The Scarlet Cross (12 page)

“We need food, Renard,” Stephen answered shortly.

“But,” Renard protested, “what will we do without them?”

“We will walk,” Stephen answered.

A short time later the man reappeared, bearing a sack. Another man accompanied him, carrying the waterskins. The skins were loose and half empty.

“Bread is all we can spare,” the man said. “And precious little water. Our well is running dry.”

A pitiful exchange for a donkey and cart, but Stephen was desperate.

“You said you would take anything,” the gatekeeper began, expecting an argument.

“I did,” Stephen answered. He got down from the cart and signalled to Renard to do likewise. He walked over to the man and held his arms out for the sack. “I meant it.”

When Stephen and Renard returned to the field where Father Martin waited, the rest of Stephen’s followers were straggling in. Father Martin’s face was purple with the heat, but he and some of the other priests and monks were going from group to group, sharing out the last sips of water. Stephen gave Father Martin the sack of bread and some of the waterskins.

“Where are the cart and donkey?” Father Martin asked.

“I traded them,” Stephen answered, and tried to ignore the priest’s look of surprise. Did Father Martin think the cart and beast were so important to him? Then, with a flush of shame, Stephen realized that the priest had every right to think so.

He looked around for Angeline, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had been disdainful of the luxury he had been so pleased to indulge in—
she
would approve of his trading it for food. The thought almost gave him pleasure enough to compensate for the loss, but he hoped the donkey’s new
master was kind. He had grown fond of the beast in spite of its ill nature.

It was not until much later that Angeline walked into the camp, however. She trudged along with her head down, seemingly oblivious to the small group of children that trailed her. This was not like her at all. Stephen stared at her. Her clothes were little more than rags by now, and she was barefoot. She was dirtier than she had ever been and she looked gaunt and ill. He called to her, but she seemed not to hear. Troubled, Stephen made his way through the horde of people that were settling down and making their campsites for the night. The field was already overrun and trodden by the hundreds of feet, and strewn with garbage. Scrawny, half-starved dogs ran here and there in between the campsites, scavenging for whatever pitiful scraps they could find. The encampment was eerily silent. No singing now, not even the usual cacophony of shouts, cries, and curses. No one had the energy for it. Stephen stopped for a moment to share his waterskin with a small child who lay motionless beside an older girl. When he offered the skin to the girl she grabbed it, and before he could stop her, drained it dry. Stephen started to reprimand her, then stopped. He could not bring himself to chastise her.

He reached Angeline’s side and held out his hand, but she ignored it.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

Angeline looked back at him with hollow eyes that seemed far too big for her face. The incandescent light that had so mesmerized Stephen on that first day, had gone out. Her eyes looked dead. And sad beyond belief.

“Yves and Marc died today,” she said. “They just lay down and died in each other’s arms. I could not bury them. The ground is too hard. I scratched at it with my spoon,
but I could not make a hole big enough. I had to leave them there. All alone.”

She dropped to the ground. Stephen sank down beside her. He started to put an arm around her shoulders, to comfort her, then dropped it, unsure as to whether she would want him to do so.

“What can we do, Stephen?” Angeline asked.

Stephen hesitated for a long moment. How to answer her? How could he give her strength when he truly had none left himself?

“I know it is hard,” he said finally. “But we must go on.” He was stopped by the look on her face. “What else
can
we do?” he pleaded, almost desperately.

“That is all you can say?” Angeline demanded. She lifted her head and her eyes blazed for a moment. “Children are dying every day! Dominic, Yves, Marc…so many others…
You must do something
, Stephen. You
have
to do something!”

Stephen felt his heart twist with pain.

“I cannot provide food when there is none to be had!” he burst out. “I cannot make dry rivers fill with water!”

“You said this was God’s crusade,” Angeline insisted, her voice shrill. “You said the Lord would provide. You promised!”

“And you said you could endure whatever suffering we might face,” Stephen shot back.

“And so I can,” Angeline cried. “It is for the little ones that I grieve.”

“Pray for them then,” Stephen said. “That is all we can do. We must pray for them.”

“God can make a headless man walk,” Angeline spat out the words, “but he cannot feed His innocent children?”

“How dare you!” Stephen cried, torn beyond endurance. “How dare you question our Lord’s wisdom?”

Brave words, but he had to leap quickly to his feet and stride away before she could see the tears that brimmed in his eyes.

Stephen walked with the others when they left the next morning. Robert and Geoffrey gave him a contemptuous look and hastened to ride with the other young knights at the head of the procession, leaving Alys to walk with Angeline.

“Am I being punished for my pride?” Stephen asked Father Martin. Before the priest could answer Angeline broke in.

“It is not you who is being punished,” she said. “It is the dead children we leave behind us who are being punished.”

Stephen bit his lip and said no more. When he came to a small boy sitting by the side of the road, he scooped him up and carried him.

Matters grew even worse over the next few days. They found water at a river that Father Martin’s map identified as the Sauldre, but the only food to be had was what could be found in the woods or what could be stolen from some luckless farmer’s field. Stephen did not even bother to turn his head away so as not to see the thievery. Surely God would forgive them. No villagers came out to offer food. Not even the haughty young knights could find any who would exchange food for their coins. The fields through which they passed were dry and sere. What crops had managed to grow were stunted and sparse. To Stephen’s dismay, when he looked back he could see that though more children died every day, his followers were still so numerous that besides taking what they could, often they trampled the few remaining crops. He looked at the ruination and hardened his heart against the guilt that threatened to
overcome him. The needs of his crusade must take precedence. It was God’s will.

Finally, they reached the Loire again. Stephen set down the child he had been carrying and the boy ran to join the hordes of children who plunged into the water with shouts and cries of joy. As they made their camp by the riverbank, the skies clouded over and it began to rain. Stephen lifted his face to the merciful wetness and gave thanks. There was still no food, but there was water. That evening, for the first time in days, Stephen preached.

They marched on the next morning and reached the town of Sancerre by evening. Here, at last, Stephen found his prayers answered. The drought had not been as bad in these parts, and the townsfolk came out to them, bringing whatever they could give.

“We have heard of your crusade,” one elder said to Stephen. “We have been expecting you and we will help you as best we can.”

And help they did. Food was given to them unstintingly. Grain was brought for the horses. Robert and Geoffrey finally stopped grumbling and set Alys to work cooking their evening meal. Village fishermen caught fish in the river and brought them to Stephen by the basketful. Angeline cooked and boiled and smiled for the first time in weeks, as she ladled out bowlfuls of rich, hearty soup.

Stephen preached after Mass that evening. Stomach full, looking out over the crowd of smiling faces, he preached with renewed faith and vigour.

“God has not deserted us,” he cried. “Nor will He! We have passed the test. We have survived. We
will
reach Jerusalem!”

The roar that greeted his words filled his soul with as much strength as had the food that filled his belly.

The villagers were generous, but for many of the children it was too late. Hunger and sickness had taken their toll.
When Stephen’s crusade departed, they left behind a score more of small bodies buried under the trees. The villagers lent them shovels with which to dig graves. The priests gave the last rites.

It was small consolation.

They followed the River Loire south. Water was no longer a problem, but food remained so. Some villages overwhelmed them with generosity, giving all they had, but others shut their gates and bade them be gone. There was never enough.

“The children are still dying,” Angeline said. Stephen tried not to hear.

“I must speak to you,” Father Martin said one night. His face was grim.

“What is it now, Father?” Stephen replied. He could not keep the weariness out of his voice.

“These older people in our company…” the priest began.

Stephen waited for what the priest would say with a sinking heart.

“…some of them are good, devout Christians, and they help the younger ones as best they can,” Father Martin said. “But not all. There are some who prey on the smaller ones. They steal food. They steal what clothing the children have. And worse.”

“Worse?” Stephen echoed. He did not want to hear what the priest would say next.

“Worse,” Father Martin repeated. “They force the children to do their will. They make slaves of them.”

Though Stephen wished with all his heart not to believe the priest’s words, he could not help but do so. He also had seen men, and women too, who abused the smaller
ones around them. He stopped it when he saw it happening, but he knew that there must be much going on that he could not prevent. The brief surge of elation he had felt at Sancerre had ebbed. Again, he felt the worms of doubt eating at his soul.

“Have I been misled, Father?” he asked. “Have I been duped—perhaps even used as a tool of the devil himself as that priest said? Was King Philip right and I wrong? I, the arrogant one?”

Father Martin sat for a long time before replying. Stephen awaited his words with a sinking heart. If Father Martin had given up, then all was certainly lost.

“I do not think so, Stephen,” he said at last.

The words were the ones Stephen wished to hear, but the tone of voice in which they were spoken offered little reassurance.

“I do not think so,” the priest repeated slowly. And then he echoed Stephen’s own words to Angeline. “Who are we to question the ways of the Lord?”

“But what of all those innocents who trusted in me?” Stephen asked. “Who believed my promises, and who died?” He could not keep the anguish out of his voice.

“Those little ones are with God now,” Father Martin replied.

“But they suffered,” Stephen said. “They suffered, and those who still live suffer as well. How can I justify that?”

“It is not for you to justify anything,” Father Martin replied. His voice was stern. “Did not Jesus suffer? The Lord gave you a commandment, you must obey it. This is a wondrous task you have been set, Stephen. Who would ever have believed that a boy such as you would have been chosen by God for such a venture?” As he spoke, his voice grew stronger, more exultant. “I prayed for so long for another crusade, but never did I imagine that
I
would be
so blessed by God that I would be allowed to be a part of it. You must have faith, Stephen. You must not waver!”

Stephen subsided into silence. He believed Father Martin. He
had
to believe him. But the sound of a nearby child sobbing in tired desperation ate into his very soul.

One day, as they made camp, Stephen realized that Ange-line was not with them.

“I think she stopped to rest,” Father Martin said. “She will certainly catch up to us later.”

But she did not reappear and Stephen grew increasingly worried.

“I am going to walk back a bit,” he said to Father Martin.

“I will come with you,” the priest said. He, too, looked anxious.

They made their way back against the flow of children. Stephen was shocked all over again to see how dispirited and exhausted they were. No singing now. No noise at all. They had not enough energy left even to talk. But, as Stephen and Father Martin rounded a bend, they saw a knot of men and women and heard raucous laughter. They were watching someone or something on the ground. As Stephen and the priest drew near, they realized with horror what the source of the group’s coarse amusement was.

Angeline lay on the ground. A bearded, heavyset man was crouched above her. He had pinned her arms down, and as Stephen and Father Martin watched, shocked, he threw himself upon her.

Stephen ran forward, but Father Martin was too quick for him. The priest snatched up a stick from the ground and charged at the man, his black robe flying. He swung the stick at his back with all the force he could muster.

“Be off with you!” he cried. “Swine! Worse than swine! Be off with you, I say!”

He laid about him with the stick, hitting everyone indiscriminately, until the women screamed and the men ran.

Stephen rushed to Angeline’s side. She lay white and still, her eyes closed.

“Bring water,” Father Martin commanded a boy who was standing near, open-mouthed.

The boy sprinted off and returned with a wet cloth. Father Martin began to bathe Angeline’s face. Stephen reached for her hand. Only when she opened her eyes did he breathe again.

“I thought you to be dead,” he said.

That night Stephen would not let Angeline make the evening soup. He insisted that she sit while Alys and he fed the little ones, then he brought a bowl of the thin broth to her. He sat by her and watched anxiously as she ate.

“Are you certain you are all right?” he asked. “You are not hurt?”

“I am well,” Angeline answered, but the tone of her voice gave the lie to her words. No matter how much Stephen tried to console her, she sat cold and frozen with shock. Finally, he could bear it no longer. He dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook.

“It was not supposed to be like this,” he whispered. “It was not supposed to be like this.”