Sylvia (74 page)

So we made our departure from the harbour with many of the smaller members of the Silent Choir of God's Little Children weeping and greatly distressed. We walked into the gathering dark and then on into the moonless night, until our children could go no further. We stopped beside a field of cabbages on the outskirts of the city where the children fell almost where they stood and slept the sleep of the dead.

I made my way still further into the dark field until I knew I was beyond earshot. Then I sat among the cabbages and wailed and wailed, but no tears would come. Although my heart had been broken, I knew I had long since spent my lifetime allotment of tears. I am ashamed to say that at one stage I removed the dagger from Father John's stave and thought to use it on myself. But I heard his voice clearly in my mind, although it seemed a hundred years ago since I'd walked to the Monastery of St Thomas and traded my hens to the mean-spirited kitchen monk and my father's carpentry tools to the lovely Father John. ‘
Each time you use it, when you place
it back, you must pray to our Saviour and thank Him for protecting your
life.
' He had blessed this knife with holy water and so I knew it would be committing a terrible blasphemy to use it to end my own life. ‘You don't even have permission to kill yourself!' I wailed, then I stabbed a cabbage again and again and when I'd killed it several times by stabbing it in the heart, I went onto my knees and started to pray. I begged God to punish me, knowing that I could never, in what remained of my worthless life, do sufficient penance for the untold misery I had helped to bring about. Then in the cold dawn light I promised my precious Lord and Saviour that I would spend my life protecting His little children.

As the glorious sun rose, and still on my knees, I finally had the courage and the temerity to ask Him for a miracle of my own, a miracle that I could never doubt was from the Father of Heaven Himself. I asked Him to increase my allotment of tears.

It was here that Reinhardt found me and lifted me to my feet. I was cramped and sore from kneeling. ‘Look at you, Sylvia Honeyeater! Your knees are caked with mud and your nice nun's habit soiled, there's mud on your boots and, if you'll excuse my French, your eyes, my dear, look like piss holes in the snow!'

I laughed, despite myself. He'd taken a battering on the road and his many-coloured tunic was faded and torn, his hose possessed more holes than yarn and his broken boots clung to his feet as if by some magic trick. His once splendid cap flopped forlornly over one ear but, as if by some miracle, the ridiculous peacock feather remained almost pristine, the morning sunlight catching its brilliant colours. I kissed him on the cheek. ‘I love you, ratcatcher,' I said quietly.

He touched his cheek where I'd kissed him. ‘Goodness! My goodness!' I could see he was close to tears. ‘Come, Sylvia, we must hasten to Rome. The Pope mustn't be kept waiting to hear the finest children's choir in the world, not to mention the glorious lead singer and, of course, the flautist, a truly exceptional talent.' His eyes suddenly shot open in surprise. ‘Sylvia, what on earth did you do to that poor cabbage?'

It would not be normal practice in the twelfth century to permit a
lay person to sing in church or during mass. If Sylvia's voice was
exceptional she may have received a special dispensation from the
archbishop, and I have assumed this to be the case. Furthermore, this
is a work of fiction and, while it is woven around known events and
people, it may contain inaccuracies regarding church practices and life
in the twelfth century. In writing this story I have attempted to capture
the essence of what we now know as ‘medieval times'.

Bryce Courtenay

Acknowledgements

At the conclusion of a new book I often wish that, like the characters in a novel, I could allow my reader to know more about the people who help to make a story happen. The author's mind is the engine, but each chapter is a carriage and each carriage is filled with what other people know and generously allow the engine driver to use. To each of you who helped me write
Sylvia
, some in small ways, others hugely, my heartfelt thanks.

First in line are Jessica Wynands and Clare Rowan who acted as my main researchers. Jessica wrote her Honours thesis on the Children's Crusade at Macquarie University and Clare is Adjunct Professor in the Department of Modern History at Macquarie University. They were unrelenting, patient and diligent, as well as exceedingly scholarly, allowing nothing to be written they hadn't authorised – often with pursed lips and a
‘Let me check that first.'

However, the history of the Children's Crusade is a difficult and obscure subject and most of the scraps of information that make this remarkable and true story lie buried in short and sometimes contradictory Latin texts. I take full responsibility for those translations I chose to use.

Other scholars who assisted are Adjunct Professor John Walmsley, Department of Modern History, Macquarie University; Dr Andrew Gillett, Department of Ancient History (Division of Humanities), Macquarie University; Professor Alana Nobbs, Head of the Department of Ancient History, Macquarie University; Father David Ranson, Department of Spiritual and Pastoral Theology, Catholic Institute of Sydney.

Then there are the other indispensables, my editor and publisher, Lee White and Clare Forster. Without a good editor a writer is an often hapless wordsmith wandering in the dark. Lee fulfils every criterion for a great professional and all-round nice person. I am very fortunate to have had her at my side and on my side. Clare, as publisher, is the one who encourages and questions, though always gently (
‘Perhaps, Bryce, you may wish to look at this
section again?'
). I thank you both. You never failed me and never compromised your own high standards.

My gratitude to my beloved partner, Christine Gee, who sustained me, helped in a thousand ways, coordinated everything and never failed to encourage me.

Now in alphabetical order those others who so generously helped: John Adamson for his tireless help with music and, in alphabetical order, John Atkin, Adam Courtenay, Benita Courtenay, Gina Courtenay, Kate da Costa, John Forsyth, Bruce Gee, Dr Ross Hayes, Alex Hamill, Graeme Inchley, Alan Jacobs, Peter Kalina, Dr Irwin Light, Christine Lenton, Fiona McIntosh, Hugh Mackay, Kate Maclaren, Robbee Spadafora, Simon (Naturopath – Macro Wholefoods), Robert Swan, Duncan Thomas, David and Pia Voigt, Annie Williams, Greg and Lorraine Woon.

Finally, those in the engine room, my publishing family at Penguin Books. They were as usual patient, long suffering, refused to panic, trusted me to the end and were always encouraging. Bob Sessions, as Publishing Director, honest, forthright, always encouraging and greatly respected and loved as the boss of publishing. Anne Rogan who, hands on, literally made my book happen. Then all those who help up until the day when my novel appears in a bookshop and I commence a media and book tour: Carmen de la Rue, David Altheim, Deborah Brash, Cathy Larsen, Tony Palmer, Julie Gibbs, Frances Bruce, Jessica Crouch, Mary Balestriere, Ian Sibley, Rachel Scully, Beverley Waldron, Peter Blake, Louise Ryan, Dan Ruffino, Sally Bateman, Gabrielle Coyne, Peg McColl. I thank you all.

Finally, my thanks for spending the lonely hours with me. Tim Courtenay, who wagged encouragement when awake and never left my side throughout the writing, mostly snoring at my feet. Also, to Princess Cardamon, our beautiful Burmese cat, who deigned to comment occasionally, adding to the narrative by walking across the keyboard before settling in a pool of late afternoon sun on the far corner of my desk.

ALSO BY
BRYCE COURTENAY

T
HE
P
OWER OF
O
NE

Born in a South Africa divided by racism and hatred, young Peekay will come to lead all the tribes of Africa. Through enduring friendships, he gains the strength he needs to win out. And in a final conflict with his childhood enemy, Peekay will fight to the death for justice . . .

Bryce Courtenay's classic bestseller is a story of triumph of the human spirit – a spellbinding tale for all ages.

T
ANDIA

Tandia is a child of all Africa: half Indian, half African, beautiful and intelligent, she is only sixteen when she is first brutalised by the police. Her fear of the white man leads her to join the black resistance movement, where she trains as a terrorist.

With her in the fight for justice is the one white man Tandia can trust, the welterweight champion of the world, Peekay. Now he must fight their common enemy in order to save both their lives.

J
ESSICA

Jessica
is based on the inspiring true story of a young girl's fight for justice against tremendous odds. A tomboy, Jessica is the pride of her father, as they work together on the struggling family farm. One quiet day, the peace of the bush is devastated by a terrible murder. Only Jessica is able to save the killer from the lynch mob – but will justice prevail in courts?

Nine months later, a baby is born . . . with Jessica determined to guard the secret of the father's identity. The rivalry of Jessica and her beautiful sister for the love of the same man will echo throughout their lives – until finally the truth must be told.

Set in a harsh Australian bush against the outbreak of World War I, this novel is heartbreaking in its innocence, and shattering in its brutality.

W
HITETHORN

From Bryce Courtenay comes
Whitethorn
a novel of Africa. The time is 1939: White South Africa is a deeply divided nation with many of the Afrikaner people fanatically opposed to the English.

The world is on the brink of war with South Africa electing to fight for the Allied cause against Germany. Six year old Tom Fitzsaxby finds himself in the Boys Farm, an orphanage in a small remote town in the high mountains, where the Afrikaners side fanatically with Hitler's Germany.

Tom's English name alone proves sufficient for him to be racially ostracised. And so begins some of life's tougher lessons for the small, lonely boy.

Like the whitethorn, one of Africa's most enduring plants, Tom learns how to survive in the harsh climate of racial hatred. Then a terrible event sets him on a journey to ensure that
–
justice is done. On the way, his most unexpected discovery is love.

T
HE
P
ERSIMMON
T
REE

In the heartwood of the sacred persimmon tree is
ebony, the hardest, most beautiful of all woods. This
is a symbol of life, a heartwood that will outlast
everything man can make, a core within that, come
what may, cannot be broken and represents our inner
strength and divine spirit.

It is 1942 in the Dutch East Indies, and Nick Duncan is a young Australian butterfly collector in search of a single exotic butterfly. With invading Japanese forces coming closer by the day, Nick falls in love with the beguiling Anna Van Heerden.

Yet their time together is brief, as both are forced into separate, dangerous escapes. They plan to reunite and marry in Australia but it is several years before their paths cross again, scarred forever by the dark events of a long, cruel war.

Set against the dramatic backdrop of the Pacific during the Second World War, Bryce Courtenay gives us a story of love and friendship born of war, and the power of each in survival.