The guests clapped. Dorothea then motioned for another servant to come to her side, and when he did, she whispered in his ear. The man scurried away, and the diners continued their meal with little more conversation until Pieter could wait no longer. “My dear sister,” he said, “might we see our Friederich this morning?”
Dorothea nodded and swallowed a portion of bread. She slowly took a draught of wine, then answered. “Yes, of course. The priest was told that the archbishop’s emissary demanded the boy for a penance in Mainz.” Her eyes twinkled. “He should be here soon.”
Pieter raised his brows.
Dorothea laughed softly. “I’ve learned from you! First, though, I have gifts.” She clapped her hands, and to everyone’s wonder, a group of servants bearing armloads of clothing scurried toward the children. Dorothea rose with a smile as big as an autumn sunset. “The innkeeper told me you were all dressed in black! He said you look like novices and nuns. So my chamberlain demanded the clothier open his shop at matins, and we’ve fresh, well-loomed garments for you.” She turned toward Heinrich, Pieter, Benedetto, and Alwin. “It is our thought to serve the young ones as I have little to offer the three of you.” Her glance lingered playfully on Alwin. “But I do have something for you, sir knight.”
A servant hurried over to Alwin and presented him with boots, heavy-spun leggings, a long brown tunic, a padded leather vest, and a sleeveless green robe. The man was speechless. “These were my husband’s. I am a widow,” Dorothea said calmly.
Alwin received the gifts with a humble bow. “With thanks, m’lady. God’s blessings.”
Happy hands reached for new leggings and tunics, overgowns, and scarves. Dorothea motioned for her seamstresses to descend upon the group with needles and thread to adjust gown lengths and such, and before long, the pilgrims looked less like pilgrims and more like free wayfarers.
Maria twirled about in her new hooded overgown. It was a deep and rich forest green, linen weave—perfect for summertime. It was belted with a heavy braided cord and fit her wonderfully well. Frieda was simply stunning in a gown similar to Maria’s, only paneled in cherry red and mustard gold.
Wil proudly displayed his own clothing for his new bride. He and his fellows had been given tightly woven brown linen leggings, and their tunics were knee length like those of freemen of means. They were hooded and made of finespun English wool—and dyed the color of baked rye. Each was given a different belt: Wil’s was braided leather, Tomas’s a rather dashing red sash, Otto’s a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, Helmut’s a black cord, and Rudolf’s a green sash.
The travelers looked at one another in the early day’s light and clapped. Looking like free persons, they suddenly felt like free persons. Tomas lifted his head proudly and thanked Dorothea with an eloquence that raised the brows of all. Each, in turn, bent a knee before the kind lady and kissed her hand.
“Now, my dear guests, would I be permitted to give your former garments to the poor?”
“Ja!” answered a chorus of happy voices.
At that moment, as if on cue, the door to the hall burst open, and young Friederich rushed toward his fellows with a happy cry. “Oh, Pieter! Wil! Frieda! All of you!”
Immediately overcome with tears, Pieter rose on wobbly legs and stumbled toward his lost lamb. The two embraced with halting sobs as the others crowded close. The reunion was joyous. Benedetto leapt upon the table and sang loudly as the boy greeted one old friend and then another.
At last, Wil asked that which all needed to know. “Tell us, Friederich. Tell us more of Jon.”
The hall fell quiet. “It was some sort of pox, methinks. After St. Michael’s, many in the town were sick. Most blamed us. We were both beaten, though Lord Bernard sent his guards to stop it. The priest said we ought to be ashamed for our failure, that God would punish the town for helping ‘faithless fools’ like us. He told the lord that we’d need to work a great penance for all the town, else everyone would die. He made us walk naked in the streets each day at terce to show our shame. And Jon’s leg was not healed well, so it hurt him. I tied a splint as best I could, but it was growing crooked.
“Then he made us clean the latrines day and night. My wrist was weak, and I had trouble with the shovel, so I was beaten for it. We were given little to eat and were not allowed to speak. There were other things, too, but I cannot mention them.” The bony eight-year-old hung his head.
Heinrich and Pieter were nearly bursting with rage. They turned hard eyes on Dorothea, who shifted in her seat with her eyes downcast in anguish. “It … it was the Church’s business. I did what I could to help them both.”