Pilgrims of Promise(50)

Assigned by the castellan to work with the cellarer, the baker spent the days bartering his labors for his keep like his fellows. Frieda and Maria worked with the seamstresses who sewed garments for the poor of Arona and of Stresa farther north. The monastery of Sesta Caliendo (a cliff-side cloister across the lake) had commissioned nearly a thousand ells of cloth to be sewn and distributed in the name of St. George.

Because of his age, Pieter had been given leave to lounge about as he wished. He offered an occasional prayer or blessing from time to time, usually in exchange for beer or wine—sometimes cheese or olives. And, while the grinning old fellow wandered the castle courtyards or the streets of Arona, Wil, Tomas, Helmut, and Rudolf worked long hours with the forester culling the woodlands for firewood. The work was hard but not demanding. Their wards were of a mind to grant one swallow of red wine for each swing of the axe! At the bells, they were all quick to settle into a dreamy nap while Benedetto sang for them.

Every evening Wil strolled across the lawns of the list with Maria or with Frieda, sometimes both, and always with Emmanuel. He talked of many things, some past, some yet to come. In every conversation, however, the lad’s thoughts ran to his betrayal of his little sister on that awful night in the castle at Domodossola. He could still see her face fall, wounded by his words. He felt sick as he remembered denying her in order to curry the favor of the haughty princess, Lucia.

He had fumbled through a few general confessions over the previous weeks and had been assured of his forgiveness. But he had avoided the specificity that his pride had guarded. This evening, he would open his heart. “Maria,” he began slowly, “I’ve a need to speak of something once more.”

The girl had been walking by his side. She stopped and turned her blue eyes toward Wil’s face.

“I am so terribly sorry for what I did in the Verdi castle. I was a fool of fools, blind to the things I love most in this world.”

Maria stood quietly, lightly slipping her hand into his.

At the touch, the boy’s eyes swelled. “I have always loved you, Maria. I love you more than I can say. I denied you were my sister because, because …”

“Because of my arm?”

Wil swallowed hard and nodded. “I wanted the lord’s daughter to think of me as a prince of high birth. I wanted her to think me special.”

“I remember, Wil,” answered Maria gently. “And we were all dirty and poor looking.”

Wil shrugged. “And me, too. Only I was the dirtiest of all. I pretended you did not belong to me, that I was something I am not. And in that wicked moment I hurt you. It was a horrible thing to do. Then, later, even when I felt so sick about it, I could not say the words I wanted to say. Pieter says m’pride filled my throat so that the right words could not pass.” The lad knelt and peered earnestly into the girl’s kindly face. “Oh, dear Maria. Forgive me, I beg you. I was wrong. I am proud to call you my sister. I am proud that we belong to one another. I was a mad fool.”

The girl smiled and fell into her brother’s embrace. “I forgave you long ago … and I still forgive you!”

No herbal balm, no angel’s song has ever cured an ailing heart like those three words. With them are painful wounds healed, warring realms put to peace, and the souls of men reconciled to Almighty God. Relieved beyond measure, the lad drew a deep breath, and when he released it, the weight of many sorrows blew away. “You are a wonder to me, dear sister,” he said quietly.

Maria kissed her brother lightly on the cheek. “Tis you who are the wonder, Wil. It is no small thing to ask. But I saw a bit of heaven. That makes it easier for anyone to forgive. That makes it easier to do a lot of things! Now, no more word of it; ‘tis all passed,” she said with a grin. She then pointed to a large sycamore tree growing by the fishpond. “Follow me!” She led Wil to the tree and removed the ringlet of flowers resting atop her head. She hung her ringlet on a short limb and then stepped back to a safe distance. “Now, big brother, stand back fifty paces and shoot the center of m’flowers … if you can!”

Wil laughed lightly. “If I can? Ha! Watch me!” The lad stepped off fifty paces and turned. He took a careful aim, pulling the bowstring steadily toward his face with three fingers. When he felt the fletching touch his ear, he released the string. The arrow sang through the air on a gentle arc as brother and sister held their breath.

“Yes!” cried Maria. “You did it!”

Wil beamed. His many hours of practice had made him an amazing marksman in a short time. “Ha!” he boasted. “Next time, sixty paces!”