Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (59 page)

Karl’s eyes began to dim but he stared about the circle of tear-stained faces drawing close to his own. He struggled to draw another breath into his crushed lungs, then released it with a whisper. “God is good …”

His body shuddered and his eyes rolled white. His face relaxed and he settled quietly against his brother’s heaving breast.

There were no words to be spoken for none could have eased, in any part, the agony each crusader now suffered. The dreadful familiarity of such excruciating pain prompted, instead, a silent ritual that offered what little comfort that might be found. Each comrade laid a hand, in turn, upon poor Karl and bade farewell. All the while Wil rocked his brother and wept. When all had passed by, Pieter laid a trembling hand upon Wil’s hardened shoulders and knelt by his side.

They washed Karl’s body with water offered by sympathetic travelers and wrapped it in a shroud of linen Heinz begged from a passing merchant. By late day he was carried to his “Angel’s Garden” and buried beneath the wild-flowers. Frieda removed her crusader’s cross and set it lovingly above his head and the fellowship joined hands.

Pieter fumbled through a prayer, but, unable to speak any longer, he simply crumbled by his cherished boy’s grave. The children huddled quietly and stared mutely at the distant blue water. It did not draw them as it had, nor did it seem as beautiful. And the sun no longer felt warm and healing, nor did the air smell clean and good. None wished to leave Karl’s side and so they gathered around his grave for all that dreadful evening. As night fell they simply sprawled in the flowers and stared at the starry heavens above until, at long last, sleep came.

Dawn broke but was not escorted with fresh joy, and the company yet grieved. Some woke hoping Karl’s death was but an awful nightmare … a wicked, starlight tale spun by rotted pork or green apples. But it was not so, and they rose for the day with little vigor, void of all incentive to press the final day’s march.

Pieter took Wil aside. “Karl now rests in the ‘Haven.’ He rests in the bosom of God. Y’might close your eyes and see him now playing with the others, teasing with Georg. Perhaps he is trying his riddles on the angels.”

Wil smiled a little.

“My son, we may stay or we may go; we may press to the sea or return to our homes. You, as always, are the commander of this company and we await your orders.”

Wil sat alone by the graveside, staring at the sea while his soldiers choked down reluctant mouthfuls of morning gruel. At last he climbed to his feet and faced Pieter and his patient followers. He straightened his tunic and cleared his throat. “Should there be a time to end our crusade, I’ll surely know it. I have considered the matter with care and it is my decision to go forward. Karl and Maria, Georg and Manfred, and so many others did not want our pilgrimage to end on their accounts. And this: I …I believe God has not told me to stop. I’ll trust Him to make it plain if I ought end this journey.”

Wil stooped to pluck a long-stemmed wildflower and secured it in his belt where his dagger once hung. He turned to Pieter. “You say you’ll not follow us beyond the shore. You say you’ll return to find our Maria?”

Pieter nodded.

Wil took Maria’s cross from his belt and handed it to the old man. “Then I charge you with this final duty: When you bid us farewell, find Maria and kiss her for us all. Then give her this; set it in her hand with Karl’s blessing.”

Pieter received the cross and held it to his breast. “This I do vow.”

Wil then lashed together two wooden crosses from some poplar sticks. One he handed to Frieda, the other he gripped tightly in his shaking hand. He surveyed his remnant and cast a longing, loving eye at Karl’s grave before setting order to his troop. His crusaders then raised all of their wooden crosses high and sang their melody as they marched bravely past their fallen comrade toward Genoa and the sea.

A short while later the crusaders rounded a bend where Wil commanded they stop. “There,” proclaimed Wil. “There waits Genoa.”

The children were not able to fully savor the sight below them, for their hearts were yet heavy. But they nevertheless were pleased to note gray-tiled rooftops sprawling from the mountain slopes to the curved harbor at the sea’s blue edge. Beholding Genoa was like having a large burden lifted from their bent backs and they sighed, relieved and satisfied. They stopped in the shade of short, broad-leafed trees and rested briefly.

“Look,” pointed Pieter. “You see the tall spire of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo? Ah, ‘twas old when I was but a smooth-faced boy. And look there, at the harbor wall. Do you see the tall masts of the galleys?
Ach, kinder,
this place is not as any other y’have ever seen. ‘Tis rich with art and blessed with plenty … but it is not a good place. Heed m’words. Genoa is a proud city and a free city. It owes homage to no lord. Keep close and keep watch. These people are shrewd and wily. Treat them with respect and trust none.”

“You’ll heed Pieter’s words,” barked Wil. “Now … to Genoa.”

The children formed their column and commenced their final march. The city’s walls loomed ever closer, and then at last, with neither fanfare nor salutation, they paraded past the gate’s stern porters and onto the streets of the busy port.

The sights and wonders of Genoa slowed the crusaders’ steps and they walked over the smooth cobblestone streets gaping at the white-and-gray stone buildings towering over them on all sides. But the jeers of the folk made them apprehensive and ill-at-ease, and they quickly felt like unfit callers from another world. The crowded walkways, the busy markets, and the noise were not unfamiliar; nor was the hostile spirit of the population. After all, they had been witness to such things in Basel and Dunkeldorf. Perhaps it was the foreign tongue or the plastered walls or the septic air that added to their estrangement. But, for whatever cause, the company soon lost its joy.

As the cautious band marched deeper toward the city’s center, it seemed that the citizens became ever more mean-spirited. Now curses and oaths were hurled from open windows as well as refuse and dung. Finally, an angry
casalinga
charged from behind her brown stuccoed home and swung her broom wildly at them. “
Tornate a casa! ”
she shrieked. “
Tornate a casa!”

Pieter sighed. “She says, ‘Go home you brats.’”

Wil encouraged his friends. “We’ve met worse than an old hag with a broom.” His comment earned a few halfhearted smiles but the disillusionment of their reception would not be so easily overcome. Some wondered if Jerusalem would be equally disappointing.

They trudged along the streets and turned a corner only to pass by an old man sitting on a stubby oak stool. By the look of him Conrad knew more unpleasantry was in store. He set his jaw and stared straight ahead. As all expected, the crotchety old man stood up and shook his tankard of wine violently, spilling most of its contents on his sleeve.
“Tornate da dove siete venuti, via, via.”

Heinz tugged on Pieter’s tunic as they walked by. “What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing very complimentary.”

Otto pressed. “What did he say? Tell us.”

“He said, ‘Get out of here. Go back where you came from.’”

The crusaders tightened their column only to walk headlong into several men-at-arms. Three soldiers stepped toward them.
“Andate vi!”
boomed one.

Wil put his hands on his hips and was about to speak when Pieter interrupted. “
Signore
, we are about the business of Crusade and need …”

“Si,
si
,” said another guard. “We know exactly what you be here for. Legions have come before you and none are welcome.”

“But, sir, I implore thee …”

“Begone. You shall not remain in this city.”

“Good sir,” insisted Pieter, “we are not without means.”

The soldiers eyed the priest suspiciously. They looked carefully at the ripped tunics, the tattered blankets, the worn shoes. One bent low to look at Heinz. He took his helmet from his head and held it under his arm as he placed his long nose close to the boy’s dirty face. “You, my little master of the northland,” he said sarcastically. “You are of some means?”

Heinz could not understand the man but fully grasped his tone. He puffed his chest and glared.

Pieter stepped to the soldier’s side. “I said, my son, we are not without means and that is what I meant.”

The guard stood upright and replaced his helmet on his head. He measured his words. “You’ve the look of a
padre
of sorts; perhaps you claim to follow Francis of Assisi?”

“I don’t know the man, but I follow none save young Wil here.”

“Yet you wear a black robe and have a strange cross about yer neck.”

“
Si
. Forgive me, sire, I ought be more plain. As you, I do follow our Savior.”

“That’s beside the point,” growled another guard. “Our city is overrun with these thieving whelps from the north and we’ve no need of more. But since you claim to be a
padre
, you’ve the choice to walk away or to meet our dungeon master.”

The sudden image of Basel’s terror made Pieter cringe. He quickly plucked the pouch of coins from his belt and bounced it in his hand. “I say again,
signore
, we are not thieves—I am a priest. Unlike others we have been blessed with special means.” He opened the bag and pinched out a few pennies.

The soldiers whispered amongst themselves, then turned to Pieter. “Are we to believe that is not stolen money?” one quipped. “Or perhaps you were paid for forgiving sins.”

Pieter slowly dropped each coin back in his pouch. He held the last few in his fingers and lifted them toward the group. “Our pardon, sirs, for robbing you of your time. Perhaps we ought pay you for it.” He tossed the coins into the air and let them bounce about their boots.

As the soldiers scrambled to snatch the scattering pennies from the cobbled street, the children slipped by and lost themselves in an alleyway. Once certain they were free to move along, they followed the downward streets toward the water’s edge.

As they passed through the oldest portions of the city, the crusaders took better note of how very different was this place. Here were no steep-pitched thatched roofs or heavy-timbers. Instead were stone or plastered buildings capped with strange, tile shingles. Instead of brown hues and tans were whites and greys and the trees seemed shorter and stout. At long last the column turned a final corner and faced the busy docks. The children’s eyes stretched wide and mouths dropped as they beheld the proud bows of huge galleys from the entire known world. The ships seemed to be waiting patiently, resting comfortably on the clean, blue-green water and tethered to their smooth pilings like mighty oxen tied to heavy poles.

Pieter admitted little knowledge of sailing but pointed his curious flock to the masts and spars bearing tightly wrapped sails. “And see the framework of tholes and pins. Do they not seem to be as a carving chiseled by a master? And there, look to that ship’s double-rowed sweeps. Ah, she’ll cut through still water with speed enough. I’d wager that barking
capitano
can squeeze the best from her sails, as well.”

The children turned from the ships and were equally impressed with the sight of the wharves. It was here where the fruits of the sea mingled with those of the land. Alongside baskets of black pepper and barrels of olives were tables piled high with fish. So many fish, the children thought, that all of Christendom might be fed forever! It was here where north and south melded; jars of fragrant oils from Damascus were set by bales of wool from Linz and barrels of grain from Chartres; casks of northern ales sat by barrels of southern wines. Piles of Nordic timber rose next to heaps of smooth Indian silk, spun cotton, and the finest Flemish linen. Beautiful tapestries were mounded on carts pointed north, while other carts hauled amber or furs destined for Constantinople, Palestine, and far-off Cathay.

The children’s ears cocked with the sounds of seagulls and snapping sails, boatmen barking orders, bells and horns blaring, merchants hawking their wares; mules braying, and horses clopping on the sturdy planks of the wharf. It was a sea of humanity beside a sea of water.

But amid the grand spectacle, Pieter did not miss the gaunt faces of dozens and dozens of half-starved children wandering aimlessly along the waterfront begging and pleading for a morsel of food or sip of fresh water. His old heart broke and he beckoned several to him. “Little ones,” he said softly, “what are you doing? ”