The soldier shook his head. “No.” He leaned forward in his saddle and studied Pieter carefully. “Smile again, Pater.”
Pieter grinned.
“Ah, si, I know you. You saved my lord’s life.” Relieved, he turned in his saddle and called to his superior.
Wil’s company gathered close as Pieter announced, “They come from Signor Verdi!”
The veterans of the crusade were relieved but uncomfortable. Maria became quiet and leaned close into Frieda’s side. It had been a horrible time for all of them, and the memory of the slaughter was unnerving.
An officer dismounted and approached Pieter. “God be praised.”
Pieter bowed. “Blessings on you and your good lord.”
“Signor Verdi is dead.”
“Dead?” exclaimed Pieter. “How?”
“The Visconti attacked us on Easter Monday. When you were with us, we had not yet recovered from the battle months before. Signor died bravely; he fought to the end.”
Pieter sighed sadly. “And Sebastiano?”
“Humph. Good old soldier. Tough as old leather. He perished early in the combat.”
Pieter nearly wept.
The man recounted details of the surprise attack as more of his fellows gathered around. Benedetto sheepishly retreated as Wil listened intently, quite aware of his own failings in that horrid place. “Those that were spared are banished from the Piedmont and Liguria, so we are taking the lord’s family to Rome in hopes of mercy.”
Pieter sent Helmut to the donkey for flasks of wine, which the old man quickly offered to the thirsty soldiers. “Frieda, take some wine and cheese to the wagons. See if any are hungry.”
“But…”
The man’s look left no room for argument.
The girl lifted two clay bottles of wine and a wheel of cheese from Paulus’s packs and obediently delivered them to the first wagon. As she approached, the canvas was lifted and an aged, gray-haired woman reached a trembling hand forward. Frieda thought she looked like death itself. Her eyes were hollow, sunk deep in their shadowed sockets. Her skin was jaundiced, and the bones of her limbs protruded from beneath a peasant’s gown. Next to her glared a young maiden. Frieda looked into the girl’s dark eyes. They were blazing with wounded pride, but weary. Her hair was uncomely and her clothing of poor quality.
“Mother,” said the maid in her own tongue, “take what you can from this wench. I’ll not take charity from a peasant.”
Not understanding, Frieda smiled kindly and offered the cheese to the girl. Suddenly, Frieda knew whom she was helping and she gasped. “Lucia!” Indeed, it was Lucia, the self-important daughter of the great Lord Gostanzo Verdi. For a moment, Frieda felt a wave of triumph. After all, the rich princess had been so very pleased to humiliate her just months before. Wanting for all the world to mock the maid’s bankrupt condition, Frieda said no more. Graciously, she handed the signora her cheese and wine, then quietly walked away.
Wil had watched the exchange from a distance. He had already calculated who might be riding in the carriage. He was curious about Frieda’s reaction, and when he saw his fair friend offer her prior tormentor mercy, his heart was touched. “Oh, Frieda!” he whispered. “Oh, good, kind Frieda.”
After another quarter hour, the vanquished Verdi bade the pilgrims farewell, and most extended grasping hands of gratitude. Pieter offered them a blessing, then watched quietly as the broken men remounted and turned slowly away.
“Are we ready to move on?” boomed Wil.
“Aye, lad!” answered Heinrich.
“Then forward.”
Each pilgrim took his or her assigned position, and the company began again. Within a few hours, they found themselves passing beneath the battered ramparts of the Verdi castle. The vanquished lord’s soldiers had informed them that passage beyond the walls was probably safe enough, though surely a toll would be exacted. As predicted, a smug group of drunken Visconti soldiers barred the roadway and demanded a heavy fee. With a loud grouse and menacing look, Heinrich paid the exorbitant toll, and the pilgrims continued on their way.
The column advanced northward through the wide, rocky floor of the Toce Valley and under the watch of the high mountain peaks. Small villages dotted the narrow terraces, and from time to time, tall keeps jutted up proudly against the sky.
At last, the company began its climb into the southern slopes of the great Alps. The roadway was steep and stony, shaded by pine and softwoods. Winded and perspiring, the wayfarers passed the gray stone, dreary village of Gondo, where the ruling lord had erected an imposing watchtower. Pressing on, they hurried by a travelers’ hospice and entered the stark, dramatic Simplon Pass.