by C. D. Baker
He quieted. “There are too many for us to bury and some were beset with fever, so, dear lambs, we must … burn them.” His voice choked on his command but his fellows understood.
Pieter was not pleased, however, with his children’s response, for though they dutifully set upon the task at hand they did so with steely resolve and not so much as a whimper. The man’s heart ached for them. Gott im Himmel, he moaned to himself. Can they have been so hardened in so short a time?
Tomas intruded. “All’s ready for the torch.”
Pieter looked speechlessly at the boy and the circle of children staring at the wood-ringed bier waiting before him. And, without a word, he set a thin branch ablaze from an ember in the coal-pot and slowly touched it to the bramble piled at his feet. He dropped it from a quivering hand and retreated to the side of his fellow pilgrims. With eyes reddened by sorrow and glowing with anger, he watched as the fire crept over the unsuspecting kindling and rose to pounce from one darkening corpse to another.
The heat and stench soon drove the poor company backward as the flames flared like the torches flanking the gates of hell. For Pieter it was as if Lucifer and his demons were laughing at him from the fire, dancing and frolicking, taunting and hissing in a gleeful celebration of death and damnation.
Chapter 8
GOOD GEORG
Quietly, Wil continued to lead his crusaders south through the Rhine valley. Each haunted face now belied a young soul in turmoil, save the dark-hearted Tomas who found it amusing to share his morbid satisfactions regularly. And who could dare refute his endless commentary on the spectacle they had left behind? Karl, bewildered and utterly undone, spent the hours choking on tears and dodging the apparent logic of his black-haired foil. He had nothing to say, no answer for the doubts swirling about his own mind let alone the outrageous blasphemies of Tomas. The abiding agony for poor Karl was the insufferable vision of tiny red crosses curling in the flames of the burning crusaders. His ears filled with the echoes of the past, those joyous cries in the abbey: “We go to God, we go to God.” Indeed they did, he thought as he clutched his necklace, though not the way he had imagined.
Wil’s hard eyes gazed steadily at the horizon before him. Anger raged within and he felt little else. He was neither willing to reject nor embrace his faith but the sights and smells of the day prior had seared his soul. He had become a young man with a crumbled foundation, filled with confusion yet secretly desperate to retain some remnant of the hope now fleeting away. He withdrew deep into other memories, at which point he marched more contented for having found some rest within. But such respites were short-lived at best, for no sooner would he submerge his mind to far places when the ghost of his poisoned mother burst from the shadows to accuse him. It was at those moments he was glad he had taken his apple-wood cross and thrown it into those dreadful flames. Better to trust in this dagger than in that cross, he thought.
The day passed to night and the next morning brought its routine of duties for the crusaders. Wil sent several of the boys to fetch water, others to break kindling, and still others to beg provisions with Pieter at a forester’s cottage by the road. The girls were set about the chores of ferreting through the blankets and bags for what few provisions might be discovered for a morning’s mush when Jon I suddenly burst from the trees. “Wil! Wil! M’brother’s in a well! Come help afore he drowns!”
Wil, followed by the others, raced behind Jon I to an abandoned stone-lined well the boys had discovered deep in the wood. He could hear the trapped boy’s cries echoing eerily through the forest and soon was peering into the dark hole. Wil could barely see Jon III but knew the boy could not hold fast to the slippery walls much longer.
Jon III could see only dark silhouettes ringing the bright opening above him. “Help!” he pleaded. “I think m’leg to be broken … it hurts and I cannot climb … I cannot hold … I fear to drown … hurry, I beg you!”
“We need rope to pull him up or branches for him to climb,” Wil ordered. “Hurry! Find me a stout branch … or…”
Pieter burst through the wood. “Aye, but we’ve no rope, no ax.”
Suddenly Karl cried out, “I have it. I have it!” He turned to Wil and Pieter, his face flushed and his eyes wide. “Pieter, remember m’riddle? The riddle … do you remember my riddle?”
The old man stared blankly.
“We needs dump all we can lift to the well and rise the bottom ‘til we float Jon up.”
Wil and Pieter’s eyes met as Karl’s novel idea settled. “Ja! By the saints, boy, you’ve settled it!” exclaimed Pieter.
The words had barely left the old man’s lips when the crusaders began heaving rocks, brush, logs, and whatever other rubble they could handle over the well’s wall. Poor Jon III was ignorant of the fine scheme and protested loudly as he dodged the falling debris. But soon, to the delight of all, the boy began to float up a little … then a little farther.
“More!” squealed Karl. “More! He’s coming up.”
The gleeful children charged back and forth, dropping whatever they could manage past the bruised and bleeding face of a very hopeful boy. At last, the lad stretched his fingers to the top edge of the well and was plucked to safety by the strong arms of Wil and Tomas. He collapsed to the ground exhausted but quite content to spend a few moments basking in the love of his cheering comrades.
Though the boy’s leg was badly broken, Pieter was able to make a sturdy splint of stout sticks and knotted vines.
“Good fellow,” comforted Pieter. “I’ll find you a worthy household for healing and you shall dance the ringdance by Christmas feasts.”
Karl, pleased with his own good sense and relieved for good news, boasted to the others, “God is still with us. We have been worthy crusaders and God does care for us.”
Tomas shrugged indifferently. “If God cared I should think Jon would not have dropped into the well at all.”
Karl dismissed Tomas’s remark with a sweep of his hand and a wrinkle of his nose, for his mood had changed. In fact, the whole company was now encouraged, happy for a bit of light on a darkening journey. The black fog that had enshrouded them all was once again pierced by a merciful glint of hope.
By prime of the following morning Pieter set out to make good his pledge to Jon III and climbed beyond the crest of an eastern knoll in search of a good home for the lad. Some might say it was rare fortune, indeed, that led him to a nearby cluster of tidy cottages placed neatly in the shadow of an orderly manorhouse where Pieter soon found himself in the company of a kindhearted lord. And somewhere between the courtesy of a good cheese and the bond of a hearty laugh, the priest and the gentle lord agreed on a fitting household for Jon III. The lord promptly ordered his servants to fetch the lad, and they returned quickly with the splinted boy and a column of curious crusaders.
In the meantime, the manor’s fuller, his wife, and three children had been summoned from the wash-house so that their duties as Jon Ill’s caretakers might be firmly imposed. To Pieter’s cautious eye, the fuller seemed to be a decent man, young and soft-spoken, sturdy of build and quick to laugh. His wife, he thought, was gracious for a peasant woman, ample and ruddy.
Jon III was introduced and seemed pleased to imagine life with these good folk. He smiled shyly as the woman embraced her new charge, and he yielded to the teasing of his former fellows with a deep-hued blush.
The lord’s wife beckoned the crusaders to enter the great hall of her gracious home and commanded her servants bring a generous assortment of foods and beverages to the wide table at its center. The odd time of day notwithstanding, the children spared no reserve and soon filled themselves with early fruits, wheat bread, mead, cider, honey cakes, and pork.
When all had finished, Pieter stood and bowed respectfully to the lord and his lady and blessed them for their kindness. “You shall be remembered in all eternity for your selfless kindness this day, my good lord and lady.”
The pleased man bowed and took Pieter by the shoulder. �
�It is but a pittance, Father, a modest token of the bounty of blessing which this household has enjoyed.”
“And would that we could repay such …”
“Ah, yes. Truth be told, you may indeed offer something in return.” The lord’s face broadened. A timid boy emerged from behind a tapestry, red-faced and nervous. The lord beamed with pride. “Father … crusaders … permit me to introduce my son, Georg.”
The boy stepped to his father’s side and stared at the floor. The lord wrapped an arm around the boy’s sloped shoulders and continued. “Indulge me, I beg. Would you follow me to my courtyard?” The man’s amiable, bearded face lighted with joy and his eyes twinkled. He led the assembly out of the hall and into the sunny gardens just beyond the manorhouse gates. He chuckled to himself, excited for the moment, and clapped his hands. Then, from the corner of the orchard wall came a peasant leading a donkey laden heavily with sacks of provisions.
The lord ran to the beast and helped his servant unload the stock. He spread baskets and satchels at the feet of the wide-eyed children, uncovering a storehouse of smoked fish, smoked venison, salted pork, onions and leeks, turnips, millet, oats, and fresh beans.
Pieter was astounded. “May God bless you, m’lord,” he offered quietly.
“Think nothing of it, nothing of it at all. The pleasure is surely mine to savor as I humbly share my bounty with such a noble company.” The man summoned his son close to his side once again. “Ah, but I should fail you lest I not confess my own selfish ends in this.”
Pieter’s ears cocked.
He gripped the edges of his purple cape. “I do so wish to bless your pilgrimage, but I find it doubly comforting to be certain that my own crusader, my sole son, Georg, has ample provisions as well.”
Pieter and Wil winced at his words, though the wise priest was the more careful in revealing his mind. Wil blurted, “My lord, I think n—”
Pieter hushed the boy with a raised finger and stern eye. He smiled politely at the lord and turned to study the blushing candidate. Pieter thought the lad to be about fourteen years and considered “plump” to be the kindest word of choice. Nearly as round as tall, and not the sort that has the look of adventure. Unlike the peasant children, this youth had doubtless never missed a meal. A dandy with kindly eyes, mused Pieter. Though ’tis hard to discern them ‘midst the puffed cheeks that squeeze them so.
Georg’s broad head was covered by a fashionable, wide-brimmed hat which was pressed snugly over his long, straight, brown hair. But, fancy as was the hut, the peasant children paid more attention to his linen breeches. His were the new-fashioned leggings some had heard of: belted at the waist, worn to the knees, and suspending long hose which stretched over the feet. Most thought them to be unnecessary. After all, their own simple, one-piece leggings had served folk since the dawn of time.
Instead of a tunic, the boy wore a white linen shirt with cuffs and a collar, and over that he sported a green waistcoat embroidered with a newly stitched, bright-red crusader’s cross. He shuffled slightly in his thick-soled shoes.
“Good and gracious sire,” said Pieter finally, “my fellows are surely enlivened by the noble tender of your valiant son. We’ll march on, all the more secured by the knowledge that such as he is hoping for us, yea, perhaps yet praying for us from within the sanctuary of this home so blessed by God. It is more comfort than my humble words might express for us to know that Georg is serving the cause of Christendom, ah, even our cause, from within the sound walls of this blessed manor.”
The lord’s mood changed and he spoke deliberately from behind fixed eyes. “It is my behest as well as Georg’s firm resolution that he join with you.” Softening his tone, he added, “He … he would have joined another company had he not suffered a great pain in his belly a fortnight past.”
Georg’s face paled at the snickers born of that remark.
“And now it is my wish and the wish of my Frau that you receive him as one of yours.”
Pieter raised a brow to Wil, shrugged his shoulders, and embraced the trembling boy. “Welcome, Georg, welcome. And may God go with us all.”
The old priest stepped aside as the lord and his wife hugged their son. “Go, Georg, go with God and return to us soon.”
Georg closed his eyes and received a final stroke of his mother’s hand across his face. He met his father’s moistening eyes with an anxious, though determined gaze and walked cautiously toward his new comrades.
The peasant-warriors eyed him suspiciously. Serfs and nobility rarely shared a word, let alone a pilgrimage, but they were grateful for the lord’s kindness and yielded dutifully to Pieter’s threatening stare. They lined up behind Wil and bowed respectfully to their hosts before bundling their new supplies in their blankets. Then, with a few tears for Jon III and a chorus of thanksgivings and gratitudes, the crusaders filed out of the courtyard and disappeared over the hill.
The children were now cheerful and well fed, high spirited and ambitious. No longer did the Rhine road daunt them, but rather it invited them to press ever southward on their holy march. The day passed more quickly than others, and, having made good distance through the wide Oberrheingraben, Wil ordered a brief rest in the shade of the forest now bordering the roadway.
Though pleased with improving morale and ample provision, Wil nevertheless abided a growing resentment toward Georg’s recruitment. Unable to restrain his feelings he dragged the new recruit behind a large tree. “Listen well, fat boy. You shall do as I speak and when I speak it. You’d be one of us now … none better. You are not our master. You shall march at the rear and had best keep those flabbed legs striding. You’ll have no greater portion than I allow and we care not one whit ‘bout your belly pains. And should one grouse, a single complaint of any sort fall on my ear I’ll drive you away. Do you understand?”
Georg’s gentle face quivered and flushed. He offered a weak smile and nodded respectfully.
The next day passed with Pieter walking cheerfully at his customary position just behind Wil and with faithful Solomon by his side. He raised his chin and baked his wrinkled face in the brilliance of the bright sunlight, contemplating for a brief moment the darkness of his future grave. His beard bent in the soft breezes and he sighed before turning to wink at Karl. “Now Karl, dear boy, this would be a fine opportunity for me to offer you yet another riddle.”
Karl smiled in eager anticipation.
“This particular riddle shall be presented in a number of parts and we’ll see if you might answer it before the last clue is offered. Ah, I truly must confess, lad, that I am only now beginning to grasp its meaning and that dubious success comes only after years of reflection. So it is. Are you ready?”
Karl nodded.
“Good. The first is this: ‘To what sun-washed haven must the dying daisy flee and in what wonderland abides the snow-lade’ holly tree?’”
Karl’s nose wrinkled.
Pieter chuckled. “So, when you are in need of another clue, you shall ask and I’ll give!”
Wil turned his head toward his brother and the priest but his eyes fell upon his sister. He slowed his pace even more and took careful note of her thinning frame and the awkward way her legs now seemed to bow. She looks so very tired, he thought, but she had scarcely ever passed an hour without offering him a ready smile and gentle wave. Would that the others complain as little as she, he thought. Always seeking to offer encouragement, the little girl often strayed from the pathway to pick bunches of wildflowers.
A pain pierced Wil’s heart as his mind suddenly envisioned her tossed atop that cursed pile of corpses with flames stretching and leaping to blacken her lifeless body. An icy chill clung to his skin and he pressed back tears. His guarded spirit, toughened from years of hurt as a child, was not wholly lost and its tenderest remnants warred earnestly against a creeping hardness born of a deepening cynicism. Maria shall surely die on this journey, he thought as he tightened his fists. I know that God will kill her. Nothing lovely lasts. Not the flo
wers in spring, not the colors of dawn … nothing. And if she is spared, life shall change her into the monster our … mother became.
To Wil, Karl had the look of an exhausted but ever-faithful dog; always present, always working, rarely complaining and ever eager. His round, ruddy face seemed ever flushed by sincere effort, but his frame was thinning and his once, cheerful eyes sparkled less as the frequency of heartache had worked to extinguish them.
At the rear of the column trailed Tomas, usually alone and at some distance from the others. His darkening disposition created unease, and his secretive and ever-sullen mood had cost him the camaraderie and fellowship of his companions. He missed few opportunities to complain and was quick to nourish Wil’s doubts. His black eyes stalked the faltering and he would be seen pouncing on such prey with whispered words of discouragement. Lately he had begun to wander away, sometimes for a day at a time, always to return with some fantastic tale of woodland spirits or fairies, or a fearful yarn of witchcraft or sorcery in the dark forests to the east.
Pieter, however, faithfully pressed forward with his beloved flock, deftly hiding from their view the grave concerns that so disquieted his soul. In its hidden chambers his mind reeled and he wrestled to put order to the confusion all about him. What can be said of this God of mine? He saves one from a well… yet why not all from fever? He saves these from starvation… yet why not those?
Pieter’s thoughts whirled within his whitened head as his beloved flock followed obediently. They complained on occasion but not so often as they would surely have been entitled, choosing instead to search for strengths within and without themselves. The ever-giving Georg was always willing to squeeze a quick smile between desperate wheezes and he pressed his heavy legs forward without as much as a murmur. Gentle Lothar, though weakened and frequently carried on Wil’s shoulders, calmed many with a soft song. The others, like little Anna and the always-true Jons, marched ever onward with an earnestness that would have heartened the most warworn Christian knights.