Pilgrims of Promise (20 page)

Pieter rubbed his feet and looked about. He nodded and scratched Solomon’s ears. Paulus suddenly brayed, and all eyes turned toward a wide-wheeled carriage emerging from a bend ahead of them. Alongside the carriage rode a small escort of men-at-arms. Behind them appeared two squat carts laden with what appeared to be some furniture and personal effects. The travelers stood to their feet nervously.

“Scared, Elfman?” goaded Tomas.

Heinz growled.

“You’d be scared, too,” whispered Otto angrily. “You left us afore the slaughter in the castle ahead.”

Wil silenced the boys, but the reminder of what lay ahead left him feeling nauseous. The castle of Domodossola brought him only awful memories.

A lone rider trotted forward and hailed the group. Pieter stepped forward. The soldier was young and poorly armed. He approached the pilgrims warily but did not draw his sword. Pieter thought he looked somewhat familiar.
“Pater?”

“
Si
,” answered Pieter with a smile. “How can I serve thee?”

Saying nothing, the young man looked past Pieter and studied the others, lingering for a moment on Heinrich’s menacing form. Pieter laid a protective arm about Maria’s shoulders. “Good fellow, you’ve naught to fear from us. Have we reason to fear you?”

The soldier shook his head. “No.” He leaned forward in his saddle and studied Pieter carefully. “Smile again,
Pater.”

Pieter grinned.

“Ah,
si,
I know you. You saved my lord’s life.” Relieved, he turned in his saddle and called to his superior.

Wil’s company gathered close as Pieter announced, “They come from
Signor
Verdi!”

The veterans of the crusade were relieved but uncomfortable. Maria became quiet and leaned close into Frieda’s side. It had been a horrible time for all of them, and the memory of the slaughter was unnerving.

An officer dismounted and approached Pieter. “God be praised.”

Pieter bowed. “Blessings on you and your good lord.”

“Signor
Verdi is dead.”

“Dead?” exclaimed Pieter. “How?”

“The Visconti attacked us on Easter Monday. When you were with us, we had not yet recovered from the battle months before.
Signor
died bravely; he fought to the end.”

Pieter sighed sadly. “And Sebastiano?”

“Humph. Good old soldier. Tough as old leather. He perished early in the combat.”

Pieter nearly wept.

The man recounted details of the surprise attack as more of his fellows gathered around. Benedetto sheepishly retreated as Wil listened intently, quite aware of his own failings in that horrid place. “Those that were spared are banished from the Piedmont and Liguria, so we are taking the lord’s family to Rome in hopes of mercy.”

Pieter sent Helmut to the donkey for flasks of wine, which the old man quickly offered to the thirsty soldiers. “Frieda, take some wine and cheese to the wagons. See if any are hungry.”

“But…”

The man’s look left no room for argument.

The girl lifted two clay bottles of wine and a wheel of cheese from Paulus’s packs and obediently delivered them to the first wagon. As she approached, the canvas was lifted and an aged, gray-haired woman reached a trembling hand forward. Frieda thought she looked like death itself. Her eyes were hollow, sunk deep in their shadowed sockets. Her skin was jaundiced, and the bones of her limbs protruded from beneath a peasant’s gown. Next to her glared a young maiden. Frieda looked into the girl’s dark eyes. They were blazing with wounded pride, but weary. Her hair was uncomely and her clothing of poor quality.

“Mother,” said the maid in her own tongue, “take what you can from this wench. I’ll not take charity from a peasant.”

Not understanding, Frieda smiled kindly and offered the cheese to the girl. Suddenly, Frieda knew whom she was helping and she gasped. “Lucia!” Indeed, it was Lucia, the self-important daughter of the great Lord Gostanzo Verdi. For a moment, Frieda felt a wave of triumph. After all, the rich princess had been so very pleased to humiliate her just months before. Wanting for all the world to mock the maid’s bankrupt condition, Frieda said no more. Graciously, she handed the
signora
her cheese and wine, then quietly walked away.

Wil had watched the exchange from a distance. He had already calculated who might be riding in the carriage. He was curious about Frieda’s reaction, and when he saw his fair friend offer her prior tormentor mercy, his heart was touched. “Oh, Frieda!” he whispered. “Oh, good, kind Frieda.”

After another quarter hour, the vanquished Verdi bade the pilgrims farewell, and most extended grasping hands of gratitude. Pieter offered them a blessing, then watched quietly as the broken men remounted and turned slowly away.

“Are we ready to move on?” boomed Wil.

“Aye, lad!” answered Heinrich.

“Then forward.”

Each pilgrim took his or her assigned position, and the company began again. Within a few hours, they found themselves passing beneath the battered ramparts of the Verdi castle. The vanquished lord’s soldiers had informed them that passage beyond the walls was probably safe enough, though surely a toll would be exacted. As predicted, a smug group of drunken Visconti soldiers barred the roadway and demanded a heavy fee. With a loud grouse and menacing look, Heinrich paid the exorbitant toll, and the pilgrims continued on their way.

The column advanced northward through the wide, rocky floor of the Toce Valley and under the watch of the high mountain peaks. Small villages dotted the narrow terraces, and from time to time, tall keeps jutted up proudly against the sky.

At last, the company began its climb into the southern slopes of the great Alps. The roadway was steep and stony, shaded by pine and softwoods. Winded and perspiring, the wayfarers passed the gray stone, dreary village of Gondo, where the ruling lord had erected an imposing watchtower. Pressing on, they hurried by a travelers’ hospice and entered the stark, dramatic Simplon Pass.

Finally, Pieter begged for rest, and Wil was happy to accommodate the old fellow. The priest took a long draught of wine and sat atop a large boulder from which he faced south. He laid back and closed his eyes. He told no one, but he had been feeling more tired than usual. His feet ached, to be sure, and his joints were stiff and swollen. But he had also become short of breath and hoped he was not battling the onslaught of fever.

After a quarter hour of dozing, the old man gathered his strength and stood slowly to his feet. “Ah, my little Heinz,” he said as he pointed southward, “we are leaving the people of passion behind. This mighty wall of mountains is the great divide between them and those who live in the north.” He turned and pointed the lad northward. “Ahead is home to the people of purpose.”

“So what?” groused Tomas.

“It may mean little, or it may mean much. These people of passion have given us art and beauty, song and philosophy. We, on the other hand, seem to be a people of determined ways. We are workers, and what has come to us through these passes has given us much to use.” He looked about his group. “Learn from the wisdom of other peoples and places, discover what you can, then be who you are and make the world a better place.”

Chapter Nine

THE WAGER

T
he pilgrims steadily made their way higher and deeper into the pass. Small pine groves stood in ever-thinning patches, and the air got colder with every step. Struggling upward, they followed the trail, still snow covered and packed hard by the many feet and carts of those gone before. To either side, the snow rose higher as they climbed, soon mounding far above a tall man’s head and creating a white channel through which the travelers passed. Above, bearing the wind like the unflappable sentries of a beleaguered fortress, the green-stained rock face of the peaks stood, silently watching those below as they had for millennia.

The Simplon was difficult to cross, yet its grandeur was exhilarating. Pieter’s heart, grown of late somewhat weary, now pumped vigorously, and his cheeks flushed with excitement. He surveyed the wonder about him and thanked the almighty Creator for such a gift as this. The old man drove his staff hard into the stony earth and considered, once more, his place in the cosmos. He laughed out loud. “What is man, that thou art mindful of him!’”

The pilgrims wrapped themselves tightly in their cloaks and pressed on, finally cresting the pass and beginning the long descent. They stopped for one night under a rocky overhang where they made a hasty campfire with some scrub wood Rudolf had gathered.

At dawn, Heinrich breathed deeply. The man smiled, refreshed by the scent of pine and the tingle of crisp air. “Home!” he cried. “It is beginning to feel like home.”

By the end of the next day, Wil’s company emerged from the Simplon and began their sharp descent toward the sprawling village of Brig. Set along the rushing Rhône River, Brig was nestled neatly in a splendid valley cramped by jagged-edged mountains that seemed to reach into heaven. Stubborn winds dragged snow off the distant peaks and formed huge white pennants pointing southward. Wil’s eyes turned from them and scanned the river northeastward along a narrowing green ribbon.

It was decided that Brig might be unsafe and that camp should be made beyond its borders. Benedetto had heard rumors over the years while perched on his dock in nearby Fiesch. “Too many Frenchmen,” he warned. “They come from Burgundy to take the Simplon south. Many are thieves and rogues who fear the popular routes like St. Cenis’s or St. Bernard’s.”

Just before compline, small clusters of quiet chatter ringed a snapping fire along the rapid river’s edge. Wil had slipped away to practice with his bow, and Frieda sat alone with her quill and parchment. Otto, Rudolf, Helmut, and Heinz told tales of their crusade, and Tomas stared aimlessly into the rushing water. Singing rhymes and giggling, Maria sat with Benedetto and Solomon.

Heinrich relieved Paulus of his burdens and tethered the grateful beast to a nearby tree before sitting alongside Pieter. In the warmth of the campfire’s heat, the two elders lounged comfortably and spoke of many things in low tones. The two had exchanged life stories over the past weeks, and both their mutual respect and mutual trust had deepened. Pieter leaned toward the baker. “So tell me, Heinrich, are you certain she is not your daughter? Wil says it could be no other, and he hates you for denying her.”

The man sighed heavily. He looked through the flames at the firelit face of the happy little girl. With his eye lingering on her misshapen arm, he nodded sadly. “
Ja
, Pieter. I am
certain.
Would that she could be mine, for I could love her easily.”

“And you do not now?”

Heinrich kept his face fixed on the maid. “I do try. But I know who her father is, and it is not easy to keep my hatred for him from falling upon her.”

A small rustle in the brush turned both men’s heads. Seeing nothing, Pieter faced the baker once more. “Are you certain of the father?”

Heinrich grunted.

“How so?”

“Once I owned a boar with a red ear. Each gilt of the litters he threw had a red ear as well. None others in the village herd had a single red ear, only the gilts of that boar.”

Pieter waited.

“In the same way, Maria bears the mark of someone.”

“Her arm?”

“Nay, not her arm. The village has its share of troubles like that. Most say ‘tis punishment for sin. I say not. We’ve sheep with three legs, swine with half a leg … a calf once with two tails. Nay, ‘tis the way of the world as it is.”

“Then what marks her?”

Heinrich nodded. “‘Ave y’seen the little mole on the girl’s left earlobe?”

Pieter nodded.

“The village has one pig with such a mole, and I’ve known him to be in my home when none else is about.”

“And?”

“Aye. ‘Tis our priest, Father Pious.”

Pieter spat. “Humph. From what Wil says, I ought not be surprised.”

Heinrich darkened. “A pig with the soul of a devil, playing the role of a churchman like some actor at a fair.”

“So you are certain you are not the father?”

With a scowl the baker answered. “I’ve told you, I was banished from her bed long before I left Weyer.”

The pair sat quietly for a few long moments. “You know, good friend, that the maiden is not to blame?” Pieter asked quietly.

“Of course.” The man did not wish the girl to become a symbol of the offense, yet so many voices within him urged he see her as such. His mind turned toward those who had once so eagerly exposed his failings.
Hypocrites,
he thought.
They laid great millstones about my head … they demanded so much suffering from me for my sins yet do not see their own.

Sensing his anguish, Pieter laid a kindly hand on the baker’s tight shoulder. “Seems you have been grievously wronged, my son.”

Heinrich nodded.

Pieter sat thoughtfully. “And ‘tis justice you ache for?”

“Aye!”

“Justice or vengeance?”

The baker hesitated. He wanted to be vindicated, to have the
whole
truth known. “I… I suppose a bit of both.”

Pieter smiled. “Good, an honest answer. Now, my caution is this: we oft want mercy for ourselves and justice for others.”

Heinrich nodded.

“A very natural thing. Yet my heart tells me you would be truly content to simply have the truth known.”

The baker nodded again. “
Ja
. Though I think Pious should be stripped of his robes and sent away.”

“Agreed! And may it be so. But for now, consider this: the truth of these matters
is
known … every bit of it. God sees all; He is perfectly aware of every stain on your heart, on the heart of Pious, and even on the heart of your wife.”

The thought was mildly comforting to Heinrich. He shrugged.

Pieter looked deeply into the man’s face. “Hmm. So, perhaps ‘tis not so much that you want the truth known, as it is that you want it known in a
particular
way.”

Heinrich shuffled in his place. He had not reasoned through his bitterness nearly so thoroughly. “I… I suppose so.”

“Good! To find a handle on trouble we must first name it. Your problem is particularity. You want someone in particular to know the whole truth. So
whom
do you wish to know?”

Without hesitation, Heinrich blurted, “Wil.”

Pieter smiled. “Good! You love the boy, and you want him to love you. You think he hates you and judges you unfairly.”

Heinrich was perspiring. He nodded. “Aye.”

“Well, perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn’t. But you can’t
make
him see. You can’t make him believe what you want him to believe.”

The baker stared into the darkness. “I gave that up long ago, Pieter. I demand nothing from the lad. I wish he knew how much I loved him. I wish he knew that I did not abandon the family for wholly selfish things … though I do confess some wrong desires in my leaving. I was truly in fear for them … in fear of what horrible judgment the sins of my life might bring them. I believed with all my heart that the journey would cleanse me and free them.”

“Perhaps it has,” mused Pieter. “But hardly in the ways you thought!”

Heinrich shook his head. “I fear it has cost them far too much. Pieter, I am not a perfect man, and in that knowledge I have lived a life of fear that has wounded those I love most.”

The old priest put his arm around the baker. “Sometimes we need to guard against our conscience. It is not always a proper master.”

After several moments of silence, Heinrich finally whispered brokenly, “I have been given much mercy.” Indeed, and so he had. It was a simple truth so oft ignored, but once grasped, a truth bound to bear fruit. The weary baker turned toward Maria and took a deep breath. Then, with a determined stride and a gracious smile, he joined the astonished girl and sat by the minstrel to hear a happy song.

Morning broke brightly over Brig. Knowing the next days would require only a relatively easy march across the valley floor, the pilgrims roused themselves with ease. Wil, however, had not slept well. A great struggle of the heart had kept him tossing and turning through the night, for he had happened upon Pieter’s conversation with his father and had heard everything. Hearing his father disavow all demands on the lad’s affections had released Wil to forgive his father with greater ease. Hearing the man decry his own failings, acknowledge the suffering he had caused, and plainly state the truth of his motivations had moved Wil’s heart greatly. He now understood the truth of Maria’s parentage, and when he saw his father offering kindness to this daughter of Pious, his heart filled with respect.

Wil had secretly wondered if Pious was, indeed, the father of Maria. He had seen the man prowling about the hovel all the while his father had been gone. It did not shock him, therefore, to imagine that the priest had visited his mother even before his father had left. For as long as he could remember, he had hated Pious. Hearing his darkest suspicions confirmed only infuriated him all the more. The anger he had directed toward his father was promptly shifted against the village priest. Wil remained confused about his mother, however.
Perhaps she was lonely. Perhaps in great fear for all of us. The comfort of a priest was a temptation too great.
He wasn’t sure what to think. Throwing a stone as far as he could, he took a deep breath. “Otto, is everyone ready?”

“
Ja
.”

Wil surveyed his company and let his gaze linger for a moment on Frieda. “And you, Frieda, are you ready?”

The damsel answered playfully, “I am, my lord.”

“And me, too, sire!” Maria cried with a giggle.

So, in good spirits, the band of pilgrims began its nine-league march along the Rhône toward the majestic Grimsel Pass. It was a glorious day and the sun shone kindly overhead. Maria and Benedetto passed the time singing simple ballads, while the boys teased one another with jibes and taunts.

The company kept a brisk pace alongside the surging, chalky gray Rhône. The river was swollen and tumbling hard from the spring thaws. The group paused for a midday meal and reflected on their raft ride southward in the summer past. At Fiesch, however, Benedetto grew silent and urged Wil to hurry on. He cast one brief look at his former home and was shocked to discover his old dock was gone.

“It isn’t there!” exclaimed Otto. “Benedetto, your dock is gone.”