Pilgrims of Promise(166)

“It can’t be known,” answered Alwin. “If the toll-taker is questioned, he may speak of an old priest or a man with a patch. Perhaps they know of the donkey.”

“Wil,” called Tomas from the rear of the column, “if we go to the wood, they might pass us by. We’d see them and know they’re ahead.”

Frieda agreed. She looked at Wil without saying a word. The young man looked up to see the seabirds suddenly swing wildly to the east. He pressed his column forward against the protests of those now pointing to the birds. “Ill not be obeying three gulls!” he cried.

Alwin stopped. He fell to the ground and placed his ear to the road. “They’re coming!” he shouted as he leapt to his feet. “We’ve only moments!”

With a shout, Wil sent his panicked company scrambling across the shoulder of the road and into the forest. They crashed through brush and over fallen logs, dragging the braying Paulus behind. Pieter dismounted and stumbled with the others until they were about a bowshot away from the road. They had barely settled when thundering hooves raced past.

Alwin closed his eyes and listened. His well-trained ears could count the horses. “Six,” he said quietly. “Six horses … four heavy chargers, two Arabians. It is the search.”

“How did they find us?” whimpered Benedetto. “From Marburg to here!”

“They haven’t caught us,” blurted Otto.

“Not yet,” grumbled Tomas.

“Not ever,” snapped Wil. “If they chase us to Stedingerland, they’ll still not have us.”

“If they bring their swords into that place,” said Heinrich ominously, “they’ll not be going home.”

The sounds of the horsemen faded quickly, and the company began moving again. They now needed to make their way through difficult underbrush and thickets of saplings. It was a difficult journey, made easier only by the occasional discovery of a welcome spring. It was agreed that they would consider buying passage on a boat sailing for Bremen. No one knew where one might be found, but it was a reasonable idea, one that brought the weary Pieter much hope.

They journeyed for the next day under a heavy gray sky that released a few brief showers that did little more than dampen the ground. The rain did bring a cool breeze, however, a harbinger of the coming autumn. Finally, they found themselves at the edge of a planted field and staring ahead at a small Benedictine monastery.

“What say you?” asked Wil.

Heinrich looked about. The road was quiet in the late evening. They had not seen the Templars for two days. “Do you think it is safe?”

Alwin nodded. “Pieter could use some good food and a good night’s sleep.”

The group stared ahead at the cloister about a furlong away. It was neat and inviting. They could see vegetable gardens and orchards, a swine yard and a flower garden by a small bake house. Their thoughts quickly turned to fresh bread and stew.

“Oh please, Wil,” begged Frieda.

It was enough. The young man agreed reluctantly, and soon the column was marching across the field. They arrived at the low wall surrounding the cloister and were greeted by a monk dressed in his black robe and scapular. His sandals were dusty and his tonsured head uncovered. The brother bowed. “Thanks be to God,” he said.

Pieter returned the same. “Brother, my fellows are in need of rest and some food. We’ve silver for your alms box.”

“How many of you are there?”

“We are thirteen.”

The monk nodded.

“Have you welcomed any Templars?” asked Alwin.

“No, my son. Not lately.”

The monk beckoned the wayfarers onto the cloister grounds, where several of the brethren scurried about for food. Before long, the pilgrims were sitting alone in the refectory and enjoying a plentiful feast. The monastery was a fledgling community under the priorship of a larger monastery in Höxter to the north. Run by a deacon, it was a settlement of twenty devoted to their scriptorium.

Those serving were happy to share the bounty of their harvest with Wil’s company, though they offered little conversation. And after their meal, they directed their guests to a small shed that served as a modest guesthouse. Here the pilgrims were invited to spend the night.

In the morning, the deacon presented Pieter with a generous gift of baked bread, salted pork, and a rather poor beer brewed in their new brewery. Midst smiles and humble bows, the pilgrims and the monks parted company, and a new day of travel was begun.

The pilgrims left the cloister and stood along the highway once again. A raven cried overhead and flapped its wings lazily as it flew in a wide circle. Frieda and Maria smiled with Pieter, and soon the column began its march. They passed only a few other travelers and were relieved to spend the morning without incident. By midafternoon, however, the seabirds had returned, agitated and loud. Crying from the branches of a river willow, they alternated flight paths leading directly away from the Weser and into the heavy forest to the east. Back and forth they flew, one after the other. Their cries became scolding, and they swooped low.