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

by C. D. Baker

  “N’est-ce pas,” agreed Philip. “And freedom from the thieving grasp of a Church that would deprive a man of his last denier. Ha! I trust their tithes and indulgences earn the devils a particular heat in hell.”

  Jean cast a stern, scolding eye toward his fellow. “Non, Philip, we’ve needs to love them as well. We’ve no right to throw stones.” He turned toward Pieter. “Friend, by your robe I see you are a man of the Church, and we mean no offense to you personally, but conscience charges us—”

  “Humph. We do so very much intend offense to your pope!” blurted Philip.

  Pieter said nothing but nodded and glanced at his riveted boys.

  “And you, lads,” continued Philip, “we wish you grace and peace in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and freedom in His name. Your reliance on the Savior alone sets you free, not your reliance on the Roman Church.”

  The boys did not answer.

  “You mentioned others … by what name are you called?” asked Pieter.

  “We are followers of a Frenchman—”

  “Non!” interrupted Philip. “My brother is wrong. We are followers of Jesus Christ, but have been schooled by a teacher from France named Peter Waldo.”

  Pieter smiled and nodded. “Ja, I have heard of him. I believe him to be a merchant with an uncommon knowledge of Scripture. And are you not oft called the Poor Men of Lyons?”

  “Oui,” said Jean.

  “Of course. I should have remembered that by those wooden shoes you are known for.”

  “And in the south the Italians call us the Sabotati. There are many of us now, mostly in the mountains of France and Lombardy. We travel as peddlers, using our trade as a way of sharing our good news. But from time to time we hide in these mountains, fleeing the wrath of our king and your pope.”

  “So, fellows, ’tis good by me that y’ve come upon us. I wear the robes, true enough, but my heart leaps within to hear your words.”

  Philip studied the old man. “Indeed you’ve the robe of a priest but I see a different light in your eye.”

  Pieter smiled and winked at Karl. “I am, as are you, a priest in the service of our Lord. But my title comes not by m’garments. In a time long past I was a priest serving Rome. Ah, but the Church found little liking to my thoughts on much and cast me aside for those more … submissive to their mind. So now I wander the Empire within these robes to spite such an arrogance as would deny the priesthood of any who call Him Savior.”

  Jean’s eyes sparkled in the firelight. “Yes, yes, mon ami. We are all priests. Each who claims the name of Jesus as his own is a priest… even these young ones.”

  Karl’s heart chilled and he whispered nervously to Wil, “Do y’think we could be hanged for hearing this?”

  “Nay, I’ve no fear of them.”

  The discussion persisted deep into the night, well past the setting of the moon. The men discussed the role of the Church, the wisdom of the Celts, the liberties of the English, and the visions for the future. At last, though hungry for more, Pieter yielded to the hour and the pleas of his patient companions and snuggled into the crevice of a lichened boulder. But the old man woke before dawn, hurried through his morning prayers, and stoked the dwindled fire roughly, hoping to disturb the Frenchmen. “Ah, begging pardon,” whispered Pieter in Jean’s ear. “Have I wakened you?”

  The sleeping man groused and grumbled, but the stick strategically dropped atop his legs opened his eyes. “Eh?”

  “A blessed day to you,” smiled Pieter mischievously.

  Jean sighed. “Et tu.”

  And, to Pieter’s delight, he and the two Waldensians were soon climbing through the cold mountain air to the snow-covered top of a summit overlooking their camp. From here they could see the earliest hues of a new day building over the mountains in the east. Pieter leaned hard on his staff and turned a sincere eye toward his new friends. “I simply cannot grasp this God of ours. My mind fails me oft, for at one moment I see His love in bounty all about me, and on the next, it is as if He abides neither in this place nor any other. He seems, at times, to be the most intimate presence in all the kosmos; at others, the most distant.

  “Ach, my soul is anguished and aches. It cries out in sunlight and in darkness, for my mind is tangled and woefully weak. I have roamed this troubled world for some seventy-seven years and have seen much. But surely, the more mine eyes do capture, the less I discern. I have labored to comprehend that which I encounter so that I might be more certain of what I do yearn to hold … but I have failed to understand and my faith does fail me often.”

  The two men listened carefully, even sympathetically, as Pieter lamented the confusions of his life and the vexation of all efforts to snatch meaning from the chaos all about. Pieter finally quieted and sat with his silent friends to watch the sun crest the craggy summits.

  Jean filled his lungs with the mountain air and broke the silence with a calming confidence. “Mon ami, Scripture teaches us that when times do well we ought be happy, but when times are not, to consider that God has made the one as well as the other.”

  “Ja, ja,” answered Pieter, a quality of impatience ringing in his tone. “I am not ignorant of such counsel. Ach. But why … why does He allow evil to foul us, why such pain and misery? Why does His love fade and wither like a weak bloom in autumn?”

  “Ah …’tis a fair challenge,” observed Philip. “Might I ask if strong faith is a good end?”

  “Ja, so it is. And…?”

  “And has struggle with hardship brought you increase or want in your faith?”

  Pieter paused. “Surely both, it would seem.”

  “Then, good fellow, beg my leave to ask how you are so certain such suffering is by His failure? Could it not be a mysterious blessing from the only One who knows what Pieter … or Jean … or m’self … must needs endure to grow in faith?”

  Pieter hesitated.

  “Might I pose another question? When have you wrestled most with your Maker? When have y’shook your fist or fell, despairing, to your knees?”

  “In times of sorrow and pain,” answered Pieter slowly.

  “Oui. It seems we creatures are always wont to drift from the One who longs to but hear our cries … or see our face turn even an angry eye toward Him. ’Tis sad, but as we are we’ve little interest to look to Him for any cause save when we’ve suffered loss or blundered our way.”

  Pieter stiffened. “Misery seems an odd way to draw us … yea, perhaps even a cruel way, methinks. I’ve yet to understand such as He.”

  Jean smiled kindly. “It is not the heart of God that lacks, but ours. He is not a hard taskmaster; we are stiff-necked students. And you shall not know the mind of this God of ours, brother, not ever; ’tis not meant for us to know the why. Such a thing would leave little room for faith. We would soon only trust in our own understanding.”

  Pieter stood to his feet and protested, “Nay, we ought be able to know His ways so we might know what to expect. I wake by lauds and tremble to imagine which of my children I might lose this day or which might be spared! I know not whether He’s a mind to feed us or tear our bellies with hunger again, or whether some mischief shall pounce upon us or whether mercy shall lead us. If I could but see His mind … have a sound hold of His ways …”

  Jean took the old man by the shoulders and faced him squarely. “Though our faith be reasonable, we are clearly instructed, nonetheless, to ‘lean not upon our own understanding,’ but rather to allow for the mysteries of a God who owes no debt of explanation to His creatures. You, priest, by your own words do toil to deny such submission. Pity, indeed, to waste a life in such futility of effort.”

  Jean sighed and narrowed his eyes at Pieter’s. He spoke gently, but firmly. “Brother Pieter, hear me say this: ’Tis plain that you are a most arrogant and prideful man.”

  Pieter was startled by the charge and stood hard-faced and flushed in the early light.

  Philip set an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It is love for you th
at draws truth to my lips. Jean is right to say he sees a haughty spirit shadowing your mind. I discern you to be beset by a sinister, subtle pride, a wily and elusive pride that keeps you in bondage. Come, let us show you something.” The confused old man followed the Frenchmen around a boulder atop the summit to behold a panorama spread before them like none other Pieter had ever seen in all his many years.

  Fresh sunbeams had just burst low from the east, driving mighty red-and-yellow rays of light against the azure sky and glinting the snow-topped edges of the hale and ardent landscape. The sprawling mountains’ silent mass embraced the power of the rising sun, and though the heights’ gray-white cliffs purpled slightly, they did not blush without cause. Indeed not, for such a place was the high chamber of God Himself and hallowed with His presence. Here was the form of unyielding resolution and here shined the reflected glory of God’s own splendid visage.

  In that silent moment Pieter suddenly felt so very, very, small; obscure, insignificant. His eyes teared as they opened to see himself perched atop the lofty peak a wilted, pitiful, inconsequential bit of unkempt and unnecessary matter; an impotent, pathetic pinch of fouled and foolhardy clay. The divergent magnificence before him bent him to the ground, mocked and humiliated by his own folly.

  Pieter cried bitterly and lay prostrate beneath the warming sun as his smashed vanity writhed against the moment. At last the broken man groaned loudly, “‘What is man that Thou art mindful of him?’” He then lay in utter silence, facedown atop the summit’s snowy boulder until, at long last, he climbed slowly to his knees and faced the sun. He spread his arms to the sky and smiled.

  Shaking and drained, he turned to his companions. “My dear, dear brothers, you have brought me to the garret of the earth and the end of myself. I am in your debt. Ah, what a fool I have been to imagine I might seize the mind of the One whose hands have shaped these mountains … whose fingers cut such valleys! I cannot understand such might. I cannot grasp His power, His glory. How dare I even strive to do so! That He allows me breath is gift enough, and for Him to grant my feeble mind sight for but a small portion of His is a miracle indeed. Ah, what grace! How dare I demand to know His purposes! How dare I bind my faith to such a quest! May He forgive my arrogance.”

  Pieter fell to his knees and raised his hands once again. “I believe You to be there and I believe You to care … and I am content.”

  In all his prior days, old Pieter the Broken had never been so surely touched by the hand of God’s Spirit. In all his journeys and in all his tears, with all his study and in all his hours of prayer, he had never before been turned so completely toward the face of his Maker than as on this blessed morn. He sprung to his feet and embraced Jean and young Philip.

  “I am free … free. I have seen the truth and am free indeed. Credo ut intelligam … I believe to understand.” Pieter bounded back down the trail skipping and tripping, laughing for joy; for he had abandoned his self to dance, and dance he did, like a happy child within the safety of the high chamber of his Father.

  First-meal was unlike any other for the transformed priest. His eyes sparkled and he frolicked about the campsite like a young master on a bright summer day. What gladness! What deep, heartfelt delight washed through him! After finishing a ladle of gruel, Pieter called for Jean and Philip. He reached into his robe, removed his leather wallet, and carefully unfolded the passage from the Psalms. “You were led here by the angels, I am certain of it … uh, as certain as I am now able to be! Mes bons amis, take this parchment as a gift from my heart. Take this and share it with as many as you can. Share it with your blessed Waldensians. God is truly greater than our minds can know…. Ah, ’tis life to accept such simple truth.”

  Jean and Philip received the Scripture humbly and embraced the old man. “Merci, merci! Ah, and ’tis time now that we depart. Blessings on you, brother, and upon all you, dear children. May each of you enjoy God’s Holy Land, whether within or without. May all find the many liberties of His good heart.

  “And remember this: We are truly free when He fills us with the faith to do nothing … and the wisdom to know when!”

  Then, as suddenly as they appeared, the Frenchmen descended out of sight and were gone. Ah, but Pieter’s joy did not leave with them. Instead, it swelled as he assembled with his beloved children in the cold air of the windy, snowy pass, and his infectious bliss brightened the company as they continued their march.

  The girls squealed and the boys howled with delight as they hurled snowballs at each other. It was not a time to notice the cold or lack of provisions or the steep ascent; instead it was a time to celebrate the beauty of the world below and the good fellowship each shared. By vespers the crusaders had crested the summit and were descending again, dropping out of the snowline, past the scrubby pines and into the thicker spruce. Night was quickly gaining on them and Wil soon ordered camp to be set.

  “Wil,” asked Anna as she rubbed her tired eyes before the fire, “we’ve nought to eat—what are we to do?”

  Wil shrugged and searched the blankets for food. Conrad called out. “Wil, you’d be looking for this, I’d venture.” The boy held out a final gift from the Frenchmen. “Look here! They hid a wrap of smoked venison and some red cabbage in m’blanket!”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Pieter. “Who would have ever thought to hear m’say ‘God bless the French’!” He laughed. “So, God bless the French…. Oui? Let us eat.”

  Soon all had filled themselves with the Waldensians’s kind gift and each had nestled into his blanket atop broken tree boughs for another night’s sleep. Maria was snuggled against Pieter’s back and the old man beckoned Karl to his side with a finger. “I’ve another clue for my riddle if you’ve such a mind for it.”

  Karl winced. “I’ve some doubt I’ll ever guess it!”

  “Then you’ve need of a few extra clues to sleep with. Are you ready?”

  Karl shrugged.

  “Good: A misty dewdrop sparkles well upon a tender blade, but soon it melts to gleam again in which enchanted glade?”

  Karl shrugged again. “I’ll never …”

  “Be patient, lad. Here is another: Through what canyon walls resound and to what castle bound the whimpers of a frightened child huddled on the ground?”

  Karl strained and groaned, eyes squeezed shut. He mumbled past clues and then shook his head.

  Pieter smiled. “I’ll ponder your good riddle if you vow to work at mine. But now it’s time to sleep. Who knows what waits on the morrow?”

  Chapter 17

  REFLECTIONS AND THE MINSTREL

  What day of the month do you think it to be?” Karl yawned as he prepared for the next morning’s march.

  Pieter rubbed his red eyes. “I judge by our French friends this to be the first days of September. Why do you ask?”

  “Did y’not claim your birthday to be at the end of August?”

  “Ah, yes. Yes, indeed, ‘twas on the twenty-seventh day of the most pleasant of month of August.”

  Maria was listening as she gathered wood for the fire. “But Papa Pieter, we failed to wish you blessings on that day.”

  “Ach, give it no thought, my little dear.”

  “But Father,” Otto added, “birthdays are to be special … most specially when there are as many as you have!”

  The company laughed.

  “Aye, well said, my son,” said Pieter. “That was my seventy-seventh year … and I expect to add no more.”

  “And why so?” asked Karl.

  “Truth is, I was told once by a Jew in Milan that seven is the number of perfection. And now that my sevens are doubled, why not hold fast?” He threw back his head and chuckled.

  Wil ordered his crusaders to hurry their first-meal and begin, at once, to press their journey against the difficult trail ahead. So, after rubbing their hands over the morning fire and swallowing hard on a few stale crusts, the young soldiers dutifully tied fast their blankets, bowed to Pieter’s customary prayer, and fell into the familiar rh
ythm of their determined march.

  The troop was now high in the mountains and approaching the bare-faced, snowy Grimsel Pass which would lead them to the Rhône River and closer to the lands called Lombardy. After several hours of hard climbing Wil halted his company and surveyed the landscape ahead. “See there, Pieter, see … there … snow is blowing hard against that ridge, and look, look beyond to the heavy gray clouds lowering toward us.”

  “You’ve good, strong eyes, lad. We needs find shelter, quickly.”

  Wil stared anxiously at the threatening clouds and then turned kind eyes toward his shivering crusaders. Maria’s lips were blue-white and trembling. She looked so drawn and pale, he thought, but then so did the rest of the band. Setting his fists confidently on his hips, as if to inspire courage, he ordered his troop to follow him as he leaned into the stiffening winds. His faithful obeyed without complaint, shuffling and shivering close behind. They panted puffs of smoke into the thin, icy air while squalls of stinging snow blasted hard against their freezing faces.

  The sky thickened and lowered and the snow fell hard through the day. By evening the travelers found themselves in a most difficult predicament. Wil called a halt and stared through the twilight as he strained to find his way.

  “If only these c-c-cursed clouds would open,” he shivered. “We might yet f-f-follow m-m-moonlight to shelter.”

  The group silently waited for Wil’s orders, huddling tightly to protect themselves against the wind. Pieter whispered to the stubborn lad, “M-my son, we are in grave danger. The snow is lying above our knees. These childrens’ feet are freezing and they will soon s-s-suffer blacktoe. We’ve no wood for a fire—both coal buckets have spilt… we’ve little f-f-food …”

  Wil snarled, “I’ve eyes. Have y’not a better thought in yer old head?”

  Pieter wrapped his blanket close about him and pulled his hood hard against his cheeks. The blanket-bound faces gawking at him in the deepening darkness tried to detect some degree of hope. Yet the priest could see little as he looked ahead. Drawing Wil closer he whispered, “I heard once of N-N-Norsemen who’d lost their way and c-c-crashed their V-Viking ships against a snowy island. They were wet and near death with nary s-s-shelter or f-fire. It is t-told they dug a cavern in the s-s-snow itself and pressed their bodies close together. They were sh-sh-shielded from the wind and w-were … warmer than … outside. It seems we ought do the same?” His trailing voice exposed his doubts.