Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade (43 page)

The girl’s curiosity was piqued. She smiled faintly and, in so doing, Wil felt his anger give way to an unfamiliar weakness in his legs.

“My name, captain,” she said flirtatiously, “is Lucia of the family of Verdi.”

Wil was speechless.
Lucia! What a perfect name for such a rare beauty as this.
She was about his age, he imagined, with soft shoulders and shapely hips. He stole a quick glance at her young breasts but quickly raised his eyes to her long, brown hair which flowed gently along her smooth, olive-toned cheeks. His eyes finally rested on hers; large and brown, set evenly under dark, arching eyebrows and shining in the torchlight. Wil had stared longer than he knew and his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Lucia’s voice.

“Might you wish to escort me through the castle?”

Wil’s heart fluttered and he nearly blurted out a hasty “Surely!” Instead he cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly. “I… I suppose I ought return to my post soon … but I should be pleased to accept m’lady’s offer.”

Lucia smiled, but a more discerning lad might have seen the sneer behind the masquerade. “Follow me and let me show you what you wish.” She extended her hand to the surprised boy who held it lightly. The touch of her soft skin sent his spirit soaring and he followed her deeper into the
signore’s
residence. Lucia pointed indifferently to various rooms and chambers as she led Wil briskly through the apartment. “This is Papa’s room.” Wil stood in awe as he studied the tapestry-covered walls and finely crafted furniture of the lord’s private parlor. “And that door leads to my mother’s chamber… and this to her maid-servant’s … and this to my father’s secretary.”

Lucia led Wil along another hollow corridor and down a musty stairway. They passed a clerk’s office and the modest dormitory of the manor’s priests. Lucia grinned. “Have you ever been to the top of a tower?”

“Not… not in this castle.”

“Yes, you’ve been to the top of many, no doubt, but I’ll take you to this one. We can look out over the enemy.”

They climbed up the spiraling, stone stairway, squeezing past annoyed guards until they reached the lookout. The tower square was crowded with restless soldiers yearning to sleep and anxious sentries staring at the torchlit Visconti camp below. Wil and Lucia were kept from a curious shape hidden by long bolts of cloth but took no note as they leaned over a parapet to see the shadowy army spread through the distant valley.

“It looks to be many soldiers,” Wil commented.

“They have been here before,” answered Lucia. “Are you afraid?”

“Me? Afraid? Never. I fear none.”

Lucia nodded. “I have heard of the bravery of you men of the north. And when the attack begins, might I know that you will protect me?”

“Aye, my lady.” Wil spun on his heels and faced her. “I’ll stand and defend you and your family with m’very life!”

Lucia stood up on her toes and pecked Wil lightly on the cheek with wetted lips. The startled boy stepped back as the dark-haired girl spun around and scurried quickly down the steps. Wil followed, dumbfounded and melting. They raced across the bailey and charged up the stairs of another tower, facing the moonlit silhouette of the mountains rising above the western wall. “We keep watch here,” Lucia panted. “But we are never attacked from this side. The mountain is too steep for an army, but my family had the moat dug all the way around nonetheless. This is most unusual, you know. My people are very clever.”

The two held hands and scampered down the tower steps and across the courtyard once again. They climbed to the roof of the northeast tower, then ran down a flight of steps toward a wide doorway. Wil held his nose and Lucia laughed. “This latrine is an invention of my papa’s father. He thought of it when the moat was being dug.” The girl pushed open a creaking door. “He made it so everything drops to the moat below and is carried away. Isn’t that a marvelous idea? No pots carried through the chambers.”

Wil smiled halfheartedly and considered the dubious invention. He tried desperately to think of words to honor Lucia’s grandfather. “Uh … and the … the … refuse can sink to the bottom or be left to float about the moat… but none needs shovel it. I—”

“Are you making mockery of
Nonno’s
idea?”

“Nay. By my leave, I so swear it. It … is … uh … an interesting idea to be sure.”

“Buono.
Now follow me.”

Lucia led Wil further down the tower stairs and yanked open a heavy door. “And one more invention,” giggled Lucia. “This one was my Uncle Lucio’s. He said he learned of it from an old hospitaler in Damascus.”

“I can only imagine,” muttered Wil.

“In here is where we hang our finest clothing.”

Wil squinted as a strong odor burned his eyes and nose.

“Zio
Lucio said that the odors dropping from the latrine above would kill the lice on our clothing and it seems to work.”

Wil shook his head. “Your Uncle Lucio … uh … surely he is as clever as your grandpapa.” The boy imagined life in his hovel somehow less crude than life in a castle. Nevertheless, he gladly followed his hostess as she continued her tour through the intricate stronghold. They strolled past the treasury, the chapel, the smith’s shop, and the granary. Wil peeked through the shutters of the busy bakery with particular interest and stared for a lingering moment in amazement before moving to the carpentry shop, the wheelwright’s shop, and the infirmary.

“Captain Wil,” Lucia offered with deceptive deference, “I am told that some of your … soldiers are assigned to this dreadful place. Perhaps you might introduce me?”

Wil became suddenly uneasy. “I suppose so,” he answered awkwardly. “But y’needs remember these are but my followers. I’ve little …”

“By truth!” exclaimed Lucia. “You are the master and these your… vassals.”

The two approached the closed doorway when Lucia stopped and whined, “I do not enter such a place. It is where the servants sleep and the sick die. You must order out some of your … soldiers … and I’ll have a look at them.”

Wil hesitated. But with a little prodding from Lucia, he at last agreed and entered the smoky chamber.

Lucia waited outside, tapping her foot impatiently until a short column of sleepy crusaders obediently tramped through the doorway. Wil lined them up beneath a torch by the infirmary’s outer wall and introduced each. “Lucia, these are some of my … followers. This is Heinz, Anna, Maria, Gertrude … here’d be Frieda …”

“
Si
,
si
. I’ll not be remembering names,” clipped the girl. She stepped close to Frieda. Lucia’s contemptuous gaze clashed immediately with the defiance flashing in the peasant’s large, brown eyes. Suddenly, they were rivals. “Now, captain,” Lucia said frostily, “this … this … wench is an unlikely beauty. She’s the look of one who’d follow you most anywhere. Is she … special to you?”

Frieda flushed but stood proud and tall. She lifted her chin and held it there, though it quivered slightly when she heard Wil murmur, “Nay, she is … but a peasant girl, Lucia.” The boy’s eyes fell to the ground.

“Ah, I thought so. I can see you have the taste of more noble blood, is it not so?” Lucia took Wil by the arm and nestled her head into his shoulder as she smiled at Frieda.

Wil bit his lips and fidgeted with the edges of his tunic. He answered quietly, almost in a whisper, “Of course, Lucia, I… I am of noble birth. My title was lost in a wager but I… I am not as … these.” His voice trailed away.

“Swear it to me! I thought you not of the same blood as these,” blurted Lucia. She walked slyly toward Maria and brushed the golden hair from the child’s eyes. She turned and touched Wil’s cheek. “I see some resemblance, but surely you’d not be of this sad lineage. Look at this poor thing. Such a pathetic claw where an arm was planned. So typical for a common peasant. But not you, my young lord; you are of different birth, sired by a mighty knight or wealthy lord, si?”

Wil quickly looked away from his sister’s pained face and did not answer.

“Well, Wilhelm? Captain Wilhelm of… is it Weyer? You do bear some similarity. Please tell me this pitiful mutation shares no relation to you.”

Wil stared into Lucia’s beautiful face and slowly turned his back on Maria. “Nay, Lucia. She … she is no blood of mine. I am of better blood …”

With the look of a victor, Lucia took Wil by the arm and pulled him close as she led him away. Before they rounded a corner, she cast a final, wicked smile over her shoulder at the hapless group of ragged crusaders.

Frieda stood stunned and speechless and looked helplessly at the others as she laid her hand gently on Maria’s shoulder. The little girl stood bravely and tried so very hard to not cry as her faithful friend squeezed courage into her.

Wil was not unaware of his betrayal and he turned his head briefly to capture a glimpse of his sister. And when his eyes fell upon her standing in the comforting touch of fair Frieda he felt suddenly ill. He had never seen such weakness in himself before, nor such cruelty. The girl clinging to his side now repulsed him. The power and temptations of her vanity had exposed his own, and shamed him. She had summoned the demons which had been lurking all this time, unadmitted, deep within his heart… and they sickened him.

The two entered the courtyard and Wil stared at the sleeping peasants strewn in the shadows of the smoky torches.
Look at them. These are what I am…poor, helpless … hopeless
, he thought.
But I wager none so weak-willed, so foul-hearted, so wicked as I.

Wil followed Lucia to the entrance of her apartment where she stopped and turned. He studied her carefully, scornfully. The shame was now more than he could bear and he turned to fury to ease its pain. His heart grew cold. He reached for the girl and pulled her tight against him as if the power of his embrace might restore his mastery. But she was shrewd and yielded with ease to rob him of what pleasure his vengeful grasp intended.

She hissed in his ear. “Farewell, peasant boy. You think too highly of yourself. Ha! Did you think I’d have some common whelp foul me?” She pushed herself away and cackled, “Beware the morrow, captain.”

Then she slammed the door behind her.

Pieter, Karl, Conrad, Jon, and Sebastiani squatted against the wall around the small campfire they had built on the ground of the bailey. Pieter had done his best to avoid the castle’s clerics and was content to spend what he imagined as his last night with his boys. All were too nervous to sleep and Sebastiani was kind enough to entertain their questions.

“Pieter, ask him how the attack might be,” said Karl.

Sebastiani twisted his mustache as Pieter posed the question. He shrugged. “Tell the boy, Pieter, firstly, that they
shall
attack … there’d be no
if
in it. Secondly, tell him that the manner is never certain. They’ve come against us in many ways over years past. But I fear the morrow might be far worse than other times. They have hired
routiers
, those mercenary devils from the south.” The man’s face tightened. “With them, nothing is impossible. Those barbarians do their butchery for the highest bidder and they fight savagely. I swear they have no soul, though their cursed priests do cover them with smoke and water.”

The boys looked at each other anxiously as Pieter translated.

“I’d wager them to launch rocks over the wall with their
trebuchets
… perhaps even skins of flaming oil. But my fear is the Greek Fire that they hurled at us once before.”

“Greek Fire?” Conrad blurted. “What…?”

“Ah,” interrupted Sebastiani. “Tell the lad, Pieter, that it is not of this earth. It is a ghoulish, sticky fire from the Pit. It cost us then our balconies and what came over the wall clung to many a good comrade. It sticks like flaming honey and even water struggles to douse it.”

“I have heard of it,” said Pieter. “An apothecary told me it is an ancient Grecian mix of pitch, sulphur, and quicklime.”

“
Si
? No matter … we call it the fire of hell and, if you be the priest you claim, you’d better lift a special prayer.”

The boys grew quiet as Pieter conveyed the soldier’s words. Then Sebastiani continued. “One time, some by Lammas, they worked to drain the moat. By God they did get to the mud but at such a cost they had too few men to press the gate.

“And on another day, a winter’s one if my mind yet works, they crossed the barbican in full light and drug a huge wooden bridge across the list and tilted it over the moat. They gave no heed to our archers and died by scores, but the fiends did well by it. By God I still see them charging across that bridge. But they failed at the portcullis. Ha! My uncle,
Zio
Alberto, was then the chief porter and would simply not allow them through his blessed grate! We showered them with a rain of bolts and shafts through the ironwork and poured boiling oil from the ramparts above their miserable heads. It was a glorious day. Poor
Zio
, however, met his Maker … though not before he’d seen the gate hold.”