Heinrich marched north in the uninvited company of pilgrims, couriers, and caravans of traders. The summer season had crowded the roadways with columns of men-at-arms, long convoys of wagoners, horsemen, oxen, two-wheeled carts, and groups of monks huddled around their donkeys. Heinrich made good time through the rolling landscape of Umbria, but did better yet across the wide plain of the Po Valley. Pouring much of his frustration into his stride, the man covered six and sometimes seven leagues per day.
Milan was a city worthy of a traveler’s rest, and Heinrich delayed one day to duck a heavy summer storm that pounded the flat fields of Lombardy. He found shelter with a fellow baker with whom he exchanged some ideas for sweetening bread. In the afternoon he dozed, only to suddenly startle awake to see a quick-footed, fair-haired imp make off with his rucksack.
“Ach, poor wretch,” he murmured.
“Eh?” A tall man walked by.
“I said, poor wretch. She took m’bag.”
“Ja. She nearly ran me over on the way by. She’s sure to be one of those pitiful child crusaders. My name is Horst, from Frankfurt on the Rhine.”
“Child crusaders?” asked Heinrich.
“Aye. You’ve not heard? The pope cries that the cause is lost in Palestine, so it seems an army of children is marching south on a fool’s errand to save the Holy Land themselves! A lad in Cologne had a vision. Now thousands of the little waifs are coming, most in a large column from Cologne, but rumors are that others ‘ave heard the news and come in little bands this way and that. Some say they’re bringing pestilence and God’s wrath with ‘em.”
“It cannot be so.” Heinrich shook his head.” ‘Tis madness. Even if they could get to Palestine, the Turks would slaughter them like lambs. The priests would ne’er let them go.”
“I speak what is true!” Horst was indignant. “Most claim the sea shall open for them so they’ll cross over like the Hebrews did the Red Sea … but I should think ships to be the more likely way. And the French children are coming as well; they’d be marching to Marseilles! They think God will convert the infidels by the purity of their hearts.”
Heinrich still doubted that such a thing could be true. But, if it is, he thought, Marta would ne’er let m’lads follow. He changed the subject. “Frankfurt? I’ve a sister in Frankfurt. She married a merchantman named Jan.” Heinrich hadn’t thought of his sister in a long time. He smiled at the memories.
“Hmm. Jan.” Horst brightened a moment. “I’ve business with a shipper named Jan … and methinks I’ve heard a word ’bout his Frau wearin’ the breeches of the house!”
“Ha! Could be her! What can you tell me of them?”
Horst paused. “I’m sorry, stranger, but I’ve no business with him lately.”
Heinrich sighed. He was disappointed. “What other news ’ave you, sir. I’ve been on pilgrimage for years.”
“Ah, the world is much the same. The pope still favors young Friederich for emperor. That little switch had brought some confusion to the lords! Seems whenever the pope belches the wind changes. I’m glad to be a freeman. Were I a vassal I’d fear to rise in the morning.”
Heinrich nodded. A freeman, he thought, I shall never be.
The days were warm and the sky was cloudless as the baker pushed north into the southern range of the Alps. Lago Como was so beautiful that even the downcast Heinrich was unable to pass it by without a brief rest. The man collapsed in the tall, green grass, hungry and exhausted. He stared at the lake’s blue waters and wondered what recourse was left for his miserable soul; to what source might he finally appeal? There was little left for him in the order of things as he knew it. As he drifted off to sleep, long-ago whispers nudged him to seek another way.
Heinrich awoke to the pleasant sounds of water lapping a pebbled shore. He gazed at the southern slopes of the Alps rising all around him, but he still did not dare lift his eye too high. He spat, then dug his hand into his satchel to find his treasure from home; his little stone with the etching of his mark. He wiggled his fingers beneath the layers of compressed fish and cheese that Anoush had stuffed inside until he felt an odd-shaped pouch. He paused and let his hand test the pouch’s size and shape before he withdrew it slowly. It felt heavy, as if it were stuffed with coins. His heart began to race as he pulled the string that bound it closed, and to his utter astonishment the pouch was filled with nearly all the gold coins he had given to the church. “Anoush!” he exclaimed. “You … you—” The man’s heart lifted. Yet it was not the sight of gold that filled the man with something fresh. It was the unconditional love of one who cherished him despite his shame. Stunned, humbled, glad-hearted, and suddenly hopeful, the man from Weyer stood to his feet.