The Scarlet Cross (8 page)

At the top of the steps a footman barred their way, but at a word from the abbot, the man stood aside and they made their way into a great, echoing chamber. There, another man, dressed in crimson and gold robes that rustled with every step, appeared and bowed to the abbot.

“If you and the Father would wait here,” he said. “I am to take the boy to His Majesty.” He beckoned to Stephen and turned away.

Stephen cast one last anxious look at Father Martin, then followed.

They made their way through hall after hall, each more dazzling than the last. Stephen’s senses swam with all the images of tapestries, gilded furniture, and candles blazing with light. He walked on carpets so soft that his feet in their ragged boots sank into them. He was so overcome that he could hardly breathe. Then the man stepped through yet another doorway and motioned Stephen in.

For a moment he could do nothing but gawk. The walls were whitewashed to an eye-blinding brightness and covered with the most richly embroidered of hangings. He could not help but reach out furtively and touch the one nearest him with a tentative finger. It was stiff with gold thread. The fleur-de-lys, King Philip’s own emblem, hung from every pillar. Then he raised his eyes to the far end of
the chamber and saw the king flanked by several footmen.

King Philip sat on a throne that was carved and embellished with gold. He was dressed in deep blue satin, a cape of shining silver draped over his shoulders. Beneath the golden crown that sparkled with jewels, his face looked grim and gaunt. Long, dark hair fell to his shoulders. Stephen stood staring, frozen, until a push from behind jolted him into movement.

“Go forward, boy, and kneel!” The words were harsh and commanding.

Another shove almost sent him sprawling. He made haste to approach the king and fell to his knees, his eyes lowered. All he could see, then, were two feet clad in grey boots of the softest, most supple leather. Ludicrously, he thought:
Those boots would not last a moment on the rocky fields where I tended my sheep.
Then he shook himself and looked up.

This close, the king was even more awe-inspiring. He stared down at Stephen with glittering eyes.

“You, boy. Stephen, I believe?”

“Yes, sire,” Stephen answered. His voice quavered.

“I have been told of you and your wondrous tale,” the king drawled, his eyebrows slightly lifted. “The bishop of Chartres implored me to grant you an audience.”

To Stephen’s relief, he saw that the king held his letter, but the tone of his voice did not bode well. The next words bore out his misgivings. The king waved the parchment at him.

“Do you really expect us to believe that our Lord has commanded you, a simple peasant boy, to lead a crusade to reclaim our holiest of cities? A crusade of
children
?” he demanded. “Do you really expect us to believe that the Christ himself gave you this letter?”

“I told the truth, sire. I did!” Stephen began to babble with dismay.

“We have no doubt that
you
believe this letter to be a missive from God. You are naught but a shepherd boy, easily deluded.” His voice thundered over Stephen, furious now and the drawl gone. “But you have been deceived, my lad,” he went on, the words falling on Stephen like rocks. “By some priest—perhaps well-meaning, perhaps not. This crusade of
children
—it is impossible. Do you really think that you can succeed where crusades led by mighty armies have failed? Where
we ourselves
failed?”

Stephen quailed before his anger, but then the king’s voice softened, as if he felt some compassion for Stephen.

“Go home, boy,” he said. “Go back to your sheep and leave the fighting to men who have been trained for it.”

Stephen could not believe what he was hearing. It was impossible! He leaped to his feet.

“But it is the truth!” he cried. “It is truly God’s will. I know it is!”

A footman stepped quickly forward and grasped his arm with a bruising grip.

“Back on your knees, boy!” he ordered and would have forced Stephen down, but the king raised his hand and forestalled him.

“He is but a poor, misguided lad. Leave him be.” He looked at Stephen. “We know you believe what you say to be true, Stephen, but you must believe me that a crusade such as you propose could never succeed. You plan to walk to Jerusalem, with all your followers. You have no concept of how far that is. And you do not even know, do you, that a great sea lies between you and the Holy Land. How could you possibly cross that?”

At that, the meaning of Stephen’s dream became clear.

“God will part the sea for me!” he cried. “As he did in the story of Moses!”

At this the king smiled, a tired, tolerant smile.

“Go home, Stephen,” he repeated. “Cease this futile quest and return to the life our Lord meant for you.”

“But I had a dream…!” Stephen began. “God promised me…”

The king gestured to one of the footmen. Before Stephen realized what was happening, he was hustled out of the great chamber, back down through the hallways, and out of the palace.

Father Martin and the abbot waited outside. When Father Martin saw Stephen’s stricken face, his own visage paled. The abbot stood, impassive.

He knew all along what the king was going to say,
Stephen thought bitterly.

“Begone, boy,” the footman who had escorted him out said, and gave him one last push that all but sent him sprawling down the church steps.

“He would not hear me,” Stephen managed to get out. “He would not believe me!”

The shock was such that he still could not make sense of what had happened. It had all been so quick!

How could the king refuse him? The letter had
promised
Stephen that the king would help him. At that thought Stephen felt his stomach give a lurch.

“My letter! He kept my letter!”

Stunned, Stephen walked back to where his followers waited. He did not notice when the abbot left them. Father Martin, beside him, was saying something, but Stephen could not make sense of the words.

Was this the end?

He stopped when he reached the encampment and looked around. Groups of children and young people covered the field; far too many now for him to know all of their names, but he did recognize the lame boy called
le boiteux
sitting slightly apart from the others. Makeshift shelters were set up here and there, but as the spring was warm and there had been no rain for several days, they were hardly needed. A few dogs scampered around, on the lookout for scraps. Campfires dotted the field. A hubbub of comfortable noise greeted him. Smells of cooking wafted through the air. Close by, he could see Angeline and Renard. Ange-line had a pot boiling over a fire and was brewing up a soup. Yves and Marc were sniffing around it, Dominic as usual
was close beside her. Several other youngsters tumbled in the grass around them. They were all laughing and cheerful as Angeline began to ladle the broth into bowls.

Could he tell them that their crusade was not to be? That, because of the words of their earthly king, their heavenly King’s wishes were not to be carried out? As Stephen watched them, Renard caught sight of him and let out a cry. The boy ran toward him. Angeline looked up and smiled, her face alive with hope.

For a moment Stephen wanted nothing more than to turn and run. To hide somewhere. How could he face them? How could he tell them that their crusade was over before it had really begun? What would they do? They had all left whatever homes they had to follow him—would they be able to return?
He
certainly could not. Nor could Angeline and Renard go back to an uncle and a master from whom they had just escaped.

He had been the one who had preached to these young people; who had persuaded them to leave all they had ever known. Their lives rested in his hands. Was he to fail them now?

And then, just as the spirit of God filled him when he spoke to the people, he felt it fill him now. With resolve. With strength. He
would not
fail them. He
could not
! Above the basilica the oriflamme, the sacred and holy standard of France, snapped in the breeze. It shone red and gold, brave against the deep blue heaven. Here in this place where the saint had shown such determination, could he do no less?

He would go on! And he would take that very oriflamme as his banner! He straightened and threw back his head. He took a breath so deep that it drew pain.

I will do Your bidding, Lord,
he vowed silently.
I need not the help of earthly kings. I need only my faith in You.

“The king,” Renard panted as he came up to where Stephen stood, “what did he say? Did he give us his blessing? Will he send an army to accompany us?”

“The king will not help us,” Stephen replied.

Angeline had followed Renard and was just in time to hear Stephen’s words.

“He will not help us?” she asked, aghast.

“No,” Stephen said. “He dares to defy God’s will out of arrogance. He will not believe that we could succeed where he failed, but we need him not. Look!” he commanded. He turned and gestured toward the multitude of people assembled in the field.

“Look at the army we have collected here,” he cried. His voice rang out with passion. “This is but the beginning! We will gather
more
children to us. Many more! We will conquer the infidel on our own. We have our Heavenly Father’s blessing, what need have we of an earthly king’s!”

The village church bells began to peal sext. At that, Father Martin bent his head to Stephen’s.

“Preach to them, Stephen,” he urged, his voice as ardent as Stephen’s. “Preach to your followers.”

Stephen would have moved on, but the next morning when he awoke it was to see people streaming into the field where they were encamped, even as the bells of the abbey began to peal the call to morning prayers.

“They believe,” Father Martin exulted. “The people believe you!”

Stephen looked out over the growing crowd and his heart swelled with gratitude. This was the sign he had needed. He climbed a small knoll, turned to face the multitude. He tossed back the lock of hair that always fell in his eyes and raised his chin defiantly.

“My people,” he began, and then he repeated the phrase, relishing the taste of the words in his mouth. “
My
people!” he cried.

Stephen stayed in St. Denys for three more days. No one appeared to stop him so, defiantly, he preached on the steps of the basilica every morning and each day the numbers of his followers swelled. Children and young people flocked to him, as did more men and women and priests. A band of minstrels joined them to play and elevate their spirits. Not that their spirits needed elevating. With each passing day, Stephen grew stronger and more sure. He was invincible. He was God’s vessel. Within
him
lived the truth and the spirit of the Lord.

Before they set out, he determined that they should all bear the emblem that crusaders before them had worn.

“A cross,” he declared. “We shall each wear a cross of scarlet, as red as Christ’s blood, on our shoulders, so that those who see us will know we are on God’s mission.”

That sent Angeline scurrying around the village, begging scraps of cloth, and she set to sewing.

Next, Stephen proclaimed that they should take the crusaders’ oath. They must swear to follow him until they had accomplished their mission or die in the attempt. Humbly, the children lined up to kneel, one by one before him. Most of the men and women swore their oaths and sewed crosses on their shoulders, but in spite of Stephen’s command, not all of them did so.

When everything was in readiness, they set off. Stephen sat enthroned in a cart filled with straw, drawn by a sturdy donkey, the gift of a sympathetic and wealthy farmer.

“The servant of the Lord should have a carriage,” the man had said.

And when Stephen learned that Renard, whose old master had also been a farmer, knew how to manage the balky beast, he set him to driving it. Gone now was Renard’s almost perpetual sullen scowl. He sat puffed with pride beside Stephen. He had even fashioned a canopy to protect Stephen and himself from the sun. Stephen had asked a local priest to obtain an oriflamme for him, and somehow or other, the priest had managed to do so. Now the flag waved proudly above him.

He beckoned to the leader of the minstrels.

“Go before us,” he ordered. “Let us have music and merriment to lead us on our way!”

So the minstrels sang and capered along the path in front of him. One of the men plucked at the strings of a lyre, another played a flute and sometimes blew on a small, round clay whistle with holes in it that created a piercing tune. A third juggled balls in the air as he pranced along, and a fourth, a very short, very ugly man, tapped on a tambourine to keep them company. This last minstrel had a strange little creature that danced on a leash. It was the size of a dog, but it cavorted on its hind legs like a miniature man. It was covered in brown fur and had a small, worried face, beady little eyes, and ears that sat neatly close to its head. Stephen wondered to see it use its front paws almost as hands. Indeed, they looked more like hands than paws. When the juggler dropped a ball, the beast ran to retrieve it and handed it back to the man. Truly, the animal was a wonder.

The sun was bright, the air hot and buzzing with bees. The townsfolk turned out to speed them off and pressed last-minute gifts of food and wine upon them. Stephen stood tall in his cart as they left the town behind them, his hand resting on Renard’s shoulder. His heart swelled with a pride that threatened to burst through his chest.

As the procession marched away from St. Denys and made its way toward Paris, Stephen sat down beside Renard. He turned to look over his shoulder at the line of people, young and old, stretching behind him. Father Martin walked by his side, having refused Stephen’s offer to ride in the cart with him. Stephen saw Angeline farther on back and called to her.

“Come, Angeline, ride with us.”

She looked up at him. She seemed angry, Stephen thought, but he could think of no reason why she should be. Was this not the most glorious of beginnings to their crusade?

“I have no intention of riding while all these little ones must walk,” she snapped.

Stephen was taken aback. There was no need for such an attitude, surely. Then he had another thought.

“Find the boy who calls himself
le boiteux
, then,” he said. “He would certainly like to ride with me.”

“Too late for that,” she retorted. “He did not come with us when we left St. Denys. He was fearful that he would not be able to keep up.” With that she turned on her heel and melted back into the crowd.

Stephen was momentarily disconcerted, then he shrugged his shoulders. If Angeline was going to be so irritable, there was nothing he could do about it. But her behaviour created a small nugget of disappointment that spoiled somewhat the full glory of the day.

That night, when they assembled around their campfire, he saw that there were two more children hanging onto her skirts. A little girl who sniffled and wept and whose nose ran incessantly, and a young boy who looked to be no more than six years old.

She collects these children like fleas,
Stephen thought.

The boy’s face was smudged and dirty, and a large bruise welled across his forehead. He kept close to Angeline, but would not say a word to anyone, not even to her.

Yves and Marc made enough noise for all of them, however. After they had filled their bellies with soup and bread, they began to strut about, sticking out their scrawny chests to show off the crosses that Angeline had sewn on their ragged tunics. They had made swords out of sticks and were whacking at each other with them and crying out “God wills it!” with every blow. Stephen heaved a sigh of relief when the sound of the minstrels’ music wafted over and the two rascals took themselves off to hear it.

The relief was short-lived, however. They ran back almost instantly with one of the men in hot pursuit.

“Stole the coins out of my hat, they did!” he cried.

Stephen reached out and caught one twin in each hand as they dashed by. He gave them a shake.

“Return them!” he bellowed.

Cowed for once, the two reluctantly opened their palms to display the coins. The man took them and shook an angry finger at the boys.

“If you play a trick like that again, you scurvy little scoundrels, I shall seek you out, hang you up to the nearest tree by your thumbs, and skin you like hares.”

The two were quiet for almost the half of an hour after he left, then set to bashing each other with their swords again.

“Can you do naught with them?” Stephen demanded of Angeline.

“Naught,” she answered shortly. “They have had to walk all day today—let them have their play.”

“Thieving is not play,” Stephen growled, then turned away, angry as well now. He threw himself down beside Father Martin. The priest, however, had his mind on other things.

“We must first make our way to Paris,” he said. “A priest at the abbey told me that news of your crusade has gone
ahead of you. Already children are gathered awaiting us. We can preach our crusade in Paris, then make our way back to Vendôme. That would be a good place to assemble and make ready to start the march south to Marseilles. What think you of that? The same priest was kind enough to draw me a map of the route we should take.” He pulled a parchment out of the pocket of his robe.

Stephen stared at it, but the marks on it were as meaningless to him as his letter had been. Father Martin pointed to a cross at the top.

“There is Vendôme.”

Stephen knew of Vendôme. It was not far from the village where the boys had stoned him. As he stared at the cross on the map, he could not help but nourish a small hope that the boys who had so mistreated him would hear of his crusade as he passed back along that way. Then they would know that he had spoken the truth. And it was close to his own village of Cloyes. Would his father hear the news? And his lout of a brother? What would they think? Would his father be proud of him, then? Would he forgive him for leaving home? When he returned in triumph from Jerusalem, his father would have to see that he had but followed God’s will, and for once it would be he, not Gil, whom his father would praise…

If
he returned. He turned his mind away from that thought.

“Where is Marseilles?” he asked.

Father Martin pointed to the very bottom of the map. It seemed a long way from Vendôme. Beyond it the parchment was blank.

“Is that where we must cross the sea of which I dreamed?” Stephen asked.

“It is,” Father Martin answered.

For a moment Stephen’s heart sank, then he gave himself a shake.

“So be it,” he said. “We will assemble at Vendôme.”