Pilgrims of Promise(174)
“Our children are not all odd, you know. I have married dwarves whose union has born children that tower over them. Our hunchback married an armless spinster, and they’ve three kinder who are sound.” He smiled contentedly as he watched the folk milling about.
“Our village keeps growing. We’ve our own births, as I said, but others keep coming. Here we are free. We are free from evil men because we are unwanted, and we are left alone because our ugliness repulses them. We live here in our deep forest protected by the legends and myths that frighten others. Look about you. I could tell you stories of these poor souls that would turn your bellies sour. Yet here they belong, and here they serve the purposes for which they were born.”
The friar invited the group to follow him about the village, where he pointed to the many workshops. “Ah, here is old Wilmot, our silversmith. His name means beloved heart,’ and so he is. He is half mad and half sane, but his hands aire deft at hammering fine shapes into silver cups or bracelets. He buys silver in Höxter from merchants coming out of Franconia, and he sells his wares in the market there. He makes a handsome profit but shares what he has as is needed.
“And there, Traugott—God’s Truth—the harness maker.” Oswald chuckled. “When he’s not preaching my homilies to the deaf, he fashions all manner of saddlery. See, how his back tilts him to one side? His right hand almost touches the ground. Some say he was stood in hard wind as a baby! He buys excellent leather from the dealers out of Bremen and now has a contract with the knights of the archbishop!”
“And who carved your poles?” asked Pieter as he sat down on a barrel to receive a tankard of beer.
“Ah yes. That’d be Wendell. He’s a wise old pilgrim from Hamburg. A bit angry, I must confess, what with his terrible past. But he is clever with his art and amazing with his chisels. His shop is just yonder.”
The friar led his guests into Wendell’s workshop. The man looked up from a small wooden desk. By the sight of him, most would think him mad as a one-armed juggler. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth, and he snorted and lurched.
“Hello,” said Pieter warmly. “I wanted to meet the man who carved such amazing things on the poles.”
Wendell put down his quill and stared at Pieter. “Aye?” The man’s head ticked to one side.
Pieter nodded. “Aye, sir. It is wonderful work. You’ve a fine gift.”
Wendell said nothing but turned his face back to his quill. He continued scratching a design onto a small piece of poor parchment. His hand was remarkably steady, and his eyes quickly fastened themselves to his work.
“He’s been commissioned to make a seal for some farmers in the north. They’ve their own government of sorts, though I doubt for very long.”
“The Stedingers?” blurted Heinrich.
Friar Oswald raised a brow. “You know of them?”
“Indeed! We are traveling to Stedingerland!”
“I see. Well, I’ve not been there, but I met one of their merchants on the Easter just past. Somehow he knew of Wendell’s work and paid him handsomely for a design. Seems they’re hiring several others as well, and they plan to pick one soon. They want a seal for themselves. I’m not sure it is a good idea, though. They’ve had troubles enough, and a seal will seem defiant. They’ve fought with the archbishop’s armies over the years, and I hear that he is frustrated with them. Apparently they’ve made a rich land out of marshes, and now the bishop’s knights lust for it.”
Frieda looked over Wendell’s shoulder. The man grunted and then showed the young woman his work. Frieda’s artistic eye scanned the ink drawing. It was a circle in which was drawn Christ on the cross. Frieda thought the Christ figure looked unusual—it expressed an artistic liberty that could be subject to misinterpretation. She was about to speak when the friar called them to the next shop.
The pilgrims spent the rest of that day and the day following in the pleasurable company of the villagers. Heinrich spent several hours in the bakery, delighted to help the baker in kneading dough and paddling loaves into the ovens. Others went from hut to hut and shop to shop, some helping carry firewood, others weaving reeds for baskets, one scraping hides, and another carrying thatch to a roof.
The village herbalist—an ancient, bald-headed woman named Herta—had watched Pieter’s feeble efforts about the footpaths. She presented him with a potion of hawthorn berries and asparagus.
“Yer heart fails ye,” she said bluntly. A deaf woman, she spoke clearly though in an odd pitch. “Drink this, and take this pouch for yer journey.” Pieter nodded and received the gift with a bow. The two smiled at one another like two old veterans of many battles.