by Adam Gidwitz
Jacob calls out, “What about William?”
“We’ll come back for him!”
Straight ahead on the road are six men. They got swords hanging from their belts. That tells me quite a bit. If you’ve got a sword and no horse, you’re either a brigand or a poor knight indeed.
Well, Jeanne must’ve seen it when I did, because she shouts, “Off the road!” She turns right, hard. She leaps over this mound of dirt that runs along the side of the way.
And she screams.
Jacob follows her—I don’t know why. I see him try to stop himself once he clears the mound. Because that mound separates the road from the Oise River, don’t it?
Jeanne and Jacob go tumbling, heels over head, into the river. Just—skid, skid, crunch, SPLASH! Just like that.
I been in that part of the Oise. Not some lovely stream that is. Reeks of manure and dead fish.
And it ain’t shallow neither.
Jeanne is swimming, or trying to swim. But she don’t know how. Who does? Mostly she’s just flailing and shouting. Then Jacob plows right into her, from above, and they’re grabbing each other, pulling each other down, swallowing water, grabbing each other’s hair to stay above the surface. Drowning. That’s what they’re doing.
And then, I see this big knight—he’s got a face like a shield, I’d say, just as flat and dumb—and he jumps down into the water, and it only comes up to his shoulders, and he’s lifting ’em out of the river, up above his head, and they’re still kicking and fighting.
He carries ’em up the bank and drops ’em—hard—in the dirt. They’re flopping around, coughing and spluttering like fish.
Finally they regain themselves. And they look up.
And this skinny knight wif long blond hair and a face like a weasel is staring right down at them.
And he’s grinning like the Devil himself.
The innkeeper puts a plate of cold pie down in front of the boy. The jongleur looks up at him and grins. “Well?” he says. “Weren’t that worth a spot of pie?”
The innkeeper grunts. But I say, “Indeed it was. Was that all you saw?”
“Oh no!” he says, picking chunks of crust and meat up between his filthy fingers and shoveling them into his mouth. “I followed ’em, didn’t I? A big muck like Red, Fat, and Wicked wants to find ’em! That could be worth some money, couldn’t it?”
Jerome exclaims, “You would betray them? For money? That’s despicable!”
“Now, now, I gotta earn a living, don’t I? I don’t have some fancy monastery, giving me food, do I?” He turns to the handsome man. “Nor do I have some fancy lord to give me the clothes on my back!” The man frowns at him. “No! I got to earn my keep! However I can! And if you were in my position, you’d do the very same fing.”
He continues to eat his pie like he’s afraid someone might steal it from him, one arm curled around the plate, the opposite hand shoveling food into his mouth. Then he says, “For a mug of strong ale, I’ll tell you what happened next.”
I hesitate. I don’t like giving strong ale to children. That’s what the weak ale is for—children and clerics.
The little nun says, “How about a nice cup of water?”
Everyone around the table makes a face. “You don’t drink water, do you?” says the innkeeper.
“That’s disgusting!” agrees Marie.
“Nor is it sanitary!” adds Aron.
The little nun shrugs. “If God made it, can it be so bad?”
Aron leans forward, raises one finger in front of his face, and says, “God made urine, too, Sister.”
I order the jongleur a mug of the weak ale, the innkeeper brings it, and the boy goes on.
HAPTER 10
The Second Part of the Jongleur’s Tale
They make to have a hanging, right there in the road. The big knights pin Jeanne’s and Jacob’s arms by their sides, and two other knights take ropes from ’round their waists and begin to fashion ’em into nooses.
Gives me the shivers, that does. I had a friend hang at the gallows once. Weren’t pretty, I can tell you that.
Well, Jeanne and Jacob look like they’re about to shiver their clothes off. Sopping wet, about to be hanged. Jacob starts to pray under his breath, and Jeanne follows his lead—though a different prayer, I’d figure. The knights drop the ropes around the children’s necks. I don’t know whether to try to help them kids or not. If I don’t, and the kids die, I don’t get no money from Red, Fat, and Wicked. But if I do try to help, there’s a chance I get one of them ropes secondhand, if you know what I mean.
What would you have done? Huh?
Well, I admit, I got many talents, but courage ain’t one of ’em. So I watch as the ropes get pulled tight around the kids’ necks. They’re praying hard now. I can hear ’em.
And then—they get yanked down the road.
The knights are walking, dragging the kids behind ’em like dogs.
Them ropes weren’t nooses. They’re leashes.
The knights lead the kids off the main road, onto a little way that crosses the Oise and heads west. I go that way, too, but it’s too small a road for me to be following ’em. They’ll get suspicious, won’t they?
I hurry to catch up. Best place to hide is in plain sight. That’s what I always say.
“Excuse me!” I call. “You going this way?”
One of ’em says, “Of course we are. Why would we take this road if we weren’t?” He’s got a lazy eye, and he’s holding the rope that’s tied to Jacob’s neck.
“Well, mind if I come wif you? I’m going this way meself, and it’s a lonely road.”
“Shove off!” says the weasel-faced one. They all talk like rich boys. But rich boys who’ve been to the wars, you know? Not proper at all. But still rich. Know what I mean?
Anyway, I say I’ll sing for my supper. The weasel don’t want to hear it, but the other knights do. So I sing a bawdy song. One of the good ones, where all the bad words rhyme.
Jeanne turns red as a beet, and Jacob looks mighty uncomfortable, but the knights are laughing. Most of ’em, anyway. They decide to let me walk wif ’em. It’s useful to know a dirty song or two, I always say.
So I’ve got my plan. Soon as I know where they’re going, I’ll double back and see if I can’t get a few coin out of Red, Fat, and Wicked in exchange for information about the kids. Who, I gotta admit, I’m feeling bad for. Jacob is limping along, like he’s in a lot of pain. Jeanne manages to loosen her noose a little, but when Jacob tries to do the same, the knight with the lazy eye yanks the rope so tight Jacob goes choking and staggering to his knees.
“Get up!” the knight growls, and he hoists Jacob to his feet by the rope.
Jeanne cries, “Stop it, you ugly Viking!” I expect her to get yanked by the throat for the insult, but the chubby knight who’s got her rope just laughs.
I start to learn the knights’ names—and give ’em nicknames in me head. Fabian the Weasel, Baldwin the Bald, Haye the Lazy-Eyed, Haye’s chubby brother, Marmeluc, and Georges and Robert, who’re bigger than mill wheels and twice as slow.
After some time walking, Marmeluc says, “What kind of prayer was that you were saying?”
Over his shoulder, Fabian the Weasel says, “Don’t talk to the prisoners.”
But Marmeluc ignores him. “It sounded Jewish,” he says. But he don’t say it mean like. He sounds—curious, I guess.
Jacob turns his head, ever so slightly, to clap an eye on Marmeluc, but he don’t say nuffing.
After a moment, Marmeluc says, “Are you Jewish?”
Jacob looks like he’s finking about what to say. And then, he kind of gives in. “Yeah, I am.”
“Really?” says Marmeluc.
Jacob, real flat-like, replies, “Why would I lie about being Jewish?”
Suddenly, the rope a
round his neck is jerked hard, and Jacob’s staggering around and coughing, grabbing his throat.
“Don’t be clever with my brother,” Haye snarls.
Marmeluc waits until Jacob recovers. Then he says, “So you don’t believe in God?”
The Weasel glances over his shoulder at Marmeluc, and his look says, What in God’s name are you doing?
Jacob—real carefully this time, and his voice all raspy now—says, “I do believe in God.”
“You do not!” barks Haye. But he lets the rope hang limp.
Marmeluc says, “You pray to Jesus? Say the Creed?”
“No,” says Jacob. “I don’t believe in Jesus. But I believe in God.”
“Jesus is God, you filthy heathen,” Sir Fabian mutters, not even bothering to turn around.
But Marmeluc says, “How can you believe in God but not Jesus?” He sounds really curious now.
Jacob finks for a moment. I can tell he’s scared—I can smell his sweat. Scared sweat smells different. A knight’s got him by the throat, and he’s expected to debate feology. Course, that’s how Jews are mostly expected to debate feology these days. Sad state of affairs, but true enough.
Jacob seems to have weighed his options carefully. The swords on the knights’ belts are waggling all around him as we walk. He says, no more than a murmur, “You believe in the Trinity. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I just believe in the Father.”
Marmeluc asks, “Are there Jews who believe in other parts of the Trinity?”
His brother scowls at him and says, “What is wrong with you?”
But Marmeluc answers, “I’ve never talked to a Jew. I just want to know.”
Jacob, warily, replies, “No. We just believe in the Father. That’s what makes us Jews, I guess.”
“Huh,” says Marmeluc. Fabian looks at the other knights and rolls his eyes.
• • •
We make camp on the side of the road. The sun is touching the hills and spreading its red guts all over ’em.
Georges and Robert make a fire wif pine needles and sticks. The pine needles don’t do nuffing but smoke, ’cause they’re green. Like I said, slower than a mill wheel, those two are. Eventually, Baldwin gets it going.
The knights all tuck in to dried sausages they’ve had in their satchels. I offer to sing a song for some sausage, but Fabian throws me the butt of one and tells me that’s for not singing. I heard that joke a hundred times. I still fink it’s funny though—’cause I get paid for not doing nuffing. Jeanne and Jacob, they don’t get offered no food at all. They look as tired, hungry, and miserable as any two children I ever saw.
Eventually, we spread out on the ground to sleep. Except Marmeluc—he’s gotta keep watch—and the kids, who stay by the fire, the ropes still dangling from their necks.
I lie down and pretend to sleep, because I don’t want to lose those kids any more than the knights do. Besides, you hear lots of useful fings when people fink you’re sleeping.
So Marmeluc and the kids are staring into the fire, and there’s the sound of the crackling logs and the light of their burning orange cores. Away from the fire, the night is dark—clouds are covering the stars, and there ain’t no moon. The night sounds get going—crickets, yes. But also wind in the faraway trees. And other sounds. Ones I don’t know. Eerie sounds.
Around the fire, Jeanne and Jacob start to look over their shoulders. The wild beasts roam in the darkness. Wolf packs, starving bears just rising from their hibernation. And worse fings. Ghosts. Spirits. Draugrs, the blood-hungry undead. The sounds stand up the hair on my neck.
And then, suddenly, there’s this wail. Long and high and thin. I would say it sounded like somefing dying—but it’s no fing that should live on this earf. Jeanne and Jacob sit straight up and stare out into the hills.
Jeanne says, “Sir Marmeluc, do you hear that?”
Marmeluc looks up at her across the fire. He don’t look scared at all. He looks . . . sad. He nods. And then he whispers, “That’s just Fabian. He cries in his sleep. We’re all used to it now.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The Weasel cries in his sleep?
Jacob looks like he don’t believe that sound is just Fabian. He’s glancing over his shoulders into the darkness, ready for the draugr to come get him. But Jeanne says, “So why don’t you wake him?”
“Georges did the first time. Fabian beat him so bad for accusing him of crying that we never did it again.”
“Fabian can beat up Georges?”
“Fabian is a scary man.”
“So why does he cry, do you think?”
Marmeluc looks across the fire at the children. Then he does somefing very strange indeed.
He looks around the camp.
He calls the name of each knight in a whisper, one by one. No one stirs.
Then he stretches his back, rubs his hands togevver against the cold, looks out at the heavy curtain of darkness, and tells us a truly frightening tale.
“We were on Crusade. We set out with two hundred knights, under the command of Lord Montjoie, for the Holy Land, to liberate it from the rule of the Saracen king. Spirits are high. We’ve been told that the Saracens are cowards and idiots, and that flying the banner of Christ, we cannot lose. We believe that.” Marmeluc’s face is lit from below by the smoldering campfire.
“Upon arrival, we march straight for Damascus, the first city we plan to liberate. We will liberate it, of course, by killing everyone inside. We lay siege to the city—and immediately, the Saracens turn the siege around on us. We are surrounded, pinned to the city walls. We are outnumbered and cut off from any escape route. Rather than fight us, though, they decided to let us starve. Cowards, maybe. But the only idiots there were the rich boys who’d left their comfortable French homes for this Hell.
“We starved for nearly a month. Soldiers were dying in every platoon. Lord Montjoie had a camp at the center, and he wasn’t seen going in or out for weeks. There was a rumor that he was dying, or already dead. The earth there was so dry we couldn’t properly bury the bodies of those who died of hunger or sickness—they’d stink from underground—so we took to burning them in our bonfires. The whole camp stunk of burning flesh. It was unbearable.”
Sir Fabian’s sobs are receding. They now sound like choking, or a bullfrog’s croak.
“Eventually, seven of us decided to flee. We crept up to the edge of the camp one night and set out running. When we came to the enemy lines we crawled through the patches of darkness on our bellies. I’ve never been so scared in my life. But it was better than being stuck in that camp. By dawn, we were clear of the Saracen forces. At the time, I thought God Himself had guided our path. Now, I’m not so sure. We found a road that led north and followed it, trying to make our way back to France.
“The journey takes months by land. If you can go by ship from the Holy Land back to Venice, which is how we came, it’s half the time. But we had no money for the passage. So Fabian decided we should, just temporarily, turn brigand. I fought him on it, I swear I did. But the rest of them agreed, and I couldn’t very well survive out there alone, could I?”
The young knight looks at Jeanne, and then at Jacob, straight into their eyes, as if he really wanted them to agree. As if it would help, somehow.
And, bless their hearts, they nodded. He goes on:
“Right. So one morning, we hid among the rocks of a canyon, where the road from Jerusalem to Constantinople passed through. A few small groups went by. Fabian held us back.
“He’s our leader. I don’t know how that happened. Some people just talk and talk and everyone listens. Other people talk and no one does.
“Eventually a four-wheeler came through the canyon. Fabian signaled to us all. When the cart was abreast of us, we leapt out and cried, ‘Jowls to the ground!’ like real French brigands. Well, they didn’t understan
d our words, but they understood our swords well enough. They lay down on the road. We stepped over them as we made for the cart. Fabian threw open a side door. Inside were spices like you’ve never seen. Heaps of purple and orange in sacks. And dates—which are like prunes, but drier and sweeter. We took it all.
“And then . . .” Marmeluc sighs. It’s the deepest, saddest sigh I ever heard. He says, “Fabian killed the men. Said they’d raise the alarm on us. I couldn’t watch.
“Only once they were dead did we see that they wore the seal of the Knights Hospitalier. They’re the ones who care for wounded Christians on Crusade. They devote their lives to it. Healing monks, is what they are. Barely knights at all. Healers of Christian soldiers, really.
“I was sick, right there on the side of the road to Constantinople.”
He gets silent again. Looks as if he can still taste the sick in his mouth. Then he says, “We traded the cart and its contents for passage to Venice. When we got to France, our seventh companion, a knight called Guy-Francois, disappeared. That made us uneasy. We were right to be. When we returned to the estates where we had each grown up, we discovered that Guy-Francois had betrayed us. He’d come home and told of what we’d done and entered a monastery to repent. My father, Lord Marmeluc de Limors, a rich and powerful man, called me and my brother murderers. To our faces. I fell to my knees and begged him to listen, that it had been Fabian, not we, to kill the good Hospitaliers. He just raged louder. Now our littlest brother will inherit my father’s lands. And I am forbidden from returning home ever again.”
Fabian’s crying has stopped now. The crickets are humming.
And then Marmeluc says, “I miss my mother.”
The kids watch him chew on his lips and stare into the fire.
Finally Jacob says, “Is that why Fabian cries? Because he can’t go home?”
