Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade

by C. D. Baker

  Wil nodded.

  “And you with the red curls, and you there … what is your name?”

  “Conrad, sire.”

  “And those by you …”

  “I am Jon.

  “I am Otto.”

  “I’d be Gunter.”

  “And I, Richard … and m’brother, August.”

  “And I am Heinz.”

  “Heinz, you’d be the runt. You stand where you be. You, Conrad and you and you … yes. Follow this sergeant. You others … you, Otto, Gunter, and … Richard, and you others … go with that one. Now you little ones … stay by these girls and follow this soldier.”

  The man turned toward his subordinate. “Take them to the infirmary and make ready.”

  Pieter cleared his throat.

  “You, old man, find the chapel and stay out of harm’s way. It seems you think of yourself a padre. Ha! You may pray for our souls.”

  Heinz, Frieda, Maria, Anna, Gertrude, and some others were instantly driven across the busy courtyard and chased up a series of stone steps into the servants’ apartments near the top of the wall. There they would be safe enough and would prepare to attend the wounded. Meanwhile, Karl, Wil, Jon, and Conrad were taken to the base of the wall near the gate they had recently entered and were ordered to stand by a tangled heap of ropes, pulleys, and baskets. A new soldier glared at them and began snapping orders.

  Wil raised his hand. “We … we do not speak your language. We do not understand you.”

  The man grumbled an oath in frustration.

  “I speak your tongue, sergeant,” interrupted Pieter who had followed close behind. “What are your commands?”

  “Vecchio, tell these boys to stand here … at the base of this wall and to load these baskets with darts and arrows from these barrels and those that land within. Then they needs hoist them to the archers. The archers shall kick them down when empty, and when they land, by God, they had better fill them quickly!”

  Pieter nodded and translated the soldier’s orders. Karl listened but he could not help looking across the busy bailey to marvel at the order he discerned amidst what he had just moments before deemed sheer chaos. Peasant women were dropping bucket after bucket into the castle’s deep wells and handing them methodically to their men who raced to and from the hand-brigades still soaking the thatched roofs of the fortress’ interior.

  The boy’s eye then drifted to the steady stream of foot soldiers running stiffly to and from the armory at the far wall, arriving empty-handed but leaving well-armed and girded with heavy leather tunics or mail brigantines. His stomach began to flutter.

  Wil nudged Karl. “See, there.” He pointed to the intricate timber-and-stone battlement, which was built over the top of the gate tower. “And look at those huge cauldrons. I’m told they’re filled with boiling fat and water to be dumped on anyone who would try to breech the gate.”

  Karl wiped the sweat from his face. “I’d rather not be here.”

  Wil laughed and jerked his trusted dagger from his belt. “Not be here? Y’dolt. ’Tis my call. You’d be but a boy, but when this is done I’ll show my mettle! I’d not be the least bit surprised to be invited as a squire for yon knights. But you no needs to fear … I’ll be standing watch o’er you!”

  The peals of the tower bells had echoed through the lord’s lands and clusters of delinquent peasants were now hurrying toward the safety of the castle walls, urging their oxen and horses forward with familiar desperation. For them there was no option but to race to safety, for should they linger any longer in their fields they would tempt the bloodlust of the castle’s foe, and if they failed to reach the gate before it was locked they would be abandoned to certain death.

  The interior of the fortress soon settled into a restless calm. The soldiers on the wall stood at their stations, composed and steady, but worry was written upon their faces. Only the cries of infants, the barks of a few dogs, and the stern commands of officers making final preparations for battle broke the silence.

  Pieter ambled toward an older soldier who had taken a guard’s position by the open gate. He closed his eyes to recall what Italian he could and then spoke. “Gentiluomo … what is the war about?”

  The guard stared back from beneath the curled rim of his helmet and shrugged slightly. “My master’s family has been at war with the Visconti family for all of my lifetime and some time before.”

  “Your master’s name?” asked Pieter.

  The guard looked surprised. “You stand here in his castle and know not his name? He is Signore Gostanzo of the family of Verdi, son of Augustino.”

  “And, brave soldier, by what are you called?”

  “I am Sebastiani of Preglia and am not particularly brave. And who might you be, unfortunate pilgrim?”

  “I am Pieter and am not particularly unfortunate. My fellow travelers are crusaders en route to Genoa.”

  “Si. We have seen them pour out of the mountains. My master pities their plight and has sent many away with food and good wishes.”

  Sebastiani looked at Wil and Karl mischievously. A twinkle in his eyes softened his face. “Perchance you boys might even live to reach your destination.” He smiled, twisted the corners of his brown mustache, and adjusted the wide belt that girted his mail hauberk. Observing Wil’s fascination with his sword, halberd, and leather-clad wooden shield, the soldier added, “Perhaps someday, lad, you shall be so armed.”

  Pieter translated for the eager boys. Wil beamed. “Indeed sir, I’ll be a knight in the service of our emperor!”

  Sebastiani threw his head back and laughed. “Si. That is quite a dream!” he roared. “Quite a dream indeed.”

  Pieter returned to the subject of his own interest. “So, Sebastiani, why are you at war?”

  “Ah, we’ve been at war for decades … but our present troubles began about a fortnight ago. One of our villages was attacked by the Visconti for no cause. My lord sent a troop of footmen and nearly an entire company of armored cavalry to avenge our honor. Alas, it would seem we are not avenged, but instead are in retreat! Perhaps it was a trap.” He shook his head. “This war has not gone well for us for many years.”

  Pieter looked through the gate into the valley beyond. “I see no sign of anything.”

  “You soon shall, my friend. As in times past a column of exhausted, frightened footmen will soon be seen stumbling toward us followed by a company of battle-weary knights protecting them from the rear. Close behind will come a huge army of shrieking Visconti and perhaps their devilish mercenaries, slaughtering every poor soul who lags.”

  Pieter translated to the curious boys.

  “Then the castle is attacked?” asked Karl.

  “We can never be certain,” replied Sebastiani.

  “But why are these families at war at all?” Pieter wondered.

  The soldier kicked at the dirt. “Now there’s the riddle of my life. Few know for sure. I’ve heard it told that a Visconti was murdered many years ago and a Verdi was blamed for the murder. The Verdi claimed innocence and have defended that claim for two generations. Now in my opinion …” Suddenly, a trumpeter blew three short blasts from atop the keep. All voices muted and a rush of eyes flew to the walls to see what approached. It was as Sebastiani predicted. A confused mob of footmen were staggering and tripping desperately up the steep slope toward their castle followed by a badly battered company of mounted knights. But worse, the far distance now revealed a surging tide of horse and infantry in pursuit.

  Before long, the exhausted footmen of Lord Gostanzo picked their way slowly through the stakes of the barbican and streamed toward the moat bridge. In a few moments they stumbled across the bridge, through the gate, and into the security of their castle where they collapsed in the dusty courtyard, whimpering and moaning and gasping for breath. Close behind them thundered a despairing army of bloodied knights who roared into the castle grounds trampling slow-footed, screaming peasants and tumbling from their panicked, rearing mounts.


  Pieter and his boys pressed their backs close against the smooth stone walls to avoid danger. From there, they watched wide-eyed and confused. Once the last of Verdi’s soldiers had safely entered the gates, the signal was given by the chief porter to secure the castle. Sebastiani immediately barked orders to his comrades, who then heaved hard on the bridge-wheels at each side of the entrance while he released the stays of the portcullis. As the drawbridge arced upward, Sebastiani’s iron-grilled gate slid downward, its clanging iron links pouring through their channels until the grate landed firmly on the ground below. Then the men pushed the huge oak doors of the interior gate closed and dropped three massive timbers into their locks. The castle was prepared for siege.

  Chapter 19

  SHAME

  Look, there … look!”

  Over the courtyard’s clamor could be heard a growing cheer. First a smattering of “hurrahs” and then a few more until the whole castle joined together in a great “hooray.”

  The lord of the castle, Signore Gostanzo Verdi, son of Augustino, master of Domodossola and lands surrounding, had emerged from his quarters in the eastern wall and stood under the evening sky garbed in full battle attire. He waved an impatient hand to his cheering vassals and stormed to the center of the bailey where the captain of his knights awaited.

  Though they could not hear the conversation, the boys and Pieter clearly understood the signore’s displeasure as they watched him pound the disgraced officer across his chest and knock him to the ground. Defeat was not to the man’s liking, for it cost him both coffers of silver and immeasurable quantities of pride.

  Yet, despite the lord’s unmastered rage, the young crusaders thought him to be a most magnificent sight. He wore a well-crafted mail surcoat that fell to his knees and was covered by a sleeveless, yellow robe. His waist was girded with a wide leather belt that held a longsword. His arms were covered with metal defenses hinged at the elbows, and his head was capped with a mail hood that draped below his neck from under a large, round, wide-brimmed helmet. From his broad shoulders flowed a long, red, green-lined cape with a black crucifix in its center. He tread about the courtyard in knee-high leather boots that bore well the authority confirmed by the passion of his close-set, dark eyes. Indeed, such a confident ardor only a nobleman could muster. His strong, protruding jaw and thick, black mustache gave an extra measure of sway to his snarling mouth as he now issued commands to each company sent to reinforce the walls.

  Wil held his ears from the piercing blasts of the trumpets above and felt his heart pound and hot blood surge to his neck. A battle was indeed at hand. Karl, Conrad, and Jon were less enthused than their commander and fidgeted where they stood as they watched the archers above ready their crossbows.

  All eyes and ears now strained for the sight and sounds of the enemy. Perhaps, hoped most, the Visconti had turned homeward after all, content for what blood they had already shed. But, alas, hearts sank as the chilling sounds of trumpets and drums heralded the approaching army’s intent.

  Soldiers shifted uneasily at their stations, their jaws set, their bodies perspiring. The earth itself began to vibrate from the fearsome hooves of the enemy’s heavy cavalry. A massed horde rose toward the castle from the mountain’s base like the raging floodwaters of an irresistible March thaw.

  Unable to simply listen, the boys immediately scampered up the wooden steps alongside the tower and crowded before the thin gap of an archer’s loophole. Karl gasped as he surveyed the army surging toward them. In the fore, a mass of mail-heavy knights had just halted and opened ranks for the advancing infantry. The boys’ hearts pounded at the sounds of kettledrums, clanging armor, and tramping feet. Then a single trumpet blast halted the leading edge of the Visconti army on the slope of the mountain just beyond the angled points of the barbican and barely shy of the castle’s archers.

  Karl swallowed hard and rubbed his palms. Row upon row of foot soldiers now aligned themselves in perfect order, shields in front, spears, axes, maces, and swords at their side. Behind them and farther down the slope pawed eager ranks of snorting stallions proudly bearing their straight-backed knights.

  The only sounds within the fortress were the hushed prayers and blessings offered by the priests moving stoically among the warriors. But such murmurings only increased the terror of impending doom and pronounced certainty on the ruin to come. Beads of sweat rolled down Karl’s cheeks and Pieter’s temples throbbed. But Wil flushed with the exhilaration of a fool’s fantasy. Though he had not forgotten the image of the bloody battlefield of not so very long ago, his mind now filled with visions of his own vainglory.

  The dreadful still was broken by a thud on a single Visconti drum, followed by another and another. The footmen began banging on their wooden shields louder and louder and then began to chant: “Morte, morte … morte, morte!” Karl covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut to dam the tears of fear welling within. It seemed to all that the very walls themselves would soon collapse like Jericho of old.

  Sebastiani trotted to Pieter and instructed him in a dry tone. “Tell the red-haired one that the battle will happen at dawn. They try to scare us with their big mouths. We’ve readied ourselves quicker than they imagined and they’ll not come at night; we beat them in a night attack some five years past by St. Michael’s Day. They’ll spend the darkness cutting down the barbican and making ready for a first-light advance. Besides, their priests did not yet bless them. Just find yourselves something to eat and sleep here at your station.”

  Karl uncovered his ears as the chanting and pounding grew less. He looked out his loophole and watched the enemy turn and march toward the valley below.

  Wil sneered. “By truth, y’weak-kneed fool, you’d be hoping they went home. Say ’tis not so, Karl?” He plucked his dagger from his belt and thrust it at the lengthening shadows around him.

  Pieter made good use of the delay and sought out the rest of his flock. He checked on the other older boys who had been assigned similar duty at the western wall. The old man was comforted for them since an attack from that side seemed unlikely. He then walked anxiously across the bailey now filling with peasant families stirring gruel and roasting venison and mutton. He climbed a steep set of stone steps rising to the quarters serving as an infirmary and found some of his crusaders huddled in a corner under the watchful eye of a kindly matron. “My name is Pieter,” he offered. “I am the caretaker of these children.”

  The plump woman smiled. “My name is Gabriella. I cannot help but love these bambini as my very own.” The matrona gave Anna a two-armed hug, nearly losing the girl’s scrawny body in the cleft of her buxom breast. Anna squirmed free but smiled politely.

  Pieter chuckled, content for having such an ally. “And you shall take care of them in the battle?”

  “Like they are my own!” With that, she reached for Maria. “And this little dear also,” she sighed. “I’ll take extra good care of her.”

  Pieter looked around the torch-lit chamber. “I see you’ve wounded from the day’s skirmish.”

  Gabriella pointed to the smoky room. “Si. We have most of the injured here. The worst are bedded in the priests’library, since it also holds those with fever.”

  Pieter was startled. “I have heard nothing of fever in this place.”

  “Ah, si, si. We have been smitten with pestilence for much of the summer … my own dear Rosalba died in that very room at the Feast of Lammas.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “And many, many others. In fact, it was said that the signore himself was sick, but perhaps that is not so. Some say it comes with you Germans … but I think it not true.”

  “Gabriella, perhaps my children ought be of service elsewhere?”

  A nearby guard overheard Pieter’s comment. “Your children’ll stay where we put ‘em, or the miserable lot of you go over the wall. Humph. Were it for me to say, you’d all be burned for the scourge you’ve brought us!”

  Gabriella stiffened. “You’d be wrong, Fernando. Fever struck a padre a
fortnight past Pentecost, months before the bambini.

  Pieter gathered his charges in a corner and spoke in a low voice. “Children, stay near to these wounded and far from the library. And this too,” he cautioned. “When the battle begins on the morrow always … always keep a roof over you wherever you are sent. Fail me not.”

  Frieda looked puzzled. Pieter took her by the shoulders and said sternly, “Do you hear me, Mädchen? Do not let the children out from under cover when the battle starts. Do you understand?”

  Frieda nodded.

  “And have any of you seen Benedetto?”

  The children shook their heads.

  “I think I saw him running past the well earlier,” offered Anna. “But I’ve not seen him since.”

  Wil was far too excited to sleep and his restless heart inclined him to abandon his station and explore the castle. He crossed the courtyard and entered the great hall built as part of the master’s chambers against the castle wall. He slipped past a distracted guard and stared at the chamber’s long wooden tables and huge fireplace lit only by the red light of its neglected hearth and a few failing torches. But the embers cast enough light for the boy to marvel at the rich tapestries and fringed banners hanging all about. He walked by the tables, dragging his fingers across their smooth oak planks, and he admired the armaments displayed on the stone walls. What power, what wealth, he thought.

  Wil noticed a dark hallway at the end of the room. Tempted by its mystery, he ducked his head slightly and stepped into the black corridor with a pine-torch he snatched from the wall. He stepped quickly through, then up a short flight of steps. He emerged in a large, well-lit residence to face a surprised young lady. Wil froze, fumbling for an apology. “I… uh, I… am sorry to …”