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

by C. D. Baker

  Karl wrinkled his nose and scratched his head. He glanced about the blank faces encircling him.

  Wil broke the silence with a sneer. “Well, if you are a priest, why not call us some bread from heaven?”

  Pieter paused and patiently answered, “Now that is a fair request … and shrewd to be sure. You and your brother are bright fellows, educated in a church school, I would surmise. Ja, ja, I am certain of it. It is good for you to understand that all bread is from heaven.

  “As to my powers to summon loaves from the air, I am in some doubt. But it is heaven that has given each of us the strength of our hands and the keenness of our minds to provide such nourishment.”

  Wil shrugged, not surprised at the old man’s answer.

  Pieter moved close by the lad and set his hand confidently on his broad shoulder. “Let me say, young sire, that I am new to your company but it is clear to me, just for the looking, that heaven has blessed you with keenness of mind. I am certain that you have employed it in the setting of a fine plan for this Crusade.”

  Embarrassed, Wil surveyed the anxious faces now staring expectantly at him. He stammered, “I… I… did bring some provisions from home, but all has been used. We tried begging bread from the villagers but they failed us.”

  Karl interrupted. “And for several mornings we woke to bread or fish and you have yet to claim from where they came.”

  Wil answered sarcastically, “So very well said, little holy man. What of it?”

  “What of it?” snipped Tomas. “What of it? I’d say you to have no keen mind, I’d say …”

  Pieter cleared his throat and caught the boys’ attention. He stretched his long fingers into the sack hanging from his shoulder. “Wil, I have something to show you.” Wil watched curiously as the old man pulled a tangle of cord from within his leather satchel and held it out as a large ball in his opened palm. “I beg your command,” grinned Pieter.

  The boy plucked the knot from the priest’s hand and held it by a single strand to shake it apart, violently. He then nodded approvingly. “Ah, a fish net.”

  “Indeed,” answered Pieter. “Might I humbly suggest your sending some of your charge to the water for a good night’s supper?”

  Wil’s mood changed and he quickly agreed. He sent Jons I and II and two girls scampering to the river.

  Pieter pointed his crook toward the crest of a nearby hill. “If you so order I’ll go to a hamlet I have knowledge of just beyond. I suspect I might return with some begged loaves or a turnip or two. I have learned that folk will allow a child to starve but will rarely risk losing the blessing of a hungry priest… unseemly or not.”

  Wil nodded, relieved for the fresh ideas.

  “Fair Wil,” the old man offered as he prepared to leave. “’Tis my thought that even our old emperor, Barbarossa, would have been daunted by your task and most uneasy for the weight of it. You must take heart. This dry summer is going badly for the manors. The harvest of yester-year is gone and the fields are sparse. We are close to new harvest—the Feast of Lammas is less than a fortnight away—yet look about you at the wilted rye, small fruits, stilted oats and barley. And now have I heard words of plague. ’Tis no wonder few are willing to help a stranger.”

  Pieter motioned Karl to his side. “Now you, lad, if you should be so kind as to gather some small vines or long roots and some small sticks, I’ll show you how to build a fine trap before I leave.”

  In less than a winter’s hour, fishermen and trappers were busy at their appointed tasks and Pieter was sauntering out of sight and into the woodland. Wil ordered others to build a fire and instructed Jon III to select some hardwood to be charcoaled for later use in the coal bucket. “Some good wood, boy. Else we’ll be striking flint all the days to Palestine!”

  By nightfall the crusaders had begun to filter toward the cook-fire from all directions. Jon I raced from the riverbank shouting gleefully. “See, see here!” He had an unwilling, gasping river trout held high by the gill. Lothar grunted close behind, dragging a stiffened cod through the grass by its tail. The other boys had built a fair rabbit trap but failed at finding suitable bait. They entered the campsite reluctantly amidst the jeers of their disappointed comrades.

  Wil looked hopefully toward the dark forest with an eye for Pieter. He had become quickly dependant on this strange, old man. But he had no sooner surrendered to the prospect of the priest’s disappearance when he heard the friendly bark of Solomon and a few discordant melodies drifting toward him from the darkness. He released a sigh.

  Pieter emerged into the pungent, welcoming smells of burning wood and roasting fish. He emptied his sack carefully, spilling a few black crusts, half an onion, two leeks, a handful of barley, some old oats, and a sound, though badly dented, tin pot. The children were reasonably impressed, and, before long, a meager, though delicious vegetable pottage was boiling over a crackling fire.

  After enjoying their good meal, the children snuggled peacefully together atop their grassy beds oblivious to the perils poised before them. And soon each brave crusader was fast asleep, each stomach adequately filled with the pleasure of a satisfying portion, and each heart wrapped tightly in the secure love of Pieter the Broken.

  Chapter 7

  PESTILENCE AND DEATH

  The next morning’s sun beamed hope into the campsite as the faithful cheerfully roused themselves to their given tasks. Pieter welcomed daybreak on his knees and stretched his arms over his flock, “Gratia, gratia Dei tibi.…” Contented by his lauds the old man pulled himself to his feet to join the assembling children.

  Wil preferred to place Pieter just behind himself, keeping the wise counselor within a whisper or a glance. Karl was always close to the old man’s heels and was trailed by Maria. The others gathered in a various order that was determined each new day by the feuds or friendships developed around the prior night’s camp. Wil thought it wise to use Solomon as a shepherd’s dog and suggested Pieter send him periodically to circle the pilgrims in order to keep the strays tight to the group. The priest found the idea agreeable and set the dog to the rear of the column as Wil counted heads. Content that all was in proper order, the young commander then ordered his fresh-faced soldiers southward.

  The band tramped along in a complacent quiet and grumbled little of the hunger beginning to gnaw at them once again. Each eye, however, scoured the roadway for any scrap of fallen food that may have escaped the truant eye of a passing wagoner. Pieter, growing a bit bored and wanting to distract his own mind from his hollow belly, called over his shoulder to Karl. “So, lad, you fancy a proper riddle, do you?”

  Karl’s face lit and his lips parted into an impish grin.

  “Ah, then, venture this: A magpie fluttered into a nobleman’s manor house to sip of some wine from the very bottom of a fine cup. The nobleman’s cup, however, was rather tall, the sort that Frenchmen boast, and the poor magpie failed to reach the wine. Yet, after reasonable contemplation, the clever bird was delighting in it. How would the magpie have accomplished such a thing?”

  Karl’s certain grin turned immediately to a confounded pucker. He scratched his head. “I … I must think on this some, Pieter. But I vow to answer it in short!”

  The lad was soon riveted in thought and paid scant attention to anything other than its answer until the column rounded a corner and came upon two sobbing children hobbling toward them from behind a thick shrubbery.

  Wil halted his queue. “Yes, and who comes?”

  “We’re lost,” a boy answered nervously as he approached the stern commander. He wrung his hands and his pleading eyes cast about the faces now encircling him. “And m’sister turned on her ankle and cannot walk very fast.”

  Wil grunted and stepped past the boy. “You, girl, let me see this leg of yours.” He took the trembling girl’s ankle gently in his hands and ran his nimble fingers over the swelling. Satisfied that no bones were broken, he turned toward her brother.

  Pieter’s blue eyes twinkled and he moved t
oward the newcomers with a smile and a tender tone. “Ah, what have we here? More lambs for our flock, I presume?”

  Before the man could utter another word, Wil grasped him by the sleeve. “How can we feed more?” he groused. “We must stop increasing. No more of this.” He tipped his head toward the two and pressed the old man. “Look there, her ankle is badly swelled and she cannot walk without help. He looks to have fever. Nay, we’ll add no more.”

  Pieter answered gently, “To you, my brave friend, these little ones are something of a curse, another burden to be stacked upon your crowded shoulders. Yet, to them you are an answer to a prayer, a gift from the angels. Which is correct?”

  Wil’s lips worked to form an answer but none would come, and he cast his tired eyes to the ground. Pieter placed both his steady hands on the boy’s shoulders and squeezed confidence into the lad’s frame. He turned to the two. “Ah, dear children,” Pieter said, “by what names are you known?”

  The tense, though hopeful young boy stepped forward and choked, “I am Johann Lukas and this be my sister, Maria Marta.”

  “Yes, good names indeed. With Wil’s permission, however, we’ll call you by Lukas and Marta for it seems we’ve an abundance of Johanns and Marias as it is.” Pieter put his arm around Lukas. “Are we agreed?”

  “Oh, ja … ja,” answered the relieved boy as he pulled his fingers through his brown curls. “And we’ll vex none … and I think m’sister’s ankle to be a bit better … and …”

  “Wilkum, ja,” interrupted Karl. “So Pieter, I’ve the answer to your riddle….”

  “Hold, Karl,” laughed Pieter. “Hold for a moment. Y’must make known to our new comrades, Lukas and Marta.”

  Karl gave the pair a quick nod. “But I’ve your answer: The magpie dropped gravel in the cup to raise the wine.”

  Pieter clapped his hands and rubbed the boy’s red head. “Well done, well done indeed.”

  “And now I have one for you, Pieter.”

  Pieter smiled and sat down by Marta’s side. He placed his palms flat behind him on the dirt and tilted his old head back to soak in every word the boy was about to offer.

  “The forest spirits cast a woman with a spell. She could meet her husband only under cover of night, but by lauds she changed to a rose planted with three other roses in a pot by the bedroom window. If her husband could pluck her bloom she’d be free, but should he fail, she’d die.

  “By each day’s prime the husband came to the pot and looked carefully at the beautiful roses. Each was so very much alike he bedded each night uncertain which could possibly be his wife. At last, one dawn he bounded from his bed and ran to the pot and plucked a bloom and freed his wife of the spell. How knew he which to choose?”

  Pieter set a bony forefinger to his pursed lips. “My, my, Karl, ’tis a good one. It shall take some time to unravel it.”

  The children marched on under the hot July sun eating bits and portions of sundry castoffs from passing travelers or of the good fortunes of the net in Pieter’s pocket. The river served them well as their daily source of water for boiling gruel or bathing, and God was praised for the healing of Marta’s ankle, Lukas’s fever, and the varied maladies plaguing little Lothar. The group seemed to be constantly singing and whistling, shrieking and giggling, which often embarrassed their commander who thought such behavior most unnatural for warriors of the faith!

  The fields of rye and barley bordering the roadway were wilted but stubbornly maturing as the coming harvest drew closer. The hay had long since been cut and sheaved, and white sheep now dotted the sickled meadows. Early fruits were beginning to appear within walled orchards, enticing the bolder boys to pluck an occasional young apple or pear to soften in the gruel.

  The increasing fatigue of the journey had limited conversation, but a bond of earnest comradeship had begun to bind the children fast to one another. Pieter and Karl seemed to grow closer with every step along the way, each teasing the other with a short riddle or quick-spun sally. But it was Maria who had captured the old man’s heart more than all the rest. This dear Mädel loved Pieter so very much and he, her. She shared the old man’s lap with Solomon as evenings’ fires lulled them both to deep sleep. It was about those same campfires that Pieter spun the tales of his youth to the speechless children circling the embers on hard-pressed elbows.

  “Ach, ja. The furious battle of Tortona,” he blustered one starry night. “Yes, ’tis true, m’lads and ladies, I did war there as a footman.” Pieter’s eyes widened and burned like the fire that roared at his feet. He stood wide-legged, his hands clutching his old crook which he now wielded over the heads of his audience like a mighty mace. “The good knights of Friederich the Fat were harried and bloodied, driven into a tight knot of leather and steel at the center of the Lombardian snare.

  “Then, from within our retreating ranks, roared a giant of a man. A simple footman but unlike any I had ever met. To this very day I know not whence he came, nor whether his breast bore the heart of a lion … or a devil. He stood two heads above every man among us and when he turned his mace upon the foe …”

  The children sat still as rabbits in the eye of a fox as Pieter wove them a rich tapestry for their dreams. He loomed them images of heavy-armored cavalry thundering o’er blood-stained fields and brave knights crashing in thunderous collisions of horseflesh and steel. Then, breathless and flushed, he proclaimed the glorious victory and whispered in hushed tones of the valiant footman who saved his lord’s mighty army. The cheering crusaders stood to their feet and clapped.

  But Pieter had merely paused to swallow a hearty gulp of begged mead and soon was at the easy task of drawing giggles and guffaws from the farthest stretch of firelight. He squatted by the snapping logs and told of Lord Friederich’s huge, jiggling belly which “chilled the resolve of many a sturdy horse in waiting.” He laughed and laughed and further revealed the agitations and tempers of Sir Balder the Bold whose nose always offered a good dripping “till his helmet was clasped fast. And then, good children, the oaths which bellowed from behind that bound face blushed even the rugged faces of the crudest knights in earshot!”

  The girls soon begged for fancied tales of life in the court of Pieter’s father, the Duke Otto, who, it was told, bellowed and barked so as to “weaken the knees of a hardened Templar” while nimbly picking pennyroyal and primrose for his beloved wife. They smiled dreamy smiles as the old priest spoke of the brocade silk dress his gentle mother wore, of her fine headdress of red satin and yellow silk from Syria, and of her silver necklaces from Greece and Persia.

  Pieter’s eyes closed and he wet his dry lips as he recalled the bounty of feasts past—of pheasant and venison, of fine roasted boar and duck buried in honey-sauced cherries. Ah, he thought, even yet do I smell the crackling spit and the sweet glaze. The children stirred politely and their entranced elder was called to his present company. “Ah, quite … aye, aye, to other matters.”

  Pieter spoke freely and with passion of his days as a manorial priest and the years as a monk cloistered deep within the dark, damp walls of his Carthusian abbey. The children listened intently of his final exile to a harsh Cistercian order in Silesia, where his superiors believed depravation and hard work would quench the yearnings of his spirit. “It was there,” Pieter reflected soberly, “while clearing timber from endless forests and trenching those miserable marshes that I learned to know the God of creation. ‘Twas there my ears first cocked to the soft steps of a wolf in a winter’s snow, and my nostrils twitched to the smell of the coming of rain on a summer’s night. It was there that I began to grasp the very essence of the kosmos, for in that wilderness my eyes opened to our world’s depravity, its dignity, and the ever-present hand that bears it firmly in its flux.

  “My little ones, listen to my words: I beg you to understand so that you can believe. God has blessed you each with a sound mind, and the clues to understanding Him lie all about. It is for you to gather them to yourselves, arrange their proper order, and some
day you shall surely seize the mystery of the mind of Almighty God.”

  Pieter’s words gained force as he spoke with grave resolution. “If only we could fairly reason what lies all about us. We must needs conquer the confusion that blinds the eye and disturbs the mind. If we understand we can believe. I so swear.”

  Karl was inspired and rose to speak. “It is like a great riddle, is it not, Pieter? ’Tis like to a riddle where the answer is just beyond the knowing. But when we keep our mind to it, we do find the answer … and are the better for it.”

  Pieter sat still for a moment and stared across the campfire into Karl’s eager face. “You have said more, my young son, than some of the great philosophers. Indeed, there once lived an old Frenchman, St. Anselm was his name, who has darkened the world with his infamous blasphemy, ‘Credo ut intelligam,’ which is to say, ‘I believe in order to understand.’ Can you see, m’children, how he has the forward to the rear? With such perilous reasoning, if it be ‘reasoning’ at all, ’tis no mystery to me why our world is as it is. Nay, nay… we must understand first… so that we are thereby enabled to believe … I am certain of it. Learn to love your minds, little ones, and trust what you learn, so when you understand your God, you shall surely trust Him.”

  But Karl was suddenly puzzled. He held his tongue for a moment, reluctant to challenge his elder, but finally blurted, “Pieter, you did say Saint Anselm?”

  Pieter nodded thoughtfully, uncertain where his young study was taking him.

  “If he is a saint I think he must be right and true … and … and perhaps not you.” His voice sagged at the end of his words and he looked at his feet.

  Pieter’s nose twitched ever so slightly and his face tightened just a little, but he managed a steady, kindly gaze at the earnest boy. “Well … yes, my boy,” he answered slowly. “Yes, well…”

  Before Pieter could fully compose his response, Tomas suddenly attacked. “Old man,” he sneered, “I know nothing of this world and even less of God, but I’m true to m’self and confess no belief. By my oath, you don’t know enough to truly believe in anything … nor shall you ever. Hypocrite, y’be no different than me, only y’fear to say it.”