Pilgrims of Promise(112)

A mother suddenly shrieked, “And where’s my little Oskar?” More names flew from angry, grief-stricken lips as more and more villagers funneled their way toward the miller and his terrified son.

“My Bruno is gone!”

“And m’Etta and m’baby Pepin!”

Names of lost children rose from the gathering mob as the forlorn folk of Weyer finally released their sorrow. Shaking their fists at their unseen God, bitter fathers shouted blasphemies at the stars. It was the mothers, however, who shook the heavens with great shrieks of sorrow as these broken women finally faced the tragic truth of their heart-wrenching loss. Seeing poor Otto stand before them alone and with no news of the others was their final proof that their own sons and daughters would not return the way they had left; they’d not be marching home together; they’d not be coming home at all.

For Otto’s comrades hiding in the nearby shadows, the sudden turn of events was startling. They stared wide eyed as the clamor drew yet others. It seemed barely a quarter hour had passed when much of Weyer was aroused, its streets now aglow in torchlight. “What of Otto?” blurted Wil. “What will they do to him?”

Heinrich licked his dry lips. “I … I don’t know. He’s no runaway; he’s committed no crime.”

“But listen. They’re calling him ‘devil’ and ‘murderer.’ There, that one called him ‘son of Lucifer!’”

Indeed, the grief of the village folk was turning toward vengeance. “Why him?” cried one. “Why did he live and not the others?”

Otto’s voice cracked above the din, “But others may come even yet!”

“Liar! You’re the only one shameless enough to come back. You betrayed the faith, and now you come back? You need a flogging! You ought be hanged!”

“He’ll not be harmed,” growled Alwin. The knight had already drawn his sword.

“Hold fast,” urged Heinrich. “Listen.”

The reeve had summoned two armed deputies, and the three now shouldered their way through the crowd. The man turned his voice against the folk. “Nay! The boy is not to be harmed!”

The mob grumbled and fell quiet. “Now hear me! Any who lays a hard hand on the lad, save his father, is to be punished by the law. He’s but a boy come home. ‘Tis you fools who sent yer waifs on crusade.”

“No!” answered many. “We told them not to go. We barred our doors and tied them fast.”

Reeve Edwin laughed. “Ha! A pitiful lie to ease the conscience. You’d best have the priests say a prayer for that.” He turned to Otto’s father. “He’s yours. Do as y’please, but if another interferes, I’ll bring justice on your heads.”

The miller spat, then grabbed Otto by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him inside his hovel. Then, to the sound of Otto’s pitiful cries, the folk of Weyer drifted slowly to their own homes.

Heinrich cursed in the shadows. “Well not leave the lad with the likes of him.”

Tomas had said nothing. Like Otto, he, too, had felt the whip, only it had been wielded by monks. “Leave Otto to me,” he whispered. “Ill set him loose, and we’ll meet at the Magi.”

Wil looked carefully at the stone-faced lad. He had learned to trust Tomas, even respect him. He and others had marveled at what change a little patience and some grace had wrought in the young man’s heart. “We all will go.”

Otto cried out again.

“No,” said Alwin firmly. “I’ll go with Tomas. You two have other business, and we must all be away afore dawn.”

Wil nodded reluctantly. Alwin was right; the two of them should be enough. “Then well meet at the Magi.”

The four separated, and soon father and son were padding softly along Weyer’s footpaths. Behind closing doors, mothers could be heard sobbing softly. These folk did love their children, sometimes more, it seemed, than the lords who’d beat their little ones for dropping a comfit. They loved them and missed them, and their hearts were torn by the knowledge that they had released them to die on a fool’s errand.

“There.” Wil pointed. “Home!”

Heinrich and his son stood in the shadow of an ox-shed and faced their two-room hovel quietly. For Heinrich, it was a moment like few others. There, before him, was the simple wattle-and-daub cottage that had sheltered him since the day of his birth. It was here that his mother had died. It was here that all his children had been conceived and born—and where two had died. Under this very thatch he had laughed and wept for so many of his thirty-nine years. Built by the sweat of his father, it was still his along with the adjacent garden plot and fowl coop. The baker took a deep breath and stepped forward boldly.