Authors: Karleen Bradford
That night Stephen sat late by the dying fire after everyone else had rolled themselves up in their blankets and cloaks. He stared into the embers. In his mind’s eye it seemed he could see the shapes of thousands of people in the flames that flickered and wove themselves around the burned wood. He could see crosses of blood-red scarlet flare up and then disappear into ashes. Unaccountably, even though it was a warm night and the fire still gave off a comfortable heat, he felt a chill shiver through him. He drew the cloak that Father Martin had given him closer and looked away.
How was he to do this thing? The question gnawed at him. So full of plans for the crusade, he had not let himself even think of how he was to conquer Jerusalem, but now, in the darkness, he could not suppress the question. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize himself striding through the gates of Jerusalem followed by hundreds, perhaps thousands of young people. They would be singing, the crosses on their shoulders would burn in the sun. But
there his mind came to a halt and more questions surfaced. What would Jerusalem look like? Would the people welcome them? Who would he speak to? There was a sultan, Father Martin had told him. A kind of king. What if he treated Stephen in the same way that King Philip had? What if that king, too, turned him away? Angeline’s words rose unbidden to his mind:
So Jerusalem is holy to them as well?
He pushed the words away. Jerusalem could not possibly be as holy to an infidel as it was to a Christian. Once he began to preach, the people would see the true way.
Faith. It always came back to that. He had to have faith that he was doing God’s will. That God would show him the way. For now, all he could do was bury the questions and the doubts; preach to the children of France and lead them to Marseilles. Surely when God parted the waters for them, the course he must take would also be revealed to him.
The priest lay at his side, snoring softly. Beyond him, Angeline was curled up, surrounded by her little ones, for all the world like a mother cat with her kittens snuggled close around her. The sight brought back the memory of days and nights when he had nestled newborn orphan lambs to his chest to keep them warm.
For a moment he felt very alone. Who was caring for those lambs now? Had Gil learned how to tease the bellwether into going where he wished, not where she wanted? Stephen had been in charge of the sheep since he was seven years old and he knew their every whim. He could not believe Gil would be a good shepherd. He did not care enough.
As he watched, Angeline stirred in her sleep. She reached out with one hand and drew the child, Dominic, closer to her. Now, when there was no risk of her catching him at it, he let himself look long at her. He knew nothing of maidens. He did not understand how Angeline could be
so caring one moment and so prickly the next. Nor did he understand what it was that he said or did that sometimes raised her hackles. And most of all, why it bothered him so much when she mocked him or was angry. She was only a maid. Why should her opinion be important to him when there were so many other things to worry about?
The next morning, when they all awoke and began to make ready for the day, Stephen sat beside Angeline and shared his bread and cheese amongst her little ones. Almost, he could feel, they were like his lambs. Indeed, almost, they behaved as did the lambs. They butted into him, snatched the bread from his fingers, and then gambolled away to laugh and play. Watching them, Stephen could not help but laugh as well.
“It is time for morning Mass,” Father Martin announced, standing and brushing crumbs from his robe.
Stephen jumped to his feet, then bent and held out a hand to Angeline. She took it, but instead of dropping it when she stood up, she held it for just the smallest speck of time longer. She was smiling as well, but looking at him quizzically.
“Do you know, Stephen,” she said, “this is the first time I have seen you laugh!”
That day they entered Paris. Never could Stephen have imagined such a city. As they drew near the walls he had to throw his head back farther and farther to look up at them.
“So high!” Renard said, his voice filled with wonder. But the marvels were only beginning.
They entered by the Porte St. Denys and the donkey’s hooves clattered onto stones. The streets were paved over! Shops lined both sides of the narrow alley through which
they made their way. Pigeons fluttered and flew from dovecotes on the roofs of the houses. Horses neighed and the rich smell of manure assaulted their noses from the stables tucked in beside the inns and hostels. There were people everywhere, shouting, calling, cursing—Stephen felt overwhelmed, almost smothered. The noise and the smells were overpowering. Paved or not, the streets still ran with offal and sewage. Stephen only had time to see Marc and Yves slopping into a filthy rivulet, then they ran out of sight.
“We must keep together,” he shouted down to Father Martin, who was picking his way carefully alongside Stephen’s cart and holding his robe high. He could not help noticing how scrawny the priest’s bare ankles looked. How grimed with dirt his feet were in his battered boots.
Father Martin turned to look at the procession straggling behind them. His face was alight and his voice excited. “They will follow us,” he called confidently back up to Stephen.
The procession was drawing stares and comments from the multitude through which they passed. Not all of the attention was friendly, however. It seemed that the horde of children invading the city was worrisome to many of the townsfolk.
“We are the children’s crusade of God!” Stephen shouted out, but he was greeted only by open mouths and puzzled eyes.
No matter,
he told himself.
They will listen when I preach.
It was early afternoon. The church bells of the city began to peal nones. Father Martin was leading them now, fairly prancing in front of the cart. Stephen could only suppose that the priest from St. Denys had given him instructions as to where to go.
They passed a huge church in the process of being built. The air was filled with the dust from the stone that was being ground for it. A framework of wood enclosed the structure,
reaching far up into the sky. Men were sawing wood, and carts loaded with supplies jostled Stephen’s poor donkey cart as they forced their way by. Stephen could not believe how immense the building was. Huts clustered around the sides of it—the homes of those who laboured there by the looks of them.
“What is that building?” Stephen called to a passing man.
“The cathedral,” the man shouted back. “The Cathedral of Notre Dame. It will be the wonder of France.”
Stephen could well believe it.
The procession reached the banks of a great river.
“The River Seine,” Father Martin turned back to announce. He was enjoying himself immensely.
Houses were set side by side on the bridge that crossed the river, their upper storeys almost joining those of the houses across from them so that it seemed as if they walked through a tunnel. Here also were the shops of goldsmiths and painters of miniature pictures. There were tables of money-changers, who were singing out what seemed to Stephen to be meaningless babel, but what he imagined must be information of the greatest importance, by the looks of the men and the serious mein of those who listened to them. Finally, as they reached the far side of the bridge, two monks made their way to Stephen’s cart.
“Are you the boy chosen by God to lead a crusade to Jerusalem?” one asked.
Stephen, suddenly aware that his mouth was hanging open and that he was gawking, like the poorest of peasants, snapped his lips closed and drew himself up in his seat.
“I am,” he said, and gestured to Renard to pull the donkey to a halt.
“We have been sent to guide you to our monastery,” the other monk said. “We are Benedictine monks and there is room by our monastery for you to make camp.”
“There are many, many children awaiting you here,” the first monk put in. “Word has spread about the wondrous crusade that you lead.” He crossed himself and bowed his head.
“Did I not tell you?” Father Martin crowed.
Stephen was still not used to a priest or monk bowing to
him
, but before he could say anything, the monk hurried on.
“There are nearly a hundred souls gathered at the orphanage of St. Jean le Rond as well, and more—oh, so many more—waiting in all the churches of Paris and the other monasteries. Truly, we have never seen such a sight!”
They bounded ahead, robes flying, and waved Stephen on to follow them with great sweeps of their arms. The crosses that hung on chains around their necks bobbed and swung with their exuberance. Father Martin hurried after them; Renard had to whip the donkey into a trot in order to keep up with them.
The monks led them outside the city through a farther gate onto the grounds of their monastery, which sat in a vast field. There was indeed room aplenty for them to make camp. Stephen ordered Renard to pull the cart up in the very middle of the field, then he jumped down. Children poured onto the field, chattering and dancing with excitement. The minstrels set up near Stephen and soon campfires were springing up as far around him as he could see. The multitude was so great that it took his breath away.
Monks and priests from the city began to arrive bearing food. Then the townsfolk came with food as well. There would be ample for all, Stephen saw with satisfaction. He remembered Angeline then, and looked around for her. At first he could see her nowhere, then, with relief, he saw her herding her small flock.
“Angeline!” he called, shouting to make his voice heard over the general clamour.
She saw him and her face lightened. Chivvying the children ahead of her, she made her way through the crowd to him.
“Never, never, have I ever seen such a sight,” she said with a gasp and a sigh as she sank down onto the grass at his feet. “So many! So many, Stephen! Did you expect this? Truly?”
“Of course,” Stephen exulted, forgetting almost instantly how astounded he himself had been at the sight. “And there will be more, Angeline. More than you can imagine.”
For a moment Angeline did not answer. She shook her head. “More? How will you manage such numbers? How will you feed them…?”
But Stephen would hear no doubts.
“God will provide,” he said confidently. “He has promised me.”
They stayed two days in Paris. Stephen preached each morning after the priests had said Mass. As he had hoped, the townspeople lost their suspicions and flocked to hear him. The sun shone down unceasingly and all the omens seemed fair. On the third day they left the city amid tumultuous cheers, their numbers even greater than before. As they made their way out of the city, the bells of the new Cathedral of Notre Dame began to peal, and soon all the other churches and chapels joined in. It was a glorious sound and a heart-lifting one, but as they rode on, Stephen noticed that all who gathered to see them off were not rejoicing. Here and there a mother wept, a father cursed. Stephen turned his eyes away from them. They were misguided. Their children were on their way to glory with him.
That night they slept in the fields surrounding Paris. It was June now and summer was full upon them. The next morning dawned, hazy with heat. They had made their
camp near the banks of the River Seine and after the morning Mass, many of the children made their way down to the river to bathe and refresh themselves. Stephen determined to go and fill his waterskins there. A smile teased his lips as he saw Marc and Yves cavorting around as usual. Angeline was watching from the riverbank, Dominic by her side.
Suddenly, Dominic leaped up and raced over to where Marc and Yves were jumping from stone to stone. He tried to imitate them, but the stones were wet. Angeline called to him to come back, but he slipped and fell in the water. Before Angeline could reach him, the current whisked him away. Angeline screamed and ran along the bank beside him, reaching futilely for him.
Stephen was just far enough downstream that the boy was heading straight for him. He dropped his waterskin and plunged into the water, then he lost his footing and fell as well. For one horrible moment he felt himself sucked beneath the surface. The current threw him against one stone and then another. He hit his head. The shock dazed him. The river took hold of him and tumbled him over and over. He could not breathe!
His head broke the surface of the water and he gasped for air, then he sank again. He felt a body bump against him—Dominic! He grabbed hold of the child just as they were swept over a shelf of rock. He managed to surface again long enough to see still water in a pool near the bank. He kicked out with his feet, still hanging on to Dominic. One foot found a purchase on the river bottom and he managed to propel himself and the boy out of the current. Hanging on to Dominic with one hand, he reached for an overhanging branch with the other and managed to take hold of it. A crowd had gathered on the bank. Hands reached out for him, grabbed him, and pulled them out.
Angeline was there to take the child, her face white. Stephen sank down, panting and gasping for air. Dominic threw up a great mouthful of water, then let out a wail.
That night, after the children had settled to sleep, Angeline crept to sit beside Stephen.
“That was brave, what you did today,” she said.
“It was no more than what I would have done for one of my lambs,” Stephen replied.
“But it took courage,” Angeline insisted. “Dominic owes his life to you.” She fell silent, then spoke again. “I was angry with you when we left St. Denys,” she said hesitantly.
“I thought you were,” Stephen answered. “You would not ride in the cart with me. Why not?”
“It angered me to see you riding in such comfort when my little ones had to walk,” she replied.
“But what can I do?” Stephen asked. “I cannot take them all up with me.”
“Perhaps not,” Angeline answered.
“Should I not ride then, either?” Stephen asked.
“Of course you should,” Angeline said. But she did not sound convinced. “I did not think you would become so—prideful,” she added, her voice so low that Stephen was not certain he had heard correctly.