Crusade (12 page)

‘I went on the hunt!’ Patrice boasted. ‘The boys said I couldn’t, so I followed them secretly until we were too deep into the forest for them to send me home. Then they were glad I was there because I spotted the herd of swine first. It was so exciting!’

She laughed merrily at Georgette’s consternation and danced away. Georgette shook her head and hurried to find a clay pot to catch the precious lard that dripped from the pigs over the fire. She mixed it into wheat flour and baked some rough cakes on the glowing coals.

The boys hunted for other wild animals too, especially deer and rabbits, and they fished in the streams and lakes for a welcome change of diet. At night, they told stories around the fires, and stacked low piles of springy boughs from coniferous trees to raise them above the damp ground while they slept.

The Prophet preached on the Sabbath, and sometimes on other days. Georgette’s strength was always renewed by his words. It was scarcely believable that she, an ordinary farmer’s daughter, was part of the army of Jesus. How fortunate she was.

One night Georgette left the warm fire, going a short way from the group for some privacy. She could never piss or empty her bowels at the side of the road as so many did, especially those sickened by the rampant dysentery among their ranks. Before she returned, she admired the great old oak trees around her, gleaming in the moonlight. She loved the scent of their acorns rotting on the forest floor.
Our pig Bess would enjoy rooting around with her snout here
, she thought, smiling at the image.

A figure loomed suddenly in front of her and she shrieked. She caught a glimpse of the face and realised with shock that it was the leader himself, Stephen, who stood in front of her, directly in front of her.

She was embarrassed at being caught so clearly having just finished pissing.
My skirts were barely down
, she thought and blushed.

Stephen smiled. ‘What is your name, girl?’ he asked.

‘Georgette,’ she answered, wondering at his interest.

‘So pretty,’ he murmured, and Georgette started. Had he really said she was pretty? It wasn’t the first time that a boy had told her that, but she hadn’t expected their leader, who was chosen by the Lord, to think of such things as a girl’s appearance. She shivered.

‘You are cold,’ Stephen said in that low voice. ‘Let me feel how cold your hands are,’ and without a chance for her to respond, he took her hands.

Instinctively, Georgette pulled away at what in another boy she would have called impertinence. But his hands only slipped to her wrists and kept hold there. She froze. There was the smell of ale in the air.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said to her, smiling again. ‘You are with your leader. Aren’t you glad I find your face pleasing? Very pleasing
 . . .
’

His hands holding her wrists were strong but Georgette could have broken free if she wished. She had not escaped Gregor’s violent tempers many times as a child for naught. But the hold preventing her from breaking away had little to do with Stephen’s hands: it emanated from his intense eyes boring into hers, his golden curls lifting and waving like fiery serpents, his voice that sounded thick and deep. He murmured things she hardly heard, crooned words in a stream that took away her will to run. Smooth, soothing words as if he were taming a wild animal. Gently, he released one of his hands, keeping the other firmly around her wrist, and stroked her face with his fingertips, moving slowly downwards, her neck, her throat, her breasts. She trembled violently but his eyes were on her and his voice trapped her. Skilfully, his hand caressed her breasts more and more firmly, burning through her shift.

Suddenly, he stopped and listened. Georgette heard it too. There was loud rustling in the forest very near them. Dry leaves crackled underfoot, a twig snapped and a figure stepped out of the shadows and halted next to them. Georgette saw the tall, quiet boy who always covered his head in a dark hood and prayed in fluent, mellifluous Latin. Staring not at her but at the leader, he stood rooted. His eyes were those of a much older man, serious, steady, aware.

Georgette’s trance-like state popped like a soap bubble. Wrenching her wrist from the leader’s grasp, she stumbled away, lifted her skirts, and ran through the woods, back to the safety of little children singing hymns around the fire. Her face burned as with fever, and she couldn’t stop trembling.

In the forest, Stephen cursed violently, took a step closer to Robert, and raised his clenched fists, his face contorted. But Robert stood perfectly still, his eyes coldly contemptuous under his hood.

Stephen dropped his hands, spat on the ground and stomped away into the woods. If he had glanced behind him, he would have seen Robert drop weakly to his knees in the forest, place his palms together and bend his head in grateful prayer.

He removed his blanket and pack from the circle around Stephen and returned to his old group.

Georgette slept little that night, and when she did, she had nightmare after nightmare. The only fragment she could remember the next morning made her shudder. She was kneeling in the little church in her village and, when she raised her eyes to the beloved statue of Mother Mary in her blue gown, the hair that emerged from beneath the Madonna’s head covering suddenly seemed to move, as if in a breeze, and looking more closely, she thought she saw tiny little serpents hiding among the locks, unseen by the good Mother.

That day, and the ones after, Georgette’s spirits were heavy. The religious songs sounded like questions in her ears; the bread donated by enthusiastic villagers who heard the preaching of Prophet Stephen stuck in her throat. She took great care not to venture near the leader, staying near the back of the procession. And she avoided Patrice, shuddering at the thought of the girl’s rough worldliness about such matters. But she did try to thank the Abbé. Twice she saw him and walked in his direction, but he seemed to melt away into the crowd. Eventually, she understood that he was reluctant to talk with her and she left him alone.

She longed for the old prickly reassuring presence of Gregor, and sometimes spoke to him in her mind, telling him of the questions that tormented her, in a way she could never have done when he was alive. The terrible encounter in the forest was something she could not bring her mind close enough to think about.

From the beginning, there had been a worm of discomfort that occasionally made her uneasy. Now it gnawed at her constantly. Had she left home for Jesus or for her own glory? Was she guilty of abandoning her father and her beloved old priest, proclaiming in her vanity a higher purpose for her little life?

And was Gregor’s death only the beginning of her punishment?

Chapter Twelve

Georgette noticed, without really seeing, tall buildings and crowds of people in a town called Limoges. Her perception was disoriented, as if she had been spun in a circle until she no longer knew who or where she was. Her lips moved constantly as she prayed the same Latin prayers over and over again.

Limoges marked the point at which the trees began to thin out and, for the first time, hot weather became a problem. The travellers felt as if they had emerged from a darkness to which they had grown accustomed into a bright light that burned their eyes. This southern part of France was different from any landscape they had seen before. The soil was so crumbly that they saw men working it alone without the help of neighbours or animals. But the dryness of the soil meant that the crops were thinly planted over large areas, and the land spread hot and wide between neighbours.

Now there was no easy source of meat as in the forests, and even though the boys caught many fish in the Vienne river as they followed its banks, the flesh of salmon and carp did not fill the belly as good fatty meat did. The procession moved much more slowly in the heat. This summer was particularly warm, with a continuing drought, so the harvest was poor. Long lines of grapevines bore drooping yellow little leaves and brittle tendrils. The people they passed wanted to be hospitable, offering them as much bread and milk as they could spare, but there was no single source of food big enough to feed so many bellies. The goats and sheep in this region were thin. The cows gave milk that was watery and less fatty and satisfying than the milk the northerners had grown up on; they called it blue milk.

The food that seemed to be most plentiful was olives. Outside one town, the Crusaders were offered crusty hunks of unfamiliar southern bread, made from a grain called rye, and urged to dip them in a rich, aromatic and glowing oil made from olives. Obeying listlessly, Georgette took a bite.

‘Mother Mary! Your blessings never cease!’ she exclaimed with her mouth still full. The group of girls sitting with her on the outskirts of the town were dipping and eating, dipping and eating, too greedily to agree with her. It was the first time she had enjoyed food, or anything else, since the forest encounter with Stephen.

The twisted olive trees with their dusty leaves grew on every hillside, even when there was no sign of water and the soil was cracked and parched. The Crusaders grew used to eating marinated olives, rye bread with olive oil, and more olives. They washed down the crusty bread with cider, while the older boys quaffed grain beer around their fires at night and laughed loudly.

They arrived in the south just as the last cherries clung to their twigs and peaches were beginning to darken in colour. Craving the fruit, many of the children made themselves sick by eating peaches that were not ripe, and stomach pains made the little ones cry at night.

Impatient to reach Marseilles, the Prophet chose what he had been told was the shortest route, leading the sun-drained group directly into the rocky Cévennes range. By the time they were halfway up a high mountain pass, it was too late to turn back. They had no breath to sing songs, nor even to speak, as they plodded up the steep path. The sun reflected off the white rocks and burned into their eyes.

‘Stop whining. I’ll carry you,’ Georgette heard one of the older boys, Alain, say to his younger brother. Little Jean Paul was only seven and could barely reach up to the rocks they were climbing. How could Alain manage to carry Jean Paul when she, Georgette, could barely carry herself?

Of all the days of walking, this was the most strenuous. Or perhaps her mind was not as strong as it had been before that night in the forest.

The path became narrower and more precarious, and the sheer drop more and more frightening. The Crusaders pressed themselves against the cliffs, many of them holding hands tightly. Suddenly, there was a terrible, eerie scream, and Georgette looked up to see a bigger girl and a small child falling into the canyon below. They seemed to wheel around and around, and their skirts caught the air and billowed as if they were dancing in the air. They plummeted down to the riverbed far below, slamming into the ground like rag dolls. The haunting scream still rang in the air. Other children began shrieking too, their screams echoing through the mountains.

Georgette blocked her ears but she could not block her eyes from seeing the tiny crumpled bodies at the foot of the cliff. She tried to pray, but all that came out was, ‘Please help us, please help us, please help us
 . . .
’

‘Everything will be all right. I’m right here. Nothing is going to happen to you,’ whispered a steady, reassuring voice next to her.

Georgette opened her eyes. It was Alain, talking to his little brother. The child stood trembling violently. He pulled his brother’s shirt so strongly that Alain had to go down on his knees on the narrow stony path. Sheltered in strong, encircling arms, his brother’s voice soft in his ear, the boy grew calmer. They sat down very carefully, Alain’s bare knees showing the imprint of the stones he had knelt on.

Alain looked up at Georgette. ‘I cannot see anything from here. Is anything happening up ahead?’

‘There is nothing,’ Georgette said. ‘As far up the mountain as I can see, the line is stopped. No one is walking on.’

He bowed his head over the boy’s head. Gradually, Georgette’s heartbeat slowed and her legs stopped trembling. Slowly, she also lowered herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged just ahead of them.

‘My legs feel weak,’ she said to Alain, as if apologising. He did not reply but kept his lips to his little brother’s head; sometimes he whispered a few words. They waited for a long time.

Eventually, instructions from the Prophet reached those near the back of the line. Apparently, the older girl had been carrying the younger when she overbalanced and fell. So they were no longer allowed to carry the little Crusaders, only to hold their hands. They had to continue climbing. There was a mountain village up ahead where they would rest.