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

by C. D. Baker

  The dawn brought a brisk walk to the dock, where the wayfarers loaded themselves again into the boat. The oarsmen pulled them into the currents that turned the bow slowly northward. The journey continued past meadows of milk cows and pastures of sheep, past sturdy villages, and then to Minden and its Cistercian monastery, where they spent the night.

  The next day they sailed to Verden. Along the way, Pieter summoned his strength to offer a song or two. Crowing with what strength he had, he earned a few good-natured barbs from the oarsmen. The man was weak and even feeble, but his spirit soared as he lifted his quaking voice under the summer sun. Laughing, his companions joined in, and soon they were singing tavern songs and the ballads of Benedetto.

  The land near Verden was flat and open, making the horizon appear as a long arc in the hazy distance. The town was known for Charlemagne’s slaughter of some five thousand Saxons near its center. Now it was welcoming and busy, and, at Pieter’s request, the company found the redbrick cathedral towering high above the Weser’s banks. The company entered the cathedral’s western portal, descended its three stone steps, and stood in the rear of the massive basilica to gape.

  The sanctuary was stunning to the peasants. Tall, massive columns of stone rose magnificently to an arched ceiling high above.

  “I feel the presence of God here,” said Wilda softly. She slowly walked toward the altar. Alwin followed and took her hand. She turned to face him and her belly fluttered. To her, he looked like the prince she had always dreamed of. Strong, broad shouldered, handsome, and kind, the man was all she had ever wanted. He stood proud but not haughty. His blond hair hung defiantly at his shoulders, yet he had a servant’s heart. A long-sword hung at his side, but he was gentle. His boots and leggings were dusty, his green robe well worn. The man was seasoned and fit, truly the defender of the helpless and destitute. Alone with her knight, the woman leaned into his sure embrace.

  “Oh, my dear Wilda,” said Alwin softly, “I do love you so.”

  “Aye, as I do you,” she answered. “You are the hero of my dreams, dear knight, and I could love no other as I love you.”

  Wilda waited breathlessly.

  Then there, before the altar in Verden’s glorious cathedral, Alwin kissed her on the cheek and surprised her as he knelt to one knee. “Woman, I pledge thee this: I desire to marry no other, and it is you I would take as my beloved wife, to cherish and defend always.”

  His voice was strong and sure, and as he stood to embrace her, his grip was firm and comforting. With a happy whimper, Wilda wrapped her arms around the man’s waist and lifted her face. “My dear Alwin, ja, truly, I shall be your wife.” With that, the two lovers kissed—and the choirs of heaven sang!

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  CROWNS ALONG THE SHORES OF PROMISE

  Morning came, and the travelers were once again aboard their sturdy craft. The air was damp and made the river smell all the more as rivers do: a hint of fish and standing mud. The Weser was more sluggish in this place and somewhat narrow. The captain grumbled about the dark silt banks that rose unseen from the riverbed and caused crafts such as his to ground. With a sharp eye, he tested the depths with a large pole.

  Seabirds now abounded above, and many villages dotted the countryside beyond the Weser’s grassy banks. Rain showers began around noontime and continued for all that day. Despite their woolens, the pilgrims were soon soaked, and Pieter was badly chilled.

  The night was spent before an ample hearth in a riverside inn, but by morning it was clear to all that Pieter was failing rapidly. The poor man awoke gray and ashen. He trembled and staggered from the inn in the sure hands of Alwin and Wil and was carried to the boat, where he was laid limply atop his bale and covered with a heavy blanket.

  “He is in a grave way,” whispered Frieda. “His eyes betray him; he shall leave us soon … very soon.” Tears formed in her eyes. She looked at the man and at Maria, who was now lying close to him. “She is desperate for him,” Frieda added. “She loves him so.”

  Wil could not speak. A large lump swelled within his throat, and he looked away.

  The walls of Bremen finally loomed large and menacing over the riverboat’s bow. “There,” announced the captain. “The Rome of the northland!”

  Indeed, Bremen was a powerful, wealthy diocesan city, endowed with its privileges from Charlemagne himself nearly four hundred years prior. From here the archbishop ruled his vast see, which encompassed the northern reaches of the German empire, the Baltic region, and Scandinavia.

  Wil studied the scene alongside Helmut. “No bridge to join the two banks?”

  Helmut shook his head. “My father says they’ve been planning one for years.”

  The pair stared forward at the busy docks of the Weser’s east bank.

  “Do they sail to the sea from here?” asked Wil.

  “Not easily,” the captain answered. “The bishop is demanding better ways to get by the silt beds. Some flat-bottomed barges get through at high tide and trade with the ports at seaside.

  “Now, get your people ready. We’ll dock soon,” barked the captain.

  In about an hour, the riverboat’s oarsmen skillfully navigated their craft alongside a badly warped fishing boat and tossed their ropes to the dock men. With a few heaves and a gentle bump, the vessel came to rest in Bremen on Wednesday, the twenty-first day of August.

  The pilgrims immediately disembarked into the city’s streets now beginning to glow in lantern light. Bremen’s wealth had attracted the best and the worst elements of the German empire as well as all manner of men from beyond. Like all cities, its air reeked of manure and human waste and was choked with the smoke of thousands of hearths burning within its cramped neighborhoods.

  Alwin was glad to hide under the cover of eventide. He lifted his hood over his head and watched a small troop of the archbishop’s army march past. The men were armed with long halberds and swords. One carried a crossbow—an instrument supposedly illegal for use against Christians. They wore heavily padded leather vests and pot helmets over chain mail hoods.

  “Ready for combat,” Alwin whispered to Heinrich. “The place feels tense.”

  It was quickly agreed that the company would not spend the night in Bremen but rather in the relative safety of the countryside. They gathered themselves close together and positioned Pieter carefully atop Paulus. The man said nothing as they lashed his legs securely to the beast’s back, but he managed to chuckle at the antics of a bumbling beggar nearby. Heinrich took a position to one side, Tomas to the other, and the two steadied the failing man. Maria was placed with Frieda and the other women in front of Paulus and behind Wil and Helmut. Otto, Friederich, and Alwin took their places in the rear. With all in order, Wil led them quickly through the city’s streets and out its eastern gate.

  Once beyond the walls, Helmut directed Wil northeastward along a flat, quiet roadway for about three leagues. Then, under an endless canopy of dazzling stars, the company made camp. The wayfarers were comfortable but were troubled on several counts. Foremost to all was Pieter. The man had been lain atop a soft bed of grass, and his head was now lying across Maria’s little lap. The girl stroked his hair and hummed lightly. They had given him more of the remedy of Renwick’s herbalist, and it had seemed to calm him. He had slept well for most of the river journey, and the past few days had been spent quietly, almost dreamily.

  “Would that he might cross with us to Stedingerland,” Heinrich said worriedly. Stedingerland, he thought. What awaits us there? Will Cornelis welcome us, or will he fear my return? Will I put them in peril once again, or has enough time now passed?

  Melancholy hung heavily over the pilgrims, as did fear. They had seen no hint of the Templars since Renwick, but the reputation of these warrior-monks was such that the company remained uneasy. It would not have surprised most of them if the six riders had fallen upon them in their sleep. They looked about the growing darkness with unease. Sensing their nagging fears, Alwin spoke. “I see dread on your
faces. I know you still fear the Templars, but I have prayed hard on the matter. Can you not feel the shield of an unseen hand about us?”

  A few heads nodded.

  “Indeed. We ought not let fear rule us. I believe with all my heart that the riders are long since gone away. I can feel us being drawn into a strong current of another’s will. I truly doubt that six riders will be able to draw us away. It is the end of it; let it leave your minds.” The company murmured, then an ease warmed them. Soon they drifted to their beds, where they closed their eyes in peace.

  Early morning songbirds awakened the wayfarers, and Helmut and Wil conversed softly over a morning fare of bread and wine. “My father is from Wümme in the lands of Lord Ohrsbach. It’s about one day’s easy journey. As you can see, the land is flat here—flat like pan-bread.”

  Wil looked through the mist. The morning’s light brought a very different landscape from what any of them had expected. Wide grasslands spread before them as well as the stubble of harvested fields. The soil was sandy, and the trees were a mixture of pines and hardwoods.

  “Well, it ought to make a smooth ride for Pieter,” Wil said.

  The day passed without incident, and it was soon after the bells of vespers that the company rounded a bend and Helmut pointed gleefully. “There!” he cried. “My village!” Wil’s column followed the happy lad as he dashed along a neat grid of streets and byways, past the village church, its bakery, a row of shops, some stables, and a fishpond. At last, they stopped.

  Panting, Helmut smiled. “I am home.” He turned to Wil and to his fellows with wet eyes. “I am home!” he cried. “God be praised! He has brought me home.”

  The lad sprinted away from his comrades to the door of his father’s large redbrick house. He rapped loudly on the heavy oak, and in moments the door was opened by a servant who cried happily at the sight of the young man and quickly pulled him inside.

  Wil led the company to the doorway, where they waited respectfully. They could hear Helmut’s mother weeping joyfully and the booming voice of his father. Wil smiled at Frieda, and the whole group laughed as they heard Helmut’s mother scold him for his tangled hair and unkempt garb.

  Then, beaming, the happy lad burst from the doorway and cried for his fellows. Pieter was lifted from Paulus and helped into the hall, where they were all greeted with great enthusiasm. Helmut introduced his father as Horst Emilson von Billungsmarch. “I am a trader of whatever one might buy,” he laughed. He extended his hand to each of the men and then bowed to the women. “My wife, Margot, and I owe you more than what this world might offer. You have brought back to us our only true treasure … our Helmut.”

  Servants were immediately ordered to carry Pieter to a soft bed. Others were sent outside to remove Paulus to the stable, and Solomon was invited to play about the house with the merchant’s hounds.

  “Now,” announced Horst, “you all may remain here as long as you like. I will summon the surgeon and a priest for the old fellow.”

  Wil spoke for the others as he expressed his gratitude and insisted they would not remain very long. “Our friend, Father Pieter, will soon die. It is his wish that he would see us to our final home.”

  Horst lifted his finger. “Please, young sir, I should like to hear all about it at the table. You look hungry, and, I must confess, you smell bad.”

  The group giggled.

  “Indeed,” blurted Margot. “Look at you, Helmut!”

  Horst ordered his cook to prepare a light supper, while he sent the company to the rear of the house where a bewildered washwoman had been ordered to draw water for eleven baths. After some griping and guffaws, the pilgrims faced the town’s barber, who clipped and trimmed the guests with great skill. Now gathered along Horst’s table, they gawked at one another in surprise. Heinrich and Alwin had kept their beards, but they had been shortened to look less “barbaric.” Both the men’s and the lads’ hair was trimmed neatly, though left the length that a freeman’s should be.

  The women let the barber cut the ends of their hair and braid it. The wives and the betrothed Wilda were told that the coming fashion for them was to plait the hair, then pile it atop their heads. And so they did. Maria’s hair was plaited neatly into two long braids and decorated with red silk ribbons. They hung neatly over her shoulders.

  Now facing one another, the company marveled. “You look handsome, Heinrich!” Katharina said, laughing.

  The man blushed. “You always were beautiful, wife, only now even more so.”

  Wil stared at his lovely young bride sitting on her wooden chair upright and proud. She looked suddenly very much like the daughter of nobility that she was. He smiled at her and his heart raced.

  “Now,” began Horst as he took his place at the table’s head. He turned toward his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, God’s blessing to my table, God’s blessing to my guests. Deo gratias!” he cried. “You have brought my son back from the dead. God be with you always.”

  The diners lifted their goblets and toasted Horst, Margot, and Helmut loudly. When the hurrahs had ended, another voice drifted from the doorway. “Omnia vincit amor! Love conquers all!” It was Pieter.

  Wil’s company turned and welcomed their dear friend to the table. The pale priest leaned heavily on his staff as Solomon followed faithfully. The diners fell quiet, and a few began to sniffle. “Do not weep for me, my beloved. For another lost sheep has found his home. It is a night to rejoice.”

  He was escorted gently to a seat, where a bowl of stew was set before him. “Many thanks, m’lady.” He lifted his face and stared at his fellows with a broad, though quaking, grin. “You look different! You look civilized!” He chuckled and shook his head. “Who could have imagined it? Now, all of you, please, eat and be merry. This old fool will sip a bit and return to his bed.”

  The rest of that evening was spent in long conversation. The pilgrims shared their stories of bravery and fear, of failure and victory—of shame and redemption. Horst and Margot sat speechlessly, alternating between tears and laughter, amazement and disbelief. They looked at their son proudly and at his fellows with respect. In sum it was a tale of adventure and mystery they would never forget.

  Morning broke brightly over Wümme. It seemed to Maria that the birds were singing louder than usual and that the sky was quickly turning a wondrous shade of blue. She ran to Pieter’s room and found the man sleeping with Solomon curled at his feet. His breathing was uneven, however, and he felt cool to her touch.

  “Papa Pieter?” she said softly. Her throat was swollen and her chin quivered. “Papa?”

  Pieter lay perfectly still.

  “Papa?” A tone of desperation laced the word.

  The man moved. His eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head weakly toward the child. “Ah, my angel,” he whispered. “Am I now in heaven?”

  Maria touched his cheek. Relieved, she shook her head. “No, Papa.”

  “But soon?” The man’s tone was hopeful and oddly reassuring to the girl.

  She nodded as tears began to drip along her smooth cheek. “I think so.”

  Pieter drew a long, quivering breath. He released it slowly. “My dear,” he said, “forgive me for this final failure. That I am not able to do more …”

  Maria leaned against the old man, sobbing. “Oh, Papa,” she whimpered, “it is not a failure. Have no shame in this. I will love you always.”

  Pieter closed his eyes and nodded. “And I you, child.”

  Frieda entered the room and saw Maria sprawled over the man’s breast. With a start, she hurried to the side of the bed and laid her hand on Pieter’s brow. Cold, she thought. So cold. She leaned close to his face and felt his breath slowly drifting by her skin. Not much time.

  The company had hoped to press on that very day, but after they finished their generous morning’s meal, dark clouds suddenly loomed in the east and thunder rumbled toward them. To take Pieter through heavy weather was unthinkable. So Friday passed with the company doing
little other than waiting about Wümme for the storm that never came. “All gas, naught to pass,” grumbled Alwin. “If it’s not to rain, it ought not threaten!”

  Horst had hired the surgeon to spend the whole day with Pieter, and he filled the alms box so that the priest might remain close by as well. The two hovered over the man’s bed, probing and praying, applying compresses and laying on hands.

  At the bells of prime on the next day, however, Pieter climbed from his bed and weakly grabbed hold of Wil’s tunic. “Help me to the garden,” he pleaded. The young man led his elder through the cool morning air to a flat rock in the center of a small vegetable patch. “Ah, many thanks, my son.” He sucked a quivering breath through his nose. “Now, lad, I beg you, nay, I implore you. If there is any good in you, please set me loose from the cursed surgeon and his partner the priest. They are death’s porters—one for the body, the other for the soul!” He shook his head. “By the saints, whether in tempest or by calm, I should very much like us to be on the roadway once again.”

  Wil smiled and nodded.

  “Eh?”

  “Ja, Pieter, so we shall.”

  Relieved, Pieter nodded and turned his eyes toward the wide horizon. In the purpled morning sky, the last stair of the night could be seen failing in the west. “Good,” he said in a whisper. “Now, look there.” He pointed to the star. “We shall follow it, my son. See how it sinks into the horizon? Ja, lad, it is filling your new home with its light.”

  Wil smiled and looked at his friend sitting slump shouldered and frail beside him. He wrapped an arm around the feeble fellow. Fighting the lump filling his throat, he said tenderly, “I love you, Pieter. Thank you for all you’ve done for us. May … may heaven give you rest.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes. “I… I do have one more thing to ask of you.”