The Scarlet Cross (10 page)

“You think me prideful?” he protested.

“No,” she said quickly. “I should not have said that. You are our leader. Of course you should ride.” She fell silent. Then she spoke again, slowly, choosing her words carefully as if fearful of offending.

“Can you tell me now, Stephen, what your life was like before you were chosen for this mission?” she asked.

At first Stephen could not find the words to answer her. Finally, staring into the fire, he began to tell her about the
fields where he took his sheep, the fields where he had roamed amongst the wreckage and detritus of battle.

“I dreamed then,” he said. “I dreamed of the great battles that men had fought for the sake of God. But never did I think that
I
would be chosen to carry out God’s will.”

“And the man who appeared to you?” Angeline asked. “Who gave you your letter—can you tell me of him?”

“It was not a
man
,” Stephen said. He turned to face her. “It was the Christ himself.”

“How did you know?” Angeline asked, her voice the barest of whispers.

“I knew,” Stephen answered. “I looked into His face and I knew.”

“But today,” Angeline went on. “Today you might have drowned. What would have happened then? Who would then carry on the mission He gave you?”

“I am doing God’s work,” Stephen answered. He looked away from her and raised his chin defiantly. “He would not let me die.”

But for one instant that day Stephen had thought that he might.

And did Angeline really think he was becoming prideful?

The journey to Vendôme increased Stephen’s worries. The weather grew even hotter. No rain fell. The sun beat down upon them unmercifully, and once they left the River Seine behind, there was little water to be found along the way. The small streams that they crossed were, for the most part, dried up. Stephen could see that the fields through which they passed were parched, even this early in the season. Villagers were generous and gave what food they could to the children passing through, but there was not enough. By the time they reached Vendôme almost a week later, many of the children were weak with hunger and exhaustion. Even so, many more had joined along the way, and when they finally drew up to the fields surrounding the city, it was to see thousands of people, young and old, encamped there waiting for them.

“It is an army,” Renard whispered in awe.

Stephen leaped to his feet in the cart and steadied himself by grasping onto Renard’s shoulder. He swivelled his
head from side to side, almost unable to believe what he was seeing. Renard guided the donkey into the midst of the crowd. They were immediately surrounded by a cheering, shouting mass. For a moment, all worry forgotten at the incredible sight, Stephen could do nothing but drink in the glory of it. He had done it! It
was
an army, and
he
had created it. He would prove wrong all those who had doubted him—who had not supported him. He would prove the king of France wrong! Those who followed him would be glorified and praised by Christendom forever.

He felt a surge of triumph and grasped Renard’s shoulder even more tightly. Then he took a deep breath and, as Renard brought the cart to a halt, he raised both arms high. Immediately, as if noise had been turned off by an invisible hand, the whole multitude fell silent.

What power I have over them!
Stephen exulted. He began to speak.

“My flock!” His voice rang out over the fields. “My faithful followers! Jerusalem
shall
be ours! With faith such as yours we will succeed where our fathers failed. We will march to the edge of the great sea, and there you will see God’s promise fulfilled. The waters will part for us and we will walk through them to Jerusalem. Who will dare to oppose us when they see this miracle? Who will not either run from us in terror or fall on their knees to worship the one true God? This I promise you. God wills it!” he cried.

And from thousands of throats the cry echoed back. It echoed in the air, in Stephen’s body and in his soul until he was filled with it.

“
God wills it! God wills it!
”

But then the crowd surged forward. Before Renard could ward them off, two boys clambered onto the cart and tugged at Stephen’s tunic.

“Bless me,” one of them cried. “You have spoken with our Lord! Give me your blessing!”

“A token,” the other clamoured. “I would have a token!”

To Stephen’s horror, the boy grasped his hair and pulled a strand out. Stephen raised his hand to his head, shocked at the sudden pain.

“Away!” Renard shouted. “Away with you!”

But even as he cried out, more boys surrounded them. Older people, too, grasped at the cart and rocked it in their frenzy to get near Stephen. Then a woman yanked at the donkey’s tail to get a hair from it. At that, the donkey, panicked by the noise and the press of people around it, gave a mighty kick. The woman dodged aside, but another man was not so fortunate. The kick landed squarely on his knee. He fell with a scream of pain. For an instant the crowd drew back. Renard seized the opportunity to whip the donkey into motion. For the first and perhaps the last time in its stubborn life, the donkey surged forward and galloped through the crowd, scattering people left and right. Stephen was thrown back down onto the seat and he held on, stunned, cringing away from grasping hands.

It wasn’t until they had found a copse of trees at the farthest edge of the field, that Renard drew the beast to a halt. Trembling, Stephen allowed Renard to help him down. To his relief, no one followed them.

When he knelt to make his confession to Father Martin that night, his stomach still churned. Never had he been so frightened.

“Angeline said I was becoming prideful,” he whispered. “She was right. And I have been punished for it.”

“Peace, my son,” Father Martin answered. “It was not your fault.” The words were meant to comfort, but Stephen saw a cloud in the priest’s eyes that had not been there before.

The abbot of the great Abbey of the Trinity sent for Stephen and Father Martin the following morning. Still shaken by the events of the day before, Stephen followed Father Martin to the abbey steps. There a monk awaited them. Without speaking, the monk gestured for them to follow him. They trailed him through the vast, gloomy aisles of the Abbey, then he pulled aside a curtain covering a doorway and motioned to them to go through into a room carpeted richly and hung with tapestries. Candles burned in sconces on every wall.

The abbot stood, robed and imperious, waiting for him. For a moment Stephen quailed. What if this abbot were no more encouraging than the abbot of St. Denys?

He felt Father Martin’s hand squeeze his arm. The priest bowed his head and Stephen made haste to follow suit, his heart thumping in his chest.

Nevertheless, when the abbot spoke, his voice was kindly, his manner friendly.

“Come, Stephen,” he said. “Tell me your story.”

Still Stephen hesitated. His tongue seemed swollen to twice its size. He stammered. He felt Father Martin give his arm another squeeze and slowly his wits returned to him. He spoke then, and repeated yet again the story of all that had befallen him. As he spoke, the familiar words came more and more easily to him, until finally they poured forth without effort. When he had finished, exhausted, he sank to his knees at the abbot’s feet. The abbot laid a hand on his head.

“Go with my blessing, Stephen,” he said. “You are doing God’s work. Surely He will grant you and your followers a triumph such as Christendom has never seen.”

It was with a lighter heart and a firmer step that Stephen made his way back to where Renard had tethered the donkey
and Angeline was busy setting the fire. He gave the donkey a grateful scratch behind the ears as he watched the monks giving out chunks of cheese, water, and a knob of bread to every child who asked for it. The lines of waiting children soon stretched across the fields. There seemed to be enough for all, no matter how great the numbers, and the minstrels strolled through the crowd playing and collecting coins. The whole gathering had the atmosphere of a fair. Father Martin and the other priests had issued stern warnings at Mass that morning about endangering Stephen. There was no sign of the previous day’s hysteria.

Now, surely, the worst is over,
Stephen thought, then jumped as the donkey bit him.

They stayed at Vendôme for several weeks. Stephen preached every day, and every day more and more followers joined him. To his surprise, even well-born boys from noble families arrived to join his army, many with their own horses and weapons. Stephen frowned when he saw their shields and swords—his was to be an army that would conquer by faith alone, but these newcomers were proud and haughty and would not think of riding weaponless. Stephen was forced to give in to them if he wanted them to join him—and he did. With knights such as these by his side, people would see how important his crusade was.

Two of them, brothers named Robert and Geoffrey, rode armoured and splendidly attired. Their horses were magnificent, the bridles rang with silver. They were the sons of a great and noble family, they told Stephen, and they had grown up with the shield and sword, the lance and helm of their father, hanging in their great hall. On many a night they had sat and listened to the tales their father told of his crusade to the Holy Land.

“We could not wait to follow in his footsteps and set off on crusade ourselves,” Robert said.

“And he gave you his blessing?” Stephen asked.

“He did,” Geoffrey answered. “He believed that war in the name of God is man’s highest calling. He rode with King Philip on our king’s crusade and his only regret was that it had ended in a truce with the Muslim leader Salah-ud-Din.”

“A cowardly truce, he called it,” Robert put in scornfully. “Agreed to by that dog of an English king, Richard. Our father bade us go forth and avenge the honour of France, and so we have joined you.”

“But they seem to be doing it as if it were a favour they grant you,” Angeline remarked later as she fed twigs into the evening campfire. “There’s little of loyalty there, I think.”

“You misjudge them, Angeline, surely,” Stephen replied. But in his heart he was not entirely happy with these new followers.

When Stephen finally rode out of Vendôme, it was at the head of an exultant army. Red crosses adorned the shoulders or breast of nearly every person who followed him. Many carried the oriflamme, and the flags waved in the light summer breeze. Still more carried crosses, large and small. The prayers and the chanting of the monks and priests put spirit into the soul of every child and adult. In spite of his protests, the two young knights appointed themselves his escort and rode one on either side of him. He had to admit that they did make an impressive sight, but as the noise of their horses’ trappings jangled in his ears, it seemed that they cut him off even more from his followers. Renard gloried in it, but when Angeline saw them she turned away with a sniff of disgust.

That night Robert and Geoffrey set up a luxurious tent near where Stephen and Angeline had made camp. They had hired a girl to cook their evening meal for them. Angeline watched their elaborate setting up procedures with tight lips.

“You still do not approve of those two, do you?” Stephen asked, as children held out their bowls to be filled by Angeline.

“They are arrogant,” Angeline answered shortly. “They think themselves much too good for the rest of us.”

“But they wish to help liberate Jerusalem,” Stephen protested. “How could I not make them welcome?”

“They wish to fight,” Angeline said stubbornly. “I have heard them talk. They polish their weapons lovingly. I believed we were to conquer the heathens by our faith alone.”

Her words stung. They jabbed at Stephen’s own misgivings. Perhaps because of that, his reply was curt.

“It is not for you to judge the motives of those who join us,” he said. Truth to tell, he was more in awe of the highborn boys than he would like to admit.

Angeline started to reply, but was stopped short by a shout and a cry.

Yves and Marc, of course. In trouble again. The young knights had tethered their horses in a copse of trees beside their tent. One of the animals was rearing up and pawing at the air, snorting and neighing. The shout had come from Robert and the scream from Yves.

“Get away from that horse!” Robert yelled.

Yves was on the ground, shrieking as the horse’s hooves plunged into the ground a handsbreadth from his head.

“We just wanted to pat him,” wailed Marc, trying in vain to reach his brother.

“You do not pat warhorses!” Geoffrey had emerged from the tent as well and was trying to catch the flying bridle.

Angeline was on her feet in an instant. She ran to Yves and snatched him away just as the horse reared again.

“He is naught but a boy!” she cried. “Control that beast of yours!”

“He’ll be a dead boy if I catch him near my horse again,” Geoffrey retorted. “If Warrior doesn’t kill him, I will.”

“You’ll not touch him,” Angeline shouted, holding Yves close.

“I
will
,” Geoffrey retorted.

At that moment the young girl who was making their supper intervened.

“Young masters, will you not sup? Your food is ready.” Her soft voice cut through the anger.

The two knights turned their backs on Angeline and stomped over to their fire. The horses moved restlessly and their eyes flared, but they seemed to be quietening.

Stephen followed Angeline. He caught her elbow.

“I’ll carry the boy,” he said. “Come away, now. Don’t make trouble.”

“It is not I who am making trouble,” Angeline snapped. “And did you see? They had a chicken in their pot. A chicken! I suppose they have coins enough to buy what they want, but not manners enough to share.”

Later that evening, just as they were settling down for the night, a figure emerged from the darkness. Stephen looked up, at once wary, then recognized the girl who served Robert and Geoffrey.

“My name is Alys,” she said. “I came to see if the lad was all right.”

“I believe so,” Stephen answered. In truth, he had very little sympathy for Yves.

“He got but a bump on his head,” Angeline said as she banked the fire. “He is used to bumps on his head,” she added wryly. “He and his brother seem to live for trouble.”

“That they most certainly do,” Stephen said. He walked a short distance away and settled himself down under a
tree. When he finally closed his eyes and slept, Alys and Angeline were still by the remains of the fire, talking.

The next morning Alys was back at the knights’ camp, setting out bread and cheese for the breaking of their fast.

Stephen watched her for a moment, then turned to Angeline.

“You and that girl talked long last night,” he said.

“We did,” Angeline replied. “She has had a hard life. Much harder than I. I had a loving mother—until she died. Alys has known nothing but beatings since she was a child. She was abandoned as a babe at an inn. The innkeeper and his wife used her most cruelly. When she heard you speak, you seemed to be a salvation for her.”

“And now she serves the young knights as she served her old masters?” Stephen asked, his voice dubious.

“They give her food and they do not beat her,” Angeline answered. “She is content with that.”

“In Jerusalem…” Stephen began, “in Jerusalem she may find a happier life.”

“That is what she prays for,” Angeline said. She was silent for a moment, then she added quietly. “I think I may have found a friend. I have never had a friend.” She turned and began to round up her charges.

Stephen looked after her. He was vaguely irritated, but could not immediately think why. It would be good for Angeline to have a friend, he told himself. Surely he was not jealous? Of a maid?