Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (51 page)

Pieter beckoned the lad to his side. “Yes, my son?”

“I know of no sin that would have caused Maria’s suffering.” The boy ran his fingers through his curls and shook his head. “But I now know how I wounded Frieda and the yeoman.”

Pieter drew a deep breath. He was weary and hungry and ready to speak of other things. But a shepherd’s spirit ruled his heart. “I’ve a question for you. Could you not imagine sufferings to ever be a blessing for the obedient?”

Karl tossed some pebbles into the water and thought for a moment. “I cannot imagine it.”

“Aye, ‘tis a hard thing. Karl, consider this: Methinks we needs consider our present sufferings in a different way. You see, because God walked this sad earth, He understands how we feel. But because He is God He knows better what we need … and what we need is to be drawn closer to Him. To come to that place, I fear, some of us are sometimes allowed to suffer sadness, others sickness, poverty, or pain … or failings. He can turn all evil into good; He offers our trials as paths to His mercies.”

Karl stared at the water. “Why must it be so?”

“Ha! Ha, ha! Good one, lad!” He wrapped an arm lovingly around the boy. “There’s the riddle I shall
never
solve. I have no answer, boy, but hear me … hear me, everyone: I no longer need one!”

Chapter 23

STARS OVER THE TICINO

E
vening was falling when a voice echoed from some distance down the shoreline. Karl and Pieter stood to their feet with the others and peered through the twilight’s mist. Racing toward them was Benedetto, shouting cheerily,
“Bambini! Bambini!
Pieter! Good news!”

The excited children scrambled toward him, Heinz dashing to the lead. Benedetto embraced his comrades as each met him, panting and laughing and clapping his hands. “God be praised!” He gasped for air. “God be praised.”

“What is it?” asked Wil.

“I have found you transport from the village ahead. I’ve come by two barges that were rowed from Stresa by a crew that has run off. The merchantman’s deputy is desperate to find another crew to take them to Pavia!”

Karl stepped forward. “Rowed?”

“
Si
,
si
,
ragazzo
,” Benedetto laughed. “Rowed. ‘Tis less a task than walking. Each boat holds four oarsmen as well as the cargo of wool bales you must deliver. But there is room aplenty for all.”

Karl complained. “Ha, minstrel. The small ones can row no boat, and—”

“Nay, but I surely can,” said Pieter. “And we’ve enough strong arms for other oars. Aye! Benedetto can row with us. We’ll make this do.”

Benedetto stopped smiling. “I beg your leave, Pieter, but my journey ends here.”

A chorus of objections rose from the shocked crusaders. “Nay, nay, you must needs stay… you’d be one of us … we want your songs!”

Frieda pleaded, “
Bitte, bitte!
You must come with us.

We’ve come to love you, minstrel… and you know these lands….”

Wil stepped toward him. “Listen to me. We need you.”

Benedetto wrung his hands. “I have learned to love you all more than I can say. But since I have known you, I have lost much: I lost what little respect of myself I had at the siege. I lost my heart here, on these very shores by the graves of those tender ones. And, oh Maria, I feel my faith slipping.
Bambini, amici
… the cost of this journey is far too great and I am but a poor man. I yearn for my dock where I can simply sing my happy ballads in peace and watch life pass me by.”

“’Tis not a good choice at all,” said Pieter bluntly. “Any man might hide in fear from time to time, but to choose a life of it—
ach
. What selfish cowardice!”

Benedetto was taken aback by the priest’s rebuke. “I only wish to sit by the water and play my songs and give joy to travelers. I do not need all this … this heartache.”

“Then have your simpleton’s life, small little man. Go! Hide on your miserable dock and deny the world what you’ve to offer.”

“Why do you charge me like this, Pieter?” pleaded Benedetto. “I have served your cause, and at a cost. Cannot I leave in peace?”

Pieter shook his head but softened his tone. He cared greatly for the minstrel and took no pleasure in rebuking him. The children gathered close and waited quietly for Pieter’s answer. “Dear Benedetto, if I prayed God’s blessings on your wishes I would be no friend. Your own words accuse you, not mine, for they make it plain that your heart’s desire is to hide from all that might give you pain. You are not seeking a time of respite, nor are you seeking a better place to serve others. Nay, you are fleeing.”

The priest’s frank words now drew anger from Benedetto, a telling sign of arrows on the mark. “I am not hiding!” he declared. “I only seek a simpler life.”

Pieter countered calmly. “I am not your judge, nor do I know the inward chambers of your heart. Forgive me if I am wrong, good friend, but I think it wise for you to consider your way.”

Pieter paused and set his hand on the minstrel’s shoulder. “Some have said simplicity is a higher way to live. I know, for I once withdrew to an order where I lived by simplicity as well. My life was governed by a simple threefold vow: poverty, chastity, and obedience. But it was for naught. We may seek to live simply but the world we are called to serve is a whirlwind of confusion.”

Benedetto pulled away. “I was happy on my dock. I suffered no confusion until you and these entered my life. I wish to stay by my simple ways.”

“Truly, truly, simplicity may bring joy. But
two
ways of simplicity exist. The first way understands that simple truths do govern the world—and this I admit readily. But this way leads us through the whirlwind first so that we may drink of the simple things more deeply on the far side of struggle.

“But I fear the simplicity
you
run to, Benedetto, is of the other sort—the simplicity of ignorance. The joy gleaned from this is but fleeting, for the press of life ever squeezes against it. Ignorance lives by blindness and blindness is ne’er a virtue. It shall suck you deeper into itself and, in time, leave you in a different sort of misery.”

Benedetto was neither willing nor able to yield to Pieter’s instruction, and it made him ill-at-ease and anxious. At last he replied, “I … I am not able to live in the world as others, Pieter. I cannot bear the shame of myself. Look at me. I am little and foolish. I told you of the day the priest took me to the castle? I did not tell you all: It was not a kindly act—my father was offering me to the Verdi as a jester for their court. A jester!” The minstrel’s chin quivered.

“I’ve no keen mind. I’ve little arms not suited to throw a fishnet or lift sheaves of wheat. Nay, I can do little else but hide in my music.” Benedetto fought back the tears.

Compassion filled the hearts of all listening and many eyes watered. Pieter stood silently and groaned within himself. He did not regret his rebuke but wondered if he had pursued the little man with more earnestness than he ought. Perhaps, had he known of the Benedetto’s past, his words might have taken a more kindly tack. He reminded himself that he was called to encourage, not destroy.

Pieter smiled kindly, stepped forward, and embraced the minstrel. “Ah, Benedetto, go as God gives you strength and consider my words as you can. Do whatever you must—we’ll always love you.”

The children circled about the tearful Benedetto and some held his hands. “At dawn,” he choked. “I told the merchants you would meet them at the dock at dawn.”

Well before daybreak, Wil roused his crusaders for their short journey along the lake’s western shore to the nearby fishing village. “Up, everyone. Up! We’ve need to move—quickly, quickly.”

Like so many mornings before, the children were soon standing in a quiet column, yawning and rubbing faces, gnawing on a few bread crusts or chewing hard on strips of fish and smoked bacon. Once properly ordered, they slipped silently through the fog of predawn darkness, following the silvery edge of the lake until the first light of day grayed the sun-baked bricks of the unnamed village ahead. Benedetto led the children to the single wharf, where a grumbling clerk surveyed the little band. “What did you bring me, minstrel?” he growled.

“These children are strong and trustworthy.”

The clerk pulled on the wide sash that girded his round belly and ran his fingers through his hair. “I am not sure of this. I’m on m’way to my office in Stresa and I think I might find a better crew there.”

Benedetto whispered, “As I said, my friend, these children will row your master’s transport all the way to Pavia for no payment other than the use of your boats.”

The clerk looked at his would-be sailors warily. “I see a few strong lads, but what of the little ones?”

Benedetto pressed. “Ah,
signore.
The lake … she is quiet and the Ticino is smooth. And I have traveled with these children down the rushing Rhône.”

“I have never been on the Rhône.”

“Never have you ridden the Rhône?”

“No.”

“Ha! The Ticino and this flat lake of yours are like bathwater compared to it.”

The clerk hesitated. “My master has a heavy hand. I’d not fare well if this idea goes amiss.”

“Come, good fellow,” urged the minstrel. “They are on Holy Crusade. They have the hand of God on them. Surely you can see that. They have been sheltered by the angels since they left their villages in the far north. They were protected over the great mountains, and you fear to give them charge of two pathetic barges? The angels are offering to guide your cargo at no charge … and you hesitate?”

“What assurance do I have that they shall arrive safely? My master is waiting in Pavia to return them with barrels of broadcloth from Rome and …”

“A fair question,
signore
, and I only offer this: “I’ll remain here as your guarantee until the safe return of your boats.”

“And what would I do with a minstrel as a voucher?”

Benedetto shrugged. “I’ll play in the common, and any money I earn is yours if the boats do not return in a fortnight. And, if they do, I keep my money and a humble … percentage of your profits.”

The clerk rocked on his feet and stared hard into Benedetto’s twinkling eyes. “You are a cunning little fox,” he grunted. “But a shilling is your commission and not a penny more.”

The two clasped hands and, with a wave and a smile, Benedetto invited his fellows to board their flat- bottomed barges. In the center were neatly piled bales of fleece that had been carted through France and destined for spinning in Milan. At the bow and stern of each boat were wide, wooden benches stretching the width of the boat and placed just behind long oars waiting in their iron eyelets.

The children were ordered aboard and they clambered over and around the roped bales of English wool to seats assigned by Wil and Pieter. The small ones giggled as they set their hands on the thick, smooth oars. The clerk was impressed by the company’s disciplined boarding and gave his final instructions to Pieter.
“Padre,
you shall find my master, Constantino, at his shop past the chandler’s and alongside the sailmaker on the waterfront in Pavia. You will give him this sealed letter with the boats.”

Pieter shook hands with the clerk and stepped toward Benedetto. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”

Benedetto nodded sadly.

“As shall I,” added Wil.

“Good-bye, Benedetto,” said Karl.

“God be with you,” said Frieda.

Soon a chorus of farewell blessings resounded from the boats. Benedetto choked and smiled and waved at his young friends. He embraced Pieter and watched him climb to position. Dockmen loosed the heavy ropes which bound the crafts to their moorings and pushed the crusaders slowly into the quiet lake. The minstrel held his lute close to his breast and strummed a little tune as the children began to row.

Fare thee well, my dearest friends.

Fare thee well.

God’s breezes gently drift you toward

    your farther shore.

Fare thee well, my good friends.

Fare thee well.

May God’s blessings be upon you evermore.

Fare thee well…

His voice trailed off across the lapping waves.