The Children's Crusade Page 3

  Robert de Villacours pretended to snort and to become very cross with her, but she skipped out of his way, and on down the narrow stairs.

  5. Strange meeting and bad news

  Spring turned to early summer and the tender green shoots of wheat in the manorial fields began to ripen, the lambs to grow too big to feed from their mothers any longer, the young hawks or eyases to become fierce and querulous whenever a hand came too close. And in the vine-growing districts the grapes filled out, giving promise of a good vintage year. It was as though France rustled with newness, with the strange restlessness of growth.

  Both Alys and Geoffrey shared this unrest. Often, as the nights lengthened and the amber sunlight struck down across her tambour-frame at a time when she ought to have been thinking of bed, Alys would neglect her embroidery and seek her brother’s company. And Geoffrey would be only too ready to leave his writing book, or the piece of armour he was burnishing, to walk with his sister along the river bank, among the sallows and osiers. For they had a secret to share.

  Each day brought fresh news of the shepherd boy, Stephen, and his great host of ‘Crusaders’. One rider said that almost 30,000 children were making their way from Vendome, through Tours, and were heading towards Lyons. Another messenger galloped in with the news that children were flocking to Stephen’s side from every sort of home, and in defiance of anything their parents might do or threaten.

  One evening, as they sat under a wild rosebush near the shallow river, Alys suddenly said to Geoffrey, ‘Our castle lies on the easiest route between Tours and Lyons, brother.’ Then she stopped, as though uncertain how to proceed.

  Geoffrey looked away from her and flung a pebble into the water, slowly and deliberately. ‘That is understood, sister,’ he said. Then he paused for a moment before finishing, ‘I have thought of little else since Bertrand de Gisors spoke of it all. I have dreamed about it almost every night.’

  Alys stood then, suddenly alarmed by the hoarse note in her brother’s voice. She took a pace towards him and was about to place her hand on his arm to console him, when a sound behind her caused the girl to stop and turn her head.

  A man was standing beside the wild rosebush, watching them, his thin dark face twisted in a strangely mocking smile, his black eyes glimmering, half-closed, beneath bushy brows.

  Had the girl seen only this face with its deep lines and its twisted expression, she would have taken to her heels without delay, assuming that no one but a lordless man, an outlaw, could possess such a mask of evil. But as the man came forward from behind the rosebush, Alys saw that he was dressed in a livery which both proclaimed him as harmless, and at the same time provided him with an excuse for travelling the countryside unhampered by the tools of his calling.

  For the stranger was dressed in a long ragged gown of parti-coloured fustian, red on one side, yellow on the other; his sleeves hanging almost to the ground. About his thin waist he wore a narrow belt of blue leather, into which was thrust a silver-mounted flute of ebony. On his head danced a red cap in the shape of a cock’s comb, from the sides of which hung two asses ears, on the points of which dangled little bronze bells, which jingled with every movement he made.

  With the shock of meeting, Geoffrey’s hand slid almost by habit to the hilt of his dagger, for it was his duty to protect his sister; but the stranger held up his hands, palm forward, as though to signify his peaceful intention. Then he fell on his knees before Alys. ‘Mademoiselle, I serve you,’ he said. Turning he bowed his head before Geoffrey. ‘Seigneur,’ he said, ‘I honour you.’

  For a moment Geoffrey stared down at him with all the arrogance of a young nobleman confronting a serf.

  Then he said, ‘It would be wiser of you in the future to announce your presence from a distance, fellow, before breaking in on the privacy of gentlefolk like this. It would be safer, too.’

  The man bowed his head humbly once more, though Alys thought she saw that mocking smile creep over his features again as he did so.

  In a low voice he said, ‘You are as wise as you are merciful, mon Seigneur. One day the fair land of France will resound with your fame; of that I am certain.’

  Geoffrey preened himself at the man’s words. He was not accustomed to such flattery, for his father had always treated him with straightforward, honest common sense.

  Robert de Villacours believed that the world was a hard place to be in and wanted his only son to be prepared for the trials and tribulations that life must inevitably thrust on him one day when he came to inherit Beauregard and its lands… .

  So the stranger’s flattering words had their effect on the boy, and he suddenly felt very grown up and generous. He sat down on the grass, with something of a lordly air and keeping his distance from the stranger so as to indicate the difference in their stations. ‘You are something of a musician,’ he said, pointing to the flute in the man’s belt. ‘So I presume that you are walking from castle to castle to earn your bread?’

  The man nodded, causing the bells on his cap to jangle once again. ‘Aye, master,’ he said, ‘I have the touch of the thing and have played for my meat and drink from Antioch to Paris and back again.’ He drew the flute from his belt and held it in his hand for a moment so that they should see it clearly in the early summer sunshine.

  It was a beautiful instrument, carved intricately from bell to mouthpiece with little figures of men and women dancing, of animals prancing, and of vine-clusters and flowers. Even the broad silver bands at each end of the flute were delicately chased with flowing decorations.

  Alys could not help herself. ‘But, that is magnificent, stranger!’ she said. ‘I have not seen such another in my life!’

  The man’s eyelids lowered. ‘Your taste is as flawless as your beauty, my lady,’ he said with a smile, seeming not to notice that Geoffrey gave a sudden snort. ‘This instrument was made, countless years ago, by some old craftsman of Arabia. As you can see, the inscriptions on these silver bands are in the ancient language of that country.’

  He held the flute towards Alys, but did not allow her to touch it. ‘What do the inscriptions mean ?’ asked Geoffrey, abruptly.

  The man shook his head. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Ah, who knows! Someone once told me that they are old spells, the old magic of Arabia; but I am not learned in such things. I am a simple fellow, young lord, a mere juggler and musician. I leave learning to the great ones, the important folk—such as you are.’

  Geoffrey did not like the twist of the man’s lips as he spoke those words. He put on what Alys always called his ‘grand seigneur’ look.

  ‘Very well, fellow,’ he said sharply, ‘then play the thing! Do not sit looking at it all day, like a country wench before a sweetmeat booth at a Fair!’

  Once more the stranger bowed. Then he set the flute to his thin lips and blew down it softly, his slim fingers moving up and down on the holes as nimbly as a company of dancers.

  At first it seemed to Alys that the music was weird and uncouth, but then she suddenly thought that it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. The sweet full notes seemed to weave in and out of each other like a coloured tapestry, and in those sounds the girl heard the story of creation, of the richness and complexity of Nature. Yet, to Geoffrey the music meant something else; it was glory in battle, with the scarlet banners waving in the wind, and the jingle of harness and armour, and the thundering of hooves at the charge… .

  And when the last note had fallen to its close and the sounds of the river and the evening breeze in the trees had returned again, the boy said breathlessly, ‘Stranger, there is magic in that flute. Such music might lead an army half way across the world.’

  But the man merely bowed his head humbly as he wiped the flute and tucked it into his belt once more.

  ‘I am honoured that you should think so, lord,’ he said quietly.

  On their way back to Beauregard, Alys was still in a trance of rapture. It was as though she did not dare speak, for fear of breaking the dream which the music had conjured up for her.

  At the drawbridge, the guard stared in amazement to see the tall stranger striding between the children, the long skirt of his coloured habit swinging. But he recollected himself in time to give the required salute, and so the three passed across the courtyard on their way to the great hall.

  Yet even as they mounted the first steps, a shadow fell across their path. The young priest, Gerard, stood looking down at them strangely, a frown wrinkling his pale forehead. And when the laughing, dark-faced stranger stared up at him, the priest made the sign of the cross hurriedly and put on a stern expression.

  ‘My lord and lady,’ he said quickly, ‘your father has sent me to find you. He commands you to go to him without delay. There is something he wishes to say to you, privately.’

  He looked down, pointedly, at the stranger, who smiled hack at him and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down on the stone steps.

  ‘I pray you, lord and lady, have no thought for me,’ he said. ‘I can amuse myself. I am well received if I have a stone step to sit on.’

  Then he pulled the flute from his belt once more and with a sly smile began to sound a phrase or two.

  The priest took Alys by the hand and drew her up the inner stairway towards the Solar. Geoffrey followed them, frowning, the sound of the flute already tugging at his legs.

  In the shadowy room, Robert de Villacours paced up and down, a glass of Malvoisie from the green flask on the oak-table in his hand. He had the appearance of a man who was bracing himself to carry out a task for which he had little taste.

  ‘My dear ones,’ he said, after Geoffrey and Alys had knelt before him, as was required of dutiful French children, ‘I have news for you; news which, perhaps, you will not welcome at this moment, but news wh
ich, nevertheless, I am bound in honour to tell you.’

  Then he paused so long, trying to find the right words for his message, that Alys said impatiently, ‘I implore you, father, to put us out of our misery. What have you to tell us?’

  Robert de Villacours stood above his daughter, his hand on her shoulder, as though to give himself the courage to speak.

  ‘My children,’ he said quickly, ‘your dear mother has been dead two years now. We have felt her loss deeply, the three of us, that is understood. But we must also understand that children of your age need a mother, and a castle like Beauregard needs its mistress, its chatelaine.’

  He paused for a moment, at a loss. Geoffrey’s face clouded. ‘So you are going to marry again? Is that it, father?’

  Robert de Villacours nodded gently.

  ‘This evening a messenger has come from the widowed Angeline de Guicher, accepting my offer of marriage. I am overjoyed and hope that my children will share that joy! She is a good woman.’

  Alys gave a great sob and pulled away from her father’s hand. Then, with a flurry of skirts, she turned and ran out of the room. Geoffrey looked up into his father’s face. ‘She may be a good woman, as you say, father,’ he heard himself saying, ‘but she can never take the place of our mother.’

  Greatly daring in his sadness, the boy turned away and strode to the door. He halted for a second when his father called out his name, but then went on, past the priest Gerard, who stood in the dusky passageway, and so down the stairs.

  Alys was sitting on the bottom step, weeping, her face in her hands. Geoffrey stood over her, biting his lips to keep back his own tears.

  At last he touched her gently on the shoulder and said, 1 Do not cry, my sister. What will be, will be; and this perhaps makes our path easier to tread!’

  From the great hall came the sound of the merry flute. The children went towards the doorway, where the torches were already flaring and sputtering in the evening breeze.

  6. The magic flute

  Smoke hung in the high rafters, like a canopy of thick grey gauze, which eddied backwards and forwards as the evening breezes worried at it from the windows of the great hall.

  Below, about the long tables, the men-at-arms lounged at their benches or leaned against the wall, listening to the flute-player, their beef and ale forgotten for the while in the magic of the world which the glittering music unfolded for them.

  And, as he played, his head swaying from side to side in time to his melodies, the musician watched them all intently, his dark eyes swinging from one to the other, judging the effects his tunes were having upon these simple-minded soldiers.

  When his last cadence had fallen to stillness, the men at the tables seemed to wake from a deep sleep; a rustle passed down the hall; a serving-woman gave a sudden start and let fall the pewter ladle she had been holding. The wandering music-maker stared the length of the hall towards her, smiling at her embarrassment.

  Then blunt Gil, the Captain of the Guard, rose from his place at the head of the table nearest the fire, his square-cut beard jutting forth defiantly.

  ‘By Saint Michel and all the relics,‘he said, ‘but we have not heard such music in our lives before. We are indebted to you, minstrel!’

  He held out his cup of beer towards the flute-player as though toasting him, then drank off the liquid at a gulp. Then, as the musician watched them all, smiling and bowing from time to time, Gil flung a silver coin into a wooden dish and passed it down the table. Each soldier added a piece to the store, anxious to reward the man in the parti-coloured gown. A serving-wench ran forward and, scooping the money into her apron, went with it to the wanderer.

  For a moment he looked at her as she stood smiling before him. Then he said, ‘I can only take this gift from one who can sing as well as I can play. So sing, fair one, sing!’

  Then all the men began to laugh, for it was well known that Magdalen, for all her pretty looks and golden hair, had a voice like a rusty key struggling to turn in a lock. The girl flushed and lowered her eyes.

  ‘You mock me, traveller,’ she said. ‘I have never been able to sing a note.’

  The man placed his hands upon her shoulders and said, ‘Then it is time you began now! You shall sing the ballad of Young Maurice and his love for Alison.’

  Tears stood in the girl’s eyes now at the laughter which rose behind her. ‘But I do not know the words,’ almost sobbed the girl.

  Alys, standing by the door with her brother, whispered, ‘Oh, how cruel to mock poor Magdalen like that!

  I will make him stop it!’ But her brother’s hand restrained her. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Things are not what they seem, sister.’

  And, true enough, after a flourish of notes on the flute, the girl turned to face the soldiers in the hall, her face now smiling, her voice ringing forth, clear and melodious as a bell.

  ‘Young Maurice rode a milk-white steed,

  His sword-hilt was of gold;

  And all the ladies of fair France,

  Yearned for this knight so bold.’

  The song told how Maurice mistook the tawny-haired Alison for a red deer in the forest one day, and shot her with an arrow. It was a sad story and ended softly in a minor key.

  When Magdalen’s voice had faded and the flute was heard no more, a great hush came upon the hall, for all the men there knew that this kitchen wench had never sung before. As for Magdalen, she let slide the silver coins into the minstrel’s open pouch and then walked back between the tables, radiant and wide-eyed, like a girl in a shining dream.

  For a little while, the flute-player bent down behind a solid backed wooden chair, so that his body could not be seen.

  But his hands galloped towards each other along the top of the chair in imitation of two knights at a tournament. The illusion was so complete the men-at-arms gasped. Gil called out, ‘Do not let them fight a l’outrance, my friend, or you’ll lack a hand to play your flute with!’

  At this, Geoffrey let out a sudden guffaw—and then saw the flute-player rise slowly from behind the chair and smile towards him, mockingly.

  ‘Come forth, my young lord,’ he called down the hall.‘Come forth and bring your noble sister. We will think of another ballad of the sad ancient times that will do credit to your noble voices.’

  The men-at-arms turned and gazed at the children, shocked that the wandering minstrel should dare to tease them so, yet interested to see how they would answer the man. Alys shrank back before the minstrel’s darkeyed stare, but Geoffrey took a pace forward, his jaw set, as though he might be about to put this fellow in his place, his hand upon the pommel of his dagger.

  But even as he moved, his face seemed to lose its resolution; and his hand fell limply to his side, as though he had come under the power of a spell which was beyond his strength of mind to break. ‘Master …’ he whispered. ‘Master …’

  Then, as all eyes were turned upon the boy and men began to nudge each other in wonder, another figure appeared in the doorway, a dark-robed figure whose one hand went protectingly about the shrinking Alys, whose other hand pointed, accusingly, at the still-smiling minstrel.

  ‘Stop!’ called out the clear voice of Brother Gerard.

  ‘Cease this godless magic, you in the garments of a jester! Have done with this wanton mockery and go your ways!’

  Never before had the soldiers seen this gentle priest so moved by anger. His eyes blazed and his head was thrown back like that of a general commanding his pikemen or archers.

  Even rough-voiced Gil, the Captain, was impressed. ‘Yon priest has the makings of a soldier, by Saint Michel and all the relics!’ he muttered. ‘I’d give him a place in the guard any day he asked me for a sword!’

  What might have happened then, no man knows.

  For, as the bewildered Geoffrey stood aside, the two men, priest and magician, moved towards each other, one frowning and one smiling, their wills locked in combat like the antlers of two furious stags.

  But even as they came within a spear’s length of each other, the door of the great hall was flung open with a crash, and the guard from the watch-tower stumbled inside, looking round, wide-eyed, for his Captain.