Pilgrims of Promise (56 page)

He raised his arms over the congregation. Seeing these broken outcasts now on bended knee and happily lifting their faces toward heaven moved the old man. A sudden wave of emotion washed over him and he began to weep. Oh, what the world might learn from these! “Brothers and sisters!” He choked on his words. “Brothers and sisters, rejoice! Rejoice I say, for blessed are the poor in spirit; theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the meek, for they shall possess the land. Blessed are they that mourn; blessed are they that hunger; blessed are the merciful and the clean of heart. Blessed are the peacemakers and those that suffer persecution for justice’s sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'Amen.”

The friar thanked Pieter with a bow, then continued the morning service. As it was Monday—the day of the week that the Church remembered the angels—Oswald proceeded to read passages from Genesis 32, from the first chapter of Luke, and Matthew 4. To the astonishment of his guests, he read in Latin and then translated into German.

“And,” he added, “they are sent to care for us, to teach us.” He read from Hebrews, the first chapter, fourteenth verse. “‘Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?’” The congregation clapped like happy children. They liked Mondays best of all.

Friar Oswald read a few more Scripture passages and then served as their priest, taking the Mass on their behalf. Finally, he dismissed his flock from the chapel with an admonishment to “fill the day with honest work.”

As the villagers scurried on their way, Oswald joined his guests. “You see, my new friends, these folk are not what others think them to be. They are earnest and honest; they serve one another selflessly. They work hard and without complaint. They are a community of brothers and sisters, drawn together in their common brokenness. From here, they serve a world that fears them—maybe even hates them. They are the church, dear pilgrims.”

“And why are they so hated?” asked Otto.

Oswald smiled and looked carefully at the lad. “What is it you see when you look at them?”

Shamefaced, the boy looked downward.

Oswald laid a hand on Otto’s shoulder. “What that world fails to admit, my son, is that these poor creatures are like them, only inside out. Consider the great halls of the lords. They are filled with handsome knights and fair ladies, men and women pleasing to the eye. Yet on the inside—where their hearts reside—they are bent and twisted, misshapen and even revolting to the eye, like my beloved here in Renwick. Look around you now, Otto, and see them as looking glasses into your own soul. It is a good remedy for pride.” He smiled.

Oswald escorted the company out of the chapel and along the path. The group chattered quietly until the monk paused by a beehive. “Now, as for these hives. Father Pieter, you are a man of many years. Tell me, sir, what better picture of what the church should be could nature possibly offer?”

Pieter smiled and leaned heavily on his staff. “None better than these, brother.”

Oswald nodded. “Indeed. None better at all. See the little bees, how they rise from their beds to fly about the world, partaking of its beauty while serving it well. It is these buzzing creatures that pass the seed of life from bloom to bloom; they fill the orchards with fruit. They spend their days sprinkled amongst the color of God’s creation; they draw from the very essence of beauty. From it they make the honey that nourishes both others and themselves with the sweet taste of God’s goodness.

“Watch them. They toil without complaint, each knowing his task and serving the other. They fly and return, only to fly out again. They harvest happily and sleep well. They work together for the benefit of all, and they do so without malice, greed, or pride.

“This is why we placed their hives here, along what we call our
Via Crucis,
the Way of the Cross.”

The group watched the bees fly from their hives, lightly lifting to the air as others landed heavily, their legs covered with a bounty of pollen. These climbed awkwardly into the small openings leading to their city within and, in a short time, would spring into the air once more.

Oswald led the pilgrims to his own simple hut. It was a timber cottage with a well-thatched roof. He ducked into his doorway and returned in a moment with a clay bowl in which sat a dripping chunk of honeycomb. He smiled at the faces staring hopefully at the bowl. “Ha, ha! Yes, it is for you, and I’ve more to share.” He laughed. “But first, if you’ll indulge me, I’ve one more thing to say.” He lifted the honeycomb from the bowl and beckoned all to come close. “See here,” he said as he pointed to the cells of the comb. “Study it and learn.
Res ipsa loquitur
… the thing speaks for itself.”

The pilgrims leaned close and stared blankly at the honeycomb. Most wished the friar would stop talking and just pass the honey to eat! Pieter, however, was intrigued. His eyes scanned the wax chambers.

Sensing their impatience, Oswald chuckled. “Forgive me. I oft speak too much! So here,” he said as he passed the bowl to Maria. “Share this one and I’ll get more inside.” The friar retrieved several wax combs and a sharp knife. Soon the pilgrims were sucking sweet honey into mouths dripping with delight!

“I love this!” squealed Maria. Her chin was smeared with sticky honey as she licked her fingers clean. “Pieter, it’s all over your beard!”

The company roared. Pieter’s scraggly beard was matted with globs of honey, and flies were now swarming toward him. Laughing, a clubfooted little girl delivered a small bucket of water, and the old man quickly washed his beard clean.

When the group had settled once again, Friar Oswald begged their pardon. “Now, if you’ll indulge these last thoughts.” He took a badly gnawed honeycomb from Otto and held it up for all to see. “I hear how the scholars are now rushing to fix the matters of heaven and earth to the ideas of men’s minds. I hear they seek knowledge as the way of truth.”

Oswald pointed to the comb.
“Deus et natua non faciunt frusta
… God and nature do not work together in vain. See here. See the cells of the bees.” He pointed to the little hexagons. “The wax walls of these cells are like the words of man’s knowledge. They grow in number with time, and as they do, our world enlarges.

“But the hive is far more than its cells; it is not merely walls of wax. It is in the emptiness of the waiting cell where the true wonder lies. It is the airy place that will soon fill with sweetness that will nourish many.

“Even so, truth is not confined to things known. Rather, it also dwells in the spaces between the words, in the silence of the cells … in the mystery.

“To be sure, as the worker bees enlarge the hive, they add more wax around more air. Likewise, as we increase in knowledge, we, too, add more mystery.

“So, as you dwell among men of knowledge beware: they that deny the place of mystery will not taste the honey of the silent places.”

Pieter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He reached forward and took hold of Friar Oswald’s hand. “Truth never dies,” he said slowly. “
Deo gratias.”

“Now, enough of my preaching!” laughed the friar. “Please, rest here this day and the morrow if you wish. Mingle as you like and watch the work of our little hive.”

The company thanked Oswald profusely for the honey and his hospitality, then gradually dispersed throughout Renwick. With each passing hour the pilgrims felt more at home than the one before. Maria quickly found a friend. A little girl had spotted her deformed arm during Mass and presented herself. “My name is Katerina,” she said. She held out both her arms. They were both shortened to the elbow, like Maria’s, and badly misshapen. “Papa called me a devil child. But I followed the birds here!” she cried joyfully. The two soon disappeared to play.

Pieter was too weak to walk about very much. He sought his favorite chair—the wide trunk of an old tree. There he sat atop the soft forest floor and leaned back to rest with Solomon lying on his legs. Heinrich joined him, and the two men watched their comrades move about the village. The pair sat in quiet companionship, saying little more than necessary until Heinrich noticed the friar speaking with two panting dwarves. “Something’s afoot, Pieter.”

Oswald nodded to the men and then walked toward Pieter and the baker. “You need to stay until the morrow,” he said.

“And why, brother?” asked Pieter.

“It seems you’ve been followed.”

“You are certain?”

“Our sentries spotted a group of six riders approaching from the south. They were studying the trail like hunters following prey, and they were seen studying the sky.”

Heinrich cursed. “How? How on earth do they find us?”

The friar smiled. “Our birds, sir. They are following the three birds.”

Heinrich shook his head. “The birds? Why would they?”

“Well, perhaps they reckoned that you might be following them. I wouldn’t know.”

“Then they’ll follow them here!”

“Not likely,” smiled Oswald. “Not likely at all.”

Wil had drawn near to listen. “Two giants and village dwarves cannot stop six knights!”

“No, young sir, probably not. Though the fright of seeing them could send an army the other way! I’ve seen that once already.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Oh no … no, indeed not. I have no plan.”

“Then—”

“The birds flew off at dawn. Three of them, to be exact. Seabirds that look very much like those you followed.” He smiled. “They flew straight into the sun.”

Frieda joined the group. “But…”

Friar Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the gulls are following a fresh wind. If so, it is to your good fortune. We have spies watching the knights. Two have returned to report that the fools are galloping wildly to the east.” He laughed. “We’ve others still spying on them. If they change course, we’ll soon know.”

Pieter took a deep breath. He was quickly learning to love this strange place. “So, Wil, my lad, have no care for it today. If the Templars abandon the birds, they’ll either turn north and be far ahead of us, or they’ll come back this way, in which case well have plenty of warning.”

Wil looked about uneasily. He turned to his father, then to Oswald. “You’ve good sentries?”

“The best.”

Frieda took his arm. “Wil, methinks we should stay the day and even the morrow.”

Wil turned his eye to the village and spotted Benedetto playing his lute for a breathless group of children. He watched the happy fellow dancing and singing. “Look at our minstrel,” muttered Wil, shaking his head. “Very well. Then on the morrow next we leave.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

THE ANGELS SING

H
einrich and Pieter were relieved and Oswald as well.

“Good,” the friar said. “I shall see to it that you are well fed as long as you remain with us. I ask only that you help as you can.” He pointed to Benedetto. “God be praised. We’ve craftsmen and farmers, woodsmen and the like, but we’ve no music in our village. It is music that heals and restores; it is music that stirs the spirit. Music is the language of the heart, and we need it desperately! Look! Look how the children smile.

“Our children are not all odd, you know. I have married dwarves whose union has born children that tower over them. Our hunchback married an armless spinster, and they’ve three
kinder
who are sound.” He smiled contentedly as he watched the folk milling about.

“Our village keeps growing. We’ve our own births, as I said, but others keep coming. Here we are free. We are free from evil men because we are unwanted, and we are left alone because our ugliness repulses them. We live here in our deep forest protected by the legends and myths that frighten others. Look about you. I could tell you stories of these poor souls that would turn your bellies sour. Yet here they belong, and here they serve the purposes for which they were born.”

The friar invited the group to follow him about the village, where he pointed to the many workshops. “Ah, here is old Wilmot, our silversmith. His name means beloved heart,’ and so he is. He is half mad and half sane, but his hands aire deft at hammering fine shapes into silver cups or bracelets. He buys silver in Höxter from merchants coming out of Franconia, and he sells his wares in the market there. He makes a handsome profit but shares what he has as is needed.

“And there, Traugott—God’s Truth—the harness maker.” Oswald chuckled. “When he’s not preaching my homilies to the deaf, he fashions all manner of saddlery. See, how his back tilts him to one side? His right hand almost touches the ground. Some say he was stood in hard wind as a baby! He buys excellent leather from the dealers out of Bremen and now has a contract with the knights of the archbishop!”

“And who carved your poles?” asked Pieter as he sat down on a barrel to receive a tankard of beer.

“Ah yes. That’d be Wendell. He’s a wise old pilgrim from Hamburg. A bit angry, I must confess, what with his terrible past. But he is clever with his art and amazing with his chisels. His shop is just yonder.”

The friar led his guests into Wendell’s workshop. The man looked up from a small wooden desk. By the sight of him, most would think him mad as a one-armed juggler. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth, and he snorted and lurched.

“Hello,” said Pieter warmly. “I wanted to meet the man who carved such amazing things on the poles.”

Wendell put down his quill and stared at Pieter. “Aye?” The man’s head ticked to one side.

Pieter nodded. “Aye, sir. It is wonderful work. You’ve a fine gift.”

Wendell said nothing but turned his face back to his quill. He continued scratching a design onto a small piece of poor parchment. His hand was remarkably steady, and his eyes quickly fastened themselves to his work.

“He’s been commissioned to make a seal for some farmers in the north. They’ve their own government of sorts, though I doubt for very long.”

“The Stedingers?” blurted Heinrich.

Friar Oswald raised a brow. “You know of them?”

“Indeed! We are traveling to Stedingerland!”

“I see. Well, I’ve not been there, but I met one of their merchants on the Easter just past. Somehow he knew of Wendell’s work and paid him handsomely for a design. Seems they’re hiring several others as well, and they plan to pick one soon. They want a seal for themselves. I’m not sure it is a good idea, though. They’ve had troubles enough, and a seal will seem defiant. They’ve fought with the archbishop’s armies over the years, and I hear that he is frustrated with them. Apparently they’ve made a rich land out of marshes, and now the bishop’s knights lust for it.”

Frieda looked over Wendell’s shoulder. The man grunted and then showed the young woman his work. Frieda’s artistic eye scanned the ink drawing. It was a circle in which was drawn Christ on the cross. Frieda thought the Christ figure looked unusual—it expressed an artistic liberty that could be subject to misinterpretation. She was about to speak when the friar called them to the next shop.

The pilgrims spent the rest of that day and the day following in the pleasurable company of the villagers. Heinrich spent several hours in the bakery, delighted to help the baker in kneading dough and paddling loaves into the ovens. Others went from hut to hut and shop to shop, some helping carry firewood, others weaving reeds for baskets, one scraping hides, and another carrying thatch to a roof.

The village herbalist—an ancient, bald-headed woman named Herta—had watched Pieter’s feeble efforts about the footpaths. She presented him with a potion of hawthorn berries and asparagus.

“Yer heart fails ye,” she said bluntly. A deaf woman, she spoke clearly though in an odd pitch. “Drink this, and take this pouch for yer journey.” Pieter nodded and received the gift with a bow. The two smiled at one another like two old veterans of many battles.

Later, the guests were treated to a summer feast of woodland fare: venison, hare, mushrooms, and boiled greens. To this was added honey-laced bread, lentils and peas, bowls of early kraut, and turnips. Beer was not plentiful, though mead surely was, and the company was more than content to slake their thirst with the sweet taste of the honey drink. The night passed easily, and the next day was pleasant.

It was late on Wednesday evening when the village scouts returned to give their report to the friar. “They’ve followed the birds far to the east,” said one of the dwarves as he removed his rucksack. “We saw them yesterday about noontime. They had just finished a rest in the valley by Schönhagen. Then we followed them southeast for several hours until the birds turned straight east again, toward the long ridge beyond Escherdorf. From there they came to the highway leading northeast. We stayed on the ridge and watched them hurry along that road until it was too dark to see. We waited this morning to see if they’d double back, but they never came … nor did the birds.”

“Well done!” cried Oswald. “Now feed yourselves well and spend the morrow at rest!”

Wil extended his hand to grasp those of the scouts. “Many thanks to you,” he said respectfully.

The four men nodded and then hurried away for a good meal and a song with Benedetto.

“We’ll leave at prime,” announced Wil.

His company nodded and soon made their way to their beds, save Benedetto, who spent some time walking about the village with Solomon. Renwick was pleasant by day and peaceful by night, and the moon set midst a few harmless snorts and snores of those resting in deep slumber. Then, as on countless predawn days gone before, the cocks crowed loudly just before the rising of the sun. At the sound, the village began to stir, and soon the summer hearth fires scattered about the footpaths glowed with fresh tinder. Sleepy housewives lugged kettles to the spits, and before long, water for morning mush bubbled and steamed.

Heinrich stepped into the gray dawn, yawning. Others slowly climbed from their beds. They had enjoyed three nights of good sleep under a sound roof. Stretching and belching, they assembled out-of-doors as the sun cast its first light into the woodland. They smelled the burning fires and walked toward their provisions, which were arranged near the tethered Paulus. They dug through their satchels and retrieved salted pork, some cheese, and a few flasks of mead.

Friar Oswald arrived with a small delegation of villagers. They presented the company with fresh-baked bread and a wealth of good wishes. The monk took Wil aside and gave him a strange bundle that was quickly placed deep within a basket on Paulus’s flank. Gifts were then presented to the others. Traugott stepped forward and proudly presented Heinrich with a new eye patch. It was made of soft sheepskin, kneaded and pounded so that it had the feel of fine velvet.

The baker held it in his hand and marveled. “I… I have no words, sir.”

Traugott beamed, then pointed to the design he had neatly embossed. “What you cannot see, God sees,” he said.

Heinrich held his new patch out for the others. On it was etched the triangle of the Trinity surrounding an opened eye. “It is wonderful, Traugott. I thank you from my heart.”

The leather worker turned to Maria. “And for you, dear sister.” He held out a small headband, also of softened sheepskin. “Wear it over your golden hair, and in it you may put the many flowers you pick.”

Maria squealed with delight and let the leaning man place his band over her head. She kissed him on the cheek and curtsied.

To the surprise of the rest, others stepped forward and presented more gifts. Katharina was given a colorful scarf from the weaver, Wilda a tin brooch, Alwin a silver clasp for his long hair. Frieda was presented with a drawstring pouch to be tied on her belt. Friederich and Otto were presented slings from two of the village boys, and Tomas was handed a dagger from the smith. The blade was crude but sharp.

“A freeman needs the tools to keep his freedom,” the smith said. He looked at the lad with a crooked smile that brought both admiration and pity to Tomas’s heart.

Tomas received the gift from the man humbly. “I … I thank you, good sir. The lords fear freemen with a good blade.”

The smith nodded and Friar Oswald interrupted. “They are fools.
Quemadmoeum gladis nemeinum occidit, occidentis telum est.”

Wil translated: “‘A sword is never a killer; it is a tool in a killer’s hand.’ Well said, Friar.” The young man smiled and drew his own dagger. He had no sooner done so when another stepped forward to present him with a fine deerskin sheath.

“To keep it clean,” the giver said. Wil bowed.

Delighted with their gifts, Wil and his fellows tore into their breakfast with vigor! All, that is, save the minstrel.

Benedetto stood apart from the others. Finally, Maria looked at him curiously. “Why are you not eating?”

The group stopped chewing and looked at the fellow.

“Non, bambina
, I have something to say.”

Wil rose, as did the others, and they formed a circle around their friend. The man rocked on his feet and pulled nervously on his pointy black beard. He fumbled for words for a few moments and then cast his eyes toward a cluster of dirty-faced children staring at him from one side. They smiled and waved. Benedetto looked at them kindly.
So many pitiful creatures,
he thought.
Oh, how I do love them
. Emboldened, he turned back to his comrades.

“Dear friends.” He cleared his throat and prepared to deliver that which he had rehearsed through the night. “We have journeyed together through kingdoms and sorrows. I have sung to princes in castles and paupers along the wayside. In my mind I see those we have lost. I sing to Karl and Georg when I’m alone.” A large lump suddenly filled his throat, and he paused. “Si, ‘tis true. And to others as well.”

He looked at Maria. “Dear sister, you and I sang with the angels in Arona.”

Maria ran forward and hugged the little man. “I remember, Benedetto. Your song is what kept me close in the fever.”

The minstrel took her by the hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Now facing the others, he continued. “I have said little along the way. I am a timid man, some might say a coward. Yes, I believe sometimes I am, and I am not proud of that. I am neither keen of mind nor quickwitted. I am not well suited for the world we know. No, I am what I am.”

He looked directly at Pieter. “My old friend, you have taught me much.”

Pieter leaned weakly on his staff. The priest’s face was drawn and pale, and his legs trembled slightly. He had rested well these past days, but he was failing and he knew it—they all knew it. “As you have me,” he answered faintly.

Benedetto took a deep breath. “Father Pieter said we are what we love.” He pointed his finger at the huddle of village children inching closer. “There, my friends. There is what I love. In these past two days I have sung to them, and their hearts were joined to mine. See them. They are so pure, so forgiving. They are harmless and giving. I should like to serve them and this village.