Heinrich arrived at the tinker’s door and entered. A woman greeted him. “Grüss Gott.”
“Grüss Gott, m’lady.” Heinrich spoke slowly. He was startled by the woman’s appearance and found her hard to look upon. He then remembered her from Dietmar’s burial and he asked curiously, “Is the tinker about?”
“Ja. ‘Tis me.” She giggled.
Heinrich was surprised. Tinkers were something of jacks-of-all-trades. Generally poor, they primarily mended pots and kettles and the like, and were rarely women. “Well, I see.” He fumbled for his ring and presented it to the woman.
The lady studied the ring quietly for a moment and as she did Heinrich ventured a look at her pox-scarred skin and homely features. He felt sad for her, yet quite taken by her manner. “Lord Dietmar gave this to me ‘fore he died.”
The woman studied Heinrich for a few moments and became slightly wary. She remembered him, too, but his appearance gave her some pause, for his hair was very long and shaggy, and his beard had grown bushy and wild. The eye patch and stump did not help his cause. She thought he had the look of a highwayman. “I remember you from Dietmar’s burial, but I had m’doubts then as I do now. Tell me about him,” she said quietly.
Heinrich was in no mood for this. He wanted out of the city as quickly as possible. He sighed and recounted his times with the man. As he told his story, however, he relaxed and the pleasant memories of his brief friendship brought an earnest smile to his face. “And he told me … he told me that freedom and hope are found beyond ourselves. ‘Twas at the last.”
The tinker’s eyes twinkled. The stranger had indeed known Dietmar. The woman stood up and asked Heinrich to wait. She climbed past crates of tin pots and stumbled over a basket of ladles before disappearing into the darkness of a back room. She returned in a few moments with a flask of wine, a roll of rye, and a heavy pouch. “As a child I was a friend to Dietmar’s mother when she came to the city. ‘Tis a long story I’ll not burden you with. Dietmar fell from fortune, as you know, but he saved this pouch that he hid here. A tinker’s shop is ne’er thought worthy of thieves! He asked me to give it only to the presenter of the ring. But, the ring, sir, I shall now keep … I made it for his mother, and Dietmar promised I could have it.”
She reached two warty fingers into the embroidered leather pouch and retrieved two gold coins. “Dietmar also promised me two. I swear by the blessed Virgin I’ve not scrumped a single other. The rest, stranger, are for you.”
Heinrich stared wordlessly at the woman as she set the pouch in his outstretched palm. She smiled and nodded. “May God protect you from the dangers of this little bag and those who would take it from you.”
Heinrich still could not speak. He had never held a gold coin other than his mother’s relic. He believed a ducat was worth about two shillings, or twenty-four pennies. The pouch probably held over fifty ducats. At a laborer’s wage of three pennies per day he quickly reckoned he was holding nearly two years’ wages in his hand! “I do not deserve this!” he muttered.
“Probably not,” answered the tinker. “But there you have it. Now beware to use it wisely and keep it hidden in your satchel. You have the look of a traveler.”
“Aye. I’m on a pilgrimage to Rome.”
The woman smiled. “Ah, Rome! I was in Assisi for a time and I did a pilgrimage with some sisters.”
Heinrich was surprised. He looked about the shop and then at her.
“I see the questions on your face. Dear man, as I’ve said, my story is far too long and I’ve the sense you needs be on your way.”
“Where is Assisi?”
“In the countryside north of Rome.”
“Ah. Did you like it there?”
“Indeed. The valley is broad and beautiful. The sky is pale blue and warm and the flowers bloom bright. I had the feeling it was a special place. Now, tell me, why do you go?”
“For a penance.”
“A penance. Hmm, ‘tis a good place for that. The only place better is Jerusalem. How long a penance?”
Heinrich shrugged. He hadn’t thought about that.
“What are your sins?”
Heinrich was a bit annoyed at the woman’s sudden directness. “My story is too long,” he answered.
The tinker laughed and poured him a goblet of wine. “Good sir, I am not easily surprised by the sins of man. My father was a bishop. Aye … a bishop.” She chuckled. “And m’mother was a nun! Some say ‘tis why I look the way I do. So, you’ll not be shocking me and I may be able to help you determine a proper plan.”