Pilgrims of Promise (57 page)

“I am a minstrel,” he added with a sudden ring of boldness. “And I am called to sing the songs of angels for the likes of these.”

The village children and the pilgrims stared at the good fellow, speechless and waiting for more.

“Wil, dear Frieda, my sweet Maria … all of you, God bless you as you claim your freedom in Stedingerland. I can feel the Tightness in it. But as for me, here I shall remain.”

The glad-hearted children of Renwick cried out for joy and rushed the man with outstretched arms. The pilgrims stood and gawked, shocked at the man’s decision. Friar Oswald had been standing at some distance and, upon hearing the announcement, fell to his knees and rejoiced.

Benedetto was nearly swept away by the tide of homespun that now swallowed him in its midst. Happy cries and clapping hands drew yet others, and soon heads popped from workshops and barns. A stream of folk gathered and shared the news. In moments, they were shouting their thanks to the blushing fellow.

Pieter sat down, dumbstruck. “Oh, my little Benedetto! May God bless you always.”

The others looked at one another and then at the happy scene. “It is what he wants,” declared Alwin. “We needs give him our blessing.”

The pilgrims agreed and soon joined the villagers in well-wishing. It was a merry time—a happy time for most, a bittersweet moment for some.

At last Friar Oswald lifted his hands and asked for silence. “
Mirabile dictu
… I never cease to be amazed! Welcome, Benedetto!”

“His name is Benedetto Figli di Deo Cantore degli Angeli,” cried Frieda. “He is Benedetto, son of God, singer of the angels.”

The friar grinned from ear to ear. “What a name! What a wondrous name! And so he is, and so shall he be.”

It was a summer’s hour before the minstrel finally withdrew himself from the happy village folk to stand before his comrades one last time. As the villagers kept a respectful distance, Benedetto embraced his old friends one by one. He assured them each of his eternal affection, of his gratitude, and of his hopes for their safekeeping. He moved slowly from Tomas to Helmut, to Alwin, Wilda, Katharina, and to Otto. He held Heinrich tightly, then Frieda, Wil, and weeping Friederich. When he came to Maria, he fell to his knees, hugged her, and kissed her head. She handed him a small bouquet of hastily gathered flowers. They were tiny—like the two of them—and pure.

Benedetto held them to his nose and breathed deeply. He tucked them within his shirt and rose to face Pieter. The two fixed a gentle stare upon one another. They had been comrades along their difficult crusade of tears; together they had redeemed their suffering, and they now faced the time that both knew would surely come.

“Dear minstrel,” whispered Pieter, “I shall not be long upon this earth. Know that my journey has been made lighter by your song and your lute. You have blessed those who have suffered at your side, and I have been proud to call you friend.”

Benedetto could not speak. He had words that he wished to say, but he could not utter one. He wrapped his arms around the man—his blessed priest, his own wise monk—and held him close. “I … I will see you in the clouds sometime. There we shall sing together for always.”

Pieter laid his hands on the man’s head and prayed for him quietly. “May God be with you, minstrel of heaven. And may His Spirit kindle great joy in your song. Delight in the Lord your God, my brother, and may His face smile upon you.”

The column looked on sadly and then obeyed Wil’s quiet commands to assemble. They had been resupplied generously by the village folk and were well fed and rested. They were ready. But Maria dashed toward Benedetto one last time.

“Sing for us, Benedetto. Sing for us before we leave you.” Her voice was pleading, her cheeks stained with tears.

The minstrel nodded. He touched the little girl under her chin, then lifted his lute to his chest, and smiled weakly as his fellows encircled him. Benedetto strummed his strings and sang through a verse he had sung long ago.

     Fare thee well, my dearest friends.

     Fare thee well.

     God’s breezes gently drift you toward your farther shore.

     Fare thee well, my good friends.

     Fare thee well.

     May God’s blessings be upon you evermore.

     Fare thee well….

He had barely finished, however, when Maria and then the others joined the song, repeating the verse again and again. They sang to their beloved minstrel and even to their new friends of Renwick, who were watching sadly from behind. Finally, awash in tears yet filled with hope, the brave choir was joined by Benedetto to finish their song as their hearts had always been—together.

It was a somber group of pilgrims that departed Renwick. They said little to one another for most of that day and the next. On the evening of their second day, they emerged from the woodland to stare once again at the River Weser flowing calmly at their feet. The river was not very wide, but it looked deep and virile. The light of the setting sun slanted across it, giving the water a silky sheen that dappled in its currents and danced along its eddies.

Pieter stepped to the water’s edge and planted his staff firmly at his side. He drew a deep breath and looked from south to north. He bent over slowly and cupped some water into his hand and let it run over the nape of his neck.
This is good,
he said to himself.
This river runs with purpose. It has served its calling well since the day its Maker etched its place with His finger.

He turned and faced his flock. “This is your river of promise, dear ones. To its currents you have been led, and it will lead you to your destined end.”

The company made its way to a small ferryboat rocking lightly some bowshot away. They climbed aboard the flat-bottomed craft and were rowed to the west bank of the river, where they walked quickly to the busy town of Höxter. Here they spent the night in an inn filled with quarrelsome travelers and left the next morning for the large monastery of Corvey built along the river a short distance downstream.

The imperial abbey of Corvey was a large community of Benedictines founded nearly four hundred years earlier. For centuries, its missionaries had received their blessings within the pastel blocks of its chapter house before being sent across all Christendom: to the Slavs in Prague, to the wintry desolation of Burka in Sweden, to the flat marshes of Schleswig, and beyond. The brethren here had thrived, benefiting greatly from the trade routes that fed Höxter from all directions.

Pieter dismounted Paulus carefully and stood beneath the twin towers of the cloister’s church. Marveling at the size of the busy monastery, he leaned lightly against Heinrich for support and waited as Wil solicited information from the porter. “It will be good to float on a flat deck instead of bouncing on that beast!” said Pieter with a half smile.

Heinrich chuckled. “Soon, old man, soon you’ll be resting in the sun of Stedingerland.”

“There,” said Wil as he returned. He pointed beyond the cloister walls. “Down the steps is the dock. The porter says the boats leave at the bells of prime, sext, and vespers. We’ve about two hours’ wait.”

“The fee?” asked Alwin.

“Four pennies each to Bremen.”

The group shrugged. It seemed a small price to pay to relieve their sore feet. So they soon found a place of lush grass and deep shade to rest as the time passed. “How long a journey from here?” asked Wilda.

“With stops, it should be seven days to Bremen,” answered Wil.

“Stops?” asked Tomas.

“Aye. They fear to sail by night.”

“So you mean we have seven days before we have to walk again?” exclaimed Friederich with a happy smile.

The group laughed and clapped. It was good news, and for the next hour, a discussion ensued regarding the plans for this final leg of their journey. After a heated argument, it was agreed that, despite Helmut’s protests, they would escort him to his home before continuing their own journey.

“But you’ll be so close to Stedingerland! You could hire a ferry in Bremen and be there within the day.”

Heinrich nodded. “Ja, lad. But we are not going to abandon you until we see you home safely!” The others agreed.

“But Pieter should not travel more than necessary,” lamented Helmut. “Look at him. He is weary and growing weaker each day. Leave me in Bremen, and just travel on directly. I can find m’home easy enough.”

Pieter shook his head. “God’s final gift to me is to see that all my remaining sheep have found their homes. My heart is at peace for Benedetto, but to bid you farewell without the same would take my joy away.”

Helmut fell quiet. Finally he nodded, and the matter was settled.

The August morning was warm. The sky was pale blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. Birds flew above, but to Frieda’s great disappointment, no trio of seabirds could be seen.

“I don’t see them either,” whispered Maria.

“They’re taking the Templars to Poland,” said Katharina with a confident smile. The group nodded, albeit anxiously. Thoughts of the six knights had not been far from any of their minds.

Heinrich had finished an accounting of their money and now lay on his back with his head resting on his hand. He stared upward. Katharina joined him and snuggled by his side in the cool grass. “What are you thinking of, husband?” she asked.

The man did not answer at first. He just stared vacantly at the sky. “I am thinking of Karl,” he finally said sadly. “I think of him always, but especially when the world is still. I miss him more than I can say.”

The woman rested her hand lightly on his heart and said nothing. Together, the couple lay quietly for the next hour, each lost in thoughts of times past. For Katharina the time was one of soul rest. Her spirit was refreshed by the silence and in the gentle rise and fall of her husband’s chest.

Meanwhile, Frieda had found a comfortable seat between some shallow roots of a large tree some distance from the others. She was busy writing again, and, seeing her, Otto and Tomas finally insisted on an explanation.

“You’ve kept the secret long enough, Frieda,” complained Otto.

The young woman put down her quill and blew lightly across the fresh ink. “I suppose I have,” she answered. She pointed to the parchment. “I did not want others to know of this before, because I did not want any to be aware of my listening.”

“What?” Tomas wrinkled his nose.

“I have been collecting what we have been learning for these many months from Pieter, Heinrich, Alwin, and others. They’ve shared great wisdom, and I thought it would be a good thing to write down what we’ve heard so that my children and my children’s children might learn from this hard journey.”

Tomas looked over her shoulder. “You’ve written much.”

Frieda nodded. “I’ll need to put it to better order another time.”

“So you’ve chronicled the journey?”

“Well, not so much the events as the truths.”

Otto stared thoughtfully at the parchment. “You’ve done a good thing. Sometime when we’re old, you must read it to me.”

Frieda smiled. “Indeed, I surely shall.”

It was within a half hour of the bells of sext when Wil assembled his company. He led them quickly to the docks and paid their passage on a stout riverboat. The shallow-keeled craft was built like most of the others seen gliding on the Weser. It was about seven rods in length and made of long, overlapping oak planks fastened together with iron nails. One short mast carried a square sail, and four long oars lay waiting for the crew. Caulked with animal hair, it leaked a little—a condition that gave considerable pause to Maria and Friederich as they stepped gingerly aboard. There were a few squares of decking to sit on, but the rest of the interior was simply heavy spruce beams and knees suspended over a ribbed floor. The boat was loaded with crates and barrels filled with sundry wares: grain, leather goods, salt, ells of cloth, and kegs of beer.

Soon four oarsmen and a captain—of sorts—were grunting and pushing their way around the awkwardly placed passengers and their braying donkey. The river’s current was not swift, but it was adequate to carry the company northward at a reasonable speed. “Twelve leagues a day,” boasted the captain to his passengers as he directed his oarsmen.

One of the river men shook his head and looked at Frieda. “Nay,” he whispered. “More like eight. If we’ve wind or hard rains, maybe more, but in August, never ten.”