‘Reflect also on those fellow Christians who have travelled the seas as pilgrims. If they carry money, they are forced to pay taxes and tribute every day at the gates of cities and the entrances to churches. If they are accused of anything, they are forced to buy their freedom again, and as for those who have no money but trust in Lady Poverty, what of them? They are searched. They even have the calluses cut from their bare heels to see if they have sewn something there. They are given poison to drink until they vomit and burst their bowels to show if they have swallowed coins. More often their stomachs are cut open to be searched; their intestines pulled forward and slit so that what is hidden may be revealed. Who can relate this without sorrow? These are your blood brothers, children of Christ and sons of the Church. On who else will fall the task of vengeance and justice unless on you who have won such glory in arms? You have the courage and the fitness of body to humble the hand lifted against you.’
Urban, his voice thrilling with passion, now turned his anger on his listeners. ‘You are girded knights, yet you are arrogant with pride! You turn on your brothers with fury, cutting down one then the other. Is this the service of Christ? Let us hold to the truth! To our shame: this is not our way of life! Orphaners of children, despoilers of widows, slayers of men! You reek of sacrilege! You are murderers awaiting the payment of blood-guilt. You flock to battle like vultures that glimpse a corpse from afar. This is hideous! If you would save your souls, lay down the guilt of such knighthood and come to the defence of Christ. All you who carry on feuds, go to war against the Turks! You who have become thieves become soldiers, fight the just war, labour for the everlasting reward! Let no obstacle turn you aside; arrange your affairs, gather together supplies, enter upon this journey when winter is ended. God will guide you…’
Urban paused, leaning against the dais. He watched the assembled mass. Men burst into tears, faces in their hands, women turned away, and then the cry came. ‘Deus vult!’ The shout rose to a roar as men drew sword and dagger in a clash of steel, bellowing their war cry to the skies. Urban lifted his hands and motioned for silence.
‘Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them,’ he intoned. ‘Unless the Lord God had been in your minds, you would not have cried “Deus vult!” So I say to you, God himself has drawn this cry from you. Let that be your battle cry when you go out against the enemy. Let this war cry be shouted: God wills it! Moreover, whoever shall offer himself upon the journey must make a vow, and wear a sign of the cross on his head or his breast. The old and sick should not go, nor those unfit to bear arms. Women should not set out upon this holy pilgrimage without husbands, brothers or guardians, for such are a hindrance rather than an aid. Let the rich help the poor. Do not let possessions detain you, nor the love you have for children, parents or homes. Remember what the Gospel says: “You must forsake all to follow Christ.” So go forth upon your path to the Holy Sepulchre, wrest that land from the invaders and keep it for yourselves, a land that flows with milk and honey! Jerusalem, fruitful above all other lands, where the Lord lived and died for us. In His Holy Sepulchre kneel and give thanks for your faith. Go, and fear not. Your possessions here will be safely guarded, whilst you will take from your enemy even greater treasures. Why fear death in a land where Christ laid down his life for you? If any should lose their lives, even on the journey by sea or land in this battle against the Turks, their sins will be forgiven. I grant this to all who go, by the power invested in me by God. Do not fear torture or pain, for that is the crown of martyrdom. The way will be short, the reward everlasting. Yes, I speak with the voice of a prophet. Take up your arms; it is better to fall in battle than see the sorrow of your people and the desecration of the Holy Places…’
And so the summons went out. Adhémar, bishop of nearby Le Puy, Urban’s envoy, was appointed to take the Voice of God and turn it into the Voice of the People. Urban was of Cluny, and his black-robed Benedictine brethren also carried the message out into the fields, villages and cities. They painted a picture of heavenly delight awaiting all who took the cross: Jerusalem, the eternal city, guarded by lofty towers, with foundations of precious stones, protected by gates brighter than the stars; even its battlements glowed with pure crystal. Inside, the streets were paved with gold and silver, its palaces of gleaming marble, lapis lazuli and precious gems. Crystal waters spurted through golden-mouthed fountains and silver-edged pipes to water health-giving trees, fragrant flowers and medicinal herbs. During a cruel winter, with the meat smelling rancid, the fruit and vegetables turning black and rotting, the bread rock-hard, not to mention the prospect of worse to come, the vision of such a heavenly city was more powerful than any psalm or hymn. Young men left horse and plough to prostrate themselves before the rood screen of their church. Two slivers of red cloth, sewn in the form of a cross, were clasped on their shoulders. A few days later they would stand in the same stone-flagged, hollow-sounding nave to receive the purse and staff, symbols of being a pilgrim as well as a cross-bearer.
Winter passed bleak and hard. Berries and roots became the staple of life, whilst the soft breads, fresh meats and plump fruits of summer grew to be only a distant memory. Many more began to envy the crucesignati, or cross-bearers. The prospect of bathing in the warm waters of the Jordan, of walking amongst a paradise of fruit trees and feasting on sweet, tender meats and the softest manna was almost as tantalising as that of everlasting life. Such dreams warmed the freezing cold of winter in draughty rooms filled with peat-smoke, which curled and cured the stale meat hanging from rafters or shoved into crevices above the hearth. God wills it. The message went out, seeping through the rain-soaked villages and frost-imprisoned hamlets with their rutted tracks, stinking animal pens and dingy houses. The cross, two slivers of red cloth, would transform all this.
God wills it — the refrain was taken up in halls and solars where the smoke-darkened tapestries ruffled and flapped against limestone walls in a vain attempt to keep out the sneaky icy draughts. Deus vult. A glorious path had been opened to salvation in this world and redemption in the next. Why, men wondered, wait for spring to break the hard soil, to stare up at the clouds and pray desperately for good weather? Why not journey east to the marvels of Jerusalem, destroy God’s enemies, seize back the Holy Places and win the Lord’s friendship for all eternity? No more hardship, no more war between neighbours, no more back-breaking work on the land or perilous journeys from one place to another as darkness descended and the wood-mists swirled. Other glories beckoned: the gold, silver and precious stones that adorned the fabulous cities of the Byzantines. Conversion to the call was swift. Even professional men of war hurried to take the oath. They too prostrated themselves before the altars of a thousand churches. They pledged their estates wherever they could, settled debts, made peace with enemies, drew up wills and turned to the business in hand. How many spears, how many arrows were needed? What armour? How many pack horses? They drew in others as former opponents invoked the Truce of God, which meant that a warrior dedicated to the cross was sacred — and that included his property and family.