Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (14 page)

The three hesitated until Pieter lifted his hands to the heavens. Sensing an invocation of divine wrath they fell straightaway to their knees and begged pardon. Pieter delayed for a painful moment, like a schoolmaster pondering mercy, and then walked abruptly to the black-bearded one. He placed a bony hand upon the rogue’s trembling, uncovered head and held his cross toward the man’s face as he pronounced,
“Stercorem pro cerebro habes.”

Wil giggled in disbelief and whispered to Tomas, “He told him he has dung for brains!”

Pieter reached toward the next repentant and placed his hand likewise.
“Podex perfectus es.”

Karl could not bear to let his brother lay hold of this one. “He told him he is a perfect arse.”

Pieter concluded his dubious benediction by slapping both his hands atop the third head.
“Modo vincis, modo vinceris.”

Karl giggled and smiled at Wil. He leaned to Tomas. “‘Some you win, some you lose.’”

The three men, oblivious to the degradation they had just endured, each kissed Pieter’s outstretched hand in reverent submission and boundless gratitude. Then, duty done, they disappeared into the woodland grateful for the preservation of their souls.

The old man took a deep breath and walked toward the crusaders, feeling rather good about himself. He smiled, sucked a small splinter from his thumb, and placed his cross within his robe. His kindly, wrinkled face radiated warmth and love, and his eyes shined. He extended his arms.

One little child ran to Pieter, uncertain as to what magic had just transpired, but indebted just the same. He wrapped his chubby arms around one of Pieter’s legs and squeezed with all his might. “Thank you, Father … thank you!”

The priest stooped to kiss the top of the boy’s dusty, white hair. “Such a pleasure for me, good lad. I am most happy to serve you.”

The other children crowded about the grinning priest, cheering and clapping and grabbing at his arms and legs. Wil, Karl, and Tomas jostled their way toward Pieter, Karl gladly translating for the rest of the group the humiliation that had just occurred. Wil, happy and relieved for it all, extended his hand of welcome.

Pieter’s eyes met the lad’s and he clasped his hand firmly, surprising Wil with more strength than he had expected from such a time-worn grip. “’Tis most satisfying,” offered Pieter gently, “to stumble upon you again. And you, boy,” he said as he reached his hand toward Karl. “It is a joy to find you as well. Remind me to share a small riddle I have for you.”

Pieter turned his attention to Tomas. “And you, young master. Tomas, I believe is your name. It bears me well to come twice upon a proud young fellow as yourself.” Tomas hesitated, sensing a bite in the old man’s words. The two clasped hands briefly.

Pieter smiled and turned toward a tender voice squealing impatiently for some attention. To his soul’s delight he beheld Maria, and the old man fell to his knees, stretching forth both his arms to receive her.

“’Tis very good to see you, Father Pieter!”

“Ah my blessed, blessed little one. It gives my heart life to see you!” He closed his eyes and embraced the happy child. “However, my dear Maria, you have my leave to simply call me, Pieter, or even Papa Pieter if you like. ’Tis a bit odd, perhaps, but it is some easier to recognize one sound rather than the many titles which do fall upon my old ears.”

Pieter stood to his feet, radiant and beaming, happy as a schoolboy released to a spring day. It was the children, the blessed Innocents that encircled him who lifted his spirit to high places. He held his arms wide and spoke kindly. “I am known as Pieter and I am your friend. If you should be so kind as to allow, I should like very much to travel in your good company.”

Wil thought hard for a moment, drawn by a growing inclination toward the enticing old man and his good wits. He surveyed the hopeful faces staring back at him and the eyes begging his consent. At last he answered with surety, “Yes, Pieter, you may join with us for now. You brought us an easy end to that bad business and we are in your debt.”

Pieter bowed respectfully and winked at Maria. He stood, but startled those about him by abruptly shouting, “Solomon, Solomon!” To the delight of all, the gray dog came bounding from the wood, jumping gleefully through the happy band.

The crusaders pressed southward, engaging each other in playful banter until they could not help but consider their hunger more weightily than their fellowship. The troop came to rest, collapsing by the side of the road. Pieter fell to the hard ground and propped the arc of his back against the smooth bark of a huge maple. Quite content to skirt the conventional position, he simply folded his hands and began whispering a prayer.

Karl, Wil, and even Tomas waited respectfully, though a bit impatiently, for what seemed an eternity. At last, the priest opened his eyes and smiled. Karl blurted, “So, by faith, you’d be a priest truly, Pieter?”

“Ah,” Pieter answered. “The truth is that some would say ‘aye’ and others ‘nay.’” Pieter pulled himself up on his staff.

Tomas cast a suspicious eye at the man. “Oh, more tricks with yer tongue, eh? What is it to be, old man? Either you be a priest or you be not.”

Pieter lingered for a moment, adding to Tomas’s frustration. “Some believe that to be a way to see life. I, however, have learned that on occasions most things are not so plain. Sometimes we are a grasp of this and a pinch of that…. I calculate me to be a pinch of priest and a grasp of not.” He smiled.

Wil shook his head stubbornly. “Tomas’s is a plain question and deserving a plain answer. That is how I see it.”

“’Tis a remarkable thing to see a man of such determined opinion,” answered Pieter. “Remarkable indeed. And I should be remiss if I withhold other truth on that matter. You see, strong faith and strong opinions rarely share the same heart. Ah, but your pardon!” The old man bowed, satisfied for the planting of the seed. He pointed his forefinger into the centre of his chin and measured his words. “That was not our discussion. So, let me plainly say that, as children of God, we are all priests of a sort. I am trained in the holy traditions and you are not, but without the charge of a parish, that would be the only difference.”

Wil was unwilling to yield the point. “I say we are
not
priests and I find it unfit to pretend you to be so. I have yet to meet a priest who behaves as you.”

“Yes, yes,” smiled Pieter, “for such a compliment I do offer my hearty thanks.”

Wil scratched his head and looked at Karl.

Pieter leaned on his staff and rubbed Solomon’s ears. “You do know, ah yes, what a fool I am. You
must
know,” he said firmly, “that the Good Book says, ‘Do not be over-righteous, neither be over-wise. Why destroy yourself?’”

The perplexed children stared at him.

“Well, ’tis the truth.” A huge smile stretched his wrinkles and nearly squeezed his eyes shut. He turned again to Tomas. “And what say you about such of Scripture?”

Tomas grumbled and looked sideways for rescue.

Wil stepped forward. “And I still say you do not look like a proper priest!” He set his fists firmly on his hips and rocked up on his feet, confident of his assessment. “What sort of churchman do you pretend to be? Your robe is black and looks to be more a Benedictine habit than otherwise. But your hair is wild, the crown of your head is not shaved … so you’d be no monk. And you don’t speak like a churchman … and … and I say you laugh more than any priest ought.”

Pieter’s eyebrows arched high and he threw his head back with a howl that brought grins to the whole circle. “Oh, now, lad, you have just shared more truth than you know. Ha!” Pieter, still chuckling, wiped the tears from his eyes and sighed. “As for my robe, it was stitched by a peasant wife for the priest of a humble parish. I had baptized a child in his village soon after the poor priest’s death and was given it as my payment. I thought it rather becoming and just uncommon enough to raise a brow here and there.

“As for my hair … ah, what can be said? I was a monk once, but felt the cold too much upon my crown. And, for my speech … ah, yes, so I have learned to speak both the language of the haughty and the language of the true. Dost thou believeth me, or dost thee linger in thy doubt?”

Karl was confused. “Pieter,” he fumbled, “the Church is mighty and wealthy and even those sworn to poverty have at least something more than you. I confess I have never seen such a priest as you.”

Pieter grew quiet for a moment and answered, “‘Better to be lowly in spirit and among the oppressed than to share plunder with the crowd.’”

Karl wrinkled his nose and scratched his head. He glanced about the blank faces encircling him.

Wil broke the silence with a sneer. “Well, if you are a priest, why not call us some bread from heaven?”

Pieter paused and patiently answered, “Now that is a fair request … and shrewd to be sure. You and your brother are bright fellows, educated in a church school, I would surmise.
Ja, ja,
I am certain of it. It is good for you to understand that all bread is from heaven.

“As to my powers to summon loaves from the air, I am in some doubt. But it is heaven that has given each of us the strength of our hands and the keenness of our minds to provide such nourishment.”

Wil shrugged, not surprised at the old man’s answer.

Pieter moved close by the lad and set his hand confidently on his broad shoulder. “Let me say, young sire, that I am new to your company but it is clear to me, just for the looking, that heaven has blessed you with keenness of mind. I am certain that you have employed it in the setting of a fine plan for this Crusade.”

Embarrassed, Wil surveyed the anxious faces now staring expectantly at him. He stammered, “I… I… did bring some provisions from home, but all has been used. We tried begging bread from the villagers but they failed us.”

Karl interrupted. “And for several mornings we woke to bread or fish and you have yet to claim from where they came.”

Wil answered sarcastically, “So very well said, little holy man. What of it?”

“What of it?” snipped Tomas. “What of it? I’d say you to have no keen mind, I’d say …”

Pieter cleared his throat and caught the boys’ attention. He stretched his long fingers into the sack hanging from his shoulder. “Wil, I have something to show you.” Wil watched curiously as the old man pulled a tangle of cord from within his leather satchel and held it out as a large ball in his opened palm. “I beg your command,” grinned Pieter.

The boy plucked the knot from the priest’s hand and held it by a single strand to shake it apart, violently. He then nodded approvingly. “Ah, a fish net.”

“Indeed,” answered Pieter. “Might I humbly suggest your sending some of your charge to the water for a good night’s supper?”

Wil’s mood changed and he quickly agreed. He sent Jons I and II and two girls scampering to the river.

Pieter pointed his crook toward the crest of a nearby hill. “If you so order I’ll go to a hamlet I have knowledge of just beyond. I suspect I might return with some begged loaves or a turnip or two. I have learned that folk will allow a child to starve but will rarely risk losing the blessing of a hungry priest… unseemly or not.”

Wil nodded, relieved for the fresh ideas.

“Fair Wil,” the old man offered as he prepared to leave. “’Tis my thought that even our old emperor, Barbarossa, would have been daunted by your task and most uneasy for the weight of it. You must take heart. This dry summer is going badly for the manors. The harvest of yester-year is gone and the fields are sparse. We are close to new harvest—the Feast of Lammas is less than a fortnight away—yet look about you at the wilted rye, small fruits, stilted oats and barley. And now have I heard words of plague. ’Tis no wonder few are willing to help a stranger.”

Pieter motioned Karl to his side. “Now you, lad, if you should be so kind as to gather some small vines or long roots and some small sticks, I’ll show you how to build a fine trap before I leave.”

In less than a winter’s hour, fishermen and trappers were busy at their appointed tasks and Pieter was sauntering out of sight and into the woodland. Wil ordered others to build a fire and instructed Jon III to select some hardwood to be charcoaled for later use in the coal bucket. “Some good wood, boy. Else we’ll be striking flint all the days to Palestine!”

By nightfall the crusaders had begun to filter toward the cook-fire from all directions. Jon I raced from the riverbank shouting gleefully. “See, see here!” He had an unwilling, gasping river trout held high by the gill. Lothar grunted close behind, dragging a stiffened cod through the grass by its tail. The other boys had built a fair rabbit trap but failed at finding suitable bait. They entered the campsite reluctantly amidst the jeers of their disappointed comrades.