Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  Karl, flabbergasted and flustered, ran headlong for the door, dodging and ducking the cornstrand flail. Pious was close to the boy’s heels, tripping through the doorsill and doing his best to dodge the broom.

  Content for having driven the offenders a safe distance, the furious maid returned her broom to its corner, snapping and snorting a final word at her muttering employer and his young accomplice.

  The panting priest adjusted the blanket on his forlorn donkey, cast a nervous glance at his darkened front door, and leaned close to Karl. “Hell on earth, boy, hell on earth. ’Tis barely worth the rewards,” he mumbled.

  Karl shrugged apprehensively, fearing the Frau might be watching, and waited nervously while the priest collected his wits, adjusted his habit and sandals, and climbed atop the patient beast.

  Courage partly restored, Pious wrinkled his nose at his house and whispered to Karl. “My son, the Good Book reminds us that it is better to sleep on the corner of thy roof than in the house of an angry woman!”

  Karl smiled.

  The two began their short jaunt to Weyer under a full sun, but before they traveled much distance a bailiff’s deputy caught up to them. The man reined his mount gently and called to the priest with respect. “Have you come upon any outsiders, Father Pious?”

  “Nay, my son. I am told an abbey guard lies wounded?”

  “Nay, Father, not wounded. He’s dead. Was Ansel of the night watch. Someone cracked his head on a rock outside the wall.”

  “Dear God above,” said Pious. “I knew Ansel well.”

  “Take care, Father, and report the whereabouts of any strangers or any behaviors not usual. And I should tell you to keep a watch for groups of children passing near these parts on the new Crusade. Keep a hawk’s eye for them; some say they’re up to mischief. Some think maybe …”

  “Ach, nay, I doubt a child could have killed Ansel. He was a giant, and …”

  “Never you mind, Father. I’ve seen mere boys do the Devil’s business in my day. Now I must be off.”

  Karl, at first troubled for the coincidence of Wil’s absence and Ansel’s murder, dismissed such thoughts as preposterous and turned his mind, instead, to the soldier’s remark of children on Crusade. He had heard of no such thing, nor was he aware of many children joining men-at-arms on Crusade, save squires and pages.

  “Pondering words of Crusade, boy?”

  “Yes, Father, I am.”

  “Ja, ja, truth be told, I met with the abbot some Sabbaths past to discuss this very thing. We have considered how God’s blessings might fall to our humble manors by its children following the vision of Nicholas of Cologne.”

  “What are you talking about? Who is Nicholas of Cologne and … what vision?”

  The priest cleared his throat and spat. “Good lad, the villages will be instructed to come to Villmar on the afternoon of Sabbath next. Pious shifted his weight to another hip. “You seem to be a lad of some discretion, so I’ll tell you and you alone what the gathering is about. It would seem that our Lord has revealed His present hope for Palestine by favoring a vision on a young boy in Cologne who goes by Nicholas. According to the blessed lad, the children of our Empire shall recapture holy Jerusalem from the heathen Saracens who occupy it.”

  The flush of excitement in Karl’s ruddy cheeks assured the priest of one recruit. The lad restrained his enthusiasm, however, and proposed an observation of some discernment. “But Father, the armies of our kings could not hold the Holy City against the infidels. How shall children win it back?”

  Pious laughed. “Ah, yes, yes. It is innocence and purity which God is calling us to tender in this Holy Crusade. As in the days of Abraham and Moses, we offer our spotless lambs in His good service. Nay, He calls us not to bear arms, but to proffer purity.

  “Nicholas has seen a vision in which an army of the Innocents of Christendom ford the mighty ocean on dry land … as did Moses at the Red Sea. When the infidels see such a miracle and witness the devotion and the faith of our children, they shall not only yield Palestine to its rightful people, but they shall also bend their own hearts to the Holy Church and to the one true Savior.”

  Karl could barely contain his excitement. “How do we go? How do we join? What shall we do? When may we leave?”

  “Calm yourself, lad,” chortled the bouncing priest. “Nicholas and his host departed from Cologne and have entered Mainz a few days back to gather and put order to the march. But the abbey has learned of other manors to our east, some as distant as Eberbach and Bamberg, yielding their flocks toward the Rhine as we speak. We are certain that God shall show Nicholas the need to tarry for the others. Keep faith, boy. This manor shall not be denied its rightful place in such a pilgrimage as this.”

  Karl’s imagination carried him to Jerusalem, the Holy City, as it was depicted on the tapestries of the abbey and the colored glass windows at the fore of its church. He could easily see its high, white walls and rounded towers; he could see himself marching, shoulder-to-shoulder, midst a huge column of Christian pilgrims bearing their crosses through the arched gates. Thinking only of adventure, the boy’s legs lifted into a haphazard trot. He was sharply returned to matters-at-hand, however, by a stern reprimand of the priest who could no longer abide the bounce of the donkey the boy was dragging.

  In short order, Karl spotted the roofs of Weyer, and he could hardly endure the eased pace. He wanted to race to his village and spread the news. But his heart suddenly seized when he remembered that his mother lay dying and that his brother’s efforts were now shadowed in doubt.

  Chapter 3

  A BARGAIN STRUCK AND THE MANOR GATHERS

  Wil was relieved to yield the charge of his mother to Frau Anka and he walked willingly, though somewhat apprehensively, toward the Laubusbach to draw water for his chickens. Still edgy from the night’s affair, he was wary of conversation. He kept his eyes on the hay fields in the meadows by the stream.

  Surely, ’tis an uncommon season, he reflected. The boy was well aware that the early drought had stolen the tender green of spring. The dry stubble of scythed hay was browning, and the rye fields were stunted and stiff. The leafed trees stood listless and stale alongside the taller spruce whose dark needles were slightly browned and hard. He arrived to the bank of the stream and dipped his large pail into the sluggish water. He recalled pleasant memories of his father’s friend, Emma, who had once lived at the village edge with her butterflies and gardens of flowers. “The Butterfly Frau!” He laughed aloud. He could still remember sitting on her ample lap. A voice distracted him. “Ho there, Wil, have you heard the news?”

  Wil turned to see the broad face of the weaver bursting with excitement.

  “’Ave you not heard?”

  “Um… nay.”

  Frau Gerta, the carpenter’s wife, forced her way between the two, one elbow bent to secure a basket of eggs and the other wrapped securely around the wings of a fat, orange-billed goose. “Ja, ja,” she offered proudly. “I knows what’s happened, I do.” The hawk-nosed woman set down her reed basket and stifled her honking goose with a tight squeeze round the neck. “I tell you that a blessed monk was found dead in his bed and a guard is dead of a head bashin’.”

  Wil’s chest tightened and an icy chill shivered through his limbs. His breathing quickened and his mind soon muddled. “ I could not have killed Ansel.”

  A loud, obnoxious belch took Wil’s attention. He whirled to see Father Pious rolling off of his exhausted donkey in the center of the village path. With both feet planted securely on the ground, the priest straightened his twisted habit and wiped his hands across his sleeves. He heaved thick phlegm from his lungs and spat it to the ground, cleared his throat, and announced his presence.

  “Good morrow, my flock.”

  The villagers knelt as he had taught them; all, that is, but Wil whose hair rose along his neck like an angry dog’s. The lad stormed toward his hovel as the father and a chattering Karl passed through the yard gate.

  Karl
scampered ahead and politely held open the door. The priest, pleased with the respectful boy, smiled, then filled the narrow entrance, squeezing the morning’s sunshine into thin shafts of dusty light.

  Frau Anka stepped lightly from Marta’s bedchamber, wiping her hands on her ankle-length gown. She promptly knelt to kiss the priest’s hand, Maria following in kind. Karl stood proudly behind the priest, confident and hopeful for the blessing Father Pious’s presence would surely bring.

  But Wil burst through the door and folded his arms with a scowl that was offered with unreserved irreverence. The priest turned to the boy and extended his right hand. Wil stiffened.

  “Junge,” said Father Pious sternly. “I believe thou hast forgotten thyself.” He thrust his hand closer to the boy’s face.

  Wil sneered. “I should rather pucker my lips to the arse of a pig than that.”

  The priest threatened. “Bend thy knee and kiss the hand of this servant of God.”

  “No.”

  Father Pious slowly lowered his hand and frowned at the defiant boy. “I baptized thee, Johann Wilhelm, as well as thy brother, Karl, and thy sister, Maria. I blessed thy father when he followed duty and have been a protector of this household since that distant day.” His voice grew louder. “It is no wonder to me that this family is suffering, with devil spirits like thy father’s and thine sleeping under its roof.” He spun and faced the others staring dumbstruck and horrified. “Leave me with this incorrigible.”

  Frau Anka, Maria, and Karl needed no further urging and they rushed out the door, Anka careful to leave it slightly ajar.

  Pinked and bulging, Pious seethed at Wil. The nostrils in his bulbous nose flared as he drew a deep breath and stalked the rigid lad. “Johann Wilhelm!” he bellowed, “supposed son of the baker of Weyer. I believe thee to be the bastard child of Lucifer.”

  Wil opened his mouth to protest, but Pious increased his volume yet more. “Silence. Be silent, wicked son of Satan, or I’ll surely summon the angels of glory to snatch thy pathetic, cursed soul and bind it in the Pit where it belongs.”

  The boy clenched his jaw, determined to hold fast.

  Pious raised clenched fists high in the air and roared, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, I strike thee down.” His thick, right fist crashed against the side of Wil’s face, splitting flesh by the cheekbone and knocking the boy backward onto the quilt covering his straw bed.

  Father Pious charged forward, ready to strike once more when his crazed eye detected the corner of a leather bag now exposed in the straw. He stopped and pointed. “What is this? Hand it to me.”

  Wil hesitated and muttered an oath.

  “I command thee to give that to me.”

  Wil snatched the bag and clutched it behind his back. “It is nothing of your account, nothing but an …”

  Pious lunged toward the lad and deftly caught him by the throat. He wrenched the bag from the gasping boy’s grasp and pushed him hard away. The priest shook the bag’s contents onto the table beside him, and, with a look of disbelief, stared at the supply of herbs and medicinal concoctions. He uncorked a small bottle and held the stopper close to his nose. “Humph … Betony … a remedy well suited for head fractures and ailments of the skull. One Brother Lukas knew well! Fool. It is thee who the soldiers seek. Ha! I knew this mischief had a devil to it. Murderer… twice murderer. I’ll surely delight in your hanging.”

  Wil was no longer the defiant intransigent. Instead he sprinted like a frightened child toward the door. But Pious, expecting the lad to run, thrust his left foot forward. The boy tripped through the hearth and crashed, headlong, against the table. The huge man then pounced on him like a hungry bee on a ripe pear. He jerked Wil up by the shoulders and suspended him against the wall, dangling both feet helplessly above the earthen floor.

  The priest pushed his face close to Wil’s. “Ha, ha! I’ll truss you myself and drag you to the abbot.”

  Wil, rising to the urgency of his peril, gathered his poise with surprising speed and responded to Pious in a calm, though vexing voice. “When you drag me to the abbot, I’ll have little choice but to confess my deeds.”

  Pious, intrigued, maintained his hold on the boy and waited for more.

  “I’ll offer my confession to the abbey’s priest, and then I will share what I have seen of you and the deeds you have done in this house!”

  The shocked priest stiffened and his quivering jowls lost their flush. His lips twitched a little and he began to relax his grip. Wil slid lightly to the ground.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Pious said in a hoarse whisper. “You have seen nothing … nothing has been here to see.”

  It was at that very moment that Wil knew he had turned the trap. The lad now stood erect, almost indignant. He brushed away the straw clinging to his rough clothing, strode confidently toward the table, and began to refill the herb bag. He was steady and well within his wits. “In just a moment I’ll be quite ready to take our leave to the abbot.”

  The priest began to perspire and glanced, for the very first time, into Marta’s bedchamber. He turned away and peered through the crack at the doorway into the wide eyes of Karl and Frau Anka. He stormed to the door and slammed it shut, then grabbed Wil by his ear and dragged him toward the far corner of the room.

  Wil smirked. Frau Emma was right, he thought. We are ne’er better than our secrets.

  Pious cleared his throat and quickly relaxed. He released the boy’s ear and feigned composure. “Now, boy,” he stated flatly, “I should like to know what you think you have seen. After all, the Holy Scriptures tell us to bear no false witness against a neighbor.” Pious folded his hands, paternally. “Truth be told, lad, I am certain you had no part in Ansel’s … misfortune. But, nonetheless, I should like to know what you think of other matters, for it would be most unwise for you to pass through life with some confusion of the facts.” He smiled weakly, betrayed by a droplet of perspiration on his upper lip. The priest seated himself on a stool, as if to convey a comfortable familiarity, and set his sweating palms on his knees. “Now, just settle yourself and share thy thoughts and I’ll pray for God to heal this day.”

  Wil, emboldened for having seen fear in his enemy, leaned forward and set his nose a hair’s breadth from the man’s. “You, priest, since the day you chased my father on his penance, have been favoring my mother with … undo attention.”

  Pious’s face tightened and retreated from the boy’s. “Well, of course,” he stammered. “I should hardly be expected to abandon the family of such an obedient servant as your father. The bakery is a hard task… and … the apprentice was not sufficient… what with the abbot honoring the ancient vow of thy education. Your poor mother has had much need of attention, and …”

  “Enough,” snapped Wil. “Enough. My mother needed none of your attentions in her bed.”

  The priest leapt to his feet. He began pacing and wringing his hands. “That is a lie. That is a vicious lie. You are an ungrateful… lying whelp. Son of Sa—”

  “I do not lie. You call yourself priest? Servant of God?” attacked Wil. “You are a servant of yourself. You are nothing but a wild boar on the prowl. You pretended your duty as a priest, but all you ever wanted was our mother’s favor. I do wonder if it wasn’t you who beguiled m’father into leaving. I have been told things …”

  “Your mother was a tired, lonely woman, hungry for a kind word and a bit of help. The abbot was considering ending your tutelage so you could better support the bakery. It was I who saved you. I. And … and your mother was grateful for my help. I deny your accusation, boy, I deny it!”

  Wil would listen no more and he struck a furious blow squarely on the end of the man’s nose, dropping him to the floor with a cry. Wil’s flashing eyes were a scalded blue, his lips red with rage, and his fair skin flushed with fury. He darted to his bed and plunged his right hand deep into the straw until his fingers found the haired handle of his dagger.

  With blood pouring from both nos
trils, Pious desperately tried to pull himself to his feet. But before the clumsy priest could stand, Wil knocked him to the floor again with a vicious strike to the side of the head. The man’s eyes rolled slightly and he collapsed to his back. The lad sprang on his fallen adversary and placed both knees on his chest. He set his razor-sharp blade against the rolled fat under Pious’s chin and growled, “Blasphemer! Enemy of God. Liar! Admit your crime or make ready to join your fellow demons in the Pit.”

  The priest lay motionless, his eyes now wide with fear. Too frightened to speak he waited helplessly as the angry boy held his life in the balance. Wil hesitated, then pressed the dagger’s edge deeper into Pious’s throat, releasing a thin thread of blood. The boy leaned close to the priest’s face and hissed. “Tell me, dead man, tell me the truth. I want to hear it in your own words.”

  Pious trembled and nodded subtly, fearing to move. He whispered hoarsely, “Yes, yes. I did do this.” Tears filled the man’s eyes and he began to beg for his life.

  The boy hesitated, caught between a horrid lust to carve the man’s throat and an unspoken voice urging he leave vengeance in the hands of Another. With a grunt he stood. “To your feet, you pig. I should have you kiss my hand for mercy granted.”

  Pious, white-faced and shaking, stood. “Wilhelm, I assure you that such a thing shall never happen again. Now let us …”

  Wil leaned forward. “Indeed. My mother lies near death behind you!”

  The father squinted nervously through the dim-lit doorway and nodded. He dabbed the blood on his neck with his sleeved forearm and crumpled the folds of his robe to hold against his bleeding nose. “Your mother was always a beauty. She was lonely and I wished …”

  The flash in Wil’s eyes reminded Pious how tentative his ground was, and so he changed course. He arranged his robe and gathered his wits. “My son, you are aware that should I tell the abbot of your night’s visit to the abbey he would no doubt believe me. I have served this parish for nearly twenty years, have collected tithes faithfully and with no hint of impropriety. I am known throughout these valleys as a worthy Christian priest. On the other hand, should you accuse me, I should doubt his believing you … an angry peasant boy caught in a crime.”