Heinrich had remained quiet, but his heart was suddenly broken for the pain now evidenced on his son’s face. He stretched his hand tentatively toward the lad’s shoulder.
Wil paused to let the baker’s palm rest lightly. The warmth and strength of his father’s touch felt comforting for a moment. Then Wil pulled away and hurried ahead, wishing to run and weep where none might see him. If only! he groaned inwardly. If only she knew of my love for her and my shame.
Frieda hurried to his side. “Wil, she forgave you long before she was ever sick.”
Wil pursed his lips.
“She was my friend. We spoke often. I’ve told you this before, yet you will not believe me. Please, Wil, trust me in this. She has forgiven you.”
Wil would not yield. For him, grace needed to be earned—a paradox of residual pride. He could not imagine how he might be truly forgiven without evidencing the agony of a guilt-ridden confession. He wanted to rend his heart at Maria’s feet, to pour out his shame in salted tears of blood. It was simply not enough to be granted pardon without penalty.
“She was a light-bearer, Wil. She was sent to show us the way.”
The lad choked. “Then I am yet blind.”
Frieda took his hand. “No more than I. Pieter says, ‘We see through the glass darkly.’ None travels the path without stumbling. Even Maria once stomped her little feet in anger at m’sister!”
“Aye?”
Frieda smiled. “It was a great relief to see she was not without her own faults!”
Wil dismissed the comment. “I pitied her so. Her arm gave cause for many to mock, yet she offered only kindness in return.”
The company pressed its way through the crowded streets and alleyways of Arona, past carts laden with fish or barrels of olive oil. Shopkeepers hawked their wares, working hard to sell the disinterested pilgrims an assortment of colorful products such as blessed trinkets, straw hats, foodstuffs, and even kittens. On any other day the group would have enjoyed the scene, especially since Heinrich was carrying a pouch filled with gold and silver coins!
“There!” cried Rudolf. “There! Look between the roofs and you’ll see the castle.”
All heads bent backward, and soon the pilgrims’ faces were fixed on the foreboding gray fortress perched high atop a sheer cliff rising from the shores of the lake. A few helmets glittered in the sun between the merlons, and Wil cursed. “I’m in no mood for this,” he grumbled.
The six emerged from Arona through its north gate and soon stood at the foot of the massive cliff. “We need to follow that road like the monk said.” Heinrich surveyed their location. He scanned the crowded roadway now clogged with ox-drawn carts and horses. He turned his face to the flat waters of the lake and suddenly wished they might all just sleep along the peaceful shore.
During the pause it was Rudolf who suddenly realized the obvious. “Wil, you didn’t ask the prior who died!”
Wil’s jaw loosed and he turned to Rudolf. “What?”
“Who died? Which girl?”
“What a fool I am!”
Frieda was reluctant to let hope rise in her chest. “But, but, Wil, methinks we know—”
“You can’t be sure just yet,” interrupted Heinrich. “You only know one thing… that only one is lost.”
“And that is sad enough,” added Frieda. “I loved them both.”
“Ja,” said Wil. “And I as well. Yet I cannot hope but wish it is my sister who lives.”
Tomas had said nothing all that morning. He had always liked Maria, though he often secretly wished misery for Wil. He grumbled, “Enough talk.”
“Aye!” answered Wil with fresh life in his voice. “Aye. To the castle!”
“Si, you seek Father Pieter? Si.” A guard led the anxious pilgrims through the Rocca di Arona slowly. He began to sing as he strolled, pausing to chat from time to time and stopping once for a tall clay goblet of red wine. Finally, the soldier pointed to the figure of an old man lying flat on his back in the middle of a rose garden. “Pieter.”
In an instant, Wil and Frieda sprinted forward. “Pieter! Pieter!” they cried.
The napping old fellow didn’t stir until the shadow of six encircling forms blocked his face from the warmth of the noontime sun. “Eh?” He lifted himself to one elbow and shielded his eyes with the other. “What—?”
“Pieter!” exclaimed Wil. “‘Tis us! We’ve come!”
The old priest nearly leapt to his feet. He shouted his hosannas loudly as he took hold of his staff. “Ha!” He spread his arms wide. “God be praised!” Beaming his familiar gaping, one-toothed smile, he embraced them each. “Wil! My Frieda! Good Helmut and Rudolf! And m’friend for all time, Heinrich! Laus Deo!” Pieter was weeping for joy. He turned to the sixth figure and began to open his arms before he recognized the face. “Tomas?” He dropped his arms and stared.