Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  A different girl approached. She had emerged from the vibrating heart of the throng, a shy smile on her face, her limbs moving with the future promise of womanhood. Kurt stared. He had never before observed such things, was confused by her beauty and daunted in his response. He blinked. She remained in his sightline, drawing near.

  ‘I saw the taller boy attack you. You were brave to fight, were not to blame.’

  ‘They think me stupid.’

  ‘You will not find me among them.’

  Kurt flushed, comfortably awkward in her presence, stumbling over his words, near-falling over his feet. His heart raced. He wanted to say more, to tell and ask her everything. Yet he was rendered mute.

  ‘I have something for your bruises.’ She pressed into his hand a bag of poultice medicine.

  Wordlessly, in wonderment, he took her gift. Then she was gone and he stood alone. The briefest of encounters, the quickest of farewells, and his inexplicable joy had turned to inexpressible loss. Around him, the excitable chatter and swelling murmur of anticipation were the same. But Kurt was in an altered state. He ignored the calls of his friends, the tugging at his sleeve, the companionable embraces of support and departure. A long march lay ahead. He vowed to himself he would meet the vanished girl again.

  Exodus came, a triumphal scene of colour and fanfare, of singing and dancing children sweeping from the city. At the head of the procession was the decorated horse cart carrying Nikolas their general. He stood proud, his face to the front, a cross-bearer beside him, his progress flanked by an entourage of noble boys. At the rear of the tumbril, his legs dangling, a young flute-player piped a merry tune. And behind him came a tide of forty thousand, heading south for the Alps, for Italy, for Palestine, for Jerusalem.

  People had travelled from afar to witness the sight. They whistled and applauded, called out their blessings, thanks and prayers. Never had there been such a happening. The children were embarking on glorious crusade and pilgrimage for them, for the sake of their souls and eternal salvation. God would smile upon them. They seemed so young – some only six or seven years of age, helped along by the rest, gamely keeping pace.

  ‘God be with you, my children! Christ have mercy and preserve you!’

  ‘The Lord speed and keep you!’

  ‘Our Lady shall deliver you safe! You are in our prayers!’

  If there was doubt or guilt or regret, it did not show. There were so many reasons to consign their young to the road. It would bring light to the darkness and faith to the heathen, would earn parents indulgence by proxy and entry to heaven free of sin. His Holiness the Pope had said as much. Besides, who knew with what kind of treasure their offspring might return? It was time they earned their keep. Intoxicated by zeal, delirious with religious fever, the good people of the Rhineland chanted and cast flower petals. They were sacrificing their children in the name of the Lord. No greater privilege or higher cause existed.

  It took a day for the parade of minors to pass. When it was over, when the shadows lengthened and the dust subsided, the mad elation that had taken hold slowly settled to a grey and dull melancholy. Stray dogs whined and scratched fretfully at the scuffed earth, a church bell changed its peal from celebration to mourning, the funereal-scented petals lay scattered and abandoned in dried heaps. The streets had emptied and the children conjured from existence. But somewhere a voice cried out. It belonged to a small crippled boy left behind, a solitary figure backtracking and limping homeward to a life he had failed to escape. He vanished from sight. The bell ceased tolling and the land sank back towards nightfall and silence.

  The four riders were to notice that silence when a week later they entered the town of Alzey. It was a pious place one hundred and twenty miles from Cologne, a favoured locale for wealthy merchants and wealthier monasteries. Hardly a setting for trouble. But it reeked of sadness, of a stagnant despondency that infected the streets and dwellings and grew from dreadful loss. Few bothered to observe the strangers. This suited them well, for they did not care to be spied upon. Those who did look would have seen travel-stained journeymen, a troupe of pilgrims, players or craftsmen making their way for money or faith to some other destination. Everyone had worries, their own private cares. There was nothing to arouse suspicion or fear.

  They let their horses walk on. It was the oldest of tricks. Assume a purposeful air, adopt a manner suggesting work in hand or commands obeyed, and none would question. The quartet were masters of pretence. They could speak several languages, assume any role, had skin coloured light enough to place them anywhere in Europe. Direct them to shoe a horse, to summon music from lute or lyre, to fashion implements from wood and stone, and they were able. And they could kill. They had voyaged endless miles, were sent with single motive to eliminate a threat. Their target was close. The castle of Alzey.

  ‘Peace be with you, strangers.’

  ‘And with you, friend.’ The leader of the group flipped a coin to the stablehand lounging at the inn hard by the castle walls.

  It was accepted gratefully. ‘You travel far, sirs?’

  ‘Further than you may imagine. Our horses will be lame if they are not rested.’

  ‘Allow me to tend them, sirs. I am not overburdened in my duties.’

  ‘We expected busier times in Alzey.’

  The ostler grimaced. ‘Alas, you find a place of sorrowing and sighs. Rich or poor, many have lost their young in this holy venture to the East.’

  ‘They will gain in heaven.’

  ‘I pray it is so. Yet meantime not a hoop is chased nor ball kicked, not a laugh is heard.’

  ‘There is ever a price for being instruments of God.’

  The leader swung himself from his saddle, his companions taking their cue. They were amicable enough, the ostler thought. He squinted at them, tried to match their types, their faces, against his memory. Odd how he could not quite get a fix. There was something missing in their composition, something false in their bland engagement and deadpan smiles. He frowned and put it from his mind. One was not paid to refuse business.

  ‘For how long would you wish your horses stabled, sirs?’

  ‘Maintain and guard them at this post. We shall negotiate upon our return.’ The principal pressed another coin into the appreciative palm. ‘Our commerce in the castle will be brief.’

  ‘What is its nature?’

  ‘Stonemasonry.’ It was not strictly true.

  ‘A noble and worthy trade, sirs. But opportunity is scarce since the master rode out for Palestine. You would be wiser to approach the church. It is the bishops and abbots who have the riches and the inclination.’

  ‘Our own inclination is for the castle. You say its master is away?’

  ‘Almost ten years past. His son Otto, a mere stripling of sixteen, now travels in search of him.’

  ‘Quite some quest.’

  ‘He is brave and good like his father, and inspired by example of the children. I have no doubt he will succeed.’

  The leader of the horsemen had equally no doubt the stablehand was wrong. ‘How many days since his expedition set forth?’

  ‘I would hazard five.’

  ‘In company?’

  ‘Alone, but for his black stallion and grey mare.’ His son Otto. The horsemen had not shown disappointment or surprise at news of their young quarry. Setback rarely deterred them. Challenges were to be expected, were part of such missions. They would track him soon enough. It had been six months since Otto of Alzey had sent message to the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller of St John in Outremer of his intent to trace his father. That quest could not be countenanced. There was no room for prying interference, no need for a callow squire of the Rhineland to investigate matters far beyond his experience. Word could spread outside the cloistered confines of the Hospitallers; curiosity could kill. So it was that the Lord of Arsur had dispatched his representatives to Europe with instruction to liquidate the sole progeny of a virtuous knight who had once devoted himself to the care and
succour of sick pilgrims. The fledgling appeared prematurely to have flown. Too bad. Otto of Alzey would never reach Palestine.

  They left the stablehand and made their way across to the main entrance of the castle. The burg was a low-built affair, modest in its scale, a squat structure of crenellations and arrow-slits designed more to protect than to menace. Yet it had its weaknesses. The guard responded well to the easy banter, the generous remuneration, of the visitors. They might have seemed a little eager, somewhat misguided in their hope of work. But all sorts came this way. He let them through.

  Little disturbed the sedentary calm. They stood in the great hall, four artisans in a space dominated by a large hearth and a beamed ceiling. Tapestries hung on the walls, wood benches lined the circumference, flagstones scattered with straw reflected the dull glow of candlelight. The eyes of the newcomers noted the details. Three men played dice at a table, a spit-boy turned a haunch of venison. Beside him, a hunting-dog lazed in the heat. Occasionally a maidservant would enter with fresh candles or carry bread and beer to the engrossed participants in the game. They were ill-placed for action. The foursome marked time.

  A steward appeared, a cheery fellow with rubicund features, a clutch of keys at his belt.

  ‘We may offer food and drink, but at present have no use for your workmanship.’

  ‘A pity, for we carry our tools.’ The leader extracted a chisel from a leather pouch and unwrapped it from its cloth. ‘Wherever we go, the gift we bring is through our hands.’

  ‘Then I wish you well. Perhaps when next you pass I shall be able to provide the business you seek.’

  ‘I doubt we shall return.’

  ‘So stay awhile, share in our modest repast. There are but twelve of us remaining here to feed. And it was ever the rule of our young master and his father to offer welcome to whomsoever steps within these walls.’

  ‘How fortunate for us. The townsfolk speak well of Otto.’

  ‘They hold him dear and in highest regard. You will not hear a word said against him. He is the most caring of souls, most daring of spirits. Handsome too. Many a fair maid weeps bitter tears at his leaving.’

  ‘Boyish youth may often act precipitously.’

  ‘We are the poorer for it. But he would not listen, would not tarry longer. If our children travel to the Holy Land, why not he?’

  ‘Why not indeed?’ The leader of the horsemen contemplated the gleaming chisel in his hand.

  The steward continued to rhapsodize, unaware of the shifting positions, the change in tempo. ‘I vouch that like his father he will make a fine and noble knight.’

  ‘It is a treacherous road he travels.’

  ‘At least he will find company. He follows the children out of Cologne, intends for blessing and news in Rome before onward passage to Outremer.’

  ‘You should pray for him.’ Instruments were being pulled from their covers.

  Momentarily uncertain, the steward smiled, moving to usher his guests towards a trestle. ‘From what part did you say that you hail?’

  ‘We did not.’

  A stone mallet swung and connected with the back of the steward’s head. Bone and brain crumpled, eyes registered disbelief, the body sagged and sank shaking to the ground. The dog looked up. Already the killers had divided, three heading for the dice-players, one aiming for the spit-boy. It was merciless work. The youth had heard a sound, glanced round to see the incoming point of a steel gouge. He tried to fight, to dodge, to reach for a fire-iron. But he was too slow, too late, and the blow from the edge of a hand to the side of his neck knocked him prone across the roasting meat. He had enough air to scream before his face entered the flames, sufficient energy with which to thrash and kick before the spike pierced his lower back and cut the movement of his legs. Alight and helpless, he dangled, a boy immersed in his own cooking.

  His assailant was loping fast to join his comrades in attack. There was nothing their victims could do. Instinctively, a hand rose to protect a face. It did not prevent a blade from plunging through the ear. Chairs fell, tankards scattered, and the dice-men fell to their final throes in a blizzard of blood and severed arteries. Their butchers stood over them, wiping weapons, readying to move on. Four down, more to go. Such deaths were unnecessary yet rewarding, an expression of art and faith, an outlet for skills, a matter of keeping in both eye and hand. It would have been a shame to come so far and depart without result. The leader of the horsemen gave a signal. Time to clear the rest of the fort.

  Their entry to the remote chamber prompted no fear in the old man. He had a scholarly air, and regarded them with pale and steady eyes that lifted but slowly from their study of the Greek text. The intruders were objects of interest, as worthy of perusal as the illuminated tomes and apothecary jars around him. He gauged their intent.

  ‘I do not seek explanation.’

  ‘Nor shall you receive it. What can you tell us of Otto of Alzey.’

  ‘Little, save that I am his tutor and mentor, that he will avenge this outrage.’ He leaned back and placed his hand across the finely worked German cross pinned to his gown. ‘I ask that you make it quick.’

  They obliged, running him through, retrieving his brooch to add to their collection. The steward had not lied. He spoke of twelve residents, and the entire dozen were now dead. A task well done. Without pausing, the four riders left the room.

  Later, as unremarkable as their arrival had been, the group slipped out from the castle gate. On the way, for good measure, they killed the guard and took back their coin; at the inn, they slit the throat of the ostler and emptied his purse. Then they mounted up and rode away. Their hunting expedition had only just begun.

  In the great hall, the hound was lapping greedily at a puddle of coagulating blood.

  What wondrous sight it made. One hundred miles from Cologne, along the road that unfurled beside the Rhine, spectators had gathered to watch the onward march of the children. Beneath the early-July sun, the youngsters tramped. They carried themselves well. Yet there was no denying their ranks were more ragged, their gait had lost its skittish vigour, their banners tilted with a wearied droop. Another day rolling into the next, another furlong reaching to an infinite distance. Feet were rubbed raw; eyes watered with the grime and dust; enthusiasm had frayed to grim determination. They would not let themselves down, could not betray God.

  In a horse-drawn litter, a bishop from Mainz peered through muslin curtains and gnawed contentedly on a chicken leg. It was a perfect day for a picnic. He licked his fingers and tossed the bone outside, gazing with only mild interest as a dirt-encrusted waif darted forward to seize ownership. The poor half-starved mite. What a course these creatures had chosen, what courage they showed. He almost envied them their dedication.

  A snatch of holy song reached his ears as he rummaged in his basket for a sweetmeat. Perhaps he could encourage the Kinder to sing for him, or would throw them a morsel to initiate a fight. He enjoyed a little diversion. With a satisfied grunt, he eased his hips forward and leaned back in the padded seat. The whore who knelt between his knees continued to perform fellatio on him, her head working expertly below his robe. He closed his eyes. It could make a man blaspheme, a prelate groan, distract him from divine pursuit.

  He drew aside the curtain a fraction. ‘They search for Jerusalem and the True Cross. I fear they will find doom.’

  Hearing his voice, the prostitute emerged from her labours. He pushed her head back down. She obliged, a practitioner from one of the oldest professions taking instruction from another. Outside, the children trooped on.

  ‘I wish to rest.’

  Kurt called over his shoulder. ‘Then do so, Gunther. We shall not prevent you.’

  He would be happy to put distance between himself and his avowed enemy, would rather walk to Outremer on bleeding stumps than concede position to the woodsman’s boy. How his bones ached. At first he had welcomed the acclaim, had smiled gratefully at the adults who crowded to offer food and praise. They opened the
ir hearts and inadequate larders to the young pilgrims. But they were not the ones who had to stride a thousand miles to Rome and thousands more beyond, whose role it was to cajole unwilling heathen into the ways of Christ. It was hard enough persuading his own friends to keep step. He tried to think of pleasant things, of the girl with flaxen hair and brimming smile who had entered his life in the square at Cologne a few days and an age since.

  In front, Zepp was guiding Achim, describing the scene, picking and smelling wayside flowers, his sightless twin responding with laughter and tumbling questions. Hans the goatherd whistled a tune and whittled a length of hawthorn as he went; Albert threw clumps of sod at marauding crows scavenging the strip fields; Egon carried little Lisa on his back. The remainder kept their heads down, their feet moving. Ahead and behind, it appeared as though the youth of Germany had been disgorged in unending stream.

  ‘I wager Nikolas is more comfortable on his cart.’ Albert threw a well-chosen clod and the birds scattered.

  ‘Why not?’ Egon delivered a comradely slap to his shoulder. ‘He is worthier preacher and prophet than you or I.’

  ‘Prophet? He is a sorcerer who has placed a thousand blisters on my feet.’

  ‘Each one of them a token of your faith.’

  ‘A symbol of every mile I have dragged myself.’

  The son of the blacksmith shook his head. ‘Be strong, Albert. We cannot call ourselves pilgrims without expecting to endure, without bearing the burden that God assigns us.’ He hitched Lisa higher on his back.

  ‘You heard Nikolas in Cologne.’ It was the turn of Isolda to speak, her words carrying soft. ‘We are chosen and we are called.’

  Hans spat in the dirt. ‘No, we are sent. Your mother had a vision of the Virgin. Mine has dreams of gemstones the size of duck eggs. You, Albert?’