by C. D. Baker
It was midafternoon when the joyous company gathered around the bride and groom. Frieda turned all heads with her radiant beauty. Maria had adorned the fair damsel in an array of wildflowers that the angels must surely have coveted. Atop her golden hair was set a ringlet of blue and white, and around her neck she wore a quick-woven wreath of green vines and yellow petals. The young woman stood pink faced and smiling, her beauty in full bloom despite the plain black dress she wore. Her happy eyes were moist with unshed tears, but her head was held high and her figure regal, bearing testimony to the proud lineage from which she came.
Wil had tied his long locks behind his neck and allowed Maria to fuss over him. The girl had picked all the brambles from his black leggings and brushed a journey’s worth of debris off his tunic. She placed a single red poppy in his collar and insisted he borrow Karl’s cross to place in his belt. The young man stood handsome and strong. His angular features were even and pleasing, now chiseled into a face matured by the harsh winds of struggle. Finally deemed ready by Maria, Wil turned his blazing blue eyes toward his bride.
Little Heinz spoke up. “We ought to hold hands round them!” With the exception of Tomas, the others agreed, and an effort was made to do just that. Of course, the idea had been offered without consideration of either Heinrich or Maria! It was an immediate source of friendly laughter.
The ring of fellows quieted, and Pieter joined the starstruck couple in the center, where he laid his hands on their shoulders. He closed his eyes, then lifted his face to the bright blue sky of June. “O God, King of heaven and earth, may it please You this day to order and to hallow, and to govern our hearts and our bodies, our thoughts, our words, and our works according to Your Law and in the doing of Your commandments….”
Pieter turned a kindly face to the pair and reached into his satchel. He retrieved his precious parchment and held it at arm’s length to read. “Oh, blessed family of mine, ‘twas in this very place these words were once read. I shall read them again with a heart now as happy as it once was sad. It is only God who can join such sorrow and joy together in the place of love.” He swallowed hard against the lump filling his throat. He cast a glance in the direction of Georg’s grave, then returned his attention to the bride and groom.
“‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal…. If I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”
When finished, he folded the valuable parchment carefully and raised his hands in a prayer of mercy and of protection. “And may the womb of this woman be blessed richly with a bounty of God’s children.”
Trembling with joy, he then turned to Wil. “Wilhelm of Weyer, son of Heinrich of Weyer, do you take this woman to be your precious wife under God and before these witnesses? And do you promise to keep her and her only?”
Wil set his jaw hard and lifted his face proudly. “I do so swear.”
Pieter turned to Frieda. “Frieda of Westphalia, daughter of… of…”
“Manfred of Chapelle,” the bride whispered.
“Daughter of Manfred of Chapelle, do you take this man to be your blessed husband under God and before these witnesses? And do you promise to obey him and to give yourself to him only?”
Frieda’s brown eyes filled with tears. She turned happily toward Wil and declared, “I so swear by heaven, by the saints and the Holy Mother, and by all things sacred.”
Pieter turned to Heinrich. “Heinrich of Weyer, father of Wilhelm, do you honor and witness these vows?”
“With gladness, I do.”
The old priest took the trembling hands of bride and groom and clasped them within his own. “Then with all the joy my heart can share and with all the wonder of the goodness around us, I do so declare you to be man and wife, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti!”
A rousing cheer rose up from the jubilant ring, and the merrymakers began to dance round and round the smiling couple. Wil took his foot and set it lightly upon his bride’s as the symbol of his taking her into his life. Then the two kissed.
Benedetto, nearly intoxicated with the happiness of the moment, leapt upon a boulder and strummed his lute. “Now, listen first, dear Wil and Frieda. Then sing to one another your wedding song!”
Take the roses from the gardens,
Take the fishes from the seas,
Take the starlight from the heavens,
But ne’er take her far from me.
Chase the snowflakes from the winter,
Drive the raindrops far and wide,
Move the sheep herds fro and hinter,
Only leave him by my side.
Though the world may fall asunder,
Though the grapes yield no more wine,
Though the storm clouds lose their thunder,
I’ll be his … and she’ll be mine.
Fill thy goblets! Fill thy platters!
Sing with lute a kettle song!
What we claim here now doth matter:
With each other we belong.
The song over, a mad rush to kiss the bride ensued, and Heinrich cried, “Now we need to feast!”
Paulus had been standing quite peacefully by the tree to which he was tethered. His big eyes widened in fear as a rush of many hands flew toward him and the sacks tied fast to his back. Honey was quickly retrieved and poured atop loaves of Meiringen bread, while cheese was melted in the pot atop a hastily built campfire. Soon eager hands dipped bread into the bubbling mixture, while others passed flasks of beer. Strips of salted pork disappeared with speed, and even Tomas was prevailed upon to enjoy fingersful of berry preserves.
Benedetto strummed a ballad to which all danced the ring dance. Pieter brought tears of laughter to all as he frolicked about the circle in his rolling gait. He was as happy as a schoolboy released to the sunshine! The warm breeze tousled his thin white hair and beard, and his bony limbs creaked loudly with every step. Soon the old fellow was panting, and he staggered to the fire to rest.
From there, Pieter watched his beloved friends laughing and singing. The old man chuckled, and his heart swelled with love. “I am richly blessed, Solomon. Richly blessed indeed!”
As twilight descended on the merry camp, Heinrich knew the bride and groom would soon be off. “Pieter,” he cried, “methinks we’ll make camp here tonight?”
The old priest laughed loudly. “Ja, I am sure of it!”
The baker then called for his son and for Frieda. In moments, they and the whole of the company gathered together. Heinrich took Frieda’s hand. “My dear, with my son’s permission, I should find it a great joy to call you ‘daughter.’”
Wil nodded. “Indeed, sir.”
Heinrich embraced the girl. “We are family now. We belong to one another.”
Frieda took the baker’s hand. “I am honored to call you ‘Father,’ sir.” She smiled.
Heinrich then turned to his son. He extended his hand tentatively toward the lad and laid it gently on his shoulder. “I am proud of you this day, Wil. I wish you and your bride every good thing under heaven.” He closed his eye, then repeated what he had offered each of his sons at his birth. It was the blessing his own father had given him at his baptism.
For this circle of kin I vow
To stand by you (both) and humbly bow
To God above and blood below To join our hands against all foes.
I pray you courage and arms as steel,
A mind of wisdom, a heart that feels.
Though battles may find you, may each one be won,
Your eyes turned tow
ard heaven and lit by the sun.
Wil’s throat tightened. He said nothing but nodded.
The baker then reached inside his tunic and retrieved something wrapped in a cloth. He looked at Frieda and at Wil. “I should like to give you both this thing as a token of a father’s hope. Son, methinks you’ll be the one to bear it, but it is to be borne for Frieda’s well-being as well as your own. Take this and know that I love you both.” He extended the gift to Wil’s opened hands.
The groom received the present carefully, both eyes fixed on Heinrich. “Thank you, Father.”
Frieda waited patiently as Wil turned his gaze to the thing lying in his palms. He removed the cloth, and the circle clapped. It was the Stedinger blade. “I… we shall treasure it always! Many thanks.” Wil leaned toward his father and embraced him shyly. Heinrich’s heart soared.
Frieda smiled and touched the polished steel lightly. “What is the inscription, Father?”
“Father?” Heinrich smiled. “Ah, my dear girl. Yes. It says, 'vrijheid altijd,’ which means ‘freedom always.’ It is the language of the Stedingers of whom I have spoken. Freemen in a free land. Would that you both shall be free, like them.”
The bride kissed the man on the cheek.
Pieter touched Wil on the shoulder. “And, good sir, I’ve a gift as well.” He turned to Frieda. “Since Wil shall carry your gift from Heinrich, I should like you to bear this little gift I give to the two of you. Like the dagger, it is to be carried for the well-being of you both.” The old priest opened his bony hand and offered Frieda his treasured Scripture.
The girl gasped. She took the parchment in her hand and held it lightly to her breast. “Oh, Father Pieter. Danke sehr.… I’ve no words.”
The priest laid his hands on each of their heads. “Love one another always. It is your privilege as man and wife and as children of God.”
The newlyweds thanked everyone for their good wishes and even cast a halfhearted wave to Tomas watching from some distance. Now blushing, they made their way nervously to the soft ferns of the shadowed woodland standing a respectful distance from the glade.
In the next days, nine pilgrims, two lovers, one scruffy dog, and a donkey crossed through the Brünig Pass and marched within sight of a mountain-rimmed lake where the early morning light blurred the water like a distant green mirage. Through June mists they then entered the steep-sided, mixed forests of the Glaubenberg Pass, pausing only to watch screeching hawks soar overhead. At last, weary and footsore, they pressed beyond the hardships and the drama of the Alpine trails to enter the inviting charms of the Emmental Valley.
Fox and squirrel dashed about the rolling fields like happy children at Midsummer’s. Deep green spruce plunged into inviting ravines, and streamside meadows abounded in deep blue cornflowers, pale blue meadow stork, orange moon poppies, and tiny white May bells. Thigh-high purple clover rubbed the legs of the laughing pilgrims as they descended to the gentler highways leading to Langnau and Burgdorf, and in every direction milk cows and oxen grazed on tender yellow-green grass.
“I like it here!” cried Otto. “It feels safe and warm.”
The others quickly agreed. Indeed, it was a place of magic, a place of pleasant dreams and happy notions. Pieter hobbled along with a half-smile made larger each time that he cast a glance toward the light-footed couple floating at the head of the column. A handsome pair, he thought. Long life to both of them.
In truth, the old fellow was weary. Since the Simplon he had felt a growing weakness, and now he found himself short of breath despite the easier walk along the valley floor. M’bones took a beating in those Alps, he thought. I’ll not be seeing the other side again.
As for the others, all were in good spirits. Heinrich was proud of his son and delighted in the lad’s choice of bride. He got to choose his own! he thought. He was also glad hearted about the lad’s sudden change of mood toward him. The man wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that Wil’s anger had subsided, that mercy had found a place in the boy’s heart—and Heinrich was grateful.
Benedetto and Maria skipped along the trail, singing and laughing, the girl always picking flowers, of course. Helmut and Rudolf kept a quiet watch over all, each content to belong to a family of comrades, yet longing to return to their homes. Otto and Heinz spent most of the journey recounting events of the crusade. They spoke of the raft ride down the Rhône, of the pool of reflections, of Georg, and of Karl’s near hanging, of the kindly Frau Miller, and of campsite spats. They laughed and mourned and fell into quiet melancholy, only to challenge Pieter with a riddle or to comment on his master riddle, “The Haven.”
Tomas, however, kept mostly to himself. He lagged some fifty paces or so behind the column and at night made only a weak effort to join in the singing. He did his part in gathering wood, drawing water, or caring for Paulus, but beyond that, he had little to say and nothing to offer. Pieter and Heinrich oft watched him with wary eyes of pity, for none could know what troubled the boy. Tomas had spat at the baker thrice since joining the company. Each time he had pointed to his half-ear and scar. Heinrich had restrained his hand, however, and offered the boy peace in turn for each offense. It was those gestures of grace that some thought had begun to move the boy, if only a little.
For Wil and Frieda, the days had become little more than soft light and song. In sunshine they walked hand in hand, their conversation in lovers’ whispers. At night they made their bed beyond the light of camp, where their love was joined with the gentle warmth of June starlight.
In all respects, it was a delightful and happy respite from the troubles that had dogged the steps of the weary pilgrims.
Judging by the sun, Pieter guessed it was around Midsummer’s Day when the walls of Burgdorf appeared in the distance. “Ach!” he grumbled. “We missed the Assumption last year, and I’d wager we’ll miss Midsummer’s this year!”
The company hurried forward, only to find the gates to the town barred and an angry, anxious troop of men-at-arms holding them at bay with leveled lances. “Begone, fools!” cried one.
Heinrich stepped forward. “And why, sir?”
A weathered old soldier cursed, then laid the point of his lance on the baker’s throat. “We’ve trouble about and ‘ave no need for the likes of ye!”
“Trouble?” mused Pieter. He shook his head. “Ah, it was bound to find us!” He walked slowly to the soldier. “Mein Herr, what sort of trouble?”
“What sort do y’think?”
Pieter shrugged in confusion.
“Well, we’ve warlords aplenty in this valley now that summer’s come.”
“And?”
“And we’re at the ready. Seems the empire’s war may never end. Otto has allies to the east, Emperor Friederich to the west. The pope’s Templars are about. I’m told they’ve problems with some deserters they mean to hang.”
“Who would desert the Templars?” quizzed Wil.
The soldier lowered his lance and turned his eyes on the donkey. “Have you any beer?”
Wil shook his head. “No.”
“Then our little chat is done. Begone or swing.” The soldier raised his lance again and set his jaw.
Wil scowled and wheeled about to his fellows. “We’ve no business here! We’re off.”
Otto’s face fell. He marched past the soldiers and called to them. “When’s the feast?”
“Eh?”
“Midsummer’s. When is it?”
The soldiers roared. “‘Twas yesterday, ye fools!”
Feeling discouraged for the first time in many days, the pilgrims marched sluggishly across the wide plain that stretched from Burgdorf to Olten. Behind them rose the great Alps, their rough peaks aligned like sentinels guarding their backs. Ahead, the distant horizon was softened by the gentler mountains that stood between them and Basel.
Murmuring and despondent, they had traveled less than a league when Pieter suddenly stopped, angrily raised his staff, and rebuked his fellows with a scalding reprimand. “Enough!�
� he cried. “You shuffle along like so many spoiled little lords and ladies. Minstrel, you’ve the look of an angry child. Otto and Helmut, stop your grumbling. By the saints, you turn your heads to the ground for missing a pitiful feast? How quickly you’ve forgotten what sufferings really are! Ahead we’ll soon pass the graves of our friends who drowned; behind we passed the bones of others lost to fever and to violence. Look at yourselves. Well fed, well clothed, carrying gold and silver aplenty and yet wanting more!”
The pilgrims stared at their feet shamefaced. The old man had hit the mark squarely, and each knew it. Since San Fruttuoso they had been restored by mercy and refreshed by grace. How easily they had forgotten.
Pieter sighed, then withdrew from the line toward the shoulder of the highway. A mocking voice followed him from the rear. “Pieter, always rebuking, never rebuked.” It was Tomas.
Ignoring the young man, Pieter bent low to the ground, then lay prostrate in the dust to pray for his beloved. “‘Even when our wounds are scarcely healed, our ungrateful minds forget. If you hear us quickly, we become haughty from mercy. If you are slow, we complain in impatience.’ O Lord, hear our cry. Forgive us our doubts; help our unbelief. Be merciful to all of us, Your ungrateful children.”
Suddenly, the ground began to shake, and it was as the sound of thunder rolling across the landscape. All faces whirled about, wide eyed. “There!” cried Wil. “Soldiers!”
“Quick, everyone. To the cover of the wood!” Heinrich snatched Maria under his arm and led the charge to a patch of woodland about a bowshot east of the highway. As they ran, more horsemen could be seen charging from the opposite direction. “Run!” cried Heinrich. “Run!”
Pieter struggled to his feet, then stumbled and fell. Wil abruptly reversed course to help. With a grunt, he picked up the spindly priest and carried him in his arms as he ran to rejoin the others. “Hurry, Wil!” shrieked Frieda.
