The Children's Crusade Read online

  But, unfortunately, they had forgotten to pull the wooden tap over hard when they had quenched their thirst, and it had not been long before they had heard the serving men calling out in horror as they splashed ankle deep in the precious beer.

  And this time they were not left long in peace on the roof of the South Tower. This time their crime was beyond the forgiveness of the parched men-at-arms just off duty at the dusty Gateway. Usually the soldiers pretended not to know where the children were hiding, when the Chatelaine sent for them to punish them; but this time there was no such pretence!

  As they crouched on the leaden roof, wishing they were as small as spiders, a head appeared at the top of the spiral stairway. A head with bushy red moustaches and eyebrows, with pale blue eyes that gazed at them in silent reproach for a while before becoming angry. It was the Captain of Arms, Jehan himself, who had come to fetch them.

  He did not say a word, but merely saluted them, as was their right, being the children of the Lord of the Manor, then he took Alys by one plait and Geoffrey by one ear, and marched them down to the Solar, where their mother sat waiting for them, her arms folded.

  That was serious, they could tell, because usually she was weaving, or spinning, or stitching, and always singing some little roundel or catch, about knights or love, that she had picked up from the wandering music-men, the troubadours.

  But now she was silent and her lips were tight together. She gazed at her two children sadly and shook her head.

  At last she said, ‘Did you cause all that beer to be wasted?’

  Alys began to snivel, but Geoffrey stepped as far forward as the soldier’s grasp would let him and said, ‘Yes, mother, it was our fault, we did it.’

  His mother merely sighed and nodded. ‘At least you are honest,’ she said as she rose and went to the door, ‘I have that to be thankful for.’ Geoffrey’s heart rose.

  Then she stopped and without looking back said gently, ‘Beat both of them, Jehan. And as you do so, remember that your men will go short of beer tomorrow so do not be too merciful.’

  When she had gone, Jehan laid them both over the table in turn and smacked them soundly with the stiff leather scabbard of his sword. Geoffrey would have died rather than cry out, although Jehan laid on quite soundly. But when he came to Alys his strength seemed to have flagged somewhat. She was actually smiling when he stood back and saluted them both once more.

  Then they were put in the little triangular closet, just off the Solar, to calm down, and the thick oaken door was bolted on the other side. Here there was a small slab of stone set in one corner as a seat, but Geoffrey did not feel like sitting down. Instead, he let his sister sit while he stood on tiptoe and gazed through the narrow window with its thick grey glass that made the countryside outside look so distorted.

  ‘I’d run away to the Holy Land and be a crusader if I could,’ he remembered saying in his anger.

  But Alys had only smiled and said, ‘After all, brother, we deserved it. Think of those poor thirsty soldiers tomorrow! Besides, there aren’t any Crusades now! Isn’t the Pope always saying something about that? Hasn’t he called us all cowards, or something, for giving up so easily to the Infidel? No, you can’t be a crusader if there are no Crusades, simpleton!’

  As Geoffrey cantered over the last stretch of meadow-land before reaching the Gatehouse, he thought of these things and was sad. But then his spirits rose as he saw the man on the horse before him turn round and smile back, as though he and Alys were sharing a joke about Geoffrey.

  ‘Ha!’ the boy said to himself, ‘but wait until my father hears what I have to say! You’ll smile on the other side of your swarthy face then, I warrant you!’

  Geoffrey gave his horse a sharp kick, urging the spirited beast onwards towards the drawbridge. But the others reached it twenty paces before he did. Alys signed to the guard and the bridge came down with a clatter on its chains. They rode across and into the courtyard. When Geoffrey arrived at the Gatehouse, cross at being so outdistanced, the guard was still gazing after the blackhaired stranger who had entered the castle.

  Geoffrey reined in his horse and stared down at the man.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as sternly as he could manage, ‘and have you no salute for your master’s son, soldier?’

  The man came out of his dream and tried to smile. He stamped his armoured feet on the ground and clumped his heavy pike-butt down before him.

  ‘I’m sorry, young master,’ he said, ‘but I was so taken aback, to see who had arrived with the young mistress!’

  ‘What!’ almost shouted Geoffrey, ‘that blackhaired rogue! What is there about him to surprise anyone, heh?’

  The guard came near to letting fall his pike and his eyes were round with wonder. He even stammered. ‘But, master,’ he said, ‘do you not know who that knight is?

  I thought all France knew him.’

  Geoffrey’s eyes blazed, ‘Well, for your information, soldier,’ he said, ‘allow me to tell you that there is one nobleman in France who does not.’

  Then he rode forward to find his father.

  3. Bertrand de Gisors

  Geoffrey pushed his horse on, across the crowded courtyard, among the many men who worked there, blacksmiths, farriers, fletchers—even the cooks, chopping away busily at the carcase of an ox in readiness for the evening meal. Most things were done in the courtyard; here the men-at-arms practised sword strokes with each other, using heavy staves instead of weapons; here fresh young horses were put through their paces; and here, after a week’s hunting, sleeping out under hedges and in ditches, Geoffrey and his father, and any other gentlemen who might be staying at Beauregard, bathed.

  On such occasions, the courtyard was cleared, and a great barrel was rolled out into the yard, in the lee of the wall so as to be clear of draughts. Then the serving men and women would run out with skillets and buckets of hot water, until the cask was filled chest-high. So, amid much laughter and splashing and general horseplay, the begrimed huntsmen would scrub themselves and each other, using coarse sand or pumice to remove most of the dirt.

  It was while they were so engaged that the young priest, Gerard, who lived at Beauregard, had drawn them all, to put them, suitably tinted in browns and pinks and blues, in a Book of Hours which he was making, in the off moments when he was not struggling to teach Alys and Geoffrey how to write and to read Latin, or when he was not assisting the parish priest at the little church of St Paul, which lay just outside the castle bounds, beyond the moat.

  But these things were not on Geoffrey’s mind as he handed over his horse to a stableboy, who ran to take his reins. He was now wondering who the black-haired stranger was and what he could tell his father about the lost hawk.

  The second of his problems was soon solved. The head-falconer, old Gil, who boasted of having served the King of England himself as an austringer in his early days, shuffled up to him, half-relieved, half-angry, tugging at his rusty forelock almost in defiance.

  ‘Fine how-do-ye-do this is, my lordling, I must say!’ he said. ‘Here’s you just arrived—and the tiercel here, screaming to be hooded, a quarter of an hour before you! What sort of falconry is that, may I ask, master?’ Geoffrey gazed at him in astonishment. ‘What!’ he said. ‘Has my hawk come back to the mews alone?’

  The falconer nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘and screeched like a demon at the lad who tried to lure her. She’s safe enough now, my lord, but there’s something strange going on. Someone has upset her, I’ll be bound!’ Geoffrey nodded, glad not to have lost his hawk, glad not to have his father to settle with. He petted the old man’s shoulder and smiled. ‘I’ll give a silver piece to the lad who lured her down,’ he said, and hurried away towards the steps that led up to the Solar, where his father would be.

  Robert de Villacours, his grey hair cropped short to avoid tangles during the hunting season, dressed in his long black velvet gown that was threadbare at the elbows and ragged at the hem, where he trod on it going up the many stairs
of Beauregard, was standing with his arms round the black-haired stranger. Geoffrey almost ran up the stone steps, bewildered and still furious with the man who had so damaged his pride before his sister.

  Robert de Villacours turned and smiled at his son. ‘Kneel, boy,’ he said gently, ‘before Bertrand de Gisors, a Knight of the Temple, who is back from the Holy War after half a lifetime of fighting against the Infidel.’ Geoffrey gazed in awe at that smiling, straight face, at the white teeth and the twinkling gold ear-rings. He had heard, times without number, of Bertrand de Gisors—his father’s oldest friend, and one of the greatest swordsmen France had ever borne.

  He knelt before the squat, black-haired man, his own head bowed in obedience to his father’s command. After all, he thought, it was no dishonour to be bested by such a warrior … but who would have thought that a man like this would ride the countryside like some outworn kempery-man, on a horse fit only for the knacker’s yard!

  Then he heard Bertrand de Gisors speak, and his voice was low but strong. ‘You have a fine son here, Robert,’ he said. ‘A rare young gamecock. If God had given me such a boy, I’d count myself the luckiest man in France.’ Then Bertrand touched him on the shoulder, meaning him to rise. Geoffrey did so, half-frowning, half-smiling. Bertrand de Gisors took his two hands in his own, and in a voice hardly more than a whisper said, ‘There is an ancient Arabic proverb which says, “ Only the fool weeps over yesterday” Let us be friends, Geoffrey. I am your servant.’

  Geoffrey half bowed before this man, then turned to see Alys smiling at him, her eyes lit with mischief. ‘I am your servant, Sir,’ he mumbled.

  Then his father clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well said lad.‘he laughed. ‘Now off with you to the priest. It’s Latin that makes a good warrior, eh, Bertrand?’

  But Bertrand did not answer. Geoffrey’s last picture of him was as a squat man, as broad as a giant, almost as short as a boy, whose grin meant neither one thing nor another, but was simply a sign of his great good nature.

  4. Stephen of Cloyes

  BUT BROTHER GERARD did not want to be bothered that day. He had come to a page of his Book of Hours that needed all his time and patience. They found him embellishing an immense capital letter with gold leaf, burnishing the raised design with a delicate spatula of ivory, and clucking with annoyance whenever his long sleeve came unpinned and swept across his handiwork.

  ‘Go away, children!’ he said, wiping a gold-tinted hand across his thin flushed face. ‘This work must be finished today if it is to dry properly. We will write together in the morning, after Matins. The light will be better then. Go and read to each other under the apple trees; can’t you see I’m busy?’

  He went back to his work, a streak of gold across his lined forehead. Geoffrey and Alys withdrew from the little room, glad to be free from their lessons that day.

  ‘Come on,’ said Geoffrey, ‘we will go to the Solar and listen to the glorious adventures of that redoubtable paragon of all Knights, Bertrand de Gisors!’

  Alys made a face at her brother. ‘You did not mock him with such confidence when he tumbled you from your horse with one flick of his whip, did you, little brother!’

  For an instant Geoffrey’s expression was grim. Then he smiled again and said, ‘I shall not let you goad me into anger against Bertrand de Gisors. He did what any Knight should do, even though only for a mere girl, and one who really deserved punishment at that! And I count it no disgrace to have been bested by such an experienced soldier.’

  They were walking along the oak gallery, above the great hall. Below them a little group of men-at-arms sprawled in the straw about the central fire, gossiping, cleaning their swords, and teasing the cooks who were busy at their work for the evening meal. Suddenly Alys stopped and held her finger to her lips. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I can hear father and Bertrand. They are talking about us!’

  In the wall, above their heads, was a small square peep-hole which led into the Solar, and through which the Lord of the Manor looked down on the great hall, keeping an eye and an ear on the festivities below. Usually this aperture was closed on the inside by a small oak door, over which the tapestry was drawn to keep out the draughts; but today, by some oversight, it remained open, and though Geoffrey and Alys would never have thought to eavesdrop in the normal run of things, now they found it impossible not to listen to what was being said, if only because their own names were being spoken.

  ‘But why do you say my children are in danger?’ they heard their father ask. ‘Surely, this affair does not concern them.’

  The deep voice of Bertrand de Gisors came to them, in reply. ‘I tell you, friend Robert, all the children of France are in danger—not only Alys and Geoffrey. This thing is a disease as deadly as the plague, as cunning as leprosy. It takes no account of noble birth, but infects all who come in contact with it, nobleman or peasant.’

  There was silence for a moment, then Robert de Villa-cours said, ‘But you say this fellow, this Stephen, is merely the son of a shepherd from Cloyes, a simple-minded twelve-year-old! What influence can such a clown have over the children of gentle families, children who have been taught their Latin and know a bit about chivalry and so on. They would not be deceived by such a fellow, surely?’

  Bertrand’s voice was grave. ‘A few scraps of Latin and a smattering of horsemanship are no protection against this boy’s enthusiasm,’ he said. ‘Stephen of Cloyes may only be a shepherd lad, but he has the eloquence of a Bishop! He may only be twelve years old, but he has the confidence of a man. And no one who has heard him would call him simple-minded… . Indeed, there are a score of learned priests who would follow him to the other end of the world if he but nodded in their direction.’

  Now Robert’s words came hastily, as though they reflected the agitation in his heart. ‘And you mean to tell me that this lad, Stephen of Cloyes, actually forced his way into the Court at Saint Denis and spoke to King Philip himself?’

  Bertrand laughed strangely, ‘Aye, friend,’ he said.

  ‘And he did more than that! He gave the King a letter which he said had come from Christ in person commanding Philip to assist Stephen with all his might to lead a Crusade of children against the Infidel in the Holy Land.’

  The two listeners heard their father’s gasp of astonishment. ‘This is too much!’ he said ‘The fellow should be whipped!’

  Bertrand answered slowly. ‘He is beyond whipping, Robert. That would not cure him. When the King sent him packing, the lad stood on the steps of the Abbey of Saint Denis and announced to all and sundry that he had heard holy voices which had given him the power to perform miracles! By my faith, he swore that he would cause the seas to part, as Moses did, to let all the children walk dry-shod from France to the Holy Land—and even the priests believed him!’

  Robert’s voice was full of anger now. ‘Then so much the worse for the priests!’ he said. ‘They are bigger fools than I took them for. But I assure you, friend Bertrand, my own children will not be tricked by such tomfoolery.

  Geoffrey has a good head on his shoulders, and Alys will be ruled by me in such a matter.’

  At the mention of their names, the two children started guiltily. ‘Come away,’ whispered Geoffrey, taking his sister by one of her plaits.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, ‘this is most interesting.’

  ‘You are a shameless hussy!’ said her brother.

  But she only smiled back at him, still listening.

  And Bertrand de Gisors said, ‘Well, I have warned you, friend, and now I go on to warn others like you who have children. Already Stephen has hundreds anxious to follow him, and, in a month’s time when they are all to meet at Vendome, there will be thousands! They will sweep over France like the locusts of the East, and like those locusts they will bring destruction. No family will be safe. No parent will be able to call his children his own. I warn you, friend.’

  Alys made a wry face up at the little peephole. Then she followed her brother down into the courtyard. r />
  She found him kicking thoughtfully at a bale of straw, and fingering his chin.

  ‘Well, brother,’ she said wickedly, ‘and are you already following Stephen to Jerusalem?’

  Geoffrey did not look at her as he replied. Nor did he seem to notice that she was teasing him.

  ‘I have often envied the men,’ he said. ‘They come back with such wonderful tales of adventure and often with masses of treasure.’

  Alys thought for a while, then she said, ‘I wonder what this Stephen is like ? He must be a splendid person to cause everyone to follow him, like that!’

  Geoffrey grunted. ‘A mere shepherd lad,’ he said. ‘I’m not concerned with him … it’s his idea of a Crusade that interests me.’

  That evening, after he had eaten a light meal and while there was still light to see by, Bertrand de Gisors rode away from Beauregard, a man intent on a mission.

  And when this man had disappeared over the hill, Robert de Villacours called his children up to the Solar.

  ‘Mes enfants,’ he said solemnly, ‘I have something serious to tell you.’

  They stood by his big gilded chair.

  ‘Yes, my father ?’ said Alys, pursing her mouth primly so that she would not smile.

  For they already knew what it was their father would tell them. All they hoped was that he would not make them take the oath not to follow Stephen.

  He did not; it never occurred to him to do so—he credited them with more common sense than most of the children of France.

  ‘What is considered appropriate for some children, by some parents,’ he said, ‘does not apply to us, does it, my chickens? My pair of pigeons would not dream of running after a ragged rascal like Stephen of Cloyes, I well know.’

  He smiled down at them, from his great carved oak chair, in the candle-light. Alys gazed back at him, her eyes full of mischief.

  ‘Which are we, father,’ she said, ‘chickens or pigeons ? One cannot be both at the same time, you understand!’