Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (3 page)

Marta sighed and sank back into her pillow. Her complexion darkened once more. “Now leave me, boy,” she growled impatiently. “Can you not see that I am weary … so very weary? Leave me sleep.”

Maria was standing in the doorway with a tin of cool water and looked hopefully at her brother. He smiled softly and tiptoed toward the doorway. “Everything is in order,” he whispered. “’Tis time for Mother to sleep. By prime Frau Anka will be tending her.”

Maria, content to trust the better judgment of her brother, snuffed the wick of her mother’s candle and nestled into her own straw bed where she was pleased to close her eyes with hope as her night’s companion.

Wil continued on his trot through the small hamlet that had been home to him since the day of his birth. Weyer was an ancient village lying on the edge of an ecclesiastical fief once granted to the diocese of Mainz by the Emperor Friederich Barbarossa. The archbishop then founded an abbey in the village of Villmar and endowed it with numbers of villages to create a modest, but profitable manor.

Weyer’s residents were primarily bound men—men who were legally obligated by the oaths of their forefathers to whomever held the land. Whether they owned heritable fields or not, their status was one of servitude—they could not leave the estate, marry, buy or sell, or perform any number of human activities without both permission and taxation by their clerical lords.

Much to the concern of Weyer’s folk, succeeding abbots had refused to construct stockades around any of their villages, relying instead on the strong hand of their contracted ally, the Lord of Runkel. Nevertheless, the abbey generally administered Weyer benevolently and with a sternness that rarely offended. Furthermore, in order to sustain the spiritual lives of its flock huddled in the hollow, the various archbishops of Mainz had properly maintained the old stone church, originally built by the great Charlemagne. From here the diocese’s priests were to shepherd the humble parish: They were to take the Eucharist on behalf of the folk, grant comfort in death, hope in baptism, and refuge against the wiles of Satan and of men.

So, generations of ploughmen, timbermen, shepherds, and a few tradesmen lived their unpretentious lives in submission to the abbey’s authority, content with what few pleasures might befall them. Each endured their station without complaint, willing to submit themselves to the order of their Church and the rule of the manor to which they were born. These good folk were required to toil many hours in the vast fields of the demesne—their lords’ land—struggling behind slow oxen with wheeled-ploughs, scything and flailing grain crops, and performing sundry other services. But work for the abbey was not their only work. Some owned livestock or fowl which needed management, and some labored on their own portions of hides—units of land of about one hundred twenty acres. Many of the women carved spoons or spun wool, plaited baskets, or wove fabric to sell. And, were that not enough, each family also needed to tend small, wattle-fenced kitchen gardens where they grew each year’s supply of vegetables and herbs.

Wil’s father was the village baker. Prior generations had served the monks as shepherds near the village of Villmar, living as humble cottagers sheltered in the shadow of the abbey walls. However, according to family legend, Wil’s great-grandfather, Jost, had discovered the abbey’s prior in a financial impropriety. The shrewd old man had quickly bartered his discretion for some unusual considerations. Special occupations were granted to both Jost and his sons, but a further promise had been made. Following the line of the eldest males, his great-grandsons would be taught in the abbey school; tutored by the monks in mathematics, astronomy, Latin, and rhetoric. It was a promise kept and one now benefiting young Wil and Karl.

Wil glided through the night, lulled by the rhythm of his padding feet atop a roadway recently dampened by a welcome shower. He had climbed out of Weyer’s hollow and was now steadily descending the long, gradual slope toward the Lahn River and the village of Villmar which lay on its banks.

Soon after the bells of matins’ prayers, he entered the sleepy village and headed to the walled abbey located at its far end. Wil paused to rest under the clouded full moon and surveyed the edifice looming large and ominous before him. A bit unnerved by a strange, creeping dread that was beginning to crawl over him, he closed his eyes and let his mind bear him to the sanctuary of midsummer days within the abbey walls. He pictured himself under the tutelage of good Brother Lukas, sitting upright on his hard wooden stool in the shade of the linden tree with Karl and a group of oblates. He calmed.

Wil knew the abbey well and could find what he required at any hour of any day. His mind quickly sketched its design. Its walls encircled large grounds containing, at the center, the abbatial
Kirche
—the single-naved, gray-stone church which served the brothers. Around the church were the monks’ graveyard, orchards, and several large gardens. Along the edges were numerous buildings including the abbot’s chambers, the priory, the dormitory, refectory, the scriptorium, the granaries, Lukas’s fragrant herbarium, the guest house, the garrison, apple press, and sundry sheds and workshops.

The boy strode to the locked gates of the eastern portal and he viewed the slumped figure of a guard dozing on a stool at his post. Wil approached the sentry carefully and immediately recognized him as none other than the quick-tempered Ansel of the night watch. He muttered to himself, certain of the welcome he was about to receive, but mustered his courage. “You there, Gatekeeper. I’ve need of your help.”

The man jerked in his sleep and grumbled a few indiscernible unpleasantries before repositioning himself against the stone wall that served as his headboard. Wil drew an impatient breath and took a firm hold of the man’s large forearm. “Gatekeeper.”

This time the disoriented guard awakened indeed. He bounded to his feet and jerked his sword from its scabbard as he stumbled backward against the oak gate. His helmet clanged against the iron hinges. “Halt,” he ordered as his eyes flew about the darkness. “Halt or I strike!”

Wil hastily retreated a few steps. “I need the herbalist. Can you call for Brother Lukas?”

“Who … who speaks?” growled Ansel, still gathering his composure. He narrowed his eyes at Wil. “Whose waif be you to come here by matins? You’d best begone ‘fore I scatter yer bones.”

“Nay,
mein Herr
,” answered Wil defiantly. “I’ll not take my leave without the monk. My mother lies sick and may not see morning.”

The guard put the point of his sword at the stubborn boy’s throat. “You know the brothers don’t leave the cloister. Now, peasant dog, turn and scamper home, or by God, I’ll strike you dead where you stand.”

Wil swallowed hard, uncertain and anxious. The corner of his eye caught a menacing glint from the flat of the long sword just beneath his chin. Wil was suddenly confused; he needed God’s help and inside were God’s people.

“Well, why do you stand, brat? Go—begone at once.”

Wil retired one step, only to set his jaw. “Nay, sire, I’ll not leave without Brother Lukas. Wake him or may my mother’s death be upon your soul!”

The huge man said nothing but reared back his sword and swung with terrific force at the resolute lad. A startled Wil tried to elude the heavy blade but cried out as its flat side slapped across the back of his broad shoulders. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain, then scrambled on his hands and knees toward the cover of some bramble.

“Go!” yelled the guard as he ran toward Wil. “The next time I turn my sword on edge.”

Wil had not yet stood to his feet when the man’s thick boot landed hard into his belly. He gasped and rolled onto the dewy grass by the path, desperately gulping for breath.

The sentry, contented for duty done, sheathed his sword and muttered to himself as he returned to his stubby stool. He adjusted his steel cap and belt, tugged at some uncomfortable clothing, folded his arms, and laid his broad head against his dubious headboard for few more hours of sleep.

Wil retreated to just beyond the edge of the village and veered off the path into a small wood to gather his wits. He touched his bruised shoulders lightly and cupped his painful ribs as he bent over to breathe. He lifted his face toward the abbey’s steeple, now moon-washed under a broken sky. He was ready for another try

This time he slipped through the night’s shadows to the safety of a large chestnut tree a mere ten paces from the snorting guard. He surveyed the wall, the massive wooden gate—and the alarm bell high in the guard tower. He set his eyes on the thick rope of the old bell hanging limply near Ansel’s head and he smiled. He positioned his leggings, pulled nervously at the hem of his thigh-long tunic, and began to steal his way toward the gate.

Wil moved across the ground like a half-starved cat stalking its prey, his teeth gritted and fists clenched; every sense was piqued. He was oblivious to the pain in his belly and the aching bruises on his welted back. Instead, he thought of nothing other than wrapping his hands around the stout stretch of rope silhouetted against the stone wall.

Five paces yet, now four, now three. He whispered two quick prayers, one to whatever benevolent angels might be hovering overhead and the other to whatever spirits might be drifting through the woodland. Two paces left. Suddenly the half-conscious Ansel jerked and twisted, wrestling with himself and the old stool. Wil stood paralyzed, one leg lifted in the air. His heart raced and he dared not draw breath. At last, the guard resettled himself and belched.

Then, as if directed by some unseen hand, Wil flung himself forward to seize the rope. He grasped the worn hemp with both of his hands and strained at it with all the power his young arms could muster. But the rusty bell barely gave way. Its wooden supports simply moaned and creaked as if annoyed at such a late-night intrusion. The alarmed lad stood and stared up at the high tower, panic seizing his chest. He squeezed his sweating hands hard around the prickly rope and cast a quick, nervous glance at Ansel, still comfortably asleep.

This time Wil pulled harder, as hard as he thought possible. But again, the stubborn clapper refused to strike its iron, and the obstinate bell yielded no sound other than the rubbing of old rope on smooth wood. Desperate, brave Wil squeezed the stubborn hemp one last time, now lifting his legs off the ground and summoning the spirits of his ancestors to pull with him. This time a deafening clang resounded from the tower above and echoed loudly through the valley!

Poor Ansel rolled off his stool and fell to the ground, howling in confusion as Wil strained on the rope one more time. The sentry clambered to his feet, thrashing his arms like a flustered windmill in a raging storm. He spotted Wil and furiously jerked his long-sword from his belt. Wil, all plans now abandoned, scampered along the abbey wall like a frightened rabbit darting from a mad dog.

The terrified lad raced toward the murky shadows of the distant southwest corner. He paid no mind to the alarm within the awakened abbey, for he could only hear the angry shouts of the pursuing Ansel. He neared the corner of the wall at full speed but suddenly tripped across a fresh-sawed firelog that lay in the darkness of his path. He sprawled into the grass with a gasp.

Oh God, he’ll surely kill me now.
He heard Ansel’s pounding footfalls growing louder and louder. Without another thought, Wil seized the log and stumbled around the corner. There he waited, his back pressed against the cold stone, his chest heaving, and his nostrils flared. Braced in the darkness, Wil clenched his new weapon with both his hands.

The quick-footed soldier dashed around the corner with his sword half raised. His legs took a mere three steps westward when the strong arms of young Wilhelm swung the stout stick across his shins. With a loud cry, Ansel fell facedown into a massive heap of leather and steel, his head striking hard on the earth and his small helmet bouncing impotently forward.

Wil, overtaken more by instinct than reason, bounded over the fallen soldier. His heart, once fluttering in fear, now surged with a strange, pleasing rush of new life. “There, I’ve the better of you.” The boy bolted several paces toward the gate but then stopped, still mysteriously drawn to the pride of conquest. He turned back toward the man lying motionless and silent. He stood over his fallen foe and smiled victoriously. His eyes caught a shimmer of a worthy token tucked securely in the man’s belt at the middle of his back. Wil bent forward curiously, and then snatched a dagger from its silver sheath. He stood erect and held his treasure carefully in both hands. He knew at once that he had indeed won a prize befitting the moment. He abruptly stuffed it in his belt and hastily backtracked the wall toward the chaos by the gate.