Crusade (4 page)

‘I will be occupied with the boys in fighting,’ Gregor retorted. ‘I cannot be held back by a crying girl scared of the sight of blood. Why doesn’t she stay home and take care of you?’

Georgette was indignant. She was not scared of the sight of blood: indeed, only the previous week she and Patrice had served as Father David’s assistants in stitching and dressing the gory wounds of a stray dog. But she was suddenly troubled by Gregor’s question – why wasn’t she staying with her father? He did need her; it was true. But the journey to save the Promised Land loomed as a mountain over the small hill of her father’s desire for a hot meal ready when he returned from his labour. He would manage alone; she knew he could manage. And as for taking care of Father David, why, she was sure he would be honoured to lend her to a crusade for beloved Jesus Christ. And women from the village could help him with his meals while she was away.

Very early the next morning, Georgette packed the things she would take with her on her journey. There was not much. She placed in the centre of her horsehair blanket a sharpened table knife, the spoon her father had carved from horn for her, a wooden bowl, a ceramic drinking vessel, wrapped well in green leaves, a woollen hat her mother had worn, and a second linen smock. She knotted the blanket into a carrying bag, placed it by the door along with her thick sheepskin cape, and hurried to Father David.

She found him in the church, on his knees in front of the
prie-Dieu
, his head bowed over his hands. His back was slumped, and it seemed as if his morning devotion would not end soon. Georgette didn’t want to disturb him but if she did not hurry, the others might leave without her.

‘Father David,’ she began, feeling shy for the first time with this gentle old man.

He turned round slowly, his body looking slight and frail in the voluminous black cassock. ‘Georgette?’ he asked. ‘My eyes cannot see thee for the light shining around your head. Is it you, my child, so early in the morn?’

‘’Tis I, indeed. No doubt you have heard about the Crusaders who halted overnight outside our village. That is why I did not come to you yesterday. Their leader is a young man, Father David, but a great one. I leave with him today on the Crusade,’ she announced, pride in her voice. ‘I tarry only for your blessing.’

Unexpectedly, a look of dismay, even horror, swept across his face. She halted uncertainly. Why didn’t he open his arms to her and bless her with pride and pleasure?

‘My child,’ he began, but suddenly he closed his eyes, bent his head and prayed intensely but too softly for Georgette to hear. Georgette watched in bewilderment as tears began to roll down his cheeks and his hands fought against each other, left hand wringing against right hand, and right against left.

At last, he made the sign of the cross, opened his eyes, wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his cassock and stood up with difficulty. Raising his hands, he laid them gently on her head. ‘The Mother Church has ordered support for these Crusades,’ he whispered, ‘so I bless you and commend you, my child. But I beg Jesus to keep you from harm. Harm to your body and harm to your soul. Thy will be done. Amen.’

Georgette closed her own eyes as he blessed her. She didn’t understand his words. She didn’t understand his tears. But the most important thing, the urgent thing, was to get back to the group. She gave her dear, familiar, sweet priest a tight hug, dashed away her own sudden tears and hurried out of his hut for the last time.

By the time the priest finally ceased his prayers, Georgette had taken her Pilgrim’s Vow in the village square, smiling happily at her childhood friend Patrice in the group of new recruits. Then she shouldered her bundle and was on her way to Jerusalem.

Part Two

Faith and Folly

Chapter Four

By the second morning of the journey, Georgette felt as if she had been a Crusader for a long time. Her felt shoes were poor protection against the rough stones, but hadn’t she longed to suffer for our Lord? Indeed, many of the children had no shoes at all. The bare ground was hard to lie on that first night, and all the children suffered from a maddening infestation of lice, but she had been so tired she had fallen asleep anyway.

The sheer number of children marching was overwhelming, but she had stuck close to Gregor and had not been lost once. And she had even seen the leader, Prophet Stephen, ride past her group on a high-stepping white charger fit for a nobleman, encircled by five strong youths on far more ordinary horses. His crown of golden hair set him apart, as did the deference shown to him by the others.

All commands were sent down from Prophet Stephen through the ranks until they were transmitted to the smallest marchers, who looked to be seven or eight years old. Georgette and her brother had been assigned to one of ten groups, each with about fifty children of different ages under the strict orders of an older leader. Her group marched together, sat down to eat together, and slept huddled together for warmth and safety.

Many of the youngsters had formed into groups of friends, walking and eating and sleeping so closely they seemed connected by an invisible web. Georgette was courteous to all and chattered busily with Patrice whenever their separate groups marched alongside, but she felt no strong need for an intimate friend, since she had Mother Mary with her always. And, of course, there was her brother for protection.

Around the fire at night she heard scraps of conversation.

‘Yeah, me father was also glad. One less mouth to feed, he told me, and he went off to work without a word of goodbye.’

‘Well, at least he didn’t beat you,’ said another. ‘The last time my stepfather whipped me so badly I couldn’t stand, I told myself I’d either kill him in his sleep – maybe hit him over the head with a shovel or something – or run away. And then the Prophet came to our village.’

‘I was jus’ hungry,’ one called out, to several shouts of agreement. ‘Turnips and water, turnips and water every day this past winter, and not too many turnips at that, mind you.’

Patrice stood squarely with several boys who said they had joined for adventure. ‘I’d have followed anyone who offered me a chance to see the world, maybe even the Devil himself,’ she declared.

Some of the children looked disapproving. There were certainly a large number who had joined for the love of Christ, but Georgette couldn’t tell how many.

Patrice had become a great favourite with many of the younger children. At night, little ones crept from nearby groups to join Patrice’s circle before a fire, where she sat with a child in her lap, others draped on her shoulders like furs, and told entrancing stories from Aesop’s fables.

‘The fox and the grapes!’ came an entreaty.

‘No, we heard that one last night. The wolf and the crane, please!’

Patrice laughed and hugged and told story after story, until the child in her lap fell asleep and the ones leaning against her shoulders slipped to the ground, their heads drooping with tiredness from the day’s long walk.

On Georgette’s fourth day, a mounted liveryman from the chateau of a count of Gallardon met the young pilgrims. As he drew up to the leader, he seemed unsure as to whether he should dismount, as he would for a nobleman. Stephen was, after all, a herder of flocks from a small village. But the long-haired youth on his pure-bred stallion looked more like King David than David the shepherd boy, so the emissary sprang to the ground and bowed respectfully.

‘My honourable lord wishes to put at the disposal of the holy pilgrims the largest meadow in his estate. My lord himself is unfortunately otherwise occupied with members of his family who are ill, but he has ordered his servants to provide the Crusaders with bread and mead. My lord would be deeply grateful if you would pray for the recovered health of his wife, Lady Marie, and his only son, young Jean Philippe. My lord is sure that the prayers of such pure children as yourselves will find a direct path to God.’

‘Do you think he is ordered to start every sentence with “my lord”?’ someone whispered into Georgette’s ear.

She didn’t have to turn to know the identity of the speaker. ‘Hush, Patrice,’ she begged.

Prophet Stephen graciously turned aside from their path and detoured a little to the proferred meadow. There he said a stirring prayer for the noble boy and the gentle noble lady. As soon as he had finished, the marchers threw themselves down on the soft, dry grass in the meadow, examining their blistered feet and rummaging in their little packs.

The food they were given that night was plentiful, and they ate with gusto. Only the loaves of bread were a little underdone – the servants said the baker had come down with the same malady from which the lady and the heir of the chateau suffered.

The Crusaders slept well and the mood among them was good in the morning. It became even better after matins, when Prophet Stephen held up his hand for quiet.

‘Today shall be a rest day for us all,’ Stephen announced, with a winning smile. ‘The count has invited us to remain for another day, to rest our bodies and to repeat our prayers for his family.’

Shouts rang out. ‘Hurray for the count!’

‘Georgette!’ Patrice called. ‘There’s a stream below the meadow. Come along!’

How good it was to trail sore feet in the cool water and gather early strawberries in the woods. Georgette took the opportunity to wash her muddy smock, spreading it out on warm rocks to dry.

‘Keep a good lookout, Patrice!’ she warned. ‘You’re dozing instead of watching to see if any boys are coming near.’

‘And so what if they saw you without a shift on,’ Patrice retorted lazily. ‘What they haven’t seen before, they won’t recognise.’

Patrice could be infuriating, heedless to the commands of both God and man. But Georgette had known her since childhood, had seen her weep as they carried that bleeding stray dog to Father David, had watched little children drawn into her radius like ducklings to their mother.

That night many of the children seemed listless during Patrice’s storytelling and they did not sleep as well as they had the first night. In the darkness, there was a restless wave of tossing and turning, blankets pushed aside and pulled back close.

The next morning, the leader of Georgette’s group returned from the daily meeting of all group leaders and reported, ‘We’re not the only ones to have fever among our members. Some in the other groups are too weak to rise. The Prophet says we will remain here another day to allow the sick ones to rest.’

An hour or two later, the sounds of splashing in the stream and games on the meadow were interrupted by a piercing wail. A spindly young boy, his skin burning to the touch, had suddenly convulsed several times and died. His twin sister, plump and sturdy, shrieked again and again.

‘I want my mama! Papa, come and get us!’ She clutched her twin’s body with hysterical determination, and would not let go.

All gaiety was forgotten, everyone gathered for the funeral. Some of the new Crusaders cried, but those who had been marching for a few weeks simply got on with the job of digging the grave and burying the body.

Prophet Stephen’s oration at the graveside uplifted and soothed everyone’s spirits. His voice swooped and thrilled as he exalted the dead young boy, a martyr to the faith, an example to all Christendom, surely already a saint at the side of the Lord. The Crusaders sang a rousing hymn. Slowly, the light little body, wrapped in cloth, was lowered into the hastily dug hole, and the travellers waited only for Prophet Stephen’s final blessing before dispersing.

There was a shout from one of the older girls.

‘Look! Two black flags on the chateau tower. The lady and her son have died.’

Everyone turned to stare at the funereal banners trailing from the stone walls of the castle, announcing a double death among the noble folk. Whispers snaked through the crowd.

‘That makes three deaths now. And the cook is ailing too.’

‘We have been drawn into a house of plague.’

‘Who else among us has been infected with this disease?’

Georgette pushed her way to Gregor’s side. He was white-faced at the news but certainly healthy, and he took her hand in his own, an exceedingly rare touch that made her eyes moist with tears.

She was in need of comfort. The next death followed as the sun reached its height, and the next two after that. Soon Prophet Stephen could not preside at all the funerals, and he deputised leaders to bury any in their own groups who died, while he passed like a comforting angel from sickbed to graveside. When he began the
Pater Noster
, he kept a young priest at his side to chant the Latin. But when he spoke his own words, his tongue was as silver as mercury.