Dieder stood and toasted the knight with a fresh tankard of ale. “To the kingdom, then!”
“Hurrah!” cheered the diners.
Then, with the frothy tankard fixed securely in his grip, Dieder lifted his eyes upward. “O Lord of field and forest, rivers and seas, I thank You for our Rudi, and I thank You for our brothers and sisters round m’table who’ve brought him home. Forgive us our failings. Heal our weaknesses. Strengthen our charity. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Wil had listened to many prayers, mostly in Latin. But here he heard a humble, grateful man lift his voice directly to the Almighty in the common tongue. There was such simple honesty in the man’s tone and such directness in his words that Wil thought all heaven was surely moved. Perhaps it was.
With an unwavering smile stretched as far across her face as it might go, Gerda then filled the table with platters of salted pork, entrails, mutton, cheeses, and numbers of summer vegetables. She poured mead generously amongst the young ones, while Dieder reached for some ale and a bottle of good red wine for Pieter, Heinrich, Alwin, and himself.
Later, three chickens and a duck were boiled in beer, and a slab of venison was set to sizzling on a spit above a snapping fire. Before long, the stuffed pilgrims lounged about the summer evening like spoiled little lords and ladies. They spoke of the crusade, of adventures, and of friends lost. Wil informed a saddened Dieder of Karl’s death. Then others spoke of the terror of the San Marco, the wonders of San Fruttuoso, and of the journey north.
At long last, night fell. The sounds of a woodland’s summer evening calmed all hearts with as soothing a lullaby as ever was sung, and, one by one, the pilgrims fell to a peaceful sleep in the embrace of the kindly mountains near Liestal.
It was a sad farewell when Rudolf was left behind. He, too, had changed. But his world was unusually suited to both what the boy had been and to what he had become. For the travelers, though, thoughts turned to things ahead, particularly Weyer and the troubles that might be waiting. Until then, many more leagues needed to be traveled.
It was early in the second week of July when Wil’s company looked down on the walls of Basel. The city brought them nothing but dread, and none wanted to enter. “But, Wil, we are now in need of foodstuffs,” insisted Otto.
“Dieder gave us a good supply.”
“Ja, but it is not enough.”
“We can cross on the ferries and find food in the Rhine Valley.”
Otto spat. “In a place like Dunkeldorf?”
The group fell quiet. Pieter hung his head sheepishly, remembering his own failings in that horrible town, but it was Frieda who gasped at the name. “No! I’ll not go near that awful place.”
Wil laid his arm around her and whispered words of comfort. It was in Dunkeldorf where she had been rescued by Wil’s company, along with her now-departed brother and sister. She shuddered.
“Then we need to travel west of the Rhine and cross at Mainz,” stated Alwin flatly.
The group discussed the plan until there was general agreement. Heinrich added rather insistently, “Aye, but we still need to send someone into Basel for provisions.”
Alwin agreed. “I think it best as well. The prices ought to be better here than from some thieving merchant along the way. The free villages along the borders by France are the worst.”
Wil nodded. “Then you, Father, along with Helmut, Tomas, and m’self will go. You others make a camp off the roadway.”
Otto and Friederich grumbled some, but Benedetto was greatly relieved. He made his way to Solomon’s side and sat beside the dog, nearly out of view.
“And how long before we send someone to find you?” Friederich cast a sideways glance at Pieter.
The priest smiled weakly. “They’ll be back in proper time, lad. Not like some fool priest.”
A conversation quickly ensued in which a list of necessary items was made. Frieda wanted more thread and a needle; Maria asked for honey for Pieter’s sake; the others added various items such as salt, fishing nets for the Rhine, fresh flint, replacement arrows for Wil, and a whetstone for the blades. “Several baskets of flour would be good,” added Frieda. “We lost most of ours in Olten.”
“And what about some vegetables … late peas and the like?”
Helmut added more. “What of some fresh-baked bread? What we have is hard as stones. And I’d like a few turnips, some garlic and onions, some—”
“My, how times have changed!” mused Pieter. “Might I add some butter, a bottle of French wine … perhaps from Bordeaux … no, Provence … no, make that the region of Lyons—”