Pilgrims of Promise(36)

It was the Epiphany, January 6 in the year of our Lord 1213—the feast that celebrated the wise men’s visit with the Holy Child. The twelve days of Christmas were now ending, and quiet had settled over San Fruttuoso. After an ample midday meal and when the offices of the day were served, Brother Stefano summoned Wil to a quiet place in the arcade.

“My son, I’ve a gift for you.”

Surprised, Wil waited.

Stefano reached behind a screen and retrieved a longbow and quiver filled with arrows. Wil’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. “For me?”

“Aye, lad. It seems our departed friend, Brother Nectarious, had a few surprises for us under his bed! He left us notes attached to a number of gifts.” Stefano smiled. “Of course, we are all sworn to poverty, and the hoarding of possessions is a serious offense. His note began with his confession and a plea for the priest to pray loudly and often for his miserable soul… and he left him two gold coins ‘in gratitude’ for the father’s faithful remembrance!

“I shall very much miss the old fellow. Ah, well, to you he left this.” Stefano held the bow for a long moment, almost covetously, then handed it to Wil. “The note says it was given to him while on crusade by a mortally wounded Englishman.”

Wil received the gift in astonishment. He stroked the smooth yew wood and studied the various designs etched on it. “Brother Nectarious was on crusade?”

“Ja. Nectarious was once a soldier named Morello. He served under three Christian kings of Jerusalem and fought against the armies of Saladin in the Holy City, in Tiberias, Tyre, Acre, and places I’ve since forgotten.

“This longbow is English yew, the best wood in all the world for archers; heartwood for the inside, sapwood for the front. And notice the etching, here, just above the handle. ‘Vincit qui patior’—'He who suffers, conquers.’

“He writes that the bow was given a name during a terrible, fearsome slaughter near Acre. The archer named it ‘Emmanuel’… God with us.”

Wil stared at the bow reverently. To imagine this had fired arrows at the infidels in defense of the Cross was staggering to the young man. To hold this instrument of judgment in his own hands, to carry a weapon that had once been in the holy places filled him with awe. “Emmanuel,” he whispered.

“Nectarious believed the bow might serve in your recovery. By pulling its string, you’ll strengthen your arms, your chest, your shoulders, and your back. You’ll needs pull a short distance at a time, and over the weeks to come you’ll find the string coming ever closer to your ear.”

“I’ve ne’er shot one before.”

“We’ll be glad to teach you. None knew the old scoundrel had this hidden, else we’d have used it ourselves! We’ve a few poor bows lying about, but none such as this. You’ll learn quick enough, then you can hunt game for us!”

“Ha!” cried Wil. “Indeed I shall!”

“And here, his quiver and arrows. Seems the heads need sharpening, but the shafts are ash and seem strong enough. The fletching is sound; the feathers look like swan to me. You may want to steam them a bit. Cedar mist is best.”

Wil took the leather quiver and lifted a few of the arrows from it. “Different heads.”

Stefano nodded. “Most are barbed broadheads … good for hunting man or beast. I see two for piercing armor.”

Wil marveled at his gift. “But why for me?”

The monk shrugged. “He does not say.”

Wil pulled on the bowstring and grimaced. “Perhaps by springtime.”





Wil’s company was soon invited to participate in the self-denial of Lent. The monks suggested they forego sweet rolls and mead, excess in any foods, and loud laughter. With so much to be thankful for, the young Christians agreed that taking time to consider the sufferings of Christ was a small thing to do, and so they quickly agreed. The season passed slowly, as one might expect, and the abundance of chores the monks seemed ever to require did not shorten it. Whether fishing or harvesting citrus, mending nets, repairing roofs, or plaiting baskets, many hands were kept very busy.

In this oft-drizzly season, Wil spent whatever time he could with Emmanuel. He gradually increased his draw by working each arm each day. By the Ides of March he was able to release his first arrow. His shot drew loud jeers from his laughing comrades as it careened away from his target and nearly pierced a wheel of cheese by the refectory! But the lad laughed as loud as the rest, thrilled to have the strength to feel the feathers by his cheek.

Heinrich had been kind to his son for these many weeks but had still not received the young man’s forgiveness. It was a burden he was willing to bear, though it was heavy. He had hoped time might have prepared an opportunity to offer his heart, but it had not. He ventured a few comments, but his attempts were dismissed politely. So he spent his days helping the monks’ baker.