by C. D. Baker
Hunger quickly took the soldiers captive once again, and Wil ordered his exhausted friends to rest. But no sooner had they collapsed atop shriveled weeds when four new voices were heard at the edge of the camp. “Gut’tag.… Hello…. We, too, are crusaders and beg leave to join your company.”
Wil bounded to his feet, startled by the intrusion and in no mood for more responsibility. “Nay. Nay. Find your own way. I have no means to feed you.” He growled and cursed and flailed his arms at the gaunt faces staring at him.
The disillusioned newcomers stood respectfully still. They were pale and drawn, tattered and fragile. Judging them as well as the waning light would allow, Wil thought them to be unable to fend for themselves for many more days. Compassion, so oft kept at bay by the boy, crept over Wil and his heart groaned.
“Not such the grand master after all? Not so able, are we?” taunted Tomas.
His words landed on Wil like a stick on an angry dog. He gave Tomas a furious eye and started toward him. His better sense took hold, however, and he abruptly turned toward the four hopefuls and forced a kind word. “Ja … ja. You are granted my leave into our company … and we … welcome you.”
Wil turned another savage look at Tomas and with one eye on his foil and the other on the newcomers, continued. “The more hands, the lighter the load.” He paused for a moment and looked thoughtfully at his silent company. “Listen, all of you.” He folded his arms. “On the morrow and each day thereafter you shall go by twos and threes to beg at each village we pass by.” He switched his gaze and fixed his eyes hard on Karl. “We’ll soon learn if this God brother Karl is so certain of shall help us or not.”
The next morning was heavy-dewed and misty, and Karl woke to wipe the wet from his eyes. He stretched and yawned and was startled to find something quite strange at his feet. “Wake, everyone!” Karl jumped up, nearly bursting with joy. “Quickly! Look … look … a fish!”
Indeed, a large, big-eyed cod, still shiny and wet, was flat on a rock in the middle of the campsite. Wil squinted his sleepy eyes and shrugged in surrender to the mystery. He reached for kindling and soon an early-morning fire was snapping amid the baffled band. In short order, the fish was impaled on a stout, green stick and held by impatient hands over the flames, only to be ravenously reduced to bones before the sun reached half orb over the horizon.
By early afternoon the company descended a slight decline into a leafy glen where the road was lined on either side by a thick wood. The dark shadows which edged the path were a welcome refuge from the day’s heat but formed an eerie corridor leading toward a narrowing view of the roadway. Wil cast a quick glance over his shoulder at his tired, shuffling band, secretly hoping for some assurance. Instead, he shook his head. How did I come to master such a brood of weaklings and misfits as this?
The steadfast company followed their leader into the shadows without a whimper and greeted the unknown with hearty courage. A few more children dressed in tattered, red-crossed homespun seeped into the column from the woodland shadows. Each arrival weighted Wil, for the column now numbered more than twenty, and each new pilgrim was yet another mouth to feed and another soul to shepherd. If but I could worry only of m’self Wil’s heart felt as heavy as his weary feet and he imagined slipping away into the night’s shadows, abandoning his burden. His thoughts drifted to his days inside the cool walls of the abbey—drinking a cup of cold water from the monks’ deep well, splashing in the root cellar’s icy spring with the novices. Suddenly, three large, filthy men bounded from the dark wood not three paces from the startled boy.
“Halt where y’be, waifs,” bellowed one huge, bearded man. He set his dark eyes close to Wil’s wide ones.
“Such a look on such a pretty face.”
Wil stammered, “Out … out of our way.” The lad quickly studied the man. The intruder wore a coarse tunic slit far up the sides like a field serf’s. Wil would have taken him for a common ruffian, but the tall black boots of a nobleman rose up his leggings and the man wore a wide, leather belt which suspended a large, sheathed saber. Wil knew this to be a highwayman.
The man laughed again and elbowed his nearest companion. This one tipped his wide-brimmed, leather hat. “Well, we’ve found ourselves a tender brood.” He sneered and stuck his thick thumbs into the bright red sash which girded his round belly. He immediately seized command. “Push them together,” he barked.
The other two jumped to the task and encircled the frightened children. With the sharp points of their swords they herded the trembling crusaders into a tight cluster in the middle of the path. Wil began to protest but was slapped on the head by the bearded rogue. “Bite that tongue, my bold friend, else we might add it to our stew past vespers.”
“Now then, m’little poachers,” chuckled the fat one. “We should like you to share with us those things what you’ve scrumped during this most holy of all crusades.” He plucked a well-worn knife from his belt and scratched his dirty face while he waited for a response.
Karl first looked to Wil, then nervously answered, “But m’lords, we’ve stolen nothing. We are on a pilgrimage for God.”
“You ought sew your mouth shut, little man,” ordered the third villain. “Now, do as he says and strip your tunics and empty your satchels. Now, I say. Do it at once else we strip y’bare where y’be.”
Wil and Tomas looked at the ugly little man standing wide-legged before them, and they both defiantly folded their arms across their chests. The furious man yanked a plumed, woolen cap off his head and threw it violently at Tomas. He jerked a short-sword from its scabbard and held it against Tomas’s throat. “Do it now or I vow you shall surely die where y’stand.”
The fury in the man’s voice chilled the children. Wil, perspiring and suddenly straining for courage, opened his mouth to speak. “Good sirs …”
But before he could continue a voice bellowed from the roadway. “Tutena? Atque cuius exercitus? Tutena? Atque cuius exercitus?”
The surprised highwaymen swung their eyes toward the strange voice. A black-hooded, badly bent man on rolling legs stormed toward them and surged past the baffled children. His eyes burned hot from within the dark shadows of his black hood. His bony hand drove his crook deeper into the dust, twisting it harder with each advancing step. Again the voice barked, “Tutena? Atque cuius exercitus?”
Karl looked at Wil, wide-eyed. He and Wil had studied Latin in the abbey and he was almost certain of the stranger’s words. The three men, now angry and primed for a confrontation, swaggered toward the newcomer.
Karl studied the stranger and his eyes suddenly brightened. He leaned close to Wil and whispered, “Look! ’Tis Pieter … the old priest from Mainz.”
“Aye,” answered Wil quickly. “Listen … I think he said, ‘You and whose army?’” Karl agreed and shuffled cautiously toward the encounter building before them.
“Shut y’er mouth, old man,” snapped the stout one. “I can better do without such foul air in m’face. And you’d better use a tongue I understand or, by God, I’ll cut it off.”
Pieter now was standing directly in front of the three and, choosing to ignore rather than respond, began to dust his robe starting atop his shoulders and following his slight frame until he finished by patting the dust from his shins. He lifted a wooden cross from within his robe and kissed it before finally raising his eyes to meet the dumbfounded trio. The cunning old man then cleared his throat, stood as erect as his old back would permit, and held his cross close to each angry face. Standing before the round-bellied rogue he asked, “Nonne aliquantulum pinguescis?” But before the befuddled man could respond he turned toward the one with the plumed cap. “Ubi possun potiri petasi similis isti?”
The confounded rogues retreated a half-step and stared at each other. Tomas moved slowly to Wil’s side. “What’s this about?”
Wil was gawking in disbelief at old Pieter and answered with a mischievous grin, “He told the first that he is fat and he asked the second one where he might fi
nd such a hat.”
Tomas nearly laughed out loud. Pieter stepped to the bearded man and, in similar fashion, placed the edge of his nose upward by the man’s chin. The man was clearly intimidated and nervously offered Pieter something of a pathetic smile. Pieter lifted his sparkling eyes to the heavens and extended the cross to his last victim. “Caput vacans, in dentibus anticis frustum magnum brassicae habes.” This last pronouncement was offered with such authority that the ruffian immediately bowed forward and backed two steps away.
Karl and Wil squirmed, stifling an almost irresistible urge to burst into laughter. Tomas, frustrated for his ignorance, tugged on Wil’s tunic and demanded a translation. Wil leaned close to his impatient ear and whispered, “He said, ‘Your head is full of air and you have a huge piece of cabbage in your teeth.’”
The men were bewildered and suddenly seemed to be like little children themselves, dazzled and dumbstruck. Pieter, knowing full well he held the clear advantage, walked to the three directly and shook his staff sternly at each of them. “I am a priest in the service of the Lord and I demand an immediate accounting of thy intentions toward these fair children.”
The flustered ruffians pulled nervously at their tunics and mumbled some indiscernible jumble of words and grunts.
“I say to ye foul three again,” bellowed Pieter, “kneel before me now and confess thy transgressions, otherwise I am obliged to pronounce judgment against thy cursed souls.”
The three hesitated until Pieter lifted his hands to the heavens. Sensing an invocation of divine wrath they fell straightaway to their knees and begged pardon. Pieter delayed for a painful moment, like a schoolmaster pondering mercy, and then walked abruptly to the black-bearded one. He placed a bony hand upon the rogue’s trembling, uncovered head and held his cross toward the man’s face as he pronounced, “Stercorem pro cerebro habes.”
Wil giggled in disbelief and whispered to Tomas, “He told him he has dung for brains!”
Pieter reached toward the next repentant and placed his hand likewise. “Podex perfectus es.”
Karl could not bear to let his brother lay hold of this one. “He told him he is a perfect arse.”
Pieter concluded his dubious benediction by slapping both his hands atop the third head. “Modo vincis, modo vinceris.”
Karl giggled and smiled at Wil. He leaned to Tomas. “‘Some you win, some you lose.’”
The three men, oblivious to the degradation they had just endured, each kissed Pieter’s outstretched hand in reverent submission and boundless gratitude. Then, duty done, they disappeared into the woodland grateful for the preservation of their souls.
The old man took a deep breath and walked toward the crusaders, feeling rather good about himself. He smiled, sucked a small splinter from his thumb, and placed his cross within his robe. His kindly, wrinkled face radiated warmth and love, and his eyes shined. He extended his arms.
One little child ran to Pieter, uncertain as to what magic had just transpired, but indebted just the same. He wrapped his chubby arms around one of Pieter’s legs and squeezed with all his might. “Thank you, Father … thank you!”
The priest stooped to kiss the top of the boy’s dusty, white hair. “Such a pleasure for me, good lad. I am most happy to serve you.”
The other children crowded about the grinning priest, cheering and clapping and grabbing at his arms and legs. Wil, Karl, and Tomas jostled their way toward Pieter, Karl gladly translating for the rest of the group the humiliation that had just occurred. Wil, happy and relieved for it all, extended his hand of welcome.
Pieter’s eyes met the lad’s and he clasped his hand firmly, surprising Wil with more strength than he had expected from such a time-worn grip. “’Tis most satisfying,” offered Pieter gently, “to stumble upon you again. And you, boy,” he said as he reached his hand toward Karl. “It is a joy to find you as well. Remind me to share a small riddle I have for you.”
Pieter turned his attention to Tomas. “And you, young master. Tomas, I believe is your name. It bears me well to come twice upon a proud young fellow as yourself.” Tomas hesitated, sensing a bite in the old man’s words. The two clasped hands briefly.
Pieter smiled and turned toward a tender voice squealing impatiently for some attention. To his soul’s delight he beheld Maria, and the old man fell to his knees, stretching forth both his arms to receive her.
“’Tis very good to see you, Father Pieter!”
“Ah my blessed, blessed little one. It gives my heart life to see you!” He closed his eyes and embraced the happy child. “However, my dear Maria, you have my leave to simply call me, Pieter, or even Papa Pieter if you like. ’Tis a bit odd, perhaps, but it is some easier to recognize one sound rather than the many titles which do fall upon my old ears.”
Pieter stood to his feet, radiant and beaming, happy as a schoolboy released to a spring day. It was the children, the blessed Innocents that encircled him who lifted his spirit to high places. He held his arms wide and spoke kindly. “I am known as Pieter and I am your friend. If you should be so kind as to allow, I should like very much to travel in your good company.”
Wil thought hard for a moment, drawn by a growing inclination toward the enticing old man and his good wits. He surveyed the hopeful faces staring back at him and the eyes begging his consent. At last he answered with surety, “Yes, Pieter, you may join with us for now. You brought us an easy end to that bad business and we are in your debt.”
Pieter bowed respectfully and winked at Maria. He stood, but startled those about him by abruptly shouting, “Solomon, Solomon!” To the delight of all, the gray dog came bounding from the wood, jumping gleefully through the happy band.
The crusaders pressed southward, engaging each other in playful banter until they could not help but consider their hunger more weightily than their fellowship. The troop came to rest, collapsing by the side of the road. Pieter fell to the hard ground and propped the arc of his back against the smooth bark of a huge maple. Quite content to skirt the conventional position, he simply folded his hands and began whispering a prayer.
Karl, Wil, and even Tomas waited respectfully, though a bit impatiently, for what seemed an eternity. At last, the priest opened his eyes and smiled. Karl blurted, “So, by faith, you’d be a priest truly, Pieter?”
“Ah,” Pieter answered. “The truth is that some would say ‘aye’ and others ‘nay.’” Pieter pulled himself up on his staff.
Tomas cast a suspicious eye at the man. “Oh, more tricks with yer tongue, eh? What is it to be, old man? Either you be a priest or you be not.”
Pieter lingered for a moment, adding to Tomas’s frustration. “Some believe that to be a way to see life. I, however, have learned that on occasions most things are not so plain. Sometimes we are a grasp of this and a pinch of that…. I calculate me to be a pinch of priest and a grasp of not.” He smiled.
Wil shook his head stubbornly. “Tomas’s is a plain question and deserving a plain answer. That is how I see it.”
“’Tis a remarkable thing to see a man of such determined opinion,” answered Pieter. “Remarkable indeed. And I should be remiss if I withhold other truth on that matter. You see, strong faith and strong opinions rarely share the same heart. Ah, but your pardon!” The old man bowed, satisfied for the planting of the seed. He pointed his forefinger into the centre of his chin and measured his words. “That was not our discussion. So, let me plainly say that, as children of God, we are all priests of a sort. I am trained in the holy traditions and you are not, but without the charge of a parish, that would be the only difference.”
Wil was unwilling to yield the point. “I say we are not priests and I find it unfit to pretend you to be so. I have yet to meet a priest who behaves as you.”
“Yes, yes,” smiled Pieter, “for such a compliment I do offer my hearty thanks.”
Wil scratched his head and looked at Karl.
Pieter leaned on his staff and rubbed Solomon’s ears. “You do know, ah yes,
what a fool I am. You must know,” he said firmly, “that the Good Book says, ‘Do not be over-righteous, neither be over-wise. Why destroy yourself?’”
The perplexed children stared at him.
“Well, ’tis the truth.” A huge smile stretched his wrinkles and nearly squeezed his eyes shut. He turned again to Tomas. “And what say you about such of Scripture?”
Tomas grumbled and looked sideways for rescue.
Wil stepped forward. “And I still say you do not look like a proper priest!” He set his fists firmly on his hips and rocked up on his feet, confident of his assessment. “What sort of churchman do you pretend to be? Your robe is black and looks to be more a Benedictine habit than otherwise. But your hair is wild, the crown of your head is not shaved … so you’d be no monk. And you don’t speak like a churchman … and … and I say you laugh more than any priest ought.”
Pieter’s eyebrows arched high and he threw his head back with a howl that brought grins to the whole circle. “Oh, now, lad, you have just shared more truth than you know. Ha!” Pieter, still chuckling, wiped the tears from his eyes and sighed. “As for my robe, it was stitched by a peasant wife for the priest of a humble parish. I had baptized a child in his village soon after the poor priest’s death and was given it as my payment. I thought it rather becoming and just uncommon enough to raise a brow here and there.
“As for my hair … ah, what can be said? I was a monk once, but felt the cold too much upon my crown. And, for my speech … ah, yes, so I have learned to speak both the language of the haughty and the language of the true. Dost thou believeth me, or dost thee linger in thy doubt?”
Karl was confused. “Pieter,” he fumbled, “the Church is mighty and wealthy and even those sworn to poverty have at least something more than you. I confess I have never seen such a priest as you.”
Pieter grew quiet for a moment and answered, “‘Better to be lowly in spirit and among the oppressed than to share plunder with the crowd.’”