Crusade (8 page)

Then he realised with dismay that the large room was empty of any librarian, student or monk who might help him find what he needed. He stood still and concentrated on his task, looking down at the mosaic floor to avoid being distracted by the riches surrounding him. Yes, he was quite sure. There were two books, not one, by Abelard that discussed the subject the men were debating. It would look well if he managed to find both of them.

Had Robert been educated in an abbey with fewer manuscripts, he would have been daunted by the grandeur and breadth of this great library. There were, he estimated, perhaps seven or eight hundred books in the
armaria
, without counting those in the chests. But Abbot Benedict had built up a formidable collection of almost a hundred books in his own library at the abbey, using taxes wrung from the farmers who rented abbey farmlands. Robert had spent many hours in that room, almost as much time as he spent in the abbot’s cell and certainly more time than he spent alone in his own.

Robert moved briskly from shelf to shelf, opening one book on each. Once he had roughly grasped the classifications used by the librarian, he was able to narrow his search. He was glowing with pride as he hurried towards the little door, carrying both works.

At that moment, he heard from the other side of the main doors the sounds made by a key in a heavy lock – no, two keys in two heavy locks. He froze, and was momentarily blinded by a shaft of sunshine as a tall man pushed open the heavy doors and entered. Like the rector, the man wore a fancier variation of the strange gowns worn by the students out in the entrance courtyard.

Agitated dust motes whirled in the stream of light as a stern voice demanded, ‘How did you get into the library, boy? What are you doing with those manuscripts?’

The glow of pride turned to a blush of embarrassment and shyness. Looking down at his feet, Robert stammered an explanation.

The man turned to look at the little door, which was ajar, and turned back to stare at him. ‘You found what the rector needs without any assistance?’

Robert ventured a quick glance at the man, who, he now realised, must be the librarian. What a wonderful job. Oh, fortunate man.

He nodded.

The librarian looked at him thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘Go straight back to the rector and take care not to drop your valuable load.’

Robert disappeared through the little door, remembering to lock it behind him, and soon emerged from behind the tapestry like a magician.

The abbot’s subtle sigh of relief was more precious to Robert than the rector’s exclamation of surprise and approval of his selection.

‘The precentor was at prayers? The library was empty?’ the rector asked.

Robert nodded.

‘Yes, I knew it would be thus, and I did not expect you to bring back even one correct book on your own, boy. And so rapidly.’ He clapped Robert on the back and turned to the abbot. ‘You have my sincere congratulations.’

From that point, the rector was eager to show Robert all the wonders and achievements of the university. The atmosphere was tense, with the rector clearly interested in Robert alone and the abbot campaigning repeatedly for praise of his own success in pedagogy. Along the tour, Robert saw more to delight him than another of his age would see in the trove of a peddler, but he knew well that he must turn repeatedly to his master to acknowledge the abbot’s claims. After years of only the occasional, brief word of praise from the abbot, he found the rector’s attentions excessive and distracting. Would that he could have wandered this extraordinary place alone, for as long as he wished.

The dramatic presentation of Robert’s abilities turned out to be only the first of a number of similar experiences. The abbot had decided the time was ripe to harness his prodigy’s brilliance to reflect glory on himself. He invited important guests to the abbey and drew the conversation repeatedly to the success of his foray into education, introducing Robert as ‘a foundling plucked from the streets of Tours’. Robert was at first surprised but obliging; however, eventually he began to feel uncomfortable and resentful as his feats of memorisation and analysis were paraded.

He shows me off as if I were a dog that can do tricks
,
Robert fumed to himself.
Only God is responsible for whatever I am able to do with my brain. But he demands the credit
.

As unconfident as he had been before, so did he become overly confident now, silently building pictures of his wildly successful future. But again and again Abbot Benedict slapped him to earth with a stinging rebuke. The abbot was more driven than ever, making the young boy keep the hours he kept himself, giving him lessons instead of letting him sleep between lauds and prime, and sometimes even superseding the rule of the Great Silence to dictate important letters to him after compline, as the candle spluttered. Robert began to feel a new despair. It was impossible to imagine his teacher relinquishing power over his future.

He was trapped in the web of the abbot’s ambition.

Chapter Eight

The abbot was reading edifying stories from
The Lives of Saints
to the monks as they ate dinner in their customary silence in the refectory when he was interrupted.

The twin cooks ushered a youth into the huge stone hall and addressed the abbot in alternating sentences.

‘Pardon us for interrupting, Father,’ Brother Peter said humbly.

Brother Puck took over eagerly, ‘But this young man said it was a matter of urgency.’

Brother Peter explained, ‘He says that thousands of holy children are starving in the –’

‘Let the boy talk for himself,’ the abbot snapped.

The twins thrust the boy forward and flanked him for support. ‘Greetings, Father,’ he began hesitantly and then he swallowed with difficulty, overwhelmed not so much by his audience of several hundred silent monks but by the bountiful repast they were eating. ‘I am
 . . .
I have been sent by
 . . .
I am to request
 . . .
’

He halted and swallowed his saliva again as a plump priest close to him lifted a juicy chicken leg and bit into it with relish.

‘Out with it, boy,’ Abbot Benedict ordered.

‘Begging your pardon, Father,’ the boy said, blushing, and told the story in a rush. He was one of a huge crowd of children and youths, who were travelling under the leadership of a shepherd boy from Cloyes who had seen God. God had anointed him Prophet Steven and told him to lead a new crusade to free Jerusalem from the infidels. It was to be a crusade of pure hearts, a crusade of children. King Philippe Auguste himself had received the Prophet Stephen in Saint Denis and had given his blessing to the Children’s Crusade, before sending them on their blessed way.

Now the young Crusaders were halted a short way from the monastery, in sore need of food and rest. He had been sent ahead to find good Christians who could give them shelter. ‘And food,’ he added.

The abbot pointed to the bottom end of the table at the far side of the hall. ‘Sit there and eat.’

The boy wasted no time obeying.

Abbot Benedict turned to Robert, who sat as always on his left, slightly behind him. He curled his lip in a sarcastic smile. ‘These babes and toddlers dream of freeing the Holy Land where grown men in armour have failed? Perhaps we should seize the misleading charlatan who has aroused them and lock him in a monastery cell to learn true Christianity, and tell the others to go back home before they get a well-deserved whipping.’

‘But the King has blessed –’ protested Robert.

‘Don’t be an idiot, Robert. Have I not spoken to you many times about the machinations of politics? His Majesty is already concerned about the lack of grain available in Paris after the bad harvest. He would not want thousands of children with empty bellies making demands on the city’s reserves. That must be why he met the leader not in Paris but in St Denis. Of course, he gave the so-called “Crusade” his blessing – it would not be politic to give them a curse. Then he rapidly sent them out of his way, towards Jerusalem – but also towards us.’

Robert was silent. Every cynical word was probably correct, but his imagination was caught by the image of a visionary young leader accompanied by a long procession of innocent children dressed in white. In his mind’s picture, the hero was about his own height and build; indeed, the hero was much like himself but without a disfiguring scar.

Abbot Benedict sourly ordered that preparations be made to feed the crowd in the morning. Likely the pilgrims would start walking towards the monastery at first light and arrive after sunrise, too late for prime. He gave Robert permission to delay his secretarial tasks the next day in order to help. The abbot himself was not to be bothered until they were fed, then he would lead tierce outdoors for monks and Crusaders together.

Early the next day, Robert was feeding the fires under the cauldrons of boiling porridge, the rising steam mixing with the morning mist, when he heard a shout in the distance. He turned to see the silhouette of a young boy on horseback at the crest of the nearby low hill overlooking the abbey.

The youth halted his charger and surveyed the valley, his erect body and crown of curls framed against the new blue sky. His horse reared slightly in impatience and he controlled it perfectly with one gloved hand. His long black cloak draped elegantly over the flanks of his white stallion but was open at the front to reveal the scarlet cross glowing on his chest. In his free hand, a tall golden crucifix flashed in the first light like a magic wand.

Robert’s breath caught. A group of older boys galloped to his side and followed his example by pulling up dramatically. Then the first Crusaders came into view along the crest of the hill, hundreds – nay, thousands – of small plodding figures, most in ragged clothes. The leader, conscious perhaps of eyes watching from the abbey, held still, the morning sun outlining him in a dramatic golden aura. Then he raised his sparkling crucifix to the heavens and led his followers down the hill.

Robert’s thoughts swirled feverishly as he served food to the ravenous travellers. But his eyes never left their leader, whom he now saw was younger than himself and – to judge by his salutation when the abbot emerged – uneducated.

How does he lead them all? How did he inspire them to follow him? What might he accomplish with this prodigious mission?
The questions tumbled and beat in his head. And most pressing of all, the one that ached inside him, was
why?
Why had God chosen this precocious farm boy, when he himself had dreamed of being chosen by Jesus to do something great in the service of God that would ever be remembered. He, Robert, had been given the gift of brilliance. He had been educated in Greek, Latin, church doctrine, church history, papal protocol, philosophy, mathematics and even a little medicine. No shepherd boy could know as much.
Why not me, my Lord? Why did You choose him?

The young leader requested the monastery’s hospitality for a full day and night of rest, and the abbot assented, though without warmth. Robert helped serve the pilgrims a light midday meal of bread and cheese and mead, and a supper of hot, filling soup. Then he begged to be excused from attending vespers and compline, telling the abbot quite truthfully that he had a bad headache, and retreated early to his cell.

He lay on his hard cot, the rough blanket discarded on the stone floor, his intense grey eyes turned to the pulsating stars beyond the window of his cell, praying as he had never done before.

As the hours passed, the stars’ mysterious signals seemed to grow clearer. It occurred to him that his life had been leading to this point, that Jesus had directed his steps – his childhood, his adoption, his education – for this exact purpose. He was to pace within the narrow cloisters of the abbey no longer. He, Robert, was surely meant to join the Crusade.

Robert’s decision was the first major choice he had made in his life, and he made it with startling certainty.

After matins and lauds, he asked permission to enter the cell of the abbot.

‘Père Abbé,’ he began.

The abbot raised his cool eyes from the letter he was reading.

‘I ask permission to join the young Crusaders when they depart our abbey,’ Robert said, a sudden unnatural calm causing him to talk as evenly as if he were asking permission to take a walk.