by C. D. Baker
Pieter and the stranger mixed well, like honey in hot tea. They laughed and joked of easy things as they passed through the city gate and under the menacing eyes of Basel’s terrifying griffen. The stranger pointed to the end of a row of shops running awkwardly up a steep hill where he spotted a welcoming inn, complete with a collection of long tables bordered by badly warped, wooden benches.
“So, stranger,” said Pieter as they settled at their table, “by God, in all my many years I have n’er drank with someone whose name I did not know.”
The stranger looked away sheepishly.
Pieter pressed. “Your pardon, sir, did y’speak your name?”
The man answered slowly, “You ought be content to call me Stranger.”
“Nay,” answered the priest. “‘Stranger’ is no name … ah, you’ve yet to learn of mine own. I am known as Pieter … and y’may be content to call me Pieter.”
The stranger smiled. “I’d rather forget m’name,” he said quietly. “And I’ve fair cause.”
Pieter looked on with sympathy and gently asked, “Might I at the very least call you Friend?”
The stranger’s eyes moistened a little and he nodded.
“There you have it then,” said Pieter. “I am Pieter and you are Friend, and I am most content with that.”
He turned to a stout maid rushing past and, with as much bravado as he could muster, blustered, “You there! Ale-maid! A tankard for Friend and Pieter.” He giggled like a schoolboy, remembering the riotous days of his youth. Unfortunately, Pieter had given more thought to his lively memory than to his empty purse and when the ale was presented, his merriment abruptly ceased. He now found himself staring squarely into the angry face of the buxom wench standing over him.
Friend thought Pieter’s hair looked all the whiter against his fresh-reddened cheeks. The old man cleared his throat and timidly tendered his one-tooth smile in defense.
The growling ale-maid folded her arms over her ample bust and glared down her flared hook nose at the perspired priest. “Stop smiling, y’crusty old man and pay me. And be quick about it… I’ve others, y’know.”
Pieter grimaced. His inventive mind had failed him and he could think of nothing other than the swollen face of the miserable maid drawing closer and closer to his. He began to fumble for words. The amused stranger chuckled and tossed a penny on the table. Pieter bowed his head. “I am in your debt again, my friend. Please believe I’d no plan for such a thing. I … I’ll pray a special blessing upon you … you ought know these robes do give my prayers some weight.”
Friend looked hard at Pieter and responded sternly. “Pieter, accept my kindness for what it is and do not try to buy it.”
The man’s words were straight and true, and the surprised Pieter was even more ashamed. “Again I am in your debt. You do well to rebuke me for my own sake … ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend.’ Forgive me.”
Friend patted the old priest affectionately on the shoulder and ordered another ale and before long the two had hoisted not one tankard but many, many more than prudence would have hoped! After drooling a gulp, a melancholy Pieter leaned in closer. “So, Friend, forgive m’intrusion, but yer eye b-betrays the look of a man under a heavy p-penalty. What offense has cost y’yer good name?”
Friend looked down at the table and began to speak slowly. “I could not bear m’wife and was in need of a penance, so I joined with the armies of the lords as a servant in their war against rebellious serfs in the north. I… I worked to hide my hatred for her in such good deeds …” His voice began to rise. “Ach. I am but a liar, a pretender, and a weak man. I fear my soldiering had but little to do with serving the Church.” He paused and chased the lump in his throat with a long draught. “And yet worst, in so doing, I forsake m’two fair sons.”
Pieter listened intently. The spirits of the ale had not clouded his compassion. He studied the heavyhearted stranger and gently touched his arm. “I, too, know something of pain, my good man,” he said.
Friend simply stared at the brown brew in his tankard.
“Nay, nay, I do know something of it,” Pieter insisted. “I have told few of this, but when I was a youth at university I wed the beautiful daughter of the Duke of Rheinfeld. Her name was Anna Maria and I thought her the most precious flower of the Empire.” Pieter wiped his eyes. “She had long hair and deep, green eyes. Her skin was pure, without pockmark or blemish, like the finest wheeled pottery. When she laughed, her eyes lit like candles and her cheeks blushed with the color of a deep-summer red rose. Her body was shaped in gentle curves and was full and firm. She was warm and tender and quick of wit. We spent hours laughing in the gardens, picking flowers together and dreaming.”
The old priest’s voice began to quiver and he paused. His expression suddenly changed. “But I soon learned of what poor clay my heart was formed. I was sent to Salerno to study medicine and apothecary and she came to my side for that warm, wonderful, Italian summer. But in September, the first day of it, as I recall, a Benedictine told me of a plague in Lombardy and, as I was oft wont to do, I seized opportunity and departed to observe what manner of healing might be of most profit. I spent nearly two months apart from my Anna Maria and spent my days and nights among the dying. My mind was filled with learning, but I soon longed for her touch and returned to her side without a thought of what demons might accompany me. So, a few brief days after All-Saints, she fell sick with fever and within a fortnight, at the very bells of terce, her spirit departed from me.
“I was required to burn her body myself and live in quarantine for two months. Those two months, my good man, were the times where I saw the selfishness of mine own heart in ways that few could possibly imagine.”
Pieter’s voice faded and his eyes filled with tears. An uncomfortable silence seized both men as well as a small group of rough patrons who had been drawn into the priest’s sad story.
But those listening were suddenly embarrassed by the tenderness creeping into their hearts and they worked quickly to break the mood. One toothless man abruptly raised his drink. “To … to Anna Maria,” he bellowed. Another cleared his throat and described in some detail how his wife was so unlike Pieter’s Anna Maria. “Aye. M’hag is like a rose as well—the thorny stem!”
A bald-headed peddler hastily wiped his eyes and roared that his wife had more the shape of an ox than a woman. “Much like yon ale-maid,” he roared. Another howled that his wife’s curves were most appealing, but it was her face that brought him terror by night!
Pieter and his new friend smiled, then chuckled, and soon joined the uproarious cackle of wild tales and loud guffaws. Pieter set his melancholy aside and grinned from ear to ear. Not to be outdone by tales of courtship and marriage, he climbed atop his table and commanded silence. A fellow held Pieter’s scrawny arm high as another splashed more ale into his tipping tankard and the tavern grew quiet. The dizzy priest cleared his throat and pronounced, “’A quarrelsome wife is like a constant dripping on a rainy day’!”
His companions cheered and clapped and called for more. Pieter was now quite carried away by his ale and stepped down to a wobbly stool, laughing and gasping for air. “‘Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and ill-tempered wife’!” he wheezed.
“Aye! No more a truth has e’er been spoke!” roared a voice from the crowd.
The ale-maid huffed and squeezed between the tables with pitchers of new ale, slapping the giddy, grasping men. Her face was flushed and she made no effort to disguise her disgust.
Pieter was struggling to recall more Scripture. He scratched his head and then spread his arms wide over his dubious congregation. He hushed his friends and choked back a giggle. He made a halfhearted effort to recapture a sanctified composure before slurring, “‘Like gold in a pig’s snout is a beautiful w-woman who shows no discretion.’” He barely finished the verse before he toppled off his stool into the arms of his cheering companions.
But the ale-maid had reached her end and
she stormed over to Pieter. “Old fool,” she bellowed over the din. “Your poor Anna Maria showed little discretion in choosing you.”
Pieter shrugged his shoulders and, wounded by her words, slinked back to his bench. The party was over.
Chapter 12
THE EDGE OF THE PIT
Karl and Friederich foraged the nearby villages and returned to the others happy to present Georg with a full set of clothing. “We found a miller who’d part with this all for but eight pennies!” boasted Friederich.
Georg offered a halfhearted smile and politely restrained comment on the selection. Wil, however, was all too eager to offer his. “You spent nearly a shilling for these moth-eaten tatters? You ought know better than trust a miller.”
“No tatters here!” snapped Karl. “The tunic’s a good wool and the leggings are heavy linen. We’ve even a flaxen undersuit and, look here, we’ve leather shoes with but one hole at the heel.”
“Karl,” sighed Wil, “this ‘good wool’ is threadbare at the shoulders, the side splits run beyond their seam, the leggings are badly worn in the seat, and both knees have holes. The shoes are dry and cracked. What’s wrong with you, y’dolt? You’ll not be a merchant, ’tis plain to see.”
“But, Wil,” said Georg, “these are far better than the blanket I’d be wearing now!”
Karl interrupted. “And look. I squeezed the miller to give these shears as well. We needs present ourselves proper to Basel and we’ve all need of a head shearing.”
“You’re mad, Karl!” laughed Wil. “And stay clear of me with those clippers of yours!”
“I’ll be as Mother says is right to be. She says that others fail to offer trust when we’re off our proper way, and—”
Wil spun on his heels. “Speak not of Mother’s endless instruction! I’ve no regard for such and I’ve less regard for others’ trust.”
Karl was unprepared for the rebuke. “I only thought it good for us to appear properly shorn for the city and for the Feast of Assumption…. You do hope we’ll get there?”
Wil did not answer but a bright-eyed Lukas added that he thought a feast was “a fit remedy for our troubles.” Others echoed his remark and soon a lively discussion ensued in which each dirty-faced crusader described his particular idea of a good and proper festival. They chattered of tables heaped high with early fruits and steaming venison, of minstrels and jugglers, of bright colors and laughter. Oh, what dreams they shared, what joyous visions revelled in their sparkling eyes!
While the others chattered and gibbered, Georg addressed a more immediate concern and shuffled off behind a clump of small bushes to change into his new wardrobe. And, after a succession of long, strained grunts, he emerged from his cover to return to his comrades with what modicum of dignity his new attire might stubbornly yield. The shocked children fell abruptly silent and looked carefully at their red-faced companion as Wil studied the poor boy from head to toe. “Karl and Friederich, ’tis clear y’gave no thought to the boy’s size, y’ignorant fools.”
Karl glanced at Friederich and struggled to decide whether to beg for pardon or release a hearty laugh! Georg’s linen breeches gripped his thighs like wet silk, exposing every bulge and crease to eager critics. They stretched to a place just below his knees, far from his ankles which they ought to cover. His shoes were far too big and Wil thought them to be like giant buckets planted at the end of his stout legs. His poor tunic was strained over his belly, the side seams gaping and the edges curling just above his hips. His sleeves clasped his forearms not halfway from his elbow, and his armpits suffered with every chafing swing of his arms. Each step brought the sound of ripping and popping as he waddled uncomfortably toward his rollicking friends.
“Perhaps if I bend a little, this shall yield to follow my figure some better, say, Karl?” Georg asked sheepishly.
“Well, methinks you unfamiliar with the clothing of a peasant, but—”
“The clothing of a peasant?” Wil interrupted. “This is more the clothing of a madman!”
That remark sent the wheezing children into another chorus of belly laughs while Maria plucked a small wildflower and tucked it in the poor lad’s belt. “Perhaps this shall help?” she tittered kindly.
Georg looked down at the little flower squashed indelicately between his belt and his paunch and his face suddenly brightened. “Look at me,” he roared. “Just look at me!” The cheerful boy laughed and laughed a good, hearty laugh, an honest laugh—a belly-shaker and a tear-maker—the kind of laugh that good friends share.
When the crusaders finally quieted, Karl offered a sincere apology to Georg and the two clasped hands. He then commanded all the boys to assemble so that he could shear their hair and make them the kind of “proper Christian soldier” that they ought to be. Reluctant, but submissive to such a familiar charge, they formed a row, each nervously waiting his turn as Karl went to work quickly, clipping and chopping and pulling at their stubborn locks. It seemed that he was finished before any could react and the boys soon stood grimacing at each other in disbelief. The little warriors looked like poorly-shorn sheep waiting for some sympathetic shepherd to herd them from view! But the proud barber was oblivious to all grievances and cut his own red curls before stuffing his rusty shears in his blanket.
Karl flopped down on the grass next to his brother, who simply shook his head at such a pitiful spectacle. The two sat quietly as the day slowly passed, each lost in thought. Below them was the faithful Rhine dotted with struggling ferries and a few passing sailing ships. Beyond the river were the city’s walls and merchantmen’s homes which overlooked them from within. Beyond that waited a beautiful world of rising, green mountains against a rich, blue sky. “Oh, how beautiful, Wil. How truly beautiful. If only I might be an angel and fly high above. It is such a wonder.”
Wil hesitated for a moment before answering. “I would’ve wagered you to see it that way. Nay, poor, unsuspecting brother, what I see is a world to be conquered; a giant fortress of opposing walls which we’ll scale.”
“Ach, Wil, can y’not see the beauty in it? Are you blind to those deep shadows growing in yon valleys … and oh, how beautiful the green. I have ne’er seen such green before…. And the look of the city, and the banners and flags, and …”
“Y’ve seen green before, and y’ve seen shadows … humph … more shadows than you’d ever dare admit. Aye, and y’ve seen a blue sky and y’ve seen pretty colors—so what’s new in it?”
Karl shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve … I’ve … no answer, but when I look there, m’eyes do prove the world to be a better place than what you and others charge. The world is a place of beauty and hope and … and good things to come!”
“So ’tis true? Ha. Speak to Lothar about hope, Karl, and tell Maria how very comely is her arm. What of the good news for those hanged from that accursed tree? By God, Karl! You are blind to the world as it truly is. You needs open your eyes and see how to overcome it or you’ll be lying ’neath a stony grave before you scrape a whisker off that angel face.”
Karl was woefully unprepared to counter. “You … you have always thought yourself to be the better of us all.”
Wil smirked. “Now you see the world as it is … at last. By the saints, you’ve stumbled upon truth. Aye, I am not wont to err like most, nor shall y’find me a servant to any man. Nay, all I need are these good arms of mine. And you’ll ne’er find me cowering in battle, never! I see the evil in wait all around and I am its better.” Wil jumped to his feet and smiled a haughty smile, a self-serving, offending smile—a hate-maker and a heartbreaker—the kind of smile that wounds.
Karl stubbornly rose and stared at the unyielding face of Wil. “We cannot both be right. Perhaps in time you shall learn.”
Wil dismissed the remark and abruptly planted his hands on his hips. He looked beyond his brother and barked to his company, “Set the column. It shall be dark soon enough and we need to find the old man. I fear he’s fallen into more trouble with that splendid wit
of his.”
The children promptly gathered and obediently followed Wil toward the bank of the Rhine and the busy path leading to the docks. “We’ll need some silver to cross.” Wil reached into his satchel and retrieved the fare. He handed his pennies to a grizzled ferryman and soon the crusaders were packed tightly aboard a wide-bottomed boat. As the grunting oarsmen pulled them closer to the south shore, they could begin to hear the snapping of the city flags. To these young children of the German heartland it seemed as if they were about to enter the portals of the City of Zion, and they were suddenly nervous.
“Methinks we ought sing!” cried Karl.
With a roll of Wil’s eyes, the company disembarked and gathered on the crowded dock to sing a chorus of hope.
A snicker wound its way through the alehouse as a sheepish Pieter succumbed to the ale-maid’s rebuke. He shrugged and sought sympathy from the smiling stranger when his heart seized. “Mein Gott,” he exclaimed. “My children!” Pieter abruptly stood to his wobbly feet and begged his new friend to come with him.
“I’ll escort y’to the bridge but then I’ve needs be on m’way.”
The pair hurried through the crowded streets as Pieter grew insistent. “I am excited for you to meet my little lambs, good friend. You heard it said, ‘A look into the eye of youth adds a year of good life’!”
Friend slowed his pace. “No,” he said slowly, “I find children an unbearable reminder of m’own dear lads, and I fear such pain.”
Pieter stopped to catch his breath. “Poor stranger, your sadness weighs on me, but I am most certain you shall find my brave little band a blessing. They are oft so eager, so determined, and so very stouthearted. I vow they shall touch your heart and bring hope to your weary soul.”
The two soon passed through the wide gate and hurried to the docks when Pieter suddenly recognized the familiar melody of his beloved children. A huge smile spread across his weathered face and he grabbed Friend by his tunic and pulled him through a surging crowd toward his flock now climbing up the bank. “Ho, ho, my children!” Pieter bellowed as he stumbled toward them. “’Tis so very, very good to see you. I humbly beg your pardon for my delay.”
