Tomas poured warm beer over his swelling lips. He glared at the lanky Helmut and then muttered a few oaths and wandered off the road.
Wil nodded his thanks to his ally but assured him that he was perfectly capable of handling Tomas on his own. “Now, are we ready?”
A chorus of “ayes” answered, and the pilgrims were off again. They now marched quietly with Tomas some distance in the rear. They crossed the Piedmont under stormy skies, and it seemed that the weather grew more foul with each passing league.
Finally, at twilight on the twenty-fourth day of April, the six arrived at the southern shoreline of Lago Maggiore, where they made camp under a grove of trees. For the whole of the past ten days, Frieda and Wil had been restrained in their anxiety over the likely news of Maria. Neither wanted to mention the matter, each choosing to wrestle privately with their own expectations. Frieda retreated to her quill and parchment whenever she might steal the time. It was her way of escape. For his part, Wil found solace with Emmanuel, practicing with the bow at eventide and dawn.
As for Heinrich, the matter was more troubling than sad. Who? he had oft wondered. Who sired this girl? It was said that Maria was born in late May. According to Heinrich’s rough counting, that would mean Marta would have conceived in late August—many weeks prior to his departure. Knowing that his wife had banned his touch long before then, the frustrated man was left to speculate. His mind struggled to recall the men of Weyer. She hated all men, he thought. Who? Such tortuous thoughts cost him his sleep, and he left the camp one night to roam under a clearing sky. Who? Ach! All her boasts of right living, and all her charges against me and my “secret sins”! The man pounded his fist against his thigh. “Mem Gott!” he cried.
Despite the dark, brooding cloud of dread hovering over the weary travelers, morning delivered sunshine and mist. The band arose quickly and followed a clench-jawed Wil as he led them on a hurried march along the western shore of the lake. Before noon, the town walls and clay roofs of Arona were in full view along with the silhouettes of the rising Alps beyond.
At long last, Wil and his five companions entered the town and hurried through its streets to the abbey. It was Thursday, and the market was closed, save for a few fish sellers and one badly crippled woman pleading with passersby to buy her plaited baskets. Brushing past a priest, a few carts, and two soldiers on patrol, the group made its way to the portal of the Abbey of Saints Gratian and Felinus. Pale faced and perspiring, Wil took a deep breath and rapped loudly on the door.
A young porter answered. “Deo gratias. Thanks be to God!”
“And to you. We come in search of two fair maids, an old priest, and two lads.”
The porter twisted his face and shrugged. “Momento.” He dashed away to return with the prior.
“Thanks be to God. Grüssen. Come in, be fed.” The prior bowed and kissed each on the cheek. He commanded two brothers to fetch trays of food and beverage as he led the others past gardens green with the fresh bloom of springtime and swollen with buds. The air was warm and humid, filled with the pungent odor of fresh manure.
Wil’s company followed quietly, scanning the workshops and courtyards for any sign of their two fellows. At last they arrived at the prior’s chamber, where they removed their shoes and submitted to prayers and a ritual foot washing. They nibbled impatiently on flatbread and cheese and then finally faced the prior.
“So, my children, how can we serve you?”
“We come seeking two fair maidens, an old priest, and two lads. Have you seen them?”
“Ah, si! And your name, young sir?”
“Wilhelm of Weyer.”
The prior smiled and clapped his hands. “Si! Si! Pieter said you’d come. Ha! God be praised.”
“So he is here?” Wil’s brows were arched hopefully.
“No, no, my son. He is not here.”
Wil’s expression darkened. “No riddles.”
“Your pardon. No riddles indeed. Pieter is with the others in Signora Cosetta’s castle.”
The group murmured. “The castle on the cliff?” barked Helmut.
“Si, si. The road leading to it is just beyond the north gate. You need only follow it up the back of the mountain and tell the gate guard that you have been sent by the abbey.”
Frieda nudged Wil to ask that which all had been afraid to ask. He nodded and took a deep breath. “Prior, are our two girls with them?”
“Only one, my son. A sadder day there has never been for us.”
Wil was staggered by the news, and Frieda sobbed. Bravely, the young man lifted his quivering chin. “Ja, brother. ‘Tis as I had feared. Many thanks for your charity, but we must find Pieter.”