Pilgrims of Promise (18 page)

Chapter Eight

HOMEWARD BOUND

T
he happy reunion of the former crusaders happened on the twenty-fifth day of April in the year of our Lord 1213. In the larger world, the blood of Christians and Muslims alike continued to soak the sands of Palestine. Reports of a few minor victories were doing little to encourage the waning spirits of Christendom’s knights. After all, Jerusalem had not been recovered, Christian armies had been weakened over decades of discouraging losses, and now the savage Seljuk Turks were supplanting the Saracens as the lords of Islam. In response, Pope Innocent had recently rebuked his reluctant knights by referring them to the faith of the child crusaders. “While we slept, these children flew to the defense of the Holy Land. They put us to shame!”

In this regard, the pope did one more thing of which Wil’s company had not yet learned. Considering all crusaders as having taken holy vows by either word or implication, he decided
not
to release the young survivors of the Children’s Crusade from theirs. They would need to either honor their sacred duty again—perhaps at a more mature age—or pay their debt in alms.

The pope had also directed his attentions to another sort of crusade. Granting his warriors absolution if killed in combat, he commanded a gruesome campaign against the French heretics called the Cathars. Not yet concluded, it had become a horrid affair that gave many pause. Blood flowed freely through the streets and footpaths of French towns and villages as men, women, and children suffered the unmerciful steel of a wrathful Roman Church.

These distant circumstances had little present effect on the pilgrims resting in the
Rocca di Arona.
In time, the machinations of ruthless men would doubtless fall upon their heads as sure as soot falls from a chimney. However, it was fortunate for them that
Signora
Cosetta’s late husband,
Signore
Salito, had negotiated peace with the emerging Visconti family of Milan the year before his death. Had he not, the tangle of the larger world might have been raining arrows and bolts upon them once more.

As it was,
Signora
Cosetta was content to enjoy her own final years with as little disturbance as possible. She ignored the appeals for alliances with either the Rusconi family or the Sforza. A cousin in the Dé Capitanei family had managed a small concession, but it was peace the widow craved and little more. To that end she had yielded quickly to the insistent pleas of Pieter and Wil during the May Day feast. She had agreed to release Maria to their custody on the provision that the girl would not be returned to a state of bondage in “that cold village you call Weyer.”

“And,” she had added, “you may not risk the passes just yet. You
shall
remain here as my guests until the feast of the Ascension!”

Wil presented the news to his cheering comrades gathered on the bailey. A few more weeks to linger under the Italian sun was good cause to be happy! Heinrich, however, was not as pleased. He was anxious about returning to the uncertainties of Weyer, yet he felt compelled to return. No matter the risk, he needed to learn of his bakery and of his wife, and further delays were frustrating. In addition, the man had spent many a sleepless night pondering his legal status as either bound or free. Walking across the bailey, he approached Pieter and Wil. “Pieter, the
signora
insists that we swear Maria’s freedom. Yet how can Maria be free if we return to Weyer?”

“I am no lawyer, my friend, but it seems to me she is free already.”

“How so?”

“No lord has claimed her for a year and a day.”

Heinrich nodded. But it was his understanding that a man needed to be in an imperial city for that time, and he posed the point to Pieter.

The priest shook his head. “We can make the case otherwise. As I understand it, a man is free
de facto,
when not captured in due time.”

The baker disagreed. “Without a passport no lord will honor such a claim. I fear for her … I fear for us all.” He looked at Maria. “But even if your point is true for Wil and m’self, perhaps even Tomas, the girl is still subject to the bound status of her mother.”

Pieter grunted, then put his finger on his chin. “Hmm. Perhaps we’ve a problem.” He looked carefully at Heinrich. “And you still swear you are not Maria’s father?”

“Aye.”

Wil growled. “My father and I will demand our freedom, and the daughter of a freeman is free.” He turned a hard eye at the baker.

“Your father swears she is not his.”

Wil stiffened. “He lies.”

Heinrich took a deep breath. “No, son, I speak truly. Maria is not mine, so she is subject to the bound status of her mother.”

Wil spat. “Let God be your judge!” He turned to Pieter. “Mother is surely dead. Pious saw to that.”

“What do you mean?” blurted Heinrich.

Pieter answered for him. “It seems the priest gave Wil instructions to administer an herb to your wife … that is poisonous.”

Heinrich recoiled. “Cursed boar! Prowling devil! He had a coveting eye on our bakery and our land for years. May he suffer hellfire!” Heinrich was furious. Until that moment, he had imagined returning to his wife repentant and hopeful. To learn of her likely death was a shock, but to learn of Father Pious’s scheme was infuriating. “May God forgive me, but I will carve that pig’s throat and grind his head in the mill.”

For the young pilgrims, the next three weeks passed in a most agreeable way. May had delivered a host of flowers and fresh vegetables that graced both garden and table. Heinrich, however, had become sullen and withdrawn. His rage had settled into a quiet, seething determination for vengeance.

Assigned by the castellan to work with the cellarer, the baker spent the days bartering his labors for his keep like his fellows. Frieda and Maria worked with the seamstresses who sewed garments for the poor of Arona and of Stresa farther north. The monastery of Sesta Caliendo (a cliff-side cloister across the lake) had commissioned nearly a thousand ells of cloth to be sewn and distributed in the name of St. George.

Because of his age, Pieter had been given leave to lounge about as he wished. He offered an occasional prayer or blessing from time to time, usually in exchange for beer or wine—sometimes cheese or olives. And, while the grinning old fellow wandered the castle courtyards or the streets of Arona, Wil, Tomas, Helmut, and Rudolf worked long hours with the forester culling the woodlands for firewood. The work was hard but not demanding. Their wards were of a mind to grant one swallow of red wine for each swing of the axe! At the bells, they were all quick to settle into a dreamy nap while Benedetto sang for them.

Every evening Wil strolled across the lawns of the list with Maria or with Frieda, sometimes both, and always with Emmanuel. He talked of many things, some past, some yet to come. In every conversation, however, the lad’s thoughts ran to his betrayal of his little sister on that awful night in the castle at Domodossola. He could still see her face fall, wounded by his words. He felt sick as he remembered denying her in order to curry the favor of the haughty princess, Lucia.

He had fumbled through a few general confessions over the previous weeks and had been assured of his forgiveness. But he had avoided the specificity that his pride had guarded. This evening, he would open his heart. “Maria,” he began slowly, “I’ve a need to speak of something once more.”

The girl had been walking by his side. She stopped and turned her blue eyes toward Wil’s face.

“I am so terribly sorry for what I did in the Verdi castle. I was a fool of fools, blind to the things I love most in this world.”

Maria stood quietly, lightly slipping her hand into his.

At the touch, the boy’s eyes swelled. “I have always loved you, Maria. I love you more than I can say. I denied you were my sister because, because …”

“Because of my arm?”

Wil swallowed hard and nodded. “I wanted the lord’s daughter to think of me as a prince of high birth. I wanted her to think me special.”

“I remember, Wil,” answered Maria gently. “And we were all dirty and poor looking.”

Wil shrugged. “And me, too. Only I was the dirtiest of all. I pretended you did not belong to me, that I was something I am not. And in that wicked moment I hurt you. It was a horrible thing to do. Then, later, even when I felt so sick about it, I could not say the words I wanted to say. Pieter says m’pride filled my throat so that the right words could not pass.” The lad knelt and peered earnestly into the girl’s kindly face. “Oh, dear Maria. Forgive me, I beg you. I was wrong. I am
proud
to call you my sister. I am proud that we belong to one another. I was a mad fool.”

The girl smiled and fell into her brother’s embrace. “I forgave you long ago … and I still forgive you!”

No herbal balm, no angel’s song has ever cured an ailing heart like those three words. With them are painful wounds healed, warring realms put to peace, and the souls of men reconciled to Almighty God. Relieved beyond measure, the lad drew a deep breath, and when he released it, the weight of many sorrows blew away. “You are a wonder to me, dear sister,” he said quietly.

Maria kissed her brother lightly on the cheek. “Tis you who are the wonder, Wil. It is no small thing to ask. But I saw a bit of heaven. That makes it easier for anyone to forgive. That makes it easier to do a lot of things! Now, no more word of it; ‘tis all passed,” she said with a grin. She then pointed to a large sycamore tree growing by the fishpond. “Follow me!” She led Wil to the tree and removed the ringlet of flowers resting atop her head. She hung her ringlet on a short limb and then stepped back to a safe distance. “Now, big brother, stand back fifty paces and shoot the center of m’flowers … if you can!”

Wil laughed lightly.
“If
I can? Ha! Watch me!” The lad stepped off fifty paces and turned. He took a careful aim, pulling the bowstring steadily toward his face with three fingers. When he felt the fletching touch his ear, he released the string. The arrow sang through the air on a gentle arc as brother and sister held their breath.

“Yes!” cried Maria. “You did it!”

Wil beamed. His many hours of practice had made him an amazing marksman in a short time. “Ha!” he boasted. “Next time, sixty paces!”

Such was the way of that blessed May. It was a time of fresh colors, pleasant walks in balmy evening air, and early harvests of garden delights. Yet pleasure has its season, and the time to begin their journey was soon upon them. It was the feast of the Ascension, and on the morning to follow the pilgrims would turn their eyes northward. No thought was given to staying; all were ready to climb the mountains and face the destiny that lay ahead.

The feast day was bountiful, and
Signora
Cosetta was a gracious host. Tables were lined in long rows in the castle’s great hall where trays of spring vegetables and steaming game delighted visitors from afar. It was an uproarious event, filled with loud singing and boastful claims. A papal legate nearly choked on fish bones, a drunken Visconti clerk disrobed, and the crooning Benedetto nearly fell to his death from his balcony far above the tiled floor! Otto and Heinz, Rudolf and Helmut exchanged flirtatious grins with a foursome of Italian maidens, only to be angrily chased away by jealous suitors. Solomon raced the
signora’s
hounds in a wild scramble to gobble scraps tossed from greasy hands, and by night’s end the shaggy beast lay panting on a swollen belly.