by C. D. Baker
“But I am very hungry, Wil,” said Maria gently. Her blue eyes looked yellowed to her brother. “My belly hurts and I feel so tired.”
Wil nodded. “I know. Just walk a bit farther and I’ll find someone to help.”
The crusaders ahead of them were still out of sight and after an exhausting attempt to reach them, Wil’s company found themselves collapsed along a quiet cove by the darkening Rhine. “We have fish at our feet,” complained Tomas, “and no net, no hook, no trap. We’ve boar in the woods all ‘bout us and no arrow or spear. Where is this loving God of yours, fool?”
Karl shrugged and lay on his side as Wil stood to his feet, tired of the quarreling and very much aware of his own unadmitted doubts. With forced confidence he announced, “I’ll find some kindhearted yeoman and be back with food as soon as I can.”
Wil left his companions and crossed a dry field in search of some morsel of mercy hidden within the looming darkness. The others waited quietly in the deepening night, staring blankly at the stars appearing above. It seemed forever to Maria when Wil finally returned.
“Each of you put a block in your mouth. Not a word from a single one of you. I … I was chased from two yeomans’ huts and one horrible village. This onion is all I could find so … just be glad for it and say nothing.”
“And where did you find such a thing? ’Tis half rotted,” observed Tomas.
“If you don’t want your share, give it back.”
“I wager you scrumped it from some swine trough. And we’ve no fire … or even a coal bucket and you lost our flint. I think it a good thing y’found no rabbit or venison!”
Maria, frightened by Tomas’s tone and feeling all the more famished, began to cry. Wil took her in his arms. “There, there, little sister, all shall be well.” He glared at Tomas, no word needed.
Karl blushed slightly and bent to his knees. “I … I know no Latin prayer for food. Do you, Wil?”
“No.”
“Well, does God understand German?”
Wil shrugged, confused by his brother’s novel idea, but Tomas laughed out loud. “Did you ever hear a single prayer in German? You dunce … German is not God’s tongue.”
Wil leaned close to Karl and said sternly, “For the sake of the saints, just pray if it comforts you. Perchance some angel shall translate.”
Karl tilted back his red head and stared quietly for a moment. Then he began to whisper words he knew well. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Each word grew a little louder. “We are hungry and we are about your business. Please feed us, your soldiers. Amen.”
Tomas snickered and shook his head. “Oh, how very much like a little monk you are. Be prepared to be hungrier on the morrow than you were this day.”
Chapter 6
NEW COMRADES
Dawn broke faithfully but its red sky brought no promise of mercy from the sun now rising overhead. The four stood and looked hopelessly about. Wil broke the silence. “This day we’ll reach the band ahead. I am certain they’ll have some food to share.” So Wil set his doubts aside and prodded his companions southward on the dusty road.
But by sext the draw of the river had proven too powerful a temptation, and the young commander consented to a quick splash in the slow-moving water. Maria squealed and Karl laughed. The water felt so clean and cool as it pressed over their hot bodies. The smooth, round river stones tickled their bare feet and the gentle lapping of the waves against the muddy shore was soothing. Even Tomas smiled.
The respite was brief, however, for the ever-present pangs of hunger drew the crusaders back to their roadway where they spent the whole day begging food from passersby. Night fell and the only treasures of this day would be the dimming memory of the river and a sturdy coal bucket Wil found fallen in some tall weeds by the way.
Darkness brought little relief from the day’s heat. Wil collected some chunks of hardwood and dropped them into his tin bucket as he stared wistfully at the stars. The weary boy fashioned a lash for his new prize from a discarded length of rope tossed off some passing cart. He sighed, suddenly uncertain of his Crusade, and paused to stare at his sister in the bright moonlight. He thought she looked yet more drawn, and he noticed the dark circles under her bagging eyes. Wil wiped his hand through his hair and turned to find some soft grass to lie in.
Tomas was about the business of sweeping his grassy bed for sharp stones and sticks and turned to growl at Karl. “As I said, either your God is not there or He cares not one whit. Which do you claim?”
Wil overheard the remark and prepared to defend his brother, but his spirit faltered. He, too, was confused and could find no words.
Karl was taken by surprise and looked to Wil for help. Finding none, he fumbled. “I … I don’t know how to answer you just now.”
Tomas grinned, quite content with himself and the awkward corner in which he had placed Karl. He drew a quick breath and was about to speak when Karl blurted defiantly, “But, no matter, I’ll pray again. And if He fails me I… I’ll pray again!”
Tomas’s black eyes danced and he laughed. “Then prepare to pray for all time.”
Morning came as an unwelcome intruder into the sleepy campsite. The four sat up reluctantly, dreading another new day. Each yawned and stretched, complained of the early morning’s fog, and rubbed their eyes.
Suddenly, Maria blurted, “What is that?”
“What is what?” grumbled Tomas, still half asleep.
“That.”
Maria pointed her finger and, with ever-rounding eyes, jumped to her feet. “Look, look,” she cried.
By now all four were standing, confounded to find four small loaves of bread positioned neatly at the center of their campsite.
“There, too!” shouted Karl as he pointed to two sharp pieces of flint setting atop a flat rock. “Praise to God!” Karl cried. “Praise to God, Tomas! He is there and He does care, after all, and … and you were wrong.” The happy boy gleefully snatched a loaf and shoved half into his mouth. The rest he lifted to the morning sky and with his ruddy cheeks stuffed with bread, cried, “Many thanks!”
Tomas looked dazed and sullen, like an arrogant general whose armies were just outflanked by unforeseen misfortune. He chewed slowly on his portion and said nothing.
Each crusader knew that something special had happened. But they knew not that they were being offered something greater than bread and something more lasting than the little loaves they consumed so quickly. But Tomas had no sooner swallowed his bread when he groused, “It was only one little chip of rye, Karl, one small piece of bread in two days and a bit of flint.” He paused and leaned toward the redhead. “If it came from God,” he sneered, “He could have given us more. And if He gave this to us this day He could have given us some on days past.” Suddenly confident he had once again gained the high ground, he pressed his attack. “But I think it’s not from God at all. I think Wil was hiding it all the while.”
Wil, surprised at the unexpected accusation, snapped, “Liar.” He pressed his nose against the other boy’s. “Stop your mouth before I stop it for you.”
Maria climbed between the two pleading, “Please, please don’t fight.”
Wil and Tomas glared at each other and backed apart slowly. Wil relaxed his clenched fists but the edge in his voice had sent fair warning. “I don’t know where this came from. Perhaps it is from heaven, or perhaps we missed it when we came in the dark. All I know is that I’ve eaten and am ready to move forward.” Confused, he bent to take the flints and stuff them into the satchel slung on his shoulder.
In the days that followed, small loaves of crusty bread again were found placed neatly in the center of the camp. One day spelt, another rye—and always welcome. Judging by the faint peals of distant church bells, it was about terce when the crusaders rounded a bend in the roadway and saw ahead what appeared to be the elusive group of fellow pilgrims they had been struggling to reach.
At last, thought Wil. His heart lifted. At last.
Wil urged his tired comrades to hurry as he lifted his weary legs into a steady trot. Filling with excitement, all pressed forward, but as they drew closer they slowed, suddenly wary of the scene before them. Wil had a peculiar stirring in his chest. He halted his band and strained to focus on what had at first appeared to be a large group of children sprawled beneath a draping oak. Yet the tree looked oddly shaped and the children beneath it were lying down or squatting or walking aimlessly without any visible purpose.
Wil waved his hand forward and led his fellows judiciously, eyeing the picture with marked suspicion. Suddenly he stopped and stood stiffly. Crowding close behind, Karl gasped. It was now evident why the ancient tree looked so curious. From its thick boughs were suspended four or five bodies, their feet dangling undisturbed above the heads of a dozen or so dazed fellows.
Wil cast a nervous glance at his shocked comrades. Even Tomas looked shaken, his eyes wide with surprise. The young leader set his jaw squarely and feigned a confident stride toward the mysterious gathering.
As Wil and his group neared, one of the children spotted them and jumped to her feet. “Oh please, please, please help us!” Others rushed to cling to the new arrivals, their confused eyes reflecting both terror and hope.
Wil whisked past the children and stood under the feet of the five hanging limply above him. It was not that he had never seen a hanging before. His mind quickly sped to a memory etched deep in his mind: the hanging of six-year-old Stephan, the poor foundling caught thieving a peck of flour from the abbey’s garrison. But this seemed somehow different to the troubled lad. Here were no priests, no men-at-arms, drums, nor bailiffs and their cursed parchment proclamations. Instead were only lonely children, an old tree, and a quiet river.
Above him dangled the tiny, bare feet of two little boys, each bearing the cuts and calluses of miles and miles of dutiful service. Their eyes gazed heavenward, fixed in what Wil sadly mused as eternal bewilderment. On another limb hung a girl, her face obscured by the shadow of thick leaves. Wil judged her young, but by her tender curves, not so very young. He looked to her side where two older boys hung, each bearing an innocence that defied their end. One looked almost angelic, thought Wil, his golden curls and chubby, freckled face revealing no hint of any wickedness that could have earned such an end as this. Wil turned stiffly to the oldest of those crowding close to him and choked, “What has happened here?”
A frightened, black-haired boy wiped his eyes with a dirty sleeve. “These were chased by an old man through a village just by there not three days past.” He pointed eastward. “He thought them to be scrumping his bread…. Then he tripped over a wheel and knocked his head against a timber corner and died at once.”
“Aye,” blurted another. “The villagers bound us all but charged these. The lord’s provost came by next day and held trial.”
“‘Guilty,’ he says,” another voice choked. “‘Pay the man’s widow two shillings wergeld or meet the noose.’ We’d not a single penny between us … so here they hang.”
Karl slowly advanced toward the bodies and looked sadly into their placid faces. He reached a shaking hand and gingerly nudged the girl’s feet to turn her face to the light. He fell backward. “Wil! Wil! See … oh, God, no … ’tis Ingrid.”
Wil spun about, pain cutting through him. The boy trembled and gazed at her now familiar, braided red hair hanging tangled and unseemly by her bloated face. He remembered how confidently she smiled at him as she marched out of the village. He looked away. “Someone take these bodies down,” he commanded hoarsely. But the children did not move. They simply stood and stared at one another. Wil opened his mouth to command them again but closed it slowly and sprang onto the lowest limb himself. He climbed into the leafy gallows and stretched out on the heavy branches. He withdrew his dagger and sawed angrily at the thick rope above each tilted head.
As one body after another dropped to the ground Karl winced. Each thud sickened the poor boy and he soon found himself vomiting into the dry weeds. Even Tomas was mute. Unable to watch, he stared at his feet, but the corner of his eye caught Ingrid crumpling on the ground and he quickly wiped a tear off his stiff cheek.
A boy’s voice suddenly startled everyone. “What if some of us did steal some food? And … so some priest did warn us … but we are so hungry. And none pushed the old man or tripped him or nothing of the like. Some of ours had died a few days back and look, some are so sick that they cannot stand.” He began to cry.
Wil looked carefully over the group. They all seem so helpless, he thought. A chill ran up his back. Am I to care for all these? He swallowed hard. “Give me your names,” he said slowly.
“I am Jon,” answered one. “This be m’brother, Jon. And this be my youngest brother, Jon.”
“Well,” muttered Wil, “that shall never do. You are the oldest, so you shall be Jon I; the next, Jon II; and the last, Jon III. And what about the little girl by my sister?”
“She is called Maria,” said Jon I.
Wil paused for a moment. “She shall be called Maria the Younger since she is younger than my sister Maria.”
Jon I nodded. “And the others, I know not many of the others … they joined us ‘bout three days back. The little boy there seems most weak. I think he be called Lothar.”
Karl’s heart stopped and he spun about, looking hard for Lothar. He immediately recognized the little one as his friend from Weyer and ran to him. “Oh Lothar, Lothar, ’tis me, Karl! And look, here is Wil and Maria and look there, there is Tomas.”
“Karl, Karl!” Lothar chirped. “’Tis good to see you. Look, over there is Otto … he’ll be surely happy to see you, too! Most of the others are with another group. We got mixed up in Mainz and went separate ways. Methinks the main group is on the other side of the river with your cousins.”
“Well, you are with us now, Lothar, and we’ll take good care of you … you can be sure of …” Before he finished talking, Otto wrapped his arms around him.
Karl laughed and begged his sturdier friend to release him. “Enough! Enough! I can’t breathe!”
Wil saluted Otto and Lothar and looked carefully at the others. “All of you … give me your names,” he commanded.
“I am Conrad,” said a dark-haired boy straightaway. He was about fifteen, lanky and strong-featured.
“Friederich,” said a quivering voice. “And we are sorry we scrumped food.” The boy was a skinny lad of about seven.
Wil nodded.
“Anna,” a very soft voice added. She was a gangly, white-haired girl just a year or so older than Maria.
Wil circled the group and tried his best to learn the names of all the rest. His mind whirled. I’ll not remember them, he thought. I want none of these following me; I can barely feed the four of us. He then looked into their sad faces. “What is right is to be done,” he sighed.
Wil abruptly ordered Tomas and Karl to carry the bodies to the riverbank and arrange them in a row. “And you others, fetch some rocks … we’ll cover them and then we move on.”
Maria the Younger and Conrad gently removed the wooden crosses from the belts of the dead and secured them at the head of each mounded grave. Karl, disquieted by the moment, fumbled a small, though poignant prayer to the angels and the Virgin Mother.
Wil stood solemn and erect, staring thoughtfully at the group assembling silently before him. “How far is the village you scrumped?” he said slowly.
“’Bout a half-day,” answered Jon II.
Wil paused and pursed his lips as if sucking a bitter herb. He dreaded hearing his own words and measured them carefully. “Those who wish to resume may march with me. Otherwise you’ll needs take leave to the village and plead mercy of the reeve.”
Tomas laughed. “The same reeve that just stretched these five?”
That thought had not escaped Wil’s own fair logic and he responded in swift order. “If he had wished more hanged he’d have done so.”
Despite the reasonableness of his an
swer, the blank faces staring at Wil betrayed reluctance. The lad continued, almost harshly: “The sick shall be delivered to the village for certain. Have faith that pity shall be shown. Some good fellow’s wife shall nurse them to health in time for harvest.” Wil turned away to hide his own doubts, wondering if he had sentenced any to certain misery, or worse.
The uneasy children murmured in hushed tones, frightened of both this young master and the villagers. After a few moments of stifled whines and yielding grunts, the group broke into clusters. Some resolved at once to press on, willing to adventure the perils waiting for them. Most, however, chose to risk themselves to the dubious mercy of the village.
Jon I circled the groups and approached Wil. He pointed a steady finger at his two brothers, Maria the Younger, Anna, Conrad, Otto, Friederich, and Lothar. “These here wish to go on. The others choose to stay.”
Wil swallowed hard. He had hoped they would have all chosen the village. “So it is then,” he clipped. “At dawn we’ll go our separate ways.”
The rising sun lit upon a sad huddle of children embracing one another on the dewy riverbank. Too sick or too fearful to continue the journey, the largest portion bade their farewells to the lesser and formed a reluctant column. Notwithstanding Wil’s logic, they nestled close, one tightly pressed upon the next, and shuffled ever so timidly toward the dreaded village. They cast a final glance over their shoulders at their fellows, forever preserved from the knowledge of the ill-fortune awaiting them.
As his new line assembled on the dry roadway Wil surveyed each new recruit, and, once satisfied, ordered them forward. Karl was delighted to have more fellows by his side and chattered so incessantly that after several hours of hearing his persistent voice the group cried out in near unison, “Stop, Karl. Enough.” Karl, startled at first, soon joined in the laughter offered so generously at his expense. It had not taken long for strangers to become comrades.