Crusade

by Linda Press Wulf

‘What ails you, Gregor?’ she asked.

  It took a while for him to reply.

  ‘I helped beat up that Jew man,’ he said.

  As Georgette raised her eyes to his, he added defensively, ‘That was the only way we could get him to pray to Jesus.’

  He went on,

  ‘It was when he was repeating the Hail Mary. I beat him with a cudgel for hesitating, and when he finally finished it, he stared straight at me with the strangest look. I think he cast a spell on me. I have been feeling poorly ever since.’

  Georgette had no words to reply. They walked on silently, and they did not speak about that night again.

  Gregor had caught a chill during the damp cool nights and he continued to feel poorly over the next several days. He had little appetite and he tired easily. At night, a deep, hacking cough kept him awake and left him weak and sore. He was not alone in his illness. Many of the Crusaders coughed persistently throughout the night, one setting off the others until they sounded like a discordant brass chorus. Georgette tried to keep him warm and hand-fed him hot broth, but nothing she did seemed to help.

  After four days, Patrice appeared at her side, disobeying her exasperated group leader’s command to stop her gallivanting and remain with her group at all times. She had heard of Gregor’s ill health through another child from their home village, and she had begged an old crone they passed on the road for a few sprigs of tansy and chamomile. Georgette remembered Father David boiling those herbs into a soothing hot drink for a child who was coughing severely, and she made the brew with haste. But the herbs hadn’t worked for that child and they didn’t work for Gregor. He coughed so roughly that he spat up thick blood.

  Georgette stayed awake at Gregor’s side that night, feeding the fire and trying to persuade him to drink the bitter tonic. There was no moon, and the only light came from the twisting red tongues of the fire, writhing and choking on the damp twigs she fed it and smoking constantly, malevolently.

  Georgette felt more alone than she had ever been before. She had thought they would all care for one another and crusade as a loving group united in Christ, but that atmosphere had seeped away after the first few days of cold and shortages of food. Now your blanket was as likely to be stolen as a coin lying on a highway, and Georgette saw many older youths who seemed to be using more blankets than they had brought on their journey, while younger ones lay shivering on the spruce boughs they used for bedding, wrapped only in their cloaks.

  Fortunately, Gregor still had his blanket from home. She wound her own blanket around him too, but hurriedly loosened and reshaped the wrapping because he resembled a corpse in a shroud. Some time before dawn, his breathing eased and his coughing lessened. Georgette prayed her thanks; the tonic must have helped finally. Now she could rest for a while before the others arose. She lay down close to Gregor, took his hand in hers, and gave way to the exhaustion that was turning her body to lead. She slept.

  About three hours later, the bustle of the Crusaders preparing to get on the road again seeped into Georgette’s consciousness. She kept her eyes closed, wanting desperately to sleep on and on and on. When she was little, she used to fall asleep in the afternoons in Father David’s hut while he taught the village boys. Wherever she dropped off, under the wooden table, or on a bench in the corner, she would always wake to find herself on soft straw, covered by a warm cape, and the priest would bring her a little milk to drink before she arose. How she wished the kindly old man was near to look after her now, to cover her against the morning cool, and especially to rub her hand, which was numb and sore from remaining in one position for hours. Groaning, she pulled it away, and felt someone’s fingers dropping from her own. Heavy. Cold. In an instant she was awake and bending over her brother’s chest. There was no movement, and his lips were icy.

  A wail tore through the group. ‘Mother Mary!’ Her head thrown back, arms stretched up to Heaven, Georgette cried out, ‘Send him back, Mother Mary! Send my brother back to me!’

  The group leader hurried over and put his own ear to Gregor’s chest. He forced Gregor’s half-open eyes closed and stood again.

  ‘He died a martyr to the Holy Cause,’ he pronounced. Turning away, he told some of the older boys to borrow a shovel from whoever had used it last. ‘And dig a longer hole than last time,’ he ordered them. ‘The boy was tall.’

  Worse than his rough practicality was the past tense that he used. Was tall . . . Was tall . . . Was tall, echoed in Georgette’s mind as she threw herself flat across Gregor, clutching his stiff, cold shoulders. She would not let them put him under the ground. It was not possible that he was dead.

  A few girls came over to pat her back awkwardly. ‘Don’t let those boys steal your brother’s blanket when they bury him,’ one warned, and Georgette wailed louder.

  Guilt pressed like a laden pack on her back. Not only had she deserted her father, but she had allowed his only son to die. If she had found the herbs earlier, maybe he would have lived. If she hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe she could have shaken him back to life.

  Never before had she dwelled in such blackness. The dark earth pulled her powerfully and she wanted to sink down and never rise again.

  And then she heard words, not spoken by any human soul, but travelling through her body like warmed cider given to one who is frozen. The words dissolved her pain, covered over her raw wound like a soothing poultice. Yea, though I walk in the valley of Death, Yet will I fear no evil.

  Georgette felt light and free, as if a hand had removed an oppressive weight and she was aloft in a foreign atmosphere. Smoothly, in one movement, she rose to her knees, bending her head over her clasped hands. Now she was murmuring, the words emerging from her lips, but the human sound was only a vehicle for enunciating what was pronounced with great love in her head. Her sobbing ceased and she only hiccupped now and again, held in serene rapture.

  Two boys came and carried away her brother’s body and still she murmured, motionless. The others whispered, but none dared disturb her. The boy in a black cowl who led the hours had been drawn by the anguished wail. Now he stood some way behind Georgette and bowed his own head in the presence of her faith.

  When the group’s leader summoned her to the new grave, she walked calmly to her brother’s brief funeral. She answered ‘Amen,’ crossed herself, placed a twig sprouting with new leaves on the upturned clods of soil, and joined the Crusaders as they departed.

  A few children followed her closely for a while, hoping to witness some manifestation of the Divine after her unusual behaviour at the side of her brother’s body, but her face was so ordinary, her manner so humble, that they soon lost interest. Only the one wearing the black cowl continued to follow her, but at a distance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As the journey turned into months, the irregularity of food, the exhaustion of continuous travel and the lack of shelter all took their toll.

  ‘Another three slipped away last night,’ Patrice informed Georgette one morning. ‘They’re stupid not to stay with the Crusade. They’ll never get home alone.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll find work in a nearby village,’ suggested Georgette. She was more concerned about the Crusaders they had been forced to abandon in various villages along the way because they were too weak to walk. Who knew whether the villagers would be kind enough to nurse them back to health?

  The original system of organisation was no longer closely observed. Leaders did not recognise all the members of their groups. No one knew how many young Crusaders there were in total. Some said there were one or two thousand. Others swore the number must be higher than five thousand. At times, there was a chaotic lack of supervision and order. Silently, Robert watched the confusion.

  By now the Crusaders were travelling through the miles of forests that blanketed the middle of France. Those who remained were toughened by their travels and more experienced in finding food and shelter. They were thin and tired, but their determination burned bright.

  In the thi
ck forests, wild boar were a common sight, roaming freely and rooting for acorns in the fallen leaves with loud snuffles and grunts. The boys went off on hunting parties, returning triumphantly with bristly pigs hanging between them on stakes. One day Patrice appeared in the train of the boys, dancing and twirling. There was blood on her hands and forearms and a streak on her face.

  Georgette exclaimed, ‘Patrice, you look like a . . . like a savage. Where on earth have you been? And where did that blood come from?’

  ‘I went on the hunt!’ Patrice boasted. ‘The boys said I couldn’t, so I followed them secretly until we were too deep into the forest for them to send me home. Then they were glad I was there because I spotted the herd of swine first. It was so exciting!’

  She laughed merrily at Georgette’s consternation and danced away. Georgette shook her head and hurried to find a clay pot to catch the precious lard that dripped from the pigs over the fire. She mixed it into wheat flour and baked some rough cakes on the glowing coals.

  The boys hunted for other wild animals too, especially deer and rabbits, and they fished in the streams and lakes for a welcome change of diet. At night, they told stories around the fires, and stacked low piles of springy boughs from coniferous trees to raise them above the damp ground while they slept.

  The Prophet preached on the Sabbath, and sometimes on other days. Georgette’s strength was always renewed by his words. It was scarcely believable that she, an ordinary farmer’s daughter, was part of the army of Jesus. How fortunate she was.

  One night Georgette left the warm fire, going a short way from the group for some privacy. She could never piss or empty her bowels at the side of the road as so many did, especially those sickened by the rampant dysentery among their ranks. Before she returned, she admired the great old oak trees around her, gleaming in the moonlight. She loved the scent of their acorns rotting on the forest floor. Our pig Bess would enjoy rooting around with her snout here, she thought, smiling at the image.

  A figure loomed suddenly in front of her and she shrieked. She caught a glimpse of the face and realised with shock that it was the leader himself, Stephen, who stood in front of her, directly in front of her.

  She was embarrassed at being caught so clearly having just finished pissing. My skirts were barely down, she thought and blushed.

  Stephen smiled. ‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Georgette,’ she answered, wondering at his interest.

  ‘So pretty,’ he murmured, and Georgette started. Had he really said she was pretty? It wasn’t the first time that a boy had told her that, but she hadn’t expected their leader, who was chosen by the Lord, to think of such things as a girl’s appearance. She shivered.

  ‘You are cold,’ Stephen said in that low voice. ‘Let me feel how cold your hands are,’ and without a chance for her to respond, he took her hands.

  Instinctively, Georgette pulled away at what in another boy she would have called impertinence. But his hands only slipped to her wrists and kept hold there. She froze. There was the smell of ale in the air.

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said to her, smiling again. ‘You are with your leader. Aren’t you glad I find your face pleasing? Very pleasing . . .’

  His hands holding her wrists were strong but Georgette could have broken free if she wished. She had not escaped Gregor’s violent tempers many times as a child for naught. But the hold preventing her from breaking away had little to do with Stephen’s hands: it emanated from his intense eyes boring into hers, his golden curls lifting and waving like fiery serpents, his voice that sounded thick and deep. He murmured things she hardly heard, crooned words in a stream that took away her will to run. Smooth, soothing words as if he were taming a wild animal. Gently, he released one of his hands, keeping the other firmly around her wrist, and stroked her face with his fingertips, moving slowly downwards, her neck, her throat, her breasts. She trembled violently but his eyes were on her and his voice trapped her. Skilfully, his hand caressed her breasts more and more firmly, burning through her shift.

  Suddenly, he stopped and listened. Georgette heard it too. There was loud rustling in the forest very near them. Dry leaves crackled underfoot, a twig snapped and a figure stepped out of the shadows and halted next to them. Georgette saw the tall, quiet boy who always covered his head in a dark hood and prayed in fluent, mellifluous Latin. Staring not at her but at the leader, he stood rooted. His eyes were those of a much older man, serious, steady, aware.

  Georgette’s trance-like state popped like a soap bubble. Wrenching her wrist from the leader’s grasp, she stumbled away, lifted her skirts, and ran through the woods, back to the safety of little children singing hymns around the fire. Her face burned as with fever, and she couldn’t stop trembling.

  In the forest, Stephen cursed violently, took a step closer to Robert, and raised his clenched fists, his face contorted. But Robert stood perfectly still, his eyes coldly contemptuous under his hood.

  Stephen dropped his hands, spat on the ground and stomped away into the woods. If he had glanced behind him, he would have seen Robert drop weakly to his knees in the forest, place his palms together and bend his head in grateful prayer.

  He removed his blanket and pack from the circle around Stephen and returned to his old group.

  Georgette slept little that night, and when she did, she had nightmare after nightmare. The only fragment she could remember the next morning made her shudder. She was kneeling in the little church in her village and, when she raised her eyes to the beloved statue of Mother Mary in her blue gown, the hair that emerged from beneath the Madonna’s head covering suddenly seemed to move, as if in a breeze, and looking more closely, she thought she saw tiny little serpents hiding among the locks, unseen by the good Mother.

  That day, and the ones after, Georgette’s spirits were heavy. The religious songs sounded like questions in her ears; the bread donated by enthusiastic villagers who heard the preaching of Prophet Stephen stuck in her throat. She took great care not to venture near the leader, staying near the back of the procession. And she avoided Patrice, shuddering at the thought of the girl’s rough worldliness about such matters. But she did try to thank the Abbé. Twice she saw him and walked in his direction, but he seemed to melt away into the crowd. Eventually, she understood that he was reluctant to talk with her and she left him alone.

  She longed for the old prickly reassuring presence of Gregor, and sometimes spoke to him in her mind, telling him of the questions that tormented her, in a way she could never have done when he was alive. The terrible encounter in the forest was something she could not bring her mind close enough to think about.

  From the beginning, there had been a worm of discomfort that occasionally made her uneasy. Now it gnawed at her constantly. Had she left home for Jesus or for her own glory? Was she guilty of abandoning her father and her beloved old priest, proclaiming in her vanity a higher purpose for her little life?

  And was Gregor’s death only the beginning of her punishment?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Georgette noticed, without really seeing, tall buildings and crowds of people in a town called Limoges. Her perception was disoriented, as if she had been spun in a circle until she no longer knew who or where she was. Her lips moved constantly as she prayed the same Latin prayers over and over again.

  Limoges marked the point at which the trees began to thin out and, for the first time, hot weather became a problem. The travellers felt as if they had emerged from a darkness to which they had grown accustomed into a bright light that burned their eyes. This southern part of France was different from any landscape they had seen before. The soil was so crumbly that they saw men working it alone without the help of neighbours or animals. But the dryness of the soil meant that the crops were thinly planted over large areas, and the land spread hot and wide between neighbours.

  Now there was no easy source of meat as in the forests, and even though the boys caught many fish in the Vienne river as th
ey followed its banks, the flesh of salmon and carp did not fill the belly as good fatty meat did. The procession moved much more slowly in the heat. This summer was particularly warm, with a continuing drought, so the harvest was poor. Long lines of grapevines bore drooping yellow little leaves and brittle tendrils. The people they passed wanted to be hospitable, offering them as much bread and milk as they could spare, but there was no single source of food big enough to feed so many bellies. The goats and sheep in this region were thin. The cows gave milk that was watery and less fatty and satisfying than the milk the northerners had grown up on; they called it blue milk.

  The food that seemed to be most plentiful was olives. Outside one town, the Crusaders were offered crusty hunks of unfamiliar southern bread, made from a grain called rye, and urged to dip them in a rich, aromatic and glowing oil made from olives. Obeying listlessly, Georgette took a bite.

  ‘Mother Mary! Your blessings never cease!’ she exclaimed with her mouth still full. The group of girls sitting with her on the outskirts of the town were dipping and eating, dipping and eating, too greedily to agree with her. It was the first time she had enjoyed food, or anything else, since the forest encounter with Stephen.

  The twisted olive trees with their dusty leaves grew on every hillside, even when there was no sign of water and the soil was cracked and parched. The Crusaders grew used to eating marinated olives, rye bread with olive oil, and more olives. They washed down the crusty bread with cider, while the older boys quaffed grain beer around their fires at night and laughed loudly.

  They arrived in the south just as the last cherries clung to their twigs and peaches were beginning to darken in colour. Craving the fruit, many of the children made themselves sick by eating peaches that were not ripe, and stomach pains made the little ones cry at night.

  Impatient to reach Marseilles, the Prophet chose what he had been told was the shortest route, leading the sun-drained group directly into the rocky Cévennes range. By the time they were halfway up a high mountain pass, it was too late to turn back. They had no breath to sing songs, nor even to speak, as they plodded up the steep path. The sun reflected off the white rocks and burned into their eyes.