Authors: Karleen Bradford
Would the family have been a happy one if he had not taken his mother’s life? The thought laid guilt heavy upon him.
His father’s temper had driven the village women away, and their daughters avoided Gil and looked at him with contempt. There was no place for Stephen’s family in the village life now. There was no place for him.
He shrugged again. Such thoughts only led to sadness. He pushed them away and took another deep breath. Then
he stooped to pick a sprig of the herb and tuck it in the rope around his waist.
When he reached the field the sun was high. The sheep scattered and began grazing. Something caught his eye. He bent to pick up a fragment of a sword.
Who had carried this
? he wondered.
What had been his fate?
Only last Sunday, Father Martin had railed at the men in the congregation, accusing them of deserting God; of forgetting about His holy city.
“The crusades must begin again!” he had cried. “Jerusalem is still lost to us!”
Stephen had sat, letting the priest’s words sink into him, fill him.
He
would not have forgotten.
He
would not have deserted God. Fighting for God must be the greatest act of faith a man could perform!
Now he closed his eyes and again, in his mind, the noise of battle rose around him.
And then a voice cut through his imaginings.
“Come here, Stephen,” it said.
Stephen spun around, shocked. For one terrified moment he thought that one of the ghosts that haunted this place had made itself visible to him. Then he realized that it was only a man. A man robed as if he were a priest, but not a priest that Stephen recognized from his village. Nor was his robe one that either of the priests of his church would wear. It was as torn and tattered as Stephen’s own tunic. He had never seen the stranger before, he was certain of it. Why, then, did he seem familiar?
“Who are you?” he blurted out. “How do you know my name?”
“I am come from God, himself, Stephen, to call you to a holy mission.”
Stephen stared at him, mouth agape. Had this man heard his very thoughts? He held Stephen’s eyes with a fierce and piercing gaze.
“From…?” Stephen stammered. He could not pronounce the name of the Lord. Surely it would be blasphemy.
“From our Father,” the man repeated. His voice was deep and sonorous. He towered over Stephen, seemed to grow taller even as he spoke.
Stephen could not help taking a step backwards. Still, the stranger’s eyes held his own as surely as if there were a bond between them that could not be broken.
“I have a letter for you,” the man said. “It commands you to lead an army of children to restore Jerusalem to the true faith. You have heard of Jerusalem, Stephen?”
“Of course,” Stephen said, too terrified to move again.
Surely I should be running away from him,
he thought.
Surely he must be mad!
But the man’s words held him spellbound.
“Where men have failed, you, Stephen, will conquer,” the stranger said. His voice rose, he seemed to burn with energy. “Preach to the
young
people of France, summon them to follow you. Assemble a crusade of youths such as yourself, Stephen. Without weapons, by your faith alone, you will win our holiest of cities back for Christianity.” He drew a rolled parchment from the folds of his robe and held it out. “Take this letter to King Philip of France,” he ordered. “Tell him what I have said. He failed in his quest to win back Jerusalem, but he will help you. It is you, now, who will wage war for our Lord, Stephen.” The stranger’s voice grew even stronger. “And
you
will succeed! God wills it!” He echoed Stephen’s own cry.
As if in a dream, Stephen tore his eyes away from the stranger’s. As if in a dream, he saw his hand reach to take the letter.
Another dream—surely that was what this was!
And yet, the scroll that Stephen held in his hand felt real. He unrolled the coarse parchment and looked down at it. He was only a shepherd boy with no learning. He could not read it, but the marks spread across it in black ink jumped out and etched themselves into his brain.
Stephen looked up again. The man was gone. He whipped around, searching for him. There was no hiding place nearby. No one could have disappeared so quickly! He scanned the width and breadth of the field all around him. The sheep grazed peacefully, the bellwether’s bell clanged as she moved to a fresh piece of pasture, and the herd moved with her, following her faithfully.
But of the stranger, there was no sign at all.
Stephen sank down upon a stone. He held the missive in one hand, but away from him, almost fearfully. Did it really command him to lead a new crusade? To go to King Philip for help?
This could not be.
But what if it was?
What if God had heard his secret thoughts? Had answered his prayers? Miracles did happen—the priests told of them every Sunday. What if God were as angry as Father Martin at the apathy of men? Men had given up. Men had forgotten God’s holy mission. Could it be that now the young, such as himself, were meant to fulfill His wishes?
Without weapons?
He looked down at the fragment of sword that he still held, then dropped it as if scalded. He rose to his feet. Stared unseeingly at the field around him. His head swam. Even if such a thing could be, why should he be chosen to lead? He was of no importance—never had been. There wasn’t a soul in his village who deemed him of any worth at all, his father and brother included. In fact, they probably despised him more than did any of the others. Why would God choose
him
?
Suddenly his vision cleared and he saw the field through new eyes. Perhaps he had indeed been in the company,
not of ghosts as he had thought, but of the Holy Spirit! Perhaps his dreams had not been dreams at all, but messages—prophecies!
He had to find out what the letter said. One of the village priests would be able to read it for him, but aside from his monthly confession, he had not actually spoken to either of them. On Sunday mornings he and his father came to hear Mass and then left. They never stayed to chat and laugh with the men and women of the village, much less talk to either Father Martin or Father Jean-Paul. What would they have had to say? And Gil, more often than not, did not even make it to Mass at all. He would have to take it to one of them, though. But not Father Jean-Paul. He might get nothing but a cuff on the ear for impertinence from the older priest. Father Martin seemed more likely. If the letter were nothing but a cruel hoax, the younger priest would be kinder, of that Stephen was certain.
With that decision, Stephen looked around for his sheep, finally aware of the fact that he hadn’t heard the bellwether for some time. Sure enough, she had led the flock over a hillock and out of sight. Hastily gathering up his stick and his pack, Stephen tucked the parchment carefully into the pouch at his waist and set out after them.
For the rest of the day Stephen could think only of the stranger and his words. Every time he rested, he drew the letter out and looked at it again, staring at it almost as if he believed that this time he would be able to decipher it. So enthralled was he, that he entirely forgot to cook his egg. Indeed, he never even thought to make a fire. It was only when he went to put the parchment back in the pouch for what must have been the tenth time, that he felt wetness and realized the egg had cracked. Even that did not break the spell the stranger had cast upon him. He threw the shell away and cleaned the pouch with grass, then tucked the letter
safe in the breast of his tunic. The rope around his waist that served as a belt would hold it there until he could clean the pouch better. He gnawed on the bread and cheese without even noticing the film of raw egg that clung to it.
The village bell started to peal nones, but Stephen paid no attention, so immersed was he in his thoughts. He was surprised when—it seemed but a few minutes later—it was announcing vespers and the sun was low in the sky. He would be late again tonight. Another beating awaited him for certain, but by the mercy of God, none of the sheep had strayed this day in spite of his inattention.
A beating he most certainly did receive, but Stephen hardly noticed it. He had returned in time to eat, but he gobbled up the thin soup without tasting it. When Gil asked a question, he did not hear. It was not until his brother cuffed him on the ear that Stephen awoke to the fact that somene had been speaking to him.
“What?” he stammered. “What say you?”
“Duller than dull you are, you clodpole!” Gil growled. “I asked where you took the sheep today, ninny.”
“To…to the low pasture,” Stephen lied. He did not want to tell the truth, afraid that if he did, Gil would somehow or other manage to tease the story of the mysterious stranger and the letter out of him. He did not want Gil to know of that. Nor did he want his father to find out.
Mattieu looked up briefly and grunted.
“No reason, then, for tarrying so long and coming back so late, boy. No reason at all.”
“No, Father,” Stephen answered quickly. “I’m sorry for it.” Unconsciously, his hand strayed to the breast of his tunic. The crackle of the parchment concealed within reassured him.
It wasn’t until Gil left for the hostel and his father lay snoring in the loft, that Stephen dared take the letter out and look at it again. He sat close to the hearthfire and held
the parchment on his lap. By the dull light of the dying embers he could barely make out the writing on it. He traced the letters with a finger. If only he had the means to decipher the magic of them!
Stephen must have fallen asleep with the letter still on his lap. He was awakened by a kick from his father. He had slept too long. Through their one small window he could see the first rays of dawn lightening the sky.
“Useless boy!” Mattieu growled. “You’ve nearly let the fire die out.”
Letting the fire die was a great sin. It would take much work and effort with tinder and flint to light it again. Stephen jumped to his feet and grabbed for a bundle of sticks. He did not notice the parchment fall to the floor. As he coaxed the fire back to life, Gil, awakened by the noise, bent to pick up the missive.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Mattieu was quick to snatch it out of Gil’s hand. He stared at the parchment.
“Where did you get this, boy?” he demanded. “Where did you steal this from?”
“I didn’t steal it, Father,” Stephen protested, reaching out for the letter, almost in terror. How could he have been so careless?
“You must have,” Mattieu replied. His face darkened. “None but the priests have writing such as this. Have you been stealing from the church?”
“No! I swear it!” Stephen cried. “It was given to me. By a man…”
“What man? What man would give such a thing to you?” Mattieu roared. “You lie!” His eyes almost bulged from their sockets, so furious was he now.
“It is no lie. It is mine, give it back to me, Father, I beseech you,” Stephen implored. “A man appeared to me in the field. He gave it to me. He said it was a message from God…”
Mattieu made the sign of the cross. Behind him, Gil did the same, his face horrified.
“And now you blaspheme! A message from God? Given to you? More like the work of the devil, I should think, and to the devil it shall return.”
With one quick gesture he threw the parchment into the fire, which had blazed up again.
“NO!” Without thinking, Stephen thrust his hand into the flames. Despite the pain that shot through it, Stephen grasped the parchment, clasped it to his chest, and beat out the worm of fire that had begun to smoke along one edge of it.
“You dare!” Mattieu raised his arm and struck Stephen on the side of the head. It was by far the hardest blow he had ever given him.
Stephen stumbled. The room swam before his eyes. For a moment the fire and the smoke seemed to encircle him. He swayed, faint and dizzy, and almost fell, but the touch of the letter against his breast gave him strength. He drew himself up and shook his head to clear it. His father drew his arm back, readying himself for another blow, but Stephen leaped out of his reach.
“I do not lie!” he cried. “It
is
from God himself, and it is
you
who will go to the devil!” Then he turned, and before his stunned father could stop him, he pushed past Gil and ran out the door.
Stephen ran blindly away from his father’s hut. He had no plan, no idea where he was going. He fumbled with the parchment and managed to tuck it back safely inside the breast of his tunic. His hand burned, and he held it close to his chest. In the brisk morning breeze it felt as if the flames were still licking at it.
He heard Mattieu’s shout and turned his head to see him stumble out the door, but neither his father nor his brother gave chase. He rounded a bend and they were out of sight.
They could not catch me if they tried,
Stephen thought with grim satisfaction.
The sheep! Who would care for the sheep? Stephen came to a skidding halt. He could not abandon them. He almost turned to go back, but if he did that, his father would take the letter from him and destroy it. With Gil’s help, which his brother would be only too glad to give, Stephen would not be able to stop him. This time the letter would burn for certain.
He took several great, gulping breaths of air. The church. That was the only place he could go now. To Father Martin. He fought down his guilt—he would have to leave the sheep to Gil. Stephen checked again to make certain that the letter was still safe, and then ran for the village.
A few women were already drawing water from the well as he crossed the village green. They looked at him curiously, then dropped their eyes. The church bell began to peal prime. Stephen stepped aside to allow a boy prodding a cow with a stick to pass him, then leaped to the other side of the path to avoid a flock of geese. He thought of his sheep again. They would be stirring, milling around in their pen. Anxious to be let out. The bellwether would be worried. Would Gil take them to pasture? Would Gil go after any that strayed?
He shook himself free of the thoughts, then followed some of the villagers into the gloomy, musty church and knelt in the darkest corner of the back. The church was small and poor. There were rustlings in the rushes on the floor—mice, perhaps rats, looking for crumbs. Stephen bowed his head to pray, but kept a wary eye out. The only light came from a small window near the front and the candles on the altar. Father Martin stood in front of the altar, assisting Father Jean-Paul as they prepared for the morning Mass. Stephen would have to wait for the opportunity to speak to him alone.
Stephen tried to catch his breath and slow his heart down. Surely it was beating so loudly that everyone in the church would hear it. Surely there was something so different about him this morning that they would all, with one accord, turn and stare at him.
But no one did. It was incredible to him, but not one of them took any notice of him at all. As far as the others in the church were concerned, it seemed as if it were a day just
like any other. How could they not know that something earth-shattering had happened?
He stayed kneeling with eyes downcast, until the Mass was over and the villagers had left the church. Only when he was sure that the last one had left, did he dare to raise his eyes. Father Martin was tidying up the altar with his back to Stephen, Father Jean-Paul was nowhere to be seen. Stephen rose to his feet. He dusted off his knees. What should he do now? He took a hesitant step forward. He coughed.
Father Martin spun around.
“Goodness!” he exclaimed. “You startled me, boy.”
Stephen could not find his voice. He stared dumbly at the priest.
“Do you want something?” Father Martin looked at him, puzzled.
“I…” Stephen began. “I have a letter…”
“A letter?” Father Martin’s eyebrows rose. He looked at Stephen more intently. “Stephen, is it not? The shepherd boy?”
“Yes,” Stephen whispered, surprised that the priest knew his name.
“And you have a letter?” The priest’s voice was incredulous now. “How is it that you have a letter, my son?”
“It was given to me…by a man…Maybe not a man…He said I must take it to the king…I must…” Here Stephen’s words failed him. Face flaming, he thrust his hand into the breast of his tunic and pulled out the scorched parchment. He was so overcome with embarrassment and fear that he did not even notice the pain in his hand. Father Martin saw the blisters, however, and drew in his breath.
“You have burned your hand sorely, my son,” he said. “How did you so? Did you snatch that letter from a fire?”
“I did,” Stephen said. Then, as he saw the priest frown, he cried out, “But I did not steal it. It was my letter! My father tried to burn it!”
Father Martin reached out and took Stephen by the shoulder.
“Come, Stephen, sit,” he said. He drew Stephen down onto a rough bench beside him. “Now, tell me,” he urged.
“I took my sheep to the high pasture yesterday,” Stephen began. “I like it up there. A battle was fought there…” In his confusion and fear he began to babble. “I find things…bones…I found a piece of a sword yesterday…”
“The letter,” Father Martin interrupted him, staring at the parchment that Stephen clutched so tightly. “Tell me how you came by this letter.”
Stephen drew a breath and got his tongue under control. “A man gave it to me,” he gasped. “He appeared in the field beside me and gave it to me. And then he told me…” Stephen could not bring himself to repeat the words the man had spoken to him. He thrust out the parchment to the priest. “I cannot read it. Will you, Father, read it please?”
The priest took the letter from Stephen’s trembling hand and held it up to the light coming in through the window. For several long moments he read, then he crossed himself.
“Do you know what this letter says, Stephen?” he asked finally. His voice shook as much as Stephen’s.
“The man said it commanded me to lead an army,” Stephen whispered. “To lead an army of young people like me. To do what older men have failed to do. To recapture our holy city of Jerusalem. He said I must take it to the king. It
cannot
say that, can it, Father?” The last words were more of a cry than a question.
“But it does, Stephen,” Father Martin said. “That is exactly what it says.” He fell to his knees. “Kneel with me, Stephen. We must pray.”
Father Martin knelt for a long time, his head bowed. Beside him Stephen tried to pray, but his mind was too
confused. He could not find the words. He found himself repeating instead,
Help me, oh Lord. Help me
.
Then the priest raised his head, opened his eyes, and fixed them on the altar.
“What did the man look like who gave you this letter, Stephen?” he asked.
Stephen looked up as well. His eyes met those of the Saviour who hung in his agony on the cross behind the altar.
“He looked like Him,” he said.
Father Martin crossed himself and bowed his head again. Stephen could barely hear him whisper.
“Thank You, Lord. Thank You. You have answered my prayers.”
When he had finished praying, Father Martin rose to his feet.
“Follow me, Stephen,” he said.
He led the boy to a small room at the back of the church. A straw pallet was piled in one corner and Stephen realized that this must be the priest’s own room. He motioned to Stephen to sit on a low, three-legged stool, then reached to take down a pot from a shelf on the wall. His hands still trembled so that he almost dropped the pot as he untied the cloth fastened over its mouth. Then he dipped his fingers in and took Stephen’s burned hand in his own. He began to smear ointment over the burns. Stephen felt the salve cooling and soothing the pain.
“We must go and speak to your father, Stephen,” the priest said as he reached for a cloth to bind the hand. “We must seek his permission for you to leave.”
“Leave?” Stephen echoed stupidly.
“Yes, leave. You must do as you have been bid. You must take your letter to the king.”
“But how?” Stephen cried, suddenly terrified. The reality of what he was being asked to do had finally sunk in. “I know not how to find the king of France! And how could I speak to him? I would not be allowed!”
“The king is in Paris,” Father Martin replied. “I will take you there.” His mouth was set and his eyes were shining. “But first we must secure your father’s permission,” he added.
“That he will never give!” Stephen exclaimed. “He will beat me. He will burn the letter. He believes it to be the work of the devil!”
Father Martin paled. “It is
not
the work of the devil, Stephen,” he said. “It is God’s will. Your father will not dare to go against the will of God. Come. We will go there now.”
He finished tying the bandage around Stephen’s hand and motioned for him to follow. Stephen obeyed, but lagged behind. This priest did not know his father. Did not have experience with his temper. He fell even farther behind as Father Martin strode down the lane to the hut that Stephen had called home all his life.
“Maître Mattieu,” the priest called. “Will you come out?”
Stephen’s father appeared in the doorway. He had not yet left to work in the fields. His face flushed with anger when he saw his son. Stephen cast a quick glance at the sheep pen. It was empty. Gil must have taken the flock to pasture after all.
“What is this?” Stephen’s father demanded. “Have you brought my wretched son home to me, then? Was it from you he stole that letter? Never fear, I’ll beat him well for it!” He made as if to grab Stephen by the arm.
Father Martin forestalled him. The priest held out the parchment, but Stephen was glad to see that he kept good hold of it. “Did your son not tell you what this missive contains?” he asked. Before Mattieu could answer, the priest continued. “Did he not tell you that he has been chosen by our Lord to do what grown men have failed to accomplish?”
Mattieu stared at Father Martin, arm frozen in mid-air and mouth open wide in astonishment.
“Your son has been commanded to lead a crusade of young people to the Holy Land, to rescue Jerusalem from the infidels,” Father Martin went on. “With Lord Belanger’s permission, I will accompany him to the king, as he has been bade. We seek your permission, also, to let him go.”
The priest’s words came out stiff and awkward. He held himself rigid, as if anticipating Mattieu’s fury, but in his face there was a grim determination.
At this, Mattieu seemed to come to his senses.
“God’s will? My brat of a son? To the king?” His eyebrows shot up in shock. “What blabbering nonsense is this? The boy is a shepherd and a poor one at that. He has left his sheep—his brother had to care for them today. What has he to do with kings or crusades?”
Again he reached for Stephen, but Stephen slipped out of reach behind the priest.
Father Martin’s voice grew cold. “It is God’s will, Maître Mattieu. Would you disobey God?”
“You have lost your mind!” Mattieu bellowed. “My lump of a son chosen by God?” He lurched forward.
Stephen waited no longer. He turned and bolted back to the church and did not stop until he was in the dark safety of the building. Hardly had he time to catch his breath, when Father Martin appeared in the doorway.
“Wait here, Stephen,” he said. He, too, was panting and out of breath. “Your father is an obstinate man, but he cannot thwart God’s will. Our Lord’s right to command you is greater by far than your father’s. I must speak to Father Jean-Paul, and obtain permission from Lord Belanger to let us travel. Then I will put a few things together for us and we will be on our way.” He disappeared again.
Stephen huddled in the church, expecting to hear his
father’s roar at any moment. It seemed an eternity before Father Martin reappeared.
“By great good fortune Lord Belanger’s steward is with Father Jean-Paul at this very moment,” the young priest said. “I showed them the letter and they would speak with you.”
“Now?” Stephen stuttered. How could he face both the old priest and Lord Belanger’s steward?
“Of course, now,” Father Martin replied. “And we must make haste. We do not want your father trying to stop you. Come along.”
“But I cannot!” Stephen cried. “I cannot speak to such important men!”
“Courage, my son,” Father Martin replied. Then he paused and studied Stephen thoughtfully. “You will need far more courage than this, Stephen, if you embark on this mission. If you do not think you possess it, then you must give up now and go back to your sheep.”
“But I have been commanded by God…!” Stephen cried again.
“Then you must have faith that God will sustain you and give you the strength you will need,” Father Martin said. He waited, his eyes fixed on Stephen’s face.
Stephen stared back at him. He could not do it! It was impossible!
And then it seemed as if the stranger were there in the church with them; as if he were standing by Stephen’s side. “
Where men have failed, you, Stephen, will conquer.
”
The man’s words echoed in his mind, filled it to the exclusion of everything else.
Wordlessly, he nodded and allowed Father Martin to escort him out of the church, into Father Jean-Paul’s hut.
The steward stood by the hearth, his legs braced wide apart and his brow furrowed. Father Jean-Paul was sitting by the window, Stephen’s letter in his hand. As Stephen
and Father Martin entered, he looked up.
“Tell me, boy,” the old priest said. “Tell me what has happened to you.”
Stephen gulped. He tried to speak, then gulped again. Finally, the words came, and as he spoke, he felt the presence of the stranger once more.
When he finished there was silence. The steward looked at Father Jean-Paul.
“Do you believe this boy?” he asked.
Father Jean-Paul returned his gaze. “I do,” he said. “I believe it is the sign we have been waiting for. The answer to all our prayers.”
The steward turned to Stephen and Father Martin. “Then you have Lord Belanger’s permission to leave,” he said. For a moment he paused. “My father went on crusade,” he added. “He died serving God in the Holy Land.” For a moment there was a yearning in his eyes. “Go with God, boy,” he said. “Would that I could go with you.”
Father Martin threw a bundle together with all possible speed. Then he turned to Stephen.
“You should carry this,” he said, handing the letter back to him. “Guard it carefully.”
Stephen made certain his pouch was clean enough now, then put the rolled parchment back into it.