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Authors: C. D. Baker
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uncomfortably, then turned to Frieda, and took her tenderly by the hand. His tongue felt thick and heavy, his throat numb. He hesitated, but as he looked into her face, all fear fell away and his spirit was emboldened. “I must ask you again to forgive my betrayal,” he whispered. “I am proud to stand here with you.”
The young woman bit her lip and nodded. They were words she had hoped to hear. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted Wil’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly. “I have already forgiven you, Wil. I surely have.”
Wil smiled. His eyes, so often fired, were now limpid and soft—blue like the quiet water below. He said nothing more but turned his face to the wondrous scene and began to weep. His tears were not of grief—though he had much to grieve, nor were they tears of despair—though he had good reason. The salted pain of past miseries poured from the broken dam within. And as streams of suffering fell from his strong chin, the lad was free to hope again.
Chapter Four
THE BAY OF RESPITE
T he monastery of San Fruttuoso had been founded by Benedictine monks to honor the remains of the martyred bishop of Tarragona. Its tonsured brothers had served each other quietly at the remote end of their inlet for centuries, and while gentle service was their preference, they had also drawn their swords to defend their quiet refuge against seafaring Saracens, who never rested in their lust to replace Europe’s Holy Cross with the crescent of Islam.
Their community was not yet an abbey—they were not ruled by an abbot. In fact, they were not yet ruled by a prior. Instead, the brethren submitted to a subprior and his deacon and would do so until such time as their order saw fit to raise their status. Numbering some twenty brothers and a priest, they shared both manual labor and the sacred offices. Dressed in their cowled black habits and scapulars, they peacefully spent their days tilling the soil, planting citrus groves and olives, fishing from their many boats, and praying or reciting the Psalms.
Pieter smiled broadly as he prepared to lead his children down the mountain toward the community below. How could any forget such a place as this? he wondered. “Come, follow me!”
Eager and filled with new energy, the children slipped and stumbled along the winding descent. Heinrich kept a firm hold on his son’s litter, especially since the breathless lad had been tilted dangerously over the edge of a high cliff during one brief but frightening stumble by Otto! Thankfully, no harm was done and the column hurried on.
The farther they descended, the sweeter the air seemed and the warmer it felt. Overwhelmed with joy, a few began to sing, then others, and soon all were singing their Crusaders’ Hymn, “Fairest Lord Jesus.”
As the beautiful, haunting melody floated tenderly down from the woodland, the monks of San Fruttuoso stopped their chores. Hoes were set aside, baskets set down. They looked at one another with stupefied expressions until old Pieter emerged from the wood with a host of dirty children following. The company assembled in full view and stood squarely before a knot of astonished brothers. “ Buon giorno!” cried Pieter with a great smile. “We come in peace, in the name of Jesus Christ and all the saints.”
The cloister’s guest master hurried forward and strained to remember the formal greeting prescribed in his Rule of Benedict. He had never received a guest before! “Thanks … thanks be to God!” The brethren nodded their approval.
Pieter bowed as another approached. The subprior had been summoned, and he now hurried toward the new arrivals on shuffling sandals. “Thanks be to God!” he cried with a smile. “You are welcome here, my children.” His voice trailed away as his glance fell on Heinrich. Suddenly a bit unnerved, he turned a hopeful face toward Pieter. “I must pray over you.” The man raised his hands in the air and presented a generous
The young woman bit her lip and nodded. They were words she had hoped to hear. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted Wil’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly. “I have already forgiven you, Wil. I surely have.”
Wil smiled. His eyes, so often fired, were now limpid and soft—blue like the quiet water below. He said nothing more but turned his face to the wondrous scene and began to weep. His tears were not of grief—though he had much to grieve, nor were they tears of despair—though he had good reason. The salted pain of past miseries poured from the broken dam within. And as streams of suffering fell from his strong chin, the lad was free to hope again.
Chapter Four
THE BAY OF RESPITE
T he monastery of San Fruttuoso had been founded by Benedictine monks to honor the remains of the martyred bishop of Tarragona. Its tonsured brothers had served each other quietly at the remote end of their inlet for centuries, and while gentle service was their preference, they had also drawn their swords to defend their quiet refuge against seafaring Saracens, who never rested in their lust to replace Europe’s Holy Cross with the crescent of Islam.
Their community was not yet an abbey—they were not ruled by an abbot. In fact, they were not yet ruled by a prior. Instead, the brethren submitted to a subprior and his deacon and would do so until such time as their order saw fit to raise their status. Numbering some twenty brothers and a priest, they shared both manual labor and the sacred offices. Dressed in their cowled black habits and scapulars, they peacefully spent their days tilling the soil, planting citrus groves and olives, fishing from their many boats, and praying or reciting the Psalms.
Pieter smiled broadly as he prepared to lead his children down the mountain toward the community below. How could any forget such a place as this? he wondered. “Come, follow me!”
Eager and filled with new energy, the children slipped and stumbled along the winding descent. Heinrich kept a firm hold on his son’s litter, especially since the breathless lad had been tilted dangerously over the edge of a high cliff during one brief but frightening stumble by Otto! Thankfully, no harm was done and the column hurried on.
The farther they descended, the sweeter the air seemed and the warmer it felt. Overwhelmed with joy, a few began to sing, then others, and soon all were singing their Crusaders’ Hymn, “Fairest Lord Jesus.”
As the beautiful, haunting melody floated tenderly down from the woodland, the monks of San Fruttuoso stopped their chores. Hoes were set aside, baskets set down. They looked at one another with stupefied expressions until old Pieter emerged from the wood with a host of dirty children following. The company assembled in full view and stood squarely before a knot of astonished brothers. “ Buon giorno!” cried Pieter with a great smile. “We come in peace, in the name of Jesus Christ and all the saints.”
The cloister’s guest master hurried forward and strained to remember the formal greeting prescribed in his Rule of Benedict. He had never received a guest before! “Thanks … thanks be to God!” The brethren nodded their approval.
Pieter bowed as another approached. The subprior had been summoned, and he now hurried toward the new arrivals on shuffling sandals. “Thanks be to God!” he cried with a smile. “You are welcome here, my children.” His voice trailed away as his glance fell on Heinrich. Suddenly a bit unnerved, he turned a hopeful face toward Pieter. “I must pray over you.” The man raised his hands in the air and presented a generous
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