Somehow sensing his thoughts, Frieda leaned close and whispered, “The vision could have been true. How were we to know?”
Wil shrugged. He felt foolish no matter how it might be explained.
“Your hearts were good in the crusade, son. ‘Tis the heart that matters,” Heinrich offered.
“Well, a bounty of good hearts are not beating now,” muttered Wil. “Next time methinks the heart and the head ought consider one another.”
“Ha! Well said, lad,” roared the merchant. “Well said, indeed! Would that all might see the world that way. Now, to other things. Where be y’travelin’?”
“North,” answered Heinrich. “Home.”
The man nodded. “Home is a worthy destination. I left my Oppenheim many years ago to fight the infidels. I served well, but my desires were fired by two things: a dark-haired beauty and the magic of silk—the both of them smooth and soft. Ja! Well, time came for me to make a choice. I found the woman to be quickly bothersome … in truth, a vicious shrew! So I chose the silk!” He laughed and poured himself more wine.
“Now I spend my life traveling south of the mountains in wintertime and north in summer. I buy silk from the Venetians, sell it at the fairs, and then hide my money in the nearest Templar strongbox. They keep a fair accounting. We dare not carry much with us, of course. We’ve hired soldiers as you see, but sometimes the highwaymen come in whole armies. Here especially, what with the Visconti from Milan. They would seize all of Lombardy and the Piedmont if they could. Perhaps they shall in time.”
At the sound of the word Visconti, Wil and Frieda chilled. The memories of their horrid days in the Verdi castle at Domodossola would never leave either of them. There, many had perished in awful ways, including three of their comrades. There, too, were other losses. For Wil, it was there where the Visconti had exposed his cowardice and the Verdi damsel his pride. It was there where Frieda had lost respect for him.
The two looked at each other until Wil turned away and stared at the ground. Frieda reached her hand forward and touched his. Refusing to look up, he mumbled, “Now I really am ashamed. First to be so easily fooled by a false vision, then to be reminded again of my deeds in that cursed castle.”
“No more of that,” answered the maiden. “We’ve all something to regret, but we must not let our regrets rule us, else they become who we are. Your father taught me that.”
Wil said nothing. He was surprised by her remark and wondered what other things she had learned from his father. He cast a look at Heinrich, who was chatting with the merchant. “Well, ‘tis time for sleep,” he muttered.
The night passed quickly, and soon the pilgrims were enjoying a first meal of porridge and honey, fresh bread and red wine. “So now we part,” the generous merchant said with a satisfied smile. He belched. “Was a pleasure to meet fellow survivors from crusade! I wish you all Godspeed.”
With hails and grateful waves, the pilgrims then left Vercelli, soon to travel north across lands dotted with poor villages. Throughout the day Wil rolled the name “survivor” over and over in his mind. He liked the sound of it; it had redeemed his sense of failure in some small way. “Strange how a name can change a way of thinking,” he blurted.
“What?” answered Frieda.
“A name. I say it’s odd how calling someone something can change things. The merchant called us ‘survivors.’ Now I look at all of us differently.”
Tomas sneered. He was often apt to sneer, for he took delight in casting shadows. “Ha! Wil, y’think to be honored by ‘surviving’? Ha! Cowards are survivors, too!” He laughed and pointed his finger. “Tis easy to see that you’re desperate to claim something good from all this!”
“Shut yer mouth,” snapped Wil.
“Aye, Tomas!” blurted Helmut. “Shut it, or I’ll shut it with m’fist!”
The group stopped walking. Tomas leaned his face close to Helmut’s and, daring the other to make good on his threat, he opened his mouth as wide as he could. With both forefingers he pointed to the gaping black cavern, goading the other with some indiscernible grunts.
To Tomas’s great surprise, Helmut struck and struck hard, knocking the startled boy to the ground. He lay flat on his back, stunned and dizzy.
“Up, y’dung-breathed dolt!” challenged Helmut. “I’ve tired of yer whining, yer troublemaking talk. Stand up so I can beat you down again!”
“Enough, lads!” boomed Heinrich as he separated the pair. “Tomas, you’d be bleeding.” He uncorked a flask. “Wash your face with this.”