Pilgrims of Promise (28 page)

“Non, non!
I… I am
voyageur
. I mean no … no evil.”

Alwin stepped close to the man and held a lantern by his face. The Frenchman looked down at the Templar sword now pointed at his belly and nearly swooned. Something about the man’s sudden and inexplicable terror caught Alwin’s attention. “Cathar?” he asked.

The old man closed his eyes and trembled. Alwin lowered his sword and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Non Templar
,” he said kindly as he pointed to himself.

Michel’s eyes opened in relief, and the pilgrims thought he might burst into tears.
“Ah, mon Dieux!”

“Sheath your sword, Heinrich,” said Alwin as he set his own aside. “He’s a Cathar.”

“Cathar?” Heinrich was confused. “I thought he was French.”

“The Cathari are heretics from the region of Provence and Languedoc. He would not think himself a Frenchman at all, and his language is not quite the same. I don’t know it very well.”

Alwin turned to Michel and studied his clothing, then smiled at the egg clutched within one closed hand.
“Credente?”

The man hung his head and nodded.

Alwin smiled. “
Depuis Toulouse?”

“Non, Avignonet.”

The knight walked into the dark corners of the stable and chased away a clucking hen. He retrieved two eggs and handed them to the old fellow with a smile. At first, the man looked ashamed, but when he saw the twinkle in Alwin’s eyes, he grinned. Placing the eggs into his pockets, the Cathar cast a fleeting look at his horses and wagons, then hurried away.

Chuckling, Alwin set the sword aside and then sat with his confused friends. “Gather close.”

The four huddled atop the straw in the yellow light of a smoky lantern. Alwin stroked his beard and stared into the flame as he collected his thoughts. Heinrich thought the knight to have aged considerably since he had last seen him ride away from Stedingerland. That was six years prior, in the time when the monk had worn white robes and was known by another name. The baker remembered him as a sinewy young blond with the heart of a lion and the spirit of a saint. Still handsome and ever disposed toward compassion, Alwin had changed nonetheless. His hair and beard were now longer than the Templars allowed, and his dark eyes belied a deep sorrow. The man had become seasoned by a world of troubles, and the baker easily recognized the telltale marks of suffering. Heinrich waited quietly.

“I should tell you my story,” began Alwin. He settled comfortably against a stout post. “I was proud to serve the order,” he said slowly. “I tried to serve my Lord with both sword and alms to the very limits of my strength. I was obedient to my masters in the preceptories, kept to my prayers, my reading of the Holy Scriptures, my endless fasts, and to the service of the Church. I honored my vow of chastity and only sought to offer kindness to the helpless and sharp steel to evil.

“Yet, as God is my witness, I sit before you as a man confused.”

A voice distracted the group. It was Pieter. “Ah, I’ve come with news. Dorothea… the lord’s daughter… has been told of our presence and bids us come to first meal before prime. She thinks it best we gather
before
the bells.”

Slightly annoyed at the interruption, the four grumbled a bit. “Why before the bells?”

Pieter shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

“Sir Alwin is telling us his story,” said Otto.

“His story?” Pieter set himself atop a mound of hay and called Solomon to his side. “Your pardon, Alwin. Please, continue.”

The knight began again. “I kept the rules of my order and the rules of the Church, but I fear I violated the law of love.”

“Order and love are not always friends,” muttered Pieter.

The others stared at him.

“Ah, pardon, Alwin. Please, go on.”

“As I was saying, I served the order well and our Lord poorly.”

Pieter spat.

“Heinrich, when I left you in Stedingerland, I delivered the taxes to the preceptory in Cologne, where I remained until our Grand Master, William de Chartres, ordered a contingent of knights to England. I was sent as an escort along with the seneschal and three grand preceptors to the London Temple, where we met the horrid King John.

“I remained in London for a year or so. It was a terrible time. The king is surrounded by fools, save one … a man named Sir William Marshal—a Christian knight of courtesy and honor for whom I have only respect. But I found the realm odd. It is filled with a great sense of liberty amongst the nobles, and even the middling freemen speak incessantly of their ancient rights. It seems they’ve come upon another way, yet their king is as ruthless a tyrant and as greedy a thief as I’ve e’er seen … save, perhaps, the pope.”

“Well said! He—”

Once again all eyes turned toward the priest, who sighed. “Pardon, again, Alwin. Please, say more.”

“Ja.
It was near Pentecost when I was ordered to France along with a small company of Templar knights and lesser brethren. We numbered about twenty-eight when we gathered in Paris. Our orders were to protect a papallegate soon to be sent to counsel an army arrayed against a growing heresy in the south of France.

“We were told that the heretics teach that two powers control all things: Jehovah, the benevolent Lord of light, rules the realm of the spirit; while the equally empowered lord of the material world, Lucifer, rules things temporal, including the flesh in which men’s spirits are imprisoned. They preach that Christ was spirit only; He had no physical, earthly body, so our Holy Mother had no pain in childbirth. He was sent by Jehovah so that men might be liberated from all things temporal.

“They deny the sacraments, the Holy Trinity, the resurrection, prayer, and the Holy Church. They are forbidden to eat eggs or meat of any kind. To them sexual union is the greatest sin, for it perpetuates the world of the flesh by causing birth. They have their own bishops and deacons, and they lay hands on one another to pass on spiritual power. Their elite live plain lives, utterly committed to the laws of their creed. They are called the
perfecti.
The followers are called the
crecientes.
I suppose they do their best, but they are weaker men who hope to enter a higher state on their deathbeds.”

Pieter rose angrily. “Bondage mongers! They abuse the fools that follow them. They are no better than the Church they oppose!”

“Are you finished?” Heinrich groused.

Pieter grumbled, then sat down once more. “Aye. Pardon, Alwin. Please, go on.”

Alwin walked toward the provisions piled near Paulus and withdrew the Templar sword. “Father Pieter, it is teaching such as yours that defeats the snares of heretics, not this.” He drove the sword into the earth at the center of the circle. Sitting, he continued. “The pope insisted that King Philip of France destroy the Cathari and eliminate their creed by violence. The king, however, was more concerned with the English. Unfortunately, a papal legate, one Pierre de Castelnau, was murdered in Provence. We were then ordered to prepare a holy war against the heretics, that ‘sinister race of Languedoc,’ and soon the pope issued his bull that granted all knights crusader status. This meant that in death our souls would fly to heaven and that in life we’d be offered the lands of the slain heretics. So you might imagine how quickly the army filled with landless knights feigning piety!

“I was told we numbered nearly fifty thousand men-at-arms. We followed the Rhône toward Provence, where we joined a papal legate named Arnaud-Amaury. He was to act as the spiritual adviser to the crusade and was later elected archbishop of the conquered territory.

“We learned that even the local Catholic lords were preparing to resist us. Our army ransacked countless villages on our way to Béziers, then destroyed a pathetic sortie sent from that woeful town. It was there that my faith was crushed. We seized the town with ease, of course, but then I hid in a dark corner as our army slew nearly twenty thousand men, women, and children—Cathar and Catholic alike. In the middle of the slaughter, my preceptor challenged the papal legate. We ought spare the Catholics!’ he cried. To which Arnaud-Amaury replied, ‘Kill them all; God will find His own!’” Alwin shuddered and fell silent.

The listeners shifted uneasily, looking at one another with troubled faces. Alwin proceeded to tell more of the unspeakable cruelties inflicted upon the terrified citizens of Béziers in such descriptive language as might give nightmares to the most hardened of hearts. He went on to speak of other battles: the siege of Carcassonne and the death of thousands to disease, hunger, and thirst; the mutilation of prisoners in Bram; and of stake burnings in Minerve and Lavour.

“Then Montfort ordered us to attack small fortresses and towns all around Toulouse. I’d had enough. It made me vomit to think of what we were doing in the name of God. I wanted to slay the pope! I could barely pray, I ate during fasts, and I refused to read the psalms at chapter. No, the confusion of it was more than I could bear.

“Then, about four months ago, I was sent with two brethren and a company of German knights to a small village near Albi. We were to demand the lord release all known Cathari to our custody for burning. When we arrived—and we numbered about two score—we were met with a pitiful group of armed Catholic farmers wishing to defend their neighbors and their own homes. I was astonished. In their midst was a brave priest. I remember his final words. The conscience is reached by love!’ he cried. I suppose he would have said more, but an arrow was shot through his head, and we charged the brave defenders.

“As for me, I lowered my sword in tears and could not swing it at any of the poor wretches. Instead, when I saw a brother Templar dismount and run toward a fleeing old farmer, I filled with rage and charged at him on my stallion. I can still see the astonishment on his face as I cried out and trampled him to death. I then turned and slew a French knight, then a German. Confused, others reined their horses and stared at me. My preceptor stood in his stirrups in utter disbelief. It was in that moment that I tore my robe away and cast it down.

“‘Brother Blasius!’ he cried. I said nothing but wheeled my mount hard around and fled. With no money and nothing to eat, I begged my way slowly east over the weeks that followed. Finally, I came upon a band of knights in Sion who were recently hired by a lord in the service of Otto. With no other choices, I fought with them until the day you found me.”

Alwin’s eyes were swollen, and he looked away from his companions in shame. He walked over to the provisions to draw a long drink of ale. Heinrich stood and followed him, then laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. “My friend, we are never too far gone for grace to find us, nor too close for us to need it. Do not be so proud as to carry shame. There is another way.”

Alwin turned. “Then you must teach me, old friend, for I am lost.”

Chapter Thirteen

TROUBLE IN OLTEN

F
rieda and Wil descended from their room before the bells of prime rang over Olten. Smiling, the pair leaned into one another as lovers do, and despite the catcalls of their teasing fellows, they kissed one last time before the day’s beginning.

“We’re to meet with Lady Dorothea!” exclaimed Maria. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. “She was so pretty.”

“And I am sure she’ll remember you,” said Frieda.

“Hurry, then,” called Heinrich from the door. “We’re to be there before the bells.”

The company walked briskly through Olten’s waking streets. They were narrow and cramped by tight rows of one-and two-story shops and dwellings. Shutters were opened over window boxes of early summer flowers. The dirt streets were heavier with manure than what was common, but the ruts that Pieter remembered had been filled.

The eleven pilgrims followed the winding streets according to instructions offered by the innkeeper. They turned at the cutler’s guild and hurried on, passing the town fishpond and the lush common gardens surrounding it. Finally, they rounded one last corner and approached the three-storied timber-and-mortar home of Lord Bernard.

Two guards gave them entrance, and they were quickly ushered by a servant to the lord’s firelit hall, where Dorothea rose to meet them. “Ah,
wunderbar!
It is so wonderful to see you again!” The graceful fair-haired woman brushed past her attendant and took each by the hand in turn. “Maria! Yes, I remember you. Your friend Friederich talks of you all the time … he talks of all of you!”

Pieter stepped forward with a wide one-tooth grin.

“And Father Pieter! You rascal! The priest says you are a sorcerer, you know. He says no mere man could fix a tooth as you did.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Embarrassed, Pieter blushed like a schoolboy, then introduced Alwin as a landless knight and old friend of Heinrich.

The woman looked at him and admired his handsome form. Her eyes fell to his vacant hip. “A knight with no sword?”

Alwin’s hand flew to his side. “Well… I left it in the stable, m’lady. I … I thought it not proper to bring it to your house.”

Dorothea smiled. “I see. Well, now, all of you, welcome. Please, be seated at my table. The ushers shall take you to your seats. I am sorry for the early rising, but I’m to begin a journey to St. Gall before terce.”

Pieter and Wil stepped past several hounds and were positioned on either side of the lady, who sat at the end of her trestle table. From there, the pilgrims were placed in order of acquaintance, leaving Alwin and the minstrel on opposite sides at the far end. With all things proper, Pieter was asked to say a blessing and Benedetto to sing a song. Then, at long last, the lord’s baker delivered a silver tray heavy with wheat loaves and pretzels. To this, the cook added two trays of cheese and a clay bowl of cherry preserves. A wooden goblet was set by each guest and filled with red wine.

Summer air wafted through the damp hall, and the first hint of the day’s light peeked through the shutters. “My regards to your baker, my lady,” offered Heinrich. “The bake is nearly perfect.”

“Nearly?” quizzed Dorothea.

“Well…”

“A poor choice of words from a simple man!” quipped Wil with a laugh. “I think the whole table is quite perfect indeed!”

The guests clapped. Dorothea then motioned for another servant to come to her side, and when he did, she whispered in his ear. The man scurried away, and the diners continued their meal with little more conversation until Pieter could wait no longer. “My dear sister,” he said, “might we see our Friederich this morning?”

Dorothea nodded and swallowed a portion of bread. She slowly took a draught of wine, then answered. “Yes, of course. The priest was told that the archbishop’s emissary demanded the boy for a penance in Mainz.” Her eyes twinkled. “He should be here soon.”

Pieter raised his brows.

Dorothea laughed softly. “I’ve learned from you! First, though, I have gifts.” She clapped her hands, and to everyone’s wonder, a group of servants bearing armloads of clothing scurried toward the children. Dorothea rose with a smile as big as an autumn sunset. “The innkeeper told me you were all dressed in black! He said you look like novices and nuns. So my chamberlain demanded the clothier open his shop at matins, and we’ve fresh, well-loomed garments for you.” She turned toward Heinrich, Pieter, Benedetto, and Alwin. “It is our thought to serve the young ones as I have little to offer the three of you.” Her glance lingered playfully on Alwin. “But I do have something for you, sir knight.”

A servant hurried over to Alwin and presented him with boots, heavy-spun leggings, a long brown tunic, a padded leather vest, and a sleeveless green robe. The man was speechless. “These were my husband’s. I am a widow,” Dorothea said calmly.

Alwin received the gifts with a humble bow. “With thanks, m’lady. God’s blessings.”

Happy hands reached for new leggings and tunics, overgowns, and scarves. Dorothea motioned for her seamstresses to descend upon the group with needles and thread to adjust gown lengths and such, and before long, the pilgrims looked less like pilgrims and more like free wayfarers.

Maria twirled about in her new hooded overgown. It was a deep and rich forest green, linen weave—perfect for summertime. It was belted with a heavy braided cord and fit her wonderfully well. Frieda was simply stunning in a gown similar to Maria’s, only paneled in cherry red and mustard gold.

Wil proudly displayed his own clothing for his new bride. He and his fellows had been given tightly woven brown linen leggings, and their tunics were knee length like those of freemen of means. They were hooded and made of finespun English wool—and dyed the color of baked rye. Each was given a different belt: Wil’s was braided leather, Tomas’s a rather dashing red sash, Otto’s a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, Helmut’s a black cord, and Rudolf’s a green sash.

The travelers looked at one another in the early day’s light and clapped. Looking like free persons, they suddenly felt like free persons. Tomas lifted his head proudly and thanked Dorothea with an eloquence that raised the brows of all. Each, in turn, bent a knee before the kind lady and kissed her hand.

“Now, my dear guests, would I be permitted to give your former garments to the poor?”

“
Ja
!” answered a chorus of happy voices.

At that moment, as if on cue, the door to the hall burst open, and young Friederich rushed toward his fellows with a happy cry. “Oh, Pieter! Wil! Frieda! All of you!”

Immediately overcome with tears, Pieter rose on wobbly legs and stumbled toward his lost lamb. The two embraced with halting sobs as the others crowded close. The reunion was joyous. Benedetto leapt upon the table and sang loudly as the boy greeted one old friend and then another.

At last, Wil asked that which all needed to know. “Tell us, Friederich. Tell us more of Jon.”

The hall fell quiet. “It was some sort of pox, methinks. After St. Michael’s, many in the town were sick. Most blamed us. We were both beaten, though Lord Bernard sent his guards to stop it. The priest said we ought to be ashamed for our failure, that God would punish the town for helping ‘faithless fools’ like us. He told the lord that we’d need to work a great penance for all the town, else everyone would die. He made us walk naked in the streets each day at terce to show our shame. And Jon’s leg was not healed well, so it hurt him. I tied a splint as best I could, but it was growing crooked.

“Then he made us clean the latrines day and night. My wrist was weak, and I had trouble with the shovel, so I was beaten for it. We were given little to eat and were not allowed to speak. There were other things, too, but I cannot mention them.” The bony eight-year-old hung his head.

Heinrich and Pieter were nearly bursting with rage. They turned hard eyes on Dorothea, who shifted in her seat with her eyes downcast in anguish. “It … it was the Church’s business. I did what I could to help them both.”

“
Ja
, she did,” said Friederich. “She was scolded often, but she hid bread about the town and sent her servants to tell us where. I heard her arguing with the priest, and she once threw over the chalice!”

“And Jon?”

“His face broke into red marks, and he was sweating day and night. Then he began a terrible cough. Blood came out his nose.”

“And the doctor?” queried Wil.

“The priest said it wasn’t allowed. He said Jon was paying his debt to God.”

The table shook with the pounding fists of the outraged pilgrims.

“Where is this priest?” roared Heinrich with a drawn sword.

“No!” exclaimed Dorothea. “I’ll not have this at my table!”

An usher suddenly rushed into the hall and flew to Dorothea’s side. He was visibly frightened and whispered awkwardly into the lady’s ear. Dorothea paled, then looked about the hall.

“Quickly!” ordered Dorothea. “All of you to the cellars.”

“What is it, m’lady?” asked Pieter.

“Soldiers are at our gates. They’re demanding the right to search.” Dorothea’s face was drawn and her body stiff.

“What do they want?” asked Heinrich.

The messenger answered. “Two Templar knights are with them along with some brown shirts. They claim four of their own were murdered, and a refugee is about. They’ve some thought for youths dressed in black, but they suspect Cathari as well.” The man looked sideways at Dorothea and licked his dry lips. “M’lady?”

“Father Pieter, you must all do as I say at once. We will hide you in the cellars until—”

“Bar their entrance!” cried Wil. He picked up his bow and set a hand on the hilt of his new dagger. “We’ll fight with you!”

“Fool boy!” growled the servant. “They’ve two score horsemen and footmen, archers as well. Our garrison is a score at best. The rest of our soldiers are with Lord Bernard.”

Heinrich’s mind was racing. “Lady Dorothea, the innkeep has seen us, and you’ve servants as well. They’ll be sure to search your house.”

A guard ran into the room and whispered into Dorothea’s ear. Pale, the woman answered, “
Ja.
So it may be. You all have been seen together, but my servants and the innkeep are loyal to the death.” She turned to her servant. “Tell the gatekeepers to hold fast until I come. Tell the Templars they must ask my permission directly.”

“Hold fast?”

“Yes!” cried Dorothea. “Do as I say. Then send me my captain.”

The servant raced away as Dorothea pointed to a dark corridor. “There, all of you. Follow my man down to the deep cellar. Leave the dog here with my hounds.”

“Our donkey?” squealed Maria.

“Give it no thought,
Màdel
. He’ll be safe enough in the stable.” She set a kind hand on the girl’s head. “You shall be safe, my dear. Now all of you must go quickly.”

Wil and his company followed a terrified clerk down a slippery flight of narrow stairs and across a candlelit cellar crowded with wine barrels, sundry baskets of root-foods and cheese, a few racks of fruit preserves, and a collection of broken furniture and pottery. Reaching a far wall, the clerk pushed away a large trunk and reached down to lift a dusty wooden hatch. “God go with you,” he muttered as he pointed to a short ladder leading into utter blackness. “And, by the saints, keep silent!”

Above, Dorothea summoned her handservants, who fussed about her clothing and her hair. “My circlet,” she ordered anxiously. A young girl ran to a drawer and returned with a silver ring, which she placed neatly over the woman’s silk wimple. Now dressed in a flowing green overgown and her shoulders covered by a lace mantle, Lord Bernard’s lovely daughter drew a deep breath and bravely stepped from the burgher-house.

Feigning confidence as she entered the town’s abandoned streets, the young widow smiled at her father’s townsfolk peering fearfully from behind half-shuttered windows. The radiance of her fair beauty and the bold gait of the soldiers at her side quieted many a racing heart. Dorothea made her way calmly to a set of wide steps at the base of the town wall. She lifted her gown and began her climb to the wall walk that rimmed the top edge of the stockade. She then made her way to a position just above the main gate, where she raised her face to survey the army arrayed before her.
Never show fear to an enemy,
she thought. They were wise words from both her father and her late husband. So when Dorothea’s eyes scanned the angry faces staring at her from impatient chargers, she did not flinch. Instead, she let her mind fly to the young soldier she had married three years ago.
Oh, dear Jurgen, I wish you were with me now.