Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (40 page)

The first rolling surge of the raft gave all something of a fearful start, but after several tentative minutes the little army shuffled itself into a comfortable position. And, before long, the children were squealing with delight as they pitched and heaved atop the surging whitewater. Down the river valley they flew, rolling and laughing, gasping as icy spray splashed over them and cheering as their sturdy raft ploughed proudly through the watery furrows.

The spruce-covered mountains to the left were but a green haze beneath a magnificent blue sky and the rocky peaks to the right but a brown blur. Ah, and the rush of the river was as fine a sound as the children had ever heard! Pieter laughed and clapped his hands like a small child at a May Day feast. “Oh, ’tis so very good to be alive!” he shouted.

Down the Rhône they sped, rocking and tilting for hour after hour toward the distant snow-capped mountains of the west. The crusaders swept past small villages of heavy-timbered hovels and waved gleefully to the surprised peasants pausing for a look. The mountains to the north fell away as the valley began to widen, and soon the river quieted as they sailed by pastures dotted with sheep and goats. Leafy trees began to crowd the banks and the crusaders found themselves floating beneath the sprawling branches of beech and oak and white birch. Some of the children now bravely hung their bare toes into the water at the raft’s edge. It felt cold and tickly and they laughed and giggled all the more.

“If only Georg could take this ride!” cried Karl.

“
Ja
,” Conrad answered. “But could the raft hold him?”

“Methinks we’d have need of four more stout logs!” Wil chortled.

By midday the band passed the first bend, just as the timbermen had described, and the children were comfortably sprawled on their backs watching the clouds pass overhead. An occasional hawk or falcon soared high above and, if it noticed, would, no doubt, have found an unusual sight: The brown tunics and dirty faces of crusaders blended quite neatly into the mottled brown bark of the raft’s floor. The common color would be broken only by the red crosses stitched on each breast, an occasional mound of golden hair, or a bright smile from a laughing face.

The sun began to set and the air grew cooler. Pieter looked anxiously downstream in hopes of seeing the green pennant of the Fiesch alehouse. Early-evening stars appeared in the eastern sky when suddenly Otto pointed to a crooked, badly weathered dock in the distance and a warped, wood-shingled roof alongside it. The company stood to its feet and watched carefully as they floated in an increasing current toward their destination.

Pieter called to Wil, “Move us to the right, Wil. Quickly to the right!”

Wil grabbed the rudder and pulled hard … in the wrong direction, nearly toppling Karl and Otto off their corners.

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed Pieter, “the other way. Push the other way!”

Wil was suddenly confused and, with little time to waste, Pieter stumbled over several of the girls and grabbed the rudder. “Now, you pole men,” he hollered, “make ready.” Pieter pushed and pulled the rudder skillfully and began to maneuver the craft toward his right.

In a few moments he faced the raft directly into the rickety dock where a little man with a pointed hat was playing a lute. The man spotted the raft hurtling toward him and jumped to his feet just moments before the stout craft crashed into the pilings. The children tumbled headlong over top of one another as the raft swung about and bounced against the large rocks of the shoreline. Pieter recovered himself quickly and boomed orders to his polemen. “Hold us fast, lads. Lean into your poles … lean, lads … hard!”

The raft quivered against the shore, tempted by the currents to draw away, but the poles held. Pieter called to the minstrel, “Take our rope and bind us to the piling afore we sweep away!”

The minstrel was more than a little familiar with such a predicament and deftly caught Pieter’s rope. With a few swift turns of his hands, the crusaders were secured. Pieter checked his precious cargo and, satisfied that all were yet aboard, climbed onto the dock. “Good evening, my friend. Blessings on you.”

The minstrel chuckled. “
Buon giorno,
navigator. Welcome to Fiesch. My name is Benedetto.” He removed his hat and bowed.

Pieter introduced himself and those who had climbed to his side. “Well, my dear Benedetto, you come from the south?”

The minstrel nodded.

“Would there be a man of charity about who might spare some shelter for these little lambs?”

Benedetto smiled and stroked his pointy black beard. “I should think not, old man. This town is free but not charitable. I play my music and they leave me be, but that is all I do and that is all I get.”

Pieter pressed. “Has the cold water chilled their hearts?”

Benedetto smiled. “Ah, my friend, most here have escaped the wars of the Guelphs and Ghibellines in the south and have come to hide in these mountains. Few speak your tongue and none make time for strangers—other than to take their coins—and none offer charity.”

Pieter scratched his head and looked at his children. “I am not certain of which wars you speak, but I know that it makes little difference.”

“Aye, ’tis truly said. But know this: Your robe has the look of a priest and so you might wish to seek a friend of the Guelphs, but you needs stay away from the Ghibellines.”

“How might I know the difference and why does it matter?”

“The Guelphs are in alliance with the pope and the Ghibellines are an alliance of opposing lords. Of course, all do bend the knee to the Church—’tis most difficult to grasp. No matter, in the cities to the south they are at each other’s throats.”

“And whose friend are you?”

“I am a friend of music and I sing to this beautiful lover of mine, the river.”

“Will you be a friend to my children?”

Benedetto sat down on the dock and nervously pulled at the worn points of his brown leather shoes. He twisted his face a little, then scratched the end of his long, narrow nose. “I think you to mean, might I find you shelter and food, so I must ask what such … friendship … is worth?”

“We’ve no money,” said Pieter.

The minstrel stood to his feet, smiled, and bowed. He slung his lute around to his back and tipped his hat. “Then,
signore,
I bid you farewell.”

Pieter looked at the disheveled village and felt uneasy. The sun was set and more stars were lighting the sky above him. Darkness would be no friend in this place. “I’ve no money, Benedetto, but I do have a treasure for you.”

The minstrel stopped and turned. “
Si
?”

“I’ll teach you a ballad.”

The musician raised his eyebrows. Good ballads were all he owned and the addition of a new one was tempting.

“I’ll teach you ‘The Song of Roland,’ a good alehouse ballad.”

Benedetto considered. “’Tis a good offer, but there are more than a dozen of you.”

“But they are little, like you,” noted Pieter. “It takes very little food to feed them.”

“This ‘Song of Roland,’” continued Benedetto. “Is it a good ballad or a German ballad?” He saw Wil scowling and quickly added, “I mean no offense … no, certainly not, but I have heard some of your German ballads. They are about war and the bloody May Fields and your wild Saxon knights and things similar. And please say it was not a
sprüche
of your Wolfram of Eschenbach. My taste is of love and wine and butterflies.”

Wil rolled his eyes and Pieter shrugged. “Hmm? Uh, do any of you children know a ballad of such things?”

The crusaders stood silently, straining to imagine a song like that. Wil tried to remember a song from the Butterfly Frau of Weyer. Maria finally broke the silence. “We could teach him our song about Jesus.”

Benedetto shook his head. “Nay, I think not, little one. I’ve no heart for a chant. ’Tis a hard place to survive as is, but I fear the villagers might drown me for sure should I offer them that.”

“
Ach
!” growled Pieter. “Our song is no chant—and if your fortunes are so hard in this place, why not travel with us? We’d gladly barter passage for a night’s stay and some bread. We are headed out of the mountains and to Genoa by the sea.”

Benedetto rocked on his feet and cast glances at both the village and the river. He took a long look at the circle of hopeful faces now silvered by the moonlight and his heart began to soften. After tinkering with his tin belt-buckle and fidgeting with his hat, he finally answered. “Indeed. And why not? I have been here for some ten years and perhaps I should return to my home.” He thought for a moment.
“Si. Buono.
We’ve a contract. Follow me and I’ll give you a good place to rest and some food.”

The tiny man stepped nimbly through a hole in the town’s fence and led the children to an empty swine-shed where they would be able to sleep on clean straw and light a small fire. And, before long, the crusaders were sitting around the flame, hoping for something to eat and drink. The campfire added sparkle to Benedetto’s black eyes and when he smiled, the children tittered.

Maria whispered to Wil, “He looks like a little gnome from the forest.”

Anna giggled.

Benedetto then slipped away, only to return quickly with some bread crusts and boiled mutton. “Here!” he proclaimed proudly. “Here, my little ones. Supper for us all.”

The grateful children’s eyes brightened, especially at the sight of mutton. Then the minstrel smiled again and held up a flask of wine and a clay pot of goat’s milk.

“Ah, well done, good sir. Well done, indeed!” said Pieter.

Before long, the crusaders and their new friend were fast asleep.

Chapter 18

CASTELLOVERDI

T
he next morning Wil roused his company and ordered them to gather by the raft for the morning’s commands. “Be sure the lashings are still tight. Conrad, check the knots. Karl, make sure the rudder is secure.”

Pieter stood by Benedetto and looked at the icy water running past. “A wonderful sight indeed, my little friend. See how that sparkling blue water glides so confidently between the lush green on all sides. Ah, and those splendid mountains rising ever closer to the other shore. Indeed, good fellow, on a crisp morn as this my heart does fly.”

Benedetto twisted the point of his beard. “For a Teuton you’ve a good eye for beauty.”

“Humph, indeed. And you shall still go with us?”

Benedetto stood quietly for a moment and picked nervously at the neck of his old, wooden lute. “I have given the matter some thought while you slept,” he finally answered. “I have been sitting on this dock for some ten years playing my songs for every sort of passerby. A penny here, a bit of silver there … sometimes a scoff, others a torn blanket or a threadbare cloak, and sometimes just a smile. I have learned to speak in your tongue and some French and a bit of Latin, and yet I feel empty.

“My heart longs to see the sunny shores of the beautiful
Lago di Varese
and my little village of Brabbia in summer. Ah, Pieter, if you could only see the beautiful gardens and orchards of my people! Flowers that bring the aroma of heaven to one’s nose and colors that rival a rainbow. Fruit that is large and juicy, dripping with sweet nectar. And the music. Ah … the music. And the beautiful maidens. Oh, why do I sit here on the edge of the barbaric northland and sing my silly songs to none who care?”

Pieter interrupted him. “Then why have you stayed?”

Benedetto picked up some stones and tossed them slowly into the river. “My family fell from the favor of our lord and we were driven from our home. We could find no refuge with either the Gilarates or the Borgomnaeros. They warred for control of the free-lands and free-towns and everywhere we fled was bloodshed.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Oh, some score or so, I suppose,” answered Benedetto. “I have lost count.”

“Perhaps things have changed.”

“And that was my thought all the night long,
Padre
, but I’ve come to fear something far worse than violence.” Tears gathered at the bottom of his black eyes. “What… what if my memories … disappoint me? What if the flowers are not as delicate as I remember nor the wine as warm?”

“Then, good minstrel,” interrupted Pieter, “why not simply die? In death you shall be spared the pain of disappointment—perhaps.”

Wil paced the bank impatiently and finally ordered his soldiers to board the raft. “Pieter. And you, minstrel … we’re off. Our thanks for your kindness.”

Pieter took Wil aside and whispered in his ear, “Lad, the man may yet join us. You’d be wise to welcome him.”

Wil looked warily at Benedetto. “And what good would he be?”

“He speaks the language of the south better than I and he knows their ways. He’s a fair eye for the passes and he shall most surely find us provisions among those folk. And … I do believe he needs us.”

Wil turned toward Benedetto and promptly set his fists on his hips. His voice betrayed reluctance but he yielded to Pieter’s counsel. “Sir, you may join us if you wish, but you shall obey my commands.”

Benedetto looked wistfully at his dock, then removed his hat and bowed slowly. “My son, it has been my lot to yield to others all my days and it would be my particular honor to follow you.”

Perhaps it was something in the man’s melancholy eyes or something about the placid tone of his voice, but for whatever cause, Wil’s heart was suddenly pricked by a twinge of compassion and he extended his hand. “Then … welcome.”

The crusaders cheered and clapped and clambered into their assigned positions, happy to have the company of the musician. And, with a few hearty heaves they launched into the river’s current.

By midday the whole company was laughing and teasing as it raced down the Rhône past villages their minstrel knew as Betten and Morel. The bright sun above felt good and it warmed them well. “Tell us, minstrel,” begged Gunter. “Tell us of your home in the south.”

“Ah, my boy! Such wonder that words can barely contain. You children of the north have no idea of such beauty.”

The crusaders gathered close as Benedetto shut his eyes and tilted his face to the sky above. “As a boy I lived in a small stone-and-mud house with a flat, clay-tiled roof on the shores of the mighty
Lago di Varese
… the most beautiful lake in all the world … deep blue and home to storks and swans. In the hot summer we swam and laughed and splashed in its wondrous waters. Ah, what delight!

“My papa was a simple fisherman. My mind does yet see him mending his nets with his thick fingers. They spun their way across the knots like the finest lutist fingering a melody for angels. And Mama. Oh, Mama! Each night she would bake the most savory meals while singing like a songbird on a spring’s new day.
Si, si…
fresh fish and olives, fine wheat breads and whole fruits. And Papa would pour red wine from the clay bottles my Uncle Fernando wheeled and baked. At night my sisters and brothers, cousins and aunts, old Grandpapa and my uncle … we would dance and sing until we fell to the ground too weary to go on. And then we would just lie under the stars. Oh, the stars! So very many of them, bright diamonds everywhere, sparkling and shining.”

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.