The young man took a long breath, then spoke with a hushed voice, barely above a whisper. “It was like I was dead, Frieda. Truly, it was as though I were dead.” He stared blankly at the mist now settling over the bay.
Frieda said nothing for a long moment. “So tell me, how are your wounds?”
The lad walked in a slow circle, lifting his shoulders from time to time and grimacing as his stitched skin stretched. “Truth be told, they hurt some. The one on m’belly is the worst. The brothers say by Christmas I should be able to stand upright and raise m’hands overhead. By Lent I ought to be able to carry baskets of lemons, and by Easter I should be fit as ever.”
Frieda smiled. It was good news.
“But I can only think of Maria. I wonder if Pieter’s found her … or her grave.” His eyes fell and he shook his head. “I loved her so. I can’t believe I betrayed her as I did.”
“She knew you loved her and she knew you to be sorry. Maria loved nothing more than forgiving.”
“But she was near death when I asked her … and she could not have heard my words. We ought not to have left her there alone.”
“She was not alone. The monks were able to care for her, and Anna was there for her as well. Wil, listen to me. She wanted you to go. It would have been unkind to deny her that wish.”
Wil shrugged. He wasn’t so sure.
The two stood close to one another and stared at the gray sky. Even on the gloomiest day their refuge was not unpleasant. The air remained somehow fragrant, the sea still beautiful. Even the mists that curled about the mountains’ feet were a wonder.
Frieda smiled and turned to Wil. “You ought to be glad you’ve been on that litter. The rest of us ache for the weight of lemons! The boys are tired of pressing grapes, and some are off to shake olives from the trees. The work is endless.”
Wil smiled. “Helmut says his hands are like old canvas from pulling nets of fish, and Rudolf grumbles that he’s spending more days threshing here than ever at his home!”
“He should never have told Petroclus that he knew the flail so well!” laughed Frieda. “But we girls are not spared! Besides the lemons, they’ve got us mending and washing, kneading dough and baking.” The young woman looked at her callused fingers. “I’ve spent hours learning from your father. He’s a good baker, you know.”
Wil darkened and said nothing.
Frieda sighed. She understood his hurt. After all, according to Wil’s reckoning, Heinrich had left the family nearly six years ago to the day that they had met again. The boy’s mother had spent the years recounting a litany of the man’s sins, and she had invented a few more for good measure. Abandoned to work the bakery and tend the fields, Wil had suffered the burdens of an entire household long before his time. “Will you not forgive him?”
The young man spat.
“Do you know the truth of his going?”
Wil shook his head. “Does it matter?”
Frieda was wise. “Well, perhaps it should not make a difference. Perhaps we should merely forgive another when asked … just as we want forgiveness when we ask.”
The words stung the lad, and he clenched his jaw. “Sometimes there’s too much to forgive!”
Now Frieda bristled. “Ja?” she snapped. “You must think your sins weren’t too much then?”
Wil reddened, but he had no answer. Wounded by the maiden’s rebuke, he turned away.
Frieda sighed. She wished that she could relieve the weight of bitterness that still bore so heavily upon Wil’s broad shoulders. She kicked at the ground lightly, frustrated with herself. I push too hard, she thought. I need to give him room.
A damp breeze blew lightly, and Frieda turned her face to the gray clouds sagging heavily over the bay. Her thoughts turned to her sister, Gertrude, drowned in the sea, and to her brother, Manfred, drowned in the flood. “It is my fault they are gone,” she muttered. “I brought them on this fools’ crusade.” A muffled peal of thunder rumbled in the mountains, and rain began to crash atop the tile roof of the arcade. The young woman shuddered. Through what waters must I yet pass?
Pieter had calculated his journey to be about thirty-five leagues, maybe a little more. He and his companions were well rested and well fed, and he estimated they could travel five or six leagues a day on the easy roads of the Po River plain. They’d need to climb through the Appenines, but even so, he was confident they would arrive in Arona within ten days.
The morning he, Solomon, and their two young companions began was sunny and bright. The aquamarine bay sparkled, and the old man nearly fell asleep to the steady rhythm of the monks pulling steadily on their well-worn wooden oars. For their part, the brethren were content to hum happily or recite a psalm to the metered measure of their rowing.