Let each day bring
What each day will.
Just let me sing;
My cup, please fill.
Within the hour, the company of eleven souls had descended the castle road and were embracing the prior and a teary-eyed Brother Chiovo. The two monks hastily fed the group a meal of salted fish and red wine, then escorted them through the streets of Arona, chastising two peasants for eating mutton on a Friday—a fish day. Pieter chuckled to himself and gnawed on some salted pork. Breaking fish-day restrictions was one of his most delightful violations!
The company arrived at lakeside near midmorning, about an hour before the bells of terce. The road leading north ran along the water’s edge and was bustling with horses and carts. The morning mists had lifted, and the sky was blue; the air smelled of fish and wet rocks. Above, the sun was warm and comforting. Heinrich lifted his face upward and looked at the few white clouds high overhead. He smiled.
Pieter gathered his flock into a tight huddle and raised his staff. “Brothers and sisters,” he began, “our journey does not begin here; it merely continues. Let us honor those we have left behind, and let us walk in love with those yet by our sides.” He held his staff to his breast and turned his face to heaven. “Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful, and kindle in them the fire of your love. We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you. For by your holy cross You have redeemed the world.” He proceeded to pray for their safety, for their health, and for the happy arrival of “hearts at the place you would have them call ‘home.’”
The old priest then fell to his knees and implored the Almighty to shield them from all manner of wicked peril and pestilence of the world. Finishing his petitions, he rose and laid a hand on Maria’s shoulder as he drew a breath deeply through his nostrils. “Wil, ‘tis an astonishing journey we are on. Indeed, goodness and mercy have followed us, and the swords of heaven’s legions go before us, each and every one.”
Brother Chiovo stepped forward with a bowed head. “Prego, all of us. Together let us recite the Lord’s Prayer.”
When they finished, the group stood silently, each listening to the soft lapping of the lake against its stony shore. Then, with matters of both heaven and earth put to right order, Wil raised his bow and boomed, “Homeward!”
The landscape rose rapidly from Arona, and the pilgrims followed the lake highway to Stresa where they took a rest at the edge of town. By nightfall they had said good-bye to Lago Maggiore and made their first night’s camp by the roadway alongside the Toce River. Too weary for conversation, the group fell asleep quickly and rose at dawn, stiff and footsore.
“Too many weeks without suffering!” lamented Pieter. “We’ve become soft.” His old bones were aching. “You see, Heinz? Look at m’feet!”
“Blisters already?” teased the imp.
“Ja, I fear so.”
Heinrich distributed some cheese and fixed a quick mush for his fellows. He had been elected the camp cook, with Frieda and Maria as his helpers. He set a steaming bowl of boiled spelt in front the group and laughed. “Fingers in!” he cried.
The highway was oddly empty; only a few passersby hurried this way and that. It was a condition that did not escape the attention of either Heinrich or Pieter. “Saturday ought to be a busy day of market traffic,” said Heinrich.
Pieter rubbed his feet and looked about. He nodded and scratched Solomon’s ears. Paulus suddenly brayed, and all eyes turned toward a wide-wheeled carriage emerging from a bend ahead of them. Alongside the carriage rode a small escort of men-at-arms. Behind them appeared two squat carts laden with what appeared to be some furniture and personal effects. The travelers stood to their feet nervously.
“Scared, Elfman?” goaded Tomas.
Heinz growled.
“You’d be scared, too,” whispered Otto angrily. “You left us afore the slaughter in the castle ahead.”
Wil silenced the boys, but the reminder of what lay ahead left him feeling nauseous. The castle of Domodossola brought him only awful memories.
A lone rider trotted forward and hailed the group. Pieter stepped forward. The soldier was young and poorly armed. He approached the pilgrims warily but did not draw his sword. Pieter thought he looked somewhat familiar. “Pater?”
“Si,” answered Pieter with a smile. “How can I serve thee?”
Saying nothing, the young man looked past Pieter and studied the others, lingering for a moment on Heinrich’s menacing form. Pieter laid a protective arm about Maria’s shoulders. “Good fellow, you’ve naught to fear from us. Have we reason to fear you?”