Angeline

For Emily and Paige

In I096 Pope Urban II of the Holy Roman Empire called for a holy war to recover Jerusalem from the Muslims, and reestablish the pilgrimage paths to the east. This resulted in a series of crusades which took place over the next two hundred years.

The first of these crusades began to assemble in the spring of that year. Before this army could make ready, however, a monk named Peter, unwilling to wait, left Cologne, Germany, on Easter weekend. He was followed by a ragtag band of pilgrims, thieves, and criminals who had been promised pardon if they went on crusade. This People’s Crusade, as it is now called, ended in disaster when it was overwhelmed by the Muslim forces at Civetot, in Turkey. Most of those who had survived the arduous march across Europe were killed.

The army that the Pope had called for set out in September. In 1099, after almost three years of hardship and war, this first legitimate crusade succeeded in recapturing Jerusalem. The Christian kings of Jerusalem ruled for only eighty-eight years, however. In 1187 the great Muslim leader Salah-ud-Din, known to Christians as Saladin, retook the city.

A second crusade failed to reach Jerusalem. In 1192 a third crusade, led by King Richard Lionheart of England and King Philip of France, ended in a short-lived truce with Salah-ud-Din. A fourth crusade ended in disgrace with the sacking of Constantinople, a Christian city.

By the year 1212, the crusading fervour had waned. Then a shepherd boy, Stephen of Cloyes, had a vision in a field while tending his sheep. A man appeared to him, bearing a letter which he bade Stephen take to King Philip of France. It was a missive commanding Stephen to raise an army of children to march on Jerusalem. These children would accomplish what men had failed to do. By their faith alone, they would restore Jerusalem to Christendom. It was God’s will, the mysterious stranger proclaimed.

Twenty thousand young people joined Stephen and marched across France to the seaside port of Marseilles. The journey was hard. Many of the children died of starvation or were murdered; many gave up in despair and tried to make their way home. Only about seven thousand survived to reach Marseilles. There, Stephen believed God would part the waters and he would lead them through to Jerusalem.

When the waters did not part, they set forth in ships that they were tricked into believing were to take them to the Holy Land. Two of these ships sank. The children in the remaining five ships were sold as slaves in the markets of North Africa and Egypt.

The sun beat down from a hard, blue, cloudless sky. Heat radiated back from the endless sand. There was no escape from it. Angeline stood on the stone block, swaying with dizziness. She managed one glance around her but couldn’t face the crowd staring up at her. The man holding her shouted something and others shouted back. She knew not what they were saying, but she realized what they were doing—they were bargaining for her! She crossed her arms and hugged them close. Her face burned with shame. A slave. She was being sold as a slave. She still could not make sense of it all. It had been such a glorious dream. Stephen’s dream—and then hers.

She had first met Stephen on the road to her village market. She had been stumbling under the heavy load that her uncle—that cursed man—had forced her to carry. Stephen and the young priest who travelled with him, Father Martin, had been making their way along the same path. Stephen had offered to help, but her uncle had struck him with his stick, and railed at the priest when he sought to protect the boy.

“Begone with you, you black crow!” her uncle had shouted.

Her clodpole of an uncle. Angeline had had no love for priests—her own village priest, Father Bertrand, had hounded her mother to her death because she had not been properly wed and would tell no one who the father of her child was, but surely her uncle would go to hell for that blasphemy. She hoped he would.

The next morning in church after Mass, she had been surprised to see Father Bertrand thrust that same boy forward.

“My people. My flock,” the priest had proclaimed in a triumphant voice. “You see before you a boy. Naught but a simple shepherd. Be not deceived by his poor appearance—this boy, Stephen, from the village of Cloyes, has been sent to us by God! He bears a letter that commands him to lead a crusade of innocents to the Holy Land. A letter which he has been bade to take to King Philip himself!”

He had turned to Stephen. For a long moment the boy had just stood there. Angeline thought that he looked terrified. Finally, he drew a deep breath and began to speak, but he could only stutter and his voice was so weak that some of the people laughed. She had felt a sudden surge of protectiveness toward him then. Surely he could not be much older than she, and she had seen but fourteen summers. How could a mere boy be summoned by God for such a mission?

But Stephen found his voice. He began to preach as if possessed by angels. Before her eyes he was transformed. He straightened and tossed back the lock of hair that fell into his eyes. His voice strengthened, became as powerful as Father Bertrand’s—more powerful even. It rang out to fill every corner of the church. His whole body shuddered with the force that seemed to be pouring into him. There was no more laughter from the people. They sat open-mouthed and staring.

“This letter was given to me by the Christ Himself!” he announced. “It commands me to lead a new crusade to the Holy Land. To Jerusalem. To restore our sacred city to Christianity!”

Angeline had listened, amazed.

“Another crusade,” he cried out. “Not, this time, a crusade of men armed with swords, but a crusade of the young such as ourselves,” his eyes glowed with a fire that seemed to seek out and transfix every youth in the church. “Of children even, armed only with our faith! Follow me!” he cried. “Follow me and we will accomplish what men have failed to do.
We
will rescue Christendom itself!”

Angeline had heeded his call. It was a way to escape her uncle, but not only that. Stephen’s words had awakened something within her. His dream had spoken to her and she wanted to be part of it …

A man’s finger jabbed her in the ribs. She came back to the burning heat of the slave camp with a jolt and glared at him. She was not a beast to be treated so!

He shrugged, said a few words to the man who held the rope that bound her wrists, then turned his back on her and walked away.

Was she not good enough for him then? She glared at his retreating back even more fiercely. She forced herself to keep her head high and stare haughtily at the crowd, but her stomach twisted with a cramp. It took all of her will to keep from being sick.

She could see the pen where she had spent the night. Many of the girls still remained there, pressed against the fence or slumped in despair. One in particular, Solange her name was, had not ceased crying since they had been dragged from the ship. Angeline had not wept since the night her mother had succumbed to the raging fever that took her life. That night, Angeline had wept until she could weep no more, alone and in the secrecy of her beloved forest. The next day, when Father Bertrand spoke his hypocritical words of comfort at her mother’s burial, she had stood dry-eyed beside him. She refused even to acknowledge the fawning and false sympathy of the village women who had always disliked her mother, and who had joined the priest in censuring her. Of course, Angeline’s dry eyes had only hardened them more to her.

“Not even a tear,” one of them had whispered. It was she who had been quicker than any of the others to lay the sharp side of her tongue to Angeline whenever she could. “I always said she was a shameless little vixen.”

The memory of that woman made Angeline raise her chin even higher. She willed herself to fan the flames of anger that burned within her. Only by feeding that rage, nourishing it, could she find the strength to fight the terror that threatened to overwhelm her. Keeping her eyes fixed above the heads of the crowd, Angeline stared at the harbour, where the ships that had brought them here rode at anchor, and to the sea beyond. The ruins of a great lighthouse stood guard on a point that jutted far out into the waters.

Somewhere across that sea was France. Somewhere across that vast expanse was the village that had been home to her all of her life. Until her mother had died. Until her uncle had arrived to take possession of her mother’s meagre goods—and of Angeline herself. She stood as tall as she could, hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. But where were Stephen and Father Martin?

Stephen and Angeline had stood side by side as their ship had led the others into the harbour the day before. The children around them had cheered as the land drew nearer. Stephen had grasped Angeline’s hand tightly.

“We have succeeded,” he had said, his voice exultant.

Angeline had barely been able to hear him over the exuberant cries.

“The Holy Land!” He had bowed his head in prayer. Then he had turned to the captain of the ship.

“What arrangements have been made for our transport to Jerusalem?” he had asked. “How far is it?”

There were men standing near the plank that had been lowered to connect the ship with the land.

“Are those men here to guide us?” Stephen had asked. Angeline remembered how his voice had resumed its air of authority, but the captain had broken into jeering laughter.

“You really do not know what awaits you, my young simpleton, do you?” he said between guffaws. “You really believe this is the Holy Land! You are in Alexandria, my sorry lad. In Egypt. The land of the heathen and you are all to be sold as slaves.”

Stephen had cried out in furious disbelief, but the slave traders had bounded up the plank and begun to round up the children, herding them roughly off the ship and onto the shore. The children’s cries of joy changed to screams that Angeline could still hear echoing in her ears. One of the slave traders grabbed Angeline and sought to pull her away. Stephen threw himself upon the man and beat at him with his fists.

“Leave her!” he had cried. “You will not touch her!”

Angeline struck out as well, but even as she did so another of the men smashed Stephen across the head with a staff. He fell to the deck, blood streaming from the wound.

“Stephen!” Angeline screamed and would have knelt to aid him, but she was seized yet again and dragged away. Stumbling, fighting with every bit of energy she possessed, she almost fell off the plank, then gasped as she was thrown down on the shore.

She and the other girls had been herded into pens. The boys and priests were taken to other enclosures. Try as she might, she had not been able to catch a glimpse of Stephen. She still did not know what had become of him. Did not know even if he lived. She had lain the past night in a stupor until the slave traders had reappeared this morning to haul her and the other girls off to the block to be sold.

Now she searched the swirling crowd around her for any sign of Stephen. She could see the pens where the boys were held, could even see another block at the other side of the enclosure where they were being sold, but she could catch no sight of Stephen. The men in the throng pressing in upon her were dark and bearded. They were dressed in long robes with coloured turbans wound around their heads. She saw donkeys, horses, and goats nosing around in whatever refuse they happened upon. There were huge, dun-coloured beasts there also. They had saddles of a sort upon their humped backs, but they were so tall she could not imagine how anyone could mount them. A few were lying down. She saw one animal spit what looked like a foul liquid into the sand upon which it lay. Evil-looking creatures, indeed. She shuddered.

There was no wind; the heat bore down in a smothering blanket. Flies and small biting insects swarmed around her, but with her hands bound she could not whisk them away. The sun shone with an unrelenting intensity. Huge dunes of sand surrounded the slave enclosures. Tall, fringe-leafed trees cast small pools of shade in which many of the men lolled. Some had built fires and were cooking food. The heat, the mingled smells of the food and the rank stink of the animals, the babbling of voices rising all around her, all of it was so overwhelming that she found herself gasping for air. Sweat poured into her eyes and drenched her shift.

Yet more men came and handled her. They grasped her under the chin with brutal fingers so that she was forced to look into their faces, smell their strong breath. One even pried her mouth open and looked at her teeth. Her mother had always encouraged her to clean them with twigs and herbs, and she knew they were in much better condition than those of other girls her age. She had not lost a single one and they never gave her pain. She had been proud of that, but now, as the man grunted with satisfaction, she wished she didn’t have a tooth in her head. She fought back the impulse to bite him. He squeezed her arms to test for strength. After the hardships of the crusade she knew she was weak, but she was wiry even so. He nodded with satisfaction, obviously pleased that he would be able to get good work out of her. Then she cringed as she felt his hands on her shoulders. She had watched other girls being sold and she knew he was about to pull down her shift to inspect her body.

She heard a shout. Yet another man leaped up onto the block. This man was darker than any person she had ever seen; his skin shone deeply black in the sunlight. He held himself like a prince and his robes fell in rich, brilliantly hued folds around him. He barked out a word and to her astonishment the man who was inspecting her cowered and backed away. Then the black man narrowed his eyes and looked at her.

“Name?”

Angeline stared at him. He had spoken in French!

“Angeline,” she answered.

He nodded and handed some coins to the man who held her rope. Her captor weighed them on a small scale, then let loose a volley of angry words. There followed a long and protracted exchange. Angeline’s captor became ever more furious and voluble, but the black man bargained calmly. At one point he even took some of his coins back, causing an explosion of indignation. Finally, the sale was concluded. The rope was handed over to the black man and he motioned to Angeline to follow him.

“Viens,” he commanded.
Come.

Suddenly weak with fear in spite of her resolve, Angeline could barely summon the strength to step down off the block. What was to happen now? It was only with the greatest effort of will that she managed to stay on her feet and follow the man. He did not speak to her again, nor did he turn to see how she fared. She had to trot to keep up with his long strides. The crowd parted for him as he strode through it—he was obviously a man of some importance.

He led Angeline over to a grove of trees at the edge of all the hubbub. She could see three figures waiting there for him. Two of them were tethered to a stake and must also be slaves, she thought. One was taller than the other, dressed in a filthy black robe. Then, with a shock, she realized who they were. The robed man was Father Martin and the other—the other was Stephen! An ugly red welt on his forehead oozed blood, but he was alive.

“Stephen!” she cried and ran toward him.

Father Martin staggered forward and grasped her hands in his. He seemed stunned. Shocked. He tried to speak, failed, then managed to form words.

“Angeline,” he gasped. “Thanks be to God you are found.”

The priest’s face was ashen. Angeline reached out to him. He took a deep breath, then spoke again.

“This man is called Zeid,” he said. “He seems to be a good man.” He caught his breath, then continued. “He bought me. He spoke French. We could talk. I implored him to find Stephen and purchase him as well, and he did so. Then, when he said he was to buy a slave girl, I entreated him to find you. I wanted to keep us together if I could. By God’s will …” his voice trailed off.

Angeline stared at him. He it had been who had restored her confidence in priests. He it had been who had given them strength and helped keep their faith alive during all the desperate months of their journey. Not even when the children began to die had Father Martin’s belief faltered.

“We are doing God’s will,” the priest had proclaimed, and preached it every morning when he and the other priests who had joined them said Mass. “We will set Jerusalem free!”

But he had been tricked just as thoroughly as they by the men who had promised them passage to the Holy Land. And now he looked beaten—as despairing as she.

Angeline’s head was swimming. She would have pressed the priest further, but the man called Zeid interrupted her.

“There is no time for talk now,” he said, still, to Angeline’s wonder, in French. “We must set sail before the sun sinks any lower.” He turned to a more poorly dressed man who seemed to be a servant, or perhaps another slave—she had no way of knowing—and said a few words she could not understand. The man untied Father Martin and Stephen from the stake, then took Angeline’s rope as well.