The Scarlet Cross (13 page)

The sun beat down with an ever increasing intensity. Even with water, the children still suffered intolerably from the heat and lack of food. Some sank down on the road, exhausted, and could not be made to get up. Those, too, they had to leave.

Then the land began to rise in gentle hills. Stephen’s foreboding increased.

“There are mountains ahead of us,” Father Martin said.

“How high?” Stephen asked. Stephen had never seen mountains. He could not really imagine what they were like.

“I do not know how high they are. The map does not say,” Father Martin answered. Then he added, “We are going to have to leave the river again.”

“But we need the water,” Stephen protested.

“Nevertheless, we must leave it and go eastwards to Lyons,” the priest said. “It is the only way. But there are certain to be streams in the mountains, and Lyons lies on the bank of another great river, the Rhône. We will be
able to follow it all the way to Marseilles. Water will not be a problem.”

“But first we must cross the mountains?” Stephen asked.

“First we must cross the mountains,” Father Martin answered. “At least at this time of the year there should not be snow, I am told.”

It was well into the month of August when they made the turn eastward toward the mountains some days later. In spite of Father Martin’s assurances, Stephen could not help but look back at the Loire, as they left it, with regret and with trepidation. The road they followed now was narrow and steep. Ahead of them, he could see high crests and peaks of mountains. It was true that there was no snow, nevertheless the air cooled as they climbed. At first it was a relief from the relentless heat, but they were forced to camp that night in an area made dangerous with steep cliffs and ravines. Father Martin had been right, there were mountain streams to supply them with water and that was welcome, but they were so cold and icy that the runoff from them made the path slippery and treacherous.

“Take the word back that children are not to leave the path,” Stephen ordered Renard.

Alys had not been able to keep up with Robert and Geoffrey, so she stayed with Angeline and helped keep her group safe, while Father Martin searched out the waterways and filled their waterskins.

Stephen sat huddled by Angeline’s group. He did not sleep. He could not watch over all of his followers, but at least he could safeguard Angeline. She had not spoken of the attack upon her, but gradually she had begun to come back to herself. Stephen, however, was at a loss as to what
to say to her. He did not know what would comfort her, what would anger her. In his confusion, he had even found himself avoiding her during the day.

Now, he started as he felt a hand upon his shoulder. It was Angeline. For a long while she sat beside him in silence, then finally she spoke, but it was not to talk of the assault.

“Look, Stephen,” she said instead. “Look at the stars in the heavens above us.”

The moon broke free of a cloud just then, and in its silvery light he could see that she sat with her head thrown back. He followed her gaze upwards. The last few remaining clouds had cleared away and it was as if he were looking down instead of up. Down into a bowl of midnight blackness, pinpointed with tiny, impossibly brilliant stars.

“It is so vast, is it not?” Angeline asked.

“It is,” Stephen answered.

“And we are so small,” Angeline went on.

“Small, but not insignificant,” Stephen replied.

“No, not insignificant,” Angeline agreed. “In God’s sight we are all important, are we not?”

“We are,” Stephen answered.

“That is what the priests say,” Angeline said. “I never had much use for priests. Our village priest treated my mother badly, and she did not deserve it. Father Martin is kind, though, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Stephen said. He spoke cautiously, choosing his words with care, almost as if he feared that one misspoken word would frighten her off.

“I owe him much,” Angeline said. “If it were not for him…” her voice trailed off.

“I owe him much as well,” Stephen said.

“Yes,” Angeline agreed. “He has helped you greatly on this crusade.”

“He has,” Stephen said. “I could not have come this far without him.” But that was not what he had meant. Not what he was thinking.

I owe him much because he saved you. I could not go on without you.

That was what he was thinking. The thought was a revelation. He was stunned by it. When had this happened?

The next morning the priests said Mass, but hurriedly. All wanted to be moving on and through the mountains as quickly as possible.

It was with relief that they set out, but the relief soon changed to fear. As they climbed, the air grew increasingly cold. Most of the little ones wore nothing but rags. Many had no cloak to keep them warm, and others were barefoot. The second night they spent in the mountains found them huddling together for warmth, trying to find shelter from the biting wind in whatever nook or cranny they could find. During that night many of the older ones foreswore their vows and deserted to return to the warmer lands they had left. Stephen could not fault them; he only hoped that they made it there.

The morning after that, Stephen had the priests say Mass even earlier—before the sun’s rays found their way down to them. He was in a frenzy to get away from these terrible mountains, back into the warmth. Lyons lay within a day’s march, Father Martin had told him. It was a large and prosperous city—surely there they would find the food and assistance that they needed.

It took prodding and force to get the children moving again. Many, stupefied by the cold, were reluctant to get up. Even Renard balked until Angeline gave him a disdainful kick. But that day they began to descend and the path
grew easier. Spirits rose with the temperature. Finally, they rounded the last turn of the twisting road and there before them lay the city of Lyons, nestled between the Rhône and the Saone rivers.

“Is that Jerusalem?” a small voice asked from behind Stephen.

“Not yet,” Stephen answered. “But the worst is over, I am certain of it.” He tried not to remember that he had thought that before.

Lyons was truly a great city, thronged with people. Priests and monks strode about the streets, merchants and traders plied their wares on every corner. Stephen was still not used to such big cities, and after the silence of the mountains, he felt assaulted with the noise and smells. Here they did receive the sustenance they so badly needed, however. Father Martin led them to a great cathedral and there they were met by the archbishop of Lyons himself.

“You are welcome,” the archbishop announced. “We have been waiting for you and have made arrangements for your comfort. The churches and the cathedrals of the city are open to your followers to sleep in tonight. My priests will lead them there. You may also take shelter in the old Roman amphitheatre,” he added, gesturing to the ruins of a great, circular stone building that looked down upon the city and the cathedral where they stood.

Stephen looked up at the crumbling walls in awe. “It looks very old,” he said.

“It is,” the archbishop replied. “The Romans ruled here many centuries ago and they constructed wondrous buildings.” For a moment an uneasy look crossed his face. “They were pagans,” he said, “but they finally converted to the true faith.”

“What happened to them?” Stephen asked.

“They came as conquerors, and they in turn were conquered by others who came after them,” the archbishop answered.

“It seems that war is the way of the world,” Angeline put in from behind Stephen.

“War in God’s name is holy,” the archbishop said, crossing himself.

To Stephen’s relief, Angeline said no more.

The priests came out to where Stephen’s followers were gathered in a field outside the town, bringing bread and cheese. Then, as the archbishop had promised, the priests led them, children and adults alike, into the town. Stephen hung back until he had seen all cared for. One of the archbishop’s priests waited with Father Martin. Angeline and Renard stayed back as well.

Stephen looked up at the hill above the city where the ancient ruins stood. It was a steep climb—none of the others had chosen to take refuge there. He turned to the group that waited upon him.

“You should go with this priest,” he said. “Seek your shelter in the town. I would spend the night up in those ruins.”

“I will go with you,” Angeline said quickly.

Renard cast her a jealous glance. “No,” he said. “
I
shall.”

Stephen raised a hand to silence them both. He turned to Father Martin. “Have my followers assemble in the field tomorrow morning for Mass, Father. I will come back then.” He could not explain, even to Angeline, how he felt, but he needed to be alone this night. He had much to mull over.

He watched until they disappeared beyond the city gates, then began to climb. By the time he reached the crumbling walls of the old ruins, he was winded, but as he turned to look at the city tucked in between the rivers, he caught his breath with the magnificence of the view.
The air was clear, dusk just falling. Fires flickered here and there within the city. It was the first time he had been alone since he had left Cloyes. Stephen drank in the silence and the solitude as if it were nourishment. Just so had he sat by himself all the days while he tended his sheep. Sat and dreamed impossible dreams. Impossible dreams that had now come true.

At that thought all peace deserted him. No, the dreams he had dreamed had not come true. He had dreamed of glorious battles and victories in the name of God. He had not dreamed of the suffering and death of innocents.

He sat there until the darkness enveloped the city and the fires winked out one by one, then he settled himself in a grassy nook between the stones. Perhaps God would speak to him again this night. Reassure him that the path he followed was the right one.

But it was not to be. His dreams that night were restless and disturbed. Several times he awoke, fancying that he heard screams. When the sun finally sent out its first rays he rose, stiff and sore in body and mind, and made his way back to the field where his followers awaited him.

After Mass, at which the archbishop himself presided, Stephen stood up to preach. He leaped up onto a wall and lifted his arms to the sky, then opened his palms to ask for silence. Only when the last murmurings faded away, did he begin to speak.

“We march now to Marseilles,” he cried. “The worst of our travails is past. You, who have suffered so much but who have persevered with such faith and devotion, will receive your reward. You will stand with me and watch the waters of the great sea that lies between Marseilles and the Holy Land part for us. God has promised me this. We will watch the waters part and then we will walk between their shining walls to Jerusalem. Our victory is near. God wills it!”

Once again the cry arose from every throat: “God wills it! God wills it!”

But when the priests began to distribute food and the children raced to receive it, Father Martin drew Stephen aside.

“You do not look well,” he said.

“I could not sleep,” Stephen answered. “I had dreams—heard strange things…”

“I do not wonder,” Father Martin answered. “That amphitheatre was a place of evil. If I had known, I would have stopped you from going there.”

“Of evil?” Stephen asked. “But the archbishop said the Romans built wondrous buildings!”

“So they did, but before they converted to the true faith they persecuted Christians. In places such as that they killed Christians in barbarous ways. Forced them to fight each other. Forced them to fight and be torn to pieces by wild beasts. That is a place soaked in the blood of Christian martyrs, Stephen.”

The townspeople of Lyons were generous, but they made it very clear that Stephen and his followers would not be welcome for more than two days.

“We have been pleased to follow God’s commandment to give you succour to the best of our ability, but there are too many of you to take care of for any longer,” the archbishop said.

“We thank you for what you have given us,” Stephen replied, kneeling before him. “You have been more than generous.”

“We have but done as our Lord commands us,” the archbishop replied. “You go with my blessing.”

The third day they set out again, following Father Martin’s map.

“We are on one of the ancient Roman roads now,” the priest told Stephen. “I am told it is called the Via Agrippa. It goes south following the Rhône valley. We will have all the water we need as long as we keep close to the river.”

Stephen could see even higher mountains to the east that were still snow-capped. He gave thanks to God in a silent prayer that they would not have to cross those.

The river provided them with water, but again and as always, food was a problem. Some villages were generous, others shut their gates to them and ordered them to be on their way. The farther south they went, the softer the weather grew, and the fields around them were more lush. Here the people had been spared the drought. Breezes carrying foreign, tantalizing scents sprang up to cool them; the sun shone more gently. The road rose and fell in small hills as they passed through Avignon, Provence, and Aix. They were treated with kindness and given food in all three towns. The children were weak, however, their steps faltering. Still, it seemed to Stephen as if he could smell the sea. A current began to run through the whole crusade. A feeling of expectancy.

But it seemed that the closer they got to the sea, the more disturbed Angeline became. One night, as they sat by the fire together, she was restless. Almost irritably, she poked at the fire after Stephen had banked it for the night. As the flames flared up again, Stephen looked at her inquiringly.

“There is something bothering you, is there not?” he asked.

For a moment Angeline did not answer, then she sat back and looked at him. The flames cast shadows on her face. He could not see her eyes.

“This sea,” she said slowly. “I fear it. Is it truly big?”

“It is, so I have been told,” Stephen replied.