by C. D. Baker
“Our quarrel quickly divided the brethren into two groups. It seems some of them had a liking for the pie-faced oaf, others not. We all began shouting, but when I cried out that his breath was so foul, it could turn gold into acorns, he threw a fish at me! So it began. First a fish, then a few flasks, a tankard or two, then fists. It went poorly for the dolt, and he returned to Rome with a crooked nose. But the pleasure of his beating cost me three of m’teeth!”
All Saints’ Day was greeted with a gentle shower. The rain dimpled the inlet’s water softly, and Wil’s company gathered within the dormitory. Otto had counted heads with his captains and reported to Heinrich that all was in order. Frieda reported that Wil’s health was greatly improved, and all cheered. It was then that Pieter made a startling announcement.
“I’ve a heavy burden on m’heart, as does Wil. He’s whispered it to me on the journey from Genoa. His sister, Maria, was one of our company on crusade. She was sick and near death, left in the care of Benedictines near Arona, along the Lago Maggiore at the feet of the mighty Alps. We think of her often, as do all who love her.
“So listen. I must leave you now, while the weather still allows me to cross the Piedmont. I must go to her. If she has died, and, truth be told, ‘tis likely, then I need the peace of knowing. If not—and God be praised if it could be so!—then I must be at her side.”
The pilgrims sat stunned. Most had not known Pieter before Genoa, but they had quickly learned to love him and to depend on him. One cried out anxiously, “Will Herr Heinrich stay with us?”
All eyes turned toward the baker. He and Pieter had formerly agreed to remain at San Fruttuoso until they all left together at Easter. The priest’s sudden plan was unexpected and had surprised him as much as the others. With a cold stare he answered, “Ja. I shall stay with you all until we begin our journey north together.”
The old man looked at the ground sheepishly. He knew he should have counseled Heinrich on the change, but the whole matter of Maria was awkward. “Heinrich, I am sorry for the surprise, but it is something I must do.”
Heinrich had not resolved the confusion of feeling he had felt upon learning of the little girl. He knew he was not her father, and, according to his easy reckoning, he knew she must have been conceived while he was still in Weyer. It was a violation that haunted him—his feelings for his wife notwithstanding. He nodded.
“Then I go too!” cried Otto. “She is my friend.”
Heinz echoed the same. The two had shared much suffering with the little girl and had loved her like a sister.
Pieter looked at the lads. Heinz was quick footed and keen. Otto was sturdy and dependable. The old priest fixed his eyes onto Otto’s broad face and thought carefully. He scratched Solomon’s ears and finally nodded. “Aye.”
The group was unsettled at the whole notion of Pieter’s leaving them, and more than a few grumbled. They had been happy to leave things as they were—they wished nothing would ever change.
“Now hear me, my precious children. Herr Heinrich and Wil shall bring you to Arona in the springtime, just past Easter. You shall all be in my prayers until then. Our reunion will be a glorious moment!
“Ah, but more. These good brothers may offer some of you this as your home. Lads, here you can learn the Scriptures, learn to garden and to fish, to make wine, to cure others. Perhaps you might choose to take the vows and take a new name.
“And, my dear maidens, they have told me of a kindly nunnery in sunny Tuscany that would gladly take you all. There you’d be safe enough. You might learn to read and to write, to embroider and prepare fine meals for travelers. You, too, may choose to take the vows. So, all of you, consider my words; think on these things in the months to come.” His words brought them little comfort.
The next morning the sun shone brightly overhead, but the mood of the young pilgrims had not changed. They had become quite attached to the old man and were near tears as he prepared to leave them. With Solomon at his side, Pieter gathered his lambs close and led them to the edge of the water that lay flat and clean under a new day’s light. “Little brothers and sisters, I shall not leave you until I show you something. Come. Each of you stand close to the water and look at your reflection.”
The grumbling company obediently lined themselves along the shore and stared at the arc of long faces gazing glumly at them from below. Pieter chuckled. “Once before my flock faced themselves in such a way. ‘Twas their time to see themselves as they were. Now look at yourselves; open your eyes wide, my beloved, and see what you’ve become.”
“I’m clean again!” cried one.
“M’clothes are new; m’belly’s full!”
“M’scabs are gone!”
Pieter laughed. “Aye! Rested, clean, filled with good food, and dressed in fresh garments; wiser, bolder, ever more free! Rejoice, my children. You’ve much to be thankful for.”
Brothers Petroclus and Stefano stood at a respectful distance, nodding their approval of the priest’s words. When he finished, they called to him and beckoned he follow them to the chapter house.
As the trio arrived, Petroclus turned to Pieter. “My friend, we did not expect you to be leaving quite so soon.” He looked uneasily at Stefano. “We do have news you should know. We have kept it from you all this time so that you and your flock might have a season of rest.”
Pieter leaned forward. “Ja? Go on.”
“Within a week of your coming we learned of troubles in Genoa. One of the brothers spoke with a merchant at the dock in Camogli. It seems a group of crusaders, following a youth named Paul, I believe, did quite a thing in the city. They robbed rich and poor, set fire to a stable, and are accused of killing a carter and an old woman.”
Pieter groaned. “Ach, mein Gott! I knew it!”
“The merchant’s story is confirmed by our lemon trader. He tells us that a dozen children were captured and hanged. The rest fled into the countryside and are being hunted. The roads north have been scoured, as well as those to the south. I do not know any more than this, but you, Father, must have a care.”
Pieter took a deep breath and nodded. He thought carefully, then concluded his Maria still needed him. “Thank you, brother. Can you tell me if we are safe here?”
The monks exchanged glances once more. Stefano spoke. “We have kept a guard at the path, and we have watched the waters each day. None of our brothers has spoken a word of you to any, and none of our traders has come. If a search is made, well need to hide everyone and quickly, but we’ve a plan for that as well.”
Petroclus shook his head. “Si, but I believe the search will soon be over—if it is not already. The news we bring is a fortnight past. Our brothers have been to Camogli just days ago, and all was quiet. We tell you this so you are mindful of the road.”
Pieter nodded.
“But,” Petroclus said, “we’ve something for you that might mask your past appearance.”
Stefano hurried away and returned with a fresh black robe draped over his forearms. With a respectful bow he presented Pieter with it. “You, too, Father, have survived a trying season. You should don this robe as a symbol of a new beginning.”
Pieter took the garment and held it in front of him. It was made of finely loomed wool with an ample hooded cowl, a braided leather belt, and pockets sewn within. He looked at his own tattered robe and sighed. It had served him well, and he suddenly hated to part with it.
“I know, Father,” smiled Stefano. “It has become a friend to you.”
The priest nodded. “This tattered thing has kept me warm for longer than I know. It was a gift from poor peasants.”
“My friend, I suggest you part with it before it parts with you inside it!” laughed Petroclus.
“Indeed! Then, so be it! Ha! A new robe—”
“And these,” interrupted a monk, hurrying forward. He handed Pieter a pair of heavy leather shoes made from ox hide and stitched with strong cord.
The priest was astonished. “These are worth much
!”
“You are worth more,” added Petroclus. “These are our gifts to a brother who has suffered in the service of others. It is a calling that ought not to go unnoticed.”
Embarrassed but delighted, old Pieter stripped away his old garments and stood for a moment adorned only by the wooden cross hanging around his neck. The monks abruptly turned away—they were more accustomed to the beauty of their inlet than the sight of wrinkled Pieter! “Ah, your pardon!” laughed the old man. “You should not be punished for your kindness!” He quickly dressed and danced about, only to be handed a new blanket as well. But when the cobbler offered him a new satchel, he declined politely. “Brother, this old bag has carried m’most precious things for much of m’life. It is not pretty, but neither am I. It is worn thin, like me, but not through. With sincere thanks, I choose to keep m’own.”
The monks and the old priest embraced for the last time, each praying a blessing on the other. Pieter then returned to his children and summoned Otto and Heinz to his side. The two boys had been presented satchels as well as blankets and heavy shoes. They were delighted to feel so good again, and they stood by Pieter’s side filled with enthusiasm.
Heinrich counseled with the old man for a brief time, reviewing the plan and the route to be taken. Pieter whispered the news of Genoa to the man and urged him not to tell the others. When finished, the baker embraced his wiry old friend, then bent to pet Solomon. “Until Arona, then,” he said. “God go with all of you and … and may little Maria be spared.”
Pieter smiled. He knew how difficult it was for any man in Heinrich’s place to see the child and not the sin. “Take good care of these, and I pray you find peace with your son.” With that Pieter hurried to Wil’s side and knelt by his litter. The young man was clear eyed and spoke with hopeful confidence. “Give Maria her cross, and tell her I am coming soon.”
Pieter took the girl’s wooden cross in his hand and remembered all it had endured. “Ja, my son. It shall be the herald of your coming.”
The two stared at each other, then smiled in understanding. Their eyes assured them that hope had been restored. After a final prayer, the priest stood, bade Frieda an affectionate farewell, and walked to the others, whom he blessed. All things in proper order, Pieter, Solomon, Otto, and Heinz then boarded a small craft manned by two monks who would row them to Camogli and the perilous highways leading north.
Fair Frieda had been born nearly sixteen years prior in the region of Westphalia that was once called the Lower Lorraine. She had kept her past a secret from her fellow travelers, though Gertrude had made comments from time to time that gave Pieter cause to wonder. Were the truth known, she’d have been relieved of a deep shame, one foisted upon her by circumstances for which she had no part.
The young woman had been born to a knight, Manfred of Chapelle, a landed vassal to Lord Rawdon of Bonn. Her father’s modest manor consisted of some one thousand hectares that lay near the Rhine about three leagues from Adernach. Her mother, Clarimond, was the ravishing daughter of Lord Eginhard of Metz and boasted an ancient lineage of knightly sires. So by all counts, the young lady should have enjoyed a genteel life of privilege.
Unfortunately, Manfred was the firstborn of a marriage between first cousins—a union that had supported a necessary military alliance but violated the Church’s standard. The man, like two of his seven siblings, had gone mad three years prior and had been taken to an undisclosed asylum somewhere in the marshes of Bohemia. His manor house and lands had been forfeited to his overlord and his family immediately deprived of its income.
Frieda loved her father, and she wept bitterly the day she watched him taken away. Her priest had told her it would be better for him to spend his days in some unknown cell than to be set loose in the world and that the family’s overlord was owed a debt of gratitude. But when Clarimond and her children were presented to the haughty Lord Rawdon, Frieda slapped the man’s outstretched hand and stormed away.
Were these not troubles enough, Clarimond, desperate to find some source of funds, then unwisely loaned her dowry to a well-intended uncle in Münster whose reputation for wagering was quickly proven to have little to do with his actual skill. After promising much, the downcast man could do no more than offer empty promises of better fortune and fill Clarimond’s strongbox with scraps of payments due. Unable to pay her rents, she and her three children were eventually delivered penniless to the streets of Bonn.
Clarimond finally determined that God was demanding she yield her life to his service. She took her vows in a double monastery near Treves into which she placed her children as oblates. The experience proved immediately difficult for Frieda and her siblings. Frieda had caught the carnal eye of the bishop, who made every effort to override the protections of the abbess. The damsel was desperate to escape, and when rumors of a children’s crusade found her ears, she conceived a daring plan to rescue her sister, her brother, and herself.
And so, Frieda, Gertrude, and brother Manfred escaped their plight to join the hapless crusade that had left Frieda as the sole survivor. Now the young woman was alone in the world, bearing the stigma of a mad father and a penniless mother. Reduced to the status of a peasant and with no place to call her home, she had maintained both her dignity and her belief that things would, even yet, be put to right.
It was Martinmas when Frieda wrapped herself warmly in an ample woolen blanket under the shelter of the monks’ stone arcade. She stared peacefully at the bay now spattered by a cold rain. She had enjoyed a pleasant feast of roast pork and chicken stew. Flat fish had been provided, of course, as well as a large platter of shellfish and ample vegetables. But her thoughts were not of her plenty. Rather she was lost in memories of Gertrude and Manfred when a sound startled her.
The young woman spun about. Her eyes suddenly lit the dreary arcade, and she clapped excitedly. “Wil! Wil! You’re walking without a crutch!”
The lad blushed and tossed his hair to one side. He wanted to cover his scar. “Ja, ‘tis true. I swore to the infirmer on All Saints’ that I’d surprise you before Martinmas!”
Frieda lightly brushed the hair away from his wound. She touched his cheek lightly, running her finger along the raised ridge. “I am proud of your scar, and you should be as well.”
Wil looked down, shamefaced. “I … I saw it in still water some time back, and it made me sick. It forever changes me.”
The damsel shook her head. “Tis not the scar that has changed you, Wil.”
Wil turned away, embarrassed.
Frieda laid a hand tenderly on his shoulder. “You believed in the love of others. Then you fought for us like no knight I have ever seen. Those men … oh, those men were fearsome, but you held them at bay … you freed me from one’s grip. I remember well.”
The young man took a long breath, then spoke with a hushed voice, barely above a whisper. “It was like I was dead, Frieda. Truly, it was as though I were dead.” He stared blankly at the mist now settling over the bay.
Frieda said nothing for a long moment. “So tell me, how are your wounds?”
The lad walked in a slow circle, lifting his shoulders from time to time and grimacing as his stitched skin stretched. “Truth be told, they hurt some. The one on m’belly is the worst. The brothers say by Christmas I should be able to stand upright and raise m’hands overhead. By Lent I ought to be able to carry baskets of lemons, and by Easter I should be fit as ever.”
Frieda smiled. It was good news.
“But I can only think of Maria. I wonder if Pieter’s found her … or her grave.” His eyes fell and he shook his head. “I loved her so. I can’t believe I betrayed her as I did.”
“She knew you loved her and she knew you to be sorry. Maria loved nothing more than forgiving.”
“But she was near death when I asked her … and she could not have heard my words. We ought not to have left her there alone.”
“She was not alone. The monks were able to care for her, and Anna was there for her as wel
l. Wil, listen to me. She wanted you to go. It would have been unkind to deny her that wish.”
Wil shrugged. He wasn’t so sure.
The two stood close to one another and stared at the gray sky. Even on the gloomiest day their refuge was not unpleasant. The air remained somehow fragrant, the sea still beautiful. Even the mists that curled about the mountains’ feet were a wonder.
Frieda smiled and turned to Wil. “You ought to be glad you’ve been on that litter. The rest of us ache for the weight of lemons! The boys are tired of pressing grapes, and some are off to shake olives from the trees. The work is endless.”
Wil smiled. “Helmut says his hands are like old canvas from pulling nets of fish, and Rudolf grumbles that he’s spending more days threshing here than ever at his home!”
“He should never have told Petroclus that he knew the flail so well!” laughed Frieda. “But we girls are not spared! Besides the lemons, they’ve got us mending and washing, kneading dough and baking.” The young woman looked at her callused fingers. “I’ve spent hours learning from your father. He’s a good baker, you know.”
Wil darkened and said nothing.
Frieda sighed. She understood his hurt. After all, according to Wil’s reckoning, Heinrich had left the family nearly six years ago to the day that they had met again. The boy’s mother had spent the years recounting a litany of the man’s sins, and she had invented a few more for good measure. Abandoned to work the bakery and tend the fields, Wil had suffered the burdens of an entire household long before his time. “Will you not forgive him?”
The young man spat.
“Do you know the truth of his going?”
Wil shook his head. “Does it matter?”
Frieda was wise. “Well, perhaps it should not make a difference. Perhaps we should merely forgive another when asked … just as we want forgiveness when we ask.”
