Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (The Journey of Souls Series)
Page 15
The day following, the crusaders rounded a bend in the dusty road and paused to survey the scene spread before them. Their faithful companion, the Rhine River, was now dotted with flat-bottom barges and the single masts of sailing ships. On the near shore women pulled reeds for weaving, while along the farther shore fishermen worked their cod nets, deftly throwing them toward the river’s bottom with well-trained arms.
“Look there.” Lothar pointed. “Must be a city at some distance. See the busy roadway.”
The children peered across the river toward the faraway walls of Strasbourg. A parade of carts and horsemen could be seen as tiny figures along the road leading from the ferries. “Aye,” answered Pieter. “’Tis a city out there, indeed … and a good one. Ah, if you could only enjoy its innards … the markets and fairs, the foods, the fine homes and cathedrals.” Pieter put his arms around Jon I and Karl and recounted his times wandering the place. He spoke of its grand marketplace filled with wares from the East—silk and perfumes, spices and fine silver. “Beautiful tapestries hang within the courtyards of the wealthy and women adorn themselves with the finest of gold. And the wine, ah, the wine! I am told the markets now sell a new accessory for the cives called ‘buttons.’”
The children waited for an explanation.
“Buttons, as they are described to me, are round or squared bits of carved wood or brass used to bind tunics fast by the chest. Seems clever enough. They are stitched to one side and pushed through a hole cut in the other.”
The children laughed. “Buttons,” chuckled one. “Why not a few for Georg’s breeches!”
“Ja, ja, let us be kindly toward our friend Georg.” The old man smiled and proceeded to speak of the city’s minstrels and jugglers, of fools and jesters who could make both peasant and nobleman laugh to tears. “My children … know this, that merriment belongs as surely to prince as pauper. When people laugh we laugh without station, for our chortles are not those of lord or serf, high-birth or low, but of all who are made in the image of a God … who also laughs. ’Tis a joyous wonder to see the silked sleeve of a burgher wipe the same salted tear as the homespun of a peasant.”
The crusaders soon turned their eyes away from visions of Strasbourg and rejoined their attention to days of hard marching. Late one sultry evening a turn in the road delivered them to a view of the trading town of Dunkeldorf set some distance ahead. The sun was setting and Wil suggested the group make camp. In short order a small fire was snapping amidst a circle of forlorn and dirty faces.
For the past fortnight many such occasions were a pleasant, if not happy, respite, but this night’s fire nurtured a brooding melancholy. Pieter offered his usual blessing and a few strips of eel, a grasp of dried apples, and a final hard piece of spelt bread. But the pilgrims were painfully aware that they were about to swallow the last of the provisions Georg’s father had provided, and they knew hard times were upon them again.
Sensing the depressed spirits of his children, Pieter stood close by the quiet flames and, with a large, one-toothed grin began to tell tales of the ancient Germanic volk. The children’s distress dissolved into the darkness as the old man immersed his flock in the adventures of their Teutonic forebears.
Pieter thrust and parried his staff at the shadows as his voice bellowed the legends of the soldiers of the Mayfields, of battles against dragons, of the rescue of maidens, and of the guardian spirits of the valleys beyond their sight. “And soon, my children”—he pointed his staff into the darkness—“we shall come upon the edges of the endless Schwarzwald … a forest said to teem with elves and fairies … a place filled with mystery; a place where stars sprinkle magic dust and the trees are keepers of secrets. Ah, my dears, such a place of wonder.”
The children were still. Pieter walked slowly to the rim of the campfire and placed his hands solemnly atop his crook. “Close your eyes, my children, and see with your mind the sights of your world. Everything that can be seen has purpose.”
Pieter’s voice hushed to a whisper and he drew his black hood over his head. “The falling leaf in autumn, each summer’s dewdrop, every cry of the owl, each breath of the wind … all have purpose.”
A voice chirped from the shadows. “Even so the fairies?”
“Ah, yes, child, even the visions of our… imaginations.”
A rumble of protest circled the ring of earnest faces. “Nay so, Pieter!” cried one. “Nay so. M’Vater’s been about the wood and seen such with his own eyes.”
“Aye, and for me too,” stated another. “M’village is circled by elves near to every Midsummer’s feast…. ’Tis not in our heads.”
Pieter had no wish to challenge such things, and the sparkle in Maria’s hopeful eyes was enough for him to yield his own thoughts of the subject. He remembered his own days of longing for a glimpse of the pointed leather cap of a happy troll, or the fleeting wings of a woodland fairy. “Ah, perhaps true enough,” he answered. “I confess no certainty on these matters. Perhaps the spirits dwell in both our minds and the forest.”
Contented for having their dreams spared, the crusaders returned to the comfort of the fire and the warmth of the old man’s words. And soon enough their eyes weighed heavy and yielded to a good night’s sleep.
Dawn came too soon for most, save Wil who was eager to search for treasures in the town just ahead. So, with little food to prepare, the column formed quickly and followed their leader to the gates of Dunkeldorf.
“Have y’been at this town, Pieter?” asked Karl.
Pieter nodded slowly. “Ja, my son. I have been here and I doubt it wise to return.”
Wil was in no mood for reservation. “Pieter,” he snapped, “we’ve no choice but to enter and seek provisions. Lammas feast is soon and methinks the town must have a bounty to share.”
Pieter sighed and ignored the boy’s bite. Instead he cast a loving gaze at the weary faces of his flock. He looked sadly at their tattered clothing and swollen feet. All were hungry and some were sick, yet there remained a glint of stubborn faith and an abiding glimmer of hope in each eye his met. The sight of such resolve stirred Pieter’s heart and he whispered a silent prayer for his wisdom and for their protection.
The old man turned to Wil. “I do yield to your command, m’young lord, yet heed my words: this is a place to fear. Be wary, stay close, and confer all respects upon the folk within.”
Suddenly Georg squeezed through the column, a tentative expression spreading over his face. “Might I have leave to speak?”
Wil nodded.
“I have not journeyed here, nor, to my knowledge, has my good father. But I have heard our huntsmen speak of it as a dangerous place for all. They report it to be corrupted by an evil burgher and magistrate. ’Tis said to be a sanctuary for the lawbreakers of the realm and of the kingdom of France.”
Tomas sneered and strutted toward Georg. “If y’be afraid, fat boy, you may stay and tend a fire for our return. I would surely not want y’to suffer another belly pain from your fears.”
Georg blushed.
“His words might be true, Tomas,” offered Karl.
“Aye, so they may be. But the fat one’d be a coward by any count.”
Pieter set a comforting hand on Georg’s shoulder and addressed the group. “It is proper for Georg to share what he knows and we thank him. I, too, am aware of the dark words spoken of this place … but our provisions are nearly exhausted. We’ll follow Wil forward … with the greatest care.”
With little more than a few grunts and gestures, Wil directed his soldiers toward the walled town. Pieter set his mind to prayer but had barely offered his first petition when Karl interrupted.
“I’d be ready for the next clue.”
“Clue for what, boy?” Pieter wondered.
“Your riddle.”
The old man smiled. “Now? Ah, very well, here is the next: ‘The songs of thrush and nightingale are born upon the breeze, but toward what Country do they drift while passing o’er the trees?’”
“Rather difficult ’tis sure, but there is little joy in simple riddles. Have you another one for me?”
Karl paused for a moment, while Maria, who was listening to the two of them, skipped to Karl’s side and whispered in his ear. “Well, ’tis an old one,” answered Karl. He looked to the rear of the line and beckoned Georg and some others to move forward. When a few had huddled close by he continued. “Maria has a riddle for you: A young priest was sent to observe a feast in hell. Upon his arrival he noticed that the damned had been given sharpened staves as long as a man is tall to eat with. The famished souls tried as hard as they might, but they could not reach their mouths with the meat they impaled. This, in turn, led to fighting and cursing.
“The sad priest was then escorted to heaven where the angels invited the guests to play the same game. The heavenly residents were handed the same staves to eat with, yet in heaven each was able to enjoy the good meat and there was great joy and fellowship. Why was this so?”
Georg squeezed his eyes into his sweating cheeks as he strained to think. It would be so very good, he imagined, to win Karl’s friendship by being good at these cursed riddles. His mind spun but before he had an answer, he found himself at the imposing gates of Dunkeldorf.
Chapter 9
DUNKELDORF
The free town of Dunkeldorf was a trading center set squarely on the east bank of the Rhine some two days excursion from the French city of Colmar and within a comfortable journey of Basel to the south. Because of its location, the town bustled with the trade of two realms and served as a convenient market for merchants transversing the Rhine valley. Its independent status was recently declared and its borders were defended by a stockade wall and a garrison of mercenary soldiers.
The townsfolk resided in timber-framed homes set in random order along narrow, uncobbled streets. Some of their houses were built with wide, rough-planed planks and plaster, some handsomely appointed with fine glass and shutters, but most were simply crude cottages of wattle and straw.
The log chapel near the market square provided a temporary location from which the spiritual needs of the people were served, though on the hill at the south end of town construction of a proper stone church had begun. The diocese at Mainz had bestowed absolute authority on one Father Silvester for all such matters. The town had been organized under a burgher and council and had received its independence from the clerk of Emperor Heinrich VI. Its laws were enforced in unabashed deference to the interests of the influential, and mercy for others was rare.
Missing the feast of Lammas, the children huddled closely as Wil and Pieter led them into the confusion of the busy town. Wealthy and poor, thieves and priests, rogue soldiers and wayfarers of every stripe were soon pressed around the crusaders who stared in awe of the tapestry of humanity now enveloping them. The loud shouts of merchants huckstering linens, tanned hides, fruit stuffs, and weapons; the brays and whinnies of livestock and the occasional clang of church bells made for a noisy but intriguing blend of sounds. Yet the pilgrims felt a mood of darkness which subdued what might otherwise have attracted their eager curiosity.
Pieter mothered his children like a nervous hen with her chicks and admonished them repeatedly to be vigilant and evoke no annoyance. “By the saints, you be angels in this place … and do exactly what I say.”
Usually confident in the abilities of his own wit and worldly wisdom, Pieter seemed uncharacteristically apprehensive as he led his Innocents through the streets. Still willing to believe the Church to be of some potential benevolence, the old man humbly asked for direction from a simple beggar and was pointed to the timber chapel. He knocked loudly on its heavy oak door. “Greetings … I say greetings to thee.”
No answer was forthcoming so Pieter pounded harder and cried loudly, “G’tag?”
The door cracked a bit and a beaklike nose protruded from the shadow.
“Yes, what is it?” hissed a voice from within.
Pieter, confused by such an odd reception, shrugged and proceeded to introduce himself and his congregation. The door opened enough for Father Silvester’s leather-capped head to emerge. Silvester said nothing but glared from beady, dark eyes at the dusty, tired children. He sucked a long breath through his nose, nearly collapsing his nostrils and then whined, “Get hence and begone, thou dirty herd of brats. Go … go at once. We have no need of more of thy kind.”
Pieter clenched his jaw. “I implore thee in the name of our Lord to have mercy on these little ones. Might ye find a place in thy Christian heart to share a bit of food and refreshment? Surely thou would’st earn bounty for thy parish for so blessing our Holy Crusade.”
The priest snarled and flung the door wide open. “Holy Crusade? A Holy Crusade methinks not. It seems they’ve turned good to evil. We are told of these would-be pilgrims as no more than poachers and common thieves … stealing and murdering passage through our Empire and France.”
His volume increased and he hurled open the door to set his finger by Pieter’s nose. “A just God shall not tolerate such hypocrisy and neither shall His Holy Church. In the name of all that is sacred, more of these impostors need be flogged proper for such wickedness, and methinks some ought be hanged. I am told that our offended Lord even now strikes legions dead with fever and starvation as a fitting reward to such blasphemy. Such is evidence enough of the heresy and evil of this abominable masquerade! If they were honoring God, such misery would not be their bedfellow.”
“Would’st thou neglect the compassion of our Holy Mother for even the most imperfect of his little …”
“Speak not to me of the Virgin and keep thy tongue from the discourse of the cleric. How dare thee. Filthy beggar … impostor. How dare thee wear the robes of the Holy Church! Perhaps thou ought be bound by the magistrate and sent to a fate fitting of thine own deception.” Silvester piously clutched his robes at the chest, then steadied his voice. “However, I am a man of God and as such I do offer the mercy of which you speak. I’ll not summon thy destruction, though consider this a final warning. You’d best enjoy my forbearance and take thy litter of broken misfits far away from this good town.” The priest then slammed the door, leaving the stunned crusaders open-mouthed and empty-handed.
Pieter closed his eyes in prayer, asking God to forgive the hatred now raging in his bosom. He then stared to the heavens for some explanation. “Is it I, Father? Is it I? Am I mad … or am I one of but a few sane creatures assigned to roam this asylum?”
He turned to the confused and frightened faces gathered around him and tried to speak, but his tongue was bound by the anger frothing in his throat.
The trembling voice of Lothar broke into the moment. “Shall he not help us, Father Pieter?”
Jon I clutched the old man’s robe and desperately implored, “If God’s people shan’t help us, who shall?”
Pieter’s response was sharp and razor-edged. “God’s people are not always people of God. Guard yourself, children … you need the mind of a fox never more than when the pious prowl about!”
A loud, commanding bark from Solomon suddenly beckoned the crusaders to a tight alleyway squeezed between two guild-houses just behind the chapel. The band hurried to the entrance of the passage and Pieter and Wil followed the excited dog warily into its shadows. There, huddled in the darkness, were three frightened children squatting against the wall, legs drawn tightly to their trembling chests and each clenching a crusader’s cross. They stared at Pieter and Wil with wide eyes and cringed as Solomon leaned his pointy nose toward them.
“Be still, my children,” said Pieter softly. “We are friends … here to help you.”
The three hesitated but one finally stood. “I … I am called Frieda,” said a long-legged, blonde-haired girl of about fifteen years. She squeezed her hood tight at the throat. “I come from the kingdom of Westphalia, and … I …” Un
able to contain herself any longer, the poor girl choked on her words and her brown eyes swelled with tears. Pieter laid his hand upon her shoulder and she collapsed into his embrace.
“Yes, yes, my child.”
As her weeping gave way to calm she backed away and dried her face on her sleeve. She took a deep, quivering breath and introduced her younger brother, Manfred and her younger sister, Gertrude. She then proceeded to relate their tale of suffering. “Most of us were dead by fever and hunger in the woodlands north of here. What few lived found this evil place. We asked but thrice for food from three merchants when a magistrate’s soldier ordered us be beaten. Then …”
Manfred, nervous but clearheaded for a boy of eleven, quickly chimed in. “Aye, so ‘twas, but we ran quick-step and hid whilst they shouted to drown the yellow-haired witch.”
Gertrude, about ten, then stood and, in a weak and shaking voice added, “My lord, we’ve been hoping God would help us … might you be His answer?”
Pieter nearly wept and his throat thickened as he reached a hand toward the little girl. “ Ja, fair Mädel, your hopes were prayers of the best sort and God has answered them this day. I suspect His answer to be a bit later than your preference but that oft seems to be His way.” He winked.
Wil took the priest by his sleeve and whispered, “We cannot care for a single more.”
The priest nodded sympathetically and drew the boy aside. “Brave and patient Wil, like our Lord you have been given charge to care for the misfits, the destitute, and the unwanted. Consider each a blessing and your burden shall lessen.”
Wil sighed, resigned to yield to the priest’s gentle insistence, and joined the others as Pieter led the three relieved additions out of the alleyway. After a brief introduction, Frieda and her siblings merged with their new comrades and waited calmly for direction.