Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (The Journey of Souls Series)

by C. D. Baker

  In the meantime, Conrad and Otto had scrambled past to free Georg whose motionless body was facedown, bent awkwardly under a large limb. The two furiously tugged and jerked the branch away and then nudged Georg gently. He did not move and they prodded him a little harder. “Georg … Georg … can y’hear us?”

  Otto looked nervously at Conrad. “What ought we do?” he asked.

  “P-perhaps we needs roll him over?”

  The two grunted and groaned and carefully turned Georg on his back. The boy rolled and as he did, the two cried out. “Oh God! Oh God, no!”

  “Wil, come quick!” screamed Otto.

  Wil sprang to poor Georg’s side and held the boy’s wobbly head on his lap. He chilled at the lad’s opened eyes for a moment, too shocked to move until, at last, he buried his tears in his comrade’s chest. “Georg. Georg. Oh, Georg,” he moaned. “I’ll ne’er forget.”

  Georg’s neck had been broken in the fall, snapping like the bough of the tree that had yielded to his weight. The young lord lay still and lifeless on the lonely mountainside, soiled with mud and wet leaves. But who would doubt that his spirit now soared, bathed and blessed by the tears of angels sent to so honor him?

  A trembling Karl crawled to Georg’s side and held him tightly. “My good friend,” the boy sobbed. “Oh … Georg… I am so very, very sorry.” He closed his eyes and wept.

  Wil called to the others above. “Georg … is gone … we’ll meet you … there … on yon clearing some below.”

  Unable to answer, the company simply nodded obediently and gathered in a solemn column behind Pieter to move silently toward their assigned destination.

  Wil, Otto, and Conrad strained as they lifted Georg’s body from the ledge. Stumbling and slipping, panting and heaving, they struggled to bear Georg toward the valley floor in a manner worthy of his sacrifice.

  Frieda attended Karl, who suffered woefully in both body and spirit. “You needs slow yer pace, Karl. And … wipe yer eyes so y’can see to step,” she said tenderly.

  “Poor Georg. I… I…”

  The girl laid a hand on the boy’s heaving shoulders. She was all things feminine: strong, nurturing, wise, and gracious. “Take heart, Karl, your friend loved you and he knew you loved him as well. Here, take his cross.”

  Karl received Georg’s wooden cross with his bleeding hands and kissed it. Then, with no more words he leaned into Frieda’s sure arm and followed the others.

  For all, the descent to the clearing was but a blur; like a dream at daybreak. But as they fell into the embrace of their weeping fellows they knew it was no dream at all, but rather a moment their memories would grieve for all time. Wil and Otto laid Georg’s body in the clearing, and the crusaders circled ‘round with hands clasped together. After a brief pause Wil solemnly ordered a grave be dug beneath the wide and welcoming branches of an ancient oak tree just beyond them. “Aye, there … ’tis a worthy marker.” Indeed it was, for this old oak stood a remarkable watch over the valley below. It was deep-rooted and strong, well-shaped and stouthearted, proudly fixed in the bosom of a splendid land, true to the character of such as Georg.

  Pieter, Frieda, Maria, and Gertrude bathed the lad’s whitening body with puddle water while others plunged their bare hands into the muddy earth and slowly scooped out a shallow grave. Pieter closed the boy’s eyes and folded his arms over his heart. The girls placed his hair neatly across his forehead and shrouded him in his torn tunic and leggings.

  When all was ready, Wil, Jon, and Otto carried Georg to his tomb and laid him gently down as if to sleep, his feet toward the east and the Resurrection to come. “Aye, and so, too, his cheeks can feel the rising sun,” sobbed Maria.

  The children each took a turn setting rocks on the grave until it was nicely mounded. Karl set his own crusader’s cross securely above the boy’s head and Maria placed a bunch of wildflowers neatly over his heart. Pieter choked and wept his way through an agonizing prayer. His tongue felt thick as he struggled to finish his task. At last, however, with barely enough spirit to coax him to the end, he finished with the familiar words, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”

  The priest stopped and lifted his hands to the heavens once more. “God in heaven, surely we do not know Your ways; You are a mystery to us. Receive this good servant of Yours, this fine young lord, into Your embrace. May Your loving angels carry him to Your table where he may feast in the presence of our Savior. May he be draped with the finest of Your robes; may the saints that have gone before honor him as is surely due. May he laugh in the sunshine of Your light, delight in the gardens of glory, and rest forever more. Amen.”

  Tears poured down the old man’s face as he reached into his robe and carefully opened his wallet. He retrieved one of his beloved parchments and unfolded it slowly. “My children, my children, my precious lambs. We have seen such hardship on this journey as defies m’mind. I’ve not the grasp to explain one whit of it.

  “But methinks Georg’s death offers us a look at something far greater than the pain it brings our hearts. The lad offers us in his death what he offered in his life—a treasure—a gift from God Himself; a thing called Love.

  “And, in this, we do have hope again; hope that love shall indeed triumph over hardship. Aye, I trust that the memory of our own dear Georg shall remind us always that where love is, hope is, and together they rule the darkest hour.

  “I have read this to some of you before and I’ll read it again because there is nought else better to be uttered at such a time as this. I trust y’shall see good Georg’s heart in these precious words.”

  Pieter wiped his eyes slowly across his rough sleeve and paused to watch Maria as her dainty fingers dropped wildflowers lightly atop the grave. Then, as if heaven itself prepared to affirm his words, long beams of golden sunlight burst through fleeting clouds and shined brilliantly upon the tattered company bowed below.

  Pieter held his parchment with shaking hands, but his voice bore not the slightest hint of reserve or waver of doubt. Instead, he spoke with such conviction that it seemed to all gathered that the valley spread beneath them had suddenly hushed in an act of homage due none other than its Sovereign. “’Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered. It keeps not a record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.’” Poor Pieter’s voice now failed him and he collapsed to the ground and wept.

  The crusaders circled the flowered grave and held hands to sing their song, though few could finish.

  “Oh,” sobbed Karl. “I… I am so very sorry. I am worthy of shame.” Others nodded, uncomfortably aware of their secret contempt for Georg’s gentle heart and their hidden hatred of his higher birth. At long last, the crescent moon arched high overhead as the broken band built a small fire to sleep by Georg for one final night.

  Chapter 16

  THE LIBERATION OF PIETER

  Dawn was calm and a clear sky coaxed the sleepy pilgrims to a gentle awakening. Karl gingerly touched the cuts on his neck and the bruises on his arms and legs. He sat up, only to face Georg’s grave and he groaned. He then reached for his necklace and leapt to his feet frantically. “Wil, Wil, where is my necklace? I must find m’necklace.”

  Wil plucked it from his belt and held it with a clenched fist. “Here is the hellish thing. I should have heaved it off the mountain yesterday!” Wil spun on his heels and threw the chain over a nearby ledge and watched it disappear in the treetops below.

  “What ’ave y’done? That was Mother’s gift to me. You’ve been jealous always!”

  “That? That was nothing,” answered Wil with a snarl. “That was no gift, y’fool, and it was no love. That was but a wage for services.”

  Karl stared at him blankly.

  “You’ve been a dimwit always. ‘Twas no love in that cursed necklace. It was a t
rinket you earned with your pitiful scuriyin’ here and about and your ready smile and quick ‘aye’ and do.” Wil pointed a sharp finger at Georg’s grave. “If it’s love you seek … you’d find it there. Georg loved you, y’blind dolt, and not because he owed you.”

  Karl’s chin quivered. “I am not good … and … I am not worthy of goodness.”

  After a slow dawn’s first-meal Wil finally ordered the column to assemble under Georg’s oak, and by late prime he was leading them toward the narrow floor of the Aare valley and the village of Meiringen. Having found no good fortune in these manor lands, he veered from the roadway toward some distant smoke in hopes of finding a friendly village that might spare some food.

  Unsuccessful, the tired children made camp and finished the last of their rations, chewing ravenously on pork strips and stale crusts. Once finished they sat close to their fire, and its warmth drew happy thoughts of Georg to their lips. Frieda smiled as she braided her golden hair. “Can y’not see him running from the highwaymen with that blanket barely reaching ‘round his bottom!”

  “Ja,” giggled Otto. “And what of the tunic Karl got him by Basel?”

  “I was sure it would burst,” laughed Conrad.

  Karl smiled as his mind’s eye carried him to the picture of Georg squeezed in such a silly outfit. “I truly thought it a proper fit. It seemed it might keep two peasant boys covered … but it could barely hold one rich one!”

  “And what of that shearing, Karl?” chortled Jon.

  Gertrude squealed, “Ja” His poor head looked like a gourd with a bit y’winter mold atop.”

  Pieter laughed with the others until a gentle sadness lulled them each to a restful quiet and soon the crusaders were fast asleep.

  The troop returned to their roadway and followed the shimmering Aare for two more days before setting an evening’s camp by a deep pool to watch Pieter spear a fish with a wooden spike he had fashioned from a pine. Wil was delighted to imagine fish roasting over the night’s fire and soon such wishes were realized as the old man tossed his wiggly prey toward the eager hands of his fellows. “Fishing, my young friends, can be used to catch more than a full belly. Ah, yes … I am certain of it. It is, by truth, a plain reminder that perseverance and long-suffering most surely lead to success.”

  Wil rolled his eyes and walked away. “I beg y’leave, Pieter, but I’ve little heart for philosophy. Can y’not settle for just the fish?”

  Undaunted, Pieter pressed on. “Each time we thrust our spear or cast our net or toss our hook, we are saying that we believe that something good could happen. And though we may walk away emptyhanded, we always come back to the water’s edge believing this to be the day we catch a fish.” Pieter laughed and jerked his catch from the clear water. “By truth, though, our hope is another’s lost!”

  That night the sky looked like a rich, black broadcloth sewn heavy with glittering jewels. The children stared from their beds in awe of the sight. “I’ll tell you all someday of the message in the stars,” said Pieter. “But this evening I fear m’self too sleepy.”

  “Good!” came a squeaky voice from the shadows.

  “Amen,” said another.

  “Ah, I see.” Pieter smiled and settled for a good night’s sleep.

  Morning came and the children passed through the village of Handegg in the fiefdom of mad Lord Arnold of Grindelwald. Soon they were straining upward along the steep path into higher mountains. “Children,” panted Pieter as he struggled, “’Tis ever more perilous and snow waits above the tree line. Take good care. Wil, might we rest now?” He paused to catch his breath in the thinning air.

  “It’s too early; we stop when I so say!” snapped Wil. “And I say not.”

  So the crusaders trudged obediently up the long ascent toward the Grimsel Pass with no sound other than their own heavy breath and the occasional clatter of rocks grinding beneath their thin-soled shoes. By late that afternoon they broke out of the timberline and pushed toward the gray-white rock of the snowy pass ahead.

  By evening Wil ordered his company to make camp on a massive, flat boulder at the north side of the narrow pass, and the shivering children scampered in all directions to find bits of kindling from bushes clumped in the crevices of the cliffs. The company had barely set camp when a voice suddenly boomed across the rocks. “Bonjour.”

  Wil spun around and faced two strangers emerging around a boulder just behind him. Wil stared at the man now waving cheerfully at him and leading a weary donkey burdened with stuffed baskets and a large, freshly killed deer. Wil nodded warily.

  The man seemed safe enough. He appeared to be friendly and well groomed. Wil thought him to be young, not yet twenty-five, with close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He seemed of modest means, though not without. His colorful cloak of tightly woven wool was well stitched and it covered adequate leather leggings. But Wil’s curious eyes dropped quickly to the man’s feet which were protected by well-worn, wooden shoes. The boy stepped toward the two. “Aye, and what be y’about?”

  “So? A Teuton? From parts north, I’d venture?”

  Wil nodded.

  “Forgive my poor German tongue but please allow my introduction.” By now the other crusaders were cautiously approaching and Pieter was close behind. The man continued with a bright, winsome smile. “I am Philip of Cloyes and am here by leave of my abbot.”

  His friend roared. “By leave of yer abbot indeed!”

  The companion was at least a decade older than Philip, a bit broader and rather unkempt. His thick, wavy hair flipped from under the sides of his brown, leather skullcap and his fuzzy, graying beard danced wildly in the mountain winds. The man was still laughing but paused to introduce himself. “Aye, and I’d be Jean of Rideaux—and, mon Dieux, we be no friends of any abbot or shaveling in all Christendom.”

  “Good sirs, bienvenues,” offered Pieter. “I am Pieter and these are my fellow … soldiers.”

  “Greetings, all. Might you dine with us?” invited Philip.

  Before the speechless children could answer, the smiling travelers untied a large chamois and dropped it at their feet. “What’s this? Frenchmen poaching game from the emperor?” protested Pieter sternly.

  The strangers glanced at each other awkwardly. “Uh … we’ve, uh …”

  The priest’s eyes twinkled and his face warmed with a full grin. “Fear not, good fellows, and welcome. I’ve yet to give more than a passing thought to young Friederich II, and it’d be a rare day, indeed, that I pass by such a feast for the likes of this!” He extended his hands and took each stranger by the shoulder. “God’s blessings to y’both … but we’ve naught to share.”

  Jean hugged Pieter. “Bon. Bon. This night the pleasure to serve is for us and us alone. And we serve with gladness.”

  So, midst cheerful conversation and well within the comfort of a hot, crackling fire, the pair skinned their gutted quarry and heaved large quarters onto long spits. And, before long, succulent venison was roasting just above the tips of the leaping flames.

  The water-mouthed children waited impatiently for their fare to finish cooking, and they sat poised and fixed with their fingers fidgeting to tear away at the sizzling meat hanging just beyond their reach. At last Jean jerked a hot strip off a well-seared rump and chewed it slowly. His eyes rolled in delight and a smile crossed his face. He swallowed, then licked his lips and his fingers. “Ah … ’tis nearly done … perhaps just a bit more fire …” He paused and winked at Philip. The waiting children stirred.

  “Methinks it to look just good as it ’tis,” squeaked Gertrude politely.

  “Oui? Do you think so?” asked Jean.

  “Uh … yes, good sir. I do.”

  “Then so it is!” laughed Jean. “Oui, oui. My new young friends, enjoy!”

  The two Frenchmen hastily lifted the spit off its supports and set the steaming venison atop the flat rock by the fire. The cheering children lunged toward the helpless carcass, tearing into the tasty meat. And, be
fore a single word of thanks could be uttered, the night’s meal was promptly transformed into a pile of gnawed bones and gristle. Having stuffed themselves, the crusaders soon collapsed around the campfire to laugh and sing and wish all troubles away beneath a splendid night’s sky.

  Thrilled to find himself in the company of educated and well-traveled adults, Pieter seized the occasion to engross his guests in discussions of philosophy, astronomy, modern warfare, and the state of the Holy Church. His children sat respectfully and listened quietly until the warm fire drew all but Karl and Wil to deep sleep. But Pieter would not yield to the temptation dragging others away and became, instead, enlivened and invigorated by the conversation.

  “The Roman Church,” said Philip with conviction, “is an aberration … a perversion of the Holy Will of God, for nowhere in Scripture is it appointed that any mere man ought stand between God and His creation. I declare no need of a priest to speak for me. I need no pope to put order to my soul.”

  Wil and Karl exchanged glances.

  “Might I inquire of the source of such a bold … position?” asked Pieter.

  “Ha!” answered Jean defiantly. “The Holy Scripture itself. And we are pleased to join with others to bring this good news of freedom to the folk of Christendom. Hear me. You … all of you … are free … free to receive God’s love without cost of tribute or without bending knee to a shaveling or black-robed priest. The Christ has paid all that’s due!”

  Jean’s flashing eyes took sudden account of Pieter’s garb and he squirmed a little. But before he spoke Pieter asked calmly, “Please, tell us more of this … freedom.”

  Jean leaned forward. “The freedom to speak to God directly, my friend. The freedom to read or hear His Word in your own tongue. The freedom to depend on His perfection, not our own good deeds. Freedom to depend on His payment for our sins; no more bondage to tithes and indulgences, to fasts, to pilgrimages, to penance. And more: for by His Grace alone, sola gratia, freedom to enjoy Him forever!”