Pilgrims of Promise(16)

The old man’s voice came from somewhere ahead. “Ja. I fear I can see nothing more. Here we shall rest.”

Wet and shivering, the pilgrims searched for one another with groping hands. Finally they formed a tight huddle in the base of the ravine where they lay until a gray dawn wakened them from their uncomfortable slumber. Groggy and miserable, they said little as they waited for Heinrich and Pieter to command them. Not far from their hideout they could hear the rumble of carts and horses along the roadway. “Dare we venture out?” queried Heinrich.

The old priest wasn’t sure. “We’ve probably four leagues to travel or more. At night we might travel a league, maybe two. We could travel farther by day, but I fear the provost guard may be about.”

Heinrich grumbled. “Well then, it seems wise to hide by day. If we move deeper into the mountains, we might build a fire until dusk.”

“And food?”

“We’ve none.”

“Water we can collect from puddles.”

“Aye, priest. A plan a day is all we need.”

The two agreed quietly, and soon the column was picking its way carefully through the heavy brush of the deepening ravine, eventually emerging into a wide grassy glade dotted with hornbeam, wild nut trees, and pines. “Ha, look!” laughed Pieter joyfully. “Almond trees and chestnuts … pinecones all over the ground. Otto, the almonds should be ripe for shaking. Send one tithing to gather what they will; then break them open with rocks. But hear me now—let no one eat the bitters. Just a few will poison you.”

“And the chestnuts?” asked Frieda.

“Yes, my dear. We are a bit early for them, but let’s give them a go. Break the husks and we’ll roast them.”

Heinrich checked on Wil, who was lying uncomfortably on his litter. The young man’s wounds needed dressing and he was thirsty. “Frieda, we need fresh bandages.”

“Aye, sir. So I’ve seen. I’ve m’bucket to gather water, and you can help with the compresses.”

“And, Otto,” called Heinrich, “send the others to find dry wood. I’ll flint a fire there, atop that rock.”

So with many hands scattered across the soggy forest floor, the company quickly gathered pine nuts and almonds, chestnuts and even great handsful of mushrooms. To the delight of all, by midmorning a smoky fire was snapping cheerfully, and pots were boiling with a bounty of what treasures the Ligurian woodland offered. The day was still heavy, however; an eastern wind had brought dark clouds and more showers.

Wil was soon helped to his feet, a remarkable event considering the wounds he had suffered just days before. He leaned against a stubby, silver-leafed almond tree and smiled at his cheering comrades. “Soon, my friends, I shall lead you on m’egs!”

Frieda stood watchfully by his side and steadied him as he sat near the fire. His wounds had been bathed and his bandages replaced. Grimacing from time to time, the young man was truly grateful to be alive and had spent many an hour reflecting on his miraculous salvation. An occasional wistful glance from his father was the one troubling circumstance that weighed heavily on him, however, and he turned his face away.

By late afternoon, Heinrich felt uneasy for other reasons. He walked slowly to Pieter and bent low to his ear. “I feel someone watching us.”

“Ja. Me as well.”

“I fear we’ve been followed.”

Pieter nodded. “Solomon’s ears have been up and his snout lifted all the day long.”

Heinrich fingered the bone handle of his dagger and leaned closer. “I’ll make a wide circle.”

The old priest drew an anxious breath. “Take another with you.”

Heinrich hesitated, then agreed. “Who?”

“Heinz. He’s the nose of a fox and is quicker than all the rest.”

Without another word the baker casually edged Heinz to the margins of the camp. Then, like shadows under light, they vanished.

As a diversion, Pieter gathered his company and circled them close to the fire, where he began to spin them tales of old. Like he had done so often before, he thrust his staff into the air as if he were St. George slaying the dragon or the mighty Hermann, chief of the Germans who slaughtered the legionnaires of Rome. He stirred cherished memories of their homelands as he whispered of woodland sprites and elfish kings. When he spoke of the Saracens, the whole of the company stood and jeered; when he spoke of the Templars, they cheered and hurrahed! He made them weep for the hideous drowning of fair Minna and cringe at the nature-spirits hiding in the mists of the fateful Rhine.

Meanwhile, Heinrich and Heinz crept carefully across the needled carpet. Crouching under a dripping canopy of knotty branches, the baker peered into the brushy woodland. “Do you see anything?”