Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (46 page)

“And you, Richard and brother August … the stout hearts of the Emmental. Ah, I did so hope to know you better. Forgive this pathetic old man his distractions and sleep well.” Tears dripped from the priest’s cheeks and he spread his arms to pray for their departed souls.

The busy serfs and castle soldiers paid little heed to the priest and the small band of foreign children slowly circling their fallen friends. Pieter had barely finished his prayer when the death-carts groaned close and the three were loaded for burial. All bade a pitiful farewell to their friends and then embraced one another. All that is, save Wil, who lingered brooding in the shadows. “There is more work to be done, it seems,” moaned Pieter as he surveyed the wounded strewn all around them. The children nodded.

Gabriella approached and smiled as she set a shaking hand on the old man’s shoulder. “The
bambini
are strong and good,” she sighed. “May God’s blessing be on them always.”

As nightfall settled over the fortress, a new kind of horror filled the courtyard. The joyful cheers and songs of victory now yielded to the anguished cries of the wounded and dying from within the crowded infirmary and without. Smoking thatch and charred timbers still crackled and glowed red while exhausted peasants dragged more water from the wells.

Some past compline the Verdi soldiers completed their task of killing every enemy soldier found alive. Pitiful pleas for quarter had been dispassionately dispatched with axes and lances. The enemies’ bodies were then dumped in carts, hauled across the bridge, and set ablaze to a blasphemous liturgy of oaths and curses.

But the bodies of the
castello’s
defenders were solemnly aligned at the base of the keep and stripped naked in the eerie torchlight. Before being carried to their freshly dug graves beyond the list, they were washed and shrouded in linens. Priests walked quietly among them, blessing each row and performing the rites of burial.

Signore
Gostanzo returned late in the evening and led the column of his weary knights and the knights of his good cousin and loyal ally,
Signore
Fernando Batti
folle, over the drawbridge and into the bailey. “Well done, my good people,” he cried weakly. The lord trotted wearily about the courtyard on his sweated mount, scanning his people in the torchlight. The day’s victory was complete. “You have fought well and God shall bless you.
I
shall bless you. Two days off labor, two days of feasting.”

“Two whole days?” muttered Pieter. “He gives them two days off and some bits of food … for this?”

The children by his side smiled faintly, too worn to comment. Gabriella beckoned the girls with her finger and they quickly followed like little goslings scurrying to be close to their mother goose. “Here, my
bambini
… rest here,” she coaxed. “You have served so well; may the saints bless you.”

The girls did not need to understand her words, for they had little doubt of her love. Maria nestled into some loose straw strewn in a nearby corner and huddled close to Anna. Gabriella covered them with a blanket. “Rest well,
carine mie.
May the angels always be close.”

While the boys and Pieter spent the night dragging the dead to their graves, Wil retreated to an inner chamber of the castle and hid. For the first time in his life he found himself on his knees crying out to God. “I denied my sister and I failed in battle. I have doubted Your presence, but I surely feel Your hatred. Withhold Your fist, I beg …”

The lad squeezed hard against the flood of tears pressing against his eyes. “I’d be far from the man I thought me to be. I denied m’own sister and a worthy friend for the want of a spoiled wench. And I fouled m’leggin’s in the fight … I … I trembled … I shook like a frightened woman.”

His shame and disgrace curdled his retching innards more than the worst of spoiled meat had ever done. He accused himself over and over.
Slight of honor and weak-hearted. Ach … and in need of another to save me … I am nothing as I thought… nothing!
Wil fumbled for the dagger now gone from his belt, then clutched his knees and pulled them to his chest. He wept bitterly.

Suddenly the boy noticed a single candle coming toward him and he was still. He groaned as Lucia drew near, not failing to notice that she was clean and rested, not touched in any way by the savagery of the day.

“My little captain?” she sneered. “You are, indeed, of low breeding. In fact, by the look of you, I think you to be a coward as well.” She tossed her head into the air as she turned and walked away. “I like strong men,” she said, disappearing in the darkness. “But you, Wilhelm of Weyer … you are a most pathetic thing.”

Wil stared into the black corridor, broken and abandoned to his shame.

Chapter 21

A FEAST OF GRATITUDE

I
t was nearly dawn when Pieter and his beloved began to drift to sleep in the shadowed corners and dark recesses of the battered castle grounds. The old man slept well, saddened by the loss of three good lads but grateful for the safety of the others and content for having found Sebastiani in full health just hours before. He dreamed of gentler days and kinder nights until awakened at midday by the restrained nudge of a large, leather boot.

“You there,
Padre”
said a soldier. “Wake.”

Pieter sat up slowly and pulled himself to his feet by his faithful staff. His joints ached and he groaned. “Yes, my son?”

“You,
gentiluomo,
are hereby invited to join our triumphant
Signori
for the first day’s victory feast!”

Pieter rubbed his bleary eyes and squinted in the sunlight. “Eh?”

The young soldier became a bit impatient. “I said, sir, that you are invited to join our lord,
Signore
Gostanzo, to feast our victory, you and your … young companions.”

“A feast, you say?”

“Si.”

“Ah! Then a feast it shall be!” exclaimed Pieter. “Allow me to rouse my fellows and we’ll join you.” Pieter happily hobbled through the courtyard and gathered his crusaders one by one. “Hear me all! We’re to eat and drink!”

“A feast! A feast!” soon sang a column of tattered pilgrims. They paraded toward the infirmary to find more fellows, but once inside they winced at the stench. “By the saints!” groused Karl. “It stinks!” He turned to see Frieda and her company sleeping in a corner. “Come, come with us!” he cried.

Wil was found sleeping behind a barrel, and over his loud and bitter protest was finally persuaded into joining his comrades. He reluctantly walked in the rear of the procession and surveyed his friends, all splattered with blood and smudged with soot and grime.
What a filthy lot
, he thought,
but more deserving than I of a feast.

As they approached the great hall of the lord’s quarters, a guard halted them and ordered all to stand by the well. The company thought it a bit odd until a party of laughing peasant women suddenly charged toward them. Before any could run, the women took hold of each of the complaining children and escorted the boys to one side of the well and the girls to another. The
matrone
giggled as they stripped the howling children where they stood. They tossed the clothing to a brigade of fullers who carried off the grimy assortment of tunics and gowns to soapy caldrons. And, now that the naked crusaders were helpless to escape, the women stalked them with rough-spun rags, buckets of icy water, and blocks of lye soap! Then, with a zeal matched only by the Knights Templar at the gates of Jerusalem, the women set about the task of scrubbing their charges clean.

“Not so hard, Frau … not so hard!” cried one brave crusader.

“Ouch! Easier, easier … I’d not be your enemy!”

The women laughed over all protests and scrubbed all the harder for their victims’ yelps. Pieter was delighted to see his flock so well tended and found a barrel in which he bathed his own crusted body and soiled robes. He had finally peeled and scoured the last of himself when he eyed a familiar face. “Ha, ha! Benedetto!” he cried. “Benedetto, where have you been, you little scoundrel?”

The tiny man was peeking out of a beer cask and, upon being found, reluctantly climbed out. He offered Pieter a timid smile and positioned his lute across his back.

Pieter wagged his finger. “I’ve wondered about you all these two days.”

“I … I decided to fight this battle with my prayers,” muttered the minstrel.

Pieter’s face darkened. He hastily dressed himself and strode over to the man. “Is that so? Methinks perhaps you hid in
that
sanctuary all this while. Praying indeed!”

Benedetto stared sheepishly at the ground.

“I must confess,
Padre
, I am no warrior and, alas, I believe me to be something of a coward.”

“And are you not ashamed?”

Benedetto shrugged indifferently.

Pieter shook his head. “Then I am sorry for you, minstrel. I am among the first to entreat mercy for frailty … God knows me to be oft feeble of heart… but to not ache … to not grieve such things … ah, there’d be a shame worthy of rebuke! I fear you needs take care to see what lies within your own—”

Suddenly the
signore
appeared in the entrance to the great hall and summoned his guests, pointing directly to Pieter. “This man,” bellowed Gostanzo with outstretched arms. “This old
padre
… you are a priest, are you not?”

Pieter nodded.

“
Si
. All hear me. This
padre
did save my life!” Gostanzo embraced Pieter like a bear wrapping a fragile sapling. His dark eyes glistened and his face broadened with a huge smile. The lord then set one large arm around the embarrassed old man and escorted him into the waiting hall. “And you,
bambini.
Come as well… you are all welcome at my table!”

Escorted by the hall’s ushers, the crusaders entered the cavernous hall and marveled. The floor had been covered with fresh straw sprinkled with summer flowers and sweet rushes. The damp, stone walls were covered with beautiful tapestries of trees and birds, angels and heavenly things. A large fireplace roared at the far end of long oak tables supporting heavy trays of fruits, venison, pork, and mutton. Considering the nature of the day gone before, it seemed nearly beyond belief that all could seem so very well with the world.

The children sat with bulging eyes and waited patiently for permission to eat. But the tables were not yet ready and stewards were rushing more trays from the anterooms. These were piled high with cheeses, turnips, onions, leeks, and fruits. Two manservants labored under the weight of one magnificent silver tray heaped to overflowing with red grapes from the fine vineyards of Liguria. Hand-carved tankards of ale and goblets of wine were passed among the knights and squires to raucous cheers and loud applause.

Signore
Gostanzo stood to his feet and raised his hands over the audience. “Welcome, all. This is a sad day for those we have lost, but a joyous one as well. We have fought a good fight and saved our lands and our people. And more, more—I lift my cup to our faithful allies and loyal kin, the Battifolles.”

The assembly stood to its feet and cheered
Signore
Battifolle and his knights. Then, after a two- handed gulp of his favorite red wine, Gostanzo raised his clay goblet once again. “Silence, all. Silence. You there,
Padre.”

The hall hushed and all eyes turned toward Pieter. He offered a timid one-toothed grin and squirmed on his bench.

“Padre,
come sit by my side.”

Pieter grimaced but obediently left his children and went to the head table.

“Ha!” roared Gostanzo. “This old one
looks
so feeble and frail! But he cut down my enemy with a keen eye and a steady hand. To him I owe my very life.” The lord lifted his cup toward Pieter. “You are welcome here always.”

Pieter bowed humbly.

Padre
Antonio, the Verdis’s favored priest, then approached the center of the hall in his finest vestments and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving and blessings on all gathered. The feast had begun.

Antonio had barely finished his “Amen” when the famished crusaders lunged at the food before them. They grabbed and tore at slabs of boiled bacon, salted pork, mutton, steaming venison, poultry, and roasted fish. They laughed and giggled amongst themselves, returning for portion upon portion; cherries and pears, apples and honeycomb … ah, the true treasures of God’s earth! What pleasure each enjoyed in the lick of a greasy finger or the gulp of stout beer! All that is, save Wil, who picked at his sparse, tin plate, despondent and wanting of all happiness.

Karl’s voice cracked high above the din. “Oh, if only Georg were here!”

Jon laughed and tossed a pork bone to one of the dogs drooling by his side. “Georg would surely have stripped this table of all but the trays themselves.”

“Oh, Georg,” Karl sighed, “I do miss you so. Perhaps you are watching from above? I hope that would be true.”

Gostanzo suddenly leapt from his chair and bellowed, “I am told we’ve a minstrel here. Mine was burned and I’ve need of music.”

Benedetto froze.

“You there, little one. You’ve the look of a ballad-maker. Come close.”

Benedetto stepped timidly toward the lord’s table and bowed deeply.

“Si, Signore,
I… I am yours to command.”

Gostanzo put his hands on his hips and peered at the musician.

“You are a toy of a man, are you not?”

“
Si
, my lord.”

“But it is said you’ve a voice to stir the angels?”

“Some have so said, my lord.”

“Hmm. This day past is filled with both sorrow and joy. I command both a sad song and a glad song.”

“I… I oft fail at remembering sad songs,
Signore.”

“You would deny me this?” Gostanzo was agitated. “My heart is yet heavy and is need of a song of life’s brevity, its vanity or—”

“I… I have no songs of these, my lord.”

Gostanzo frowned.

Benedetto began to perspire but suddenly brightened. “Ah,
Signore
… I do recall one little ballad that speaks on these matters.”

Gostanzo sat down and closed his eyes, preparing his heart for the melancholy it sought. The great lord looked suddenly worn and troubled. He slouched in his beech-wood throne and waved the minstrel to his table. “Here, come stand before us atop this plank … and sing well, little toy … sing well.”

Benedetto cleared his voice and closed his eyes. He let his mind drift to the beloved dock he now wished he had never left and imagined he was sitting on its edge with his feet dangling over the cold Rhône on a hot summer day. He strummed a few chords and began:

If I but a vapor be,

Then let me ride the breeze

In such a form that could be free

To coil ’tween the trees.

Or free to choose a better place

And free to choose a form,

Which drifts a steady, worthy pace

And weathers well the storm.

I would not choose a harbor fog

Which grips the moaning masts,

Nor would I hang o’er darkened bogs

Where shadows seldom pass.

I would not choose to join a cloud

Though lofty seems its quest,

For thunderheads are brash and loud

And fickle are the rest.

A coastal haze hides breaker’s death

And I would not be there,

Nor would I be but heated breath

Blown into colder air.

Nor would I choose the moon-time smoke

That lurks about the night,

The hedge and thicket are its cloak

It scurries from the light.

If I but a vapor be

Then what sort ought I choose,

For vapors pass so rapidly

That time I cannot lose?

I think to choose the twilight mist

That drifts the pastureland

To waken with a dewy kiss

The tiny and the grand.

It nudges beaded bud and blade

And rolls in clover white,

It readies colors that are grayed

And waits with them for light.

Though vapors are but here and gone,

Yet something should it mean

To rise and meet the blaze of dawn

And fade in meadow green.

Benedetto opened his eyes and stared at his silent audience.
Signore
Gostanzo paused thoughtfully, opened his eyes, and began to clap. “Well done, little fellow,” he said slowly. “Life
is
but a vapor … is it not,
Padre?
Well said, indeed. I wonder if I am the sort of vapor I should really rather be? ”