Heinz shuddered. “A fortress atop the head of a sleeping giant!”
Pieter said nothing. He was silently rehearsing the emotions he might expect to feel before the hour would pass. He withdrew Maria’s cross from his belt and stared at it, suddenly lost in a swirl of memories. Little more than bumpy apple wood, the small icon seemed to have empowered the little girl with amazing faith. He could see it held high in her hand in the haunted forests of the Rhineland, in the horrors of Basel’s dungeon, and high above the world in the mighty Alps. He then remembered it in Karl’s belt, somehow remaining unbroken in the lad’s awful death. The old man kissed it reverently.
Under a lessening rain, the three entered the town past the sleeping guard of the south gate and hurried uphill toward the Benedictine Abbey of Saints Gratian and Felinus. The cloister overlooked the town’s market from a low ridge that paralleled the lake on its western side. It, and the attached church, the Chiesa die S. Martin, had been founded nearly three centuries earlier by Count Ammiz-zone, a captain in the army of Otto I of Saxony. The church’s reliquary boasted the remains of the martyrs Gratian and Felinus—soldiers in Rome’s imperial army martyred in Perugia nearly one thousand years prior.
The abbey itself had become wealthy and powerful, owning lands all over the Piedmont and Lombardy. Its wealth, in turn, had created opportunities for the residents of Arona and the lord of its castle to enjoy the pleasures of good food, fine clothing, and trinkets of silver and gold.
“These folk do well,” said Otto. “Methinks most to be rich.”
Pieter didn’t answer.
“What say you, Pieter?”
The priest said nothing. His face was hard, and he gripped his staff with whitened knuckles. So no more words were spoken as the three black-clothed pilgrims and their gray dog climbed the streets of Arona toward the walled cloister. It was a wet, gloomy noon, and the bells of S. Martiri pealed the hour of sext. Pieter paused for a moment and surveyed the folk milling past empty booths. “Not Saturday, I suppose, nor Wednesday. I’ve lost count.”
In fact, it was neither Saturday nor Wednesday, but rather Monday, the sixteenth day of November when Pieter the Broken, Otto of Weyer, Heinz “Elfman” (as some were apt to call him), and their dripping dog stood before the portal of the abbey. The old man hesitated for a brief moment and lifted Maria’s cross from his belt. Staring at it he mumbled, “Ave crux spas unica. Hail the Cross, our only hope.” He then rapped firmly on the wooden door with the end of his staff.
A fresh-faced porter opened the small door. “Thanks be to God.”
“Blessings, my son,” answered Pieter. “We seek the two fair-haired girls left in the care of your infirmer two months ago.”
The young monk hesitated for a moment. “I know little, for I am only just arrived from Milan. But come, follow me.”
Anxiously, the three followed the quiet porter through the cloister grounds and past gardens now lying fallow in wait for the warm sun of spring. Pieter cast his eyes on the many thorny rosebushes and imagined Anna and Maria standing amidst them on a summer’s day. Perhaps it was the girls’ names, perhaps the Italian brick, but for whatever reason, the priest’s mind suddenly flew to its place of secret comfort, the place no other living soul knew—the cherished memories of his long-departed wife, his beloved Anna Maria. She, too, had perished from fever, and all these years later the old man still grieved. A lump filled his throat.
The young porter walked quickly past the refectory, the chapel, and a building judged to be the herbarium by the musky scent escaping through its opened windows. They then rounded a corner where Otto spotted a small graveyard against a far wall beneath a grove of squat olive trees. He nudged Heinz. “There,” he whispered with a groan. “A fresh grave with a pine wreath.”
Heinz nodded and pursed his lips. Around another corner they passed the arcade that lined the dormitory, then walked along a series of small workshops until the porter finally delivered the trio to the prior’s chamber. “The abbot is not in residence. He is presenting a matter to the curio in Rome.” He lowered his voice. “I’m told he prefers the weather there between Martinmas and Holy Week.”
Pieter grunted.
The young man knocked rather timidly on the door as Pieter tapped his foot impatiently. “I wonder if he’s napping.” The porter knocked again, still softly. Now no longer able to restrain himself, Pieter wrapped the oak loudly with his staff. “Someone open this cursed door!”
Within moments, a dark-eyed, elderly monk answered with a yawn. “Prego, come, enter in.” He rubbed his eyes as he offered a quick prayer for the three and kissed them. He then turned to his porter. “Have the deans assembled to pray over these and wash their feet. Have the kitchener prepare a—”