Pilgrims of Promise(42)

Heinrich nodded and backed up slowly. He replaced his sword in its sheath and unhooked the pouch. He bounced it in his hand, keeping it from the castellan’s grasp. “Bambino “

The deal was struck, and in moments a tall thin lad in tattered leggings was dragged into the light. The boy took one look and sneered. “Well, by the Holy Mother, it’s Herr Heinrich himself.”

The baker was confused. How does he know m’name? he wondered. He wisely said nothing as he traded his silver for the black-haired youth. With no more words, the boy’s bonds were cut and the three hurried away.





It had been more than an hour since Heinrich and Stefano had left, and Wil found himself surprisingly anxious. His stomach tightened, and an odd sense of remorse began to blend with his fears. Imagining his father imprisoned or worse troubled him more than he would have expected, and he prayed no harm had befallen the faithful monk.

Frieda suddenly cried out, “They’re coming!”

The four burst from their cover and ran to meet the others. The rescued prisoner was hooded and walked on bare feet with his head down, but when Wil and the others arrived, he lifted his face and curled his lip with a snicker.

“Tomas!” cried Frieda.

Wil froze. Tomas had been his nemesis from the early weeks of the crusade. Before that he had been his helper in the family bakery. Wil clenched his jaw. “You again. The last we saw you, you were with that Dark Lord in the wood by Genoa.”

“The last I saw you, you were hiding off the roadway south of here.”

Heinrich took the young man by the arm. “You? You were the spy?”

Tomas smirked. “Ja. Me and two others.” Suddenly, his face darkened and he threw back his hood. He turned his head for all to see the red scar on his right cheek and what was left of his ear. “You, y’swine, y’cut my ear in two.”

“You ought thank the saints I didn’t carve your throat!” snapped the baker with a growl.

Tomas looked at the others. When his eyes fell on Frieda, he smiled wickedly. “Ah, Frieda. I have surely missed your fine company.”

The young woman looked away.

Wil pressed his face close to the lad’s. “Tomas, I’ll tell you this. You’re free enough now,” he growled. “We’ve paid the price for you. Now go away.”

The black-haired boy’s face changed abruptly, every trace of arrogance fleeing. He had assumed they would help him. “Go away? They’ll kill me! The lord we followed sent us to scrump the city the same night your crusaders did. Nearly all of m’fellows were caught, most hanged.” His voice became strained. “I was sent to follow you. But when I came back with m’wounds, I found the lord was imprisoned as well. Afore I could get away, I was caught on the road and dragged here. Some priest saved me from the gallows, but … but if they find me again, they’ll hang me for sure.”

“When did you last eat?” asked Rudolf.

“Some days past,” Tomas answered, now submissive.

Rudolf reached into his satchel as Wil kicked the ground and cursed.

Heinrich was still confused. “Wil, you know him?”

Wil grunted. “He apprenticed in our bakery.”

Heinrich studied Tomas carefully. “You are from Weyer?”

“No, Villmar. The monks raised me there, then sent me to Weyer to help in your bakery when you left.”

“I see.”

“I’ve no parents that I know. I’m told I was dumped in a shearing shed. None knew m’mother, but some say m’father was a shepherd near Arfurt.”

Heinrich chilled. The only shepherds from Arfurt he knew were Gunnars, the family long hated by his own. “‘Tis a sad tale.”

“Humph,” the lad snorted. “Sad enough.”

The baker drew Wil aside and whispered, “Methinks we’ve little choice here. We cannot leave him to hang. He’s one of us.”

“One of us? Are you mad? He has been nothing but cause for trouble and abandoned the holy cause of crusade to consort with evil men. What makes him one of us?”

Heinrich paused. It was a better question than he had considered. “Well, son, he speaks our tongue, he lives in our village—”

“Wil, you’ve no choice in this,” interrupted Frieda in a hushed tone. “We’ve enjoyed Christian charity all this winter past—you more than all. We cannot deny another, not even Tomas.”

Reluctantly, Wil shrugged his assent. The band of pilgrims was now numbered at six.

Stefano had waited quietly at the edges of the conversation, but the hour was growing late. “I fear I am late for my duties,” he announced, “so I must bid you farewell.” He looked at Tomas. “My son, Deus vobiscum, may God go with you.” He raised his hands over the others. “May the Lord direct your hearts unto the love of God and into the patience of Christ.”