Authors: Karleen Bradford
They entered St. Denys by the north gate and were immediately surrounded by a swarm of men and women, young and old. Stephen could not help gaping. Never had he seen such a large city and such huge numbers of people. There were vendors selling cheeses, bread, and flagons of wine. Pilgrims there were, too, with their wide-brimmed hats and their staves. A veritable babel of dialects and accents swirled around him. Beside him, Angeline was twisting and turning in circles as she walked in order to try to take everything in.
At the sight of the pilgrims, Stephen’s heart rose. Here he would have fallow ground for his preaching, surely. But then a company of prelates galloped by, accompanied by an escort bearing shields and glittering swords. These churchmen looked rich and well fed. Stephen could see rings set with precious gemstones that caught the sunlight and winked on their fingers. As they rode carelessly through, Stephen’s band was scattered to the sides of the path. Some
of the horses nearly ran the children down. Angeline cried out indignantly.
Stephen’s spirits sank again. Father Martin had told him that they must seek out the abbot of the Basilica of St. Denys in order to request an audience with the king. Father Martin hoped that the bishop of Chartres, at his brother’s bidding, would have sent word to the abbot to prepare him for Stephen’s arrival, but suppose the abbot was one of those puffed-up men? Suppose he thought himself far too important to meet with Stephen, let alone recommend him to the king?
When they reached the basilica, Stephen stared at it in awe. The walls of the church towered above them, with glorious windows of brilliantly coloured glass. It was crowned with spires that seemed to lift up to heaven. Stephen’s steps faltered. This building was far too grand for him to even consider entering, but Father Martin strode forward and dragged him along by the arm. The priest’s eyes were shining.
“Never,” he breathed, “never did I think that I would see such a wonder!” He turned to Angeline and the ragtag band of children that crowded up behind her, mouths agape and eyes wide. Angeline was as overcome as any of them.
“Wait here,” he commanded. The children, still stunned, seemed not to hear him. Finally, Angeline collected herself and led the younger ones to a grassy area around the church. The people hurrying by looked at them with curiosity, but no one approached them.
“I would come with you,” Renard said, pushing through the crowd to stand by Stephen.
Father Martin frowned. “This is not your business, boy,” he said curtly. “Wait here with the others.” Still pulling Stephen along by the elbow, he made his way up the church steps and through the stone archway that led into the building.
Stephen looked back to see Renard staring after them with a sullen, mutinous glare.
Always, he is quick to push himself forward when he wants something,
Stephen thought,
but rarely when there is work to do
. Then, mesmerized by the magnificence of the church, he forgot about Renard.
Inside, all was light—light broken into a myriad of rainbows by the coloured glass of the windows. The interior of the building was so big that several columns were needed to support the arched ceiling that soared far above them. The altar and cross were at the end of the nave, glowing in yet more shards of brilliantly hued light. Nothing could have been more different from the small, dark, heavy-walled churches of Cloyes and the villages through which they had passed. No Mass was being said at that time and the church was empty. Their footsteps echoed in the vast space.
A tall, formidable, grey-haired priest strode forward to greet them.
“The abbot, himself,” Father Martin whispered. He bobbed his knee and bowed his head, then nudged Stephen to do the same. He spoke respectfully to the older man. “Good day, Father,” he said. “I am Father Martin from the village of Cloyes.”
The abbot stopped a short distance away from them. He fixed Stephen with a piercing gaze, as sharp as knives, then turned to Father Martin.
“So this is the boy I have been hearing about,” he said.
“It is,” Father Martin replied. He bobbed again.
“I have had word from the bishop of Chartres,” the abbot said. “He told me of your coming and of this boy’s petition to see the king.”
Father Martin and Stephen exchanged a quick glance of relief.
“The king has agreed to grant the boy an audience in a few days’ time.”
It took a few seconds for Stephen to realize what he had said. It was done! He would see the king! But then the abbot continued and there was something in his voice that gave Stephen pause.
“You have a letter?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “A letter for the king?”
“I…I have,” Stephen stuttered.
“You have it with you?” the abbot demanded.
“I do,” Stephen answered. At another nudge from Father Martin he withdrew it from the pouch at his belt and held it out.
The abbot took it from him. He read it, his face expressionless. Then, to Stephen’s dismay, he tucked it into the pocket of his robe.
“I will see that the king receives it,” he said. His voice was cold. He turned and walked away.
Stephen and Father Martin stood for a moment, unsure as to what to do. Stephen looked to the priest, but before he could say anything, Father Martin shook his head.
“There is naught to be done,” he said. His voice trembled a little. “He has promised that you will see the king. We must wait upon His Majesty’s pleasure.”
Renard was waiting impatiently for them when they returned.
“Are you to see the king?” he asked as soon as Stephen reached him.
“Yes,” Stephen replied.
“When?” Renard asked eagerly.
“I know not,” Stephen answered. He could not shake off a feeling of foreboding. The abbott’s demeanor had not been reassuring
The answer did not seem to satisfy Renard, but Stephen brushed by him impatiently and made his way to where Angeline was settling her brood of children.
I must be more charitable,
Stephen thought as Renard gave way to him with a scowl, but the boy’s surliness annoyed him. When he reached Angeline’s side and she looked up at him with a bright smile, however, his heart gave a strange lurch and all thoughts of Renard fled from his mind.
“What news?” she asked.
“None yet,” Stephen answered. “But there is hope, I think.” He forced himself to put his fears aside. The abbot had said that the king would see him, after all. He must be patient. He threw himself down beside her and described his meeting with the abbot.
“He sounds like a frightening man,” she said. “Do you believe that he will take your letter to the king?”
“I have to,” Stephen answered.
Yves flew past them at that moment, hotly pursued by Marc. The two tumbled over Stephen’s outstretched feet and were only saved from falling into the fire by Stephen and Angeline grabbing one each. Stephen looked up to meet her laughing eyes.
“These two are more trouble than they are worth!” Angeline exclaimed.
“That they are,” Stephen agreed, arranging his features into a frown.
“What should we do with them?” she asked.
“Sell them in the next village,” Stephen answered. “I hear villagers pay well for sturdy young lads.”
“But they will work them to death,” Angeline replied. She was keeping the edges of her mouth from turning up with an effort.
The two boys, suddenly very still, looked from one serious face to the other.
“Yes, that they will,” Stephen replied. “But they would get a few years’ hard labour out of them first.”
“We’ll behave!” Yves burst out.
“We will!” Marc echoed. “We promise!”
“Shall we give them one more chance?” Angeline asked Stephen.
He appeared to give the question deep thought. Two identical faces stared at him with mouths agape and eyes wide with fear.
“Well…” Stephen began. He had never seen the twins so quiet. “Perhaps…” he went on. Then he shrugged. “One more chance,” he said, and loosed his hold on his boy. “But just one…” Before the words were out of his mouth, the child squirmed out of his grasp, Angeline released his twin, and the pair scampered away as quickly as they could.
Unable to control herself any longer, Angeline dissolved into laughter.
“I wonder how long they will be able to keep that pledge,” she gasped.
“Not long, I warrant,” Stephen answered with a wry twist to his lips. “A greater pair of scamps I have never met.”
Nevertheless, his heart was filled with an unfamiliar warmth. A warmth that spread to his cheeks when Angeline moved closer to him and leaned her shoulder against his as she tossed another stick onto the fire.
Father Martin said Mass the next morning as usual. When he finished, he turned to Stephen.
“Today,” he said, “you will preach on the steps of the basilica itself.”
“Will it be allowed?” Stephen asked.
“No order was given to forbid it,” Father Martin replied.
Stephen was dubious. His stomach knotted with anxiety, but he followed Father Martin to the church door. There was no sign of the abbot. A few people were going in and out and others mingled near the bottom of the steps. Stephen placed himself on the top stair. He gave Father Martin a worried glance, but the priest only nodded encouragingly.
“My friends,” Stephen began. His voice wavered. He was as nervous as he had been the very first time he had preached. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him.
“My friends,” he called out again, loudly this time. “I am come here to deliver a message from God!”
At that, a few people turned toward him, their faces curious. Stephen took heart.
No matter how few listen,
he thought,
I will preach to them.
“A message commanding me to lead a crusade of children to Jerusalem!” he cried.
I have a letter,
he was about to add, but even as he reached for the parchment he remembered that he had it no longer. For a moment his heart sank, then he steeled himself. It did not matter that he did not have the letter. He knew what it said.
“I was given a letter by the Christ,” he cried again. “In that letter God commanded our king to help me. With his aid, I will lead a crusade of children to Jerusalem and succeed where men before us have failed. We, the children of France, will be the ones who restore Jerusalem to Christianity! I preach to you—to all the young people of this town. I call upon you to follow me! Follow me in Christ’s name!”
Stephen felt his confidence returning with each word. As he spoke, more and more youths gathered at the foot of the steps, and that night a host of them joined Stephen’s company. They crowded around him and besieged him with questions.
“Why must we free Jerusalem?” “Who stole Jerusalem from us?” “How?”
Stephen settled himself by the fire and signalled for silence. How little these children knew.
“Jerusalem was the city where our Christ was crucified,” he began, choosing the words with care. “Where He died and was taken up to God. It is holy to us, but the infidels took it from us. Good Christian men have tried for many years to win it back, but they have failed. Now it is up to you…” he gestured to the throng surrounding him, “and to me.”
“Why did the infidels want our city?” The question came out of the dark. It took Stephen by surprise. It was a question that he had never asked himself. He was at a loss for an answer.
“They worship their God there, too.” Father Martin spoke for him.
“So Jerusalem is holy to them as well?”
Stephen looked quickly to see who had asked the questions, but he already knew. Angeline, of course.
To Stephen’s surprise, even older people joined as the days went by. He was taken aback one evening when he saw two men and a woman sitting by a fire on the edge of the field.
“What should we do?” he asked Father Martin.
The priest hesitated, then he answered. “Truly, what can we do? We cannot turn them away. If they have come in good faith, we must welcome them.”
Stephen said no more, but he was troubled. The three were laughing and drinking wine. They did not look like devout pilgrims to him. As he watched, he saw Angeline making her way past them, back to the campsite. As usual, she was dogged by several small children. One of the men
called out something to her that Stephen could not hear. Angeline snapped back a retort and shepherded the children quickly by.
“What did that man say to you?” Stephen asked, when she had settled herself by the fire and begun to make their evening soup.
“Naught that I would repeat,” she answered, but her face was flushed and her eyes angry. “He reminded me of my uncle,” she added.
In the days that followed, while they waited upon the king’s pleasure, Stephen preached every morning. His preaching grew stronger each day. The abbot did not reappear, but Stephen was more relieved than anything else about that. The man had intimidated him.
Then, on the night of the third day, Stephen had a dream. In his dream he saw a mighty sea stretching out before him, and as he watched, it parted. A path opened through it; the waters on either side of the path formed tall, glistening walls. In the far distance he could see a dome shining golden under a searing sun. He woke, puzzled, certain that this was a message from God, but he could not understand it. Nor could Father Martin give any explanation when he told him of it.
On the fourth morning, the abbot appeared just as Stephen was about to begin preaching. Stephen faltered. Was the abbot finally going to forbid him from preaching? But the abbot only looked at the waiting throng, which by now was considerable. His mouth settled into a grim line.
“The king will see you this morn,” he said. Before Stephen had time to react, the abbot strode down the stairs and through the crowd that parted for him, even as the
waters of the sea had parted for Stephen in his dream. With a startled glance at each other, Stephen and Father Martin made haste to follow him.
The abbot led the way down a tree-lined street, then turned a corner, and there in front of them was the palace. It was a massive building with turrets and high, crenellated walls. So huge was it that Stephen could not begin to take it all in. He stumbled as they mounted stairs that seemed to go on forever. He was sweating in the morning heat and he wiped his palms on his tunic.