Medieval Journals

            Pope Urban II called for a crusade, a holy war, two years ago.  Now knights across the kingdom will be fighting for the Holy Land of Jerusalem, dying for their religion.  Who knows if we shall have victory? 

            My brother is a knight.  He is but nineteen years of age and has hardly any experience in battles of such importance.  He has only participated in tournaments and things such as these.  To know that Ademar is going to be such a distance away from home and having his life on the very brink of extinction is hardly bearable to me.  I must be strong for him, however.  For, if he sees such faithlessness in me, his confidence will also wane. 

            Yesterday, I was in quite a terrible mood and my mother noticed. 

            “Aveline,” she said, “What is wrong?”

            I proceeded to tell her of my constant worries for Ademar, how he was almost certain to be killed, and how this Crusade was such a hopeless cause.  Why does a piece of land matter so much, even if some very important and historical things occurred on it?  It was still just a piece of land. 

            My mother comforted me, telling me that I needed to trust in the Lord for protection.  It

was, after all, a holy war.  God would surely bless those fighting it.

 

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            It has been about four months since my last journal entry.  Ademar is in Jerusalem.  He left with fullest confidence that he would return safely.  I pray that he does.  Many others followed the rush of the Crusade, religion empowering their every breath.  There were many forceful calls for recruits, many passionate cries of enthusiasm.  So many men gleefully joined this war, deemed holy by one man.  I do not believe that murder and violence will ever be holy, although many people believe this war is in fact of God. 

            Life around home is continuing its unfailing normalcy.  Sometimes I wish that something tragic would happen, just so that I could have excitement for once. 

 

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            It is five weeks later and I have received my excitement.  I awoke to a terrible pounding on the door accompanied by shouts.  In fact, the pounding was not on only the door, but on many walls of the house also.  I quickly dressed and ran to my parents’ room.  I found them o be awake as well. 

            We looked out the windows of their bedroom and were completely astonished.  Approximately two hundred and thirty peasant men were beating on our home mercilessly, torches in hand, igniting the walls of our residence.  I was shocked, fearful, and in a state of unbelief. 

            My father quickly sent for his personal knights, there were about one hundred and seventy of them, and they fought off the offensive multitude.  Due to the fact that the knights were mounted and had more than fists and flames, they overran the peasants.  There were thirty four deaths, all but eleven of them being deaths of the rebels.  

            House servants quickly cleared away the bodies.  Where they placed them I do not know.  It was such a horrible day.  I can still hear the angry cries, the grunts of men falling, the pounding of the horses’ hooves.  I see the faces of men who were slaughtered without second thought, the blood of those who just wanted a change in life. 

            I am not justifying or commending what the peasants did, not in the least.  I merely believe that these people are not happy with their work, their lives, their freedoms.  I am fully aware of how they are treated every day, how my father dictates how they will live.  The peasants must come to him for permission to marry.  They must work six days a week, with only one day of rest.  Peasants do not receive enough time to be with their families, to nurture their children, to spend time with their lovers.  One day is not enough.  Also, they cannot visit surrounding lands.  I would be extremely upset if I were not allowed to travel.  They cannot go past my father’s estate.

            Their way of handling these oppressing matters was truly wrong.  Burning their leader’s home was no way of getting through, and it resulted in death.  Yet, my father should look at their views and their perspective of things.  He has so many more liberties than these peasants.  He only seems to me to be stubborn and uncaring. 

            But I could never utter a word of this to anyone.  I hope that no one ever finds this journal until my death, for my father would make my life very miserable if he found out what I thought of him.

 

 

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            I have not recorded anything in here for so long a time.  It has now been eight months since I last wrote.  After the peasant revolt that occurred so long ago, many of them would not work for days.  My father sent people to force them to work and some of the peasants died.  It was a horrible thing that my father did, but he told me it had to be done.  I am sure that there must be another way to deal with things, to compromise so that both peasants and noblemen could be satisfied. 

            I am worried about Ademar.  There have been messengers from the Crusades informing families about deaths and progresses.  I am in constant anxiety.  What if a messenger were to come to our home?  My life would be shattered. 

 

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            There came a soft rap on our doors late on the night of October 24, 1099.  One of our servants opened the grand wooden door to a man of average height, dark hair, and compassionate eyes.  He was about my age, twenty-nine.  He requested that he meet with my father, mother, and I privately. 

            We sat down with each other across from the man.  He said that he was sent to inform us of the war. 

            “There is good news concerning the Crusades.  The knights captured Jerusalem on the fifteenth of July.  Perhaps we shall have victory in these holy wars after all,” the man said.

            My parents expressed their delight in the advancement.

            The man went on.  “I also am here to tell you of recent deaths that occurred in the Crusades.  We found a man with your family’s crest on his shield.  His companions identified him as Ademar.”

            My mother’s eyes became dark pools of grief in that instant, tears quickly building up and spilling out.  My father stiffened, not showing the slightest hint of emotion.  As for myself, I sat there in disbelief as tears streamed down my face and dampened my gown.

            The messenger thanked us for our time, giving us his condolences.  He seemed truly apologetic, almost as if he were also grieving for my brother and friend.

           

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            The days have been so different now.  My mother and I are in almost constant misery due to Ademar’s death.  My father acts as if nothing were wrong.  I wonder sometimes if he ever cared for his son, if he ever loved him or was concerned that he could die.  I know this is terrible of me, but it is true.  My father has never been like a father and he has never shown the slightest affection toward Ademar or me.  In fact, last month my father fought with my mother about her grief.

            “Helena, it has been almost a year since Ademar’s death!  You have not one reason to be weeping over your son.  He is lost!  Shedding tears and living in remorse will not change anything about that.  You must move on and forget he ever existed.”

            “I cannot fathom how you could say such a thing about our son!”  My mother said between sobs.  “I do not know you anymore.”

            My father really is a stonehearted man with not a care for anyone or anything but himself.

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            Many days have passed since Ademar’s death.  It has been ten months since my last journal entry.  My father never did grieve for his own son.  My mother never stopped grieving.  I believe she was grieving not only for Ademar but for her husband, also.  She once confided in me and told me how my father used to be different, but he changed when he received more power and wealth. 

            My mother died nearly four months ago.  No one is completely sure of the cause of her death, but I believe that she was too burdened by her misery.  So much of her had died with Ademar.  His passing had reopened wounds between my mother and father that had gone unnoticed for so long.  Also, my mother could no longer bear my father’s wrath and destructive ways.  He became even more selfish after Ademar’s death.  I did not think it was possible. 

            Now I am left to deal with my father on my own.  The Crusades are still unending and it still seems useless to me.  For now they have Jerusalem.  For how long, I do not know.  I cannot help but wonder, how many more families will have to undergo despair for the sake of a “holy war”?  How many more will lose their lives for land that has caused so much blood to be shed even before this?  I pray that it all ends, and that it ends very soon.