Free Crusade by Linda Press Wulf Page B

to be alone. At the abbey, there were strict rules about bodily privacy, and the abbot frowned on any of the monks hawking and spitting or blowing their noses on to the ground. Here children and youths defecated in full view, evacuated the mucus from their noses in whichever way was most convenient, and commented – at least among the boys – on each other’s genitals and the girls’ breasts. He had pictured his fellow travellers as pure young Crusaders.
    Although he was already fourteen, and thus one of the older members of the Crusade, he was filled with his old fear of being tormented by other children before Abbot Benedict removed him to the abbey. Within days, he was universally and openly called Abbé because of the black hood he wore day and night, shading his face from full view and keeping his ropy scar a secret. But his remoteness put paid to plans of either persecution or friendship, and soon the members of his group turned to better sport, leaving him alone.
    Finding himself truly unobserved, Robert became the observer. As he watched a group of boys play leapfrog, the littlest one alternately weeping with frustration and laughing with abandon, the others forming and breaking alliances by the minute, he remembered the last time he had seen such antics:
    These children act like the litter of kittens that the twin cooks once kept in a corner of the kitchen , he thought.
    His greatest interest was in the Prophet Stephen, but it was not easy to get close to him physically. During the day, the leader rode with his favoured youths on horseback some distance ahead of the straggling, slow-moving crowd. At night, they settled in the choicest spot, sat around a roaring fire built for them by youngsters from other groups, and ate and drank without restraint. The toughest-looking boys guarded Stephen against any pestering approaches.
    One night, Robert managed to draw quite close to their circle, crouching in the shelter of bushes nearby until they fell asleep, watching silently and catching whatever words of conversation he could hear. Stephen himself seldom spoke, but when he did throw in a comment, there were roars of laughter, although Robert had not understood any joke in the words. There was little about God and the soul in their discussion, it seemed. Robert crept away unsatisfied.
    After he had been two weeks on the road, everything changed. A mounted messenger trotted up to Robert’s group and conferred briefly with the group leader.
    ‘Robert of Blois,’ the leader called, ‘our leader Stephen has need of your services. Go with this man.’
    Robert froze.
    ‘Come,’ the messenger urged impatiently. ‘Get up behind me. It’s a long way to the front group.’
    ‘I don’t know how,’ Robert murmured. ‘I’ve never ridden on a horse.’ There was a shout of laughter from a group of farm boys who had been listening to this interchange. Here was a member of their own group summoned to meet with the Prophet himself, yet he could not even climb into a saddle.
    Within seconds, they had hoisted Robert up behind the messenger. His legs hung down awkwardly and he clung to the waist of his guide. He was very far from the ground.
    ‘Godspeed,’ his young grooms called good-naturedly. ‘Be careful the horse doesn’t take a bite of your boot!’
    The horse was urged into a canter and Robert went pale with fear. He was bounced high and hard with every movement. The road, the bushes, the children they were passing were a blur, and his fingers tightened on the messenger’s girdle, squeezing the fold of thick material as if it were paper. He knew he was going to fall; it was just a matter of how long he could hold on.
    But soon the horse slowed to a jolting trot and came to a stop. Clumsily, Robert slipped to the ground. He had not had a chance to ponder the inexplicable summons by the leader.
    Stephen sprawled on a rich cloak in the centre of his group of lieutenants, talking and laughing while his followers