Benedetto held them to his nose and breathed deeply. He tucked them within his shirt and rose to face Pieter. The two fixed a gentle stare upon one another. They had been comrades along their difficult crusade of tears; together they had redeemed their suffering, and they now faced the time that both knew would surely come.
“Dear minstrel,” whispered Pieter, “I shall not be long upon this earth. Know that my journey has been made lighter by your song and your lute. You have blessed those who have suffered at your side, and I have been proud to call you friend.”
Benedetto could not speak. He had words that he wished to say, but he could not utter one. He wrapped his arms around the man—his blessed priest, his own wise monk—and held him close. “I … I will see you in the clouds sometime. There we shall sing together for always.”
Pieter laid his hands on the man’s head and prayed for him quietly. “May God be with you, minstrel of heaven. And may His Spirit kindle great joy in your song. Delight in the Lord your God, my brother, and may His face smile upon you.”
The column looked on sadly and then obeyed Wil’s quiet commands to assemble. They had been resupplied generously by the village folk and were well fed and rested. They were ready. But Maria dashed toward Benedetto one last time.
“Sing for us, Benedetto. Sing for us before we leave you.” Her voice was pleading, her cheeks stained with tears.
The minstrel nodded. He touched the little girl under her chin, then lifted his lute to his chest, and smiled weakly as his fellows encircled him. Benedetto strummed his strings and sang through a verse he had sung long ago.
Fare thee well, my dearest friends.
Fare thee well.
God’s breezes gently drift you toward your farther shore.
Fare thee well, my good friends.
Fare thee well.
May God’s blessings be upon you evermore.
Fare thee well….
He had barely finished, however, when Maria and then the others joined the song, repeating the verse again and again. They sang to their beloved minstrel and even to their new friends of Renwick, who were watching sadly from behind. Finally, awash in tears yet filled with hope, the brave choir was joined by Benedetto to finish their song as their hearts had always been—together.
It was a somber group of pilgrims that departed Renwick. They said little to one another for most of that day and the next. On the evening of their second day, they emerged from the woodland to stare once again at the River Weser flowing calmly at their feet. The river was not very wide, but it looked deep and virile. The light of the setting sun slanted across it, giving the water a silky sheen that dappled in its currents and danced along its eddies.
Pieter stepped to the water’s edge and planted his staff firmly at his side. He drew a deep breath and looked from south to north. He bent over slowly and cupped some water into his hand and let it run over the nape of his neck. This is good, he said to himself. This river runs with purpose. It has served its calling well since the day its Maker etched its place with His finger.
He turned and faced his flock. “This is your river of promise, dear ones. To its currents you have been led, and it will lead you to your destined end.”
The company made its way to a small ferryboat rocking lightly some bowshot away. They climbed aboard the flat-bottomed craft and were rowed to the west bank of the river, where they walked quickly to the busy town of Höxter. Here they spent the night in an inn filled with quarrelsome travelers and left the next morning for the large monastery of Corvey built along the river a short distance downstream.
The imperial abbey of Corvey was a large community of Benedictines founded nearly four hundred years earlier. For centuries, its missionaries had received their blessings within the pastel blocks of its chapter house before being sent across all Christendom: to the Slavs in Prague, to the wintry desolation of Burka in Sweden, to the flat marshes of Schleswig, and beyond. The brethren here had thrived, benefiting greatly from the trade routes that fed Höxter from all directions.
Pieter dismounted Paulus carefully and stood beneath the twin towers of the cloister’s church. Marveling at the size of the busy monastery, he leaned lightly against Heinrich for support and waited as Wil solicited information from the porter. “It will be good to float on a flat deck instead of bouncing on that beast!” said Pieter with a half smile.
Heinrich chuckled. “Soon, old man, soon you’ll be resting in the sun of Stedingerland.”
“There,” said Wil as he returned. He pointed beyond the cloister walls. “Down the steps is the dock. The porter says the boats leave at the bells of prime, sext, and vespers. We’ve about two hours’ wait.”