The complex had been built at the end of a narrow bay shaped like a blue finger that probed deeply into the green mountains. From high above, a sandy shoreline looked like a narrow white ribbon rimmed with palms and umbrella pines. On one shore stood a simple church and the monks’ cloister that were set a comfortable walk from the water’s edge. Directly across was an arched arcade that served as the monks’ boathouse. The water was clear and inviting. A more welcoming haven none had ever seen.
Pieter then pointed the pilgrims’ attention to the larger view. The bay gradually widened in the distance until it finally yielded to the great sea that marked the horizon with a subtle blue line. Its waters were beautiful and shimmered blue-green, hemmed on three sides by steep, rugged mountains covered in pines, softwoods, and heavy shrubs and scarred with stark cliffs and crags.
The children’s gazes remained fixed on the wondrous scene for long, dreamy moments, and they smiled. A pleasant scent from a landscape of hidden shrubs filled the nostrils of the forty glad-hearted travelers. The terrors of a lost crusade were briefly forgotten. The hypnotic cry of soaring gulls and the hush of distant surf softened the heartaches of comrades lost and of broken dreams. The sight before them was a healing balm, a gift from heaven to little ones who so desperately needed a Sabbath rest. Heinrich and Pieter gazed about their tattered column with the joy of good shepherds. They now hoped the brethren below would be as charitable as the wondrous vision might suggest.
In the meantime, Wil had been helped up from his litter by Frieda, and he stared at the panorama quietly as she lightly supported him. The aroma of fragrant flora mixed well with the scent of the sea, and he inhaled deeply. The warmth of Frieda’s body faintly heating his own made his blood swim with joy. His belly fluttered and his skin tingled. Yet, despite the power of that moment, a haunting memory suddenly stole the young man’s thoughts, and his eyes began to sting. He shifted uncomfortably, then turned to Frieda, and took her tenderly by the hand. His tongue felt thick and heavy, his throat numb. He hesitated, but as he looked into her face, all fear fell away and his spirit was emboldened. “I must ask you again to forgive my betrayal,” he whispered. “I am proud to stand here with you.”
The young woman bit her lip and nodded. They were words she had hoped to hear. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted Wil’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly. “I have already forgiven you, Wil. I surely have.”
Wil smiled. His eyes, so often fired, were now limpid and soft—blue like the quiet water below. He said nothing more but turned his face to the wondrous scene and began to weep. His tears were not of grief—though he had much to grieve, nor were they tears of despair—though he had good reason. The salted pain of past miseries poured from the broken dam within. And as streams of suffering fell from his strong chin, the lad was free to hope again.
Chapter Four
THE BAY OF RESPITE
The monastery of San Fruttuoso had been founded by Benedictine monks to honor the remains of the martyred bishop of Tarragona. Its tonsured brothers had served each other quietly at the remote end of their inlet for centuries, and while gentle service was their preference, they had also drawn their swords to defend their quiet refuge against seafaring Saracens, who never rested in their lust to replace Europe’s Holy Cross with the crescent of Islam.
Their community was not yet an abbey—they were not ruled by an abbot. In fact, they were not yet ruled by a prior. Instead, the brethren submitted to a subprior and his deacon and would do so until such time as their order saw fit to raise their status. Numbering some twenty brothers and a priest, they shared both manual labor and the sacred offices. Dressed in their cowled black habits and scapulars, they peacefully spent their days tilling the soil, planting citrus groves and olives, fishing from their many boats, and praying or reciting the Psalms.
Pieter smiled broadly as he prepared to lead his children down the mountain toward the community below. How could any forget such a place as this? he wondered. “Come, follow me!”
Eager and filled with new energy, the children slipped and stumbled along the winding descent. Heinrich kept a firm hold on his son’s litter, especially since the breathless lad had been tilted dangerously over the edge of a high cliff during one brief but frightening stumble by Otto! Thankfully, no harm was done and the column hurried on.
The farther they descended, the sweeter the air seemed and the warmer it felt. Overwhelmed with joy, a few began to sing, then others, and soon all were singing their Crusaders’ Hymn, “Fairest Lord Jesus.”