Crusade (5 page)

‘We suffer, Lord Jesus, and we are glad to suffer.

We die, Lord Jesus, and we are glad to die.

For you suffered and you died for us.

Here in this black meadow

There is light.

Your light illuminates our hearts.

We are fortunate to be chosen

for this opportunity

To prove our love for You.’

Patrice didn’t have much patience for prayers. She quickly enlisted Georgette as one of her band of roving caregivers.

‘Find someone who is alone; sit by him or her. Bring water if the child can sip. If he’s cold, cover him with his blanket. If he’s hot, wet a cloth and lay it on his forehead.’

Scattered across the broad meadow, sweating children lay calling for their mothers or shivering until their teeth chattered, while siblings or helpers held their hands and sobbed at the cessation of breath.

The count’s personal physician was busy with a growing number of patients in the castle but sent his assistant, who was of no use at all, making things worse by blabbering that there was no treatment for this kind of fever and all who fell ill would surely die, and soon. With cold authority, Prophet Stephen ordered the assistant, a number of years his senior, to leave the holy group of children, whose pure souls could defeat death with the power of prayer.

Georgette prayed fervently. She woke up with words of prayer already forming on her lips; she fell asleep beseeching Mother Mary to hover through the night by the side of those who were delirious with fever. In between, she muttered prayers to herself as she carried water from the stream or helped some of the older girls to clean unconscious patients. When they vomited and defecated where they lay, she had to drag them to another patch of grass, wipe them clean, and rinse their blankets and their underclothing in the river. It was best to concentrate on well-known prayers at those times, to distract the mind.

That day, and the next, and the next, the nightmare continued, shrieks and wails indicating a new death, followed by the sound of shovels digging and digging. But many of the Crusaders did not join in the work that had to be done. Some kept their distance, crouching alone among the trees or on the banks of the stream, fear dilating their eyes whenever someone came near.

Georgette’s ever-present worry was for Gregor, and she kept her eye on him as he dug holes in the dry earth, slamming his shovel into the clods with a violence that was either anger or terror. But when she saw the tall figure of Prophet Stephen pacing through the camp, his lips moving in prayer, her fear lessened, and she whispered simply, ‘Take care of us, Jesus,’
and returned to her work.

Jesus took care of them and by the end of the week, the infection had run its course. No one else fell ill. More than fifty young Crusaders were dead, most of them the youngest and weakest in their groups. On top of the fresh little graves, the disturbed soil gleamed blood red in the morning sun.

‘You look
 . . .
different,’ Gregor grunted to his sister. Georgette did not reply. She felt years older.

Three days after the last child died, when those who were still weak could manage to walk with support, the young Crusaders rose early to leave the sad place. There was angry rumbling over a suspicion that the count had lured them to the valley of death, hoping God would heed their prayers to save his own kin. Several of them spat in the direction of the chateau.

As they left the lord’s rich farmlands, they found themselves marching through thick forests, unclaimed and untamed. The narrow path was cleared only as wide across as required by a cart and horse, so that at most three or four children could walk abreast on it. Others in the large and unruly procession scrambled up the banks into the trees, tripping frequently on the uneven ground, over roots and brambles. Many times they would slip on the slimy moss and fall, standing up again with streaks of damp earth on their legs and arms. The younger ones cried and were either consoled by older siblings or had to wipe away the mud and tears on their own and struggle on.

When they finally halted for the night in a clearing, the Crusaders huddled dispiritedly in their groups, struggling to light fires with green wood, and unsatisfied by the half-portion of lukewarm turnip soup doled out by the group leaders. The provisions that the grief-stricken count had provided for their onward journey disappeared rapidly when simmered into soup for so many mouths.

‘Why only half a bowl tonight?’ demanded Gregor. Georgette shrank behind him. Couldn’t Gregor just take what was given? She wished he would be quiet.

‘Not enough for everyone,’ the leader grunted shortly.

‘But you have a full bowl,’ Gregor remarked.

The leader flushed with anger. ‘Prophet Stephen told the leaders to take double because they work harder, keeping the groups together,’ he replied. He stood like a bull or a stag ready to fight, his legs planted apart, his head jutting forward aggressively.

Gregor scowled and opened his mouth to retort. But the dominance of the leader was palpable, and Gregor turned away with a muttered oath.

That night many of the travellers coughed and moaned in their sleep. The earth was moist and cold under the thick canopy of firs and pines and oaks. Curled in her damp blanket, Georgette dreamed she was buried under the dark ground, chilled to the bone. In her dream, she opened her lips to pray but clods of the clay surrounding her fell into her mouth. Coughing and spluttering, she woke herself up and lay shivering in the blackness.

In the morning, they emerged from the cool forest and marched across a large swathe of land where the trees had been felled. The sun rising high behind them warmed their backs and heads, and their clothes steamed as they dried. Georgette thought she could see, maybe even touch, the holiness hovering above the innocents like morning mist.

Prophet Stephen knew when the children needed inspiration to raise their spirits. He sent song leaders from group to group, teaching Crusader anthems about Jerusalem, about the golden stones, the sacred ground, the holy hills. In each group there was at least one youngster who played the curved shepherd’s pipe – a ram’s horn that had long outlived its original owner – and at least one other banging on a drum or blowing the reedy shawm, which was Georgette’s favourite. Those without instruments could pick up two sticks and saw them together to create a musical accompaniment.

The sweet music was a salve and to Georgette a stimulant. How glorious, she exulted, as the high clear voices rose heavenward. Hour after hour they sang the Crusader anthems interspersed with nursery rhymes, traditional rounds, Christmas carols and even love songs from the May Day feast. They pushed ahead with renewed faith.

The thick forestland had presented another difficulty in addition to uneven footing and dampness. It was not possible to spot human habitations when the trees blocked the view in all directions. But this stretch of cleared ground led them up a gentle hill from which they could see smoke from several chimneys at a distance off to the right. Prophet Stephen ordered some emissaries to ride ahead and request that the villagers prepare food for the holy Crusaders.

Soon the astonished but pious and hospitable villagers were donating the last of their winter reserves to feed the hungry crowd of children. When the procession arrived, soup was bubbling in cauldrons over huge fires and baskets overflowed with wrinkled apples from the previous autumn. Georgette and Patrice caught sight of each other through the crowd and Georgette laughed to see Patrice’s mimicking of a dog licking her lips in anticipation of food. Although it was not yet time for the noon meal, they all fell to and ate heartily. Afterwards, the boys were dispatched to catch salmon in the river and hunt pheasants in the woods.

That night they had permission to sleep in a fallow hayfield at the furthest reaches of the village. The ground was scattered with old straw, sweet and dusty, and the Crusaders slept like the babies many of them were.

When they resumed their march the next day, a number of children and youths from their host village joined their ranks.

Chapter Five

The villages were more numerous and sat closer together as they neared the city of Paris. The spires of Paris were so tall they first saw them when they were still a day’s walk away.

Georgette could not believe she and the other ragged and dirty travellers were to enter the great capital.

‘The King of France will receive us in his palace,’ Gregor asserted. ‘He will recognise that we are brave Crusaders, despite our age.’

Prophet Stephen had sent a messenger ahead to request an audience with King Philippe Auguste, as well as food and a space to settle for a few nights. When the messenger returned, Prophet Stephen met with him privately before ordering the leaders of the groups to make an announcement to each band.

‘The King of France, Philippe Auguste, has graciously granted an audience to our Prophet. Tomorrow morning, in St Denis, Prophet Stephen will enter the presence of the King.’

There was whispering in the crowd. The presence of the King.

‘But the King says there is no open space in Paris large enough to accommodate so many children. He orders us to settle on the large meadow outside the city walls, on the banks of the Seine. Food will be provided by the royal palace and the people of Paris.’

Groans of disappointment unsettled the air. Georgette exhaled slowly. Surely she would never again be so close to the famous city.

‘Like wild dogs, he keeps us outside the gates,’ Gregor growled. ‘We’re good enough to enter Jerusalem, but not his precious Paris. A curse on him – may his one good eye suffer like the other.’

‘Oh, Gregor,’ Georgette said. ‘Perhaps the King is worried we will catch diseases in the city. Patrice has heard that the wife and son of the count in Gallardon were in Paris shortly before they returned home and became ill. Cities are places of disease and dirt, they say.’

Gregor swore. He was in no mood to be placated. He was hungry and tired and now angry too.

Food helped, as it always did. The bread baked in the King’s own kitchens and delivered by the curious gatekeepers in relays was comfortingly warm and fresh. The stew was rich with fatty meat and the mead was sweet. They slept well that night, the city’s walls looming impressive and dark above them.

In the morning, they took the opportunity of bathing in the Seine, choosing a place as far away as possible from the open canals that drained into the river from under the walls, churning with the refuse of the good citizens of the city. Georgette helped to bathe the younger children and washed both her and Gregor’s underclothes. Sunlight glittered on tall buildings within the city, just out of their reach.

When Prophet Stephen returned from his royal audience in St Denis, several hundred new recruits followed him. The experienced Crusaders roared with approval and gathered close to hear him talk. They had fed and rested their bodies and were ready for the Spirit now.

Prophet Stephen’s handsome face glowed and his eyes were feverishly bright as he held aloft a new and even larger gold cross presented to him by Queen Ingeborg. A red silk banner with yellow flames fluttered in the breeze, a copy of the sacred
oriflamme
presented in times of war by the Abbot of St Denis to the royal leader. King Philippe Auguste had received him, Stephen, God’s humble shepherd boy, briefly but with due honour.

‘King Philippe has sent the following message to us all,’ he announced. He motioned to the shy and unprepossessing priest who led them in prime and vespers every day. The young man stepped to Stephen’s side and struggled awkwardly to break the great lump of sealing wax on a ribbon tied around a rolled sheet of parchment. It finally broke open and fragments of red wax flew into the crowd, pursued by scampering children eager for souvenirs. The Prophet’s lieutenants shoved the children back to their places none too gently and then the priest read aloud.

‘I, Philippe Auguste of Paris, King of France, do bless in the name of God the children who march to Jerusalem in His name. May He protect them in their blessed innocence and crown their pilgrimage with triumphant success. I proclaim that this procession be called the Children’s Crusade and that it shall be known and honoured throughout my fair land. I order my subjects along the way to open their hearts and their food stores to these pilgrims. May the Holy Spirit be with His children. In the name of Jesus Christ.’