Free Crusade of Tears: A Novel of the Children's Crusade by C. D. Baker

she was garnished with a superb silk gown and golden clasps set securely in her reddish hair. To the lord’s opposite side entered, with noted arrogance, the cupbearer and chamberlain of the Empire, each lifting aquiline noses high above the tiresome occasion to which they were assigned. Close behind streamed an impressive parade of counselors and merchants, burghers from distant free-towns, and an array of lesser lords and vassals. A singular kettle drum beat slowly as Heribert led his vassals across the straw-strewn floor of the church and took his place at the foot of the archbishop with the dignity befitting his title.
    Some of the peasants found standing room in the rear of the crowded nave, but most pressed close to the church from positions in the courtyard. Karl wiggled himself to a reasonably good seat atop a beer barrel standing alongside a wide window of the church. With his sister on his lap, he peered through the blurred glass in hopes of watching every detail of the grand spectacle before him. “Oh Maria, ’tis wonderful. I know no other word for it.”
    Behind him and in contrast to the brightly adorned nobility standing inside, a multitude of shorn-headed peasants covered the abbey grounds like a dingy, tattered carpet. They remained on their knees and hushed, waiting respectfully for permission to stand. These poor souls knew their position in the Creation and yielded in holy submission to the order which had presented itself before them. All, that is, save young Tomas, the apprentice of Weyer’s bakery, who defiantly stood by a distant wall whispering into the ear of a snickering woodland witch.
    The small, frail abbot commenced the gathering by shouting a customary prayer through the doors opened on three sides. Karl was one of a special few in the courtyard who could understand, having been educated in Latin by the monks. But the others in the massed congregation listened in respectful ignorance, letting their ears be filled with the strange language of heaven.
    Karl turned his eyes to the rows of monks’ heads bowed grimly along their segregated gradines. He thought of Lukas and a lump filled his throat. The brother had been a humble man. His life had been one of unselfish service and genuine love without regard to estate. Lukas had reflected the grace of God to all and, in the end, what better legacy could any man leave? Karl sighed sadly.
    Three sharp blasts of the trumpeters allowed the serfs to rise. The mass of serfs now filling the courtyard stood patiently on dusty, bare feet, most faces grimy and smudged despite the Sabbath scrubbing expected of them. Old men with thin, white hair leaned hard on knotty staffs alongside younger folk, and old women, stooped and crooked with years of hard labor, peered from wrinkled eyes toward the dignity of the sturdy stone church before them. Young and old, they packed together in their belted, gray-brown woolen tunics, blending together like a giant calico. An occasional ribbon or bright sash evidenced gain for some, but these were scattered about and ignored by resentful peers. Little children sat contentedly atop their loving fathers’ broad shoulders and infants were clutched close to the breasts of young mothers. Karl believed them to be the noblest assembly he had ever seen.
    While waiting, Karl’s legs began to numb and he set his little sister’s feet atop the barrel as he slid to the ground. He turned a kindly glance to her and studied her as she stood above him. His eyes met hers and she graced him with the gentle smile that seemed to always warm her delicate countenance.
    An angel , thought Karl, an angel on this earth . He returned an earnest, kindly smile and watched the wind play with her fine, flaxen hair. He noticed her cheeks, pink and chubby, and her ruby-red lips. Were it not for the tiny brown mole on her left earlobe, her face would be spotless , he thought. As he looked down her slight form he paused briefly at her withered left arm