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

by C. D. Baker

  Karl’s eyes opened wide and he grit his teeth. The boy could barely gut a goose, and to kill a man was nearly beyond his heart’s limit. But the lad had the pluck to pull the trigger and the spring released. It was a long shot for the best of archers and it veered harmlessly to one side, sticking into a wooden barrel. Karl groaned.

  Good fortune was with Sebastiani, nevertheless, and his enemy was slain by another. The anxious boys cheered. Conrad grabbed the bow from Karl and ordered him to gather more bolts. In the meantime Pieter had composed himself and touched Wil’s head. “Are you well, my son?”

  Wil, white-faced and trembling, could not move.

  “Are you injured?”

  Wil would not speak. Pieter patted him gently on the shoulder and offered a comforting word. “The angels are near to us, lad, I am certain of it.”

  The battle raged. The Verdi army had retaken control of the walls, but enough of the enemy was now within to put the gate at serious risk and the fighting in the bailey was fierce. Pieter looked desperately across the courtyard for any sign of his other crusaders but his eyes stopped upon seeing Signore Gostanzo locked in a desperate combat. The lord was straining to swing his heavy mace but was evidencing fatigue and his opponent was pressing the advantage with his pike.

  Pieter moved quickly. “Stay close by m’back, boys,” he ordered. Pieter felt the blood pulsing through his frail body. His eyes sharpened and his senses piqued to the danger all about him. He flew across the courtyard, deftly dodging combatants from all sides until he and his lads lunged for the cover of a short wall of barrels.

  “What’s this?” Karl panted.

  Pieter pointed to the signore, who was now frantically fighting two and sometimes three foes. His cape was torn and his face, shield, and breastplate were splattered with the blood of many.

  “He is tiring!” exclaimed Conrad.

  “Aye, he needs help. His comrades are failing him.”

  Suddenly, the lord fell to one knee as the force of a sword against his shield drove him downward. He flung his weary mace toward his foe’s knee, shattering it and dropping him instantly to the ground. But the force of the heavy weapon toppled Gostanzo forward, and he fell, facedown, into the bloodied dirt. A quick-eyed Visconti sprang.

  Gostanzo was desperately trying to regain his feet, struggling against the weight his own armor. Pieter set his armed crossbow tight to his shoulder. He took sharp aim and pulled the trigger.

  The crusaders held their breath as the bow sprang; a miss would surely be the death of all. But Pieter’s bolt flew true and straight and drove square into the chest of the routier, who staggered and collapsed atop the lord’s legs. Signore Gostanzo lunged forward with a start, unaware until that very moment of the danger just past. A squire pulled him to his feet. The lord shot a brief glance at his would-be killer and then joined eyes with old Pieter some thirty paces away. He saluted weakly and reentered the fray.

  “Good shooting!” exclaimed Karl. “Well done, Pieter! Conrad, did you ever see such a shot?”

  “Enough, boys. Off to the wall,” Pieter directed. He was relieved to have hit his mark, yet his soul yearned for the peace of a hillside pasture. But duty required yet more of the man and in the widening shadow of the wall Pieter and his lads prepared for more bloodshed.

  Pieter’s boys set the bow over and over again as he picked away at the Visconti infantry one man at a time. But each time the warrior-priest released the spring he wiped tears from his eyes. “May God have mercy,” he whispered.

  The tide of battle was held at neap. The parapets were being secured at a terrible price and the castle’s gate had yet to be breached, but the defenders were exhausted. For the next moments the fate of many teetered on the will of either side.

  There was sudden alarm in the Visconti camp, however, and its trumpets sounded urgent commands. The battered infantry immediately began a hasty retreat away from the walls, across the list, and beyond the broken stakes of the barbican. The routiers that had successfully breached the wall were now abandoned and trapped inside. They dropped their weapons and raced for the ramparts in desperate hopes of leaping to safety in the moat below. They knew there would be no mercy—and their fears bore true.

  “Look, there!” shouted a joyful Verdi soldier on the wall. “Battifolles! Battifolles! ” Soon hoorays spread through the castle and bells pealed. The thundering hooves of the castle’s allies were bearing down on the flank of the surprised Visconti army, sending it into a hasty, disorganized rout.

  Karl was cheering from his loophole. “Look, Pieter!” he exclaimed. “Look! Look, Wil, Conrad! They’re running!”

  With a few grunts and heaves, creaks and rattles the castle gates were now flung open, the portcullis hauled up its channels, and the drawbridge lowered into position. Signore Gostanzo hastily mounted his white stallion and rallied his readied knights to charge across the moat. “On, my people! On with it!” the lord boomed. “This day is no quarter given—ride them down and send them back to inferno.”

  Conrad, Jon, and Karl surged across the moat behind the horsemen with scores of sooted and bloodied, cheering peasants. But Wil remained seated in his corner and stared sullenly at his feet while Pieter set out to find the rest of his flock.

  Those crusaders working in the infirmary were too busy to join the celebration. The groans and cries of the wounded and dying filled the place and none could walk without stumbling over a man or a part of one. Gabriella now ordered her charges into the bailey to tend the wounded where they lay.

  Frieda was covered in layers of blood, some dried black, some jelled, and some freshly splashed in her face and hair. She looked sick and so very tired. Dark circles hung beneath her dull eyes and her cheeks were drawn and sallow.

  Maria, Anna, Heinz, and the others fared no better. Each now staggered about the courtyard, exhausted, though relieved for the ending of the terrible day. Pieter found them with ease; their light-haired heads appearing as beacons midst the dark-haired crowd pressed all around them. The old man raced toward them each and embraced them one by one with tears streaming down his face. “Ah, mein kind. ‘Tis so very, very good to hold you.” He paused to swallow the lump filling his throat. “And have you seen the other boys?”

  Frieda shook her head, wearily, “Not since early. I’d seen Wil with you and Otto’s group went to the west wall.”

  Pieter hobbled hopefully toward the distant wall in search of his other crusaders. He milled fearfully about the evening’s dim light and caught a glimpse of a cluster of his lads huddled along a collapsed, smoking storehouse. “Boys!” shouted Pieter as he ran to them. “You’ve lived a hard day … but you have lived!”

  “Not all,” answered Otto sadly. “Look here.”

  A pain seized Pieter’s heart as he beheld the lifeless bodies of three of his company. He kneeled by them and laid his hands gently on each head. “Good Gunter. You joined us in the mountains and did all that was ever asked of you. May God receive you as His worthy servant.

  “And you, Richard and brother August … the stout hearts of the Emmental. Ah, I did so hope to know you better. Forgive this pathetic old man his distractions and sleep well.” Tears dripped from the priest’s cheeks and he spread his arms to pray for their departed souls.

  The busy serfs and castle soldiers paid little heed to the priest and the small band of foreign children slowly circling their fallen friends. Pieter had barely finished his prayer when the death-carts groaned close and the three were loaded for burial. All bade a pitiful farewell to their friends and then embraced one another. All that is, save Wil, who lingered brooding in the shadows. “There is more work to be done, it seems,” moaned Pieter as he surveyed the wounded strewn all around them. The children nodded.

  Gabriella approached and smiled as she set a shaking hand on the old man’s shoulder. “The bambini are strong and good,” she sighed. “May God’s blessing be on them always.”

  As nightfall settled over the fortress, a new kind of ho
rror filled the courtyard. The joyful cheers and songs of victory now yielded to the anguished cries of the wounded and dying from within the crowded infirmary and without. Smoking thatch and charred timbers still crackled and glowed red while exhausted peasants dragged more water from the wells.

  Some past compline the Verdi soldiers completed their task of killing every enemy soldier found alive. Pitiful pleas for quarter had been dispassionately dispatched with axes and lances. The enemies’ bodies were then dumped in carts, hauled across the bridge, and set ablaze to a blasphemous liturgy of oaths and curses.

  But the bodies of the castello’s defenders were solemnly aligned at the base of the keep and stripped naked in the eerie torchlight. Before being carried to their freshly dug graves beyond the list, they were washed and shrouded in linens. Priests walked quietly among them, blessing each row and performing the rites of burial.

  Signore Gostanzo returned late in the evening and led the column of his weary knights and the knights of his good cousin and loyal ally, Signore Fernando Battifolle, over the drawbridge and into the bailey. “Well done, my good people,” he cried weakly. The lord trotted wearily about the courtyard on his sweated mount, scanning his people in the torchlight. The day’s victory was complete. “You have fought well and God shall bless you. I shall bless you. Two days off labor, two days of feasting.”

  “Two whole days?” muttered Pieter. “He gives them two days off and some bits of food … for this?”

  The children by his side smiled faintly, too worn to comment. Gabriella beckoned the girls with her finger and they quickly followed like little goslings scurrying to be close to their mother goose. “Here, my bambini… rest here,” she coaxed. “You have served so well; may the saints bless you.”

  The girls did not need to understand her words, for they had little doubt of her love. Maria nestled into some loose straw strewn in a nearby corner and huddled close to Anna. Gabriella covered them with a blanket. “Rest well, carine mie. May the angels always be close.”

  While the boys and Pieter spent the night dragging the dead to their graves, Wil retreated to an inner chamber of the castle and hid. For the first time in his life he found himself on his knees crying out to God. “I denied my sister and I failed in battle. I have doubted Your presence, but I surely feel Your hatred. Withhold Your fist, I beg …”

  The lad squeezed hard against the flood of tears pressing against his eyes. “I’d be far from the man I thought me to be. I denied m’own sister and a worthy friend for the want of a spoiled wench. And I fouled m’leggin’s in the fight … I … I trembled … I shook like a frightened woman.”

  His shame and disgrace curdled his retching innards more than the worst of spoiled meat had ever done. He accused himself over and over. Slight of honor and weak-hearted. Ach … and in need of another to save me … I am nothing as I thought… nothing! Wil fumbled for the dagger now gone from his belt, then clutched his knees and pulled them to his chest. He wept bitterly.

  Suddenly the boy noticed a single candle coming toward him and he was still. He groaned as Lucia drew near, not failing to notice that she was clean and rested, not touched in any way by the savagery of the day.

  “My little captain?” she sneered. “You are, indeed, of low breeding. In fact, by the look of you, I think you to be a coward as well.” She tossed her head into the air as she turned and walked away. “I like strong men,” she said, disappearing in the darkness. “But you, Wilhelm of Weyer … you are a most pathetic thing.”

  Wil stared into the black corridor, broken and abandoned to his shame.

  Chapter 21

  A FEAST OF GRATITUDE

  It was nearly dawn when Pieter and his beloved began to drift to sleep in the shadowed corners and dark recesses of the battered castle grounds. The old man slept well, saddened by the loss of three good lads but grateful for the safety of the others and content for having found Sebastiani in full health just hours before. He dreamed of gentler days and kinder nights until awakened at midday by the restrained nudge of a large, leather boot.

  “You there, Padre” said a soldier. “Wake.”

  Pieter sat up slowly and pulled himself to his feet by his faithful staff. His joints ached and he groaned. “Yes, my son?”

  “You, gentiluomo, are hereby invited to join our triumphant Signori for the first day’s victory feast!”

  Pieter rubbed his bleary eyes and squinted in the sunlight. “Eh?”

  The young soldier became a bit impatient. “I said, sir, that you are invited to join our lord, Signore Gostanzo, to feast our victory, you and your … young companions.”

  “A feast, you say?”

  “Si.”

  “Ah! Then a feast it shall be!” exclaimed Pieter. “Allow me to rouse my fellows and we’ll join you.” Pieter happily hobbled through the courtyard and gathered his crusaders one by one. “Hear me all! We’re to eat and drink!”

  “A feast! A feast!” soon sang a column of tattered pilgrims. They paraded toward the infirmary to find more fellows, but once inside they winced at the stench. “By the saints!” groused Karl. “It stinks!” He turned to see Frieda and her company sleeping in a corner. “Come, come with us!” he cried.

  Wil was found sleeping behind a barrel, and over his loud and bitter protest was finally persuaded into joining his comrades. He reluctantly walked in the rear of the procession and surveyed his friends, all splattered with blood and smudged with soot and grime. What a filthy lot, he thought, but more deserving than I of a feast.

  As they approached the great hall of the lord’s quarters, a guard halted them and ordered all to stand by the well. The company thought it a bit odd until a party of laughing peasant women suddenly charged toward them. Before any could run, the women took hold of each of the complaining children and escorted the boys to one side of the well and the girls to another. The matrone giggled as they stripped the howling children where they stood. They tossed the clothing to a brigade of fullers who carried off the grimy assortment of tunics and gowns to soapy caldrons. And, now that the naked crusaders were helpless to escape, the women stalked them with rough-spun rags, buckets of icy water, and blocks of lye soap! Then, with a zeal matched only by the Knights Templar at the gates of Jerusalem, the women set about the task of scrubbing their charges clean.

  “Not so hard, Frau … not so hard!” cried one brave crusader.

  “Ouch! Easier, easier … I’d not be your enemy!”

  The women laughed over all protests and scrubbed all the harder for their victims’ yelps. Pieter was delighted to see his flock so well tended and found a barrel in which he bathed his own crusted body and soiled robes. He had finally peeled and scoured the last of himself when he eyed a familiar face. “Ha, ha! Benedetto!” he cried. “Benedetto, where have you been, you little scoundrel?”

  The tiny man was peeking out of a beer cask and, upon being found, reluctantly climbed out. He offered Pieter a timid smile and positioned his lute across his back.

  Pieter wagged his finger. “I’ve wondered about you all these two days.”

  “I … I decided to fight this battle with my prayers,” muttered the minstrel.

  Pieter’s face darkened. He hastily dressed himself and strode over to the man. “Is that so? Methinks perhaps you hid in that sanctuary all this while. Praying indeed!”

  Benedetto stared sheepishly at the ground.

  “I must confess, Padre, I am no warrior and, alas, I believe me to be something of a coward.”

  “And are you not ashamed?”

  Benedetto shrugged indifferently.

  Pieter shook his head. “Then I am sorry for you, minstrel. I am among the first to entreat mercy for frailty … God knows me to be oft feeble of heart… but to not ache … to not grieve such things … ah, there’d be a shame worthy of rebuke! I fear you needs take care to see what lies within your own—”

  Suddenly the signore appeared in the entrance to the great hall and summoned his guests, pointing directly t
o Pieter. “This man,” bellowed Gostanzo with outstretched arms. “This old padre … you are a priest, are you not?”

  Pieter nodded.

  “Si. All hear me. This padre did save my life!” Gostanzo embraced Pieter like a bear wrapping a fragile sapling. His dark eyes glistened and his face broadened with a huge smile. The lord then set one large arm around the embarrassed old man and escorted him into the waiting hall. “And you, bambini. Come as well… you are all welcome at my table!”

  Escorted by the hall’s ushers, the crusaders entered the cavernous hall and marveled. The floor had been covered with fresh straw sprinkled with summer flowers and sweet rushes. The damp, stone walls were covered with beautiful tapestries of trees and birds, angels and heavenly things. A large fireplace roared at the far end of long oak tables supporting heavy trays of fruits, venison, pork, and mutton. Considering the nature of the day gone before, it seemed nearly beyond belief that all could seem so very well with the world.

  The children sat with bulging eyes and waited patiently for permission to eat. But the tables were not yet ready and stewards were rushing more trays from the anterooms. These were piled high with cheeses, turnips, onions, leeks, and fruits. Two manservants labored under the weight of one magnificent silver tray heaped to overflowing with red grapes from the fine vineyards of Liguria. Hand-carved tankards of ale and goblets of wine were passed among the knights and squires to raucous cheers and loud applause.

  Signore Gostanzo stood to his feet and raised his hands over the audience. “Welcome, all. This is a sad day for those we have lost, but a joyous one as well. We have fought a good fight and saved our lands and our people. And more, more—I lift my cup to our faithful allies and loyal kin, the Battifolles.”

  The assembly stood to its feet and cheered Signore Battifolle and his knights. Then, after a two- handed gulp of his favorite red wine, Gostanzo raised his clay goblet once again. “Silence, all. Silence. You there, Padre.”

  The hall hushed and all eyes turned toward Pieter. He offered a timid one-toothed grin and squirmed on his bench.