Pilgrims of Promise (5 page)

“Indeed.”

The two men stood and summoned those who had chosen not to follow Paul to Rome. The children came willingly and gathered at their feet. Both men had earned their trust—Heinrich several nights before when he protected so many, Pieter by his clergyman’s robe and his unmistakable wealth of wisdom. As the children waited patiently, Solomon trotted among them and happily accepted their proffered affection.

Yielding to Pieter, Heinrich stepped to one side and carefully studied the faces of those assembled. They were a diverse group of boys and maidens from ages five to sixteen. All were thin, and all were weary.

“My blessed faithful innocents,” began the priest, “God be praised for each one of you. Tomorrow is our last in Genoa, for we must find a safer refuge for a season. But when the winter passes,
Herr
Heinrich and I need to know how to serve you.”

The group began whispering. After a brief delay, a squeaky voice offered the obvious. “I should like very much to go home.”

The children murmured more loudly.

Pieter nodded. “Where is home, children? Where do you belong?” The names of dozens of places drifted forward. Heidelberg and Worms, Cologne, Mainz, Strasbourg, and Bonn … Freiburg and Basel, Zurich, and St. Gall. The crusaders offered the names of villages and hamlets from Swabia and Franconia, the valleys of the Alps and the flat-lands of Saxony.

A small girl stood. Heinrich thought her to be no more than six or seven. She walked to Pieter and tugged on his sleeve. He bent low to hear her whisper sadly, “I’m afraid to go home.”

Before Pieter could answer, another child cried from the edge of the campfire, “I cannot go home.”

“Why not, boy?”

“I’ll be beaten, now more’n ever. I’ve failed.”

Pieter’s face tightened as a chorus of others agreed. “Tell me how you’ve failed.”

Answers, heretofore repressed, now came quickly. They erupted from aching hearts that had been locked by shame and confusion. “We did not reach the Holy Land, and so we failed God”; “My faith failed me … methinks God must hate me now”; “I was afraid”; “I stole things”; “I cursed Mother Mary” … On and on they listed their failings. Their poor little hearts emptied themselves of guilt like the spewing of poison from the mouth of a serpent.

Heinrich listened silently and understood. He saw his own painful emotions reflected in the contorted, woeful faces of these children and wished they all might be set free. He looked toward the wise old man and waited for his answer.

At last a weeping Pieter turned to Heinrich and said quietly, “Guilt sprouts where shame is planted.”

He wiped his eyes and faced his children. “Oh, my blessed lambs. Fear not, you have
not
failed. You have walked with angels; you have trod on holy ground. Faith is not proven by things attained, but by walking in love.

“Oh, my children, my tender hearts, I see love abounding all around me! Look at you, each one. There.” He pointed. “One holds another’s hand. And there. There one wipes another’s tear. You, little ones, have borne one another’s burdens. You have been sisters and brothers, protectors and comforters to those who have shared your journey.

“Have you failed? No, most certainly not! Have you suffered? Indeed, and much. But know this: suffering is the path to faith and the doorway to compassion. Your suffering has made your faith stronger because you’ve learned to depend on love; it has softened your hearts toward one another because you’ve learned to feel pain. Sons and daughters of God, be proud of who you have become!”

The children sat spellbound, as did Heinrich. Shivers tingled his spine, and he suddenly wanted to cry out for joy. Pieter had given him hope again—hope to believe.

Lying on his pallet near the fire, Wil heard the message too. His heart was touched in deep places, and a lump filled his throat. Frieda took his hand and smiled.

Pieter leaned on his staff wearily. His face was yellowed in the firelight and etched deeply by flickering shadows. Finally he nodded. “So, my precious ones, what do we do?”

The circle remained quiet, and the old man prayed silently. It was not long before it became clear to him that he, Heinrich, and Wil had been called to redeem the journey of suffering that all had endured; it would be their sacred duty to shepherd these lost lambs to a place of safekeeping. He beckoned the baker to his side and spoke to him quietly for a few moments. Heinrich nodded and clasped Pieter’s hand. Then the pair faced the young crusaders once more.

“Listen, children, listen well,” cried Pieter. “We shall pray for God’s grace to protect you and guide you, to teach you, and to feed you in body and spirit. In the end, we may not take you home, but it is our humble prayer that we shall deliver you to the place where you belong.”

The children were silent and suddenly content. A voice cried out, “God bless you, Father!” Soon the whole of them crowded around their guardians and rejoiced. Hope was sprouting where trust had been planted.

Later the same night, Pieter wandered between the two separate camps that were assembled by the sea. While walking about, however, he caught sight of three figures standing quite still at the farthest reach of firelight. Each was wearing a hood over his head, and the figure in the center stood the height of a man; the other two were much smaller. The priest watched for several moments until the trio shuffled to the margins of another campfire, then another. He narrowed his gaze and moved beyond the reach of any light to draw closer.

The three skulked suspiciously near Wil’s litter and toward Frieda sitting nearby. Pieter followed, but the cheery voice of Ava distracted the priest for a costly moment. She had screamed loudly as some boys tickled her. Pieter turned his face back to the place where the three had been standing, only to find them gone.

The priest hurried forward and arrived at Frieda’s side. “Did you see them?”

“Who?”

“Three shadows under hood.”

Frieda looked about. “No.”

Pieter made a hasty circle of the whole field, driving his staff hard into the stony soil. “They must be here!” he grumbled. But, alas, they were not to be found. The old man sought Paul and upon finding him, drew him aside. “Listen, lad. Methinks spies have been about the camp. Have y’seen three figures under hood?”

Paul looked about carefully. “
Ja.
One of m’lads said he thought he saw three moving in the shadows like they didn’t belong. He followed them, but they disappeared.”

Pieter took a deep breath. “
Ja,
‘tis spies. I can feel it. Now listen to me. Your plan for tomorrow night must be changed. They’ll surely report what they’ve heard to the city guard, and there will surely be an ambush.”

Paul’s face tightened. “No, Father. We’ve delayed long enough. Tomorrow we beg, tomorrow night we steal. Besides, we kept our talk in whispers.”

Pieter yielded. “Then, at prime I’ll lead my column into the city along with yours. I will try to meet with the
podesta
or his magistrate. If I get the ear of one of them, we might be given provisions enough. If I’m refused, I’ll preach in the squares until the stones cry out for mercy.”

“You seem uncertain,” said Paul.

Pieter nodded. “Tis true, I am. This city has a chill about it; it lacks the joy of goodwill. Wealth has turned the people inward. But I should not be surprised; greed is oft found in proportion to gain. My hope, however, is in this other sad truth: that oft the promises of a priest will do more to prompt alms than a hungry child’s face.”

At first light, the camp assembled for a final day’s begging. Pieter rose and scanned the milling throng with Heinrich standing near. “There, Ava, and there, my own Heinz and those over there and these.” He pointed to this one and called to another and soon gathered a score of bony urchins around him. He laid his hands on Ava and Heinz with a chuckle. “Who could deny either of you?”

Indeed, only the hardest of hearts could resist their delightful charms. Ava, a tiny, feisty girl of seven captured all with the twinkle in her devilish green eyes. She with the elfish Heinz would make a memorable pair, particularly when joined with their snaggletoothed, spindly companion! The old priest called for Solomon and laid hold of his staff as he turned to Heinrich. “Pity for these, charity for me … ‘tis my hope for Genoa! I do pray, baker, that we return with a whole caravan of Christian kindness in tow! Now, children, follow me!”

Heinrich watched with some amusement as Pieter’s company hurried through the field and to the roadway beyond. Pieter’s rolling gait reminded him of a lame ox he had once plowed behind, and he laughed out loud. A breeze toyed with the old man’s wispy white hair and bent his beard sideways. The baker smiled and remembered stories of Moses. Perhaps the old Hebrew had returned to the earth!

The baker returned to his son’s side, where he sat by Frieda for nearly an hour. Wil awakened from time to time, took sips of water drawn from a nearby well, and then returned to sleep. Frieda had kept a faithful vigil, changing the lad’s poultices regularly and washing his wounds in salt water. Pieter had instructed her to let the sun shine on the wounds for short spells, and so she obeyed. The young woman had been softened by many sorrows and now served others gladly.

Wil had endured so very much as well, and he had endured it in a matter befitting one saved through blood and water, being healed by salt and light. The ghosts of past shame and failure were fast fading into his fever’s dreams, rendered weak by others’ love and soon to drift to the margins of his memory. But sadly, some old hurts had not yet been healed, and the lad was not able to turn a kindly eye toward his contrite father.

Heinrich stood and sighed. His failings had made him a wiser, though sadder, man. His heart, exposed through time to the frailty of others and of himself, was often heavy with the felt knowledge of a world gone mad. Such sadness, Brother Lukas had once told him, was the cost of wisdom.

“He’s doing some better,
Herr
Heinrich,” said Frieda softly.

The man nodded. “You are his angel of mercy, m’dear. Thank you for your good care of him.” He turned and walked toward the comforting sounds of the surf. He looked thoughtfully across the deep blue and drew a long breath through his nose. The sun felt warm, the air delightful. Finally, the weary baker looked up and stared at the puffed white clouds hovering high above. His eye moved from one to another, tracing their shapes. At last he smiled. A plump one near the horizon had made him remember someone very dear.