Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (16 page)

Pieter sat still for a moment and stared across the campfire into Karl’s eager face. “You have said more, my young son, than some of the great philosophers. Indeed, there once lived an old Frenchman, St. Anselm was his name, who has darkened the world with his infamous blasphemy, ‘
Credo ut intelligam,
’ which is to say, ‘I believe in order to understand.’ Can you see, m’children, how he has the forward to the rear? With such perilous reasoning, if it be ‘reasoning’ at all, ’tis no mystery to me why our world is as it is. Nay, nay… we must understand
first
… so that we are thereby enabled to believe … I am certain of it. Learn to love your minds, little ones, and trust what you learn, so when you understand your God, you shall surely trust Him.”

But Karl was suddenly puzzled. He held his tongue for a moment, reluctant to challenge his elder, but finally blurted, “Pieter, you did say
Saint
Anselm?”

Pieter nodded thoughtfully, uncertain where his young study was taking him.

“If he is a saint I think he must be right and true … and … and perhaps not you.” His voice sagged at the end of his words and he looked at his feet.

Pieter’s nose twitched ever so slightly and his face tightened just a little, but he managed a steady, kindly gaze at the earnest boy. “Well … yes, my boy,” he answered slowly. “Yes, well…”

Before Pieter could fully compose his response, Tomas suddenly attacked. “Old man,” he sneered, “I know nothing of this world and even less of God, but I’m true to m’self and confess no belief. By my oath, you don’t know enough to truly believe in anything … nor shall you ever. Hypocrite, y’be no different than me, only y’fear to say it.”

Pieter lost his tongue as the boy’s pointed darts stuck fast and deep. He turned away from Tomas and fixed his blue eyes into the dying, red embers of the night’s fire. He slowly pulled his black hood over his tired, white head and wondered.

By prime Pieter awoke without revealing the slightest hint of inner turmoil Tomas’s unexpected discernment had caused. As the day’s journey began, Karl walked close by his side and coaxed the old man to speak of new things. The distracted priest forced a patient smile. “This fine day I’ll instruct you and all interested persons on the thoughts of Aristotle as taught in his most treasured books of logic.”

Before Pieter could continue, a whining voice from the rear of the column suddenly pleaded, “Nay, nay, can y’not speak of else for us?”

“And might I inquire who is addressing me?”

Only the chirp of a passing bird broke the silence as Pieter glared over his shoulder, feigning anger. He turned to Karl and winked before clearing his throat. “I believe I’ll teach something else, after all. Aristotle does not suit me this morning.” So, instead, he marched until nearly noon reciting the works of Boethius and St. Augustine and all the while quite unaware of the disinterest of his captives. Most of his audience had done their best to avoid listening, Lothar being the first to stuff his ears with grass. A few managed to kick Karl in the rump as a warning against any such future requests! Finally, Pieter turned around, grinned at the weary column, and prepared for more.

Maria, not the least impressed with the old man’s eloquence, stooped by the wayside and plucked some wild-flowers. She tugged Pieter’s hem with enough authority to convey mild displeasure. “Papa Pieter, ’tis time to stop talking and eat.”

“Aye,” an anonymous voice complained. “Why not fill your mouth with food instead of words?”

“When I was a young priest,” chuckled Pieter, “I begged a rather ancient and exceptionally dull pastor to shorten his homily. ‘Brevity is a fine substitute for ability,’ I counseled. Perhaps I ought listen to my own words!”

His comment drew a few cheers as the exhausted pilgrims dropped onto a grassy clearing by the roadway. In short order, Wil distributed small portions of salt pork and tripe that Karl had been given by a kind dame and carefully rationed a wheat loaf begged by Jon I. After all had eaten and rested a while, Pieter reached carefully into a secret pocket he had sewn deep inside his robe and retrieved a well-worn pigskin wallet. He slowly, almost reverently, opened it and gently withdrew three stiff, partially blackened parchments stored carefully within. The children closed tightly around him as he laid each mysterious piece gently on his lap.

“I show only my dearest friends these treasures. As you have learned, I spent many years as a monk, vowed to the duties of copyist, and as such, I worked for years bent over a small table scratching God’s Word onto parchments such as these.

“Ah, but sadly, one cold winter’s night, a novice in our order was careless with his coals and caught his bed aflame. Unable to extinguish it, his dormitory was soon a roaring furnace and then, in turn, the whole of the cloister. Unfortunate for us brothers, the novices were bedded by the scriptorium and soon the work of a century was but smoke and brittle ash. It was most awful. I had set aside my worthless water pail to rescue these pages of the Holy Scripture from a burning Bible and this charred paragon from one of Aristotle’s books.”

Pieter held a parchment between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. “Behold my most esteemed possessions: a portion of the Psalms in my right hand and nearly an entire page from First Corinthians in my left. Poor Aristotle is so very damaged I fear it best to leave it lay on my lap. Someday I vow to learn a way to return it to whole.”

Pieter affectionately returned Aristotle’s page to the wallet and then cradled the Scripture on his lap. The inquisitive children drew even closer, straining over and under each other like a litter of curious kittens watching a butterfly bend a blade of grass. Most had never seen a written word of any kind and the sight of such a marvel hushed them. Finally, one little boy stretched his dirty finger to touch the parchment.

“Ah, my son,” said Pieter kindly, “it would be better for that pointer of yours to be washed.”

The boy plunged his forefinger into his mouth and offered it again to the chuckling priest. The boy moved his finger toward the strange shapes slowly, almost fearfully. When he touched the paper he recoiled for a moment, wondering if some power would be unleashed on him. He looked at Pieter for reassurance before leaning toward the page again. This time his finger eased along the lines of the letter
A
. He grinned and proceeded to follow the rest of the letters as Pieter read them aloud. “A-M-O-R, which is to say, ‘love.’”

“Why not just ‘love’?” asked a confused little girl.

“Because these words are written in Latin,” answered Pieter.

Karl blurted, “Yes. Latin is the language of the pope and the Holy Church; it is the language of heaven itself, and of Jesus and the Holy Virgin.”

Pieter answered with measured words. “It is truly the language of the Holy Roman Church, but I do not accept it to be the language of heaven nor of Jesus or Mother Mary.”

Karl was shocked. “What?” he exclaimed. “Every priest, every monk, the abbot, and even the archbishop speak to God and listen to God … in Latin.”

“Ah, dear boy, you are aware, I am certain, that the Romans who crucified our Lord spoke Latin, and the Caesars who slayed our brothers and sisters in antiquity also spoke this … this language of heaven. Have you ever considered that perhaps God wishes to speak to His children so they might understand? Could you believe that God could speak German to Germans, French to Frenchmen, and even Arabic to the Saracens?”

Karl was speechless.

Not wishing to pursue the matter, Pieter returned his attention to the parchments and selected one of them. “This page is from the one-hundred fourth Psalm. I am sorry I’ve but portions.” Pieter knew this to be a powerful moment for his children. “Ah, my lambs, grant your loving Father in heaven leave to speak through His Holy Word, and tell me, I pray, whether you hear Him.” Pieter held his parchment at arm’s length and slowly translated.

Bless the Lord, O my soul, O Lord my God, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honor and majesty …

He watereth the hills from his chambers: the earth is satisfied with the fruit of thy works.

He causeth the grass to grow for the cattle, and herb for the service of man: that he may bring forth food out of the earth;

And wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make his face to shine, and bread which strengtheneth man’s heart…

O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches …

Pieter stopped and closed his eyes. He held the singed page lightly to his heart and sighed before gingerly folding it and securing it in its proper place. The children said nothing as he spread the next passage on his lap, gently straightening each fragile corner and smoothing it with the clean side of his bony hand.

“These verses are found in a book called First Corinthians and you shall find them most pleasing: ‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am but a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have a faith that can move mountains but have not love, I have nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and yield my body to the flames but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It holds no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’”

The children sat hushed, unable to grasp the full measure of either the message or the occasion, but awed nonetheless. Maria broke the silence. “Papa Pieter, it seems God must love us much.”

Pieter’s eyes watered. A large tear tumbled across his weathered face and disappeared in his beard. He reached for the girl and laid his hand tenderly atop her golden head. “And my dear, precious lamb, only He could love you more than I.”

The next morning Wil was awakened by a distraught Karl and Jon I. They reported that three or four of the smallest children, including Maria the Younger and Marta, the sister of Lukas, were stricken with fever and were desperately ill. Wil roused Pieter from his grassy bed and both dashed straightaway to the groaning girls.

The girls were sweating profusely and lurching about the ground in delirium. Maria the Younger was breathing quickly and trembling, her yellowed eyes slightly rolled backward in their sockets, and Marta fared no better. Pieter knelt to hold Maria the Younger in his arms. He plucked a poppy still dewy from the night and placed it on her chest as he prayed.

Wil quickly retrieved the satchel of herbs from Brother Lukas and offered them to Pieter. “Here, I’ve some medicines.”

Pieter brightened and gently laid Maria on a small blanket. His eyes narrowed and his fingers scrambled through the vials and ampoules. “Karl, fetch some water, quickly. We have need of an infusion … aye … we’ll use this basil, thyme, and sage … yes, yes, this should be most helpful, most helpful indeed.”

“And here,” urged Wil, “here is a little
belladonna atropa.
The priest at the village ordered its use for my fevered mother, and …”

“Nay, you have misunderstood him, boy. This is no remedy, ‘less murder is the ambition.” Pieter heaved the contents of the tin, scattering the deadly herb across the wet grass. “We’ve no need of that Devil’s herb.”

Dumbstruck, Wil stared at Pieter angrily. His mouth was suddenly dry. “What say you, old man … old madman? Poison? ’Tis not so!”

“Yes, ’tis poison. I believe I spoke plain enough. What ails you now, lad?”