Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (45 page)

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Gostanzo’s knights rapidly assembled a formidable standing defense in the castle bailey and prepared a counter assault. As they were aligning their heavy-armored rows
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Gostanzo ordered his north-wall archers to turn and fire into the brown mass growing atop the western battlements. It was as Pieter feared. At the same time, Gostanzo sent a company of marksmen to the top of the keep at the castle’s center where the courtyard could be defended in all directions.

With neither hesitation nor confusion the veteran bowmen drew their strings and, on command, shot volley after volley into the surging mass of invaders now clambering over the wall. Scores fell, dropping like acorns in October. But on they came, nonetheless, pouring over the walls like a floodtide.

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Gostanzo raced to join his knights and led them in a furious charge across the courtyard toward the Visconti and their mercenaries now massing at the base of the far wall. He swung his huge mace high over his head and was the first to crash into the Visconti’s opposing wave. He bashed and hammered a swath through the invaders, splitting heads with a single blow and pounding screaming men hard to the earth.

Inspired by the courage of their lord, the veteran knights fought ever harder, some bearing mighty broad-axes, others pikes or long swords or broad-billed halberds. They ploughed into their adversaries without mercy.

But above the bailey the enemy continued to press. More parapets were breached, some now on the south wall, providing reinforcements to those warring on the castle grounds. The fighting had so changed that Pieter and his boys were no longer able to retrieve missiles, and they huddled against the safety of a corner wall and simply gaped at the slaughter all around them. Bodies of both armies now rained from above, landing at their feet like large sacks of turnips. The crumpling sound of broken bone and smashed metal sickened Karl. “Pieter,” he pleaded, “Pieter, please pray this ends!”

Suddenly, two enemy soldiers spotted the crusaders and charged toward them through a thick cloud of smoke. Pieter’s sharp eyes caught them and old instincts surged within him. He snapped his crossbow to his shoulder, took quick aim and, without the slightest hesitation, pulled the trigger. One of the men staggered and clutched the bolt puncturing his throat before dropping dead to the ground. But the other kept coming, eyes fixed on Wil.

The boy stood frozen … for just an instant; too frightened to think, too surprised to feel fear until terror finally rushed over him like the iced water of the Rhône. His bulging eyes blurred; his belly cramped; his limbs tingled. He watched helplessly as the soldier shrieked toward him until, at last, Wil lurched away as if to run. But his legs felt heavy and try as he might he could barely lift them. He took but a few slow steps before stumbling headlong over a broken wheel.

The attacker cackled a ghoulish laugh as he raised his blood-stained ax over the terrified lad. Piercing the air with a devilish cry, he swung with all his might.

Something within the boy suddenly quickened him, however, and he deftly dodged the blade as he scrambled upright. His enraged foe pursued him, swinging wildly until Wil was backed against the heat of a burning cart and could move no more. He began to weep and begged for mercy. But this was no ordinary footman, no poor peasant pressed into the service of a greedy lord; this was a
routier
and he was about the business of dispatching souls. There would be no quarter.

Yet all the while Wil was not abandoned to his peril. Pieter, Karl, and the others were frantically trying to reload the old man’s crossbow. “Oh, God, hurry! Pieter… hurry!” Karl shouted.

In his haste Pieter’s feeble fingers had dropped his bolt not once, not twice, but three times. A frantic, frustrated Karl plucked it from the dirt and jammed it in its channel again. “Pull the cord, all.” Conrad and Karl strained to secure the bow’s string into its lock … a task often difficult for even the large forearms of veteran archers.

Meanwhile, the
routier
was delighting in the pleading eyes of his yellow-haired quarry and feigned a swipe at the trembling boy. Wil shrieked and fell backward, closer to the fire behind him. The man raised his ax once more.

Wil, however, suddenly rallied a bit of mettle from deep within, yanked his dagger from his belt, and pointed it timidly at his foe. And seeing its blade glisten ever so slightly in the afternoon sun, he felt suddenly safer—even a bit bold. His jaw clenched, his eyes cleared, and he managed a defiant glare at his amused foe.

The brutish mercenary curled a lip and squinted his eyes. Then, with the skill of a seasoned warrior, he swung a swift blow against the little blade, breaking it in two like a worthless trinket. Wil stared at the useless deer-haired handle clutched in his stinging hand and the last trace of courage drained away. As he collapsed to his knees, he stared up at the rising edge of the
routier’s
axe and begged for his life.

But no sooner had the man’s ax reached the top of its arc when he suddenly screamed and fell away, landing hard on the ground like a sack of milled wheat dropped from a wagon. Wil’s jaw dropped as he saw Sebastiani pull a bloody halberd from his enemy’s ribs.

Wil shuddered and gazed into the lifeless eyes of his would-be executioner as Karl raced toward him. “Wil, Wil, look at me! You’d be safe … and alive!”

The crusaders retreated to the safety of a shadowy corner where Wil collapsed on the ground. Karl turned toward Pieter. “We’ve needs to reload this bow.”

“Aye, lad. But I’ve no heart for more … I was certain Wil was dead … I was—”

“But ‘tis not over yet… we’d all be in danger. I’ve seen others of us by that wall… Richard and—”

Conrad grabbed the bow. “
Ja
. Pull!”

The two boys planted their feet inside the arch of the wide bow and pulled hard, finally fastening the cord in its place. Karl grabbed it and set it against his shoulder. Conrad pointed to Sebastiani. “There he is; protect him.”

Karl nodded and took aim at the Visconti charging toward the unsuspecting man.

“Shoot! Shoot!” yelled Conrad.

Karl began to shake. He closed his eyes.

“Shoot!” screamed Conrad.

Karl’s eyes opened wide and he grit his teeth. The boy could barely gut a goose, and to kill a man was nearly beyond his heart’s limit. But the lad had the pluck to pull the trigger and the spring released. It was a long shot for the best of archers and it veered harmlessly to one side, sticking into a wooden barrel. Karl groaned.

Good fortune was with Sebastiani, nevertheless, and his enemy was slain by another. The anxious boys cheered. Conrad grabbed the bow from Karl and ordered him to gather more bolts. In the meantime Pieter had composed himself and touched Wil’s head. “Are you well, my son?”

Wil, white-faced and trembling, could not move.

“Are you injured?”

Wil would not speak. Pieter patted him gently on the shoulder and offered a comforting word. “The angels are near to us, lad, I am certain of it.”

The battle raged. The Verdi army had retaken control of the walls, but enough of the enemy was now within to put the gate at serious risk and the fighting in the bailey was fierce. Pieter looked desperately across the courtyard for any sign of his other crusaders but his eyes stopped upon seeing
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Gostanzo locked in a desperate combat. The lord was straining to swing his heavy mace but was evidencing fatigue and his opponent was pressing the advantage with his pike.

Pieter moved quickly. “Stay close by m’back, boys,” he ordered. Pieter felt the blood pulsing through his frail body. His eyes sharpened and his senses piqued to the danger all about him. He flew across the courtyard, deftly dodging combatants from all sides until he and his lads lunged for the cover of a short wall of barrels.

“What’s this?” Karl panted.

Pieter pointed to the
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who was now frantically fighting two and sometimes three foes. His cape was torn and his face, shield, and breastplate were splattered with the blood of many.

“He is tiring!” exclaimed Conrad.

“Aye, he needs help. His comrades are failing him.”

Suddenly, the lord fell to one knee as the force of a sword against his shield drove him downward. He flung his weary mace toward his foe’s knee, shattering it and dropping him instantly to the ground. But the force of the heavy weapon toppled Gostanzo forward, and he fell, facedown, into the bloodied dirt. A quick-eyed Visconti sprang.

Gostanzo was desperately trying to regain his feet, struggling against the weight his own armor. Pieter set his armed crossbow tight to his shoulder. He took sharp aim and pulled the trigger.

The crusaders held their breath as the bow sprang; a miss would surely be the death of all. But Pieter’s bolt flew true and straight and drove square into the chest of the
routier,
who staggered and collapsed atop the lord’s legs.
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Gostanzo lunged forward with a start, unaware until that very moment of the danger just past. A squire pulled him to his feet. The lord shot a brief glance at his would-be killer and then joined eyes with old Pieter some thirty paces away. He saluted weakly and reentered the fray.

“Good shooting!” exclaimed Karl. “Well done, Pieter! Conrad, did you ever see such a shot?”

“Enough, boys. Off to the wall,” Pieter directed. He was relieved to have hit his mark, yet his soul yearned for the peace of a hillside pasture. But duty required yet more of the man and in the widening shadow of the wall Pieter and his lads prepared for more bloodshed.

Pieter’s boys set the bow over and over again as he picked away at the Visconti infantry one man at a time. But each time the warrior-priest released the spring he wiped tears from his eyes. “May God have mercy,” he whispered.

The tide of battle was held at neap. The parapets were being secured at a terrible price and the castle’s gate had yet to be breached, but the defenders were exhausted. For the next moments the fate of many teetered on the will of either side.

There was sudden alarm in the Visconti camp, however, and its trumpets sounded urgent commands. The battered infantry immediately began a hasty retreat away from the walls, across the list, and beyond the broken stakes of the barbican. The
routiers
that had successfully breached the wall were now abandoned and trapped inside. They dropped their weapons and raced for the ramparts in desperate hopes of leaping to safety in the moat below. They knew there would be no mercy—and their fears bore true.

“Look, there!” shouted a joyful Verdi soldier on the wall. “Battifolles! Battifolles! ” Soon hoorays spread through the castle and bells pealed. The thundering hooves of the castle’s allies were bearing down on the flank of the surprised Visconti army, sending it into a hasty, disorganized rout.

Karl was cheering from his loophole. “Look, Pieter!” he exclaimed. “Look! Look, Wil, Conrad! They’re running!”

With a few grunts and heaves, creaks and rattles the castle gates were now flung open, the portcullis hauled up its channels, and the drawbridge lowered into position.
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Gostanzo hastily mounted his white stallion and rallied his readied knights to charge across the moat. “On, my people! On with it!” the lord boomed. “This day is no quarter given—ride them down and send them back to
inferno.”

Conrad, Jon, and Karl surged across the moat behind the horsemen with scores of sooted and bloodied, cheering peasants. But Wil remained seated in his corner and stared sullenly at his feet while Pieter set out to find the rest of his flock.

Those crusaders working in the infirmary were too busy to join the celebration. The groans and cries of the wounded and dying filled the place and none could walk without stumbling over a man or a part of one. Gabriella now ordered her charges into the bailey to tend the wounded where they lay.

Frieda was covered in layers of blood, some dried black, some jelled, and some freshly splashed in her face and hair. She looked sick and so very tired. Dark circles hung beneath her dull eyes and her cheeks were drawn and sallow.

Maria, Anna, Heinz, and the others fared no better. Each now staggered about the courtyard, exhausted, though relieved for the ending of the terrible day. Pieter found them with ease; their light-haired heads appearing as beacons midst the dark-haired crowd pressed all around them. The old man raced toward them each and embraced them one by one with tears streaming down his face.
“Ah, mein kind.
‘Tis so very, very good to hold you.” He paused to swallow the lump filling his throat. “And have you seen the other boys?”

Frieda shook her head, wearily, “Not since early. I’d seen Wil with you and Otto’s group went to the west wall.”

Pieter hobbled hopefully toward the distant wall in search of his other crusaders. He milled fearfully about the evening’s dim light and caught a glimpse of a cluster of his lads huddled along a collapsed, smoking storehouse. “Boys!” shouted Pieter as he ran to them. “You’ve lived a hard day … but you have lived!”

“Not all,” answered Otto sadly. “Look here.”

A pain seized Pieter’s heart as he beheld the lifeless bodies of three of his company. He kneeled by them and laid his hands gently on each head. “Good Gunter. You joined us in the mountains and did all that was ever asked of you. May God receive you as His worthy servant.