Pilgrims of Promise (23 page)

“‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal…. If I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”

When finished, he folded the valuable parchment carefully and raised his hands in a prayer of mercy and of protection. “And may the womb of this woman be blessed richly with a bounty of God’s children.”

Trembling with joy, he then turned to Wil. “Wilhelm of Weyer, son of Heinrich of Weyer, do you take this woman to be your precious wife under God and before these witnesses? And do you promise to keep her and her only?”

Wil set his jaw hard and lifted his face proudly. “I do so swear.”

Pieter turned to Frieda. “Frieda of Westphalia, daughter of… of…”

“Manfred of Chapelle,” the bride whispered.

“Daughter of Manfred of Chapelle, do you take this man to be your blessed husband under God and before these witnesses? And do you promise to obey him and to give yourself to him only?”

Frieda’s brown eyes filled with tears. She turned happily toward Wil and declared, “I so swear by heaven, by the saints and the Holy Mother, and by all things sacred.”

Pieter turned to Heinrich. “Heinrich of Weyer, father of Wilhelm, do you honor and witness these vows?”

“With gladness, I do.”

The old priest took the trembling hands of bride and groom and clasped them within his own. “Then with all the joy my heart can share and with all the wonder of the goodness around us, I do so declare you to be man and wife,
in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!”

A rousing cheer rose up from the jubilant ring, and the merrymakers began to dance round and round the smiling couple. Wil took his foot and set it lightly upon his bride’s as the symbol of his taking her into his life. Then the two kissed.

Benedetto, nearly intoxicated with the happiness of the moment, leapt upon a boulder and strummed his lute. “Now, listen first, dear Wil and Frieda. Then sing to one another your wedding song!”

Take the roses from the gardens,

Take the fishes from the seas,

Take the starlight from the heavens,

But ne’er take her far from me.

Chase the snowflakes from the winter,

Drive the raindrops far and wide,

Move the sheep herds fro and hinter,

Only leave him by my side.

Though the world may fall asunder,

Though the grapes yield no more wine,

Though the storm clouds lose their thunder,

I’ll be his … and she’ll be mine.

Fill thy goblets! Fill thy platters!

Sing with lute a kettle song!

What we claim here now doth matter:

With each other we belong.

The song over, a mad rush to kiss the bride ensued, and Heinrich cried, “Now we need to feast!”

Paulus had been standing quite peacefully by the tree to which he was tethered. His big eyes widened in fear as a rush of many hands flew toward him and the sacks tied fast to his back. Honey was quickly retrieved and poured atop loaves of Meiringen bread, while cheese was melted in the pot atop a hastily built campfire. Soon eager hands dipped bread into the bubbling mixture, while others passed flasks of beer. Strips of salted pork disappeared with speed, and even Tomas was prevailed upon to enjoy fingersful of berry preserves.

Benedetto strummed a ballad to which all danced the ring dance. Pieter brought tears of laughter to all as he frolicked about the circle in his rolling gait. He was as happy as a schoolboy released to the sunshine! The warm breeze tousled his thin white hair and beard, and his bony limbs creaked loudly with every step. Soon the old fellow was panting, and he staggered to the fire to rest.

From there, Pieter watched his beloved friends laughing and singing. The old man chuckled, and his heart swelled with love. “I am richly blessed, Solomon. Richly blessed indeed!”

As twilight descended on the merry camp, Heinrich knew the bride and groom would soon be off. “Pieter,” he cried, “methinks we’ll make camp here tonight?”

The old priest laughed loudly. “
Ja,
I am sure of it!”

The baker then called for his son and for Frieda. In moments, they and the whole of the company gathered together. Heinrich took Frieda’s hand. “My dear, with my son’s permission, I should find it a great joy to call you ‘daughter.’”

Wil nodded. “Indeed, sir.”

Heinrich embraced the girl. “We are family now. We belong to one another.”

Frieda took the baker’s hand. “I am honored to call you ‘Father,’ sir.” She smiled.

Heinrich then turned to his son. He extended his hand tentatively toward the lad and laid it gently on his shoulder. “I am proud of you this day, Wil. I wish you and your bride every good thing under heaven.” He closed his eye, then repeated what he had offered each of his sons at his birth. It was the blessing his own father had given him at his baptism.

For this circle of kin I vow

To stand by you (both) and humbly bow

To God above and blood below To join our hands against all foes.

I pray you courage and arms as steel,

A mind of wisdom, a heart that feels.

Though battles may find you, may each one be won,

Your eyes turned toward heaven and lit by the sun.

Wil’s throat tightened. He said nothing but nodded.

The baker then reached inside his tunic and retrieved something wrapped in a cloth. He looked at Frieda and at Wil. “I should like to give you both this thing as a token of a father’s hope. Son, methinks you’ll be the one to bear it, but it is to be borne for Frieda’s well-being as well as your own. Take this and know that I love you both.” He extended the gift to Wil’s opened hands.

The groom received the present carefully, both eyes fixed on Heinrich. “Thank you, Father.”

Frieda waited patiently as Wil turned his gaze to the thing lying in his palms. He removed the cloth, and the circle clapped. It was the Stedinger blade. “I… we shall treasure it always! Many thanks.” Wil leaned toward his father and embraced him shyly. Heinrich’s heart soared.

Frieda smiled and touched the polished steel lightly. “What is the inscription, Father?”

“Father?” Heinrich smiled. “Ah, my dear girl. Yes. It says,
'vrijheid altijd,
’ which means ‘freedom always.’ It is the language of the Stedingers of whom I have spoken. Freemen in a free land. Would that you both shall be free, like them.”

The bride kissed the man on the cheek.

Pieter touched Wil on the shoulder. “And, good sir, I’ve a gift as well.” He turned to Frieda. “Since Wil shall carry your gift from Heinrich, I should like you to bear this little gift I give to the two of you. Like the dagger, it is to be carried for the well-being of you both.” The old priest opened his bony hand and offered Frieda his treasured Scripture.

The girl gasped. She took the parchment in her hand and held it lightly to her breast. “Oh, Father Pieter.
Danke sehr.
… I’ve no words.”

The priest laid his hands on each of their heads. “Love one another always. It is your privilege as man and wife and as children of God.”

The newlyweds thanked everyone for their good wishes and even cast a halfhearted wave to Tomas watching from some distance. Now blushing, they made their way nervously to the soft ferns of the shadowed woodland standing a respectful distance from the glade.

In the next days, nine pilgrims, two lovers, one scruffy dog, and a donkey crossed through the Brünig Pass and marched within sight of a mountain-rimmed lake where the early morning light blurred the water like a distant green mirage. Through June mists they then entered the steep-sided, mixed forests of the Glaubenberg Pass, pausing only to watch screeching hawks soar overhead. At last, weary and footsore, they pressed beyond the hardships and the drama of the Alpine trails to enter the inviting charms of the Emmental Valley.

Fox and squirrel dashed about the rolling fields like happy children at Midsummer’s. Deep green spruce plunged into inviting ravines, and streamside meadows abounded in deep blue cornflowers, pale blue meadow stork, orange moon poppies, and tiny white May bells. Thigh-high purple clover rubbed the legs of the laughing pilgrims as they descended to the gentler highways leading to Langnau and Burgdorf, and in every direction milk cows and oxen grazed on tender yellow-green grass.

“I like it here!” cried Otto. “It feels safe and warm.”

The others quickly agreed. Indeed, it was a place of magic, a place of pleasant dreams and happy notions. Pieter hobbled along with a half-smile made larger each time that he cast a glance toward the light-footed couple floating at the head of the column.
A handsome pair,
he thought.
Long life to both of them.

In truth, the old fellow was weary. Since the Simplon he had felt a growing weakness, and now he found himself short of breath despite the easier walk along the valley floor.
M’bones took a beating in those Alps,
he thought.
I’ll not be seeing the other side again.

As for the others, all were in good spirits. Heinrich was proud of his son and delighted in the lad’s choice of bride.
He got to choose his own!
he thought. He was also glad hearted about the lad’s sudden change of mood toward him. The man wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that Wil’s anger had subsided, that mercy had found a place in the boy’s heart—and Heinrich was grateful.

Benedetto and Maria skipped along the trail, singing and laughing, the girl always picking flowers, of course. Helmut and Rudolf kept a quiet watch over all, each content to belong to a family of comrades, yet longing to return to their homes. Otto and Heinz spent most of the journey recounting events of the crusade. They spoke of the raft ride down the Rhône, of the pool of reflections, of Georg, and of Karl’s near hanging, of the kindly
Frau
Miller, and of campsite spats. They laughed and mourned and fell into quiet melancholy, only to challenge Pieter with a riddle or to comment on his master riddle, “The Haven.”

Tomas, however, kept mostly to himself. He lagged some fifty paces or so behind the column and at night made only a weak effort to join in the singing. He did his part in gathering wood, drawing water, or caring for Paulus, but beyond that, he had little to say and nothing to offer. Pieter and Heinrich oft watched him with wary eyes of pity, for none could know what troubled the boy. Tomas had spat at the baker thrice since joining the company. Each time he had pointed to his half-ear and scar. Heinrich had restrained his hand, however, and offered the boy peace in turn for each offense. It was those gestures of grace that some thought had begun to move the boy, if only a little.

For Wil and Frieda, the days had become little more than soft light and song. In sunshine they walked hand in hand, their conversation in lovers’ whispers. At night they made their bed beyond the light of camp, where their love was joined with the gentle warmth of June starlight.

In all respects, it was a delightful and happy respite from the troubles that had dogged the steps of the weary pilgrims.