He was trapped in the web of the abbot’s ambition.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The abbot was reading edifying stories from The Lives of Saints to the monks as they ate dinner in their customary silence in the refectory when he was interrupted.
The twin cooks ushered a youth into the huge stone hall and addressed the abbot in alternating sentences.
‘Pardon us for interrupting, Father,’ Brother Peter said humbly.
Brother Puck took over eagerly, ‘But this young man said it was a matter of urgency.’
Brother Peter explained, ‘He says that thousands of holy children are starving in the –’
‘Let the boy talk for himself,’ the abbot snapped.
The twins thrust the boy forward and flanked him for support. ‘Greetings, Father,’ he began hesitantly and then he swallowed with difficulty, overwhelmed not so much by his audience of several hundred silent monks but by the bountiful repast they were eating. ‘I am . . . I have been sent by . . . I am to request . . .’
He halted and swallowed his saliva again as a plump priest close to him lifted a juicy chicken leg and bit into it with relish.
‘Out with it, boy,’ Abbot Benedict ordered.
‘Begging your pardon, Father,’ the boy said, blushing, and told the story in a rush. He was one of a huge crowd of children and youths, who were travelling under the leadership of a shepherd boy from Cloyes who had seen God. God had anointed him Prophet Steven and told him to lead a new crusade to free Jerusalem from the infidels. It was to be a crusade of pure hearts, a crusade of children. King Philippe Auguste himself had received the Prophet Stephen in Saint Denis and had given his blessing to the Children’s Crusade, before sending them on their blessed way.
Now the young Crusaders were halted a short way from the monastery, in sore need of food and rest. He had been sent ahead to find good Christians who could give them shelter. ‘And food,’ he added.
The abbot pointed to the bottom end of the table at the far side of the hall. ‘Sit there and eat.’
The boy wasted no time obeying.
Abbot Benedict turned to Robert, who sat as always on his left, slightly behind him. He curled his lip in a sarcastic smile. ‘These babes and toddlers dream of freeing the Holy Land where grown men in armour have failed? Perhaps we should seize the misleading charlatan who has aroused them and lock him in a monastery cell to learn true Christianity, and tell the others to go back home before they get a well-deserved whipping.’
‘But the King has blessed –’ protested Robert.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Robert. Have I not spoken to you many times about the machinations of politics? His Majesty is already concerned about the lack of grain available in Paris after the bad harvest. He would not want thousands of children with empty bellies making demands on the city’s reserves. That must be why he met the leader not in Paris but in St Denis. Of course, he gave the so-called “Crusade” his blessing – it would not be politic to give them a curse. Then he rapidly sent them out of his way, towards Jerusalem – but also towards us.’
Robert was silent. Every cynical word was probably correct, but his imagination was caught by the image of a visionary young leader accompanied by a long procession of innocent children dressed in white. In his mind’s picture, the hero was about his own height and build; indeed, the hero was much like himself but without a disfiguring scar.
Abbot Benedict sourly ordered that preparations be made to feed the crowd in the morning. Likely the pilgrims would start walking towards the monastery at first light and arrive after sunrise, too late for prime. He gave Robert permission to delay his secretarial tasks the next day in order to help. The abbot himself was not to be bothered until they were fed, then he would lead tierce outdoors for monks and Crusaders together.
Early the next day, Robert was feeding the fires under the cauldrons of boiling porridge, the rising steam mixing with the morning mist, when he heard a shout in the distance. He turned to see the silhouette of a young boy on horseback at the crest of the nearby low hill overlooking the abbey.
The youth halted his charger and surveyed the valley, his erect body and crown of curls framed against the new blue sky. His horse reared slightly in impatience and he controlled it perfectly with one gloved hand. His long black cloak draped elegantly over the flanks of his white stallion but was open at the front to reveal the scarlet cross glowing on his chest. In his free hand, a tall golden crucifix flashed in the first light like a magic wand.
Robert’s breath caught. A group of older boys galloped to his side and followed his example by pulling up dramatically. Then the first Crusaders came into view along the crest of the hill, hundreds – nay, thousands – of small plodding figures, most in ragged clothes. The leader, conscious perhaps of eyes watching from the abbey, held still, the morning sun outlining him in a dramatic golden aura. Then he raised his sparkling crucifix to the heavens and led his followers down the hill.
Robert’s thoughts swirled feverishly as he served food to the ravenous travellers. But his eyes never left their leader, whom he now saw was younger than himself and – to judge by his salutation when the abbot emerged – uneducated.
How does he lead them all? How did he inspire them to follow him? What might he accomplish with this prodigious mission? The questions tumbled and beat in his head. And most pressing of all, the one that ached inside him, was why? Why had God chosen this precocious farm boy, when he himself had dreamed of being chosen by Jesus to do something great in the service of God that would ever be remembered. He, Robert, had been given the gift of brilliance. He had been educated in Greek, Latin, church doctrine, church history, papal protocol, philosophy, mathematics and even a little medicine. No shepherd boy could know as much. Why not me, my Lord? Why did You choose him?
The young leader requested the monastery’s hospitality for a full day and night of rest, and the abbot assented, though without warmth. Robert helped serve the pilgrims a light midday meal of bread and cheese and mead, and a supper of hot, filling soup. Then he begged to be excused from attending vespers and compline, telling the abbot quite truthfully that he had a bad headache, and retreated early to his cell.
He lay on his hard cot, the rough blanket discarded on the stone floor, his intense grey eyes turned to the pulsating stars beyond the window of his cell, praying as he had never done before.
As the hours passed, the stars’ mysterious signals seemed to grow clearer. It occurred to him that his life had been leading to this point, that Jesus had directed his steps – his childhood, his adoption, his education – for this exact purpose. He was to pace within the narrow cloisters of the abbey no longer. He, Robert, was surely meant to join the Crusade.
Robert’s decision was the first major choice he had made in his life, and he made it with startling certainty.
After matins and lauds, he asked permission to enter the cell of the abbot.
‘Père Abbé,’ he began.
The abbot raised his cool eyes from the letter he was reading.
‘I ask permission to join the young Crusaders when they depart our abbey,’ Robert said, a sudden unnatural calm causing him to talk as evenly as if he were asking permission to take a walk.
The abbot’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. He spoke briefly and definitely, ‘Your work is here, at my side. You will not go.’ He turned his attention back to his reading.
But his young acolyte stood firm.
‘I have considered my path, Père Abbé, and I believe Jesus Christ wants me to join this Crusade,’ Robert said. ‘I hope to return safely to you and our work here, but if I die along the way, I will have been of service to the Lord in a different way.’
The abbot turned to look at him again. The circumstance was extraordinary. Never before in their long and unvarying relationship had the boy disregarded any word that came from his lips. He opened his mouth to strip the boy of his insolence with one harsh sentence, to make him creep back to his proper place, cringing and c
ontrite. But he held still and his brow furrowed in calculation.
Robert’s own eyes watered but he did not withdraw them from the long stare. His mind was made up. Jesus had a reason for wanting him, Robert, to join this crusade. And he would do so.
If Robert were more honest with himself, he would have recognised another reason – one that was less exalted – for his need to join the Crusaders. He was jealous of the Prophet, consumed with envy. This farm boy had shown him up to be a dreamer rather than a doer. And yet he had to be near Stephen. He had to take the opportunity of observing the charismatic leader and learning the secret of his powerful energy, if he were ever to grow into his own destiny.
The abbot chided himself for not being prepared for the boy’s first sign of independence. He was already fourteen, and overdue for this rebellion. The older man briefly considered ordering Robert to abandon his idea forthwith, locking him in his cell, if necessary, until that band of silly children and their peacock of a leader were far away.
The boy’s set face brought his thoughts to heel. The abbot had observed Robert closely since he was a little boy of seven. He had watched the boy pray for long periods, ignoring the pain of kneeling on the cold hard floor. He had seen him keep up manfully with the hard physical labour performed by young monks. He had heard the young child refusing the blandishments of the jolly cooks in order to return to his work in the library. Like a silent black shadow, the abbot had watched and observed and overheard. He knew there was no chance of changing Robert’s mind. This was a boy who would not break the faith, however he interpreted it should be read.
The abbot was startled to realise how much he would miss the boy’s company. He was well aware, and told himself it didn’t bother him at all, that there was not another human being in the world who would not consider it harsh punishment to remain in the abbot’s presence hour after hour. And even if some were willing, he, of course, would not be satisfied with the company of anyone less exceptional than himself . . . and the boy.
From habit, the abbot turned to his perennial preoccupation. What could he gain from this situation, from young Robert’s ungrateful but unbreakable decision? Could he turn it to his credit that his protégé, whose exceptional intelligence he had proclaimed in high places, was to join a holy crusade? Robert would be allowed to wear the blue cross, signifying the considerable status of a returned Crusader, on his return to the abbot’s side. They would look well together, the abbot in the robes of a member of the Ecclesiastic Council followed closely by Robert bearing the striking blue cross, experienced and matured on his return.
That is, if he returned. The abbot briefly considered the prospect of the boy’s death along the road, but dismissed it from his mind. Our Lord would not take the young life that had been carefully and brilliantly moulded by the abbot in His service. The abbot’s years of training that exceptional brain, guiding that strong character, could not go in vain.
A wry thought almost brought a smile to his bloodless lips. The boy had convinced him, Abbot of Blois, to change his mind, truly a rare feat. What remarkable powers of persuasion Robert would have as an adult, as the abbot’s right-hand man and perhaps even as his confidant.
Of course, it would not do to show the boy that he had been allowed to make his own decision. Speaking for the first time in long minutes, the abbot said, ‘You are dismissed. Remain in your cell until prime while I pray for guidance on this matter.’
It was fortunate that the abbot’s prayers were answered in the next hour or two, and that he received the same direction from Jesus that his student claimed. There was even time for him to write a short letter to his superiors with the news that he had enrolled his beloved and brilliant young protégé in the glorious service of the Holy Crusades and to humbly beg them to pray for a successful journey and the boy’s safe return to the service of the Church.
Before proceeding outside to lead prime for the Crusaders, he entered the boy’s cell and, not acknowledging the travelling stick made ready with a small bag knotted to its end, gave Robert permission to join the Crusade. He also gave a puzzled assent to the boy’s request to take with him the little earthenware dish that had held oil, water and a wick. He had no memory of giving the lamp to Robert.
He commended the boy to Prophet Stephen’s care, oblivious to Robert’s discomfort at the implication of the authority held by the unchildlike child leader, and making it clear to observers that Robert’s new direction had been his guardian’s plan all along. This was confirmed by the handsomely bound breviary and the overly generous gift of money that he presented formally to Robert for his travels, with a brief speech in front of the gathered monks of the abbey.
The Prophet was impatient to return to the road and there was no time for long farewells. Robert accepted the blessings of the assembled monks with some embarrassment. The jolly twin cooks burst into tears, hugging him between them like a morsel of beef between two loaves and weeping unashamedly on each other’s rounded shoulders and Robert’s thin ones.
That was the only time that Robert needed to summon his resolve. For almost eight years he had been content within the walls of the monastery, now he left without turning around, his steps light, long and quick.
CHAPTER NINE
The first days outside the monastery for Robert were an assault on his entire being. Unused to children, he was suddenly jostled by an uncountable number of them. At night, the discomfort of being exposed to the elements was far less than the discomfort of the consciousness of bodies moving and breathing, snoring, coughing and sometimes crying, all around him.
During the day there was no place to be alone. At the abbey, there were strict rules about bodily privacy, and the abbot frowned on any of the monks hawking and spitting or blowing their noses on to the ground. Here children and youths defecated in full view, evacuated the mucus from their noses in whichever way was most convenient, and commented – at least among the boys – on each other’s genitals and the girls’ breasts. He had pictured his fellow travellers as pure young Crusaders.
Although he was already fourteen, and thus one of the older members of the Crusade, he was filled with his old fear of being tormented by other children before Abbot Benedict removed him to the abbey. Within days, he was universally and openly called Abbé because of the black hood he wore day and night, shading his face from full view and keeping his ropy scar a secret. But his remoteness put paid to plans of either persecution or friendship, and soon the members of his group turned to better sport, leaving him alone.
Finding himself truly unobserved, Robert became the observer. As he watched a group of boys play leapfrog, the littlest one alternately weeping with frustration and laughing with abandon, the others forming and breaking alliances by the minute, he remembered the last time he had seen such antics:
These children act like the litter of kittens that the twin cooks once kept in a corner of the kitchen, he thought.
His greatest interest was in the Prophet Stephen, but it was not easy to get close to him physically. During the day, the leader rode with his favoured youths on horseback some distance ahead of the straggling, slow-moving crowd. At night, they settled in the choicest spot, sat around a roaring fire built for them by youngsters from other groups, and ate and drank without restraint. The toughest-looking boys guarded Stephen against any pestering approaches.
One night, Robert managed to draw quite close to their circle, crouching in the shelter of bushes nearby until they fell asleep, watching silently and catching whatever words of conversation he could hear. Stephen himself seldom spoke, but when he did throw in a comment, there were roars of laughter, although Robert had not understood any joke in the words. There was little about God and the soul in their discussion, it seemed. Robert crept away unsatisfied.
After he had been two weeks on the road, everything changed. A mounted messenger trotted up to Robert’s group and conferred briefly with the group leader.
‘Robert of Blois,’ the leader called, �
��our leader Stephen has need of your services. Go with this man.’
Robert froze.
‘Come,’ the messenger urged impatiently. ‘Get up behind me. It’s a long way to the front group.’
‘I don’t know how,’ Robert murmured. ‘I’ve never ridden on a horse.’ There was a shout of laughter from a group of farm boys who had been listening to this interchange. Here was a member of their own group summoned to meet with the Prophet himself, yet he could not even climb into a saddle.
Within seconds, they had hoisted Robert up behind the messenger. His legs hung down awkwardly and he clung to the waist of his guide. He was very far from the ground.
‘Godspeed,’ his young grooms called good-naturedly. ‘Be careful the horse doesn’t take a bite of your boot!’
The horse was urged into a canter and Robert went pale with fear. He was bounced high and hard with every movement. The road, the bushes, the children they were passing were a blur, and his fingers tightened on the messenger’s girdle, squeezing the fold of thick material as if it were paper. He knew he was going to fall; it was just a matter of how long he could hold on.
But soon the horse slowed to a jolting trot and came to a stop. Clumsily, Robert slipped to the ground. He had not had a chance to ponder the inexplicable summons by the leader.
Stephen sprawled on a rich cloak in the centre of his group of lieutenants, talking and laughing while his followers laughed even louder. Eating titbits from a bowl of salted salmon, he left Robert standing for a few minutes before turning to him.
‘Do you know the service for dawn?’ he asked without preliminary.
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