There Will Be Wolves (11 page)

As Bruno and Ursula set up the tent and made the evening fire, the townspeople, curious about the Crusade and anxious to hear more about it,
began to filter into the camp. Many of them brought gifts of food.

“Good even, mistress,” a voice said hesitantly from the darkness at the edge of the firelight.

Ursula looked up to see a young boy staring at her shyly. For a moment he reminded her of David. She caught her breath. Then she saw he was holding out a handful of small, wizened turnips.

“We have not much, mistress, but what we have we would share with you who are on such a holy Crusade,” he said.

An automatic refusal came to her lips, but died as she looked into the boy’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out for the offering. “We thank you very much.”

The boy beamed. “Go with God,” he said, and turned to scamper away.

Ursula looked up to see Bruno smiling for the first time in a long while. “The true spirit of God does show itself in unexpected places, doesn’t it?” he said.

Unsure of what he meant, Ursula turned quickly away to add the turnips to their stores.

That evening, just as they were finishing their meal, the sound of music drifted over to them from a circle of people gathered around a large fire in the middle of the camp. Ursula was immediately interested, Bruno as well. They had not heard music since they had left Cologne.

“Shall we go over and see what is happening?” Bruno asked.

“Yes, let us,” Ursula answered, surprised at the lightening and excitement in her heart. “Will you come, too, Father?”

“No, child,” the old man answered. “I will rest and listen from here.”

Ursula looked at him, worried for a moment. He seemed very tired and frail, but Bruno reached out a hand and pulled her to her feet.

As they reached the fire, they saw four people standing near it. There were three men and a woman. The men were dressed in brightly colored tunics and hoods; the woman wore a soft woolen shift of deep blue. In the flickering firelight, it set off her pale golden hair perfectly. Each was playing an instrument. One man, who seemed to be the leader of the group, was playing a long, narrow lute. Another blew into an ocarina. The third man had a strange instrument that Ursula had never seen before. It consisted of a skin pouch, which he tucked under his arm, attached to a pipe into which he blew. The music thus produced was wild and haunting, almost overpowering all the rest. The woman was beating time on a little drum hanging from her neck and decorated with many colored ribbons. She was singing, and her clear voice carried easily to where Ursula and Bruno stood. As they watched and listened, Ursula became aware that the
woman was not as old as she had supposed. In fact, she looked to be only a few years older than Ursula herself—no more than a girl yet. Suddenly, Ursula was surprised to see a small face peek out from behind her skirts. The men joined in the singing. Ursula did not understand the words—they were in a dialect she had never heard before, but the tunes were at once lively and haunting and the voices exceptionally good. The woman’s voice, in particular, was pure and true.

They sang and played for around an hour. Ursula sat beside Bruno on the grass, eyes closed, carried away from herself with the sweet music. She could almost believe she was back in Cologne, listening to a group of strolling minstrels in their own marketplace. When they finally stopped, she opened her eyes with a sigh of regret. Back to reality, and to a field that was getting cold and damp.

The minstrels bowed low. Then the woman reached behind her and pulled forth a tiny girl. The child’s fine hair hung down far below her narrow shoulders, paler even than the woman’s—nearly white in the firelight. The woman whispered something in her ear and pushed her forward. Reluctantly, the child moved. She came hesitantly toward the group of people, holding out a tattered velvet pouch. Some people laughed and tousled her hair as they dropped a
coin into her bag. She came toward Ursula.

“I have nothing for her,” Ursula whispered.

“I have a small coin,” Bruno answered.

The child approached them. Her eyes were wide and she had the air of a wild fawn that if startled might bolt. She shrank back from them a bit as she held out the pouch, obviously expecting another caress and not wishing it.

“Here you are, my little mistress,” Bruno said with utmost gallantry. He dropped his coin into the pouch and made a bow, careful not to touch her.

Her face lit up into a radiant smile, but Ursula frowned. Now that the child was close she could see an enormous bruise purpling one cheek, and the thin arm that held her pouch was scarred by an angry red welt. The child must have had a bad fall. Ursula’s fingers itched to soothe that swelling with a cooling poultice, but just at that moment their leader barked an order. The child’s smile disappeared instantly, and she ran back to the woman to hide again behind her skirts. The minstrels bowed their thanks and melted into the shadows.

The next day, as they were riding out of the camp, Ursula looked back. The fields where they had stayed were flattened, crops were overrun and destroyed. As far as she could see, the ruined ground looked as if a plague of locusts had passed through. Not a blade or a leaf of anything green
remained to be seen—everything had been either taken or trampled into the mud. Litter, refuse, and filth were strewn everywhere.

Not a very kind way to repay the villagers’ generosity, she thought.

T
he minstrels joined the Crusade and sang every evening. The men drank and joked with any who would treat them to ale or wine, but the woman kept herself and her child apart. Ursula grew worried about the small girl. It seemed that no sooner did one bruise fade but another appeared. One evening the woman herself had a swollen lip and her eyes looked as if she had been weeping. Try as she might, though, Ursula could find no way to speak to her. During the day the woman walked with the men, and after each performance at night she and her daughter seemed to just disappear.

April turned into May, and the farther south they went, the warmer it became. One afternoon, after they had made camp, Ursula determined to bathe herself as best as she could in the slow-flowing river. She had made do with pails of lukewarm water heated on their inadequate campfires long
enough. The river’s water would still be freezing, but at least she could wash her hair. She walked to the river bank. Several women were already there ahead of her, however, washing pots and fetching water. She turned back downstream to seek out a more private place. As she pushed through a tangle of bushes on the bank, she heard soft singing. There, sitting on a patch of grass, was the young woman from the minstrels’ group. Her daughter was in her arms. She was cradling the child, rocking her gently as she sang. Ursula stood for a moment, watching; then the woman looked up and saw her. She made as if to jump up.

“No, stay, please,” Ursula cried. “Please don’t go. I’ve been wanting to speak to you—I’ve enjoyed your singing so much.”

The woman looked back at her, then beyond her as if to see if anyone else was there.

“I’m alone,” Ursula said quickly, divining her thoughts. “There’s no one else here. My name is Ursula,” she went on. “We’ve come from Cologne.”

The young woman hesitated for a moment before answering, and then, timidly, pointed to herself. “Elizabeth,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth.” She spoke the Germanic dialect poorly and with obvious effort. She looked down at the child in her lap with pride. “My daughter, Verity.” The names sounded foreign and strange to Ursula.

“Where do you come from?” Ursula asked.

Elizabeth pointed north. “From far away. Across the sea. From England.”

“Why are you here?” Ursula persisted. “Why are you so far away from your home?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I follow my man,” she said simply.

“That man—the one who is your leader—is he your husband?” Ursula asked.

Elizabeth’s face clouded over. “No,” she answered slowly. “My husband is dead. He died of plague. Lemmet is just my man. He takes care of me and my daughter. Without him we would have starved,” she added. There was an odd note of defiance in her words. “He found us after my husband died. He took us in and taught me to sing. He takes care of us,” she repeated.

As she was speaking, Ursula noticed an ugly, mottled mark on her neck.

Elizabeth saw her looking at it and hastily pulled the cowl of her shift up around it. “Lemmet has been good to us,” she said, defiant again, as if Ursula had challenged her.

Ursula bit back the words she had been going to say. Instead, she turned to the child. “Verity,” she asked softly. “Will you speak to me?”

“She has no German,” Elizabeth answered quickly.

Ursula knelt, nevertheless. She reached out one hand slowly toward the child, as if luring a bird into her fingers. “Verity?” she repeated softly.

The child looked back at her, then up at her mother. There was another red welt on her shoulder. It had bled and was closing over in a puss-filled, dirty scab.

“I could heal that,” Ursula said to Elizabeth. “I have herbs and poultices. I know how. I could ease the pain she must be feeling.”

Elizabeth leaped to her feet and clutched Verity to her. “There is nothing wrong with her,” she said. “It’s just a scrape. Children get them all the time. You obviously know nothing!” She clasped her daughter’s hand and glared at Ursula, then turned and almost ran out of the clearing, hanging tightly onto Verity.

Ursula, stung by the rebuff, made no attempt to call after her. She bathed, and returned to their campsite, but she could not put the child out of her mind. The suspicion that Verity, and Elizabeth as well, were being maltreated by the man called Lemmet was strong.

Bruno noticed her preoccupation. Later that night, as they sat by the fire, he spoke to her.

“What worries you, Ursula?” he asked. “You’ve hardly said a word all evening.”

Master William had gone as usual to the count, in spite of Ursula’s protests. The count called for him nearly every evening now, with one complaint or another. Ursula suspected that there was not much really wrong with him, but having contracted for the services of a doctor, he was bound
to use him. The strain was beginning to tell on Master William, however.

“My father,” she answered. “I fear for his health. He gets so little sleep, and going back and forth to the count’s campsite on these damp evenings is not good for him.” She stopped speaking for a moment, then went on. “I was thinking, too, about that woman—you know? The singer with the minstrels? She and her child were down by the river when I went there.”

“What passed between you to preoccupy you so?”

“The child always bears bruises—have you not noticed? And this afternoon the mother—Elizabeth she is called—had marks on her neck. I think that man who is their leader beats them.”

“I have noticed,” Bruno answered. “Did you ask?”

“No. I didn’t dare.” Absentmindedly, Ursula picked up a twig and threw it on the fire. “She is afraid. She would barely speak to me.” She pushed the twig farther into the almost dead fire with her toe. “I know not what to do about it.”

“I do not see that you can do anything,” Bruno said. “It is none of your concern.”

“You,
Bruno?” Ursula burst out.
“You
say such a thing? I would have expected better of you.”

“You can treat the wounds if she will let you,” Bruno said, “but I do not see what else you can possibly do. The woman chooses her own life.”

“But she shouldn’t allow such things to happen,” Ursula argued hotly. “If not for her own sake, then for the sake of the child. She should leave him.”

“And do what?” Bruno asked.

“I don’t know. But she should do something! How can you not agree with me?”

“I do agree with you,” Bruno countered, trying to keep a reasonable tone of voice, “but it might not be that simple for her.”

“Simple or not,” Ursula insisted stubbornly, “she should not stand for it. She should take better care of her child. I can’t believe you to be so uncaring!” She jumped to her feet and once again retreated to her tent without bidding Bruno good night.

  *  *  *  

The mist was still hanging in the valleys when they set out the following day. The sun was out above it, however, and blazed a path across the water toward Ursula. She closed her eyes and raised her face to the warmth. It felt good, but her mind was still troubled and she felt even more guilty than before about Bruno. But he
should
agree with me, she thought stubbornly.

The next day it rained, and the day after that. For the rest of the time it took them to reach the Danube, the sun did not shine again. It got to the
point where Ursula began to feel that she would never be dry or warm again. Everything they owned was wet. At night they crawled into a soaking tent and curled up in damp blankets. In the morning they drew on damp cloaks and climbed wearily onto the sodden seat of the wagon. Even Samson’s spirits seemed diminished. They sought shelter in their tents as early as possible every evening, often with only cold bread and cheese to eat. The wood and branches they could gather were too wet to burn for a fire, and the incessant rain was too heavy for them to bother trying anyway.

The minstrels no longer sang, and Ursula had not seen them during the days. She was not even certain they were still with them. Her father’s health was beginning to worry her seriously, however, so she tried to put Elizabeth and Verity out of her mind. She made infusions of mallow flowers and leaves for her father—the best remedy she knew for the unceasing cough that racked him day and night—and poultices of black mustard seeds for his chest, but nothing seemed to help. One night, just before they reached the Danube, the count sent as usual for her father, but when he tried to rise, he tottered. If Bruno had not been near to catch his arm, he would have fallen.

“You cannot go, Father,” Ursula said. “You are far too ill. The count will just have to do without you tonight.”

“Daughter, I must,” her father answered, looking around vaguely for his sack of herbs and medicines. “The count must have his nightly infusion of keck. He cannot sleep without it.”