Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (9 page)

He relaxed a little and secured both hands on the lapels of his robes. “Brave children, the Lord is bringing you into a good land; a land with streams, and pools of water with springs flowing in the valleys and hills. A land with wheat and barley, vines and fig trees, pomegranates, olive oil, and honey. The land you shall take possession of is a land of mountains and valleys that drink rain from heaven.”

Paulus closed his eyes. “On a day soon, a song shall be sung in the land of Judah. Open the gates, O Jerusalem, that the righteous
children
may enter in. Keep perfect peace, O my God, for those whose minds are steadfast. Help them trust in Thee forever, O Lord, our Lord, the Rock eternal!”

He opened his eyes and stood quietly for a long moment. Then, with a pleading, inspiring voice he cried, “Children of Christendom … will you join in Holy Crusade? Will you join with the others and deliver Palestine from her oppressor? Will you serve the Almighty and His Holy Church and enter, victorious, the gates of Jerusalem?”

Unable to restrain himself a moment longer, a young lad jumped in the air and cried, “I’ll go, blessed Father! I’ll go!”

Then, as if a gust of wind suddenly rushed through the abbey, voices from every corner echoed the boy’s cry. “Yes! Yes! We go … we go!” Children shouted and cheered, stamped their feet and danced. A wild scramble of child crusaders then poured out the church’s doors and spilled into the courtyard. “We go! We go to God!” Many parents, now caught in the moment, laughed and sang, for they would now be heirs, heirs of blessing in a Holy Crusade—a Children’s Crusade!

Smiling, the legate backed away from the pulpit. Abbot Udo seemed anxious and he stared forward slack-jawed and speechless. The archbishop stood and nodded to the legate politely, though another’s sharp eye might have noticed a hint of restrained objection. His Grace reordered his vestments and slowly quieted his congregation with his raised crosier. After waiting patiently, he finally commanded the bell tower to peal. Then, having gained some measure of control he spoke solemnly. “Know this: that you are sent out like lambs among wolves. Go with God in faith; go with our prayers that He will deliver thee from thine enemies.”

The archbishop raised his arms in farewell, grasping his staff with his right hand and extending it over the heads at his feet. He closed his eyes and, with a rising voice, pronounced, “Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight thyselves in the Lord and He shall bestow upon you the desires of thy heart. Commit thy way to the Lord, trust in Him and He shall do this. He shall make thy righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of thy cause like the noonday sun.”

Then he held his place as if numbed by his own words and stood in absolute silence. His audience hushed. He stared at the heights of the ceiling with a look of sudden anguish, arched his back, and stretched his arms wide as if to embrace all heaven and earth. Then he prayed silently, and turned away.

Wil had spent this unusual Sabbath nagged by curiosity and he listened with piqued interest to the bells that tolled without good order. He had wrestled with a gnawing guilt over Ansel’s death, but now dismissed it as an accidental act of self-defense. To escape his nagging conscience, he minded his ailing mother and passed time studying Lukas’s medicinal herbs and roots that he had strewn about his table. He pinched a bit of this and that and held the ground herbs to his nose. Some smelled sweet, others musty, but he recognized few. Several labels had been fortuitously scratched on the pottery vials and the tops of the tins. He shook a handful of dried plants from a wallet and was able to identify thyme and buckthorn.
Ah, there.
The boy brightened.
Yes, thistle and sage, rue and hyssop. These I do know well. And here, sweet mint and camomile. Thanks be to Emma. I should have listened better.

He recalled Father Pious’s suggesting he find
atropa belladonna
for his mother’s fever, and though void of affection for the priest, Wil thought the medicinal advice worthy of consideration. Upon close examination of an etching on a narrow tin, he deciphered the faint inscription, “X Atropa Bel.” The rest was too worn to read. Content to have found the herb of choice, he proceeded to brew an infusion for his mother.

Marta had shown some surprising improvement during the day and her fever seemed somewhat lessened. “Drink this,” Wil offered. He secretly hoped she would notice he had delivered the brew in her favorite clay dish.

Marta cupped the bowl with trembling hands and lifted the hot brew to her lips. She sipped gingerly, then pursed her lips and frowned. “Too hot! And what is it… some witch’s steep, little man?” she scolded.

“No, mother,” sighed Wil. “’Tis a potion proposed by the priest… a remedy for the fever and you’d be well to take it down.”

“Father Albert, I hope,” snapped Marta hoarsely.

“Nay, Father Pious,” answered Wil curtly.

“Pious! I should like nothing more that man has to offer.” She set the bowl on her lap and looked away.

Wil nodded. “Aye, but an herb is an herb.”

Marta stared at the drink before lifting it again to her lips. “This hardly fills the belly. Get me soup.”

Wil dutifully went to the common room and gathered a handful of dried peas, some millet, and a scallion from the row of crocks shelved near the door. He stepped outside to the barrel and ladled some water into his iron kettle when he heard the first sounds of returning villagers. He squinted his eyes in the fading light of mid-evening and strained his ears to the distant groans and creaks of old wagons.
More food ought be thrown in the kettle
, he thought, and as the shuffling feet of beast and peasant filled the hamlet, a thin gruel began to steam over hot coals.

An oxcart paused to unload Karl and Maria and the two charged through the door of the house. “Oh, Wil!” exclaimed the excited boy. “This day is unlike any other. The manor’s children are preparing to go to God on the great Crusade Father Pious told us about. The village children are making ready to leave at dawn to march to the great city of Zion with ‘neither bow nor sword nor dagger’ to reclaim all of Palestine for God!”

Wil answered bluntly, “Good for them, but we’ve a sick mother to attend. Have Maria feed her, and you eat.” He turned and walked out the door.

“But Wil,” persisted Karl as he chased after him, “Father Pious says our mother can only be healed by penance. He told me whatever sins our family suffers can be redeemed through our going.”

Wil held his tongue for a moment, looking first at Maria and then Karl. He walked slowly back to the hearth and squatted. “What about
her
?” he asked, pointing to their sister. “Would you force Maria to Palestine for a churchman’s lie? Why not just make her swim to Cathay and save
all
the world!”

“We are all under God’s protection. The Church swears to us that God goes with us. ‘We’ll be borne by the wings of angels,’ the priest from Cologne said, and what of the visions of Stephan and Nicholas? They have been shown the sea opening for us as it did for Moses. God will provide, Wil. Where is your faith?”

Wil stood to his feet and spat. “Where is my faith? Ha! Where are your brains?”

“But Wil,” said Maria softly, “see, we each have our cross to carry.” She held up three wooden crosses made of apple sticks lashed with hemp twine.

Karl added proudly, “I cut them from the abbey orchard and they were blessed by a priest from Mainz.” He clutched one close to his heart with both hands. “I beg you, dear brother, we must Crusade, we must go for God. Frau Anka says she’ll stitch red crosses on our shirts.”

Wil stared into the
mus
bubbling at his feet for several quiet moments. He struggled with the agreement he and Pious had made. His mind raced.
I must needs leave this place, I want to be gone from here … I have always wanted away. But dare I abandon that old hag in there… dare I take poor Maria? What to do?
The tormented lad threw the wooden ladle into the gruel and snapped, “I’ll make our decision on the morrow, but we’ll not go at dawn … and that is the end of it.”

Karl, disappointed but submissive, filled his plate slowly while Maria scampered away to tend their mother. Wil, sullen and withdrawn, retreated to the refuge of his bed and closed his eyes.

“But you did say you’d decide by prime?” blurted Karl.

“Ja, ja
… by terce to be sure. Now be done with your slurping and go to sleep.”

Karl was not easily quieted. He was bursting with anticipation, his blue eyes wide and bright, his cheeks red and glowing in the firelight. Unable to sleep, he turned to Wil again. “I learned a new riddle today.”

Maria returned and sat crossed-legged on her bed, waiting. Wil covered his ears and groaned. “Nay, Karl, not now. I thought you quit on these fools’ riddles.”

Dawn broke early to Wil’s mind, though hardly quick enough for the excited Karl. The redhead bounded from his bed and rushed about his chores, paying no attention whatever to the pleasant breezes bending the fields of rye overlooking Weyer. The bakery apprentice, Tomas the Schwarz, stood in the doorway waiting to attend his duties.

Poor Tomas was a foundling; rescued an infant’s death from the rear of a shearing shed where an unknown mother had abandoned him to freeze some fourteen years prior. His blazing, black eyes and black hair earned him his surname. He was a distant, bitter boy, with sinewy muscles stretched tightly over a tall frame. The monks had cared for him in some respects, providing adequate food and shelter, but they failed in offering affection or instruction. Unable to confine the angry lad within the abbey walls, he was released to serve as apprentice to the peasant’s bakery two years ago.

Tomas pointed a long finger at the group of children now gathering behind the wheelwright’s shed. “Be y’going by this fools’ Crusade?” he asked Wil.

Wil shrugged. “Perhaps, though not today.”

Tomas nodded. “’Tis a way to escape this miserable place.”

Suddenly Frau Anka bustled from a flock of village mothers toward the two boys, waving her arms and calling to them. “Come, m’boys. Come do the will of God. Join the others. We’ve your red patches ready and … why do you stand there, Wil? Pious said y’d be leaving!”

Wil and Tomas looked at her and said nothing. Frustrated, the husky woman snarled and grabbed Wil by the hair on the side of his head. “Come with me!”

Wil jerked back, wincing. “Nay, Frau, I’m needed here.”

“But y’needs do the penance! The village needs all of you to save us.”

“Do your own penance, you old sow,” muttered Wil.

Weyer’s children were gathering amid the well-wishes of suddenly reluctant elders. A strange uneasiness had begun to stir, a nervous rustling like anxious leaves before a storm. The sun was rising in a blue sky, and Karl and Maria looked wistfully at the growing numbers of familiar faces waiting by the village well for Father Pious’s blessing.

At last the priest appeared on his forlorn donkey and he rolled off in his usual manner. The crusaders gathered in a half-circle as Pious approached. He ceremoniously held a large, silver crucifix before his placid face and muttered a prayer.

Karl and Maria stood slightly to the side of the others and listened intently as Father Pious offered his blessing and words of encouragement. Karl looked jealously at his friends. There was Otto, the miller’s son, a rather sturdy, blonde boy of thirteen with freckles and bright green eyes. Beside him wobbled Lothar, Otto’s youngest brother, a mere four years old and still chubby and soft. And close by the trunk of the linden stood Ingrid, a yeoman’s daughter, with her sister, Beatrix, of about eight. Karl thought Ingrid was pretty; he loved how her long red hair was knotted at the base of her craning neck and how she smiled so gently. He always liked Ingrid and, with a sheepish grin, he waved an affectionate good-bye.