Delighted with their gifts, Wil and his fellows tore into their breakfast with vigor! All, that is, save the minstrel.
Benedetto stood apart from the others. Finally, Maria looked at him curiously. “Why are you not eating?”
The group stopped chewing and looked at the fellow.
“Non, bambina, I have something to say.”
Wil rose, as did the others, and they formed a circle around their friend. The man rocked on his feet and pulled nervously on his pointy black beard. He fumbled for words for a few moments and then cast his eyes toward a cluster of dirty-faced children staring at him from one side. They smiled and waved. Benedetto looked at them kindly. So many pitiful creatures, he thought. Oh, how I do love them. Emboldened, he turned back to his comrades.
“Dear friends.” He cleared his throat and prepared to deliver that which he had rehearsed through the night. “We have journeyed together through kingdoms and sorrows. I have sung to princes in castles and paupers along the wayside. In my mind I see those we have lost. I sing to Karl and Georg when I’m alone.” A large lump suddenly filled his throat, and he paused. “Si, ‘tis true. And to others as well.”
He looked at Maria. “Dear sister, you and I sang with the angels in Arona.”
Maria ran forward and hugged the little man. “I remember, Benedetto. Your song is what kept me close in the fever.”
The minstrel took her by the hand and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Now facing the others, he continued. “I have said little along the way. I am a timid man, some might say a coward. Yes, I believe sometimes I am, and I am not proud of that. I am neither keen of mind nor quickwitted. I am not well suited for the world we know. No, I am what I am.”
He looked directly at Pieter. “My old friend, you have taught me much.”
Pieter leaned weakly on his staff. The priest’s face was drawn and pale, and his legs trembled slightly. He had rested well these past days, but he was failing and he knew it—they all knew it. “As you have me,” he answered faintly.
Benedetto took a deep breath. “Father Pieter said we are what we love.” He pointed his finger at the huddle of village children inching closer. “There, my friends. There is what I love. In these past two days I have sung to them, and their hearts were joined to mine. See them. They are so pure, so forgiving. They are harmless and giving. I should like to serve them and this village.
“I am a minstrel,” he added with a sudden ring of boldness. “And I am called to sing the songs of angels for the likes of these.”
The village children and the pilgrims stared at the good fellow, speechless and waiting for more.
“Wil, dear Frieda, my sweet Maria … all of you, God bless you as you claim your freedom in Stedingerland. I can feel the Tightness in it. But as for me, here I shall remain.”
The glad-hearted children of Renwick cried out for joy and rushed the man with outstretched arms. The pilgrims stood and gawked, shocked at the man’s decision. Friar Oswald had been standing at some distance and, upon hearing the announcement, fell to his knees and rejoiced.
Benedetto was nearly swept away by the tide of homespun that now swallowed him in its midst. Happy cries and clapping hands drew yet others, and soon heads popped from workshops and barns. A stream of folk gathered and shared the news. In moments, they were shouting their thanks to the blushing fellow.
Pieter sat down, dumbstruck. “Oh, my little Benedetto! May God bless you always.”
The others looked at one another and then at the happy scene. “It is what he wants,” declared Alwin. “We needs give him our blessing.”
The pilgrims agreed and soon joined the villagers in well-wishing. It was a merry time—a happy time for most, a bittersweet moment for some.
At last Friar Oswald lifted his hands and asked for silence. “Mirabile dictu … I never cease to be amazed! Welcome, Benedetto!”
“His name is Benedetto Figli di Deo Cantore degli Angeli,” cried Frieda. “He is Benedetto, son of God, singer of the angels.”
The friar grinned from ear to ear. “What a name! What a wondrous name! And so he is, and so shall he be.”
It was a summer’s hour before the minstrel finally withdrew himself from the happy village folk to stand before his comrades one last time. As the villagers kept a respectful distance, Benedetto embraced his old friends one by one. He assured them each of his eternal affection, of his gratitude, and of his hopes for their safekeeping. He moved slowly from Tomas to Helmut, to Alwin, Wilda, Katharina, and to Otto. He held Heinrich tightly, then Frieda, Wil, and weeping Friederich. When he came to Maria, he fell to his knees, hugged her, and kissed her head. She handed him a small bouquet of hastily gathered flowers. They were tiny—like the two of them—and pure.