Pilgrims of Promise (7 page)

Pieter had not yet disclosed his destination to any but Heinrich. He had been nagged by a sense of watching eyes since he had spotted the hooded figures in the shadows the night prior. He had felt them while begging in Genoa and said nothing; he had felt them upon his return. He had felt them again as the camps divided and felt them even now, deep in the darkness and more than a league from the city. Consequently, he had been reluctant to share his plan out loud or to even pass it secretly among the many wagging tongues of his flock.
Spies? Highwaymen? Spirits? I know not, but I sense they are very real!
he said to himself.

At long last, however, it was necessary to rest, if only briefly. Heinrich, Otto, Rudolf, and Helmut had been carrying Wil’s litter since they had left camp, and their arms ached. Wil had remained awake through most of the journey, doing his best not to reveal the pain each stumbling foot brought to his wounded body. The smallest children were exhausted, though not a single one complained.

The left shoulder of the roadway was narrow and etched tightly into the steep, pine-covered mountains rising sharply alongside it. Pieter was now anxious, for being bordered on one side by the mountain and the other by sea-cliffs made his company vulnerable to any pursuit by Genoese men-at-arms. Fearing that the wrath of the
podesta
might have already been kindled by Paul’s ill-timed raid, he counseled Heinrich to hurry the travelers along. “We must find rest
away
from the road. Pray we find a break in this eternal wall of mountains!”

“How far have we come?”

Pieter answered in a whisper. “From camp I reckoned us to be about five or six leagues away. With Wil and the condition of the children, I fear we’ll do little more than two leagues a day. We need to find refuge off the road and travel only by night.”

Heinrich nodded and returned to Wil’s litter. He put a firm hand on its handle. “Up, lads,” he said. “We’ve a bit farther to go.”

The company stumbled along in the darkness as a cool mist added yet more misery. Unseen clouds then released gentle showers of rain. It was another hour before Pieter finally found a wide clearing to his left. Hoping to have found a pathway of sorts, he fumbled through wet pine boughs and tripped along rocks as he followed a ravine away from the road. “Come, children!” he urged.

Stumbling and falling, they pressed their way deeper into a dripping blackness that finally blinded them. “Enough!” cried Heinrich from the middle of the column. “Pieter, enough. We’ve nearly dropped Wil a dozen times, and none can see.”

The old man’s voice came from somewhere ahead. “
Ja.
I fear I can see nothing more. Here we shall rest.”

Wet and shivering, the pilgrims searched for one another with groping hands. Finally they formed a tight huddle in the base of the ravine where they lay until a gray dawn wakened them from their uncomfortable slumber. Groggy and miserable, they said little as they waited for Heinrich and Pieter to command them. Not far from their hideout they could hear the rumble of carts and horses along the roadway. “Dare we venture out?” queried Heinrich.

The old priest wasn’t sure. “We’ve probably four leagues to travel or more. At night we might travel a league, maybe two. We could travel farther by day, but I fear the provost guard may be about.”

Heinrich grumbled. “Well then, it seems wise to hide by day. If we move deeper into the mountains, we might build a fire until dusk.”

“And food?”

“We’ve none.”

“Water we can collect from puddles.”

“Aye, priest. A plan a day is all we need.”

The two agreed quietly, and soon the column was picking its way carefully through the heavy brush of the deepening ravine, eventually emerging into a wide grassy glade dotted with hornbeam, wild nut trees, and pines. “Ha, look!” laughed Pieter joyfully. “Almond trees and chestnuts … pinecones all over the ground. Otto, the almonds should be ripe for shaking. Send one tithing to gather what they will; then break them open with rocks. But hear me now—let no one eat the bitters. Just a few will poison you.”

“And the chestnuts?” asked Frieda.

“Yes, my dear. We are a bit early for them, but let’s give them a go. Break the husks and we’ll roast them.”

Heinrich checked on Wil, who was lying uncomfortably on his litter. The young man’s wounds needed dressing and he was thirsty. “Frieda, we need fresh bandages.”

“Aye, sir. So I’ve seen. I’ve m’bucket to gather water, and you can help with the compresses.”

“And, Otto,” called Heinrich, “send the others to find dry wood. I’ll flint a fire there, atop that rock.”

So with many hands scattered across the soggy forest floor, the company quickly gathered pine nuts and almonds, chestnuts and even great handsful of mushrooms. To the delight of all, by midmorning a smoky fire was snapping cheerfully, and pots were boiling with a bounty of what treasures the Ligurian woodland offered. The day was still heavy, however; an eastern wind had brought dark clouds and more showers.

Wil was soon helped to his feet, a remarkable event considering the wounds he had suffered just days before. He leaned against a stubby, silver-leafed almond tree and smiled at his cheering comrades. “Soon, my friends, I shall lead you on m’egs!”

Frieda stood watchfully by his side and steadied him as he sat near the fire. His wounds had been bathed and his bandages replaced. Grimacing from time to time, the young man was truly grateful to be alive and had spent many an hour reflecting on his miraculous salvation. An occasional wistful glance from his father was the one troubling circumstance that weighed heavily on him, however, and he turned his face away.

By late afternoon, Heinrich felt uneasy for other reasons. He walked slowly to Pieter and bent low to his ear. “I feel someone watching us.”

“
Ja
. Me as well.”

“I fear we’ve been followed.”

Pieter nodded. “Solomon’s ears have been up and his snout lifted all the day long.”

Heinrich fingered the bone handle of his dagger and leaned closer. “I’ll make a wide circle.”

The old priest drew an anxious breath. “Take another with you.”

Heinrich hesitated, then agreed. “Who?”

“Heinz. He’s the nose of a fox and is quicker than all the rest.”

Without another word the baker casually edged Heinz to the margins of the camp. Then, like shadows under light, they vanished.

As a diversion, Pieter gathered his company and circled them close to the fire, where he began to spin them tales of old. Like he had done so often before, he thrust his staff into the air as if he were St. George slaying the dragon or the mighty Hermann, chief of the Germans who slaughtered the legionnaires of Rome. He stirred cherished memories of their homelands as he whispered of woodland sprites and elfish kings. When he spoke of the Saracens, the whole of the company stood and jeered; when he spoke of the Templars, they cheered and hurrahed! He made them weep for the hideous drowning of fair Minna and cringe at the nature-spirits hiding in the mists of the fateful Rhine.

Meanwhile, Heinrich and Heinz crept carefully across the needled carpet. Crouching under a dripping canopy of knotty branches, the baker peered into the brushy woodland. “Do you see anything?”

Heinz shook his head, then cocked it. “There!” he whispered.

Heinrich had heard it as well. A snap, then a rustle. He gripped his dagger firmly and moved forward. Step by step, the pair inched its way across the ravine. They stopped again as Heinz lifted his finger. “There.” He pointed slowly.

Heinrich’s eye followed it into a grove of pines where three hooded figures were squatting close together, facing the smoke of the camp. They appeared to be straining to listen, fixed on something. The baker’s heart beat more quickly. He turned to Heinz and whispered. “Boy, hold fast.” Silently and slowly, he crept toward the figures. As he drew closer, his mouth dried and his breathing quickened. A jay chattered nearby and a dove cooed. A squirrel rustled to one side, some unseen creature to the other. The man held still, then moved again, slowly through a bed of wet ferns to the cover of a low clump of myrtle.

The three spies had not heard a sound and surely had not anticipated Heinrich’s flanking maneuver, but one suddenly stood and nervously turned his head from one side to the other. Perhaps he had realized that the burly, one-armed man was missing. Perhaps he sensed eyes now fixed on him.

Heinrich stopped and crouched yet lower as the figure spun abruptly in his direction. The baker’s view was partially obscured by wild shrubs, but he was able to see that the face was young. The other two now stood, and all three drew short-swords from within their capes.

The dull silver frightened Heinz, who had been watching from a tangle of leafy saplings a safe distance away. He wanted to run, to sprint wildly away, but he held fast. His eyes darted from the three to Heinrich and back again, and they stretched wide when the baker began to move forward.

The man’s jaw was set. He had faced more danger in his day than three slender youths, armed or not. He left his low cover and slid his booted feet quietly along the wet woodland floor, pausing only when eyes swept toward him. Closer he moved, then closer still. The heavens abruptly opened, and a heavy rain shower began to fall loudly through the trees. Like a veteran warrior, Heinrich seized the moment and rushed forward. “Ho there!” he cried with a menacing tone. “Hold fast!”

The startled spies whirled about.

“Your names!” shouted the baker as he approached.

For a moment, the three stood slack jawed as the shaggy Teuton strode ever closer. Then, as if suddenly awakened from a trance, two sprinted in different directions, leaving their leader behind.

The flash of the figure’s drawn sword changed everything. Heinrich snarled and clutched his dagger. With a shout, he charged forward as the youth planted his feet and crouched, sword at the ready.

Then, when Heinrich’s hard-set face was plain to see, the lad lunged forward. The heavy-limbed man dodged the youth’s sword with surprising skill and countered with a vicious swipe at his head, slicing the hood along the ear. With a loud cry, the spy stumbled backward, only to lunge again. His sword missed its mark, and Heinrich countered with another savage swipe. The youth’s agile frame quickly veered, barely avoiding the severing of his throat, but it was enough for him. He turned on his heels and bounded away.

With the spies having disappeared in the misty cover of the forest, Heinz ran to Heinrich’s side.
“Herr
Heinrich!”

“Aye, lad. All’s we’ll.”

Heinz was shaking. “God be praised, I wasn’t so sure you’d—”

“Eh? You thought me no match for three?” Heinrich winked. “Well, perhaps you’re right, but we’ve lived to see another day!” He looked at his dagger and saw a line of deep red along its edge. He wiped it on his leggings and looked into the forest. “That should send him running.”

The pair returned to the camp, which was now completely silent. “
Alles klar,”
announced Heinrich.

A cheer rose up as Frieda ran to Heinrich’s side. “We heard the shouts in the wood!”

“
Ja
, girl. We’d spies on the hillside there.” He pointed vaguely.

“Did you have a look?” asked the priest.

“There were three, but I only saw the face of one. It was somewhat familiar to me, though …”

“Perhaps the same three as I saw,” muttered Pieter.

“He was young, near Wil’s age, and dark eyed, but ‘tis all I can recall. I wounded him in the ear or side of the head.”

“Enough to send him back to Genoa?”

Heinrich shrugged. “We can hope.”

Pieter leaned on his staff and called for Solomon. The dog had given chase and disappeared into the mountain. “Otto, call your captains. We leave at once.”

Dusk was short lived and night fell quickly. To the delight of all, Solomon had returned with a mouthful of brown wool—either from someone’s leggings or sleeve. “A fine loom,” observed Frieda. “Expensive.”

It had been decided that Heinrich would provide a rear guard by taking a position about a bowshot behind the column with Solomon. From there they might better know if any were following.

The rain eased, and the pilgrims traveled through the night without incident. The following day brought welcome sunshine and the safety of another small clearing in a brushy hollow, where the children found an ample supply of mushrooms and a few snails. Pieter’s plan was for them to leave that afternoon on a circuitous route. “Children,” he began quietly, “come close. I am leading you to a sanctuary where I believe we shall all be safe. It can only be found by boat or by a small footpath marked by a cross etched into a gray boulder under an ancient olive tree. Very few know of it; even fewer care to make the journey.