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“I am called Peter,” the monk spoke in a surprisingly strong voice, “called by his Holiness Urban to lead an army of believers to the Holy Land to free the Holy Sepulcher from the heathen hordes. Are there any believers here?”
He was pale and long-nosed, resembling his mount, and his brown robes had holes in them, threadbare. Yet as he spoke, he seemed to grow, his voice rising in power and conviction.
“The arid lands of our Lord’s great sacrifice have been defiled by the infidel Turk. Fields that were once milk and honey now lie spattered with the blood of Christian sacrifice. Holy churches have been burned and looted, sainted sites destroyed. The holiest treasures of our faith, the bones of saints, have been fed to dogs; cherished vials, filled with drops of the Savior’s own blood, poured into heaps of dung like spoiled wine.”
“Join us,” many from the ranks called out loudly. “Kill the pagans, and sit with the Lord in Heaven.”
“For those who come,” the monk named Peter went on, “for those who put aside their earthly possessions and join our Crusade, His Holiness Urban promises unimaginable rewards. Riches, spoils, and honor in battle. His protection for your families who dutifully remain behind. An eternity in heaven at the feet of our grateful Lord. And, most of all, freedom. Freedom from all servitude upon your return. Who will come, brave souls?” the monk reached out his arms, his invitation almost irresistible.
Shouts of acclamation rose throughout the square. People I had known for years shouted, “I… I will come!”
I saw Matt, the miller’s oldest son, just sixteen, throw up his hands and hug his mother. And John the Smith, who could crush iron in his hands, kneel and take the cross. Several people, many of them just boys, ran to get their possessions, then merged in with the ranks. Everyone was shouting, “Dei leveult!” God wills it!
Inside, my own blood surged. What a glorious adventure awaited. Riches and spoils picked up along the way. A chance to change destiny in a single stroke. I felt my soul spring alive. I thought of gaining our freedom, and the riches I might find on the Crusades. For a second I almost raised my hand and called out, “I will come! I will take the cross.”
But then I felt Sophie’s hand pressing on mine. I lost my tongue.
It minutes, the procession started up again. The ranks of farmers, masons, bakers, maids, whores, jongleurs and outlaws, hoisting their sacks and makeshift weapons, swelling in song. The monk Peter mounted his donkey, blessing the town with a wave, then pointed west.
I watched them with a yearning I thought had long been put behind me. I had traveled in my youth. I’d been brought up by Goliards, monks who entertained from town to town. And there was something that I missed from those days. Something my life in Veille du Pere had stilled but not completely put aside.
1 missed being free, and even more than that, I wanted freedom for Sophie and the children we would have one day.
