Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (19 page)

The old man turned to Wil. “I do yield to your command, m’young lord, yet heed my words: this is a place to fear. Be wary, stay close, and confer all respects upon the folk within.”

Suddenly Georg squeezed through the column, a tentative expression spreading over his face. “Might I have leave to speak?”

Wil nodded.

“I have not journeyed here, nor, to my knowledge, has my good father. But I have heard our huntsmen speak of it as a dangerous place for all. They report it to be corrupted by an evil burgher and magistrate. ’Tis said to be a sanctuary for the lawbreakers of the realm and of the kingdom of France.”

Tomas sneered and strutted toward Georg. “If y’be afraid, fat boy, you may stay and tend a fire for our return. I would surely not want y’to suffer another belly pain from your fears.”

Georg blushed.

“His words might be true, Tomas,” offered Karl.

“Aye, so they may be. But the fat one’d be a coward by any count.”

Pieter set a comforting hand on Georg’s shoulder and addressed the group. “It is proper for Georg to share what he knows and we thank him. I, too, am aware of the dark words spoken of this place … but our provisions are nearly exhausted. We’ll follow Wil forward … with the greatest care.”

With little more than a few grunts and gestures, Wil directed his soldiers toward the walled town. Pieter set his mind to prayer but had barely offered his first petition when Karl interrupted.

“I’d be ready for the next clue.”

“Clue for what, boy?” Pieter wondered.

“Your riddle.”

The old man smiled. “Now? Ah, very well, here is the next: ‘The songs of thrush and nightingale are born upon the breeze, but toward what Country do they drift while passing o’er the trees?’”

Karl’s face grimaced and twisted as he wrestled with the words. “
Ach
, y’ve given a hard clue, Pieter, and I’ve still no answer.”

“Rather difficult ’tis sure, but there is little joy in simple riddles. Have you another one for me?”

Karl paused for a moment, while Maria, who was listening to the two of them, skipped to Karl’s side and whispered in his ear. “Well, ’tis an old one,” answered Karl. He looked to the rear of the line and beckoned Georg and some others to move forward. When a few had huddled close by he continued. “Maria has a riddle for you: A young priest was sent to observe a feast in hell. Upon his arrival he noticed that the damned had been given sharpened staves as long as a man is tall to eat with. The famished souls tried as hard as they might, but they could not reach their mouths with the meat they impaled. This, in turn, led to fighting and cursing.

“The sad priest was then escorted to heaven where the angels invited the guests to play the same game. The heavenly residents were handed the same staves to eat with, yet in heaven each was able to enjoy the good meat and there was great joy and fellowship. Why was this so?”

Georg squeezed his eyes into his sweating cheeks as he strained to think.
It would be so very good
, he imagined,
to win Karl’s friendship by being good at these cursed riddles
. His mind spun but before he had an answer, he found himself at the imposing gates of Dunkeldorf.

Chapter 9

DUNKELDORF

T
he free town of Dunkeldorf was a trading center set squarely on the east bank of the Rhine some two days excursion from the French city of Colmar and within a comfortable journey of Basel to the south. Because of its location, the town bustled with the trade of two realms and served as a convenient market for merchants transversing the Rhine valley. Its independent status was recently declared and its borders were defended by a stockade wall and a garrison of mercenary soldiers.

The townsfolk resided in timber-framed homes set in random order along narrow, uncobbled streets. Some of their houses were built with wide, rough-planed planks and plaster, some handsomely appointed with fine glass and shutters, but most were simply crude cottages of wattle and straw.

The log chapel near the market square provided a temporary location from which the spiritual needs of the people were served, though on the hill at the south end of town construction of a proper stone church had begun. The diocese at Mainz had bestowed absolute authority on one Father Silvester for all such matters. The town had been organized under a burgher and council and had received its independence from the clerk of Emperor Heinrich VI. Its laws were enforced in unabashed deference to the interests of the influential, and mercy for others was rare.

Missing the feast of Lammas, the children huddled closely as Wil and Pieter led them into the confusion of the busy town. Wealthy and poor, thieves and priests, rogue soldiers and wayfarers of every stripe were soon pressed around the crusaders who stared in awe of the tapestry of humanity now enveloping them. The loud shouts of merchants huckstering linens, tanned hides, fruit stuffs, and weapons; the brays and whinnies of livestock and the occasional clang of church bells made for a noisy but intriguing blend of sounds. Yet the pilgrims felt a mood of darkness which subdued what might otherwise have attracted their eager curiosity.

Pieter mothered his children like a nervous hen with her chicks and admonished them repeatedly to be vigilant and evoke no annoyance. “By the saints, you be angels in this place … and do exactly what I say.”

Usually confident in the abilities of his own wit and worldly wisdom, Pieter seemed uncharacteristically apprehensive as he led his Innocents through the streets. Still willing to believe the Church to be of some potential benevolence, the old man humbly asked for direction from a simple beggar and was pointed to the timber chapel. He knocked loudly on its heavy oak door. “Greetings … I say greetings to thee.”

No answer was forthcoming so Pieter pounded harder and cried loudly,
“G’tag?”

The door cracked a bit and a beaklike nose protruded from the shadow.

“Yes, what is it?” hissed a voice from within.

Pieter, confused by such an odd reception, shrugged and proceeded to introduce himself and his congregation. The door opened enough for Father Silvester’s leather-capped head to emerge. Silvester said nothing but glared from beady, dark eyes at the dusty, tired children. He sucked a long breath through his nose, nearly collapsing his nostrils and then whined, “Get hence and begone, thou dirty herd of brats. Go … go at once. We have no need of more of thy kind.”

Pieter clenched his jaw. “I implore thee in the name of our Lord to have mercy on these little ones. Might ye find a place in thy Christian heart to share a bit of food and refreshment? Surely thou would’st earn bounty for thy parish for so blessing our Holy Crusade.”

The priest snarled and flung the door wide open. “Holy Crusade? A
Holy
Crusade methinks not. It seems they’ve turned good to evil. We are told of these would-be pilgrims as no more than poachers and common thieves … stealing and murdering passage through our Empire and France.”

His volume increased and he hurled open the door to set his finger by Pieter’s nose. “A just God shall not tolerate such hypocrisy and neither shall His Holy Church. In the name of all that is sacred, more of these impostors need be flogged proper for such wickedness, and methinks some ought be hanged. I am told that our offended Lord even now strikes legions dead with fever and starvation as a fitting reward to such blasphemy. Such is evidence enough of the heresy and evil of this abominable masquerade! If they were honoring God, such misery would not be their bedfellow.”

“Would’st thou neglect the compassion of our Holy Mother for even the most imperfect of his little …”

“Speak not to me of the Virgin and keep thy tongue from the discourse of the cleric. How dare thee. Filthy beggar … impostor. How dare thee wear the robes of the Holy Church! Perhaps thou ought be bound by the magistrate and sent to a fate fitting of thine own deception.” Silvester piously clutched his robes at the chest, then steadied his voice. “However, I am a man of God and as such I do offer the mercy of which you speak. I’ll not summon thy destruction, though consider this a final warning. You’d best enjoy my forbearance and take thy litter of broken misfits far away from this good town.” The priest then slammed the door, leaving the stunned crusaders open-mouthed and empty-handed.

Pieter closed his eyes in prayer, asking God to forgive the hatred now raging in his bosom. He then stared to the heavens for some explanation. “Is it I, Father? Is it I? Am I mad … or am I one of but a few sane creatures assigned to roam this asylum?”

He turned to the confused and frightened faces gathered around him and tried to speak, but his tongue was bound by the anger frothing in his throat.

The trembling voice of Lothar broke into the moment. “Shall he not help us, Father Pieter?”

Jon I clutched the old man’s robe and desperately implored, “If God’s people shan’t help us, who shall?”

Pieter’s response was sharp and razor-edged. “God’s people are not always people of God. Guard yourself, children … you need the mind of a fox never more than when the pious prowl about!”

A loud, commanding bark from Solomon suddenly beckoned the crusaders to a tight alleyway squeezed between two guild-houses just behind the chapel. The band hurried to the entrance of the passage and Pieter and Wil followed the excited dog warily into its shadows. There, huddled in the darkness, were three frightened children squatting against the wall, legs drawn tightly to their trembling chests and each clenching a crusader’s cross. They stared at Pieter and Wil with wide eyes and cringed as Solomon leaned his pointy nose toward them.

“Be still, my children,” said Pieter softly. “We are friends … here to help you.”

The three hesitated but one finally stood. “I … I am called Frieda,” said a long-legged, blonde-haired girl of about fifteen years. She squeezed her hood tight at the throat. “I come from the kingdom of Westphalia, and … I …” Unable to contain herself any longer, the poor girl choked on her words and her brown eyes swelled with tears. Pieter laid his hand upon her shoulder and she collapsed into his embrace.

“Yes, yes, my child.”

As her weeping gave way to calm she backed away and dried her face on her sleeve. She took a deep, quivering breath and introduced her younger brother, Manfred and her younger sister, Gertrude. She then proceeded to relate their tale of suffering. “Most of us were dead by fever and hunger in the woodlands north of here. What few lived found this evil place. We asked but thrice for food from three merchants when a magistrate’s soldier ordered us be beaten. Then …”

Manfred, nervous but clearheaded for a boy of eleven, quickly chimed in. “Aye, so ‘twas, but we ran quick-step and hid whilst they shouted to drown the yellow-haired witch.”

Gertrude, about ten, then stood and, in a weak and shaking voice added, “My lord, we’ve been hoping God would help us … might you be His answer?”

Pieter nearly wept and his throat thickened as he reached a hand toward the little girl. “
Ja
, fair
Mädel
, your hopes were prayers of the best sort and God has answered them this day. I suspect His answer to be a bit later than your preference but that oft seems to be His way.” He winked.

Wil took the priest by his sleeve and whispered, “We cannot care for a single more.”

The priest nodded sympathetically and drew the boy aside. “Brave and patient Wil, like our Lord you have been given charge to care for the misfits, the destitute, and the unwanted. Consider each a blessing and your burden shall lessen.”

Wil sighed, resigned to yield to the priest’s gentle insistence, and joined the others as Pieter led the three relieved additions out of the alleyway. After a brief introduction, Frieda and her siblings merged with their new comrades and waited calmly for direction.

Pieter stood by Wil’s side and gazed warily across the courtyard at the hurried townsfolk rushing about the market. He was reminded of the famous squares at Champagne and Troyes and Basel, but here he sensed darkness, a pall of evil, that seemed to weigh heavy in the air itself. He deliberated on the mélange of faces pressed in the crowd and grew ever more concerned. Field serfs with straw hats pulled suspiciously over their eyes seemed to walk stiffly behind their reluctant oxen, prodding them with uncommon impatience. Merchants from the East cried their wares loudly but with an uneven canter, most untypical for their kind. Peasant women rushed about with no interest in chatter, instead pushing from table to table with their long gowns bound short by one hand and their heads burdened by baskets of bread or turnips. Pieter noticed the occasional nobleman strutting through the throng, though these, he noticed, bore a familiar demeanor—a cast of condescension for the crush of rabble all about. Of greatest worry to the old man were the excessive numbers of drunken and rancorous men-at-arms, most bearing the colors of Brunswick and a comportment of anger, arrogance, and acrimony.

Yet to Pieter the town seemed prosperous and without cause for such gravity. Long, wooden peddlers’ tables were scattered along the streets, and throughout the square were booths packed with fish, leathercrafts, tapestries, bakers’ breads, silks from the East, brass and tin wares, and bolts of beautiful cloth. Wagons and carts were piled high with carded wool and bundles of flax newly arrived from nearby manors. Sheaves of hay were bundled and stacked neatly against storehouse walls. But despite the apparent bounty, beggars sat at nearly every corner as a reminder of the drought of compassion the town’s citizens endured.

Pieter decided to whisper a few cautions to Wil before the boy led his company into the marketplace. The children were keenly aware of Pieter’s reserve and walked slowly past a long table bending in its center with the weight of honey, salt, butter, early fruits, and preserves. Their eyes widened at the casks of ale, spits of ducks, baskets of biscuits and of salted pork stacked neatly by barrels of eel and sturgeon. They drooled over wheels of cheese, and mounds of peas and onions, and baskets of almonds.

Considering the hunger gnawing at their innards, the display of such plenty fast became a temptation to sorely endure. Wil’s coveting mind was distracted by a tug of a tiny hand on his belt. He turned to see Lothar staring at him from eyes now yellowed and runny. “Master Wil, might I rest a bit?”

Wil hesitated but agreed. “We’ll take a short rest but we’ve work to do.”

Lothar smiled and followed the troop to a quiet corner where most collapsed in the dust. Tomas took a place near Wil, embarrassed by the immediate scoffs of passersby. Pieter stared at the town thoughtfully, then looked at his forlorn comrades. “I’ve an idea. This wretched place has a dreadful lack of music. Has a single one of you seen a minstrel or troubadour? Nay. So, methinks a good song might earn us a bit of food.”

Before the dumbfounded crusaders could object they found themselves rushed to the middle of the market square and positioned in a tight semicircle. In moments they were led by Pieter through a rather feeble rendition of the song they had sung in such earnest just weeks before. “Fairest Lord Jesus,” they began, “Ruler of all nature….” But as they choked their way nervously through the lyrics their voices grew fainter, costing them the initial curiosity of a few townsfolk. Pieter aspired to rally their pluck by joining his voice loudly to theirs. Unfortunately, his shrill pitch and discordant notes drew laughs, not alms, and the crusaders’ glorious chorus faded beneath a volley of jeers!

Wil, shamefaced and embarrassed, turned his back on his comrades and melted into the roaring crowd with a disgusted Tomas at his side. But good Karl stood by his duty, straining to sing despite the tears of humiliation over his reddened cheeks. Close to his side crooned Georg, eyes pinched shut and fists tight.