rolling march through a knotty landscape that delivered the travelers to the outskirts of Kassei.

  “They have not trailed us, Alwin,” offered Heinrich. “We’ve seen nothing of them for almost a week. They would have no way of knowing which way we went from Marburg. “

  The knight knew the discipline of the Templar Order, and he was still anxious. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just don’t know.”

  Wil ordered the night’s camp be set, and soon the fugitives were resting uncomfortably around a small fire. “My beloved,” Pieter began slowly. He coughed weakly. “I know a cloister near these parts. I think you ought to leave me there. I am now a danger to you all. I slow you. My time is nearly come.”

  Maria began to sob softly. She snuggled against the bony man’s frame like a kitten nestling into a safe place.

  “No,” stated Wil flatly. “Pieter, we are safe enough here. They are not following us any longer. We need you, Pieter. We still need you.”

  Pieter took a shallow breath. He did not have the energy to argue. The last five days had been grueling, and he wanted nothing other than to sleep. He nodded and closed his eyes. Soon, midst the gentle chatter of the others, he fell to sleep. Lying in the firelight with a slight smile on his face, the old man was quickly carried to pleasant places on the wings of dreams.

  Morning broke with a fresh August breeze. It was quickly decided that the group would not enter Kassei but would spend the day quietly at rest. The women were to tend to Pieter and to put their provisions in some order, while the men and boys would scout the highway. Alwin believed that the Templars were either close behind—in which case they might be seen entering Kassel’s gates that very day, or they were ahead—in which case it would be good to let them go farther. “But if they’ve gone ahead,” the knight said, “well need to keep a sharp eye for their return. They are not easily fooled.”

  “As I’ve said, they have no idea where we went from Marburg!” protested Heinrich. “We could have run in any direction. Even Godfrey does not know our plan.”

  Alwin shrugged. “I feel better about it now than a few days ago, but I know them. They’ve the instincts of master huntsmen.”

  Wil agreed. “Stedingerland will wait for us. Each league makes us safer, but we are not safe. I think we are right to do this slowly.”

  The day quickly passed without any sight of the dreaded Templars, and night fell lightly on a company now beginning to relax. Conversations became lighthearted, even jovial. Pieter had slept throughout the day and was now surprisingly refreshed. He ate a small supper and began to recount tales of his youth.

  Wilda and Alwin walked slowly away from the camp toward a nearby clearing where they stared dreamily into the starry canopy above. They spoke of many things and as their hands brushed, the touch felt warm to them both. Alwin looked into Wilda’s face uneasily. “Wilda, is it true that you are Heinrich’s cousin?”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  Alwin nodded.

  “It is so. My motherwas his aunt, his father’s sister.”

  “And who was your father?”

  “I do not know. My mother was raped by a pack of wicked shepherds.”

  “Gunnars,” said Alwin sadly. “They were my kin.”

  Wilda’s face fell, and she did not answer at first. She shifted subtly away from the man. “I… I thought that was a rumor.”

  Alwin shook his head. “No, dear Wilda. It is true. Heinrich and I have spoken of the feud of our fathers. It was some of my kin who raped your mother … and someone of Heinrich’s who killed my father.”

  Wilda wrung her hands. “It may be that we have the same father then!”

  Alwin’s throat swelled. He had grown to love this woman, but the knowledge of their pasts could ruin it all. “Nay, ‘tis not so. Neither my father nor his brothers were involved in the attack. Yet surely our house has paid for its many sins against your kin.”

  Wilda turned her back on the handsome knight and walked a few paces away. She had begun to love this man. “I know not what to say. ‘Tis a horrible thing that was done to my mother—it ruined her life … and mine.”

  Unable to restrain his heart any longer, Alwin strode toward the woman and turned her face to his. Holding her shoulders firmly, he asked, “Can you find it within to forget the sorrow? You must, if you can … for I love you, Wilda.”

  Wilda buried her face in the man’s heaving chest. Weeping, she could not answer.

  The next day delivered the quiet company past numbers of mills sprinkled along the woody banks of the Fulda River. The meadows had widened, but the slopes on either side of the river rose steeply. The column kept to the forests as much as possible, making the walking rather difficult for that day and the next. Finally, they came within view of the newly built gatehouse of the walled town of Münden, and they paused to decide whether they should venture within or not.

  “We need beer or mead, Heinrich,” offered Katharina. The woman had kept a careful count of their shrinking provisions. It seemed they had left some items in Marburg after all. “And we’re low on meat. We’ve salt enough and a few wheels of cheese. But the bread is gone, and I’ve only a little grain for Mus.”

  “I say we ferry across in separate groups,” said Tomas. “Heinrich, methinks you are a risk, what with your one arm and patch. Can we not add a sleeve to your tunic like we did with Maria? If any is searching at all, it’d be for a one-armed man.”

  The idea was met with approval.

  “Ja,” answered Katharina. “Indeed I can. Well tear cloth from a sack.”

  “Good!” said Alwin. “Good indeed. We’ll cross in three groups and meet back here by the bells of nones. Like in Basel, each group should buy a set thing.”

  It was agreed. Over the next two hours, three groups crossed the Fulda at intervals and warily entered the town of Münden through its south gate. The inscription above them was troubling. It was worn and in a difficult script. Pieter squinted. “I believe it says, They faded away, but their ghost lives on, an everlasting reminder of our duty.’ Dialect perhaps?”

  Maria shuddered as she passed beneath the strange words. She pulled hard on Paulus’s lead and looked anxiously at Pieter.

  The town was fairly large, though not nearly so large as Marburg. It was protected by massive stone walls and many high towers that overlooked the three rivers that converged just beyond its northern gate. Coming from the southwest flowed the Fulda and from the southeast, the Werra. Together, these two rivers joined to
flow north as the River Weser.

  Inside, the town was much like every other town of its time: crowded by narrow, crooked streets and filled with a varied collection of houses, workshops, sheds, barns, coops, and churches. The streets were clogged with groaning two-wheeled carts, oxen, and swaybacked palfreys. The air was filled with the stench of urine and manure, made all the more pungent in the summer heat.

  Pieter’s group included Maria, Katharina, and Otto, as well as the two animals. The four were assigned the task of buying salted pork and cheese. It was at the butcher’s shop that Maria became frightened once more.

  “Strangers, eh?” asked the butcher. He was a large, menacing character wearing a skullcap and leather apron.

  “Pilgrims, my son,” answered Pieter.

  The mole-faced man bent low and stared into Maria’s face. He was toothless and his breath was horrid. The girl recoiled. “Ha! Ha! My deary. Best be on yer best whilst here! Are you one of them crusaders come home?”

  “I said we are pilgrims,” snapped Pieter. “Now sell us some pork!”

  The man picked his nose and smiled wickedly. “Hmm.” He stared at Maria a bit longer. “See there, little girl?” he pointed to a tower under construction at the town’s edge.

  Maria nodded shyly.

  “Well, if you look up about six rods or so … near the top of the scaffold, you’ll see the face of a child in the stone.”

  Maria was puzzled and all eyes strained.

  “No, y’fools. You’ll not see it from here! You needs get close.”

  “Why is it there?” asked Otto.

  The butcher looked the lad over. “You, boy. You’ve the look of one of them crusaders.”

  Otto spat. “Can y’not answer m’question?”

  The butcher grinned. “A child was put in the wall just months past. A little blond one, like her … only it was a boy, a real screamer.”

  Pieter stiffened.

  The butcher carved a ham from a hanging swine. “Ja, I can still hear him. The priest said it’d keep the ghosts away.”

  “What?” barked Pieter. Solomon bared his teeth.

  “The lord of the town captured four lads who was lost. He says they was in the crusade, but they said not. I don’t think it mattered much. They were strangers here. He locked three up in the jail over there.” He pointed to a squat stone building. “Aye, we’ve had some bad time with spirits coming from the river mists more than ever. Two priests died at Easter; a midwife was slain by a dragon born from a strumpet. Aye, we’ve had a bad time of it. So the lord says we ought quiet the spirits. He locked the three away and let ‘em starve. They never said much. Just went quietly. We buried them where they lay in the jail, though some say they hear them groaning at night.

  “But the boy in the wall was different. He cursed the priest with a blasphemy and spat upon the altar. So he was mortared into the wall—alive. Now we see his face in the wall, and the lord’s lady claims his ghost prowls the great hall.”

  Pieter was dumbstruck. He looked at his companions in astonishment and then turned a hard eye on the butcher. “Keep thy meat, y’wicked devil. I pray the God of Abraham will release the demons of the Pit to raise the rivers high enough to swallow you and this evil place!” He shook his staff with whitened knuckles. “A curse on thee! A curse on thee and thine!”

  Otto spat at the butcher and kicked over his table. A gathering crowd murmured as the butcher shouted for the guard. Solomon barked wildly and kept the man at bay, while a cursing Pieter led Maria in a hasty retreat across the market square.

  “Run, Papa Pieter,” the girl squealed. “I don’t want to be put in that jail!” She leaned forward with all her might to drag Paulus through the streets.

  The four did their best to vanish in the alleys, but Otto looked back and saw a deputy being pointed in their direction. “Quick, we needs get out of the town!”

  “Where? We can’t go back through the main gate!”

  Otto thought hard. Pieter answered. “Over there. We can get through the far gate and hide. The guards won’t be looking for us yet.”

  With that, the four hurried through winding alleyways until they came to the town’s north gate. All was calm and quiet. “Perhaps they’ll just let it be,” grumbled Pieter.

  “Perhaps,” answered Katharina. “But we should get out of this place.”

  The group composed themselves and walked slowly through the gate, past two sleeping guards and toward a stand of massive trees near the water’s edge. Poor Pieter’s legs were wobbling again. The surge of anger had sapped another week’s worth of strength, to be sure. Solomon leaned lightly against him, instinctively serving as something of a prop for his master.

  In the meanwhile, Wil’s group—including Frieda, Benedetto, and Helmut—had watched the whole event from a measured distance. Moments after the deputy arrived at the butcher’s stall, Wil made a dash to intercept him. “Sir, it seems m’grandpapa has made some trouble again.”

  “Grandpapa? He dresses like a priest.”

  “Aye, you understand then.”

  The guard and the butcher looked at one another. “Oh,” answered the soldier. “He’s mad. Well, this man’s suffered some loss.”

  “How much?”

  The butcher looked over his table. “The sausages are covered with dirt.”

  “So?”

  “Humph. Well, I was slapped and lost some buyers in the shouting.”

  Wil nodded. “Here. Take three pennies. It ought to be enough. Did he buy his meat?”

  The butcher shook his head.

  “Then I’ll buy what we need. Just send the guard away.”

  The butcher agreed, and soon Wil’s group was searching for the old man and his companions. “They would not have gone back through the main gate,” muttered Helmut. “They’re either hiding or out another side.”

  Wil agreed and looked about the town. “Helmut, go find the others and send them out the north gate. They’re probably seeking cover along the riverbanks. Tell them to look for us there.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  CHANGES BY THE KISS

  This place tempts me to return to my old ways like nothing else has yet done!” cried Wilda as Pieter told the butcher’s story. It was past vespers, and the group had found one another in a stand of trees beyond the town’s walls. They now sat quietly by a small fire in the welcome coolness of evening.

  The sky was still blue, though darkening a little with the passing of the day. No one had come to bother them, and it seemed all was in order.

  “We still have need of a few things before we leave on the morrow,” said Wil. He looked pointedly at Pieter. “We were interrupted at the market.” The group laughed softly.

  “But for tonight we rest here. We’ve food enough and drink. Methinks the town has no interest in us now.”

  With enough daylight remaining to enjoy a brief walk, the wayfarers broke into small groups and scattered along the riverbanks to talk or sleep or cast the net for small fish. Katharina grew melancholy as she walked alone along the bank and watched the walls of the wicked town. Recalling the butcher’s tale, she moaned, “Oh, dear children, what did they do to you?”

  Seeing her roaming about the tall grass, Heinrich joined her and took her hand. “Are you well?”

  Katharina leaned into him. “This world is so cruel, Heinrich. Oh, I wish it could all be as Emma’s garden once was.”

  The baker nodded sadly. He spotted a cluster of red poppies and walked away briefly to pick them. “Here, my Katharina. They are nearly as lovely as you.”

  My Katharina! she thought. He said “my “Katharina. The woman blushed and lifted the flowers to her nose.

  “They’re not so fragrant as a rose,” Heinrich said.

  She lowered her eyes shyly. “I’ve not held so wondrous a flower in all my days, “ she answered.

  Benedetto’s voice was heard chirping from the camp, and the pair turned to see him standing at the fork of the rivers’ junction. He wa
s waving for others to join him.

  “Shall we see?” asked Heinrich.

  Katharina nodded, and they walked briskly toward the group now encircling the minstrel and some object lying on the ground. “Look, see!” Benedetto was pointing to a flat stone bearing a weathered inscription. Tomas brushed some mud away and spat on it to make the etched words easier for Pieter to read. As the old man squinted, Frieda and Wil read it in unison.

  Wo Werra und Fulda küssen, Sie Ihren Namen hüssen mussen.

  Und hier erstehd durch diessen Küss—der Weser Flüss.

  Where the Werra and the Fulda kiss, their names they must renounce.

  And here, through this kiss, arises the River Weser.

  The group stared at the old inscription and then looked at the scene around them. Indeed, here two rivers lost themselves into another. Heinrich stared at the Fulda to his left. He remembered it as sluggish and weary, running quietly through softwood meadows. But here, at his feet, it became excited; here it now churned and rolled as it lost itself in the first currents of the Weser. He turned to his right and watched the Werra flowing to its own end. It had traveled a great distance as well, only to leave itself behind in this place and become something entirely new.

  The baker walked away from the others, staring at the Weser running quickly northward. He reflected on his life and turned his eye toward the sky of early evening. Katharina joined him, and together they spoke of things past and things to come, of the converging of journeys, and of their quest for freedom. Heinrich took Katharina’s hand in his. It felt warm and tender, soft yet strong. He faltered for words, but she smiled. In the quiet calm of her smile the man felt peace. As he faced her, the unfulfilled longings of so many wasted years overwhelmed him with a bittersweet sorrow.

  “Katharina, I… I should like you to be my wife.”

  Utterly surprised, the woman trembled and blushed. Her world had been one of beatings and neglect, of sadness and mute suffering. She had not dared hope for better except during those times when she had wandered by the Laubusbach, so very alone. Still stunned by the man’s words, she answered slowly and happily. “My dear Heinrich, it would be my honor to serve you as your wife.” The woman began to cry, and the baker pulled her to his chest.