by C. D. Baker
Otto and Benedetto opened a small bag and showed it to Frieda. “Honeycomb and berry preserves. God’s blessings upon that woman!”
Tomas had spent the previous weeks quietly. Though still somewhat distant from the others, he had taken the first steps toward reconciliation by sharing both work and respite. Now he tugged hard on the cork of a long clay bottle. With a loud “pop” it came out, and he held his nose to the opening. “Humph,” he grumbled. “Olive oil.”
“Good for most anything, lad,” chuckled Pieter. “And see here, a set of wallets filled with herbs. We’ve horehound and dock for coughs, ground lemon rind for whitlow, garlic of course, and here’s tansy, wormwood, thyme, lady’s mantle for headaches, licorice for the belly, flaxwood, nettles … God be praised!”
“And you stay away from those figs!” cried Otto.
Pieter grinned sheepishly. “Aye, lad, indeed.”
Wil ordered his company to resecure Paulus’s load before arranging the column. When all was in order, he faced his fellows quietly, then spoke in earnest. “We’ve a long journey ahead, and we know little about what faces us. I am in command, though Pieter and …” he glanced briefly at Heinrich and forced himself to continue. “And my … father … are our counselors.”
The sound of the word father comforted the baker.
“Otto,” continued Wil, “you are my sergeant.”
Frieda stifled a giggle. She leaned toward Maria and whispered, “The great general thinks he’s in command of a mighty army!”
Hearing her, Wil quickly blushed. “Well … now, Pieter and Maria follow behind me with Paulus. Herr Heinrich and Frieda are to be next, then Benedetto, Heinz, Otto, then Tomas, Rudolf, and Helmut. We need the rear well guarded.”
Frieda was a little disappointed. Though she enjoyed Heinrich’s stories, she would rather have walked alongside Wil. The baker leaned toward her and smiled. “Not to worry. After a day hell miss you, too.” He winked.
Wil continued. “We’ve agreed that we should follow our old route north to Weyer. A merchant in the castle told me that returning crusaders are being treated badly in the northland. Seems we failed in our faith and are now hated for it. So we must be clever and careful. As before, we’ll not be near many monasteries, so we’ll need to protect one another.
“Along the way we hope to find Friederich and Jon where we left them. Rudolf, we’ve hopes of returning you to your family.” He turned to Helmut. “After we reach Weyer, you’ll need find a way to your home.”
The lad nodded.
“Frieda …” Wil was in a bit of a predicament. “I … we … have you a plan for yourself?”
The girl paled slightly, but she set her face proudly and lifted her chin. “Well, master, I suppose my home is still in Westphalia. Perhaps Helmut can escort me there after we reach Weyer.”
Wil threw a hard glance at the beaming Helmut. “I see.” He squeezed his hands into fists. “And Benedetto, your wish?”
The little minstrel shrugged. “Once I thought I might find the village of my childhood, but I doubt it would feel like home to me now. The dock holds me no more. It seems I belong with all of you.” He reached a tiny hand toward Maria and crooned,
Let each day bring
What each day will.
Just let me sing;
My cup, please fill.
Within the hour, the company of eleven souls had descended the castle road and were embracing the prior and a teary-eyed Brother Chiovo. The two monks hastily fed the group a meal of salted fish and red wine, then escorted them through the streets of Arona, chastising two peasants for eating mutton on a Friday—a fish day. Pieter chuckled to himself and gnawed on some salted pork. Breaking fish-day restrictions was one of his most delightful violations!
The company arrived at lakeside near midmorning, about an hour before the bells of terce. The road leading north ran along the water’s edge and was bustling with horses and carts. The morning mists had lifted, and the sky was blue; the air smelled of fish and wet rocks. Above, the sun was warm and comforting. Heinrich lifted his face upward and looked at the few white clouds high overhead. He smiled.
Pieter gathered his flock into a tight huddle and raised his staff. “Brothers and sisters,” he began, “our journey does not begin here; it merely continues. Let us honor those we have left behind, and let us walk in love with those yet by our sides.” He held his staff to his breast and turned his face to heaven. “Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful, and kindle in them the fire of your love. We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you. For by your holy cross You have redeemed the world.” He proceeded to pray for their safety, for their health, and for the happy arrival of “hearts at the place you would have them call ‘home.’”
The old priest then fell to his knees and implored the Almighty to shield them from all manner of wicked peril and pestilence of the world. Finishing his petitions, he rose and laid a hand on Maria’s shoulder as he drew a breath deeply through his nostrils. “Wil, ‘tis an astonishing journey we are on. Indeed, goodness and mercy have followed us, and the swords of heaven’s legions go before us, each and every one.”
Brother Chiovo stepped forward with a bowed head. “Prego, all of us. Together let us recite the Lord’s Prayer.”
When they finished, the group stood silently, each listening to the soft lapping of the lake against its stony shore. Then, with matters of both heaven and earth put to right order, Wil raised his bow and boomed, “Homeward!”
The landscape rose rapidly from Arona, and the pilgrims followed the lake highway to Stresa where they took a rest at the edge of town. By nightfall they had said good-bye to Lago Maggiore and made their first night’s camp by the roadway alongside the Toce River. Too weary for conversation, the group fell asleep quickly and rose at dawn, stiff and footsore.
“Too many weeks without suffering!” lamented Pieter. “We’ve become soft.” His old bones were aching. “You see, Heinz? Look at m’feet!”
“Blisters already?” teased the imp.
“Ja, I fear so.”
Heinrich distributed some cheese and fixed a quick mush for his fellows. He had been elected the camp cook, with Frieda and Maria as his helpers. He set a steaming bowl of boiled spelt in front the group and laughed. “Fingers in!” he cried.
The highway was oddly empty; only a few passersby hurried this way and that. It was a condition that did not escape the attention of either Heinrich or Pieter. “Saturday ought to be a busy day of market traffic,” said Heinrich.
Pieter rubbed his feet and looked about. He nodded and scratched Solomon’s ears. Paulus suddenly brayed, and all eyes turned toward a wide-wheeled carriage emerging from a bend ahead of them. Alongside the carriage rode a small escort of men-at-arms. Behind them appeared two squat carts laden with what appeared to be some furniture and personal effects. The travelers stood to their feet nervously.
“Scared, Elfman?” goaded Tomas.
Heinz growled.
“You’d be scared, too,” whispered Otto angrily. “You left us afore the slaughter in the castle ahead.”
Wil silenced the boys, but the reminder of what lay ahead left him feeling nauseous. The castle of Domodossola brought him only awful memories.
A lone rider trotted forward and hailed the group. Pieter stepped forward. The soldier was young and poorly armed. He approached the pilgrims warily but did not draw his sword. Pieter thought he looked somewhat familiar. “Pater?”
“Si,” answered Pieter with a smile. “How can I serve thee?”
Saying nothing, the young man looked past Pieter and studied the others, lingering for a moment on Heinrich’s menacing form. Pieter laid a protective arm about Maria’s shoulders. “Good fellow, you’ve naught to fear from us. Have we reason to fear you?”
The soldier shook his head. “No.” He leaned forward in his saddle and studied Pieter carefully. “Smile again, Pater.”
Pieter grinned.
“Ah, si, I know you. You saved my lo
rd’s life.” Relieved, he turned in his saddle and called to his superior.
Wil’s company gathered close as Pieter announced, “They come from Signor Verdi!”
The veterans of the crusade were relieved but uncomfortable. Maria became quiet and leaned close into Frieda’s side. It had been a horrible time for all of them, and the memory of the slaughter was unnerving.
An officer dismounted and approached Pieter. “God be praised.”
Pieter bowed. “Blessings on you and your good lord.”
“Signor Verdi is dead.”
“Dead?” exclaimed Pieter. “How?”
“The Visconti attacked us on Easter Monday. When you were with us, we had not yet recovered from the battle months before. Signor died bravely; he fought to the end.”
Pieter sighed sadly. “And Sebastiano?”
“Humph. Good old soldier. Tough as old leather. He perished early in the combat.”
Pieter nearly wept.
The man recounted details of the surprise attack as more of his fellows gathered around. Benedetto sheepishly retreated as Wil listened intently, quite aware of his own failings in that horrid place. “Those that were spared are banished from the Piedmont and Liguria, so we are taking the lord’s family to Rome in hopes of mercy.”
Pieter sent Helmut to the donkey for flasks of wine, which the old man quickly offered to the thirsty soldiers. “Frieda, take some wine and cheese to the wagons. See if any are hungry.”
“But…”
The man’s look left no room for argument.
The girl lifted two clay bottles of wine and a wheel of cheese from Paulus’s packs and obediently delivered them to the first wagon. As she approached, the canvas was lifted and an aged, gray-haired woman reached a trembling hand forward. Frieda thought she looked like death itself. Her eyes were hollow, sunk deep in their shadowed sockets. Her skin was jaundiced, and the bones of her limbs protruded from beneath a peasant’s gown. Next to her glared a young maiden. Frieda looked into the girl’s dark eyes. They were blazing with wounded pride, but weary. Her hair was uncomely and her clothing of poor quality.
“Mother,” said the maid in her own tongue, “take what you can from this wench. I’ll not take charity from a peasant.”
Not understanding, Frieda smiled kindly and offered the cheese to the girl. Suddenly, Frieda knew whom she was helping and she gasped. “Lucia!” Indeed, it was Lucia, the self-important daughter of the great Lord Gostanzo Verdi. For a moment, Frieda felt a wave of triumph. After all, the rich princess had been so very pleased to humiliate her just months before. Wanting for all the world to mock the maid’s bankrupt condition, Frieda said no more. Graciously, she handed the signora her cheese and wine, then quietly walked away.
Wil had watched the exchange from a distance. He had already calculated who might be riding in the carriage. He was curious about Frieda’s reaction, and when he saw his fair friend offer her prior tormentor mercy, his heart was touched. “Oh, Frieda!” he whispered. “Oh, good, kind Frieda.”
After another quarter hour, the vanquished Verdi bade the pilgrims farewell, and most extended grasping hands of gratitude. Pieter offered them a blessing, then watched quietly as the broken men remounted and turned slowly away.
“Are we ready to move on?” boomed Wil.
“Aye, lad!” answered Heinrich.
“Then forward.”
Each pilgrim took his or her assigned position, and the company began again. Within a few hours, they found themselves passing beneath the battered ramparts of the Verdi castle. The vanquished lord’s soldiers had informed them that passage beyond the walls was probably safe enough, though surely a toll would be exacted. As predicted, a smug group of drunken Visconti soldiers barred the roadway and demanded a heavy fee. With a loud grouse and menacing look, Heinrich paid the exorbitant toll, and the pilgrims continued on their way.
The column advanced northward through the wide, rocky floor of the Toce Valley and under the watch of the high mountain peaks. Small villages dotted the narrow terraces, and from time to time, tall keeps jutted up proudly against the sky.
At last, the company began its climb into the southern slopes of the great Alps. The roadway was steep and stony, shaded by pine and softwoods. Winded and perspiring, the wayfarers passed the gray stone, dreary village of Gondo, where the ruling lord had erected an imposing watchtower. Pressing on, they hurried by a travelers’ hospice and entered the stark, dramatic Simplon Pass.
Finally, Pieter begged for rest, and Wil was happy to accommodate the old fellow. The priest took a long draught of wine and sat atop a large boulder from which he faced south. He laid back and closed his eyes. He told no one, but he had been feeling more tired than usual. His feet ached, to be sure, and his joints were stiff and swollen. But he had also become short of breath and hoped he was not battling the onslaught of fever.
After a quarter hour of dozing, the old man gathered his strength and stood slowly to his feet. “Ah, my little Heinz,” he said as he pointed southward, “we are leaving the people of passion behind. This mighty wall of mountains is the great divide between them and those who live in the north.” He turned and pointed the lad northward. “Ahead is home to the people of purpose.”
“So what?” groused Tomas.
“It may mean little, or it may mean much. These people of passion have given us art and beauty, song and philosophy. We, on the other hand, seem to be a people of determined ways. We are workers, and what has come to us through these passes has given us much to use.” He looked about his group. “Learn from the wisdom of other peoples and places, discover what you can, then be who you are and make the world a better place.”
Chapter Nine
THE WAGER
The pilgrims steadily made their way higher and deeper into the pass. Small pine groves stood in ever-thinning patches, and the air got colder with every step. Struggling upward, they followed the trail, still snow covered and packed hard by the many feet and carts of those gone before. To either side, the snow rose higher as they climbed, soon mounding far above a tall man’s head and creating a white channel through which the travelers passed. Above, bearing the wind like the unflappable sentries of a beleaguered fortress, the green-stained rock face of the peaks stood, silently watching those below as they had for millennia.
The Simplon was difficult to cross, yet its grandeur was exhilarating. Pieter’s heart, grown of late somewhat weary, now pumped vigorously, and his cheeks flushed with excitement. He surveyed the wonder about him and thanked the almighty Creator for such a gift as this. The old man drove his staff hard into the stony earth and considered, once more, his place in the cosmos. He laughed out loud. “What is man, that thou art mindful of him!’”
The pilgrims wrapped themselves tightly in their cloaks and pressed on, finally cresting the pass and beginning the long descent. They stopped for one night under a rocky overhang where they made a hasty campfire with some scrub wood Rudolf had gathered.
At dawn, Heinrich breathed deeply. The man smiled, refreshed by the scent of pine and the tingle of crisp air. “Home!” he cried. “It is beginning to feel like home.”
By the end of the next day, Wil’s company emerged from the Simplon and began their sharp descent toward the sprawling village of Brig. Set along the rushing Rhône River, Brig was nestled neatly in a splendid valley cramped by jagged-edged mountains that seemed to reach into heaven. Stubborn winds dragged snow off the distant peaks and formed huge white pennants pointing southward. Wil’s eyes turned from them and scanned the river northeastward along a narrowing green ribbon.
It was decided that Brig might be unsafe and that camp should be made beyond its borders. Benedetto had heard rumors over the years while perched on his dock in nearby Fiesch. “Too many Frenchmen,” he warned. “They come from Burgundy to take the Simplon south. Many are thieves and rogues who fear the popular routes like St. Cenis’s or St. Bernard’s.”
Just before compline, small clusters of quiet ch
atter ringed a snapping fire along the rapid river’s edge. Wil had slipped away to practice with his bow, and Frieda sat alone with her quill and parchment. Otto, Rudolf, Helmut, and Heinz told tales of their crusade, and Tomas stared aimlessly into the rushing water. Singing rhymes and giggling, Maria sat with Benedetto and Solomon.
Heinrich relieved Paulus of his burdens and tethered the grateful beast to a nearby tree before sitting alongside Pieter. In the warmth of the campfire’s heat, the two elders lounged comfortably and spoke of many things in low tones. The two had exchanged life stories over the past weeks, and both their mutual respect and mutual trust had deepened. Pieter leaned toward the baker. “So tell me, Heinrich, are you certain she is not your daughter? Wil says it could be no other, and he hates you for denying her.”
The man sighed heavily. He looked through the flames at the firelit face of the happy little girl. With his eye lingering on her misshapen arm, he nodded sadly. “Ja, Pieter. I am certain. Would that she could be mine, for I could love her easily.”
“And you do not now?”
Heinrich kept his face fixed on the maid. “I do try. But I know who her father is, and it is not easy to keep my hatred for him from falling upon her.”
A small rustle in the brush turned both men’s heads. Seeing nothing, Pieter faced the baker once more. “Are you certain of the father?”
Heinrich grunted.
“How so?”
“Once I owned a boar with a red ear. Each gilt of the litters he threw had a red ear as well. None others in the village herd had a single red ear, only the gilts of that boar.”
Pieter waited.
“In the same way, Maria bears the mark of someone.”
“Her arm?”
“Nay, not her arm. The village has its share of troubles like that. Most say ‘tis punishment for sin. I say not. We’ve sheep with three legs, swine with half a leg … a calf once with two tails. Nay, ‘tis the way of the world as it is.”
