Soon four oarsmen and a captain—of sorts—were grunting and pushing their way around the awkwardly placed passengers and their braying donkey. The river’s current was not swift, but it was adequate to carry the company northward at a reasonable speed. “Twelve leagues a day,” boasted the captain to his passengers as he directed his oarsmen.
One of the river men shook his head and looked at Frieda. “Nay,” he whispered. “More like eight. If we’ve wind or hard rains, maybe more, but in August, never ten.”
The Weser was full of sweeping bends, and its waters felt cool and refreshing to the touch. For the next hours, the pilgrims floated happily through a flattening landscape. Rolling green mountains fell away as broad meadows and fields of grain appeared on either side. The sky seemed larger than ever, and the evening sun cast a glorious pink light across the rippled water. By the end of the first day, Wil’s company found themselves enjoying the ride and were sorry to disembark for the night.
The following day was as pleasant as the first. They sailed around a knobby hill where a small castle overlooked a wide valley. From here the boat rode the current to the town of Hameln, where they again stopped to spend the night in an inn at the market square near the sandstone church of St. Boniface.
Pieter reveled in the river journey. Lying on a soft bale of wool, the man felt the sunshine on his face as he listened to the happy chatter of his flock. Arriving in Hameln, he walked slowly through its streets until he found the church, which he entered to pray. He had asked none to follow; he wanted to pray alone. When he emerged from the sanctuary, he felt as though he had been touched by the Spirit of God. To the eyes of his waiting companions, his face had become radiant and his beard shone luminescent in the moonlight. The priest leaned forward to lay a kind hand on Solomon. He said nothing, but an air of peace had so settled upon the man that all felt comforted to be in his presence.
The dawn brought a brisk walk to the dock, where the wayfarers loaded themselves again into the boat. The oarsmen pulled them into the currents that turned the bow slowly northward. The journey continued past meadows of milk cows and pastures of sheep, past sturdy villages, and then to Minden and its Cistercian monastery, where they spent the night.
The next day they sailed to Verden. Along the way, Pieter summoned his strength to offer a song or two. Crowing with what strength he had, he earned a few good-natured barbs from the oarsmen. The man was weak and even feeble, but his spirit soared as he lifted his quaking voice under the summer sun. Laughing, his companions joined in, and soon they were singing tavern songs and the ballads of Benedetto.
The land near Verden was flat and open, making the horizon appear as a long arc in the hazy distance. The town was known for Charlemagne’s slaughter of some five thousand Saxons near its center. Now it was welcoming and busy, and, at Pieter’s request, the company found the redbrick cathedral towering high above the Weser’s banks. The company entered the cathedral’s western portal, descended its three stone steps, and stood in the rear of the massive basilica to gape.
The sanctuary was stunning to the peasants. Tall, massive columns of stone rose magnificently to an arched ceiling high above.
“I feel the presence of God here,” said Wilda softly. She slowly walked toward the altar. Alwin followed and took her hand. She turned to face him and her belly fluttered. To her, he looked like the prince she had always dreamed of. Strong, broad shouldered, handsome, and kind, the man was all she had ever wanted. He stood proud but not haughty. His blond hair hung defiantly at his shoulders, yet he had a servant’s heart. A long-sword hung at his side, but he was gentle. His boots and leggings were dusty, his green robe well worn. The man was seasoned and fit, truly the defender of the helpless and destitute. Alone with her knight, the woman leaned into his sure embrace.
“Oh, my dear Wilda,” said Alwin softly, “I do love you so.”
“Aye, as I do you,” she answered. “You are the hero of my dreams, dear knight, and I could love no other as I love you.”
Wilda waited breathlessly.
Then there, before the altar in Verden’s glorious cathedral, Alwin kissed her on the cheek and surprised her as he knelt to one knee. “Woman, I pledge thee this: I desire to marry no other, and it is you I would take as my beloved wife, to cherish and defend always.”
His voice was strong and sure, and as he stood to embrace her, his grip was firm and comforting. With a happy whimper, Wilda wrapped her arms around the man’s waist and lifted her face. “My dear Alwin, ja, truly, I shall be your wife.” With that, the two lovers kissed—and the choirs of heaven sang!