In the next days, nine pilgrims, two lovers, one scruffy dog, and a donkey crossed through the Brünig Pass and marched within sight of a mountain-rimmed lake where the early morning light blurred the water like a distant green mirage. Through June mists they then entered the steep-sided, mixed forests of the Glaubenberg Pass, pausing only to watch screeching hawks soar overhead. At last, weary and footsore, they pressed beyond the hardships and the drama of the Alpine trails to enter the inviting charms of the Emmental Valley.
Fox and squirrel dashed about the rolling fields like happy children at Midsummer’s. Deep green spruce plunged into inviting ravines, and streamside meadows abounded in deep blue cornflowers, pale blue meadow stork, orange moon poppies, and tiny white May bells. Thigh-high purple clover rubbed the legs of the laughing pilgrims as they descended to the gentler highways leading to Langnau and Burgdorf, and in every direction milk cows and oxen grazed on tender yellow-green grass.
“I like it here!” cried Otto. “It feels safe and warm.”
The others quickly agreed. Indeed, it was a place of magic, a place of pleasant dreams and happy notions. Pieter hobbled along with a half-smile made larger each time that he cast a glance toward the light-footed couple floating at the head of the column. A handsome pair, he thought. Long life to both of them.
In truth, the old fellow was weary. Since the Simplon he had felt a growing weakness, and now he found himself short of breath despite the easier walk along the valley floor. M’bones took a beating in those Alps, he thought. I’ll not be seeing the other side again.
As for the others, all were in good spirits. Heinrich was proud of his son and delighted in the lad’s choice of bride. He got to choose his own! he thought. He was also glad hearted about the lad’s sudden change of mood toward him. The man wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that Wil’s anger had subsided, that mercy had found a place in the boy’s heart—and Heinrich was grateful.
Benedetto and Maria skipped along the trail, singing and laughing, the girl always picking flowers, of course. Helmut and Rudolf kept a quiet watch over all, each content to belong to a family of comrades, yet longing to return to their homes. Otto and Heinz spent most of the journey recounting events of the crusade. They spoke of the raft ride down the Rhône, of the pool of reflections, of Georg, and of Karl’s near hanging, of the kindly Frau Miller, and of campsite spats. They laughed and mourned and fell into quiet melancholy, only to challenge Pieter with a riddle or to comment on his master riddle, “The Haven.”
Tomas, however, kept mostly to himself. He lagged some fifty paces or so behind the column and at night made only a weak effort to join in the singing. He did his part in gathering wood, drawing water, or caring for Paulus, but beyond that, he had little to say and nothing to offer. Pieter and Heinrich oft watched him with wary eyes of pity, for none could know what troubled the boy. Tomas had spat at the baker thrice since joining the company. Each time he had pointed to his half-ear and scar. Heinrich had restrained his hand, however, and offered the boy peace in turn for each offense. It was those gestures of grace that some thought had begun to move the boy, if only a little.
For Wil and Frieda, the days had become little more than soft light and song. In sunshine they walked hand in hand, their conversation in lovers’ whispers. At night they made their bed beyond the light of camp, where their love was joined with the gentle warmth of June starlight.
In all respects, it was a delightful and happy respite from the troubles that had dogged the steps of the weary pilgrims.
Judging by the sun, Pieter guessed it was around Midsummer’s Day when the walls of Burgdorf appeared in the distance. “Ach!” he grumbled. “We missed the Assumption last year, and I’d wager we’ll miss Midsummer’s this year!”
The company hurried forward, only to find the gates to the town barred and an angry, anxious troop of men-at-arms holding them at bay with leveled lances. “Begone, fools!” cried one.
Heinrich stepped forward. “And why, sir?”
A weathered old soldier cursed, then laid the point of his lance on the baker’s throat. “We’ve trouble about and ‘ave no need for the likes of ye!”
“Trouble?” mused Pieter. He shook his head. “Ah, it was bound to find us!” He walked slowly to the soldier. “Mein Herr, what sort of trouble?”
“What sort do y’think?”
Pieter shrugged in confusion.
“Well, we’ve warlords aplenty in this valley now that summer’s come.”
“And?”
“And we’re at the ready. Seems the empire’s war may never end. Otto has allies to the east, Emperor Friederich to the west. The pope’s Templars are about. I’m told they’ve problems with some deserters they mean to hang.”