Eighth of Iyyar (May 3) 1096 AD

DEVORAH bat Amram ha-Kohein watched silently as panic broke out.

She felt strangely as more of an onlooker than an affected person. Why? She did not know. Her hands unconsciously and pensively wrung her linen dress, the nervousness outside projecting onto her.

The fabric was rough in her fingers, but it was all they could afford. Anything more expensive was for families of higher standing.

Not that she was complaining, not at all. With her father being a priest, she had good stature in the city and was more fortunate than most. The Hebrew community was thankfully an accepted and partly well-integrated group of people in a place where Christians were one of the most common things, or so she thought. God, how wrong she was.

Devorah could not help her curiosity. The people that usually occupied the houses around her were now leaving in a tumultuous hurry, clutching their children and spouses with wide eyes. What was happening?

She decided to find out. This spurt of curiosity combined with her stupidity that morning would lead to her end.

The morning air was crisp, the sun still hiding behind its companions, the clouds. It was humid as she stepped out of her home. Devorah shivered underneath her dress as she took a deep breath, standing in the wooden doorway.

"Devorah!"

She turned abruptly into the direction the male voice had come from. Footsteps loudly echoed on the street made of stone; they were quick and heavy.

"Karl, are you well?" she asked as he came before her, identifying his clear distress. The young man - around twenty, she remembered from various meetings - stood before her, pale face smudged with dirt, blonde hair a mess and leaning over his knees, trying desperately to catch his much needed breath. His brown eyes were huge as he came to look at her again, and they only portrayed one thing: terror.

"Oh Devorah, you must come quickly!" he urged, leaning invasively towards her. The brown eyes portrayed none of the usual warmth and amiability she had come to know.

She stared at him in confusion and questioned, "Karl, what is it?"

He clicked his tongue as if impatient and raised his hands. For a second, she wondered if he would grip her shoulders and shake them, but he dropped them instantly, for it would be inappropriate behavior towards a woman, especially one as beautiful and young as her. He finally said, "The bishop is calling all Hebrews into his custody."

"But why-"

"They are coming!"

"What? Who-"

"We have to hurry, Devorah!"

She felt irritation nag at her. "Karl!" she said, louder and firmer than before and his ever moving body came to an abrupt halt. He stared expectantly into her eyes as she slowly asked, "Who is coming?"

"The Crusaders," he said in a voice that meant, 'Who else?'

Devorah fell back against the wooden doorway, overwhelmed. The Crusaders? But why? Why would they need to be in custody then? The little she had heard from her father had been that Pope Urban II had called for a Crusade; what that exactly was and entailed, she was not sure, but she had not known that they served a threat. Her stomach turned at the thought of gleaming swords cutting through flesh in forceful thrusts.

The bishop, she thought, she had to get to the bishop. She stopped in her tracks; her father, would he be there? A feeling of utter fear situated itself deep into her gut. Worry clouded her mind and judgement. What had he said this morning? He was going to the shoemaker? The blacksmith? The synagogue? She wanted to cry out in frustration. Why couldn't she remember?

Panic seemed to render her senseless. Her heart pounded loudly; suddenly her clothing was too tight and the air stale. Think, Devorah, think, she urged herself, remember! Remember!

Nothing came to mind.

"Devorah?" Karl asked, worry evident on his face. She took in his youthful demeanor. His clean shaven face seemed older than he was. "Why are you hesitating?"

She gripped her dress tightly to keep from fidgeting; her eyes frantically searched the street. Most of her neighbours had gone, leaving only silence and little wooden houses behind.

"My father," she confessed finally in a hoarse tone, needing to voice her thoughts, "Where must he be?"

She looked around again, eyes searching as far as she could see. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw movement. A mop of black hair had just disappeared around the corner of a house. Devorah sprang into action.

"Devorah!" Karl called after her. She kept on.

She skidded to a halt as she reached the place she had seen the child disappear.

"Thomas!" she called out, her mind finally supplying the name of the young one.

The little head appeared again. She let out a sigh of relief at the small pale and dirty face with crooked teeth and a too big nose.

"What are you doing here, all alone?" she asked him, leaning down towards him. Thomas stared at her with huge wide brown eyes, laced with tinges of fear and adrenaline.

"Thomas?"

He gave a little whimper. "I have to go," he rushed out and made to sprint off again. In desperation she grabbed him by his little thin bony arms.

"Where are you going?"

"The synagogue."

"Why the synagogue?"

"Everyone went there."

He strained against her hold.

"Have you seen my father? Priest Amram?" Thomas strained more and looked to the side, avoiding her gaze. She shook him slightly, trying to revert him back to her. "Thomas? Have you seen him?"

He nodded hesitantly, turning to look at her again, his shaggy black hair moving wildly. "He went to come get you." She let herself be content with that answer and let him go, watching his little body hurryingly retreat into the direction of the synagogue.

Devorah felt Karl's eyes on her as she stepped back onto the street and into his sight and debated on what to do next.

If her father had come searching for her, where was he? An intense feeling of dread built in her chest, lodging itself deeply into her heart like a splinter. Her father was surely not at the synagogue; if he was to search for her, he certainly would have been here now or still looking for her at the very least.

She hoped her assumption was correct as she decided to scour the way from her house leading to the synagogue. He must surely be somewhere on that path. Where else would he search for her?

The answer, she supposed, came too late to her. Had she not said to him before he had left a mere two hours ago, that she would visit the stream for a good wash? In all the captivation of what was happening, she had forgotten about it.

"Devorah!" Karl called loudly, bringing her back into reality as she finally returned to her house.

She raised her head and asked him bewildered, "What?"

He shook his head in wonder, then said in a final voice, "Where are you going?"

"My father," she explained, wishing he would just leave her be, "I must find him. He's searching for me."

"He'll surely be at the synagogue," Karl told her, moving towards her. "Let's go there."

"No!" she said, a bit too hastily, "You go. I'll find him!"

Karl looked at her; she looked panicked. Her brown eyes urged him to go on.

"Wh-"

Devorah spun around and ignored his calls.

The stream was a good walk from her home; she ran. Albeit not fast and not for long since she had to catch her breath multiple times. God, why was this happening to her? What if her father was not at the stream? What if he was at the synagogue, waiting eagerly and expecting her to join him any second?

Maybe she should have listened and gone with Karl. The reasonable and sensible part of her told her though that her father was surely at the stream. Had she really gone there like she had planned, the news of the Crusaders arrival would never have reached her.

Sweat beaded her skin as she was finally greeted by the sight of forest green. It had not surpassed her that all the way to the stream, there had been no people out and about. The city of Speyer had been seemingly abandoned by every and any living soul.

Devorah stood, calming her breath and mind. That is, until she was met by the jarring smell of blood. She was tempted to scream at the foul smell; was something burning? It smelled like smoke and something she could not put her finger on.

Carefully and hesitatingly, she stepped away from the shelter of the last houses before the forest began and instantly screamed at the sight she was met with.

Before her stood five men, all dressed in simple tunics and some having swords hanging from their leather belts. They were all older, dirt smeared and sneering and laughing at a view that made Devorah's stomach turn in endless somersaults.

The sight was abhorrent: all these men stood in a loose circle around what looked like a makeshift bonfire, only that instead of wood it was... a body - Devorah was petrified at the thought - burning. She stared in absolute horror at the atrocity before her; she wished to tear her eyes away, but they would not. The flames rose high. The body was unrecognizable through the lapping golden embers.

"And a priest too!" one of the men mocked loudly, his voice over climbing the roar of laughter.

Devorah screamed again and felt the need to pass out, the smell of burning flesh all too vivid. This time the men noticed her, faces raised in alarm and surprise.

Her father...

She could not sob nor cry, only stare. Subconsciously, she noticed the men eyeing each other wearily. Her mind told her to run, run for her life and all it was worth, but she was not subjecting to it.

Run! Run!

She did not.

"You monsters!" she screamed, her voice sounding half-strangled and out of her mind as she raced at them,

"How dare you?!" The surprise on their faces was all too huge. The man she tried to tackle grabbed her roughly by the wrists and threw her to the ground.

Finally, the tears gushed out of her eyes, body burning with intense physical and emotional pain. The men were laughing again.

"Another abomination, eh? At least she's prettier!" The males roared in amusement.

She cried out loudly; the warmth of her father's burning corpse against her skin was all too much. She only recognized the barely there form of his body. When the fire died down, she would only find his ashes. The usually green grass was stained red. Had he died before being set fire to? God, how she hoped.

Devorah felt heavy sticky hands grip her and lift her to her feet and out of her horrid speculations. Her skin crawled at the touch - the touch that had ended her father's life.

Thrashing and kicking, screaming and spitting, she tried to tear herself from the stranger's tight grasp, but it only resulted in more foreign meaty hands on her body.

"Leave me be!" she roared.

Devorah felt someone grip her tightly from behind, her hands in such a strong hold that she ceased her futile struggling. Her eyes fell to the raging flames before her; a sob unwillingly left her mouth.

A painful tug at her black, curly hair made her fully wrench her head back. A warm, stinking breath at the tip of her right ear, reaching all the way diagonally across to her cheek, made her heart stutter in pure naked terror, a scratchy voice chuckling venomously, "Oh, I'll do what I want with you."

And she wholly believed it.