by C. D. Baker
Pieter stood by Wil’s side and gazed warily across the courtyard at the hurried townsfolk rushing about the market. He was reminded of the famous squares at Champagne and Troyes and Basel, but here he sensed darkness, a pall of evil, that seemed to weigh heavy in the air itself. He deliberated on the mélange of faces pressed in the crowd and grew ever more concerned. Field serfs with straw hats pulled suspiciously over their eyes seemed to walk stiffly behind their reluctant oxen, prodding them with uncommon impatience. Merchants from the East cried their wares loudly but with an uneven canter, most untypical for their kind. Peasant women rushed about with no interest in chatter, instead pushing from table to table with their long gowns bound short by one hand and their heads burdened by baskets of bread or turnips. Pieter noticed the occasional nobleman strutting through the throng, though these, he noticed, bore a familiar demeanor—a cast of condescension for the crush of rabble all about. Of greatest worry to the old man were the excessive numbers of drunken and rancorous men-at-arms, most bearing the colors of Brunswick and a comportment of anger, arrogance, and acrimony.
Yet to Pieter the town seemed prosperous and without cause for such gravity. Long, wooden peddlers’ tables were scattered along the streets, and throughout the square were booths packed with fish, leathercrafts, tapestries, bakers’ breads, silks from the East, brass and tin wares, and bolts of beautiful cloth. Wagons and carts were piled high with carded wool and bundles of flax newly arrived from nearby manors. Sheaves of hay were bundled and stacked neatly against storehouse walls. But despite the apparent bounty, beggars sat at nearly every corner as a reminder of the drought of compassion the town’s citizens endured.
Pieter decided to whisper a few cautions to Wil before the boy led his company into the marketplace. The children were keenly aware of Pieter’s reserve and walked slowly past a long table bending in its center with the weight of honey, salt, butter, early fruits, and preserves. Their eyes widened at the casks of ale, spits of ducks, baskets of biscuits and of salted pork stacked neatly by barrels of eel and sturgeon. They drooled over wheels of cheese, and mounds of peas and onions, and baskets of almonds.
Considering the hunger gnawing at their innards, the display of such plenty fast became a temptation to sorely endure. Wil’s coveting mind was distracted by a tug of a tiny hand on his belt. He turned to see Lothar staring at him from eyes now yellowed and runny. “Master Wil, might I rest a bit?”
Wil hesitated but agreed. “We’ll take a short rest but we’ve work to do.”
Lothar smiled and followed the troop to a quiet corner where most collapsed in the dust. Tomas took a place near Wil, embarrassed by the immediate scoffs of passersby. Pieter stared at the town thoughtfully, then looked at his forlorn comrades. “I’ve an idea. This wretched place has a dreadful lack of music. Has a single one of you seen a minstrel or troubadour? Nay. So, methinks a good song might earn us a bit of food.”
Before the dumbfounded crusaders could object they found themselves rushed to the middle of the market square and positioned in a tight semicircle. In moments they were led by Pieter through a rather feeble rendition of the song they had sung in such earnest just weeks before. “Fairest Lord Jesus,” they began, “Ruler of all nature….” But as they choked their way nervously through the lyrics their voices grew fainter, costing them the initial curiosity of a few townsfolk. Pieter aspired to rally their pluck by joining his voice loudly to theirs. Unfortunately, his shrill pitch and discordant notes drew laughs, not alms, and the crusaders’ glorious chorus faded beneath a volley of jeers!
Wil, shamefaced and embarrassed, turned his back on his comrades and melted into the roaring crowd with a disgusted Tomas at his side. But good Karl stood by his duty, straining to sing despite the tears of humiliation over his reddened cheeks. Close to his side crooned Georg, eyes pinched shut and fists tight.
At last Pieter mercifully silenced the choir, assuring his children that even if no mortal esteemed their fine singing, the angels in heaven had certainly noticed. The cackling townsfolk returned to their duties as the old man gathered his flock about him again. “Now, children, ’tis time for a new plan.” The priest chuckled at the few grumbles sent his way. “With Wil’s consent I suggest we go in pairs to beg from each and every merchant and from each opened door.”
Frieda, nervous and ill-at-ease, interrupted. “Father Pieter, m’brother’n’sister were nearly flogged for such a deed a few days prior and—”
“Ja, ja, this I know, my dear. But we’ve little choice and with so many opened hands the deputies may not know which to snatch!”
Frieda was not comforted.
“Ah, and I’ll be watching my flock, little one,” Pieter added. “I’ll damn any who might lay harm to you! Now, all of you, listen well. Be humble; show proper respect. Bow your heads and look none in the eye. Now, off and be quick to it and return to me.”
With little complaint the faithful children yielded to Pieter and divided into pairs to scatter through the marketplace. Pieter watched them like an old hen spying her chicks now straying from her wings, and prayed for God’s safekeeping. He was particularly anxious for Wil and Tomas and was not the least bit encouraged to see them set out together. He watched them carefully for the next half-hour, and his heart began to race as the two boys approached a nobleman and his wife.
The wealthy couple strutted toward the lads with a confident stride, and the boys, in turn, approached them in a similar manner. The lady was adorned in a fine silk dress which lightly brushed the top of her black, leather shoes. She wore an embroidered vest and a smooth, red satin cape which was draped over her braided, blonde hair and clasped at her throat by a beautiful gold brooch. A silver necklace lay lightly against her milky white throat and the cuffs of her sleeves were fastened with large pearls.
The gentleman wore a proud pair of satin leggings with polished boots rising halfway to the knee. A long, embroidered satin cloak was fastened with new brass buttons, and his long, black hair was covered by a rich velvet hat, accented neatly with a purple peacock feather.
The flash of the man’s buttons enlivened Wil’s curiosity. He cleared his throat and hailed the couple, bowing in reluctant submission to their status. “M’lady and m’lord,” he said awkwardly. “I beg your grace for this poor servant of yours. Might you spare a few pennies for him to buy a bit of bread for his gentle sister?”
The lady’s face belied a hint of compassion and a glance toward her husband seemed to convey sympathy. But the lord set his fists squarely on his hips, threw his head back, and laughed as he elbowed his way between Wil and Tomas. “Out of my way, whelps.”
Pieter had hastily moved toward the boys and arrived as the couple were leaving. But before he could reach the pair, Wil suddenly barked after the couple, “Caput tuum in ano est.”
He winked at the startled Pieter when the nobleman suddenly spun on his heels and charged toward the three with his fists in the air. The trio wisely chose retreat and vanished into the throng until the sputtering lord returned to his perplexed wife.
Wil sheepishly turned to a perspired Pieter and was quickly instructed in the finer points of verbal warfare. “Choose your targets more carefully!” scolded the old priest. “The Latin tactic works best when it is not understood! Now, we ought collect the others.”
The grumbling crusaders slowly reassembled around Pieter. None had been successful in obtaining even the slightest morsel from a single soul. Pieter sighed, though relieved to have escaped the ill will of the authorities. Wil, now frustrated and angry at their predicament, insisted his company try again in the market area farther from the gates.
The children obediently followed their leader around the corner where they beheld another remarkable bounty of wares. Pieter studied the new market and suggested his children repeat their pairs’ begging. But his senses quickened as Solomon whined, and he felt greater danger than before. He turned to Wil. “Lad,” he offered, “pardon my continued interference but I should ask your pe
rmission to stand in the center of this market… there … atop that barrel. From there I’ll keep a sharp eye. Should any feel frightened they ought call for Solomon and I’ll be close behind.”
Wil nodded his approval.
The old man furrowed his brow, deep in thought. “And this also. All of you, listen well… look to me on m’barrel often. If you see me do this”—he spread his arms and spun round and round—“if you see me do this, just come to me. Do not hesitate and do not wonder why, just come …just trust me and come. You must believe me. Do you understand?”
The children nodded.
“Do you truly understand?” added Wil. “Yes? Good! Then off with you.”
With a nervous sigh, Pieter ambled toward his barrel and climbed carefully atop it. From this, his wobbly watchtower, Pieter kept vigil like the Lord Protector of Christendom, praying all the while for a legion of angels to swoop from the clouds and hedge his Innocents within the safety of their mighty wings.
For two hours the children begged fruitlessly. The day was aging and the sun was beginning to stretch shadows over the marketplace. A good number of the merchants had packed their wares, and it was becoming evident that the night would bring only hunger and disappointment to the crusaders. It was not easy for the children to resist the temptation to steal a loose turnip or dropped pear, but they held true.
Poor Pieter was weary and his legs ached as he stood his faithful watch. He was about to relieve his pain by squatting for a few moments when he suddenly spotted some soldiers entering the market square with that certain swagger he recognized from his own youth. He was shamefully familiar with the concocted power of stout ale, hot sun, and boredom. The old man’s veins filled with fresh vigor and his eyes flew across the thinning streets in search of any of his lambs now in harm’s way. He spotted the fair Frieda and her sister, Gertrude, not more than fifty paces from the soldiers. His heart stopped.
Without hesitating, Pieter quickly stood as erect as his bent body would allow, stretched his arms wide, and began to spin on the barrel. Thrice he lost his balance and crashed to the ground, but thrice he scrambled back to his place to spin around and around and around. True to his command, his children had kept a sharp eye for him and immediately began to race from the far corners of the marketplace as Solomon barked loudly for them to hurry.
Frieda turned to see Pieter just as she was noticed by the drunken soldiers. She grabbed her sister and obediently scampered away from the taunts and calls of the stumbling men and then ran to the priest as fast as they could go. And so, two by two, the pilgrims reassembled alongside a most relieved and joyful Pieter.
“Well done, my children!” cried the old man as he dropped to the ground. “God be praised. Well done. Wil, count their heads and let’s be off from this cursed place.” Pieter lifted a prayer of thanksgiving and cast a final worried glance over his shoulder at the soldiers who now stalked different prey.
“We must try one more time afore we yield,” announced Wil stubbornly.
Karl protested. “There’d be no place here to sleep and we’ve need to seek cover in the forest by dark.”
Before Wil could respond, a magistrate’s deputy and two guards suddenly appeared. “Stand fast or you’ll each swing.”
“M’lords,” said Pieter sharply, “we are simple Christians traveling in a Holy Crusade and I expect thy indulgence as we offer thy good townsfolk the occasion for a special blessing.”
“I’ve not patience left for the likes of these,” growled the deputy. “This filthy litter fouls my sight and, by God, I’ve a mind to stretch every one of the thievin’ rats. And as for you, old man, Father Silvester charges you as an impostor. Perhaps we needs pull yer lyin’ tongue from its roots. Now begone!”
Frightened, little Lothar crowded against Pieter’s legs and offered the soldiers a gentle smile, hoping a gift of tenderness might soothe the moment.
“What would y’be laughing at, devil imp?” snarled one.
Lothar strained a whisper, his hands now clutching Pieter’s robe.
“So, more of yer mockery? I’ll show you what be done here with cocky whelps.” Before Pieter could react, the soldier snapped the heel of his boot toward the boy, striking Lothar’s turning head just above the ear and tumbling the lad away from Pieter’s legs and into the dust.
Pieter cried out and swung his oak staff furiously into the face of the soldier. The surprised guard fell backward, grabbing at his bloodied nose and covering his face from the raging priest who now pummeled him with the wrath of heaven.
Bellowing, the deputy knocked the old man into the dirt with two heavy blows to his face. But he did not do so without paying a price of his own, for no sooner had the old man fallen than the faithful army joined the fray!
Otto of Weyer, sturdy and square-framed, burst from his fallen brother’s side with a deafening cry and rallied his comrades against the three surprised officers, kicking and flailing and assaulting any bit of flesh within grasp. Jon I came tripping his way close behind and immediately fell into a large, well-muscled thigh. He wrapped it with his arms and gnawed as large a bite as his grinding jaws could fare, yielding a most satisfying scream! The howling soldier pounded on his determined diner until Georg rammed his own thick head into the unfortunate man’s unguarded crotch.
Meanwhile Solomon supported Karl’s charge, snarling and snapping wildly at their common foe, ravenously tearing away large shreds of fabric and flesh. Wil and Tomas leapt upon the backs of two of the outraged soldiers and delivered blow after blow as a mob of their fellows punched and bit and scratched at the staggering threesome.
But the furious guards soon recovered themselves and began striking the children mercilessly about the shoulders and heads with their truncheons, pounding the crusaders hard and sending them sputtering and tumbling to the ground. At last, the beaten crusaders begged for quarter.
The bloodied soldiers stood wide-legged and poised as poor Pieter raised a trembling hand toward them. “Enough,” he whispered. “Enough.” The old man pulled himself slowly to his feet, his swollen face bloodied and bruised but a fire still kindling in his eyes.
The guards grunted and threatened the priest and his defeated army. “Quarter? Quarter indeed! You shall surely swing for this, y’…”
“We’ll not surely swing!” answered Pieter defiantly. The old man spat a wad of blood to the feet of one. “Indeed, ye have needs to fear for thy miserable souls for having struck a priest… ye—”
Pieter’s words were abruptly halted. “Come, Papa Pieter, come quick!” Maria suddenly cried. All eyes followed the weeping girl as she ran to Otto now holding Lothar’s little head gently on his lap. Pieter brushed past the guards and fell to his knees by the child. Lothar lay still and motionless, his tiny, brown tunic stained with the dark blood which had now ceased flowing from his ear. The old man gently held the poor boy’s peaceful, whitened face in his hands and groaned to the heavens.
The guards stormed toward Pieter and threw him into the street, pushing his face into a pile of fresh horse manure. The deputy growled to the huddled crusaders. “You’d best take heed for yer souls. Y’be hanged on the morrow and this impostor shall drop first.”
The muffled sounds of Pieter’s contempt rose from the street as he jerked his face free from the droppings. “Woe to ye three. Woe I say!” He turned, eyes blazing with the righteous rage of the archangel of heaven. “Thy mortal souls are in peril of damnation. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti… I am near to banishing thy wicked souls to the eternal hell! Release us at once!”
The deputy scoffed. “What sort of madness be this? Y’be no priest … look at you. Your words are horse scheisse!” He and his fellows roared. “Horse dung indeed,” added another. “And there’d still be some hangin’ on yer lips, old fool!”
The deputy grabbed the priest’s robe with his two large hands, but Pieter fixed an unnerving gaze into the man’s eyes. The old man stood erect and dignified and held his Irish cross to
ward the three. “With this cross of the true Church,” he began sternly, “I shall shortly pronounce eternal damnation upon each of thy souls … but before doing so, I should remind you of thy temporal consequence as well.”
The soldiers grew uneasy, now less certain of his masquerade. One whispered to another, “And what if he be a priest… y’know, one of those wandering sort we’ve heard some about?” The other shrugged. The deputy yielded to his own curiosity. “What consequence, old man?”
“Humph. Look at thyselves. I pity the soldier who’d report such a beating at the hands of little boys and girls … and an old man.”
The soldier looked at his bloodied fellows. He grumbled a few oaths and jammed his knee into Pieter’s belly sending the priest to the ground once more. “Now get you and your filthy whelps out of m’sight and out of m’town at once … or by God, m’men and me shall cut y’to pieces in yon alleyway.”
As the soldiers stormed away, Pieter closed his eyes and sighed a brief prayer of thanksgiving before crawling to Lothar’s side where Wil and Karl sat staring at their fallen friend from home. Pieter said nothing as he watched Otto gently fold the little boy’s body into his arms. Wil and Karl helped the old man climb to his feet where he stood for a moment and surveyed his quiet companions.
Pieter laid a hand on his lambs, one by one, and offered a comforting smile to his flock. Sobbing, he put his arm around poor Otto, and led his bloodied crusaders in a quiet procession toward the gates of Dunkeldorf.
The children stared forward, paying no attention to the townsfolk mocking them or to the occasional stone or chunk of clay thrown their way. But a unity born only of suffering now bonded them more tightly than any word of scorn or ridicule could divide. Mercifully, they soon emerged from that dreadful place and were returned to the river roadway where they found a suitable night’s encampment. It was here, under a gnarled oak tree and in the pink light of the setting sun that they laid little Lothar in his shallow grave. A weeping Otto clutched Lothar’s wooden cross to his heart, then placed it in his own belt, setting his own gently above Lothar’s head. “I shall carry your cross, my brother.”