by C. D. Baker
Benedetto’s eyes twinkled. “And the women, my lads. The women were so beautiful. Some were fair and some dark, and all moved with the grace of angels. Their smiles were like the bursting of a new dawn, and their br—”
Pieter cleared his throat loudly and cast a stern look at the newcomer. Such discourse was hardly appropriate for the eager ears of his boys!
“Ah, si, si… of course. So, bambini, my home was a place of beauty, to be sure.”
Anna pointed a finger at Benedetto’s lute. “Might you play for us?”
“Would that please you, my dear?”
“Ja!” squealed Frieda and Gertrude. “Please play.”
As the others joined in pleading, Pieter raised a hopeful brow. “Buona medicina, amico, buona medicina.”
Benedetto grinned. “I must sing loudly over the river, but I’ll sing.”
Jon shouted from his corner, “Sing of the women.”
The boy’s request prompted a reproving eye from Pieter. The minstrel, however, failed to notice the priest’s frown. “Of course, my boy,” Benedetto answered. He plucked lightly on the tight strings of his lute and closed his eyes. “I’ll sing a song of the women of Brabbia.” He hummed a few notes before he began, and it was plain that he’d been blessed with a voice well suited for his calling:
I met once a maid
Whose touch stole my soul.
A beauty indeed,
An angel aglow.
Silk hair, golden braids,
Shaped hips, eyes of blue
Her smile lit the heavens,
Her kiss was sweet dew.
Red lips like spring roses
And breasts full and firm …
“That song is now ended,” interrupted Pieter. “Sing another song, one better suited for your audience.” He raised a brow high.
Benedetto yielded. “Yes, of course. My judgment oft fails me, I fear. Forgive me, Padre.” The minstrel winked at Heinz who stifled a giggle. “So, children, might I sing a more tasteful ballad I wrote for a beautiful maiden that passed by me on my dock?”
“Ja!” Heinz clapped. “Please sing!”
The musician’s face brightened; that simple petition was the source of his joy and upon hearing it his spirit soared. He opened his heart and sang:
Oh, rose of Arona
Bloom only for me.
I wait by yon garden wall
On bended knee
Midst sweet-smelling herbs
And ‘neath sweet-smelling trees.
Yet columbine, violet,
Nor cyprus draw me.
Soft rose of Arona
My heart yearns for but thee.
I beg that thee only
Would ringdance with me.
Methinks of no other,
Though fragrant they be,
Oh, rose of Arona
Bloom only for me.
The children clapped and clapped as Benedetto sang on and on—first songs of love, then of wine and butterflies, of feast days and dancing, of sunshine and moonlight. His fingers plucked and strummed his faithful lute until, at long last, he reluctantly paused to point toward the familiar walls of the village of Brig emerging from the riverbend on the southern shore. “There, Wil, there is Brig … our destination.”
Wil looked carefully at the timbered town set close to the water’s edge. He saw nothing uncommon, only dark wood and steep thatched roofs. Smoke pillared above the stockade as the volk inside prepared their evening’s meal, and the sounds of cows and goats mingled over the swift water toward the boy’s straining ears.
Wil and Pieter skillfully ruddered the company toward a large boulder lying in a quiet eddy. It was a good place to secure their craft and, with a few final pulls on the rudder and a good heft of Jon’s pole, the crusaders were safely resting against the rock. Karl and Conrad jumped to the bank with their rope in hand and lashed the raft securely to a stout oak. Once all was in order, Wil ordered his fellows onto dry land.
By now a number of curious villagers had gathered to watch the children disembark. It was not common for travelers to arrive from upstream; the river was rarely deep enough to navigate and when it was, few were willing to risk such an unproven course. But this season the ice melts had offered such adventure as a reasonable alternative to days of walking, and more than a few parties had landed by Brig’s rock. So, satisfied that the new arrivals were neither fugitives nor highwaymen, the villagers soon returned to their duties-at-hand.
The crusaders stretched atop the boulder with mixed feelings. It felt good to lie on solid ground, but their voyage was pleasant and it was good to be carried by the currents instead of climbing against the unmerciful breasts of the mountains. Mindful of their lack of provisions, Pieter and Benedetto disappeared into the village where they shrewdly negotiated the sale of the raft to some adventurous peddlers headed toward Montreux. And, before darkness had completely fallen, they returned with a bulging leather wineskin of fine red wine and six pecks of millet and oats.
Wil was not pleased. “You ought trade that wine for some good bread!” he barked. Even in the dim of twilight Pieter could see anger in the lad’s eyes.
“Our minstrel’s throat is parched and I thought it best to repay his kindness with some of our own.”
Wil grumbled but yielded. He turned his anger on the others and herded them gruffly toward a flat clearing outside the village wall. “Jon … Conrad … Karl… Gunter … Richard—gather wood. There’s good hardwood all about. You others … Frieda … take the pail and draw water … Anna, Otto … take helpers and break some spruce for beds. Now off. All.”
The crusaders were accustomed to their tasks, and before long a reasonable supper had been eaten in the warmth of a blazing fire. And, after a few hearty laughs and a quiet song by Benedetto, the children fell fast asleep, contented, rested, and well fed.
The next morning the company awoke shrouded by the river’s mists but beneath a promising sky. A few sharp kicks into the embered campfire rekindled a smoky fire so that a quick gruel could be prepared with the ration reserved from the prior night. Then, with neither ceremony nor regret, the crusaders left the shadow of Brig’s stockade and the rush of the river to ascend the well-worn trail which would lead them through the Simplon Pass.
The children climbed faithfully up the long, winding trail, refreshed and strengthened by their days on the raft. Benedetto struggled, however, more accustomed to respite than labor. He panted and wheezed his way up the stony mountain track, loitering whenever possible to steal large gulps of air.
For days they strained through the narrow, high mountain valleys, ascending beyond the leafy trees and through the pines until, at long last, they crested the summit of the Simplon Pass and began their slow descent toward the plains of Lombardy. The journey became easier, though not easy, and the band paused occasionally to beg aid from the brown-eyed villagers of places known as Gondo and Preglia. These folk had a different manner and look about them, most being darker and shorter than the children’s Teutonic kin. And, with the exception of the odd villagers of Gondo, most were warmhearted and welcoming. The breezes bore a different air as well. It was warm and oft sweet and as pleasing as the people it bathed. It was, most assuredly, relief from the chilly air the crusaders had left behind.
As the landscape changed from stark, rock-faced, and hard-edged summits to rolling, leafy mounts of oak, laurel, and beech, the pilgrims’ hopes soared. “Aye, ’tis true, kinder,” Pieter encouraged, “we’ve no more climbing through the clouds, though we’ve a range ahead by Genoa. Nay, we’ve a good march for quite some time. We’ll follow this valley known as ‘Di Vedro’ until we land by a good lake.”
The company marched past Domodossola along a trail now edging upward slightly and cutting across the breast of the mountains midway above the valley floor. The children flourished in the warmth of the Italian sun; they danced and sang and laughed their way toward the stony shores of the Toce River some half-day’s journey ahead. Suddenly, however,
they rounded a bend in the widening pathway and spotted a squat, menacing castle just ahead.
The crusaders halted to study the castello. Its tawny stone walls were thick and heavy and stood firm against the mountain’s breast atop a narrow terrace called a list. Its many bow-slits seemed to stare back at the children as if they were eyes keeping a wary watch. Indeed, this was a worthy sentry of the lord’s lands. The company had no option but to pass beneath the fortress ramparts, for the trail they marched was so placed. The pilgrims stirred uneasily. Better, thought some, to face simple village folk than a lord and his men-at-arms. But others, such as Frieda, were accustomed to a castle’s refuge and knew well of the safety and security it might offer commoners as themselves.
“Wil, there’s naught to fear!” she assured. “And there’d be no better store of food than in a keep such as this!”
Wil was annoyed at the damsel’s tone. How dare she accuse his reserve as fear! “Fear? Ha! Y’think me to fear a thing as that? Nay, girl, I’ve no fear of this place. My destiny is to rule lands as a knight and methinks y’to be a fool to say such a thing.”
“I… I only thought y’to be—”
“Humph. You’d be but a girl and not called to think.”
Frieda bristled. Maiden or no she was not one to bind her tongue for the likes of anyone, let alone a cocky lad—handsome or not! Her eyes flashed. “You listen well, young master,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll use m’head as it suits me … and it suits me well! I may say little but m’brain’s not near as mushy as that soft gruel that fills your head.”
Wil clenched his fists. Being challenged by a girl in front of his whole command was a sure humiliation. Few men in his village would have restrained from beating the strident wench where she stood, he thought. Yet he always felt it cruel; he’d not beat a helpless beast, let alone a Mädchen. His father, he suddenly recalled, never raised a hand to his mother and had been fined once by the village chief for not doing so. He had oft told him to never harm a woman. No, Frieda would not feel the weight of his fist this day or any other. But she surely needed a bit and bridle! The boy faltered for words.
“There. Y’see … you may be a knight someday and me but a frau with a litter, but it shan’t mean me to be your lesser!” The damsel’s cheeks burned red but she was not without wisdom; she had more to say but held her tongue.
Benedetto was eager to bring calm. “Ah, bambini, look … look there.” He pointed to the four towered corners and the steep pitched roof of the keep that reached above the walls from the castle’s center. “I remember this place as a boy,” he said.
Wil shuffled his feet and looked away from Frieda. “Ja?” he answered halfheartedly. “Go on, minstrel.”
“I rode with our village padre to learn to sing as he delivered a parchment from our bishop. It was a great honor for a little peasant boy. And he did teach me of the ways of lords and princes and of this family. He said this castle was built by the Verdi family just prior to their wars with the Visconti two or three generations past.
“The Verdi have been lords of these lands for many years, though the Visconti now control most of the world between Milan and Lago Maggiore. No matter, Signore Verdi’s grandpapa had sworn fealty to Emperor Barbarossa. The Visconti allied with the Lombard cities and when the league defeated Barbarossa at Legnano, the Verdi were without good alliances and lost much land. Even now I have heard they have sworn to Otto and some lords of the Piedmont. Ah …” Benedetto sighed, lost in the confusion of the times. “No matter, see how our trail rises to the castello? All travelers come under its eyes. And see how it is placed high above the valley and guards the whole of the lands surrounding?
“You see the narrow list, the flats in the front? Less land for an enemy to gather on. And there … Signore Gostanzo has a moat… that water surrounding the outside … do you see? He is very proud of that. It is most unusual for a mountainside castle.”
Wil pointed to an angled fence of wood spikes set on the mountainside just below the list. “It looks to be well defended. An army must needs get through those stakes, cross the list and then the moat. And all the while dodging the archers from above.”
“Si, the barbican.” Benedetto paused and studied the castle’s walls. “And I fear there to be some trouble … the war balconies are hung outside the ramparts … a sure sign of danger.” The minstrel shook his head and lowered his voice. “And see all the wall-slits … they are filled with archers. Many a man has died on this side of that wall. But also, many a peasant has been shielded by it and many well fed in times of famine. Perhaps they will be gracious to us all.”
Wil ordered his comrades forward and in a short time led them onto the drawbridge under the wary watch of a well-armed troop milling nervously by the open gate. The lad moved cautiously and wondered what sort of greeting to offer, when his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Karl’s voice.
“Ach. Such a stink!”
“What?” asked Wil.
“The stink … can y’not smell it?”
The company began to whine in unison and paused to peer into the stagnant water beneath them. Benedetto shrugged. “Where else to put the waste?”
Conrad sat on his haunches and stared at the filthy water. “Look there, Jon,” he said. “I see floating cabbage.”
“And there,” pointed Anna, “a bit of onion. And there, scraps of… of something.”
Otto suddenly started laughing and chortled. “And look there!” he shouted. “Against that old log.”
His friends followed his pointing finger into the water below. Most of the girls, commoners though they were, nevertheless found the sight objectionable and turned away. But the lads found the sight more than a little amusing and howled and cackled at the flotilla of human waste collecting against the log dam.
“Enough of that,” sighed Pieter as he brushed them by. “’Tis time to enter.”
The boys got off their hands and knees and scrambled to catch Pieter, now waiting impatiently by the chief porter.
Pieter addressed the guard. “Gentile signore, we bid enter in peace and request the charity of your lord.”
The man stared back from under his round helmet. Pieter noticed he was young and seemed very tired. Dark circles hung beneath his deep-set brown eyes. He teetered a little, straining to stand under the poundage of the steel mantle of mail that hung to his knees. Even his legs were weighted by mail hose that wrapped his feet. Pieter saw he was readied for battle and he turned to briefly survey the quiet countryside.
The porter, well trained for his youth and educated as well, forced a growl. “Padre, take this litter and vattene… begone. We are in no mood to host strangers.”
Pieter looked beyond the gatekeeper to the bailey within and noticed battle-ready soldiers grouped in small companies. “What sort of troubles have you here?”
The young soldier stepped toward Pieter with a menacing stride. He motioned his men forward. “Just turn and go your way, old man. We have no need of you.”
Karl was craning his neck impatiently from the rear of the crusaders’ column. “What?”
The words had barely left the boy’s lips when a trumpet blast suddenly pierced the air from the tower above. Its shrill timbre was cause enough for the courtyard to come alive in a flurry of noise and motion. A soldier high on the parapet could be heard shouting as he pointed, “There! There he comes!”
Pieter and the startled children followed the man’s arm and peered across the valley below to see a lone horseman charging up the long slope toward the castle. Pieter strained but could not distinguish what manner of rider it was. Suddenly, a troop of mounted men-at-arms charged past the children, nearly knocking several off the bridge, and raced toward the oncoming horseman. Pieter could not discern if they intended the rider harm or escort, for they crashed past, fully armed but without the steely flush of bloodlust.
The tower bells now began to toll and the men-at-arms within the castle were quick-stepping to their positio
ns all over the walls above. On the slope below one of the horsemen suddenly reigned his mount, turned in his saddle, and cupped his mouth to shout. “Red flag. He bears the red flag!” The man’s voice was strong but clearly betrayed a tone of dread and, upon hearing him, the young guard paled before Pieter’s eyes.
The message had barely reached the keep when orders began to fly from tower to tower, and streams of soldier and peasant alike ran to new tasks. The porter’s voice cracked as he ordered Pieter and his children into the castle with the point of his lance. “Sbrigatevi,” he barked. “Hurry! Avanti. Avanti!”
Wil resisted. “Wh-what is happening here?”
“You cursed Teutons are no strangers to warfare. We are about to be attacked … now inside. Now!”
The chief porter ordered his men to herd the crusaders into the courtyard where they were abandoned in the midst of the chaos within. For several moments the wide-eyed children stared blankly at the beehive bustling all around them. Every wall was webbed with crowded stairways and lofts, lifts and lookouts, and each parapet occupied by a bowman at the ready. The peasants’ scattered workshops and lean-tos lining the interior of the walls were now shuttered and being doused with water by columns of pail-pitching serfs desperate to prepare for the worst. Columns of light-armed cavalry were assembling by the gate while the half-dressed knights of Lord Gostanzo were busy cursing vile oaths at their squires and armor bearers.
A blonde soldier spotted the confused fair-haired company and ran to them.
“You there, Padre,” he called to Pieter as he approached. “Germans, ja?”
