Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade by C. D. Baker Page B
Authors: C. D. Baker
Ads: Link
of the lowly, the unwanted, and the misfits of Christendom.
He had been blessed with more years than most. His old head was now covered with fine, wispy, white hair which yielded to the slightest brush of even the lightest breeze. His narrow, bearded face was weathered and wrinkled but his deep-set, blue eyes sparkled with a passion and spirit far more vigorous than the apparent state of his poor shell. His torso was bent inward, as if bearing the weight of the world, and dutifully borne by bowed and spindly legs. His long fingers wrapped a well-worn shepherd’s crook and at his side hung a scuffed, leather satchel. These were his only accessories other than an olive-wood cross suspended on a braided cord necklace that he sheltered under his tattered, black robe. Pieter treasured his little cross, for it was a gift carved for him a few years prior by an Irish monk whom he had dearly loved. While on a pilgrimage to Palestine the Irishman had discovered the wood at the base of Golgotha and fashioned it into the cross of the Celts—a circle, like the sun, wrapping the intersection of the T . Pieter was taken by more than its simple beauty, however, for, unlike the polished silver hanging around most priests’ necks, this little cross was a true cross—one complete with rough edges and splinters.
The old priest could be seen from afar stepping the dirt roads of Christendom with his amusing, rolling gait, like a creaking, old wagon with a leaning wheel. More than a decade had now passed since his body had been crushed by the wide wheels of an oxcart that drifted through a ditch in which he had paused to sleep. Cared for by the ample love and adequate good sense of some local peasants, he miraculously survived, his straightaway stride being the only thing lost. From that time forward he was known by the peasants who loved him as Pieter the Broken.
His journeys had taught him well of things common to all men. Pieter had learned to discern the depravation of peasant, prince, and priest alike, and he was not shy about sharing his observations. He grew in wisdom and knowledge and was keen to offer both to ears willing and not.
Not content to be alone always, he was most pleased to travel alongside his dearest companion, Solomon. His trusted friend was a scruffy dog who had found Pieter sleeping in a flax bundle almost six years ago near Limburg-on-the-Lahn. Unlike his master, Solomon was of low breeding, but like his master, was a tenderhearted rascal. His gray hair was usually matted and tangled with briars and brush, and though some would say he lacked an immortal spirit, his trusting eyes revealed an eager soul within.
The sun was hot, hotter than usual for early July, and the summer of 1212 was proving to be a difficult one. The crops stood wilted and stiff in their hard, dry furrows. The grain harvest would begin in several weeks, but the yellowing fields of rye and millet were scant and without promise. Hay had been cut and sheathed but no second growth was expected. Pieter and Solomon sat quietly in the cool shade of a maple tree just beyond the walls of Mainz and watched a discouraged harvester sharpen his scythe.
Pieter, too, was discouraged. For the past two or three weeks he had unsuccessfully attempted to dissuade scores of little crusaders from their holy march. Each gentle effort had been met with an equally gentle refusal as they zealously tread by, clutching their wooden crosses close to their breasts. A band of thirty or so had dismissed his pleading earlier that morning, and Pieter now cast a sad eye toward a distant field.
“Look there, old Solomon,” he said as he pointed his curled finger to a flock of sheep dotting the green plain. “Every lamb needs a ewe and every ewe a shepherd. ’Tis how life is ordered. The little lambs marching by us have neither ewe nor shepherd and my heart aches so for them.”
Solomon, seeming to understand the old man’s melancholy, licked his friend’s face and
He had been blessed with more years than most. His old head was now covered with fine, wispy, white hair which yielded to the slightest brush of even the lightest breeze. His narrow, bearded face was weathered and wrinkled but his deep-set, blue eyes sparkled with a passion and spirit far more vigorous than the apparent state of his poor shell. His torso was bent inward, as if bearing the weight of the world, and dutifully borne by bowed and spindly legs. His long fingers wrapped a well-worn shepherd’s crook and at his side hung a scuffed, leather satchel. These were his only accessories other than an olive-wood cross suspended on a braided cord necklace that he sheltered under his tattered, black robe. Pieter treasured his little cross, for it was a gift carved for him a few years prior by an Irish monk whom he had dearly loved. While on a pilgrimage to Palestine the Irishman had discovered the wood at the base of Golgotha and fashioned it into the cross of the Celts—a circle, like the sun, wrapping the intersection of the T . Pieter was taken by more than its simple beauty, however, for, unlike the polished silver hanging around most priests’ necks, this little cross was a true cross—one complete with rough edges and splinters.
The old priest could be seen from afar stepping the dirt roads of Christendom with his amusing, rolling gait, like a creaking, old wagon with a leaning wheel. More than a decade had now passed since his body had been crushed by the wide wheels of an oxcart that drifted through a ditch in which he had paused to sleep. Cared for by the ample love and adequate good sense of some local peasants, he miraculously survived, his straightaway stride being the only thing lost. From that time forward he was known by the peasants who loved him as Pieter the Broken.
His journeys had taught him well of things common to all men. Pieter had learned to discern the depravation of peasant, prince, and priest alike, and he was not shy about sharing his observations. He grew in wisdom and knowledge and was keen to offer both to ears willing and not.
Not content to be alone always, he was most pleased to travel alongside his dearest companion, Solomon. His trusted friend was a scruffy dog who had found Pieter sleeping in a flax bundle almost six years ago near Limburg-on-the-Lahn. Unlike his master, Solomon was of low breeding, but like his master, was a tenderhearted rascal. His gray hair was usually matted and tangled with briars and brush, and though some would say he lacked an immortal spirit, his trusting eyes revealed an eager soul within.
The sun was hot, hotter than usual for early July, and the summer of 1212 was proving to be a difficult one. The crops stood wilted and stiff in their hard, dry furrows. The grain harvest would begin in several weeks, but the yellowing fields of rye and millet were scant and without promise. Hay had been cut and sheathed but no second growth was expected. Pieter and Solomon sat quietly in the cool shade of a maple tree just beyond the walls of Mainz and watched a discouraged harvester sharpen his scythe.
Pieter, too, was discouraged. For the past two or three weeks he had unsuccessfully attempted to dissuade scores of little crusaders from their holy march. Each gentle effort had been met with an equally gentle refusal as they zealously tread by, clutching their wooden crosses close to their breasts. A band of thirty or so had dismissed his pleading earlier that morning, and Pieter now cast a sad eye toward a distant field.
“Look there, old Solomon,” he said as he pointed his curled finger to a flock of sheep dotting the green plain. “Every lamb needs a ewe and every ewe a shepherd. ’Tis how life is ordered. The little lambs marching by us have neither ewe nor shepherd and my heart aches so for them.”
Solomon, seeming to understand the old man’s melancholy, licked his friend’s face and
Similar Books
