“Ah, good Godfrey!” answered Alwin. “Any day in your company is a good day indeed.”
Godfrey chuckled and then changed his tone. He leaned forward slowly. “Tell me, old friend, tell me the stories of you are lies.”
Alwin paled. He should have known that the news of his desertion would have traveled from France to Marburg by now. In hushed tones he proceeded to tell the man the truth of his recent past.
The others sat quietly, listening a little but mostly marveling at Godfrey’s clothing. The man wore an ankle-length, sleeveless, blue silk robe atop a white silk shirt. Atop his head sat a fancy red hat, complete with a large plume. A scarlet sash was wrapped around his waist and fastened by a large silver clasp. Each of his fingers bore a golden ring, and around his neck hung a golden chain.
The merchant took Alwin’s hand. “I knew it, man,” he said. “Fear not. You’re safe here. My guests know nothing. You shall be ‘Alwin,’ knight errant.” He turned to the others. “Now, it seems quick baths might be in order? I’d rather smell my fare than all of you!” He laughed. Godfrey clapped and summoned his fuller. “Man, pour baths for each of these and hurry. I’ve rosewater for the damsels and some good lye soap for the foul brutes they travel with! And scrub their garments.”
The travelers bathed hastily, and their clothing was washed and returned to them well wrung but still damp. They were then escorted to the lord’s hall, where a table had been set for them near the others already eating. Ushers ran forward with freshly filled platters of the season’s bounty riding precariously atop their flattened palms. Trays of cheese and fresh vegetables, as well as roasted chicken, boiled hare, stuffed peacock, numbers of sausages, and baskets of bread were quickly delivered to the table. Red wine and beer flowed generously.
Solomon was allowed to romp about the rush-strewn floor with the lord’s hounds. He eagerly gobbled the many secret offerings of the children and dashed about for bones tossed by others. It was a wonderful Lammas, the best any had remembered.
The day brought back memories of times past for Heinrich and Katharina. Sitting alongside one another, they spoke in low tones of feast days gone by. Katharina giggled and groaned when Heinrich teased her about May Days, and he grumbled loudly when she recalled his poor efforts in bladder ball. “And once you wrestled Richard by the reeve’s own table. His wife was drunk and sleeping on the ground. He yelled from across the common, but it was too late! The both of you knocked the table atop the poor woman and spilt cherry preserves all over her face!”
“And then the bees came!” Heinrich roared. The two laughed and looked fondly at one another. Their faces glowed in the warmth of their happy hearts, and beneath the table they held one another’s hands.
At the end of the meal, Benedetto stepped forward to offer his thanks with a song. To the delight of all, the minstrel stood atop a stout stool and strummed his lute happily. Singing songs of his beloved homeland, he wooed all into a dreamy mood. Then, staring wistfully at the timber beams of the ceiling above, the man took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to sing, but it was as if another whispered the words.
I’ll know a place where all is bright, where all is good, and all is right.
I’ll know a time when all is done, when all is ready beneath the sun.
I’ll know a song that I will sing, that I will offer, that I will bring.
I’ll know a reason for why I came, for why I am, and why my name.
The man stopped and let his words trail away. Surprised by the lyrics, he stared blankly at Pieter and then bowed his head.
The diners clapped and praised the fellow, pleading for more. The minstrel politely declined and quietly went to his seat. A wandering discussion soon followed. A loud contest of ideas began, which quickly drew Pieter to its center. He listened carefully as Godfrey’s other guests shouted at one another about the ideas of St. Anselm and Abelard. The discussion grew heated and soon wandered to the political legacy of Bernard of Clairvaux, the logic of Aristotle, and the works of the Scot, Richard of St. Victor.
“A dreamer!” shouted one. “A mystic of a time now past. A toast, I say. A toast to the true scholars, the children of Aristotle!”
Pieter bristled. A time now past? Past what? he wondered. Past the nudgings of the Spirit, past the “peace that surpasses all understanding?” He could keep silent no longer. “Keep your blasted Aristotle! I’ll take the Scot and his ‘reasonable mysticism’!”
A diner slammed his fist on the table. “Give me the Greek and his logic, and I’ll change the world!”