Visions of Heinrich and Wil dangling from the gallows in Runkel Castle silenced Pieter’s company for the rest of its descent toward the abbey. The journey would normally have been a pleasant walk under a large sky and through fields glistening with morning dew. Ox-teams dotted the landscape along distant roads beyond the Lahn, and clusters of wool-clad peasants could be seen plodding through thigh-high grain.
The group soon entered the village of Villmar, a village not unlike Weyer but more directly affected by the business of the abbey set at its edge. Hence, the arrival of strangers prompted little interest from the folk so familiar with such things. Pieter’s company walked through the village curiously, nearly colliding with an old Jew riding atop a swaybacked palfrey. Arriving at the walls of the monastery, Pieter turned to Tomas and to Frieda. “As we agreed, you two will wait over there.” He pointed to a small inn. “Take these pennies, and have a beer and some bread. Tomas, keep away from the door. The abbey’s porter is likely to know you. Frieda, I am sorry, but a female in the cloister makes the monks nervous. You understand?”
The young woman nodded.
“Good. We shan’t be more than an hour or so.” Pieter looked at Benedetto and Friederich. “I shall speak; you two must listen and look about. See what you can; hear what you can. Are we ready?”
The pair nodded. Pieter approached the portal and knocked on the wide oak door with his staff. Immediately, the door opened and the porter greeted his guests with a bow. ‘Thanks be to God.”
“Indeed. We come in search of charity. We are weary pilgrims in need of a little rest and a merciful morsel or two.”
The porter looked compassionately at the trio and bade them enter. The young man was dressed in his summer habit: a lightweight, cowled robe with a white scapular and thin sandals. He kissed them each, prayed over them, cupped water over their dusty feet, and begged them to follow him to the guestmaster.
The pilgrims hurried behind the man through the courtyard of the gray-stone abbey, where brothers were hard at work tending their many gardens or at task in their workshops. Friederich’s eye fell upon a rotund old monk sleeping soundly at the base of a large tree. In his hands he gripped a large ring of keys.
“That’s Brother Perpetua, our beloved friend who is always either eating or sleeping!” commented the porter. “Though, in fairness, he is the keeper of keys and must be awake most of the night to bid travelers in and out. I am told, however, that the old fellow is usually snoring by the wine cellar door!”
“Keeper of keys?” mused Pieter. “A new title?”
“Well, ‘tis not part of the Rule, but Father Abbot says it is his way of reminding us of the authority of the Holy Church. Do you understand?”
“Of course, my son. The apostles were granted the keys of heaven to bind and loose what they wished on earth.”
The porter stopped and looked at Pieter with some surprise. “Ah, a priest who knows his Scripture! I thought there were no more.”
Pieter chuckled. “Well, ‘tis true that there are few left. Seems most of us know our liturgies, but few know the truth!”
The porter threw back his head and laughed. “Good brother, well said! You make me think of a dear friend who died but a year ago. Brother Lukas was his name.” The young man leaned close to Pieter and spoke softly. “I believe the Holy Bible was written on his heart. He taught me much.”
Pieter wisely held his tongue. He smiled and laid a kindly hand on the young man. “Then write Scripture on the hearts of others, my son. It is the only way of hope.”
The porter delivered his guests to another earnest young monk, who welcomed them into a small room. This one ordered some novices to bring him bowls of water. He kissed each guest and prayed over them. “I shall wash thy feet in a moment.”
“I already have,” answered the porter.
“Why?”
“It is my duty when the abbot and prior are not about.”
“No, it is mine, brother.”
“No, look to the Rule.”
“I have.”
The porter grunted. “Well, ‘tis done.”
The guestmaster muttered, then fed the amused pilgrims porridge, wheat bread, berry preserves, and one egg each. During the meal, Pieter made an effort to have a conversation with his host, but it was not in the character of the man nor in the order of things for the monk to reciprocate with idle chatter. It was their good fortune, therefore, that the porter returned.
“I am relieved of the gate to take my duties at chapter. I failed to pray a blessing over you.”
The guestmaster growled. “Thou ought to be keeping away from our guests. Thou art not to mingle with visitors. That is plain enough in the Rule!”