“There.” Heinrich choked. “My bakery.” His thoughts ran to the day he baked his first loaf of bread in the building built by Katharina’s father. Then he remembered that glorious day when it was sold to him by the abbot. A good day, indeed! he thought. The man looked at the sturdy building and remembered so many days within its walls. He closed his eye and imagined he could smell the bake. He wondered who was stoking the ovens and kneading the dough. Then he wondered how he could ever come back. He turned to his son. “What would a baker be without a bakery?”
“A baker still,” answered Wil quietly. “And a good one. He’d still be a father, a husband, and a friend as well. But it is still yours by right of law.”
The man took a hopeful breath but shook his head. “I’m not so certain.” He turned his face toward the village. From a distance, the place had felt warm and inviting. Up close, however, it seemed oddly unfamiliar. It was as if he had become a stranger. He said nothing to Wil, but he was suddenly anxious, like prey precariously positioned at the edge of a snare. He motioned for his son to follow him back to the others waiting nervously across the stream.
“Now what?” asked Otto as the pair returned. “I’d like to see m’papa.”
Heinrich looked at Wil, then at the sandy-haired lad.
“And what about Mutti?” asked Maria.
Wil nodded and set a kindly hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Otto, well get you home soon enough. We need to think a bit more on this.”
Friederich, Benedetto, and Helmut said nothing. They had all been anxious about the others’ homecoming. In the first place, they feared being arrested as fugitives along with the others. They also were terrified of being charged as accomplices of Alwin. But they also wondered about their own fate if their fellows were able to make Weyer their home again. Friederich finally spoke. “You ought to go in at night. We all feel danger here.”
Wil looked at his friend. He thought the eight-year-old’s face seemed tight and haggard. Friederich’s hands were trembling, and Frieda put her arm around him. As if she knew what troubled the little boy’s heart, she kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll be safe with us, and whatever happens, you’ve a home with us.”
“He’s right, Wil,” said Helmut. “It’d be safer at night.”
The pilgrims murmured amongst themselves and finally agreed. “Just past compline bells then,” said Wil.
The company retreated to the fern-softened environs of the Magi, which stood within a brief walk of the boundary pole of Villmar’s manorlands. Here, in this place of fond memories and cool air, the pilgrims lounged, albeit warily. Pieter patiently listened to Heinrich and Wil chatter about Brother Lukas and the Butterfly Frau, of Richard and Ingly, of things magical and things tragic. But when talk finally turned toward things more imminent, the priest became ever more insistent that those from Weyer give heed to the likelihood of their abandoning home for a new life of freedom elsewhere. To this, angry objections were offered. Wil paced about the wood, confused and struggling to answer the challenges his old friend posed. Heinrich was equally distressed. He was no longer living in his dreams but rather standing at the very edge of his former master’s manor. A gnawing realization crawled over him. Perhaps the old man is right Maybe I cannot be home and be free.
The group finally settled quietly midst the lengthening shadows as summer sunbeams slanted their way between great timbers, splashing golden patches throughout the brushy woodland floor. Soon, twilight would fall, and the long-awaited bells of compline would echo from the stout tower of Weyer’s brownstone church. Frieda and Maria had built a small fire upon which they had boiled water for a stew of vegetables, mushrooms, and pork. Heinrich stared into the steaming pot and thought wistfully of Katharina once more. He sighed.
The company whispered amongst themselves, and the light began to fade. A flask of ale was passed around the circle, and soon Benedetto strummed softly on his lute. He smiled at Maria with dark eyes now twinkling in the firelight.
Not far away, Weyer’s church bell rang. Its deep, soulful peals rolled through darkening woodlands in slow, rhythmic waves, and each pilgrim’s heart began to race. “Tis time,” said Wil as he stood. The young man secured his dagger in his belt and gripped his bow tightly. Emmanuel, he said to himself, I needs leave you here. He handed the bow to Helmut while staring at its inscription. “‘Vincit qui patior,’” he whispered. “‘He who suffers, conquers.’ Indeed.”
Heinrich and Alwin, Otto and Tomas joined Wil. “We’re ready,” the baker said.