Pilgrims of Promise(37)

The monk had been secretly taught the arts of confectionery by his teacher, a French monk, once a lord in Paris. The man loved testing his skills with jams and egg whites, and together with Heinrich, the two invented any number of crepes and memorable pastries that they tasted in private—the Lent notwithstanding!

But when he was not in the bakery, Heinrich spent long hours walking the shore with his Laubusbach stone rolling between his fingers. He was usually alone but sometimes was seen in the company of Stefano or even Frieda. Frieda loved hearing stories of Heinrich’s life, especially of his times with Emma and Lukas. She oft sat spellbound as the man wandered through the years gone by, and for Heinrich the journey backward was comforting. For him, this season of denial was one of quiet reflection and rest.

Frieda spent her Sabbath days in the sunny arches of the arcade with quills in hand. The monks’ priest, the oft-elusive Father Frederico, had presented her with a precious gift at the Epiphany—quills and ink. Her companions were astonished to then learn that she knew how to write—they had known nothing of her family’s past station.

“I could read that if you’d let me,” said Wil on Palm Sunday. He craned his neck, and the girl quickly turned her parchment away.

“I’d rather you not, for m’hand is poor.”

“I would tell if it were so.”

“I know,” she answered. “Which is exactly why I do not want you watching!” She smiled flirtatiously.

Wil leaned close. The warm air of spring had begun to heat his blood, and the smell of the young woman’s hair enchanted him. “Please?”

Frieda blushed and turned her head shyly.

Smiling, Wil reached his forefinger toward the girl’s face and laid it lightly atop her dimpled chin. “I’d like very much to—”

Before the lad could say another word, the voice of Stefano rang loudly in his ear. “Wil, you’re needed in the vineyard.”

Both Wil and Frieda turned with a start.

“Come with me to the vineyard,” Stefano ordered sternly.

“But ‘tis the Sabbath!” protested Wil.

The monk growled. He was more concerned with pruning the young man’s desires than nipping a twig! “Ja, Sabbath indeed. Come, follow me.”

The monk and Wil walked quietly up the slope and paused at the first of many rows of muscat grapes. “I see buds,” began Stefano.

Wil grumbled.

“Beware, my son. What say you to a wedding?”

Wil blushed. “A wedding? Me? Now? Ha, methinks not.”

“Then as I said, beware.”

The monk sat on a rock and bade Wil to follow. He set a weed between his teeth. “Now, on other matters. Seems we’ve but one week more together. According to your father, your journey begins the day past Easter.”

“Aye, brother. I long to know of m’sister. I long to see her. It will be the middle of April before we leave and nearly the end when we arrive.”

Stefano nodded sympathetically. “Are you so certain she is alive?” The question was intended to prepare the lad, but it stung.

“Aye!” snapped Wil as he stood. “I’ll believe nothing else unless I see her grave!”

The monk changed course. “And what shall you say to her?”

The young man threw a stone and thought for a moment. His mind flew to the awful moment in the castle of Domodossola when he denied that Maria was his sister—when he was ashamed of her deformity and the pitiful condition of his other comrades. He could see the haughty smile of the lord’s daughter he had hoped to impress, and he felt sickened by it. “I’ll beg her forgiveness. I betrayed her … and others … and am still ashamed.”

“Should she forgive you?”

The question confused the lad. “I … I don’t know if she should or not. I only know that I hope she does.”

“Forgiveness, my son, is the fruit of humility, a gift of grace. It seems that some little children by nature still have that abiding touch of heaven in their spirits. They usually forgive with greater ease than a man. Men want justice, you see … except for themselves, in which case they want mercy. But I say this: woe to him who seeks to be forgiven yet does not forgive. That man is a pathetic fool, one filled with arrogance and the disease of the self. A man like that gives no thought to the wonder of love.”

Wil said nothing. He knew exactly what point the monk was making.

Stefano took a long breath. “Well, on other matters. We need to speak of your pilgrims. First, I must warn you of something. Before All Saints’, a lemon merchant had told two of our brothers that some Genoese soldiers were asking the folk of Camogli if any had seen crusading children. Apparently a young man named Paul caused great mischief in Genoa, and many of his followers were caught.”