Heinrich hesitated; he wanted to continue on his journey but there was something special about the gangly fellow and the twinkle in his eyes. “I ought press on; perhaps some other time in some other place?”
“Should you take a moment to study me, you’d be sure to see I’ve but a few more times and places left to my account,” noted the priest. His twinkling eyes snagged their prey.
“Ach … so! Very well, old man. I yield to your magic!” He followed the priest’s amusing gait through the winding streets of Basel, where the two talked of easy things. They made their way up a steep narrow street to a welcoming inn and sat at a long table atop a warped bench.
“So, stranger,” the old man looked at Heinrich with a twinkle in his eyes, “by God, in all my many years I have n’er drank with someone whose name I did not know.”
Heinrich felt suddenly uncomfortable. It was as though he could hear the snickers in Rome, “Worm … Worm of Santa Maria’s!” What shame he felt, what sudden reservation. He balked at claiming his past, yet he did not know what he had become.
The old man broke through Heinrich’s reverie. “Your pardon, sir. Did y’speak your name?”
“You ought be content to call me ‘Stranger.’”
The priest wrinkled his nose. “Nay, ‘Stranger’ is no name … ah, but you’ve yet to learn of mine own! I am known as Pieter … and y’may be content to call me Pieter.” He grinned.
Heinrich smiled. “I’d rather forget m’name,” he said quietly. “And I’ve fair cause.”
Pieter was a wise man. Spirited, clever, and quick-witted as he was, he had been blessed with uncommon charity as well. He looked into Heinrich’s face gently. “Might I at the very least call you ‘Friend’?”
The word was comforting to Heinrich. He nodded.
“There you have it then,” said Pieter cheerfully. “I am Pieter and you are Friend, and I am most content with that.” He turned to an ale-maid rushing past and blustered, “You there! Ale-maid! A tankard for Friend and Pieter!” He chortled like a schoolboy until he faced the buxom wench standing over him, palm open for payment. Perspiring and suddenly red-faced, he fumbled for words. The bag at his shoulder was empty.
Heinrich laughed and tossed a penny of his own atop the table, and soon the baker was reaching for more as he and his new friend toasted each other, glad-hearted and merry. But after preaching from the tabletop and wheezing in fits of laughter, Pieter pressed the ale-maid just a bit too far and was soon staring up at the hook-nosed woman.
Suddenly, his eyes toward the door. “Mein Gott!” he exclaimed. “My children! Friend, come with me, quickly. I needs find my children.”
Heinrich was confused. What could this old man have in the way of children? he wondered.
The two hurried through the crowded streets and finally to the ferry docks where a chorus of singing voices could be heard above the din. “Ha!” Pieter grabbed Heinrich by his tunic and dragged him forward. “Ho, ho, my children!” Pieter bellowed as he stumbled toward them. “‘Tis so very, very good to see you. I humbly beg your pardon for my delay.”
Heinrich stared at a group of fresh faces scolding Pieter and a gray dog licking the old man’s hand. His heart stopped as his eye lingered on a tall blond boy with piercing blue eyes. Does my sight betray me?he wondered. Chills ran up his spine and he nearly burst into tears. Wil? Could that be my Wil? He scanned the others, ranging in age from five to perhaps fifteen. Most were dressed in tattered tunics, some bearing red crosses stitched over their hearts. Many were shoeless and nearly all carried simple wooden crosses in their hands or belts. His gaze fell upon a ruddy, round-faced lad of about thirteen. He had a tumble of red curls atop his head. Heinrich gasped quietly. Can it be?
Several children plied Heinrich with questions, but the man had hardly time to think before Pieter turned and dragged him back into the city, where he found himself suddenly surrounded by the children and a scruffy dog the priest referred to as Solomon. One child explained to Heinrich that they were on crusade to save the Holy City.
The baker nodded, but was barely able to comprehend. He only wanted to study the two boys. It had been six years since he had left his village. He knew he must look very different from when he left, but surely, would they not know him? They would have grown into young men … those two must be mine! His mouth was dry and he faltered. If it is them, what do I say? I left them so long ago … they’ll not understand… surely they must hate me! His heart pounded and he felt suddenly very weak and timid.