‘What sorcery is this?’ Brother Luke conjured a fifth egg from the ear of Zepp and handed it to his assistant, Kurt. ‘I declare your right ear more bountiful than your left.’
The ten-year-old yelled in gleeful amazement. ‘Achim, my ear lays eggs! It provides us with eggs!’
In turn, absorbed by the mystery, the children inspected the produce and the source from whence it came. Brother Luke observed them with warm benevolence. To his charges he was shield and talisman, a guardian as gnarled and weathered as an ancient olive tree. His own longevity inspired confidence; his very presence was proof that they too might survive. He smiled and talked, brought certainty and banished cares, and the youngsters listened with rapt concentration. None on their journey had displayed such kindness or shown such attention as this ragged friar with the lined face and pale compassionate eyes. He would have seen much, experienced the tempest and trials of many lands and threescore years. And he was an Englishman.
Otto caught an egg juggled and thrown by the friar and cracked it in a skillet. ‘I had you marked as soldier, Brother Luke. Now it seems you are jongleur and magician.’
‘Judge not a man by his manner or his words.’ Another egg was flipped and expertly captured. ‘I am the lowliest of beggars, yet read Latin and Greek and enjoy debate and scholarly learning. I speak seven tongues, including your own, but remain a son of Albion.’
‘Tell us of England.’ It was Kurt who asked.
‘There is little to confide, for I left as a boy. It rains much, and I hear the wicked King John overtaxes his benighted people. My own thoughts are turned to a different kingdom.’
‘Why is it you now make pilgrimage to the Holy Land?’
‘To pray, to preach, and to die. I am old now, must prepare for the time when God calls me home and my carcass is rendered to the grave.’
Otto cocked his head. ‘I have seen no hint of your decline.’
‘The more reason to go while sight and strength remain. What worthier cause exists than to return to the sacred soil of Palestine, to retrace the steps where first I trod on passage to the Holy Sepulchre?’
‘You have travelled there before?’
‘Once. I was young, a novice monk at the great Cistercian abbey of Cîteaux. A group of brothers sailed for Outremer, and I, full of joy and wonder, accompanied them on their voyage. There were hard times, good times. Jerusalem was ruled by a crusader king; the Templars and Hospitallers swaggered with the inner fire of invincibility.’ Wistfulness briefly misted his eyes. ‘It was before Saladin and the years that led to the Horns of Hattin, before the Saracen prevailed over the chain-mail and lances of the Latin knights.’
The children had gathered round, eager to consume the wisdom and anecdotal scraps offered by this priest, this veteran, this most masterful of storytellers. They had told him of how Kurt had almost been lost to a river, how they had consigned the body of little Lisa to the earth, how they endured and toiled, had faced danger and Gunther and the four murderous horsemen who fell upon poor Hans. The face of Brother Luke had clouded when he heard. It was as though he knew of what they spoke, was troubled by memory of a rumour, by the ghost of distant legend. But the moment passed and new diversions arose. There were always tricks to perform, a hundred questions from his avid audience to answer.
Isolda, her chin perched in her hands, stared mesmerized at the old friar. ‘How does Jerusalem appear, Brother Luke? Is is white and shining like the city of God?’
‘Its towers are as tall as the sky, its holy places girdled by the strongest of walls. Yet happiness is scarce at a site where conflict is forever present.’
‘Shall we bring peace?’
‘I pray to God we do, for the land of Our Saviour cries out for it.’ He gently patted her face. ‘Love is what matters and conquers, dear daughter. And you and Kurt, Zepp and Achim, Egon and Otto will each and all bear witness and spread the message to the unbelievers.’
His voice muted with fatigue, the blind Achim whispered his doubts. ‘Saracens lie ahead, Brother Luke. Infidels with swords and spears, with loathing in their hearts.’
‘None could hate or harm you, for all are descendants of the tribes of Abraham. Besides, I am here, and who will match this humble friar in fair fight or foul?’
‘There are still the Cathars behind.’ Egon sat on watch at a small distance, was gazing back towards the route they had travelled.
Maybe he was anxious, or perhaps he smarted at the affection and regard in which Isolda held the noble Otto, Kurt reflected. He felt awkward for his true and steady friend. Brother Luke rose and took the arm of the boy to bring him closer to the lapping campfire.
‘No son of a blacksmith should be far from the flames. As for Cathars, dispel them from your thoughts. We have put miles between us, have crossed the river Po. Look forward instead. Genoa is close, and Rome beckons.’
Levity returned as they ate and sang, as a restful moon rose to hang above the warm late-August evening. There was trust and belief and friendship in the shared company and the simple act of breaking bread. The friar felt honoured to be among them as their guide. They had chosen him as he had chanced upon them, had welcomed him to their side. How young they were, how vulnerable they seemed to the ravages and vagaries of the world. He had left his tiny community on the plain of Porziuncola, bid farewell to his dear brother Francis of Assisi to protect the younglings and prepare them for their odyssey. Now they sat and ate among terraced vineyards not thirty miles from Genoa and the coast. The Lord help them, the Franciscan prayed, and the Lord advise them to turn back before they journeyed further.
Camped and clustered beneath the dark walls of Genoa were the remnants of the Children’s Crusade. They had made it somehow, several thousand of them trickling in with shredded feet and harrowing tales, their faces grown old and their clothes dissolved to rags. From early June to late August they had marched, scavenging for provisions and burying their dead. This was the result. A desolate sense of loss and tragedy clung about them, glimmered dark in their shocked and recessed eyes. They could not quite believe they remained alive, could not conceive of what they had been through. Luck was a relative thing. As each frayed and diminished band slumped to a staggering halt, the scale of calamity became ever clearer. Most had not arrived. For those that did, one last affront and final betrayal greeted them. The seas had not parted to allow dry passage and onward trek to the Holy Land. It was hardly surprising the boy preacher Nikolas and his acolytes had vanished, apparently moving on towards Rome or into self-appointed exile.
Otto, Kurt and Brother Luke moved about the huddled groupings in the early-morning mist. Occasionally they would kneel to bind wounds or offer words of prayer and comfort, or distribute bread and biscuit from loaded sacks. The citizens of Genoa had been generous. But it would take time to banish the melancholy and repair the harm. Any who saw such a sight would have taken pity. So it was that litters were sent to carry in the ill and the lame, food and drink were brought to the exhausted young, and mothers came to plead with children who could be their own to stay and abandon their ongoing folly. Few of the arrivals had strength to argue. They were merely grateful to find rest, might one day be happy to be with the living.
Crouching to hold a goatskin water-pouch to the lips of a young girl, Kurt murmured encouragement and let her drink. She took his hand and squeezed it, wanting to hold on, wishing to cling to another human. Around them were the consumptive coughs of the road, the babbling of insanity and nightmares that refused to flee. Malnutrition and a driving pace had brought them to this. Kurt threaded on through the prone and huddled figures, his heart heavy and tread soft as he wandered in a landscape of scattered bundles and hooded forms. A wretched vista. He stooped again to proffer the gourd, but recoiled at the coldness of the touch. The boy was dead, his companions too tired or indifferent to weep or notice.
A head turned towards him, the tufted red hair, the mean face with its tight sardonic grin, familiar beneath the leather cowl. Kurt s
ensed his nerve-ends freeze before recognition dawned. Gunther, son of the woodsman, had been waiting for him.
‘God smiles on us, Kurt. Be glad of our meeting.’
Chapter 7
‘Pursue the ball! Put your foot to it!’
A game of football was in full cry. Within the scrimmage of dust and feet, punches were thrown, teeth spat, curses traded, and the ball chased in bloody disorder from one end of the market square to the other. Genoa was used to tribalism. It often fought Pisa, its most sworn of city-state rivals, with drawn sword in deadly battle. Grievances were nursed, merchants vied and squabbled with merchants, ruling families indulged in violent feud between themselves. Sporting contest was never likely to remain immune to similar brutish aggression.
Kurt dodged again, pushing forward and ducking through the collision shockwave of two opposing players to regain possession of the ball. Moving fast, he swerved and kicked, watching the curving flight of the leatherclad pig-bladder and its impact on the wooden stool. Three strikes to one. The pilgrim boys were leading their hosts, and sportsmanship was suffering. Already Kurt had bruised shins, a cut lip and a blackened eye. But the sun shone, morale had climbed, and Isolda and Egon cheered him from the sidelines. Otto too was there, stropping his sword and oiling it with linseed, shouting encouragement. Even the cityfolk stood and commented, impressed at the skill and boldness of these German young. Such children would make worthy sons of Genoa should they choose to stay.
‘You do well, Kurt. Rest awhile and let others take the punishment.’
The twelve-year-old nodded and, gasping to catch breath, lowered himself to sit beside the young noble on a stone block. Before them, the match had become uglier. A stall of oranges was overturned, its contents spilling among the stampeding tumult, the complaints of the vendor drowned by hostilities and the mirth of onlookers.
‘We lead them a merry chase, Otto.’
‘Whether you gain friends or find enemies is unclear. But it is good to see.’ The noble boy ran a cloth over the steel blade and squinted at his handiwork. ‘They should have guessed that those who walk from Cologne are the hardiest of their breed.’
‘Those who still stand are the most fortunate. I worry for Achim.’
‘He is cared for by kindly people, attended by Zepp and Brother Luke, watched over by God. He will make recovery.’
‘If he does not . . .’
Apprehension stole across the countenance of the youngster. His friend the blind ten-year-old with the voice of an angel and laugh of a cherub had sickened and faded, now lingered at the fringes of life. Zepp, his twin, talked to him and prayed, Brother Luke cooled his face and tried to spoon broth into his mouth. But Achim, who had achieved so much, who had brought light and levity in their darkest hours, was spent. They would have to leave him. It meant another departure that was one more death.
Otto put down the sword and gripped his shoulder. ‘No weakness, Kurt. Face fortune as you play the ball, as you challenged the Cathars. Achim and Zepp expect you to be strong.’
‘You are right, just as you spoke truly that there would be no parting of the waters, no travelling on foot across dry seas to Palestine.’
‘It does not signal we shall not get there, young brother.’
‘Must we reach Rome when there is boat set ready for sail from Genoa?’
‘And miss fair adventure, the chance to see the greatest of cities, to receive proper blessing before we depart?’
‘There are autumn storms approaching, Otto.’ Kurt peered at his older friend. ‘I have heard them talk at the harbourside in fear of the coming winds and waves.’
‘Yet sailors prepare to put to sea.’
‘Not for long. This ship is one of the last to head for Palestine before onset of winter. Should we walk for Rome, will there not be few in late September willing to risk destruction?’
‘Merchants will ever seek trade, captains always try to earn a living. Caution and proud seamanship will carry us there.’
‘I have never before viewed the oceans, never set foot aboard a vessel.’
‘Nor I, Kurt. Though I have heard much from pilgrims and friends of my father, learned from what my tutor taught me.’
‘Perhaps we will encounter sea monsters and discover mermaids.’
The sixteen-year-old smiled. ‘I would vouch you had faced sufficient threat on land.’
‘That land schools me well, informs me we may yet fall off the edge of the world.’
‘Surprise and revelation will doubtless happen.’
‘Gunther happens.’ It was said with feeling.
‘I recall he was no match the last time we met, that he near-fouled his hose and fled the scene.’
‘He does not forget, Otto.’
‘Then he will remember how it was to have my blade pressed close to his throat. It should temper his actions.’
‘He will wait and watch.’
‘As shall we. So put him and other demons from your mind.’
Kurt would try. Yet he glanced about to be certain, to gauge if the son of the woodsman was near. Old habits, familiar routines, were hard to abandon. Isolda left her seat and approached to apply unction to his wounds. She enjoyed her role as older sibling, welcomed the excuse to edge closer to Otto. Her brother submitted to her care with his usual resignation. Only when the cuts smarted and he winced at their sting did the pang of remembrance enter his heart and the image of the girl in Cologne with the flaxen hair flicker into view. So many days since, and so many dead.
Otto had noticed the shadow of anguish. ‘Noble or pauper, we all of us die, Kurt. It is how we live that matters. Resume your game and show Genoa of what you are made.’
He obeyed and, with Egon at his side, charged back to the fray.
Money was changing hands. Among the squat stone houses and dusty recesses of the medieval port, Gunther conducted business with a local street tough. It was a simple transaction, one that would lead to the infliction of pain, the maiming or death of his enemies. Targets of opportunity had arisen. He would be foolish to ignore them, less than a man to pass up the chance to exact retribution on those who despised and rejected him. Like flies, the surviving children of his village had tramped their filthy way back into his reach. They seemed alarmed at such touching and sudden reunion. With them came others: the handsome peacock from Alzey so quick with his sword and chivalry, a nomadic holy man with his bare feet and tattered habit. Punishment was called for.
Gunther pressed stolen coins into the open palm of his hireling. ‘Now is the time. Take your friends into the game and aim for the boy named Kurt.’
‘What harm do you intend?’
‘As much as you are able. Strike when there is confusion, treat his head as the ball.’
‘We take a risk.’
‘I pay you for it. There will be more if he is carried off; further if he dies.’
‘You dislike him much.’
‘Each one of them I hate, but he is worst. He questions me, defies me. That way lies hurt.’
‘Be sure we shall execute it well. None fight harder than my crew. The Rhineland scrap will be damaged beyond repair.’
‘He deserves it all.’
They shook on it. How fortuitous it was that local boys possessed commercial sense, knew a smattering of German and the foreign tongues of every merchant dealing at their quayside. Enmity could be so worthwhile. Kurt was enjoying his game, was heading unaware for rendezvous with a nailed boot. Rarely did football end without a casualty.
A shadow enveloped them, a pair of hands gripping the two conspirators by their necks.
‘What manner of plot is this? A Genoese oaf confers with a Rhineland carrot?’
‘Put me down.’ Gunther struggled against the calm intensity and unyielding hold of Brother Luke.
‘A peevish carrot.’
‘You will regret this! You shall pay for your offence.’
‘I tremble at such frightening prospect.’ The friar lifted the writhing miscre
ants further from the ground. ‘There is nothing so undignified as to whine and bandy threats when dangling in the sky.’
‘I have friends who will do you harm.’
‘While I have righteousness and the power of God to do as I see just.’
‘Unhand me, friar.’ The snarling voice of Gunther rose to a screech.
‘Is it not the truth that reason comes when two heads are brought together?’
‘You are mad, beggar priest.’
‘Yet I still see you plan injury to blameless innocents. I still have might enough to divert you from your wrong.’
‘We shall give you wrong.’
‘And I shall teach you lesson.’
As though playing cymbals, the friar clashed the boys together, stunning them to limp submission. The son of the woodsman groaned.
‘Let me confide in you a secret.’ Brother Luke murmured conversationally to them both. ‘I do not like knaves or rogues or bullies or braggarts. They are an affront to the sight of God, and they disturb me from my purpose and from preaching to the birds of the air.’ He received no argument, so went on. ‘I urge you to repent. I ask you to strive to be better men. Are we agreed?’
‘We are.’ It was an answer shaken from the local boy.
‘You, carrot?’
The flame-haired German was less coherent, but managed to nod.
‘Then I am filled with gladness at our compact, happy to find unity and accord where prospect was bleak. Give your hearts and thanks to the Lord. Offer up your purses.’
He released his hold and deftly, without invitation, ripped the money-pouches from his captive and bewildered audience. Their protest was clumsy as it was unfocused. Brother Luke ignored them, tipping the contents into his hand, inspecting each piece with expert eye.
‘Give me the money.’ The knife wavered in the nervous grasp of the city lout.
‘I cannot.’
‘You will, or your heart shall be clean pierced.’
Unruffled, the friar continued his examination. ‘These proceeds are ill-gained, stolen I vouch from the defenceless and weak.’
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