Pilgrims of Promise(161)

The minstrel shook his head. “Non, signore.”

Alwin and the lads all roared. “No, indeed! The poor bride is getting a man with a few missing parts!”

“Are we ready?” asked Pieter.

The company quickly formed a ring around the bride, the groom, and the priest. Pieter raised his hands over the couple and prayed. He then asked Frieda to recite 1 Corinthians 13—in German—and she did so, much to the delight of all.

Heinrich listened to the words of the Holy Scripture and smiled warmly. Love bears all things, hopes for all things, endures all things…. He looked into Katharina’s face, one aged a little, but yet beautiful to the man. She was gentle and soft, wise and kind. She had become well seasoned by life and had remained strong and humble. I do not deserve this good moment, he thought. A tear formed beneath his eye, and as Frieda finished, it ran down his cheek and disappeared into his beard.

Katharina beamed. She looked at the thick-chested man before her and was filled with joy. The baker had aged as well. His rebellious, shoulder-length hair gave him the look of a lion, but she knew his heart was soft as warm butter. She was proud of his newfound defiance, drawn by his humility, and secured by his courage.

The couple exchanged simple vows—Heinrich promising love and protection; Katharina, obedience and respect. Pieter then cried happily to the heavens, “Lord, Your hand of mercy be upon them, Your goodness rain upon them, and give them peace. Amen.” He removed his beloved Irish cross from within his robe and kissed it fondly. “It is rough because our Lord suffered on His.” He then lifted it over his head and presented it to the bride. “Dear woman, I give this to you with my blessings for you both.” With that Pieter hung the necklace over Katharina’s neck and prayed over the two of them again.

Happily, Benedetto strummed his lute. “Now, dear Katharina, I am inspired by such a love as yours and Heinrich’s and must sing for you a song, which I am sure conveys his true thoughts of you.”

Come winter and summer,

Come springtime and fall.

I’ll stand by you always

And love you in all.

Come seasons of pleasure,

Come seasons of pain.

I’ll love you for always,

In sunshine or rain.

Come kiss me and hold me,

Come love me and more.

I’ll be with you always,

Be we rich or poor.

Katharina wiped her eyes as the baker colored with embarrassment. He smiled and reached a foot forward. He tread lightly—even tenderly—upon the woman’s foot to claim her as his, then reached for her. Katharina’s green eyes glistened softly in the failing light, moistened by tears of joy, and she fell into her husband’s embrace with a happy cry.





The bride and groom went their way to spend tender time with one another apart from their fellows. The camp was soon quiet, and Benedetto sang softly under the stars.

Find me a treasure that’s only for me,

That tells to the world what I want to be.

Not rubies nor emeralds nor glory nor fame,

But only the splendor of my destined name.

The minstrel then set his lute aside. “This place has something good about it. There, inside those walls is evil, but here I feel the good. Listen! Listen to the music of the water running by us. Can you not hear the rivers singing?”

Tomas grunted in disgust, but Maria answered, “I do, Benedetto. I do. They are telling us tales of their journey—”

“And hopes for the one that lies ahead,” interrupted Frieda.

Pieter leaned forward and stoked the fire with a small stick. He was feeling more rested again. His eyes twinkled in the firelight, and he played with Solomon briefly. Benedetto strummed his lute.

What thing is that which spins within the potter’s careful touch?

I wonder if it has a special name,

For goblets are not platters, nor cups be bowls or such;

The potter knows each one is not the same.

He moulds, He shapes, He forms, He wipes, and makes them on His wheel, And means for them to be His precious things.

And with a name He claims their worth; their purpose He reveals

So we enjoy the blessings that they bring.

“Where did you learn that?” asked Pieter.

“Oh, I am not sure. But when we learned of these rivers’ names changing, it came back to me. I think it was a rhyme some pilgrim must have taught me back in Fiesch.”

The group quietly lounged by the small fire, whispering about things past and things to be. A few were still anxious about the Templars, but most were enjoying the night sounds of August. Listening to the minstrel’s song, however, gave Otto an idea. The lad stood and spoke. “Listen, all of you.

“Here these rivers change their names. They … they are no longer what they were but have become something new. Methinks they are like us!”