possible that he was dead.
A few girls came over to pat her back awkwardly. ‘Don’t let those boys steal your brother’s blanket when they bury him,’ one warned, and Georgette wailed louder.
Guilt pressed like a laden pack on her back. Not only had she deserted her father, but she had allowed his only son to die. If she had found the herbs earlier, maybe he would have lived. If she hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe she could have shaken him back to life.
Never before had she dwelled in such blackness. The dark earth pulled her powerfully and she wanted to sink down and never rise again.
And then she heard words, not spoken by any human soul, but travelling through her body like warmed cider given to one who is frozen. The words dissolved her pain, covered over her raw wound like a soothing poultice. Yea, though I walk in the valley of Death, Yet will I fear no evil.
Georgette felt light and free, as if a hand had removed an oppressive weight and she was aloft in a foreign atmosphere. Smoothly, in one movement, she rose to her knees, bending her head over her clasped hands. Now she was murmuring, the words emerging from her lips, but the human sound was only a vehicle for enunciating what was pronounced with great love in her head. Her sobbing ceased and she only hiccupped now and again, held in serene rapture.
Two boys came and carried away her brother’s body and still she murmured, motionless. The others whispered, but none dared disturb her. The boy in a black cowl who led the hours had been drawn by the anguished wail. Now he stood some way behind Georgette and bowed his own head in the presence of her faith.
When the group’s leader summoned her to the new grave, she walked calmly to her brother’s brief funeral. She answered ‘Amen,’ crossed herself, placed a twig sprouting with new leaves on the upturned clods of soil, and joined the Crusaders as they departed.
A few children followed her closely for a while, hoping to witness some manifestation of the Divine after her unusual behaviour at the side of her brother’s body, but her face was so ordinary, her manner so humble, that they soon lost interest. Only the one wearing the black cowl continued to follow her, but at a distance.
Chapter Eleven
As the journey turned into months, the irregularity of food, the exhaustion of continuous travel and the lack of shelter all took their toll.
‘Another three slipped away last night,’ Patrice informed Georgette one morning. ‘They’re stupid not to stay with the Crusade. They’ll never get home alone.’
‘Perhaps they’ll find work in a nearby village,’ suggested Georgette. She was more concerned about the Crusaders they had been forced to abandon in various villages along the way because they were too weak to walk. Who knew whether the villagers would be kind enough to nurse them back to health?
The original system of organisation was no longer closely observed. Leaders did not recognise all the members of their groups. No one knew how many young Crusaders there were in total. Some said there were one or two thousand. Others swore the number must be higher than five thousand. At times, there was a chaotic lack of supervision and order. Silently, Robert watched the confusion.
By now the Crusaders were travelling through the miles of forests that blanketed the middle of France. Those who remained were toughened by their travels and more experienced in finding food and shelter. They were thin and tired, but their determination burned bright.
In the thick forests, wild boar were a common sight, roaming freely and rooting for acorns in the fallen leaves with loud snuffles and grunts. The boys went off on hunting parties, returning triumphantly with bristly pigs hanging between them on stakes. One day Patrice appeared in the train of the boys, dancing and twirling. There was blood on her hands and forearms and a streak on her face.
Georgette exclaimed, ‘Patrice, you look like a . . . like a
A few girls came over to pat her back awkwardly. ‘Don’t let those boys steal your brother’s blanket when they bury him,’ one warned, and Georgette wailed louder.
Guilt pressed like a laden pack on her back. Not only had she deserted her father, but she had allowed his only son to die. If she had found the herbs earlier, maybe he would have lived. If she hadn’t fallen asleep, maybe she could have shaken him back to life.
Never before had she dwelled in such blackness. The dark earth pulled her powerfully and she wanted to sink down and never rise again.
And then she heard words, not spoken by any human soul, but travelling through her body like warmed cider given to one who is frozen. The words dissolved her pain, covered over her raw wound like a soothing poultice. Yea, though I walk in the valley of Death, Yet will I fear no evil.
Georgette felt light and free, as if a hand had removed an oppressive weight and she was aloft in a foreign atmosphere. Smoothly, in one movement, she rose to her knees, bending her head over her clasped hands. Now she was murmuring, the words emerging from her lips, but the human sound was only a vehicle for enunciating what was pronounced with great love in her head. Her sobbing ceased and she only hiccupped now and again, held in serene rapture.
Two boys came and carried away her brother’s body and still she murmured, motionless. The others whispered, but none dared disturb her. The boy in a black cowl who led the hours had been drawn by the anguished wail. Now he stood some way behind Georgette and bowed his own head in the presence of her faith.
When the group’s leader summoned her to the new grave, she walked calmly to her brother’s brief funeral. She answered ‘Amen,’ crossed herself, placed a twig sprouting with new leaves on the upturned clods of soil, and joined the Crusaders as they departed.
A few children followed her closely for a while, hoping to witness some manifestation of the Divine after her unusual behaviour at the side of her brother’s body, but her face was so ordinary, her manner so humble, that they soon lost interest. Only the one wearing the black cowl continued to follow her, but at a distance.
Chapter Eleven
As the journey turned into months, the irregularity of food, the exhaustion of continuous travel and the lack of shelter all took their toll.
‘Another three slipped away last night,’ Patrice informed Georgette one morning. ‘They’re stupid not to stay with the Crusade. They’ll never get home alone.’
‘Perhaps they’ll find work in a nearby village,’ suggested Georgette. She was more concerned about the Crusaders they had been forced to abandon in various villages along the way because they were too weak to walk. Who knew whether the villagers would be kind enough to nurse them back to health?
The original system of organisation was no longer closely observed. Leaders did not recognise all the members of their groups. No one knew how many young Crusaders there were in total. Some said there were one or two thousand. Others swore the number must be higher than five thousand. At times, there was a chaotic lack of supervision and order. Silently, Robert watched the confusion.
By now the Crusaders were travelling through the miles of forests that blanketed the middle of France. Those who remained were toughened by their travels and more experienced in finding food and shelter. They were thin and tired, but their determination burned bright.
In the thick forests, wild boar were a common sight, roaming freely and rooting for acorns in the fallen leaves with loud snuffles and grunts. The boys went off on hunting parties, returning triumphantly with bristly pigs hanging between them on stakes. One day Patrice appeared in the train of the boys, dancing and twirling. There was blood on her hands and forearms and a streak on her face.
Georgette exclaimed, ‘Patrice, you look like a . . . like a
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