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  Very early the next morning, Georgette packed the things she would take with her on her journey. There was not much. She placed in the centre of her horsehair blanket a sharpened table knife, the spoon her father had carved from horn for her, a wooden bowl, a ceramic drinking vessel, wrapped well in green leaves, a woollen hat her mother had worn, and a second linen smock. She knotted the blanket into a carrying bag, placed it by the door along with her thick sheepskin cape, and hurried to Father David.

  She found him in the church, on his knees in front of the prie-Dieu, his head bowed over his hands. His back was slumped, and it seemed as if his morning devotion would not end soon. Georgette didn’t want to disturb him but if she did not hurry, the others might leave without her.

  ‘Father David,’ she began, feeling shy for the first time with this gentle old man.

  He turned round slowly, his body looking slight and frail in the voluminous black cassock. ‘Georgette?’ he asked. ‘My eyes cannot see thee for the light shining around your head. Is it you, my child, so early in the morn?’

  ‘’Tis I, indeed. No doubt you have heard about the Crusaders who halted overnight outside our village. That is why I did not come to you yesterday. Their leader is a young man, Father David, but a great one. I leave with him today on the Crusade,’ she announced, pride in her voice. ‘I tarry only for your blessing.’

  Unexpectedly, a look of dismay, even horror, swept across his face. She halted uncertainly. Why didn’t he open his arms to her and bless her with pride and pleasure?

  ‘My child,’ he began, but suddenly he closed his eyes, bent his head and prayed intensely but too softly for Georgette to hear. Georgette watched in bewilderment as tears began to roll down his cheeks and his hands fought against each other, left hand wringing against right hand, and right against left.

  At last, he made the sign of the cross, opened his eyes, wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his cassock and stood up with difficulty. Raising his hands, he laid them gently on her head. ‘The Mother Church has ordered support for these Crusades,’ he whispered, ‘so I bless you and commend you, my child. But I beg Jesus to keep you from harm. Harm to your body and harm to your soul. Thy will be done. Amen.’

  Georgette closed her own eyes as he blessed her. She didn’t understand his words. She didn’t understand his tears. But the most important thing, the urgent thing, was to get back to the group. She gave her dear, familiar, sweet priest a tight hug, dashed away her own sudden tears and hurried out of his hut for the last time.

  By the time the priest finally ceased his prayers, Georgette had taken her Pilgrim’s Vow in the village square, smiling happily at her childhood friend Patrice in the group of new recruits. Then she shouldered her bundle and was on her way to Jerusalem.

  PART TWO

  Faith and Folly

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the second morning of the journey, Georgette felt as if she had been a Crusader for a long time. Her felt shoes were poor protection against the rough stones, but hadn’t she longed to suffer for our Lord? Indeed, many of the children had no shoes at all. The bare ground was hard to lie on that first night, and all the children suffered from a maddening infestation of lice, but she had been so tired she had fallen asleep anyway.

  The sheer number of children marching was overwhelming, but she had stuck close to Gregor and had not been lost once. And she had even seen the leader, Prophet Stephen, ride past her group on a high-stepping white charger fit for a nobleman, encircled by five strong youths on far more ordinary horses. His crown of golden hair set him apart, as did the deference shown to him by the others.

  All commands were sent down from Prophet Stephen through the ranks until they were transmitted to the smallest marchers, who looked to be seven or eight years old. Georgette and her brother had been assigned to one of ten groups, each with about fifty children of different ages under the strict orders of an older leader. Her group marched together, sat down to eat together, and slept huddled together for warmth and safety.

  Many of the youngsters had formed into groups of friends, walking and eating and sleeping so closely they seemed connected by an invisible web. Georgette was courteous to all and chattered busily with Patrice whenever their separate groups marched alongside, but she felt no strong need for an intimate friend, since she had Mother Mary with her always. And, of course, there was her brother for protection.

  Around the fire at night she heard scraps of conversation.

  ‘Yeah, me father was also glad. One less mouth to feed, he told me, and he went off to work without a word of goodbye.’

  ‘Well, at least he didn’t beat you,’ said another. ‘The last time my stepfather whipped me so badly I couldn’t stand, I told myself I’d either kill him in his sleep – maybe hit him over the head with a shovel or something – or run away. And then the Prophet came to our village.’

  ‘I was jus’ hungry,’ one called out, to several shouts of agreement. ‘Turnips and water, turnips and water every day this past winter, and not too many turnips at that, mind you.’

  Patrice stood squarely with several boys who said they had joined for adventure. ‘I’d have followed anyone who offered me a chance to see the world, maybe even the Devil himself,’ she declared.

  Some of the children looked disapproving. There were certainly a large number who had joined for the love of Christ, but Georgette couldn’t tell how many.

  Patrice had become a great favourite with many of the younger children. At night, little ones crept from nearby groups to join Patrice’s circle before a fire, where she sat with a child in her lap, others draped on her shoulders like furs, and told entrancing stories from Aesop’s fables.

  ‘The fox and the grapes!’ came an entreaty.

  ‘No, we heard that one last night. The wolf and the crane, please!’

  Patrice laughed and hugged and told story after story, until the child in her lap fell asleep and the ones leaning against her shoulders slipped to the ground, their heads drooping with tiredness from the day’s long walk.

  On Georgette’s fourth day, a mounted liveryman from the chateau of a count of Gallardon met the young pilgrims. As he drew up to the leader, he seemed unsure as to whether he should dismount, as he would for a nobleman. Stephen was, after all, a herder of flocks from a small village. But the long-haired youth on his pure-bred stallion looked more like King David than David the shepherd boy, so the emissary sprang to the ground and bowed respectfully.

  ‘My honourable lord wishes to put at the disposal of the holy pilgrims the largest meadow in his estate. My lord himself is unfortunately otherwise occupied with members of his family who are ill, but he has ordered his servants to provide the Crusaders with bread and mead. My lord would be deeply grateful if you would pray for the recovered health of his wife, Lady Marie, and his only son, young Jean Philippe. My lord is sure that the prayers of such pure children as yourselves will find a direct path to God.’

  ‘Do you think he is ordered to start every sentence with “my lord”?’ someone whispered into Georgette’s ear.

  She didn’t have to turn to know the identity of the speaker. ‘Hush, Patrice,’ she begged.

  Prophet Stephen graciously turned aside from their path and detoured a little to the proferred meadow. There he said a stirring prayer for the noble boy and the gentle noble lady. As soon as he had finished, the marchers threw themselves down on the soft, dry grass in the meadow, examining their blistered feet and rummaging in their little packs.

  The food they were given that night was plentiful, and they ate with gusto. Only the loaves of bread were a little underdone – the servants said the baker had come down with the same malady from which the lady and the heir of the chateau suffered.

  The Crusaders slept well and the mood among them was good in the morning. It became even better after matins, when Prophet Stephen held up his hand for quiet.

  ‘Today shall be a rest day for us all,’ Stephen announced, with a winning smile. ‘The coun
t has invited us to remain for another day, to rest our bodies and to repeat our prayers for his family.’

  Shouts rang out. ‘Hurray for the count!’

  ‘Georgette!’ Patrice called. ‘There’s a stream below the meadow. Come along!’

  How good it was to trail sore feet in the cool water and gather early strawberries in the woods. Georgette took the opportunity to wash her muddy smock, spreading it out on warm rocks to dry.

  ‘Keep a good lookout, Patrice!’ she warned. ‘You’re dozing instead of watching to see if any boys are coming near.’

  ‘And so what if they saw you without a shift on,’ Patrice retorted lazily. ‘What they haven’t seen before, they won’t recognise.’

  Patrice could be infuriating, heedless to the commands of both God and man. But Georgette had known her since childhood, had seen her weep as they carried that bleeding stray dog to Father David, had watched little children drawn into her radius like ducklings to their mother.

  That night many of the children seemed listless during Patrice’s storytelling and they did not sleep as well as they had the first night. In the darkness, there was a restless wave of tossing and turning, blankets pushed aside and pulled back close.

  The next morning, the leader of Georgette’s group returned from the daily meeting of all group leaders and reported, ‘We’re not the only ones to have fever among our members. Some in the other groups are too weak to rise. The Prophet says we will remain here another day to allow the sick ones to rest.’

  An hour or two later, the sounds of splashing in the stream and games on the meadow were interrupted by a piercing wail. A spindly young boy, his skin burning to the touch, had suddenly convulsed several times and died. His twin sister, plump and sturdy, shrieked again and again.

  ‘I want my mama! Papa, come and get us!’ She clutched her twin’s body with hysterical determination, and would not let go.

  All gaiety was forgotten, everyone gathered for the funeral. Some of the new Crusaders cried, but those who had been marching for a few weeks simply got on with the job of digging the grave and burying the body.

  Prophet Stephen’s oration at the graveside uplifted and soothed everyone’s spirits. His voice swooped and thrilled as he exalted the dead young boy, a martyr to the faith, an example to all Christendom, surely already a saint at the side of the Lord. The Crusaders sang a rousing hymn. Slowly, the light little body, wrapped in cloth, was lowered into the hastily dug hole, and the travellers waited only for Prophet Stephen’s final blessing before dispersing.

  There was a shout from one of the older girls.

  ‘Look! Two black flags on the chateau tower. The lady and her son have died.’

  Everyone turned to stare at the funereal banners trailing from the stone walls of the castle, announcing a double death among the noble folk. Whispers snaked through the crowd.

  ‘That makes three deaths now. And the cook is ailing too.’

  ‘We have been drawn into a house of plague.’

  ‘Who else among us has been infected with this disease?’

  Georgette pushed her way to Gregor’s side. He was white-faced at the news but certainly healthy, and he took her hand in his own, an exceedingly rare touch that made her eyes moist with tears.

  She was in need of comfort. The next death followed as the sun reached its height, and the next two after that. Soon Prophet Stephen could not preside at all the funerals, and he deputised leaders to bury any in their own groups who died, while he passed like a comforting angel from sickbed to graveside. When he began the Pater Noster, he kept a young priest at his side to chant the Latin. But when he spoke his own words, his tongue was as silver as mercury.

  ‘We suffer, Lord Jesus, and we are glad to suffer.

  We die, Lord Jesus, and we are glad to die.

  For you suffered and you died for us.

  Here in this black meadow

  There is light.

  Your light illuminates our hearts.

  We are fortunate to be chosen

  for this opportunity

  To prove our love for You.’

  Patrice didn’t have much patience for prayers. She quickly enlisted Georgette as one of her band of roving caregivers.

  ‘Find someone who is alone; sit by him or her. Bring water if the child can sip. If he’s cold, cover him with his blanket. If he’s hot, wet a cloth and lay it on his forehead.’

  Scattered across the broad meadow, sweating children lay calling for their mothers or shivering until their teeth chattered, while siblings or helpers held their hands and sobbed at the cessation of breath.

  The count’s personal physician was busy with a growing number of patients in the castle but sent his assistant, who was of no use at all, making things worse by blabbering that there was no treatment for this kind of fever and all who fell ill would surely die, and soon. With cold authority, Prophet Stephen ordered the assistant, a number of years his senior, to leave the holy group of children, whose pure souls could defeat death with the power of prayer.

  Georgette prayed fervently. She woke up with words of prayer already forming on her lips; she fell asleep beseeching Mother Mary to hover through the night by the side of those who were delirious with fever. In between, she muttered prayers to herself as she carried water from the stream or helped some of the older girls to clean unconscious patients. When they vomited and defecated where they lay, she had to drag them to another patch of grass, wipe them clean, and rinse their blankets and their underclothing in the river. It was best to concentrate on well-known prayers at those times, to distract the mind.

  That day, and the next, and the next, the nightmare continued, shrieks and wails indicating a new death, followed by the sound of shovels digging and digging. But many of the Crusaders did not join in the work that had to be done. Some kept their distance, crouching alone among the trees or on the banks of the stream, fear dilating their eyes whenever someone came near.

  Georgette’s ever-present worry was for Gregor, and she kept her eye on him as he dug holes in the dry earth, slamming his shovel into the clods with a violence that was either anger or terror. But when she saw the tall figure of Prophet Stephen pacing through the camp, his lips moving in prayer, her fear lessened, and she whispered simply, ‘Take care of us, Jesus,’ and returned to her work.

  Jesus took care of them and by the end of the week, the infection had run its course. No one else fell ill. More than fifty young Crusaders were dead, most of them the youngest and weakest in their groups. On top of the fresh little graves, the disturbed soil gleamed blood red in the morning sun.

  ‘You look . . . different,’ Gregor grunted to his sister. Georgette did not reply. She felt years older.

  Three days after the last child died, when those who were still weak could manage to walk with support, the young Crusaders rose early to leave the sad place. There was angry rumbling over a suspicion that the count had lured them to the valley of death, hoping God would heed their prayers to save his own kin. Several of them spat in the direction of the chateau.

  As they left the lord’s rich farmlands, they found themselves marching through thick forests, unclaimed and untamed. The narrow path was cleared only as wide across as required by a cart and horse, so that at most three or four children could walk abreast on it. Others in the large and unruly procession scrambled up the banks into the trees, tripping frequently on the uneven ground, over roots and brambles. Many times they would slip on the slimy moss and fall, standing up again with streaks of damp earth on their legs and arms. The younger ones cried and were either consoled by older siblings or had to wipe away the mud and tears on their own and struggle on.

  When they finally halted for the night in a clearing, the Crusaders huddled dispiritedly in their groups, struggling to light fires with green wood, and unsatisfied by the half-portion of lukewarm turnip soup doled out by the group leaders. The provisions that the grief-stricken count had provided for their onward journey disappeared rapidly when
simmered into soup for so many mouths.

  ‘Why only half a bowl tonight?’ demanded Gregor. Georgette shrank behind him. Couldn’t Gregor just take what was given? She wished he would be quiet.

  ‘Not enough for everyone,’ the leader grunted shortly.

  ‘But you have a full bowl,’ Gregor remarked.

  The leader flushed with anger. ‘Prophet Stephen told the leaders to take double because they work harder, keeping the groups together,’ he replied. He stood like a bull or a stag ready to fight, his legs planted apart, his head jutting forward aggressively.

  Gregor scowled and opened his mouth to retort. But the dominance of the leader was palpable, and Gregor turned away with a muttered oath.

  That night many of the travellers coughed and moaned in their sleep. The earth was moist and cold under the thick canopy of firs and pines and oaks. Curled in her damp blanket, Georgette dreamed she was buried under the dark ground, chilled to the bone. In her dream, she opened her lips to pray but clods of the clay surrounding her fell into her mouth. Coughing and spluttering, she woke herself up and lay shivering in the blackness.

  In the morning, they emerged from the cool forest and marched across a large swathe of land where the trees had been felled. The sun rising high behind them warmed their backs and heads, and their clothes steamed as they dried. Georgette thought she could see, maybe even touch, the holiness hovering above the innocents like morning mist.

  Prophet Stephen knew when the children needed inspiration to raise their spirits. He sent song leaders from group to group, teaching Crusader anthems about Jerusalem, about the golden stones, the sacred ground, the holy hills. In each group there was at least one youngster who played the curved shepherd’s pipe – a ram’s horn that had long outlived its original owner – and at least one other banging on a drum or blowing the reedy shawm, which was Georgette’s favourite. Those without instruments could pick up two sticks and saw them together to create a musical accompaniment.