Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (2 page)

These harmless children of Europe suffered unspeakable hardship in a Creation groaning for deliverance. Whether drought or famine, disease or assault, these stalwart warriors bore the adversities of a world mired in misery. Steadfast in their hope, these nearly forgotten crusaders marched on. No doubt fettered by confusion, they nevertheless persevered to the very end, wanting to believe, wanting to trust, stilled by the perplexing love of the God under whose eyes they patiently suffered.

This author is certain of little, but is confident that those valiant crusaders whose sufferings became a compass to the gates of God’s truths would have yearned to be our guides today. For they tasted of a mysterious freedom offered in the very midst of their misery and would surely have longed to share the joy of this sweet liberty with us. Such hope as revealed through their misadventure offers us all the keys to our own freedom in the disappointments, the failures, and tragedies we endure and the courage to face the mysteries we fear. Perhaps their journey is our metaphor for hope in the midst of our own distress.

So come! March toward Palestine alongside these gallant young crusaders. Tramp with them through the feudal manors, the daunting Alps, the timbered towns and towering castles of medieval Christendom and be not faint of heart—for though you shall suffer, you may be set free.

Vincit qui potior!

Chapter 1

SHADOWS SHROUD THE MANOR

T
he timeless Laubusbach coursed quietly toward the Lahn River in the early summer of the year of our blessed Lord 1212. It flowed westward over the soft
Tonschiefer
, ever shaping the wide and gentle valley as it had since long before the primeval Frankish tribesmen hunted deer and fox on the long slopes and broad backs of the forested hills rising easily from its waters. A pleasant day’s saunter from the stream’s mouth, the valley abruptly cramped into a cupped nook where more stubborn bedrock, the
Diabas,
had narrowed the insistent waters. This deep hollow now served the good folk of the village of Weyer as it had for nearly twenty generations, adequately sheltering them and their squat, steep-thatched huts from cold and storm. And even so, the ancient, dark-stoned church perched atop the hollow’s rim offered similar sanctuary from the wiles of the spirits feared to prowl about the surrounding forests and fields.

In this particularly dry and hot month of June the usually cheerful Laubusbach did not bubble and dance over its stony bed, nor did it turn Weyer’s mill-wheel with its common vigor. Instead of laughing in the bright light of summer solstice the stream seemed, instead, to weep under the dark nights’ stars. And such melancholy did not escape the notice of the simple village
Volk
who paid careful heed to such messages tendered by the forces present in their world. For them the sorrow of the Laubusbach was cause to ponder and perhaps to pray, for it seemed, indeed, a likely foreshadowing of a season of tears.

A brief walk from the water’s edge stood the modest hovel of the baker of Weyer. Its sturdy walls soundly bore a well-thatched roof and provided fair shelter for its household. On this dull and languid night the frail light of ashy coals and a single candle dimly lighted its two rooms.

In the corner of the larger room—the common room—sat the baker’s younger son, Karl. He squatted by the mound of loose straw that was his bed and stared sadly into the neglected hearth which was placed within a ring of flat stones in the room’s center. Karl was usually a happy child, quick to dismiss the distress of life with the wide stretch of a ready smile across his ruddy, round face. Bright and curious, pleasant and cheerful, the thirteen-year-old was a friend to all and enemy of none. Scattered all about him lay the unruly red curls he had cut from his own head in order to pass the time. He had been sternly reminded by a village elder that only noblemen and princes should allow their hair to grow—and Karl wanted to accommodate things as they should be.

In the adjoining bedchamber, the baker’s wife, Marta, lay upon her straw mattress, perspired and damp, and failing with fever. On the crude table by her side was a pear-wood bowl half-filled with cool water. Her five-year-old daughter, Maria, stood nearby, faithfully bathing her mother’s pale brow with a linen rag she held in her one good hand.

Outside, under the bright stars of a warm night, an angry older son, Wilhelm, retied the loose fence that hemmed the peasant family’s vegetable garden. Wil was a thoughtful, sometimes brooding boy of nearly seventeen years with a fair complexion and pleasing features. His light blue eyes were sometimes gentle, but often blazed like two fired-iron swords, readied to defend the hurt and guarded soul within. He rinsed his large hands in the bottom of the rain barrel and dried them through his long, blonde hair. He grumbled to himself that he ought not be burdened with a dying mother, a bothersome brother, a deformed sister, and the duties of an absent father.

The lad walked to the doorsill of his home and grumbled on his way to his mother’s side. As he passed the hearth he tossed a small piece of kindling onto its smoldering embers, and he watched a swarm of sparks scramble to escape through the smoke-hole above. He paused, wishing he could fly away with them. In the brief burst of light, he looked at his brother Karl and, with some annoyance, rebuked him for his tears. “Stop crying like some woman.”

An embarrassed Karl looked at his feet, quickly blotted his tears on a rough sleeve, and offered a gentle defense. “They are for Mother, Father, poor Maria, and you.”

Unimpressed, Wil brushed past Karl and entered his mother’s room where his sister greeted him.

“Wil,” Maria whispered, “could y’fetch us more water?
Mutti
may be some better.”

Wil nodded and took the bowl from her hand, glad for a reason to retreat out-of-doors once more. He escaped quickly to the refuge of starlight and paused alongside the rain barrel. He leaned against the wattled siding of his hut and cupped the bowl against his belly. With his fingers drumming lightly on its bottom, he surveyed the silhouetted hilltops enclosing his village and closed his eyes with a weary sigh.

The lad paused to let his mind carry him to the strange lands he had heard of from travelers who told amazing stories of the Holy Wars. He imagined himself a mighty knight upon an armored horse, galloping boldly across the bloodied plains of Palestine. With his red-crossed shield before him, he watched the enemies of Christendom flee the fury of his thunderous charge. A light tap on his shoulder returned Wil to Weyer.

“Could you hurry with the water?”

Wil, startled by the voice, cast a perturbed look at Karl.

“Mother’s waiting for the water and, uh, a kind word, methinks.” Karl grimaced, waiting for an angry rebuke.

Wil stormed past the redhead to deliver the water to his mother’s room. He snatched the moist cloth from Maria’s hand and ordered her to the corner as he plunged the linen into the bowl.

Karl followed, brushing close by the tallow candle that cast a yellow light within the room. Its tiny flame danced on a looping wick and bent the shadows, revealing small drops of blood oozing from the corner of Marta’s pursed lips.

With sudden concern, Wil wiped his mother’s brow and stared at the blood. He summoned his brother to the corner and whispered, “We’ve need of Brother Lukas.”

“Nay, she hates him. She heals more each day and Father Pious says to have faith. If
you
cannot believe, you ought leave Maria and me care for her.”

“Believe as you will, I’ll fetch the monk.” Troubled, Wil left the bedchamber and crossed the common room where he paused for a brief moment to rest his eyes on a clay bowl sitting atop the wooden table. It was his mother’s favorite, he recalled, one an uncle had fashioned for her when she was a young girl. He reached for it and ran his long fingers over its smooth brim before setting it into the warped cupboard where it belonged. He stared at the neatly arranged assortment of reed baskets, clay jars, and candles. “And nothing off its proper place,” he grumbled. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the night air where he turned his face north, toward the Abbey of Villmar which ruled his village. There he hoped to find its herbalist and an old friend of his father’s, Brother Lukas.

Wil began the two-league jaunt at a trot. He passed by the silhouettes of the sagging, thatched roofs of his quiet village and his melancholy mind began to drift. He thought of his mother lying near death and his legs felt heavy. But he quickly resurrected the haunting sounds of a lifetime of endless demands and he shook his head.
She simply cannot be pleased … never. And the beatings … for spilt cider or a forgotten chore.
He spat.

His thoughts then abruptly narrowed to the memory of a distant October morning when the village priest, Father Pious, had urged his restless father to join in service against a far-off peasant rebellion threatening the interests of the Archbishop of Bremen and the Count of Oldenburg. The temptation of free rents and the need for a mighty penance had yielded a reluctant, though willing assent from the baker, and he accepted a forty-day commission to join as a knight’s servant in the alliance against the obstinate Stedingers. Wil recalled his mother standing with her hands folded on her apron grumbling a dispassionate “Godspeed.”

“Forty days?” the boy groused out loud.
Forty days indeed; almost six years!
He thought of his father and rage filled his chest.
Leave us, will you? Well, stay away and die; Mother says you deserve to. Maybe you already are dead. I’ll do your duty and mine own—and I’ll do it very well.

Maria held the damp cloth limply in her tired hand and looked fearfully at her sleeping mother’s paled and perspiring face. She bent forward to wipe the woman’s neck but recoiled at finding more droplets of blood beaded in the corners of her mouth. “Karl,” she whispered frantically. “Look, Karl, there. Please, help poor Mama.”

Karl, bravely masking his own fear, took the rag confidently and quickly dabbed the blood away. “See, Maria, ’tis gone.”

Marta’s eyes suddenly opened wide and round as if startled. She began to cough violently; her body became tense and taut. Then, struggling for air, she lurched forward, flailing her arms and stretching her fingers toward her terrified children. At last, she sucked a wheezing breath, only to bend forward and spew blood across the patched quilt.

Karl put a trembling arm around his mother’s heaving shoulders and offered what comfort he could. He glanced nervously at his horrified sister who had retreated once again into the safety of a shadowed corner. “Mother shall soon be better,” he choked. “Just believe and so it shall be.”

Marta’s coughing subsided and she eased herself back into the deep soft of her feathered pillow. She reached weakly for Karl’s hand and squeezed it lightly. She then turned a hard eye to her quivering daughter. A ribbon of foamed blood drooled through her pursed lips. “Girl, fetch me fresh water at once,” she hissed.

As Maria scampered through the outer room, Marta switched her attention to her benevolent son. She stared at him for a moment and then stroked his hair. Her breathing was still difficult and uneven, and she forced a deep breath to exhale hoarsely. “Karl, you have loved me most of all. Whatever I have wanted, you have given. Whatever I have asked, you have done. You have pleased me more than the others ever could. Now reach …” She struggled for more breath and shook her finger violently at the floor. “Here … here,” she rasped. “Look under this bed and you shall find a box.”

She coughed, her face twisting in pain. She then steadied herself, drew a good breath into her chest, and released the precious air carefully. “Karl, open the box and you shall… find a chain necklace …
ja,
good … ‘twas given to me by m’father for tending his old age. I should like you to have it… a keepsake of your dear mother’s love for a proper son.”

Karl stared wide-eyed at the steel necklace he had lifted out of the box. He held it close to the candle and ran his stubby fingers along its squared links. He was happier at that moment than any other he remembered.