The Scarlet Cross (4 page)

They did not journey far that day. Father Martin had broken bread with Father Bertrand before they left, but Stephen had not been able to eat or even to think of food. By early afternoon, however, his appetite had returned and he was ravenous. Three of the boys who accompanied them were very young, certainly under ten years. They dogged his heels like adoring puppies and chattered non-stop. The fourth was a boy whom Stephen judged to be about his own age. This boy hung back, as if uncertain about the decision he had made, and walked silently with a scowl on his face.

“We will make camp for the night here,” Father Martin said when they reached the banks of a small stream. Clear water burbled over rocks, tall trees cast a welcome shade.

“Come,” the priest continued, throwing down his pack. “Let us gather wood and make a fire. Father Bertrand was most generous and I have the makings of a good soup here.”

At this the younger boys’ eyes brightened and they immediately set about searching for twigs and small branches.
The older boy threw himself down with his back to a tree, however, still scowling.

Stephen looked at him, annoyed. He was about to say something, when Father Martin touched his arm. The priest shook his head slightly.

“Give him a little time,” he said.

Stephen shrugged and closed his mouth.

Father Martin soon had a good fire going. Stephen was surprised to see how adept the priest was at fire building. He fairly hopped around it. His robe swirled around his legs and, to Stephen’s consternation, now and then almost brushed the flames. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

“A fire brightens the spirit and the heart,” he said, brushing ashes off his robe and rubbing his hands together over the heat. He pulled out a pot from his sack.

“You look strong, my lad,” he called to the surly boy, “will you fill this for us?”

At first Stephen thought the boy would refuse, but then he lurched to his feet, gave a quick bob of his head to Father Martin, took the pot, and headed for the stream. When he returned with the pot full of water, Father Martin set it at the edge of the fire. He delved into his sack again and emerged with a handful of turnips and onions. These he cut up with a small knife that he took from a pocket in his cassock and tossed them into the water.

“And a final blessing!” he exclaimed as he pulled out a joint with shreds of meat still sticking to it. “God has provided us with a feast! Through Father Bertrand,” he added hastily.

The smaller boys drew near to the fire. They watched eagerly as the water in the pot began to boil and the smell of vegetables and meat began to waft out of it. The smallest child licked his lips.

They look as if they have not eaten for days,
Stephen thought. Hard upon that came another thought.

I am responsible for them now. I will have to provide for them.

That thought made him catch his breath.

Father Martin produced cheese and chunks of bread that were only slightly stale. When the soup was ready, they dipped the hard crusts into the soup and the bread softened up marvellously. The boys sopped up all the broth, then dipped in with their fingers to snatch out morsels of turnip and onions. For a while nothing was heard but slurping and grunts of satisfaction.

When they had finished, Father Martin took out the bone and wrapped it in a cloth.

“This will do us for many a meal,” he said with a healthy burp. “Now,” he said, “let us find out more about you lads.”

There was a moment of silence, then the older boy spoke up.

“My name is Renard,” he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, but his face still looked set and sullen in the firelight. “I have run away from a master who beats me day and night.” He stared across the fire at Stephen. “I heard your words,” he said. “I heard the promises you made.” The tone of his voice was defiant and angry. “Is what you said true?” he demanded.

Stephen returned his look.

“I spoke the truth,” he said. “I will keep the promises I made.” He kept his voice steady, kept his eyes fixed onto Renard’s, but with the coming of darkness, the fire that had filled him in the church when he preached was flickering. The certainty that had overwhelmed him began to crumble. It was as if the shadows of the night were entering his heart and chilling it. Could he really keep his vow to this boy? He looked again at the younger ones. The sense of responsibility flooded back over him tenfold. He could not desert them like he had deserted his sheep.

Father Martin broke in quickly, as if sensing Stephen’s doubts.

“We will go to the king in Paris,” he said. “King Philip will help us—Stephen’s letter commands him to do so. He will provide us with the necessities for our journey. He cannot refuse us. It is God’s will.”

“The king?” the smallest boy asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “We are to see the king?”

“Stephen is,” Father Martin answered in a firm voice. “It is God’s will,” he repeated. Then, less sternly, he asked, “What is your name, my child?”

“Dominic,” the boy answered. He was a tiny urchin barely clothed in rags. His nose was runny and his face so dirty that it was unlikely it had ever known water. His hair hung in ratty strands down to his shoulders.

“How old are you?” the priest asked.

Dominic looked surprised. “I don’t know, Father,” he said. “However would I know that?”

“Did not your parents tell you?” Father Martin demanded.

“Truth, Father, I have no parents. Never have had.”

Stephen looked at the child. It was not so surprising. Sickness had carried off many people. There were throngs of young orphans running wild in the towns and villages, living by their wits and the uncertain generosity of the folk—or by stealing.

One of the remaining two spoke up. “My name is Yves,” he said.

“And I am Marc,” the other put in. “We know how old we are. We are nine.”

“We think,” Yves added quickly.

More orphans, Stephen thought. But there was a spark about these two. A liveliness.

He took a good look at them. Almost as filthy as Dominic, but even so, he could see that their faces were identical.
Identical, too, were the dirty yellow curls that bushed out in halos around their heads. Both of their chins were greasy with fat from the soup. They were smiling broadly and their wide blue eyes shone.

Stephen almost smiled back, then his heart sank as he looked at the pitiful band clustered around the dying fire.

Children. They were, indeed, only children. And with such as these he was to conquer Jerusalem?

He gave his cloak to Dominic. Father Martin gave his to the twins, Yves and Marc. Renard had a torn blanket that he spread on the ground. They settled themselves to sleep.

The others were soon breathing deeply and evenly, but once again, sleep would not come to Stephen. He sat and stared into the fire while the stars appeared, one by one, and the moon rose from behind the trees. The fire died down and the moon shadows took over.

I cannot do this,
he thought.
It is impossible. How could I ever have believed that God spoke through me?

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw something light dart between two trees. A shape, white against the darkness. He half rose, but the figure—if that was what it was—disappeared. He stared into the blackness until his eyes ached, but did not see it again.

A ghost? A spirit? Or an angel, perhaps, sent to watch over them?

It would be comforting to think that, but Stephen could not bring himself to do so. More likely just a trick of his imagination. He sighed, curled up, and finally slept.

They awoke early the next morning. As Stephen rubbed his eyes, he heard Father Martin scrabbling around in his pouch.

“I know I saved a morsel of bread to break our fast,” he complained. “It has vanished!”

“An animal, perhaps?” Stephen asked, not really paying the priest much mind. He knew the thieving ways of small animals in the forests and the fields.

“No, most certainly not. My pack has been opened and neatly tied up again,” the priest insisted. “What kind of animal could do that?”

A human animal?
The thought sprang into Stephen’s mind. Had one of the boys stolen the bread? He looked at them, but all four lay sleeping still. Then a figure suddenly materialized out of the trees that surrounded them.

Stephen jumped to his feet, startled. As the figure grew nearer, to his astonishment he recognized the girl they had met going into town; the girl whose uncle had struck him on the arm. Unconsciously, even as he took a step toward her, he rubbed the sore spot.

The girl stood in the early-morning shadows and twisted her fingers in the folds of her shift. She held her head high—almost defiantly—and made no attempt to brush the strands of matted hair out of her eyes. The remarkable, clear grey eyes that he remembered so well. They stared at him now with the same piercing intensity.

Before Stephen could speak, she burst out.

“May I come with you?”

For a moment Stephen was taken aback. A maid? He had not considered that maidens would join his crusade as well.

“I am called Angeline,” she added. She paused and took a deep breath. “I heard you speak. In the church. I have run away from my uncle. I hid in the trees and watched you last night, but I was afraid to show myself until now.”

That explains the ghostlike figure,
Stephen thought.
No angel, certainly
.

“I would go with you on your pilgrimage,” the girl repeated.

Stephen found his voice. “The journey will be long,” he began. “You are but a maid—”

“I am as strong as any boy,” she shot back, suddenly angry.

Stephen stared at her. How could he refuse her? But there was no possible way she could accompany them. Beside him, Father Martin spoke up.

“This is not a journey for maidens,” he said kindly. “Go back to your uncle, my child.”

“I cannot!” she cried, the anger gone as quickly as it had surfaced. “He beats me. And I fear far worse than beatings at his hands. I beg you, let me join you. I have nowhere else to go!”

Stephen opened his mouth to echo Father Martin’s command, but the words stuck in his throat. She looked so lost, so desperate. And those eyes of hers—they seemed to be drilling into his very soul.

Without willing it, without even consciously deciding to speak, he found himself saying, “Join us, then. Come with us.”

Father Martin snorted. A sound of disapproval. He turned away.

“I’m sorry,” Angeline cried to the priest’s back. She dug into a pouch at her waist and came up with a crust of bread. “I stole your bread, Father. Forgive me—I was so hungry. This is what is left. Take it, please.”

Father Martin turned around. He glowered at the girl.

“So that is what happened,” he said. Then, as she held out the grey scrap of bread to him, his face softened.

“Keep the bread,” he said. “There is nothing to forgive when a child steals out of hunger. I ask only that you share it with that little one there. He has a hunger as great as yours. Perhaps greater.” He pointed to Dominic, who was sitting up now and surveying the scene, open-mouthed.

“I will!” Angeline said. “Thank you, Father.” She sank to the ground beside Dominic and drew him close to her,
then ripped the bread in half and popped his share into his gaping mouth.

For a moment the little boy just sat there, then with a gulp, he closed his mouth and began chewing.

“Hoy!”

The cry startled Stephen. He spun around. Yves and Marc were sitting up, staring at the small piece of bread left in Angeline’s hand. Their two faces bore identical expressions of angry dismay.

“What about us?” they asked with one aggrieved voice.

Angeline looked at them, then shrugged. With a sigh of resignation, but also with a wry twitch of her lips that she could not hide, she broke the remaining morsel in half and gave a piece each to the twins. Stephen saw Renard watching them hungrily, but the youth said nothing.

Dew lay heavy on the fields as they stomped out the remains of their fire and made ready to start on their journey. There was a chill in the air.

“You had best take this,” Stephen said, and held out his cloak to Angeline, brushing bits of grass and pine needles off it as he did so.

“I need it not,” Angeline said. The half smile she had favoured the children with had gone. “I will not be a burden to you. I can take care of myself.”

“As you wish,” Stephen replied shortly. If the maid were going to be so stubborn, what could he do?

The weather grew warmer as the sun rose in the sky, however, and soon he found that the cloak was more of a hindrance than an aid. It was bulky and awkward to carry, but too hot to wear. He and Father Martin led the way, Renard came next and, behind him, Angeline with the three younger ones. The children seemed to have deserted
Stephen for her. That did nothing to improve his humour. Was he not the leader here?

At first, Stephen and the priest set out at their usual pace, but they soon realized that the younger ones could not keep up. They were forced to slow down. Stephen fretted. In truth, he had no idea at all of how far the journey would be, but surely at this rate, it would take them much too long.

The road wound through the forest and then the trees began to thin out. They descended into a small valley where another village lay sleeping in the morning sun. The steeple of a stone church beckoned to them as if in welcome.

“We will break our fast here,” Father Martin said. “Perhaps the priest of this village will give us food.”

But it was not to be.

The priest came out to the village steps to greet them, but no sooner had he laid eyes on Stephen’s letter and heard Father Martin’s words, than he purpled with rage.

“What foolishness is this?” he cried. “What nonsense? Worse than nonsense! Children will set Jerusalem free? You have been misled by the devil himself!”

Drawn by the priest’s angry outburst, a crowd began to assemble around them. Stephen tried to speak, but the villagers took their cue from their priest and drowned out his words with angry mutterings that grew louder and louder.