Pilgrims of Promise(48)
“Ja. Tomas.” The young man’s face was hard.
Pieter was flabbergasted. “I… I… well, I—”
“We rescued him from the Dragonara,” offered Heinrich. “He wishes to go home with us.”
Pieter smiled with reservation. “Well, God’s will be done.” He extended his hand.
Tomas stared at the old man for a long moment, then smiled wickedly. He placed his hand firmly in Pieter’s and hissed, “God’s will, then.”
“Pieter,” blurted Wil, “we must know of Maria’s fate.” His voice trembled at the sound of his sister’s name. “Is she the one?”
“Ja,” answered Pieter matter-of-factly.
Wil’s heart sank and Frieda groaned. “I feared as much.”
Suddenly realizing the confusion, Pieter cried, “Nay, lad. Maria lives!”
Shocked, Wil felt suddenly limp. “She lives? She truly lives?”
“Aye, lad! She lives! Come quickly. She is tending the signora’s gardens.”
Stunned and staring in disbelief, Wil and Frieda cried out for joy, then quickly turned to follow Pieter. They scrambled through the castle bailey, up the stone steps, past dozing soldiers on the battlements, and into the lord’s private courtyard. Then they stopped, for there in the center of a rose garden, beneath an arbor of honeysuckle stooped Maria.
Wil smiled a smile such as none had ever seen. His skin tingled and his belly fluttered. Dropping his bow, he ran toward his sister with arms stretched outward. “Maria!” he cried jubilantly. “Maria!”
The little girl looked up, curious, then stood, her little lips pursed in uncertainty. Suddenly recognizing her brother racing toward her, she burst into tears. She had barely taken a few steps toward him when he swept her off her feet and into his embrace.
“Oh, dear Maria, my sister! Oh, I love you so!” Wil sobbed.
Maria held him tightly. She could not yet speak, but the joy she felt filled the whole of the castle with sunshine. A group of courtiers and workmen paused to line the garden and cheer. They knew her sad story and celebrated the fulfillment of her dream.
Hearing the joyous uproar, Signora Cosetta emerged from the shade of her arcade. She was a dark, plump matrona of some fifty years. She hurried toward the garden with her gown lifted high off her ankles and her gray braids tumbling off her head. “Maria! Maria!” She scooped the little girl from Wil’s arms and held her close, crying loudly to the Holy Mother and praising the saints for the maid’s good fortune.
Frieda would wait no longer, and she pulled the laughing little girl from Cosetta’s grip and held her tightly. Then, finally, after hearts had quieted, Wil introduced his companions. “Maria, this is Rudolf. He is the son of the kindly yeoman near Liestal.”
“I remember!” she exclaimed. “Your Mutti sent us with blankets and food!”
Rudolf smiled. “Ja, that is m’mother.”
“And this is Helmut. He joined us in Genoa. He comes from the area of Bremen in the far north.”
Maria nodded her head politely. “Hallo, Helmut. We shall be friends, I’m sure.”
“And you must remember Tomas.”
“I do. I am happy to see you again.”
The black-haired youth shrugged. “Really? Methinks not.”
Maria said nothing at first, then walked quickly to a nearby garden where she picked a swollen bud. “‘Tis wanting to bloom methinks.” She handed the surprised lad the bud with a sincere face. He took it, saying nothing.
Wil then turned awkwardly to Heinrich. The baker was standing stiff jointed and uncomfortable. He had wondered what he’d do. He studied the little girl carefully. The sin is not with her, he thought. Mismade or not.
Before Wil could speak, Maria brightened and ran to the man. “I remember you! You are Friend … from Basel! You saved us all, and you have one arm, too!”
The man’s kind heart immediately melted. He knelt and squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Ja, little sister. I am he. I am very glad you are well.”
Wil stared at the man incredulously. “He still denies her,” he muttered.
Maria turned to Wil. “But Anna died.”
“I know.”
“I tried to care for her with Brother Chiovo, but her head hurt badly and her fever was so high. It was terrible.”
Pieter stepped into the group. “Indeed, my dear, it was terrible indeed.” He raised his face to heaven. “But God is good; His mercies endure forever, my children. We must grieve our losses and enjoy our blessings. And most of all, let us love one another.”
Chapter Eight
HOMEWARD BOUND
The happy reunion of the former crusaders happened on the twenty-fifth day of April in the year of our Lord 1213. In the larger world, the blood of Christians and Muslims alike continued to soak the sands of Palestine. Reports of a few minor victories were doing little to encourage the waning spirits of Christendom’s knights. After all, Jerusalem had not been recovered, Christian armies had been weakened over decades of discouraging losses, and now the savage Seljuk Turks were supplanting the Saracens as the lords of Islam. In response, Pope Innocent had recently rebuked his reluctant knights by referring them to the faith of the child crusaders. “While we slept, these children flew to the defense of the Holy Land. They put us to shame!”