Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade Read online

  Wil, prudent for his years, recognized how dangerously he was positioned. Despite the genuine affection of most of the monks, each would surely confess knowledge of the boy’s disquieted and perhaps even suspicious nature. No doubt none could, or would, be able to defend his character with persuasive vigor or confidently assure the abbot of the unlikelihood of his deceit. Instead, Wil feared, each would bow to the prospect of his blame. As he considered his predicament, Wil also recognized that Pious must see no weakness at such a crucial moment. “I tell you this, Pious.” Wil measured carefully. “We both have much to lose. But I care not one whit if I am flogged and hanged, or deported to the marshes. I would be content to suffer all knowing that, at the very least, you shall spend the rest of your pitiful days under a cloud of doubt.”

  The priest was wise to the game but unnerved, nonetheless, by what kernel of truth might lie within the desperate boy’s words. Indeed, he thought, what does this brat have to lose? His miserable life is worth little. And, though his charge would doubtless be dismissed, he is right to say the abbey would always have doubt… as would the whole of Mainz. It would be my final undoing.

  “Well said, young fellow,” Pious answered in a calculated tone. “Well said, indeed.” He sighed dramatically. “Ah, but I do grow weary of this place, and the guilt of my sin weighs heavy. Perhaps this revelation would forever release me from both.”

  He eyed the boy, then continued slowly. “However, there may be a better way.” Pious beckoned Wil to come close. “The Holy Church is sending thousands of her finest sons and daughters to settle new lands in the east, lands in the diocese of Magdeburg. You, Karl, and Maria would do well in such an enterprise. The lords are paying good wages and land is abundant, and—”

  “We’ll not be spending our lives clearing marshes to make another wealthy. Nay, this is no remedy.”

  “Ah, I see.” Pious set a finger on his chin and narrowed his eyes as if deep in thought. “Then consider this: Spiritus Sanctus is stirring a new Crusade in the hearts of the blessed children of our Empire and in France. Perhaps you might consider enlisting in such a noble and righteous enterprise. What better way to do penance for your sins and for those your mother might be suffering? The passing of time shall, most assuredly, blur the unfortunate affair in the abbey. You would be filling thy heavenly coffers with gold. And, perhaps this pilgrimage might yield the time I need to do a just penance for my own sins.”

  “Or perhaps we’ll never return,” interrupted Wil. “And what of little Maria?”

  “’Tis true enough.” Pious nodded sympathetically. “The journey would be difficult and dangerous. I would be happy to look after Maria until thy return.”

  “Never,” snapped Wil.

  A long, silent pause followed, each eyeing the other warily. But no more words were needed; the terms had been decided.

  Sabbath dawn bore a brilliant sunrise of red hues and puffed clouds. By late morning the air was summer sweet and fresh and a light breeze fluttered through the trees. Wil chose to remain with his mother while Karl and Maria joined the company of curious neighbors departing for the gathering in Villmar. As the sun climbed higher overhead, groups of Christian faithful began to pass by Weyer’s church up the sharp incline leading to the ridge. Rumors of the past week’s mysteries and of strangers on the manor traveled with the peasants, flourishing with the addition of new pilgrims from Oberbrechen and Selters. This fair day had a wonderful sense of promise about it, an inkling of surprise. The birds seemed to sense an occasion, and Karl was sure their chirping was louder than usual. He was quite convinced that even the rabbits bursting from bushes and darting through furrows had some extra spring in their quick feet.

  As the clusters of folk began their long descent into the Lahn valley and the abbey at its center, Karl and Maria locked arms with the other village children to recite ancient rhymes and sing songs of the woodland. Their mood was contagious and parents and grandparents were soon enlisted in the merry choir. The happy melodies floated gently across the resting fields and drifted behind them to succeeding bands of pilgrims.

  As the villagers drew nearer the abbey, they converged with the folk of more distant villages such as Emmerich, Lindenholz, and Niederbrechen, and tarried to behold the splendor of Villmar’s valley sprawling before. “Look!” Karl pointed. “I’ve never seen it so glorious.” Indeed, the day had presented the humble abbey in peculiar magnificence. The edifice was draped with handsome pennants of purple, red, and yellow. Standards bearing the Lord of Runkel’s crest formed a colorful corridor leading to the opened oak doors of the western gate where trumpeters welcomed approaching knights and noblemen. It was as if the ancient edifice had been suddenly transformed by some miraculous Craftsman into the Holy City of the promised New Jerusalem!

  Something good is afoot, thought Karl. This place has n’er looked so. He smiled at his fellows, and, despite their deformities, broken teeth, and tattered clothing he was certain he could see the radiance of God’s face shining upon each of them this blessed day. Rumors continued to abound, among them one that either a papal legate or His Grace, the Archbishop Siegfried III of Mainz, was preparing to deliver a call of Crusade. Karl nearly burst keeping his secret. And, inside the abbey walls, a great assembly of noblemen and lords had supposedly gathered to pledge their unity in the Empire’s civil war. The lords and their archbishop welcomed the prospect of victory and of the new lands it would proffer, and the Sabbath seemed a logical time for them to further bind their mutual ambitions.

  The abbey’s gate was soon clogged with throngs of folk funneling through and squeezing past each other until they spilled into the filling courtyard. As Karl pressed his way toward the church, excitement chased chills up his spine. He held Maria’s right hand tightly and looked desperately for a good vantage. He hoped so very much to be able to see through the church’s thick-glassed windows and gaze upon the sacred pedestal from which the message would be delivered.

  Welcomed by piercing blasts from trumpeters positioned neatly along the top of the wall, a contingent of knights arrived and charitably maneuvered their steeds through the crowded gateway and into the courtyard. Their swords gleamed at their sides; their high, black boots shined in the summer sun; their gray, mail shirts were graced by flowing capes boldly bearing the colors and insignia of their lord. These men were sworn to support the pope in his claim for young Friederich II (son of the deceased emperor, Heinrich VI) to be Emperor of the Holy Empire, against his rival, Otto of Brunswick. Many proudly boasted bandaged wounds as evidence of their fealty. Others, fresh from the wars near Leipzig, brandished the colors of the vanquished Slavs and brandished their bedecked halberds and maces to the cheers of comrades within.

  The long trumpets blew seven short blasts as a silent procession of ecclesiastics humbly entered the church. In the fore were the Archbishop of Mainz and an honorary legate from the Archbishop of Cologne, followed in close order by the entourage of clerks and priests. Behind these shuffled a column of shaved crowns in dark habits, the abbey’s own Benedictines, led by the abbot, Udo, and in the rear, the archbishop’s four parish priests, including Father Pious.

  Karl joined his peasant brothers and sisters in bended knee, reverently and obediently offering due homage. The courtyard was silent and solemn, save the snorting of impatient horses in the grip of groomsmen and the peal of the great bell in the church tower. A brief gust of wind snapped the flags of Runkel and posed a fitting flourish for the column of cives and milites which then began their grand march.

  In the fore strutted Lord Heribert himself, decorated like a peacock in full gloat. His ankle-length cloak was of the finest blue velvet, and silver hooks bound with satin cord laced his proud chest. A puffed, red-otter hat sat atop his shoulder-length waved hair, and sported a silver brooch. At his left strolled his fair wife, Christine. Eager for accolades and most deserving, she was garnished with a superb silk gown and golden clasps set securely in her reddish hair. To the lord’s opposite side ent
ered, with noted arrogance, the cupbearer and chamberlain of the Empire, each lifting aquiline noses high above the tiresome occasion to which they were assigned. Close behind streamed an impressive parade of counselors and merchants, burghers from distant free-towns, and an array of lesser lords and vassals. A singular kettle drum beat slowly as Heribert led his vassals across the straw-strewn floor of the church and took his place at the foot of the archbishop with the dignity befitting his title.

  Some of the peasants found standing room in the rear of the crowded nave, but most pressed close to the church from positions in the courtyard. Karl wiggled himself to a reasonably good seat atop a beer barrel standing alongside a wide window of the church. With his sister on his lap, he peered through the blurred glass in hopes of watching every detail of the grand spectacle before him. “Oh Maria, ’tis wonderful. I know no other word for it.”

  Behind him and in contrast to the brightly adorned nobility standing inside, a multitude of shorn-headed peasants covered the abbey grounds like a dingy, tattered carpet. They remained on their knees and hushed, waiting respectfully for permission to stand. These poor souls knew their position in the Creation and yielded in holy submission to the order which had presented itself before them. All, that is, save young Tomas, the apprentice of Weyer’s bakery, who defiantly stood by a distant wall whispering into the ear of a snickering woodland witch.

  The small, frail abbot commenced the gathering by shouting a customary prayer through the doors opened on three sides. Karl was one of a special few in the courtyard who could understand, having been educated in Latin by the monks. But the others in the massed congregation listened in respectful ignorance, letting their ears be filled with the strange language of heaven.

  Karl turned his eyes to the rows of monks’ heads bowed grimly along their segregated gradines. He thought of Lukas and a lump filled his throat. The brother had been a humble man. His life had been one of unselfish service and genuine love without regard to estate. Lukas had reflected the grace of God to all and, in the end, what better legacy could any man leave? Karl sighed sadly.

  Three sharp blasts of the trumpeters allowed the serfs to rise. The mass of serfs now filling the courtyard stood patiently on dusty, bare feet, most faces grimy and smudged despite the Sabbath scrubbing expected of them. Old men with thin, white hair leaned hard on knotty staffs alongside younger folk, and old women, stooped and crooked with years of hard labor, peered from wrinkled eyes toward the dignity of the sturdy stone church before them. Young and old, they packed together in their belted, gray-brown woolen tunics, blending together like a giant calico. An occasional ribbon or bright sash evidenced gain for some, but these were scattered about and ignored by resentful peers. Little children sat contentedly atop their loving fathers’ broad shoulders and infants were clutched close to the breasts of young mothers. Karl believed them to be the noblest assembly he had ever seen.

  While waiting, Karl’s legs began to numb and he set his little sister’s feet atop the barrel as he slid to the ground. He turned a kindly glance to her and studied her as she stood above him. His eyes met hers and she graced him with the gentle smile that seemed to always warm her delicate countenance.

  An angel, thought Karl, an angel on this earth. He returned an earnest, kindly smile and watched the wind play with her fine, flaxen hair. He noticed her cheeks, pink and chubby, and her ruby-red lips. Were it not for the tiny brown mole on her left earlobe, her face would be spotless, he thought. As he looked down her slight form he paused briefly at her withered left arm and he followed its strange shape, suddenly saddened. Perhaps she suffers from someone’s sin. Perhaps mine own. Oh, why should she suffer with such a thing?

  Maria’s arm was shortened just past the elbow and in place of her hand were two deformed appendages that served as fingers. And for her imperfection she bore the abuse and mockery of manor child and elder alike, all claiming her to bear the mark of the Devil or the brand of secret sin. Only her brothers and a handful of others ever rose to her defense. It was not uncommon for both Karl and Wil to return home bruised and bleeding for their stubborn devotion, usually to be scolded by their mother for ripped leggings.

  Karl lowered his eyes from her arm to her tiny feet, callused and tough from traveling the stony pathways. He drew a deep breath, sighed, and raised his eyes to meet hers once again. Maria was still smiling. “What a good day, Karl,” she squealed. “What a good day!”

  Chapter 4

  THE CALL TO CRUSADE

  The church bell echoed loudly throughout the abbey’s grounds and Karl tingled with excitement. With sunlight streaming in thick shafts through both colored glass and plain, the entourage of ecclesiastics bowed to positions behind the modest pulpit and the monastery’s abbot stood alone. Dressed in humble vestments, the old Benedictine lifted his hands in a protective gesture over his flock and, after a few formal pronouncements, began to speak in native tongue.

  “My beloved children, it is our counsel that we have been beset by a mischief from another world. We have buried dear Brother Lukas, our dear friend, who we have discerned was murdered by poison. And, on the evening prior, a good man, Ansel of Limburg, was laid to his eternal rest, also a victim of fiendish ends.”

  Udo continued. “The Evil One sees all and his reach extends where he will. We are offered our spiritual protection by God and His angels, but not without due homage. Our lords and sovereigns have been mightily blessed with great victories in the east, yet they now fear all shall be lost for the evidence of sin which now abounds in this place. This day was to have been a day of merry, a day of rejoicing for God’s bounty in victories granted. Instead, woeful children, thy secrets have invited the legions of the Pit among us.

  “Yet, you are our beloved children. So I say to all, this day shall not pass lest we have committed ourselves to join with you in a great penance. We seek God’s divine and boundless mercy, we beg the aid of our Virgin Mother, we seek the counsel of others … for we are all sinful and degenerate sheep.”

  He raised his hands higher. “I say to you again, my dear children, poor souls, my dear, dear, tender flock, we have sinned against all heaven. We have allowed darkness to loom in our land. You have been entreated for some years to join our Holy Church in settling its new lands in the east and in the north. But few have obeyed. Instead, all stay, selfishly crowding our poor manors. We have paid dearly for thy protection by our worthy neighbor, Lord Heribert. Yet I hear only of grumblings and complaints among you, rebellion and scheming such that Moses never suffered.”

  The abbot lowered his arms and closed his eyes. “Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all Nations, Son of God and Son of Man. Thee will I cherish. Thee will I honor….”

  The old man stopped as if overcome by grief for his wicked people. He generously blessed them with the sign of the Cross, bowed his head, and backed away from the pulpit.

  The congregation in the courtyard spread his words, then remained absolutely silent, troubled and confused by the reprimand. Karl trembled, overcome with fear and shuddering at the thought of Lucifer’s hand around his mother’s throat. The powerful Archbishop of Mainz gathered his robes and approached the simple oak pulpit with the legate at his side. Except for the warm breezes that toyed with the pennants and drapes, nothing moved. It was as if an unseen hand had hushed all tongues and turned all faces now fixed on the ambassadors from heaven.

  The archbishop stood tall and erect in the ample, silken robes which flowed to the tops of his black shoes. Large, bright red crosses were sewn on each breast of his yellow chasuble and a dark green stole with a white underlining hung neatly across his shoulders. His brass headpiece reflected points of light from the sun-rays beaming through the windows, conferring on him an ethereal authority. The legate, an honorary appointment from the diocese of Cologne, stood by his side in equal splendor. He fixed his hands tightly to his red stole and arched his back forward as he peered into heaven.

  His Grace raised his golden crosier over his flock an
d pronounced a blessing to all gathered, then stood quietly to appraise the congregation. The fix of his steely eyes and the remarkable potency of his silence captivated prince and peasant alike. The souls gathered before him waited anxiously, filled with an anticipation that nearly begged aloud for him to begin.

  Then, at last, almost as if it were an act of mercy, the archbishop began to speak. “Come, my children, listen to us, for we’ll instruct you in the fear of the Lord. The Evil One is in thy midst and you have suffered most terribly at his filthy hands. For that, you have my heartfelt pity and the merciful sympathy of our Lord. And He shall lead you to His bosom.

  “I see in thy faces that you be filled with dread for thine own plight, but what terror do you counsel for the sad course of others? Shame be on thy heads. This selfsame wicked dark Prince of the Air prowls all the world. Even as I speak, he leisures in Palestine, the very land of our Lord. You may weep for thy troubles, but for six generations the strong hearts of Christendom have yielded life, limb, and fortune to restore the Land of Promise to the People of the Covenant.

  “While you rest in thy peaceful valley, our Lord God pleads, ‘My land cries out against me and all its furrows are wet with tears. They came up with their livestock and their tents like swarms of locusts, they invaded my land to ravage it.’

  “Shame on those who sing songs to God while these locusts, these Saracen infidels, these children of the Wicked One, desecrate the very soil that Christ Himself walked upon.” The archbishop looked to the heavens, then backed away to leave the pulpit to the legate, a large man of middling years named Paulus who once hailed from Hohenstaufen—the homeland of the old emperor, Barbarossa.

  “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,” Paulus cried, “may my right hand forget, may my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, if I do not consider Jerusalem my utmost joy. The great fortress of God is abandoned, the noisy city is deserted, citadel and watchtower have become a wasteland forever. Our God’s house has become the delight of donkeys, a pasture for flocks.”