Crusade (14 page)

To a child who dared to shout a disbelieving ‘No!’, she turned fiercely and screamed, ‘He will not lead us to the Promised Land. His promise was a lie. And he has disappeared!’

Another girl shouted out, ‘My brother died for this?’

Georgette recognised her as the twin whose frail spindly brother was the first to succumb to fever when they were camping in the Count of Gallardon’s meadow.

‘He died so that we could reach Jerusalem, not Marseilles!’

There were cries of agreement. Crusaders milled aimlessly around the wet, dirty wharf. Slowly, it began to dawn on the youngsters that they had nowhere to go. They had become accustomed to orders and directions, and there had been a clear and common goal. Now it had disappeared, and they were far from home and alone.

‘What will we do now?’ a little boy sobbed.

The road home would be much harder even than their journey to Marseilles. Winter would soon be upon them and, as bad as the heat had been, particularly during the last part of their journey, the cold would be many times worse. Villagers would not feel inspired to offer food to those returning from a failed Crusade. Crops had been poor because of the hot summer and the ongoing drought, and many farming families were hungry themselves.

‘I will look for work here in Marseilles,’ Patrice told Georgette. ‘Will you stay too?’

Georgette shook her head. Patrice had seven brothers and sisters at home. But Georgette was now an only child. She had a duty to return home, to look after her father and Father David. And she had the terrible obligation to tell her father of his only son’s death.

The noise on the wharf was becoming louder and more intense. Some of the Crusaders were angry. Some were frightened. There was no centre to hold them together. Several of them began to batter, first with words and then with their fists, an older boy who had been one of the Prophet’s inner circle. Perceiving that the winds of fortune had changed, several other former lieutenants slipped away from the harbour. Younger children hurried after them, trailed back to the quayside, then scampered off again, like lambs uncertain which leader to follow.

One girl suggested that the waters might part on the next day, or the one after that, if they were all patient and kept their faith. Patrice grimaced. She was ready to follow those who had already departed to try to find work ahead of the crowd. But the smallest children called out their agreement that there was still hope, then plopped down on the dirty wharf with their little bundles, exhausted, glad for the rest, and certain that someone, or God, would take care of them.

It was at this time of confusion that their attention was drawn by two large men standing above the crowd on a raised part of the wharf.

‘Young people!’ one of them bellowed, a seafaring man from the looks of his wide pants and jacket, neither of which were very clean. ‘Children of God,’ he shouted several times, until all the children turned towards him. His face was marbled with scars from smallpox and his chin jutted out belligerently.

‘I am Hugh Ferreus, called Hugh the Iron. I welcome you to our city of Marseilles. It is commendable that you have travelled so far in your great and pure love for Christ. I too love our Lord and wish to serve Him. Thus I am offering you free passage to the Holy Land. I am the owner of seven merchant ships that are due to leave France shortly for my trading post in the port of Akko, close to Jerusalem. I cannot do miracles like your young leader. And him not too well either, it seems. The seas will not part for you. But with the kind sponsorship of William of Posquières, called William the Pig, next to me, you may travel to the Holy Land the way of mere mortals, by sail.’

He gestured to his companion, who was clearly a man of some wealth but no noble blood, a merchant surely. The merchant waved a plump white hand in the air, acknowledging the introduction with a self-satisfied smile on his fleshy lips. Indeed, he looked much like a pig.

Hugh the Iron continued, ‘The captains of the seven ships will be ordered to ready their ships immediately in order to transport you across the seas to your destination.’

‘Praise be to God,’ William the Pig added in a high-pitched voice.

Patrice gave a little bounce at Georgette’s side. The Crusaders burst into exclamations but quickly quieted when Hugh the Iron waved his hands for order.

‘We cannot fit all of you on to the ships. We will try to carry as many of you as possible. If you are willing to eschew some comfort on your holy journey, I will be able to offer passage to a greater number.’

‘I must prepare my ships for this unexpected opportunity to serve God. Stay here at the quay if you wish to take this God-given chance. When we are ready, you may be among the lucky chosen children.’ Hugh the Iron strode from the harbour and William the Pig waddled off behind him.

There was chaos. Each one longed fiercely to be chosen ahead of someone else. The atmosphere had changed to one of competition and rivalry. They squabbled over space to sit or lie on the long, narrow quay.

Georgette was torn. She wanted to reach the Holy Land, even though the pilgrimage had been, so far, a journey of confusion, loss and fear. And this was surely a practical alternative to walking across the bed of the ocean. But when the captain was calling his offer a God-given opportunity, she had had the distinct, desolate sense that the presence of God was withdrawing.

Surely God will rejoin us at the other side of the sea
, she told herself. But it seemed a long time to wait.

Patrice was in excellent spirits, chattering about going on a ship for the first time, travelling to foreign climes. The Crusaders ate, slept and defecated on the wharf, unwilling to leave for a more comfortable resting spot, in case they missed their chance to be chosen to go to Jerusalem.

Their fourth day on the wharf was unseasonably hot from early in the morning. As the youngsters sprawled listlessly without shade or shelter, the two men marched back on to the quay with purposeful tread.

‘The ships are ready to sail,’ Hugh the Iron boomed from his raised position, pointing to seven large ships that had been moved closer to the quay the previous day. ‘Those who wish to take up our offer should form a line along the edge of the quay, and the good merchant William and I will make our selection.’

Boys and girls raced to be near the front, pushing and shoving. A number of young ones were knocked to the ground by the stampede, and stood up weeping but nevertheless hurrying to secure a place. Patrice was agile and fast, and made it to the first hundred. Georgette was strangely reluctant to hurry, and stepped into line near the back.

The sun beat down, and the water and mead provided to them by well-wishers was not sufficient. But few risked leaving the wharf to search for more. Some swayed where they stood.

After some time, Georgette slipped up to the men moving slowly down the line, motioning certain Crusaders to proceed to the gangplanks of the seven ships, waving the others away dismissively.

‘Kind sirs,’ she said, ‘is there water for us? We are all thirsty, but the youngest children suffer the most.’

Brusquely, barely looking at her, Hugh the Iron jerked his thumb towards the open square beyond the wharf.

‘There’s a well at the far end of that plaza. But mind you don’t disturb the line now. Those who give up their place might lose their chance to be selected.’

Georgette would lose little by giving up her place near the back and going to drink while she could. She urged the smallest children to join her. Who knew if the ships would have enough water aboard for them to drink their fill? Some were too tired to join her but others trailed along to the well. A number of the older ones stepped out of the line and followed.

Georgette and the older ones pulled up bucket after bucket until their shoulders ached. Georgette bade each person carry water in his or her clay mug or wooden bowl back to those still in the line.

‘Be careful not to spill,’ she warned. ‘And give first to the youngest.’

When the mugs of cool water appeared, more Crusaders broke from the line and hurried to the plaza. Ragged gaps opened. Hugh the Iron glared at Georgette as she walked past him to take her place again.

The sun had passed its midpoint by the time the men neared the back of the line. William the Pig was scrawling a stroke on a grubby piece of parchment to represent each child allowed on to the boats. As he reached Georgette, he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face with a dirty cloth. Then he laboriously counted up the strokes, crossing out each group when he reached one hundred.

‘Up to seven hundred now,’ he told Hugh the Iron. ‘That’s a hundred in each boat. If we squeeze them, we can fit another twenty-five on each boat, I’m sure.’

They turned to face the line of children again and the seaman scowled at Georgette.

‘You’re the water-fetcher,’ he sneered.

Georgette was silent.

‘Any older brothers or cousins with you?’

‘Not any more,’ Georgette answered. ‘I mean
 . . .
no, sir.’

With a wave of dismissal, Hugh the Iron said, ‘No room for troublemakers on the boat.’

And he turned to the next in line.

Robert had known from the early days, perhaps alone among all the Crusaders, that Prophet Stephen was a fake and a charlatan. Robert had never believed the seas would part for them, never believed they would finally reach Jerusalem. How dare the boy promise a miracle? The only miracle was that he had induced them all, yes, even Robert himself, to follow him. A liar and an actor, with the gift of persuasion as his dangerous weapon.

But Robert felt no pleasure at the accuracy of his assessments. He ground his teeth and pumped his fist repeatedly into his other hand in fury at Stephen’s cowardly flight. The Crusaders were lost and in anguish, their faith at risk, their questions unanswered. And he, Robert, was too shy, too fearful of rebuff, to try to help.

But then the two swaggering men appeared and conveniently offered free passage to Jerusalem. Their ships were impressive, equipped with the new sternpost rudders that a traveller had described shortly before Robert left the abbey at Blois. Even though he did not like the look of the merchant and the seaman at all, this was, for the very first time, a realistic opportunity, a credible chance to reach the Holy Land.

Was it really possible that he would be able to see Jerusalem? He had so many painful questions about the Crusades, and the persecution along the way. Maybe they would be answered there in the birthplace of Jesus. He lined up with alacrity and declined to go to the well, in case he lost his place.

‘How old are you?’ Hugh the Iron asked when the boy’s turn came.

‘Fifteen,’ Robert answered, looking the man straight in the eye. He had heard several lying about their age but he would never stoop to lie in order to enter the land of God. That would be soiling the purity of the pilgrimage.

William the Pig brought his quill to the parchment to draw a mark, but Hugh put out a hand to stop him and whispered something in his companion’s ear. The merchant peered shortsightedly into Robert’s face and Robert looked directly back. There was a hesitation. Then Hugh the Iron waved his arm to dismiss the boy and moved on to the next person in line.

Robert stood still. Had he imagined it or had he been passed over? Why didn’t the men wave him towards the ships? Hugh the Iron glanced back and saw him still waiting. ‘Move along, boy,’ he growled. ‘You’re in our way.’ There was no doubt.

Stunned, his mind whirling, Robert stepped away from the water and leaned against a wall.

It was not long before the men selected their last passenger, dismissed those still waiting hopefully in line, and signalled for the gangplanks to be raised. The crews on each ship must have been prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. As soon as the anchors were lifted and the mooring ropes untied, lines of rowers plied their oars so that the seven vessels slipped out of the harbour with surprising speed. Within ten minutes, the young passengers were out of sight. Hugh the Iron and William the Pig strode from the wharf.

It was over.

Part Three

A Very Different Journey

Chapter Fifteen

Georgette waved her kerchief in the air wildly, long after Patrice and the others on the boats could possibly have discerned her on the wharf. But in her imagination, she could still see the lucky chosen ones singing lustily and excitedly on the rocking deck. She pictured Patrice, glorying in another adventure, and smiled. The boats followed each other in a line, a chain, and she felt connected with them until the last one was just a speck. Then the chain snapped. She was not part of the Children’s Crusade any longer. She would never reach the Promised Land.