Chapter 22

 

In the weeks that followed they continued their journey on foot, farther and farther into the wild. They lived off the land, taking turns hunting, fishing, or grazing for what they could find until by early spring, they came to a village with no name nor any indication that it knew anything of Christ. The villagers regarded them with suspicion, but when they explained they were fleeing the knights, they allowed them to stay.

The brothers cut trees and built up a common house for shelter, and bartered for seed to plant fields. Lacking cows or horses, they corralled a herd of deer from the forest and harnessed them to the plows. The does that had recently given birth they used for milking, much like the locals themselves. But for that, Nicholas insisted they keep their interactions with the villagers to a minimum, not wanting them to think they were in service to the Church.

While Grigory oversaw the re-establishment of the order and their communal work, Nicholas himself went into the village frequently, to visit with the village elders and act as emissary on their behalf. By Autumn, they’d harvested their crops and traded the goods for casks of wine and other stores to see them through the winter. The brothers themselves built up a reputation in the village as solitary men of integrity and hard work, whose produce showed a careful, attentive hand. This cemented Nicholas’s standing in the meetings of elders.

It was at one such meeting in early winter that the subject of the faith at last came up. Darius, a gruff shoemaker, sat beside the fire with a mug of beer in his hand. “You are not the only ones fleeing from those knights,” he said to Nicholas.

Nicholas stroked his beard. “It has been a year for us, but I do not doubt it.”

“I’ve heard that an entire village was forced to flee. Those that did not were killed or put in chains. The homes were set ablaze. All in the name of their crossed God.”

The others around the fire nodded, muttering angrily. “And at winter, too. ‘Tis a shame indeed.”

“What became of those who fled?” Nicholas asked.

Darius grimaced. “They are not far from here. Like you, they’ve sought shelter near us. This keeps up, it’ll draw the knights to our village. You and your sons have been fine neighbors, Nicholas, but I’d sooner see you gone than t’see the banner of the cross waving at our doorstep.”

Gvidas the baker belched loudly and said, “I say, if any of those bearing the cross come by, we ought to welcome them in.”

The others scowled at him, and even Nicholas could not resist a frown.

“Welcome them,” he continued, “give them three pints of mead, and then strangle them in their sleep.”

“Hear hear!” the other cheered.

Nicholas pushed back his chair and stood. The others glanced his way. “Where’re you off to?” Darius challenged.

“I’m going to see to those villagers you mentioned,” he replied. “They may need aid.”

“What is that to you?”

“I intend to give it, as much as I and my sons are able.”

Gvidas sneered. “How is that your business?”

“How is it not yours?” he returned. “They lie at your doorstep. Hungry, destitute, and bereft. Care for them now. Help them get back on their feet, and they will be loyal neighbors forever. Spurn or ignore them now, and they would more easily turn against you.”

Gvidas slammed his mug down. Mead sloshed on to the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “These villagers were routed by those bearing the cross. Do you really think they would take the side of those who harmed them against those who have not?”

“I think,” Nicholas spoke in measured tones, “if the Teutonic Knights had come bearing bread instead of swords, that a great many more would be wearing the cross today. ‘Helfen, Wehren, Heilen.’ That is their motto. Help. Defend. Heal. How poorly they live up to it.”

There was a general murmur of agreement around the room.

“I suspect,” Nicholas continued, “their loyalty to the cross is the same as their loyalty to their motto—that is to say, nonexistent. How could it be otherwise?”

“You seem to know a lot about them, stranger,” Gvidas said.

“I know a good deal more about the cross they wear than I do about them, and what I can tell you is this: they are no servants of the One Who gave His life to save mankind from his sins—not while they continue to sin in His name. With their lips they profess the Savior. But with their actions they deny Him. And it is by their actions alone that we must judge who they are and what they do, not by what they claim to be.”

The elders studied him quietly, and Nicholas suspected he’d given himself away. But it was bound to happen anyway, and better now that he could draw a contrast between his followers and the Teutonic Knights.

“What about you?” Darius asked. “What do you claim to be?”

Nicholas smiled thinly. “Observe what I have done and what I do, and you will know.” With that, he bowed gracefully, and left the room.

Once outside, he glanced upward at the full moon shining in the azure vault of the heavens. Only a few stars glistened beside it. The rest were obscured by its silver brilliance. He took in a deep breath and started off toward the far side of the village, where Darius had said the refugees were encamped. As he moved along, he became conscious that some of the men from the tavern were following. His heart quickened a pace. Should he have told them outright that he was, himself, a follower of Christ? Given the abuses heaped upon these people by the Teutonic Knights and others professing Christ while denying Him with their actions, to do so would be signing the death warrant of his unsuspecting men.

Then again, none of the men in this village were fools. It was entirely possible they’d already come to that conclusion, and meant him harm because of it. If so, he’d have little way to warn his followers of what to expect. Especially if they attacked him now.

Even so, he walked at a steady pace, and the men behind him kept even as well. Surely, he reasoned, if they meant to attack they’d have done it by now. Was it possible they only wished to see how he’d treat those who fled the knights of the cross?

He pursed his lips, still not slowing his pace. If that were the case, then the only right and proper course of action would be to continue along to the refugee camp even as he’d already planned.

Walk with me, Lord, he prayed, but most especially watch over those brothers of mine who know not what has transpired between me and these men this evening. Keep them safe, I beg You!

He didn’t have to go far outside the village to find the encampment. Those living there made no attempt to hide their presence or their numbers. As he entered the camp and moved among them, a good number of people glanced his way with hollowed eyes, showing signs of hunger. Others stank of disease.

A few men, but mostly women and children along with the aged sheltered in numerous tents, with watch fires burning before them to keep them warm and to light the darkness. They stared up at him from gaunt faces. Some had wounds still untended from the battle. They have nothing! he realized. How will they ever survive?

He dared not pray for them nor make the sign of blessing upon them, at least, not just yet, anyway. Instead, he moved his lips silently, bringing each family in turn before the throne room of God and making intercession for them.

At the far edge of camp, he encountered the idol. Supplicants bowed before it, offering what meager scraps of food they possessed to a scrap of wood, leaving otherwise edible food to be consumed by ants. Nicholas bit his lip and turned away.

When he’d seen enough, he left the camp behind and hurried back through the village toward his own encampment. There, he knew, his brothers waited with food growing in their well-tended garden, with plenty of firewood stacked against the wall from the hard work of his disciples, and with casks of beer and wine from their careful trade with the very same villagers who now turned a blind eye upon their neighbors.

He no longer saw his shadows—those men who’d followed him from the tavern and watched as he’d inspected the refugee camp. If they remained, they were keeping their distance.

As he neared the gate, a monk named Abraham called out a challenge. “Who goes there? Be you friend or foe?”

“It is I, Nicholas,” he replied without slowing his stride. “Wake the brothers,” he added as he passed him, “and have them assemble in the common room. We’ve work to do this night, and I’ll not see the sun rise without it done.”

“Yes father,” Abraham answered, and scurried off.

Nicholas made straight for their meeting place. He threw open the doors and fell to his face before the altar with its cross in the back.

“Oh God,” he prayed, “please grant me wisdom and favor that I might aid these wretched souls I found this night!”

He stayed there in prayer as the recent memories of the refugee camp flowed through his mind. Then, at last, he heard the voice.

This is what I have called you to.

He opened his eyes, feeling the dirt floor beneath his fingers. A fragment of scripture ebbed at the edges of his mind. From the epistle of James. Pure religion and undefiled before God, even the Father, is this, to visit the fatherless, and widows in their adversity, and to keep himself unspotted of the world. “What shall I do?” he whispered.

A noise behind him caused him to turn. The monks filed in, led by Grigory, consternation etched onto their faces.

“There is an encampment on the other side of the village. Peasants fleeing the cruelty of the knights who burned our monastery. They are pagan. Diseased. Wounded. Hungry. Utterly destitute.”

“What would you have us do?” Grigory asked.

He looked at their faces. “We’re going to help them.”

 

***

They spent the whole night, gathering what they could and loading it into the sleigh they used for bringing goods to market: baskets of bread, bags of onions, potatoes, carrots, salted meat, and casks of wine—their entire stores, more or less. When at last the sleigh was full and could hold no more, Nicholas called a halt to their efforts.

“Hitch up the deer. We’ll use them to draw the sleigh.”

“We’ll need more than our usual pair,” Abraham pointed out. “The sleigh is much too heavy for just two.”

“Use them all,” Nicholas instructed. “I want speed as well as stealth.”

“Why is that?” Abraham asked.

“Because I do not wish to be seen,” he answered, “‘Let your giving be in secret, and the Lord Who sees in secret will reward you.’” He raised his voice, “We will not let the left hand know what the right hand is doing.”

“Aye,” Grigory agreed. “That’ll keep them from coming to us and seeking more of what we have, too.”

Nicholas scowled, but Grigory set his jaw firmly. “Do not ask an apology. You know as well as I that those who give are oft easy targets for those who take. And we know not what manner of people might be receiving these gifts. If’n we have to turn beggars away from our doorstep, they’re just as like to turn on us as easily as they once turned to us.”

“Let us not prejudge the responses of people we’ve yet to meet, let alone assist.”

“I am simply agreeing with your wisdom and our Lord’s. ‘The horseleech hath two daughters which cry, “Give, give.”’

“And yet we ought to support the weak, and to remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how that He said, ‘It is a blessed thing to give, rather than to receive.’” With that, he climbed up into the driver’s seat and took the reins from Grigory. To the rest of the men he said, “You have shown yourselves to be selfless and generous, as good Christians ought. Do not fret now for what we shall eat or drink, for our heavenly Father knows well our need. He shall provide again for us an abundance, that we may continue to be charitable toward all.”

With that, he snapped the reins, and the sleigh lurched into motion. In moments, he was flying through the trees, trusting the deer to keep him on an even path. Still, the sleigh bumped over the roots and rocks of the uneven ground, leaving muddied leaves in its wake. Above the canopy of trees, the sky brightened and the air felt crisp with the first blush of dawn. He cracked the reins harder, urging the deer faster.

At this hour, it was unlikely any were awake. Or so he hoped. The only sounds were the running of the deer over the ground and the slice of the wooden rails through the snow.

In moments the sleigh flew through the center of the village, flashing past the tavern where he’d been informed of the widows and orphans earlier that day. He saw at least one person come out as he drove by, but he had no time to wave and even less desire.

He made the turn at the end of the village thoroughfare, feeling the sleigh slip sideways before righting itself and zigzagging down the path. He cracked the reins again. In moments he was once more in the woods, drawing abreast of the refugee camp.

A few fires still smoldered, with lazy trails of smoke rising through their ashes to flavor the morning air. He spotted no one moving about, though. Quickly, he clambered out of the sleigh and dropped to the ground. The deer panted, steam rising from their muzzles and flanks. He’d driven them hard. “Worry not, lads,” he muttered to them. “The way back’ll be easier without all this to carry.”

In the back of the sleigh, the brothers had tied up everything within several large sacks. He pulled them out and hefted one over his shoulder, grunting beneath the weight. Trudging toward the first tent, he dropped it near the entrance, then returned.

By the time he’d unloaded all the sacks, curious eyes peeked out at him from the nearest camps. He caught them looking at him, but when they saw his face, they ducked back quickly into the folds of their tents, as if frightened by his strange demeanor and far stranger actions. Wordlessly, he climbed back aboard the sleigh, picked up the reins, and gave them a quick snap.

As he left the encampment behind, he hazarded a glance over his shoulder. People were hastening from their tents, some pawing through the sacks and crying joy to their neighbors while others stood silently, extending their hands toward him in fond farewells.

 

***

By the time he returned to their tiny lodge, he was beaming broadly. His heart soared with the giving, the looks on the faces of the people he’d barely glimpsed as he’d driven away etched in his memory.

“Brothers and sons!” he cried as he thundered into the lodge. “Such a glorious thing we have done!”

The brothers turned to him, their faces sullen and worried. He furrowed his brow, unable to comprehend their response. Then they parted, and revealed the villagers behind them, swords strapped to their belts and grim expressions above their folded arms.

“What is this?” he asked.

Darius shifted his feet. “I should like to ask you the same, bishop.”