Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (23 page)

Pieter motioned to Wil to slow down. “My old feet are a bit weary.”

Wil raised his hand and stopped the column. He looked at the priest with unmistakable chagrin. “I told you when you joined us your welcome was no better than your ability to keep step.”

“Aye, ’tis a certain recollection, indeed,” Pieter answered humbly. “And I do resolve to keep with your … new pace.” But surveying the children who were also showing signs of exhaustion, he added, “It would seem to these old eyes, young Master, that your young soldiers might be near their own limits as well. I might respectfully …”

“You would do well to keep your thoughts in that white head of yours,” snapped Wil. “I decide the pace; your duty is to obey.”

Pieter chose not to respond but leveled a stern eye at the haughty lad while nodding in strategic submission. His heart was heavy for the boy, for he knew all too well the dangers of pride. He scratched Solomon’s ears and remembered the words of an old French vase-maker who reminded him many years past that clay cannot be molded until it is properly crushed and its imperfections borne to the surface. “And so, Solomon, we wait, we watch, we pray, and we hope.”

Several exhausting hours passed until Wil finally allowed for a brief rest. The group collapsed onto the soft forest floor and stared at the green canopy above. Pieter whispered to Karl, “Young fellow, if my thinking is correct, we might pass through Basel in proper time to arrive by Burgdorf for the Feast of the Assumption at midmonth.”

Karl’s eyes widened and Georg, always walking in Karl’s shadow, beamed with anticipation. “I traveled to the Assumption Feast in Mannheim some three years prior,” he blurted. “’Twas
wunderbar.
I remember so very well the troubadours and minstrels and … plays by Englishmen. And the food … so much food!” He stopped and laughed. “Papa drank too much ale and m’mother a bit more wine than proper, and we found them both sick behind the walls of Lord Conrad’s orchard!”

“Indeed, Georg,” remarked Pieter, “I have paid that price myself.”

Frieda and Friederich overheard the conversation and clapped with excitement. “Might it be true? Might we see the feast, Pieter?” asked Frieda.

“Well, I think perhaps so, m’lady. I reckon this to be about the first week of August, and methinks us to be no more than two days north from Basel, and that would mean about a week to Burgdorf. By the saints, we may make it!”

A shift in the winds wafted a putrid odor through the evergreen forest bringing a chorus of complaints from the waking children. Pieter groaned and climbed to his feet slowly. He knew the odor well and feared its source was in their path. The company broke camp and pressed forward, but the stench had become like an invisible gauntlet the crusaders had to make their way through, retching with pinched noses and covered mouths. Friederich vomited. “I warned of something. I warned you and you would not have it.”

Suddenly Solomon froze and lifted his long ears slightly. He pawed the earth by Pieter’s foot, then dashed wildly away through the trees ahead. His barks could be heard echoing through the woodland until they faded in the distance. The unsettled crusaders looked blankly at Wil and Pieter, waiting for some explanation of the unusual display. The quiet was abruptly pierced by a long, whining, distant howl. It was a howl of soul agony, of a deep sadness that Pieter understood at once and he trembled.

The old man cleared his throat and put both hands firmly on his staff. He inhaled deeply and cried loudly, “Solomon, Solomon, come here!” The wails of the dog stopped instantly and in short order Solomon came crashing through the trees toward his master. He stopped, however, about twenty paces from the band. He pawed insistently at the ground and spun in a circle … like Pieter had in Dunkeldorf. Karl immediately remembered the signal.

“He wants us to come to him, Pieter.”

Pieter nodded. “Aye, lad.”

In a moment the curious children and the old man were racing behind a panting Solomon up and down needled ravines toward the borders of a wide clearing now seen breaking in the distance. At last they burst into the clearing, only to halt abruptly at its edge to gape at the likes of which none had ever seen before. None, that is, save Pieter, who stared sullenly at the picture oft seen in his own past. The view stirred the demons within him and tears began to stream down his tightened cheeks.

The crusaders were shaken to their souls. Some quickly retreated into the still refuge of the wood, but most were instantly prisoners of the appalling portrait of death and destruction spread before them. Those stood wide-eyed and speechless, entranced by a scene which wreaked havoc in their young hearts, pillaging and violating them, murdering whatever innocence yet remained.

Before them was strewn the residue of a recent twoday battle—the ruined remnants of once-splendid columns of valiant warriors. Nearly one hundred corpses of opposing soldiers and their mounts lay tangled in an unholy collage of rumpled armor, butchered flesh, and broken banners—nearly a hundred souls had been released from their brutally violated bodies.

Friederich broke the silence. “Pieter,” he whispered hoarsely, “they choose to do this to each other?”

The old man held his tongue but nodded. He knew why the boy would ask such a question.
What a horror it must seem
, he thought,
for men to yield such devilish consent for their own mutilation. It is as if those butchered do willingly proffer themselves to such an obscene degradation, believing in their pride that they shall be spared.

Pieter turned his eyes on the dumbfounded faces of his children and sternly ordered them back to the wood. But Wil interrupted. “Pieter, there may be wounded in this field. Does not your God call us to some compassion?”

Pieter was surprised at Wil’s sudden interest in the call of God. He looked at the shaken boy carefully and nodded. “Aye … ’tis worthy of a look, lad. Methinks the younger ought not climb through this, but perhaps Georg and Karl and a few of the other older ones … such as Conrad and Otto shall do.”

So in short order Pieter, Wil, and some fellows slowly picked their way through the battlefield in search of any poor wretch still drawing breath. Wil was stone silent, drifting far into his own thoughts while his brother’s confusion mounted with every step.
Where is God?
wondered Karl.
I wish my eyes would fail me now. But if He sees all, He sees this as plainly as do I… Oh, why does He allow such a thing?

Suddenly Georg waved frantically from the far side of the field where a young man of about twenty lay near death. An arrow was lodged deep in his shoulder and a slash wound had split his belly. By his colors Pieter knew him to be a footman in the service of Pope Innocent, a defender of the crown reserved for Friederich II.

Pieter lifted the lad’s head gently and set a flask of water to his lips. The soldier coughed and sputtered but took a feeble sip. Then the priest cradled the lad against his breast and laid a hand softly on his forehead. As Pieter offered a prayer, the boy managed a quivering smile before the comfort of the old man’s words mercifully escorted him through his final breaths.

The boys looked at the footman’s face, for it was easy to see he was but a few years older than they. Wil swallowed hard and resolved to be courageous, but as he turned away he stumbled over the edge of a broken shield and fell squarely atop the battered body of a knight bearing the crest of the rebel king. He shrieked and scrambled to his feet but not before his eyes locked onto the vacuous eyes staring back at him, and a cold chill braced his spine. There, at his feet lay the mangled corpse of one of the golden-haired knights he had so recently met on the roadway. Wil stared at the soldier numbly. He had been so very certain that this knight was invincible.

Wil tore his eyes away, only to have them fall upon another of his knights, this one crushed beneath his slaughtered stallion. Wil clutched his dagger and backed away only to stumble over another dead soldier, then another. Being able to endure no more, he turned and leapt over the mounds of bodies now seeming to imprison him and raced far into the forest.

Pieter ordered the boys to gather some necessaries off the dead, such as flints and flasks, foodstuffs, satchels, small boots, and the like. Then he directed all away from the clearing. He stood at the forest’s edge to perform a final prayer for the legion strewn before him. When he finished, Maria ran to him and clutched his robe and pressed her tearful face against his legs. “Ah, dear one,” comforted Pieter, “we should find your brothers and be off to a better place.”

Wil was sitting alone in the forest, pressed tightly against the sure trunk of a wide spruce. He had been so certain of the power he thought he had drawn from his golden-haired knights, and now the vision of two of them beginning to rot in that awful place gnawed at him. Little else mattered to the boy than his quest to rise above the pull and push of his world, but the haunting futility of such ambition now stared back at him from the impotent eyes of the dead. He cocked his head around the rough bark and watched his pathetic old friend calling for him in his tattered, black robe, weak and helpless. Wil saw no power there either, and he sighed as he climbed to his feet.

As Pieter waited for the young commander, he whispered a prayer that God in His mercy would cleanse the children’s minds from all memory of this horror. He begged the angels to fill their nostrils with the sweet smells of wildflowers and brighten their eyes with the golden light of a new day.

Chapter 11

HOPE RESTORED AND A FRIEND IN BASEL

J
ust before prime, the crusaders were awakened by the barks of a startled Solomon. Despite Pieter’s sincere prayer, the angels had not come at all but, instead, two large men burst past the dying embers of the night’s fire and were rousting the confused children from their blankets. “On yer feet, brave crusaders!” mocked one. “On yer pitiful feet, you peasant whelps.”

“Who’s there?” Wil shouted.

The men laughed. “We’d be the demons of the woodland y’mamas spoke of and we’ve come to take yer miserable souls.”

Pieter pulled himself up on his staff. “By my leave, let these children in peace!” His rebuke brought a rousing guffaw and a few oaths from the intruders.

“Now what’ve we here?” The figure stepped into the red glow of the campfire and suddenly looked very much like a giant troll. “Look,” he shouted to his fellow, “look at this breathing skeleton.”

The other laughed and kicked the deep bed of embers with his large, black boot, sending a flurry of sparks into the night sky. The sudden burst of light illuminated the faces of villain and victim alike. “Well, my, my,” the first one scoffed. “Aren’t we the fearful little army of Jesus. And, y’ve good cause to fear, for it may be m’pleasure to stuff this old man and his noisy dog with all the rest of y’in a shallow grave.” He paused to stroke his beard. “
Ach
, but it seems m’manners have taken leave; dawn is fast upon us and by prime we’ll take a reckoning of what treasures y’ve scrumped in this not-so-holy Crusade. Until then, little lambs, m’good fellow and I must needs bind y’fast with this rope.” With a snicker he handed his partner the end of a thick, bristly hemp, and the two corralled the children and poor Pieter against the trunk of a wide beech tree. They laughed and snorted and wound the rope around and around the helpless crusaders until they were secured tightly against each other and the old tree.

“By faith, you’d be a clever bunch. Had y’struggled, m’comrade would just as soon slit yer skinny throats and pick through y’sacks by light. Y’needs thank yer angels that I’ve come, too.”

As the light of dawn brightened the camp, the terrified children got a better look at their captors. Each was huge and hairy and covered with filth. They had broad, bulky shoulders; wide faces; stout, heavy legs; and full, rounded arms encircled with wide leather bands. On their feet they wore black leather shoes and mail ankle-guards particular to the horsemen of the pope’s armies. They were wrapped in heavy leather vests and mail shirts. Pieter was certain their reddened eyes revealed the raging self-contempt born of cowardice and disgrace.

“What think you, Leopold, of our little captives?”

“Well, Alfred, methinks them a worthless lot in need of quick dispatch … like the footmen of Otto!”

Alfred pressed against a frightened and embarrassed Frieda. “Now this is a pretty prize. Perhaps each ought
not
die? Eh, Leopold … what thinks y’on that?”

Wil suddenly spouted, “If you touch her I’ll send you to the gates of hell m’self!”

Pieter closed his eyes in disbelief and Karl stared dumbfounded at his impetuous brother.

“By the spirits, Leopold. Seems we’ve a champion.”

“Ha! And champions would be hard to come by Methinks we ought unbundle this bunch and see what stuff this brave lad is made of.”

The two soldiers untied the large rope and yanked Wil from the center by his hair. They toyed with him, like well-fed cats with a freshly caught mouse, shoving him back and forth and slapping him about his face and head. “So, peasant boy, I’d wager you fancy yourself as a great warrior in this Crusade of yours.
Ach
. But hold fast. You’ve no little cross in yer belt? I see only this very nice, deer-foot dagger.”

Alfred plucked Wil’s treasure from his belt and admired it before placing it squarely into his own leather sash. Wil remained silent. “So, you’ve no objection to sharing this little bit of thievery with another thief?” The soldier laughed.

Pieter stepped forward slowly. “My brave warriors, we have seen the great—”

“Shut yer mouth, old man,” barked Leopold. “I’ve no interest in your words and if you speak again, I’ll”—he paused and smiled at Frieda—“I’ll introduce that fair, yellow-haired
Mädel
to the ways of a man.” Frieda winced and looked away in terror, unable to bear the sight of his gaping mouth of rotted teeth. Pieter bowed respectfully.

The thieves began to wander among the children, staring at each until Leopold’s menacing eye rested on poor Georg. “Now here’d be a fine fattened hog,” he said to Alfred as he grabbed the frightened boy. “Look at this little lord, complete with his linen cloth and his stitched leather shoes. I should think, belly-boy, these peasants to be fortunate to share your good company. Methinks such clothing to bring a high price in Basel.”

His companion smiled.

Georg began to stammer. “Beg … begging your pardon … I… I… am the son of—”

“We’ve no care who’s the sire of such a sight as you,” growled Alfred. “Take off yer clothes!”

Georg looked desperately for help from his trembling companions, but nothing could be done. Gertrude, Maria, Frieda, and the other girls mercifully turned away while Alfred squeezed Georg’s cheeks hard and bellowed, “Be y’ deaf? I said take off those clothes at once!”

Georg’s beet-red face dripped with sweat, and tears began to stream down his quivering, chubby cheeks. His shaking fingers slowly untied the strings of his waistcoat and he carefully loosed the fine, tailored shirt beneath. He reluctantly removed his breeches and then painfully stepped out of the soft under-leggings his mother had made for him to stand shamefaced and naked in front of the laughing men.

“Now there’d be a body to make a father beam!” cackled Alfred. “All those bulges and rolls of sloppy fat would make me proud! ‘Meet m’strong, strappin’ lad,’ I should say to all my friends. Methinks Otto could dub him, ‘Warrior of the Realm’!”

Georg bore his humiliation silently while Pieter slowly moved toward him, shielding his nakedness from the soldiers.

Alfred picked through the boy’s clothing and suddenly held up a leather pouch that jingled with coins. “Ha, ha!” roared the soldier. “It would seem, children, that your round comrade has been carrying a treasure … and I’d wager you knew nothing of it! It feels to me like you’ve got a nice stack of pennies to share … how ‘bout we count these, fat boy?”

Alfred began thumbing the silver coins onto the ground as Leopold picked and tossed his way through the provisions of the others.

“Ah, here’d be some fine salt pork and some nice salmon and, by the saints, an unspoiled onion. Some millet and oats and two crusts of bread … ah, and a soldier’s flask …
ach.
… flints and good boots and … by God, y’ve picked the pockets of the dead. Y’needs have yer throats cut for such a—”

Alfred interrupted. “The toad’s been bearing ‘bout twenty shillings worth. Aye, a little more than a full pound. Well done, good lad. You’ve our many thanks.”

Pieter watched carefully as Alfred dumped the pennies into the leather pouch tied tightly on his belt. “This makes three pounds in m’sack, Leopold, plus the one in your own … I’d say a good week’s labor.”

Leopold eyed him suspiciously. “Methinks now to be a good time to reckon the counting and even the load.”

After muttering a grudging oath, Alfred conceded the point and once again counted each penny to the ground: twelve pennies to the shilling, twenty shillings to the pound, and the extras divided meticulously. The plunder was then apportioned into each man’s pouch and the two locked eyes. “We’ve no further need of this brood. I say we put the sword to them—all, that is, save the yellow-haired wench.”

The children drew close to Pieter like frightened pups. Suddenly, Karl blurted, “You’d be true to one point!”

The surprised soldiers stared blankly at the boy.

“Uh … um … m’lords, you believe us to be able poachers so, rather than kill us, perhaps you ought give us leave to scrump about these villages for treasures. By faith, methinks us to be quite able, mostly because this priest helps us fool many.”

Pieter swallowed hard.

The two soldiers looked at each other and considered the offer. “Humph!” growled Leopold. “A good thought but we’ve no use for these little ones.” He plucked one of the small children out of the group and rested the edge of his blade on the child’s throat.

Karl continued dispassionately. “Aye, you may do that, sire, but we have found the littlest ones to be the best at creeping about small places … and their tears open the baskets of the wives.”

Alfred threw his head back and laughed. He grabbed Karl by the ears and bellowed, “By God, you’ve a good thinker. We’ll set you little demons to your task tonight, in Kandern.”

Without further delay the frightened flock was herded out of the forest and returned to the river road where they were driven south toward Kandern. By nightfall the soldiers were grumbling and weary and ordered the children to camp within earshot of the fenced hamlet.

“I know for certain of a miller, a baker, a wheelwright, and a brewer in this village. I fear there to be little else, but I’ll leave that as part of your test.” Leopold wiped his rough sleeve across his mouth. “Ten shall go and fetch us whatever’s to be had. If a single one fails to return, I vow the edge of our blades on the rest, and, if the booty be light, this shall be the last night on earth for any of you.”

The men studied the group and picked Wil and Karl, Friederich, Conrad, and six others for the venture. Poor Georg hid by the trunk of a tree, thankful for having been spared the pick and quite content to remain wrapped in his woolen blanket. Alfred laughed and instructed Wil to be sure to bring new clothes for his fat friend.

“Good sirs,” offered Pieter, “might I beg thy forbearance and accompany these good lads?”

Leopold squinted. “Are you a priest or a madman? I’ve yet the company of a priest who gave aid to scrumping!”

Alfred chortled, “Then you are blind as a mole. I’ve yet to meet one that don’t.”

“Ah, now, my friend, Alfred,” said Pieter, “thou hast spoken more truth than you know! I met a thief once who was a priest and I have met priests who are thieves, all one and the same it seems to me …”

“Enough of your riddles!” barked Leopold. “But I know those robes of yours to be the best trick I’ve e’r seen to wile the unsuspecting … so get on with you.”

Pieter cast one final glance at the woeful faces of the children left behind and stole into the darkness. He and his accomplices proceeded quietly a short distance until they arrived by the wattled fence of the sleeping village.

Wil whispered to Pieter, “We must make a plan. I surely don’t intend to be their slave and neither do the rest of us.”

Pieter answered, “I’ve a plan, my son, and a sad part of it is that we return with a bounty from this poor village.” He motioned the children to circle tightly around him and he whispered softly. “Now listen very, very carefully….”

As Pieter finished his instruction, nausea squeezed about his belly, for he remembered Dunkeldorf and felt uncomfortably qualified as a common thief. He sighed. Soon the eleven slipped through some loose stakes of the wall and crept from the night shadows of the slumbering village. The group skulked noiselessly through the hamlet, darting between the smoky columns of the past day’s fires and crawling deftly by dark doorways. Friederich’s nimble fingers snatched an assortment of foods and sundries from windows left unshuttered in the still, summer night, while Karl stole in and out the thatched huts harvesting a bundle of breads and honeycomb. All through the village tiny silhouettes slid along fences, under windows, and between the tiny hovels of the unsuspecting folk. Only the sounds of snoring peasants and the occasional low growl of a suspicious, sleepy dog broke the silence.

Before long, the anxious group reassembled beyond the village fence and collapsed in the safety of the wood. After a few heavy sighs and nervous titters each offered their loot for the approval of the rest. One lad proudly held a pair of mutton-fat candles to the moonlight; another, some hemp rope and a clutch of pennies; still another, a clay jug of cider and a basket of early apples. Friederich offered a handful of smoked pork strips and entrails and Wil displayed a large cheese, a fine lead buckle, and a small pail of honey.