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

by C. D. Baker

  Mainz’s market dated from the days of the Romans and was among the most spirited in all the Empire. It was filled with the noise of commerce, the aroma of flowers, and the foul stench of beast and peddler alike. Brightly clothed Syrian traders pushed and pressed their bolts of colorful linens to passersby, chattering and imploring their would-be buyers with large, pleading brown eyes. Donkeys laden with barrels of wine and beer trotted briskly between tables of stock and baskets. Country serfs prodded sluggish oxen through the crowded market keeping a wary eye on their carts laden lightly with their meager harvests.

  Pieter was quite pleased with himself as he had successfully begged some coarse rye bread and a tankard of warm ale for himself and Solomon. He found a vacant corner at a weaver’s shop and placed the curve of his old back against the flat of sturdy board. He raised his thin nose high in the air and drew deeply on the summer smells of cut hay and strong fish. “Mid-July is a bit too early for this market’s coveted early wine, its Federweiss, Solomon,” Pieter mused. “Pity, such a blessed, sweet drink … the white milk of the vine … ah, but this golden brew shall serve well enough.” He sighed and gazed upon the color and motion before him, but no sooner had he wiggled and fidgeted his old bones into a comfortable position than he noticed a small crowd beginning to gather in the square before him. Pieter leaned forward and strained to see the attraction. To his delight, a group of troubadours was assembling on a wooden platform and Pieter, though finally settled in his corner, grew immediately restless. “Up, Solomon, good beast, ’tis time to dance!”

  The performers were richly dressed in pleasing satin, velvet, and brocade. In their bright colors of green and yellow and red they laughed and jousted with each other and teased the crowd as they prepared their performance. A particularly robust young fellow stretched his thick arm slowly, almost painfully, into his bulky, homespun sack. At first he seemed to think his sack had no end and his face showed alarm for it. But to the amusement of his audience he quickly withdrew and held his kettledrum high overhead. Another laughed loudly and snatched a flute from the sleeve of his tunic, and the last spun about and deftly caught a lute slung loosely over his narrow shoulder.

  “Ah, music, dear Solomon… listen.” Pieter found himself tapping his leather-bound feet and dancing to the rhythms and melodies that he loved so very much. Unfortunately the rickety old man and his unkempt dog became quickly lost in their own delight. The annoyed folk about them withdrew with choice words of advice for the awkward priest and his crowing dog! Neither seemed to mind, however, and they danced about the dusty square, yelping and laughing, unfettered by the mutterings of the townsfolk.

  The players soon quieted their audience and presented a rendition of a new, dramatic epic, “The Nibelungenlied.” They inspired their audience with brave knights, confounded them with magic, and sang of the hero Siegfried and his beautiful Queen Kriemhild. Pieter’s bright eyes sparkled with the joy of it all. He laughed heartily, not the least bit embarrassed by the single yellow tooth that occupied the front of his gaping mouth. He watched with the eyes of a child as the stage teased his mind with illusion and touched his heart with song.

  When the troubadours took their final bow, those blessed with some measure of prosperity tossed pennies into the baskets offered them. Pieter, never wishing to take without giving, approached the unsuspecting troupe and offered a blessing. The players smiled and winked at each other as the old priest raised his feeble arms in benediction. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”

  Returning to the wall of the weaver’s shop, Pieter sat down in the dust and patted his panting dog. “Ah, such a glorious afternoon, Solomon. I should have hoped, however, they would have sung the Song of Hildebrand … but beggars cannot choose, can we?” He laughed.

  Pieter settled against his wall and looked wistfully at the crowd of serfs and merchants, men-at-arms and nobles mulling through the square before him. He was about to close his eyes and nap when he caught a glimpse of some children emerging from the market in his direction. “Ah, Solomon,” Pieter sighed, “behold the look of Crusade. Surely, this must be the end of the column?”

  He raised himself on his staff and walked toward four young pilgrims striding through the crowd. “Hello there, crusaders. Might I have a word with you?”

  The tired children stopped and eyed him warily.

  “Yes, my children,” continued Pieter, smiling but anticipating their reserve. “Yes, I am told that I look a bit odd, but I am surely safe enough.”

  Pieter ambled toward them slowly, Solomon trotting slightly ahead. “I wonder if I might be of some service?”

  The dusty children stared back uneasily, somewhat overtaken by the sight before them. There were three boys and a very young girl. The little girl giggled and reached over to rub one of the dog’s ears as Pieter continued. “It is plain to me that you are all of fine stock, though a bit worn.” Pieter’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, your pardon. I ought introduce myself. I am Pieter; some have called me Pieter the Broken.” He leaned heavily on his staff and bowed deeply. “And this fine beast is my one true friend, Solomon.”

  He commanded the dog to sit and raise his paw, bringing a squeal of delight from the little girl and a happy smile from one of the boys. The two older boys looked at Pieter carefully and a blonde-haired lad stepped forward.

  “Your pardon, but we needs be off. We’ve lost nearly a fortnight for a three-day march!”

  “Ah, yes,” answered Pieter, “journeys are fraught with the unexpected.”

  The lad shook his head. “We ought make four leagues a day at the least. The caravans do six or better. We couldn’t find the blasted Rhine, then crossed by ferry in search of Nicholas’s column, only to wander too far west. Then we were held by some dolt reeve for three days under charge of thievery! Stupid man.”

  “Ah, I believe you must be joining the others in the great Crusade … you’d be a bit behind them, you know. Ah, never you mind. ’Tis a fine Crusade, I might say, a noble and sincere gesture of obedience, I am quite certain of it. But… forgive my wondering if you were prayed for or did you, yourselves, invest much time in prayer before departing? But of course you did, otherwise …”

  “Move off, old man,” growled a black-haired youth. “We’ve better things to do than speak at some old dolt with an ugly dog.”

  “Well, truly,” answered Pieter, “it is evident to me that you have much more weighty things to do than humor an old fool… remarkable things actually … godly things at that. I simply thought it prudent to pose such a question. After all, if a journey begins on the wrong foot, it is bound to end at the wrong place … would you not agree?” He grinned and noticed that his words had reached one mark for certain.

  The redhead furrowed his brow. “I think you to be right, old sir. And no, no one prayed for us and we’ve not prayed for ourselves.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Pieter with a tone of patient sympathy. “That does happen. That does happen indeed. I am an old man and I do know very little sometimes, I am certain of it. But you might consider returning home to receive your blessing.”

  The black-haired lad stepped forward and stared into Pieter’s twinkling eyes. “You’d be right when you say you know little, you old beggar. Now be out of our way.”

  Pieter put his hand lightly on the boy’s hard shoulder. “Now that is something I do know much about… that I know little, that is.”

  The boy was confused and Pieter seized the silence. “You all look as though I have baffled you with some riddle. Actually…”

  The redhead interrupted, his interest pricked. “Do you like riddles, old sir … uh, your pardon, I mean, Herr Pieter? May I call you Herr Pieter?”

  “Ah, yes, of course, but ‘Pieter’ will do just fine.” His face glowed with hope.

  “Well, I do love riddles so and I have one …”

  The blonde boy interrupted him. “Tie your tongue, brother. We needs be ‘bout our way. Your pardon, Herr Pieter, but we must beg your leave
.”

  “Ja, ja, to be sure, my son, I believe that to be a sound idea indeed. You must be a proper leader. I… I presume you mean you shall be on your way to your homes for prayer and blessing?”

  The boy had done his utmost to maintain his patience and his manners. After all, the monks had insisted he respect all elders, but the old man now irritated him and he found it hard to restrain his tone. “What are you, a banished priest or … outcast monk? And no, that would not at all be what I mean. We are on our way to Palestine … now Godspeed and good-day.”

  Pieter ignored the boy’s annoyance and studied the children carefully. “Well, children,” he said quietly, “might I ask your names before you depart? I should like very much to pray for you … very much, indeed.”

  The blonde sighed. “Yes, yes. But then we are on our way. I am Johann Wilhelm of Weyer. This is my brother, Johann Karl, and that is my sister, Maria. And he is Tomas the Schwarz, also of Weyer. Now, off we go.”

  Pieter winked at Maria as she passed close by him. She giggled and returned a clumsy wink of her own as she waved the four fingers of her good hand at him. Pieter’s eyes grew moist and he raised his arm slowly. But before they were out of earshot he quickly called after them. “Children, forgive me for my intrusion, but I have just one more simple request.”

  “What now?” asked Wil, sharply.

  The old man hobbled toward them. “I wonder if I might accompany you so I could behold the glory of the Holy Land before I am taken from this wretched earth?”

  “Surely you are mad!” snapped Tomas. “You are nothing but a pathetic, old beggar with one tooth and a bent-over back and wrinkled fingers and toes. And look at those legs of yours. We have no use for you.”

  Karl looked gently into Pieter’s steady eyes. “Old man, this is a journey for young soldiers like us. You ought be resting in the shade of a good linden, not marching to Palestine.”

  “Well, now that is a very kind thing to say, good lad, but I should very much enjoy journeying with you. We might share riddles as we march.”

  Pieter turned to Wil and offered in a respectful, almost submissive tone: “And you, young fellow, you truly do have the look of a courageous and wise leader, one who is under the protection of God Himself. I should like very much to learn from you along the way. I should feel safe, as must these others. As I think of it, this would be most comforting, for I would be under the care of… God’s Wil.” Pieter raised his eyebrows and chortled, pleased with his wit.

  Wil paused for a moment, looked at the dust covering the leather binding his feet and walked a few paces away. Pieter shuffled to Maria and dropped down to his knees in order to look directly into her angelic face. “My dear child, what a precious lamb you are. You are like a tender, springtime flower. An old man like me needs to be near a new life like you.”

  Maria smiled at him. “Father Pieter, you have a lot of deep wrinkles in your face, and why is your back bent over? You look like the old men of my village.”

  Pieter laughed and reached to hug the little girl. “Well, well, my dear little lamb, not all in this world is pretty like you.”

  Maria’s pink face blushed and her red lips began to quiver. She was about to burst into tears when she stepped back and held up her withered arm. “My mama says I am ugly, Father Pieter. See my arm.”

  Pieter looked tenderly at her deformed arm and stroked her fine blonde hair. “Well, nay, nay, little one, I think you are most pretty. And perhaps you could be rather thankful for that very different arm. Just think how much happier you are for your good arm because of it!”

  Maria brightened and looked first at her deformed arm and then at her good one. She smiled. “Yes, I think so, Father Pieter. I do love my good arm better because of this one.”

  Pieter hugged his new friend and patted her gently on the head. He took a deep breath and walked toward Tomas. “And you, my young friend …”

  “I am not your friend and never shall be, you foul-breathed old pauper. I don’t know what yer game is, but stay out of m’way. I’ve little time for priests … you are some kind of priest, methinks.”

  “Well, yes, young Tomas,” said Pieter softly. “I suppose I am. And I am something of a wretched creature as you so aptly describe. I would not argue the point with you. Another old man once wrote, Whoever corrects a mocker invites insult.’ But I do believe, whether wretched or priestly, I could be of some service to you. I have seen the world; I have seen the great mountains that lie in wait for you. My humble request is to be allowed to follow.”

  Wil opened his mouth to respond but hesitated as Karl and Maria urged him to accept the old man’s offer.

  “Please, Wil, let him come,” whispered Karl. “He’s a priest. You must let him come.”

  Wil examined the old man carefully but, though he sensed something unusual, bluntly rejected Pieter’s request. It would not be prudent, he imagined, to slow his Crusade with a white-haired man who had little more to offer other than his seasoning. “Nay, methinks not.”

  Pieter nodded. “I accept your decision, lad. Just answer me this: Who do you follow?”

  A division had occurred in Mainz some days before when the main column of crusaders arrived from Cologne under the control of the young visionary, Nicholas. A dissenting group had formed, most arguing for a different route to the sea. Nicholas wanted to follow the left bank of the Rhine south, then swing southwestward to enter the Alps from the French passes. The others disagreed and chose a leader to take them on the right bank with an eye for the passes more to the east.

  Wil answered firmly. “We’ve decided to follow our own noses. Some merchants suggested we go straight south along the east bank, then through the smaller passes that lead more directly to the city of Genoa where all are to meet.”

  Pieter nodded. He knew the world of Christendom like no other and agreed. “Godspeed, then,” he offered softly, “until we meet again.”

  Though it seemed longer to the four crusaders, two days passed since they left the walled city of Mainz and entered the flat, ever-widening Oberrheingraben—the valley of the Rhine. On this particular sunny morning, Wil distributed the last of their bread. Tomas wrinkled his nose at the hard, moldy crust of rye he was handed. “Now what, Master?” he asserted sarcastically.

  Karl and Maria watched anxiously as Wil stood to his feet. “We’ll surely find some manor to welcome us, or a church on the way, and I am quite certain they’ll yield a bit of bread or a turnip or two.”

  A determined Karl quickly added, “Yes, ’tis sure, by faith. We are on God’s journey and His people shall provide!”

  Tomas grunted and reluctantly followed the others along the dirt roadway of the Rhine riverbank. The sun was hot and climbed high above the hungry, thirsty crusaders. “So, Karl,” he grumbled, “where’d be the butterflies and birds that you boasted would follow us?”

  Karl blushed a little, beginning to feel ashamed of his earlier expectations. “I only repeated what I heard at Mainz.”

  Tomas curled his lip and sneered, “Karl, there ne’er was nor ever shall be butterflies and birds … in the name of God, when are you going to see the world as it is?”

  Wil, too hot to hear more of this, clenched his fists. “Tomas, leave him be.”

  “For all those hours in the school, you’d be no less a fool than him!”

  Wil had had just about all he could endure of Tomas and ground his teeth. “Bind your mouth; say no other word.”

  The band tramped silently as the sweltering sun beat on them, and many hours passed until they finally felt relief from the evening breezes blowing gently up the wide river valley. The air was cool and smelled fresh, and they paused to feel it swirl about themselves. Karl looked to the sky and said he imagined their sweated bodies being fanned by a “legion of angels fluttering their golden wings.”

  The crusaders stalled in the evening caress and they were blessed again, for the angels now carried the sounds of a distant song to their tired ears. The children r
aced to the top of the next hill and listened carefully. To their great joy they heard a familiar melody, “Schönster Herr Jesu,” a song to be known for centuries after as the “Crusader’s Hymn.” Karl beamed and joined his awkward voice to the faraway chorus:

  Fairest Lord Jesus,

  Ruler of all nature,

  Son of God and Son of Man.

  Thee will I cherish,

  Thee will I honor,

  Thou, my soul’s glory, joy, and crown.

  Fair are the meadows,

  Fair are the woodlands,

  Robed in the blooming garb of spring:

  Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,

  Who makes the woeful heart to sing.

  Fair is the sunshine,

  Fair is the moonlight,

  And all the twinkling, starry host:

  Jesus shines brighter,

  Jesus shines purer

  Than all the angels heav’n can boast.

  Beautiful Savior.

  Lord of the nations.

  Son of God and Son of Man.

  Glory and honor,

  Praise, adoration,

  Now and forevermore be Thine.

  Little Maria hugged her brother. “You sing nice, Karl. Sing it again.”

  But before Karl could begin, Tomas laughed, his black eyes shining with an unsettling rage. “By faith you are surely a dunce, aren’t you, kleiner bube? You do not sing ‘nice’… and ’tis a fool’s song anyway. Ha! ‘Fool’ is the right word for you, indeed. Fool!”

  Karl was hurt and embarrassed but did not respond. He ran his fingers along the necklace his mother had given him. She never thought me a fool. She loved me, he thought. She must have, else she would not have given this.

  Wil cast a disdainful look at Tomas. “Shut your mouth or I’ll be jamming a stopper in it. Now, all of you, get started again. I want to catch the heels of the group ahead. They might have food to spare.”