The Scarlet Cross (5 page)

“Away with you!” the priest cried. “We will have no dealings with you. Do you think to do what grown men have not accomplished? You are sent by the devil to steal away our children—that is what you have come to do. Away with you! And shame on you,” he berated Father Martin. “Shame on you for encouraging this misbegotten boy!”

The murmurings changed to shouts and angry catcalls. A stone flew out of the crowd and hit Dominic. Angeline cried out and ran to pick him up, then she turned and fled with him. Yves and Marc were quick to follow her, Renard
slunk after them. Only Father Martin stood fast. Another stone grazed Stephen’s shoulder. Just so had the boys of the other village stoned him. For a moment he despaired, and then a familiar fury rose within him. He would not submit to this humiliation again!

“God will punish you!” he cried to the mob surrounding them. “You have turned your backs on Him! You deny His will! You dare to throw stones at me and at God’s own priest? He will punish you—each and every one of you. Wait and see. Just wait and see what He will do to you!”

A man poised to throw yet another stone paused, then dropped it. The shouting died away. Stephen stood fast, held his head high, and glared at the crowd.

Unable to meet Stephen’s stare, one by one, the villagers began to disperse. The village priest gave a great
harrumph
of indignation, spread his hands wide as if disclaiming any part of the demonstration, and waddled back into his church. Finally, Stephen and Father Martin stood alone on the church steps. Only then did Stephen’s rage subside enough for him to think clearly. Father Martin laid his arm across Stephen’s shaking shoulders and led him through the village and out the other side of it. Shamefaced villagers moved out of their way to let them pass.

At the other side of the village Angeline waited with the three children. Renard hovered behind her, but Stephen had no desire to speak to them. They had abandoned him. At the first confrontation, they had fled.

“It was just one misguided priest,” Father Martin began, but Stephen would not be comforted. He threw himself down on the ground and leaned against a tree trunk, head buried in his arms.

That night it rained. They made what shelter they could under the trees, but none of them slept, and by morning all were soaked through. Dominic coughed without ceasing.

“Do you still wish to come with us?” Stephen asked Angeline as he watched her trying vainly to wring the water out of her shift. He could not keep the irritation out of his voice.

“I do,” she snapped back. “I am not so soft as you think.”

Stephen shrugged. Were all maidens as mulish as she?

They set out fasting. What little food they had remaining they had shared the night before. There had been no way of making a fire, so they could not even boil water for a thin soup of roots and turnips. Stephen knew the others must be just as hungry as he, but there was nothing to be done for it. He could hardly bring himself to care in any case. The reception they had met with the day before still rankled. He cradled his hand close to his chest. It was healing, but it still burned. And his arm hurt as well. He rubbed it and cast a
surreptitious glance at Angeline. She strode along beside him oblivious to the rain. She looked up and caught his eye. Without warning, she smiled. Caught by surprise, Stephen stared at her. Her whole face came alive when she smiled. By the time he thought to return the smile she had brushed a strand of wet hair off her forehead and turned back to walk with the younger boys.

The road soon became a sea of mud. It clung to their boots and sucked at their feet. After an hour, they were all exhausted with the effort of plowing through it.

Perhaps this will be the end of it,
Stephen thought dispiritedly as he trudged on.
Perhaps this has been an impossible dream after all, and we will get no farther
. What would he do if he received the same welcome at the next village? Surely Father Martin would not expect him to carry on. But he couldn’t go home. He could not bear the thought of facing his father after having left him in such defiance.

“What will you do if the priest in the next village refuses us help?”

Stephen was startled out of his thoughts by Renard, who had come up to walk beside him. The question echoed his own thoughts so exactly that at first he could not answer. Then he felt anger replacing despair. Who was this churlish boy to question him?

“We will face that when we come to it,” Stephen said.

“I am hungry,” Renard whined. “At least with my old master I was given food.”

“Then return to him,” Stephen barked and swiped angrily at the rain in his eyes.

Renard fell back to walk with Angeline. Stephen heard him say something to her, then heard her reply, which was equally as curt as his own.

“Instead of complaining, why do you not help one of these little ones,” she said. “They can hardly walk in this muck.”

At that, Renard tightened his lips and fell back even farther to walk with Father Martin. Either he did not dare voice his complaints to the priest or he had decided better of it, but Stephen heard no more from him.

The question still tormented Stephen, however. What
would
he do if they were turned out of the next village as well? Could he really abandon this quest—deny the will of God?
Was
it the will of God? Father Martin believed it to be so.

Stephen struggled with the turmoil in his mind, trying to make sense of it. Had he not yearned to fight for the glory of God? Had he not wished this above all other things? Could it not be that God had heard his prayers and this was his reward?

He set his mouth and strode ahead more firmly, ignoring the mud that clawed at his boots. He
had
been called by God. He
must
believe that, impossible as it seemed. He
had
to have faith. It was not for him to question—just to obey.

But it bothered Stephen that he had been so harsh with Renard. That was his father’s way. It could not be his, if he were to follow God’s word.

They paused for a rest when they heard church bells announcing sext, but did not bother to make a fire. The rain had ceased and the sun emerged from behind the clouds. The warmth was welcome, yet Father Martin would not let them tarry.

“The next village is nearby,” he said. “Let us make for that.” Then he added, “I will go ahead, Stephen. Perhaps if I speak with the village priest first, he might be more forthcoming.”

Stephen was about to object—surely he should go with the priest—but at that moment Angeline called to him.

“Stephen, can you walk more slowly? We are having trouble here.”

He looked back and saw her struggling to carry Dominic, who was still coughing. Yves and Marc trailed; Renard slouched far behind. Stephen took one last look at Father Martin, who was disappearing around a bend in the road, then shrugged and stopped to wait for Angeline to catch up to him. In spite of his resolve, he could not deny a small feeling of relief. Let Father Martin find out first what their welcome was to be. He reached out and took Dominic from Angeline.

“Ride pickaback on my shoulders,” he said. Dominic brightened instantly and grabbed onto Stephen. He wound one arm around Stephen’s neck and clasped him so tightly that Stephen began to choke.

“Take care!” Angeline cried, but she was laughing. “You are about to strangle Stephen! Do not hold him so tightly, child!”

Dominic loosened his hold, but then wound the other hand in Stephen’s hair. Stephen let out a yelp of pain. Perhaps this was not such a good idea. He was about to drop the little boy back down into the mud, when Dominic let him go.

“I’m sorry,” Dominic said. “Is this better?” He grasped Stephen by the shoulders.

“Much,” Stephen gasped.

“My thanks,” Angeline said. “That child is small, but carrying him is hard going in this mud.”

“Giddy-up!” said Dominic.

Before Stephen could say anything, Angeline reached out and gave Dominic a shake.

“Push your luck no further,” she admonished him. Her voice was stern, but her eyes, when they met Stephen’s, were dancing.

What a contradiction of a maid!
Stephen thought. He gave a hitch to settle Dominic better, then started off again. Yves and Marc skipped along beside him and Angeline.

“We are too big to be carried,” Yves announced, but there was a small note of hope in his voice.

“Yes, aren’t we?” asked Marc. There was even more hope in his voice. The two turned to look at Renard, who had caught them up. He only glared at them and hurried to walk ahead. The twins looked at each other and shrugged, then Yves snapped off a branch from a wayside bush and began to beat the air and stir up the mud with it. It wasn’t long until he accidentally hit his brother. Marc was not hurt, but was splashed with mire. He then took a branch of his own, and the battle was on.

“Enough!” Angeline cried, and separated the two. She snatched both sticks out of their hands and threw them into the bushes. “If you want to travel with us, you must behave yourselves,” she said. This time she was not smiling. Some of the mud had landed on her as well.

Stephen was surprised to see both boys acquiesce. They hung their heads and made a great show of walking obediently and quietly beside Angeline, but every once in a while one gave the other a sly push that was instantly returned.

Stephen shifted Dominic’s weight to sit more comfortably. Ahead of him he could see smoke rising. How had Father Martin fared? he wondered. He could only hope Father Martin had managed to persuade this village priest to help them. They could not go another day without food.

When they reached the village green, Stephen’s heart sank. A crowd of people was gathered there. For a moment he faltered; he could not bring himself to face them. Then he made out Father Martin in the crowd standing beside an older priest. When these two caught sight of Stephen and his small band of followers, they made haste to greet him. Father Martin was beaming.

“Stephen,” Father Martin called out. “You are welcome here! Father Benoit is anxious to meet you.”

“Indeed I am, my son,” the older priest said. “Come, refresh yourselves, all of you, and then you, Stephen, will tell me of this wondrous thing that has happened to you.” He turned to the assembled villagers. “Let the boy eat and rest. I will bring him out to you at vespers. Now go about your business.”

The villagers dispersed slowly, with many a curious glance at Stephen. One young boy hung back. He sat himself down on a low wall and it seemed as if he would wait there until Stephen returned.

Father Benoit led them into a small cottage close beside the church. There a woman tended a pot of soup that was simmering over the fire. The water rose to Stephen’s mouth as he smelled it. To Stephen’s surprise, the woman made a bob in his direction, then lowered her eyes quickly. It was as if she were in awe of him, but that could not be. He forgot the oddity as the priest settled them all around a long trestle table that took up most of the room.

No sooner had they seated themselves, than the woman brought bowls of steaming soup, a loaf of freshly baked bread, and a generous round of cheese. Dominic looked at the food on the table as if he had never seen such a feast before.

Most likely he hadn’t, Stephen thought.

Even Yves and Marc were subdued, but that was probably because Angeline had them one on either side of her, Stephen noted. Only Renard began to slurp his soup noisily and reach for the bread before any words of blessing were said.

“Let us thank the Lord for this food,” Father Martin said, an edge to his voice.

But once the grace was said, there was no holding back the famished boys. They finished up the soup and held their
bowls out for more. The loaf of bread disappeared. Not even Angeline could restrain from gorging on the food.

When they had finished and not a morsel remained, Father Benoit settled himself back in his chair with a sigh and patted his abundant belly with satisfaction. He let out a great belch.

“Mistress Molly is a wondrous good cook,” he said. “She takes excellent care of me.”

True words,
Stephen thought,
if we can judge by the looks of him.

“Now,” the priest said. “Show me this letter of yours, Stephen.”

Stephen brought the letter out and handed it to Father Benoit. He watched warily as the priest read it.

“It is as your Father Martin told me,” the priest said finally. He looked up at Stephen and crossed himself. “You are indeed chosen by God, my son.”

To Stephen’s astonishment, Father Benoit bowed his head to him. The priest looked up again. In his eyes was the same look of awe as had been in Mistress Molly’s, and his words, when he spoke, were reverent.

“You must speak to our people,” Father Benoit said. “We will give you shelter tonight and if some of our young ones want to join your crusade, they will go with the blessing of the church. It is a marvellous thing that you have been called to do.” He rose to his feet, and again bowed his head to Stephen. “I must ring vespers now, and then you will speak.”

The sun was setting as Stephen left Father Benoit’s cottage and made his way back to the village green. There it seemed as if every soul who lived in the village was waiting to hear him. A buzz of anticipation greeted him. The boy Stephen had noticed before was still sitting on the wall.

Stephen could not get the picture of Father Benoit bowing his head to him out of his mind. A priest? A priest had
paid him homage? Even so, he could not stop his legs from shaking. His mouth was suddenly dry. Could he find the words again? He looked to Father Martin for support, then, as his priest nodded reassuringly, he held the letter high with a trembling hand.

“One morning,” he began. “One morning, while tending my sheep, I heard a voice call my name.” A hush fell over the crowd. “I turned,” Stephen said, “and a man stood before me. But he was not an ordinary man—he was the Christ himself!”

A murmur of astonishment rose from the crowd gathered around him. Stephen drank it in. He looked at the people staring up at him. Father Benoit knelt, and one by one, others fell to their knees as well. With that, all Stephen’s doubts, all his fears, melted away. His hand that held the precious letter aloft steadied. Again, he felt the hot and burning power of God fill him and words poured out of him.

“The Christ himself!” he cried. He blazed with passion. “He gave me this letter! He told me it was a summons from God. A summons that commanded me to preach to the children of France. To summon them to follow me.

“‘Assemble a crusade of children, Stephen,’ He ordered me. ‘Without weapons, by your faith alone,
you
will win our holiest of cities back for Christianity.’”

Stephen knew not for how long he preached but finally, once more, he was drained, with hardly strength enough to stand.

Father Martin was quick to take his arm. The villagers remained silent for a long moment, then a babble arose as they surged around him, but Stephen could speak no more. He allowed Father Martin to lead him back to Father Benoit’s cottage. There a bed had been made for him close to the hearth.

“The others?” he managed to ask. “The boys? And Angeline?”

“They have been taken in by the townsfolk,” the priest answered. “Fret not about them. They will be well taken care of.”

The next morning Stephen rose and broke his fast with the two priests after their prayers. When he left the cottage, Angeline, Renard, and the three younger children were waiting for him, along with several other boys. The villagers gathered to bid them farewell and pressed packets of bread and cheese on them. They took up their way again laden down with provisions.

“Did I not say it was only one misguided priest?” Father Martin exulted. He was sipping from a skin of wine Father Benoit had given him and grew merrier and merrier as the day went on. “Only one poor soul who could not see the will of the Lord. I’ll wager you will not run up against another such as he during the remainder of our journey.”

“Is Jerusalem very far then?” a voice asked from behind Stephen.

Stephen turned to see the boy who had been sitting on the wall. He was a scrawny young lad of about ten or eleven years of age, so Stephen guessed. He walked with a limp.