‘Stop whining. I’ll carry you,’ Georgette heard one of the older boys, Alain, say to his younger brother. Little Jean Paul was only seven and could barely reach up to the rocks they were climbing. How could Alain manage to carry Jean Paul when she, Georgette, could barely carry herself?
Of all the days of walking, this was the most strenuous. Or perhaps her mind was not as strong as it had been before that night in the forest.
The path became narrower and more precarious, and the sheer drop more and more frightening. The Crusaders pressed themselves against the cliffs, many of them holding hands tightly. Suddenly, there was a terrible, eerie scream, and Georgette looked up to see a bigger girl and a small child falling into the canyon below. They seemed to wheel around and around, and their skirts caught the air and billowed as if they were dancing in the air. They plummeted down to the riverbed far below, slamming into the ground like rag dolls. The haunting scream still rang in the air. Other children began shrieking too, their screams echoing through the mountains.
Georgette blocked her ears but she could not block her eyes from seeing the tiny crumpled bodies at the foot of the cliff. She tried to pray, but all that came out was, ‘Please help us, please help us, please help us . . .’
‘Everything will be all right. I’m right here. Nothing is going to happen to you,’ whispered a steady, reassuring voice next to her.
Georgette opened her eyes. It was Alain, talking to his little brother. The child stood trembling violently. He pulled his brother’s shirt so strongly that Alain had to go down on his knees on the narrow stony path. Sheltered in strong, encircling arms, his brother’s voice soft in his ear, the boy grew calmer. They sat down very carefully, Alain’s bare knees showing the imprint of the stones he had knelt on.
Alain looked up at Georgette. ‘I cannot see anything from here. Is anything happening up ahead?’
‘There is nothing,’ Georgette said. ‘As far up the mountain as I can see, the line is stopped. No one is walking on.’
He bowed his head over the boy’s head. Gradually, Georgette’s heartbeat slowed and her legs stopped trembling. Slowly, she also lowered herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged just ahead of them.
‘My legs feel weak,’ she said to Alain, as if apologising. He did not reply but kept his lips to his little brother’s head; sometimes he whispered a few words. They waited for a long time.
Eventually, instructions from the Prophet reached those near the back of the line. Apparently, the older girl had been carrying the younger when she overbalanced and fell. So they were no longer allowed to carry the little Crusaders, only to hold their hands. They had to continue climbing. There was a mountain village up ahead where they would rest.
Georgette helped Alain lift Jean Paul up giant-sized rock stairs and across narrow fissures in the dry earth. The sheer drop seemed to beckon them wickedly. The hours stretched on.
It was growing dark as they stumbled into the village of Malaucène, and after a sparse meal donated by the poor villagers, the Crusaders fell asleep without the usual boisterousness and teasing.
Georgette woke early. There were children crying, not just a few, but ten or twenty or more. She hurried to help. But many of the crying children had siblings already trying to comfort them, with no success, partly because the older siblings were crying themselves.
‘What is happening?’ Georgette asked Patrice, who was hugging two of the little ones, with another clinging to her skirt.
The girl whirled to face Georgette.
‘Your precious prophet has ordered that all the children younger than ten years be left behind in this village.’ Her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed.
‘We’re leaving the little ones here? But they’re so far from home. How will they get back to their parents?’
‘Perhaps they’ll fly through the skies like we will walk through the sea at Marseilles. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Georgette. Yes, that was blasphemous. And this cruel order warrants it.’
Giving the children one last tight squeeze, she strode off, with her hands cupped over her ears to block out their wails.
A short time before, Georgette would have tried to defend Stephen’s decision by saying God must have ordered him to give this command for some Divine reason. Now she was silent.
It was time to travel on. Patrice had not waited for the command or for final goodbyes but walked ahead alone. Alain stood watching from the side of the road, Jean Paul’s hand in his own. He and a number of other older siblings had decided to stay in this village with their little sisters or brothers, to try to find work or make their way home.
But most obeyed the Prophet’s order that they should march on for the glory of Christ. The small children who were left behind screamed. Georgette bit her lip until it bled. The faces of the little children looked old and stricken, like her father’s face when she left him to follow the Prophet.
The Crusaders began marching. Someone shouted back to the group of children, ‘I swear by God I will return to you, Tom. Jesus Christ will lead me back. Pray to him.’
The Prophet led them onward.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Only anticipation of the future kept the Crusaders moving now. At night, they roused their spirits with descriptions of how the sea would part for them, as they walked across the seabed to Jerusalem. From the encouraging answers of farmers along the way, the Mediterranean Sea was not very far at all.
The travellers tried to walk more quickly. They rose very early in the morning and later, in the heat of the day, they lay for an hour or two in the shade of olive trees, as they saw the locals doing. New recruits joined them, some as young as those left behind in Malaucène. Stephen himself was presented with a horse-drawn cart by a wealthy farmer along the way, and he now travelled under a canopy that sheltered him from the sun.
Finally, one morning there was a shout from the front that travelled rapidly from group to group.
‘The sea!’
Georgette strained her eyes to see what lay in the distance. On the horizon there was indeed a haze of blue.
‘They said we would arrive at the sea,’ she murmured. Of many things that had turned out to be not as they should, at least one thing they had been told was true.
Children shouted in excitement. Willow whistles shrieked, drums rolled and horns sounded. Triumphant songs were screamed rather than sung, each person singing the words at a different speed. Patrice rushed up to hug Georgette and then ran back into the raucous crowd.
Amid the loud and uninhibited rejoicing, there were a number of Crusaders, singly or in small groups, praying in gratitude. Georgette thanked Mother Mary, who knew the beauty of blue and had led her to the sea.
Stephen had galloped ahead with his attendants to see the sea from closer up, leaving the camp in the hands of the older boys, but those caretakers were as giddy as the small children. A spontaneous mummery of jousting, with long sticks for javelins, ended with a fistfight when one contestant was knocked to the ground. Some of the boys boldly rushed up to the girls and stole quick fondles.
For over an hour, chaos ruled. Small children were sobbing at the roughhousing. A large group of girls had gathered together like hens in the middle of a fox-besieged enclosure. Under Patrice’s energetic leadership, they linked arms and shouted at the boys not to dare take advantage of them. Some of them swore. The boys swore back, much more crudely.
Then Prophet Stephen returned, positioning himself atop a high rock. The unruly Crusaders gradually became aware of his still presence. They grew quiet, with only the echoes of shouts dissolving in the air. Prophet Stephen’s eyes were glazed over. He lifted his arms high. Georgette remembered the puppet show that some travellers had once brought to her village. Stephen was the puppet and God was the puppeteer. Or perhaps Stephen was the puppeteer and the Crusaders his puppets.
He began to preach. ‘Behold, ye Crusaders, how Jesus Christ has led us to the sea, exactly as he promised when he visited me as I sat with m
y sheep. Is this not a joyous day?’
His voice hummed eerily in the dry, clear air and the listeners swayed as if hypnotised. But Georgette averted her eyes. She could not think clearly about what had happened, and what could have happened further, in the dark forest that night. She wished she could thrill to the Prophet’s words as the others were doing.
‘Tomorrow we will reach Marseilles and we will march in formation to the harbour. For God Himself is preparing the path for us. God Himself will hold apart the sea for us. Yea, the Miracle approaches. For the Lord promised me in my dream that the seas would part for children to walk across on dry water to the Promised Land. He summoned me as he summoned our prophet Moses, to lead the chosen, the beloved ones, the pure of heart, to free Jerusalem from the infidels. There we will raise high the banner of Christ in its rightful place.’
Suddenly, Georgette imagined the banner of Christ flying in the breeze that Jesus once felt, fluttering above the earth he once walked. Her soul thrilled. Truly, whatever the faults of man, God was great, and she bowed her head willingly in her love for Him, the Perfect One.
They marched into the city of Marseilles in the late afternoon of the following day. They could have arrived much earlier, but in the morning Stephen had called the Crusaders together in a grand assembly, to be their last in France.
To set the scene, a hastily rehearsed theatrical tableau of the hymn Ave Maris Stella was presented, with a very pretty girl dressed as Mother Mary, Star of the Sea. After the crowd’s enthusiastic applause, Stephen majestically summoned the group leaders, each one bedecked with an item of finery bestowed on the Prophet by admirers along the way. Some proud, some embarrassed, each stepped forward in turn and was blessed by the Prophet. The most articulate of them, having learned some sleight of tongue from Stephen, presented a tribute to the great Prophet, who had inspired this glorious mission and kept them safe. Finally, Stephen, by far the most resplendent of all, thanked the leaders for their service to God and blessed the youngest child among them, as a symbol of the innocent and pure love that permeated their Crusade.
The carefully choreographed ceremony made Georgette uneasy. What about Gregor and the many hundreds or even thousands of others who died or were abandoned along the way, she wanted to ask. Why are our losses not mentioned, only our triumph? It has not been a golden journey, sometimes it was black and frightening. That too should be remembered. And, anyway, they had not yet reached their goal, so why were they congratulating their leaders here in France? Why not at the true end of the pilgrimage, in Jerusalem?
By the time they reached the gates of Marseilles, word of their approach had spread and townspeople lined the streets, cheering and marvelling at the palpable energy of these young people who had travelled such a long way. Some knelt when Prophet Stephen’s cart passed, the canopy removed so that he could be seen in his splendour, bearing aloft the gold crucifix. Women pressed bread and fruit into the children’s hands, calling them little prophets and asking for blessings, but the Crusaders were too buoyed by excitement to feel hungry.
Deathly calm, Georgette looked around at the others, marching rapidly, even running, in their eagerness.
How different I feel from those days when I longed to see a miracle, and yet I am less than half a year older, she thought.
She turned the corner of a narrow alley jammed with Crusaders and heard a low muttering sound from those who had already reached the harbour. Muted exclamations, low questions. No shouts of ‘Hallelujah’, no calls of ‘Hosanna’, no singing in exultation. The crowd vibrated, buzzed with disappointment.
There was no path through the sea.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At the first light of dawn, the Crusaders picked themselves up from wherever they had snatched a restless sleep, on the cobblestone pavements of Marseilles, in a garden, before the hearths of kindly families.
Stephen had made a brief speech the previous night, sitting astride a fresh horse without dismounting, his eyes blinking fearfully as he searched for words. When he had preached in the past, inspiration had raised him from the earth of ordinary humans like a soaring kite. He had been enraptured, transformed by his vision. Now his words were but those of the uneducated shepherd that he truly was. His face was stricken and white; his hands trembled. He is genuinely shocked, Robert realised. He really thought the waters would part, just as Christ – or perhaps a dark spirit masquerading as Christ – had promised him.
‘Children. Crusaders. I think – I think God doesn’t want us to walk on the sea – through the sea – in the dark and it is close to dark now. In the morning the waters will separate, will part. And we will get to the Holy Land. So come back here in the morning and you will surely see a miracle.’ He had looked out over the crowd and opened his mouth to say more, but seemed to lose courage. He had wheeled his horse around and disappeared into the maze of alleyways like a fox just ahead of the hounds.
Now it was morning. Patrice held Georgette’s hand comfortingly as they returned to the quay. The younger children ran eagerly, but the others walked slowly and with dread. At the sight of the sea – still unchanged, still impassable – they all stood still. There was nowhere to go.
Suddenly, a girl ran on to the quay, her voice wild and angry. ‘He’s stolen my sister! Prophet Stephen has stolen my beautiful sister!’
The others gazed at her uncomprehendingly.
‘He came to get her when we lay down to sleep. He took her away with him!’ the girl shouted, her face blotchy with rage. ‘He said her sweet voice could inspire his group through the night. But when I woke up this morning, I saw that she hadn’t returned. I ran to Stephen’s guard, but he said no one sang to them last night. Stephen hasn’t been seen at all.’
She sobbed bitterly, her pitch rising, and all heard her clearly in the still dawn air. ‘His white charger is gone too. He has ridden off with my sister. Oh, the treachery! How we trusted and followed him.’
To a child who dared to shout a disbelieving ‘No!’, she turned fiercely and screamed, ‘He will not lead us to the Promised Land. His promise was a lie. And he has disappeared!’
Another girl shouted out, ‘My brother died for this?’
Georgette recognised her as the twin whose frail spindly brother was the first to succumb to fever when they were camping in the Count of Gallardon’s meadow.
‘He died so that we could reach Jerusalem, not Marseilles!’
There were cries of agreement. Crusaders milled aimlessly around the wet, dirty wharf. Slowly, it began to dawn on the youngsters that they had nowhere to go. They had become accustomed to orders and directions, and there had been a clear and common goal. Now it had disappeared, and they were far from home and alone.
‘What will we do now?’ a little boy sobbed.
The road home would be much harder even than their journey to Marseilles. Winter would soon be upon them and, as bad as the heat had been, particularly during the last part of their journey, the cold would be many times worse. Villagers would not feel inspired to offer food to those returning from a failed Crusade. Crops had been poor because of the hot summer and the ongoing drought, and many farming families were hungry themselves.
‘I will look for work here in Marseilles,’ Patrice told Georgette. ‘Will you stay too?’
Georgette shook her head. Patrice had seven brothers and sisters at home. But Georgette was now an only child. She had a duty to return home, to look after her father and Father David. And she had the terrible obligation to tell her father of his only son’s death.
The noise on the wharf was becoming louder and more intense. Some of the Crusaders were angry. Some were frightened. There was no centre to hold them together. Several of them began to batter, first with words and then with their fists, an older boy who had been one of the Prophet’s inner circle. Perceiving that the winds of fortune had changed, several other former lieutenants slipped away from the harbour. Younger children hurried after them, trailed back to the quayside, then scampere
d off again, like lambs uncertain which leader to follow.
One girl suggested that the waters might part on the next day, or the one after that, if they were all patient and kept their faith. Patrice grimaced. She was ready to follow those who had already departed to try to find work ahead of the crowd. But the smallest children called out their agreement that there was still hope, then plopped down on the dirty wharf with their little bundles, exhausted, glad for the rest, and certain that someone, or God, would take care of them.
It was at this time of confusion that their attention was drawn by two large men standing above the crowd on a raised part of the wharf.
‘Young people!’ one of them bellowed, a seafaring man from the looks of his wide pants and jacket, neither of which were very clean. ‘Children of God,’ he shouted several times, until all the children turned towards him. His face was marbled with scars from smallpox and his chin jutted out belligerently.
‘I am Hugh Ferreus, called Hugh the Iron. I welcome you to our city of Marseilles. It is commendable that you have travelled so far in your great and pure love for Christ. I too love our Lord and wish to serve Him. Thus I am offering you free passage to the Holy Land. I am the owner of seven merchant ships that are due to leave France shortly for my trading post in the port of Akko, close to Jerusalem. I cannot do miracles like your young leader. And him not too well either, it seems. The seas will not part for you. But with the kind sponsorship of William of Posquières, called William the Pig, next to me, you may travel to the Holy Land the way of mere mortals, by sail.’
He gestured to his companion, who was clearly a man of some wealth but no noble blood, a merchant surely. The merchant waved a plump white hand in the air, acknowledging the introduction with a self-satisfied smile on his fleshy lips. Indeed, he looked much like a pig.
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