Authors: Karleen Bradford
They knelt for Father Jean-Paul’s blessing, then Father Martin led Stephen quickly along the road that made its way out of the village. A road that Stephen had never before in his life trodden.
Stephen turned to take one last look at all he was leaving behind. Perhaps he would never see his village again. His father or his brother. He stared at the small patch of garden outside the church door. At the well in the centre of the village
green. At the path that stretched back toward his hut. Though it had given him little comfort, he was leaving everything that was familiar to him—perhaps forever. Would he, too, die in the Holy Land as had the steward’s father?
No. He was to triumph. The stranger had promised him that.
It is God’s will,
Stephen told himself desperately.
It
must
be
.
Father Martin set a fast pace; Stephen had to stretch his long legs to keep up with him. He was bursting with questions, but he kept silent until the priest spoke.
“I know not how this thing has come to pass with you, Stephen,” he said, “nor do I know how you are to accomplish what you have been commanded to do, but this I do know. God will show you the way. You must have faith.”
“But why me?” Stephen burst out, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “I am nothing! A boy who tends sheep. Who would ever follow me? Who will believe me?”
“I believe you, to start with,” Father Martin replied. “Have faith,” he repeated.
Stephen fell silent again, but Father Martin’s words did little to comfort him or to quell the chaos of his mind.
Stephen had been far too troubled that morning to think of food, but by midday he could no longer ignore the hunger pangs and rumbles in his empty belly. He was relieved when they reached a small stream and Father Martin
paused by its banks. The priest threw down his bundle and knelt to drink.
“We will rest here, Stephen. I do not think your father will have followed us this far, if, indeed, he followed us at all. If he went to the church to complain, Father Jean-Paul will have sent him packing. The good father believes in you, even as I do. He has no tolerance for anyone who tries to thwart God’s will.”
“The letter is so powerful?” Stephen asked.
“It is.”
“Could you read it to me?” Stephen begged. “I truly know not what it says.”
Father Martin sat on the grass and undid his pack. “Sit, Stephen. We will share the bread and cheese that I have brought with me, then I will read it to you.”
Stephen wrapped the chunk of cheese the priest gave him in a heel of bread and wolfed it down without tasting it. He slaked his thirst with the cool water from the stream, wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand, then settled down again beside the priest. Almost as if he were afraid to touch it, Stephen took the letter out of the pouch and handed it to Father Martin. The priest unrolled it slowly and began to read.
Hear now, God’s word, all ye who read this!
This missive commands the shepherd boy, Stephen of Cloyes, to lead a crusade of the young to the Holy Land. He has been chosen by God to do what men have failed to accomplish. By the power of their faith alone, he and his followers shall confront the heathen and force them to acknowledge the One True God. He will restore Jerusalem to Christianity.
Stephen is charged to take this missive to King Philip of France. King Philip, in God’s holy name, will help him with every means possible.
God wills it!
Father Martin handed the letter back to Stephen. Stephen stared at the markings on the parchment.
“But…?” he began. “Who wrote this missive?” he asked. “I believe it came from God,” he added quickly, as Father Martin’s brows rose, “but surely a man must have fashioned the letters on the parchment? Surely God did not just cause them to be there?”
“Do you question our Lord’s ability to do anything He chooses to do?” Father Martin asked, his brows furrowed now and his face stern.
“No,” Stephen answered quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. “No, of course not, Father.” But he was not satisfied.
The priest sighed. “God finds many ways to convey His commands, Stephen,” he said. “It would not be impossible for Him to inspire some holy man to write down His words.”
Stephen mulled the answer over in his head. It made sense to him. He could accept that.
“But…?” he began again.
“More ‘buts,’ Stephen?” the priest asked.
“The man,” Stephen stuttered. “The man who appeared to me. Who was he? Was it he who wrote the words?”
“Perhaps,” Father Martin answered. “And perhaps he was not a man at all.” He crossed himself. “It is not for you to question, Stephen. You have been commanded by God—you must obey. With faith. Without questions. Now, how long is it since you have made your confession?” he asked, briskly changing the subject.
Stephen knelt before the priest. He confessed to his usual sins of failure to respect his father, failure to pray as often as he should, failure to control his temper.
“And I left my sheep,” he added. “I abandoned them.” The thought of them still weighed heavily upon him. He did not confess to the terrible confusion in his mind. To the questions that still tormented him.
As they tidied up the remains of their simple meal and made ready to get on their way, Stephen heard the pealing of distant church bells.
Father Martin raised his head and looked in their direction. “I know the priest in that village,” he said. “We will make our way there and he will give us shelter tonight. Tomorrow we will begin our journey.”
But for Stephen, the journey had already begun.
They came upon the village late that afternoon. To Stephen’s eyes it seemed not much different from his own. A cluster of thatched huts straggled along the road leading into it. A village green nestled at its centre. Women here also filled jars at the well. Across the green a small stone church sat complacently in the sun. A few chickens scrabbled around its courtyard. Beside it was an enclosed space with weathered gravestones and tilted crosses. White flowers glistened on an early-flowering vine that climbed the fence and spilled over onto a low stone wall. Stephen could smell their fragrance, wafted over to him by an errant spring breeze.
Some boys of about his own age lounged against the wall. They watched Stephen and Father Martin curiously as the two approached. One of them, a tall, hulking boy who instantly reminded Stephen of Gil, raised his eyebrows and made a remark behind one hand to the others. They broke into smothered laughter. Father Martin took no notice of them.
“Stay here, Stephen,” he said. “I will go in and talk with Father Pierre. I will call you when he is ready to speak with you.”
Father Martin strode up the crumbling steps into the church. Stephen was left standing, at a loss as to what to
do, when the taller boy shambled over to him and looked him up and down.
“A shepherd boy, that’s what
you
look like,” he said. “But not from around these parts. And what might you be doing here, then? Searching for your sheep?”
The words were not so rude, but the boy’s manner was. Stephen bristled. His first thought was to tell the boy to mind his own affairs, then he remembered the letter now safely stowed in his pouch. Again he heard the voice of the stranger.
“
Preach to the young people of France, summon them to follow you.
”
It was God’s will, he had said. God’s will that he gather a band of young people such as himself to him, and here—here and now—he could begin! Stephen stood fast, gathered up his courage, and looked the boy in the eye.
“I
am
a shepherd,” he said. “But
you
are my sheep.”
A bad choice of words. The boy looked astounded, then angry.
“Sheep, do you call me?” he burst out. His face purpled and he looked even more like Gil.
Stephen realized his mistake. He hastened to explain.
“I am on a mission,” he said. “I have been charged by God to lead a crusade to the Holy Land. You can be the first to join me! Come with me. We will be the ones to redeem Jerusalem for Christianity. This I have been promised!” In Stephen’s enthusiasm, the words tumbled out so quickly, his tongue tripped over them.
The anger changed to a jeer. The boy turned to the others behind him and let out a whoop of laughter.
“It’s not his sheep he’s lost,” he crowed. “It’s his wits!”
“It is the truth!” Stephen cried. “You
must
believe me! I have been chosen by God!”
But at that the laughter turned to fury. The boy picked up a stone.
“Blasphemy!” he shouted. “You speak blasphemy!”
“Blasphemy!” another boy echoed, and then the cry was taken up by all of them.
The youth who held the stone threw it. It grazed Stephen’s shoulder. The others were quick to join in, and stones rained down upon him. For an instant he stood frozen, then he ran for the sanctuary of the church.
Neither Father Martin nor Father Pierre was anywhere to be seen. Stephen fell to his knees before the altar, bruised and shaking. The boys did not dare to follow him. He had barely managed to bring himself under control when Father Martin entered through a low door in the back wall.
“What is the matter?” the priest asked, looking at Stephen with concern.
Stephen swiped at the blood that ran down his forehead and into his eyes. “I fell,” he answered.
At that moment another priest entered the church through the same door. When he saw Stephen, he stopped short, then crossed himself.
“I am Father Pierre,” he said. “You are welcome here, my son. Welcome to share my food and to take shelter here this night. Father Martin has told me of your holy visitation.” He laid his hand on Stephen’s shoulder in blessing.
This priest’s acceptance of him and of his mission should have comforted Stephen, but it did not. That night he lay on the rushes of the church floor, wrapped in a woollen cloak that the good Father Pierre had procured for him. The priest had shared his evening meal with his two guests, and although it had been simple, the food had filled Stephen’s belly. His body was satisfied, but not his mind. He had not been able to speak to Father Martin of what had happened with the village boys, but he could not stop thinking of it.
How could he possibly do God’s bidding? What if it happened again? What if the young people of France would not listen to him? What if they greeted him everywhere with jeers and stones?
He tossed and turned; his hand throbbed with pain. Finally, he rose quietly to his feet, so as not to disturb Father Martin who snored beside him, and crept out of the church. In the moonlight he sat on the flower-strewn wall, inhaled again the scent. Surely, surely, God would not have set him on this mission if He had not thought that he could carry it out.
“You must obey,” Father Martin had ordered him. “With faith. Without questions.”
He had always said his prayers to the best of his abilities, accompanied his father to church on Sundays, and listened to the priests. Their holy words had comforted and inspired him. He had believed that he had faith, but did he? This was so far beyond anything that he could ever have imagined.
He sat there while the moon rose and while it descended again. A little before dawn he finally went back to his nest in the church. At last he slept, but his sleep was troubled by strange dreams. Voices called to him, some entreating, some commanding, but the message was always the same.
You, Stephen, you are the one. You will lead a crusade of innocents and you will deliver Jerusalem, the holiest of cities, back to us.
Father Martin woke him the next morning as the church bell began to peal prime.
“We must make ready, Stephen,” he said. “It will be good to be on the road early.”
Stephen stared at him. The dawning of the sun did not
bring confidence. Instead, he was weary and troubled beyond the telling of it. His doubts and fears were magnified tenfold.
“I cannot do this, Father,” he whispered. “Surely there is some mistake. It is knights and princes who go forth to battle, who wield swords and achieve glorious victories in God’s name, not miserable shepherd boys like me. Not unarmed children!”
“There is no mistake, Stephen,” Father Martin replied. “Of that I am certain. It is your own name that is inscribed in the letter. ‘
The shepherd boy, Stephen of Cloyes,
’ it says. You, Stephen, are the chosen one. Our task now is to do as you were bade and show this letter to the king. He will tell us what to do next.” The priest tidied up his pack and slung it over his shoulder with a flourish.
But despite Father Martin’s eagerness and absolute conviction, his words only increased Stephen’s dread. Show his letter to the king of France? Speak to him? Even if such a thing could come to pass, he was as terrified of that as he was of the whole quest.
At first, because they were on the road so early, they saw no one else. They were accompanied only by the occasional bird and small animal scuttling in the woods through which they walked, but gradually the road became busier. Stephen found himself gawking at the passersby. It seemed that it was market day in the next town—a town that must certainly be bigger than Stephen’s small village. Everything was new to him. Strange. Never before had he ventured so far from his home. He found himself walking closer and closer to Father Martin, for protection.
Carts rumbled by. Men and women carrying bundles joined the procession and trudged along with them—they called out cheery greetings and requests for blessings from the priest, which he was quick to give. Stephen was amazed at the ease with which Father Martin talked with these strangers; he himself was much too intimidated to join in. One man called out a ribald comment which set Stephen to blushing, but Father Martin did not appear shocked at all.
Stephen cast a quick glance up at the priest. How different he was today from what he was in church on a Sunday! He was so much more relaxed. So much more cheerful.
As the sun rose higher they overtook a man walking with a girl of about Stephen’s own age, or perhaps slightly younger. The man was dirty and rough-looking. He walked with a scowl on his face, helping himself along with a stick. He carried a light pack, but the girl was bent under the weight of a bundle that was much too big and heavy for her. Her straw-coloured hair was tousled and fell in tangles over her face. When she reached to push a strand off her brow she looked up, straight at Stephen. Her eyes were grey, but so unexpectedly clear and penetrating that for a moment he was stunned.
Father Martin regarded the pair and his brows furrowed. Nevertheless he spoke civilly.
“Good morrow, sir,” he said.
The lout did not respond with the usual respectful bob of his head, in fact he did not answer at all, merely scowling all the more fiercely.
“Your daughter labours under a heavy pack,” Father Martin said. He slowed his pace to match theirs.
“She’s not my daughter,” the man fairly spat out. “My dead sister’s whelp, and a useless wench at that.” He glared at the girl and she flinched away from him, looking as if she expected to be beaten.
Stephen knew well that feeling. Before he realized what he was doing, he spoke.
“Let me carry that for you,” he said to the girl. He reached to take the pack from her, but the man’s stick cracked down on his arm with such force, that pain shot up to his shoulder.
“The boy meant only to help!” Father Martin exclaimed.
“We need no help from the likes of you,” the fellow replied. “Begone with you and leave us alone.”
Father Martin made as if to say something more, but the man raised his stick again.
“Begone, I said! Mind your own business, you black crow, you!”
Stephen drew in his breath. Never had he heard a priest spoken to in such fashion. Father Martin’s mouth tightened. He seized Stephen’s arm and pulled him away. Stephen glanced back over his shoulder. The girl was not looking after them; she walked with her eyes downcast. Father Martin strode on ahead of Stephen at a fast pace. Stephen had never seen him look so grim, but gradually the line of his mouth softened.
“How is your arm?” he asked. “That looked like a painful blow.”
“Bruised, but nothing more,” Stephen answered. “That man is a brute,” he added.
“Pray for him,” was all the priest would say. Privately, Stephen vowed no prayer for that oaf would ever pass his lips. He tried to put the memory of the girl’s startling eyes out of his mind, but he could not. There had been a fierce defiance in her gaze, despite her bullying uncle. He rubbed at his arm with his burned hand—he could not tell which pained him more.
When they reached the town, they found themselves surrounded by a crowd of people. Stalls had been set up on the village green, and their owners were crying out and hawking their wares at the tops of their voices. Cattle lowed, dogs barked and fought, chickens cackled, and roosters crowed as if to usher in a thousand dawns. A myriad of smells overwhelmed Stephen—not all of them pleasant—but suddenly the scent of meat pies baking took precedence. Stephen felt the saliva come to his mouth and his stomach gave such a rumble that Father Martin heard it and laughed.
“I am hungry, too, my son, but we must go to the church first. I would talk with the priest here and tell him of your mission; beg his aid. Then we will purchase something to eat.”
“But I have no coins,” Stephen began.
“I have a few,” Father Martin replied. “Later on we will most likely have to rely on the charity of the faithful, but for now we can buy one or two of those pies that are making your nose twitch and your belly growl.” He smiled as he said this. His good humour had returned. Again, Stephen was surprised. Before now it had not occurred to him that priests could smile and laugh. Certainly old Father Jean-Paul never had. Father Martin’s step was lighter now, too. He strode through the bustling marketplace, head high and nose sniffing as eagerly as Stephen’s own. Truly, he seemed to be having a wonderful time.
The church sat on the other side of the green. Stephen hung back as they approached. Again, at the church doorstep, Father Martin bade him wait while he went in to find the priest. Again, a group of boys swarmed nearby, teasing the ever-present begging dogs. Stephen watched them warily. This time he would not try to enlist them. They would probably laugh and mock him as had the boys of the previous village. They might even stone him as well.
But if he were to do God’s bidding, he must start somewhere…
A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts. He jumped up to see Father Martin and an older, grey-haired priest beside him.
“This is Father Bertrand,” Father Martin said. “He would speak with you.”
Stephen followed the older priest into the dim interior of the empty church.
“Show him the letter, Stephen,” Father Martin said. “Tell him what happened.”
Stephen fumbled inside his pouch and brought out the letter. With downcast eyes and halting words, he repeated his story. Father Martin sat silently beside him. Father Bertrand asked more questions than either Father Martin or Father Jean-Paul had. He was more insistent, wanting Stephen to repeat even the smallest detail over and over. Finally, he seemed satisfied.
“Our Lord works in wondrous ways,” he said. “Who would have thought He would have chosen an innocent such as you to do His work?”
“Suffer the little children to come unto me,” Father Martin said quietly.
“Yes, so the Christ spoke,” Father Bertrand agreed. He turned back to Stephen. “You will stay here this night. Tomorrow, after Mass, I will present you to the people of this town. I will tell them of your task and you will speak to them. You will begin here,” he said.
After returning to the market and filling their bellies to the bursting point with the meat pies that had tempted Stephen so, they returned to the church. Father Bertrand gave them blankets and told them they could shelter there for the night. This church was larger than the one in the last village and had pews on which Father Martin and Stephen could spread out their cloaks. But now, in the solemn darkness, Stephen could not sleep. Long after Father Martin’s gentle snores began, he lay staring at the cross above the altar. The moon was high and a single beam struck in through one small window, illuminating the figure of Christ on the cross. Finally, Stephen cast off his covering and knelt in front of Him.
“Give me the words, oh, Lord,” he prayed. “The words that will convince the people that I truly do Your will.” But his heart felt as heavy as a stone and he shook with fear. The
meat pies that he had devoured so eagerly had turned sour in his stomach. He could not get the memory of the boys who had jeered at him out of his mind. Nor of the man who had insulted Father Martin so. What if this was how they were to be received everywhere they went?
At this thought, the picture of the girl he had met on the way pushed itself back into his mind. He could see her looking at him still, with those clear, penetrating eyes. Finally, he slept.
Stephen knelt all during Mass the next morning. His mind seethed with a tempest of thoughts and worries one moment, then turned terrifyingly blank the next. After the last blessing, Father Bertrand beckoned him. Stephen’s heart plummeted and he felt suddenly sick. He had to force himself to make his way up to the priest, past all those assembled in the church. His legs trembled so that he feared they would give way beneath him. A hushed murmur arose as people craned their necks to get a better look at him.
“Who’s this, then?” He heard the belligerent whisper and his heart sank even further, but Father Bertrand’s voice quelled them.
“My people. My flock,” he began. “You see before you a boy. A simple boy. Naught but a poor shepherd. But be not deceived by his appearance. This boy has been sent to us by our Lord God himself. He bears a letter for King Philip! A letter commanding him to lead a crusade of innocents to the Holy Land.” The priest’s voice rose. The words thundered out over the congregation. “Hear what he has to say. Listen to him. It is God’s will!”
In the silence that followed his words, he turned to Stephen.
Stephen cleared his throat. He clenched his fists at his sides, willed his body to stop shaking. He had to speak. He
reached into the pouch to feel the reassurance of the letter, then drew it out.
“This…” he began. To his horror, the word came out as a squeak. Someone in the congregation staring up at him laughed. Stephen cleared his throat again. What to say? How to say it?
Please, God,
he prayed silently.
Please, God. Most merciful Father. I want to do as you commanded me, but I know not how. Help me! Give me the words!
“This…” he began again. “This is not a missive given to me by human hands.” His voice was still so weak that he was certain no one could hear him. He drew a deep breath and began yet again.
“This letter was given to me by the Christ himself!”
And with those words, came the belief, the certainty that this was true. All fear, all hesitation, vanished. He felt power thrilling into him—as though God were speaking through him. He straightened up to his full height and lifted his chin high. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. He tossed it back with a shake of his head and looked straight into the forest of eyes staring up at him.
“I come to speak to
you,
my brethren,” he cried. “You who are young, like me. I come to call you to follow me. I am commanded to lead a new crusade to the Holy Land. Another crusade to restore our sacred city of Jerusalem to Christianity, but not, this time, a crusade of men armed with swords. Those men failed. This time it will be a crusade of young people such as you and I—armed only with our faith. And
we
will not fail.
Our
faith will be so strong that the heathen will surrender before it!”
Stephen looked out over the throng and saw that he had them in thrall. There was no more laughter. The young people in his audience fixed their gazes upon him without wavering. Their faces began to flush with enthusiasm as he spoke. He could see it happening!
“It is
we
who will accomplish what those men failed to do,” he cried to them. “Follow me! Follow me and we will rescue Christendom itself! God wills it!”
Stephen knew not how much longer he spoke, but when he finished he was weak and empty, drenched in sweat. He would have fallen then, if the two priests had not taken him by the arms and led him out of the church into Father Ber-trand’s own sleeping quarters. There, they sat him down and gave him a cup of wine, and he drank it. It was the first wine Stephen had ever tasted, and the warmth of it sent strength coursing back through his body. Then he heard a hum of noise swelling rapidly.
“I have to go back,” he said and struggled to his feet.
As soon as he reentered the church he was surrounded by the youths of the town. They clutched at his arms; they bar-raged him with questions. He could barely make himself heard above their voices. If some of the elders, the parents, were staring at him with stony, closed faces, he chose not to see them.
“Follow me,” was all he could say. “Follow me and
we
will be the ones to return Jerusalem to the true faith. We
will
succeed where men have failed. I promise you.”
And follow him some of them did. When he and Father Martin left town after a hasty midday meal, a small handful of boys came with them. Only a few. And only those without parents to hold them back. But it was a beginning.