The Scarlet Cross (6 page)

“What is your name?” Stephen asked.

“I don’t have a name,” the boy answered. “People just call me
le boiteux
. The cripple. Because of my leg. I cannot work much, so I beg for my food. But I want to go with you and I can walk,” he hastened to add. “If it’s not too far.”

“It is not too far,” Stephen answered. He felt light and full of confidence. Surely nothing was beyond him now. But as he spoke the words of encouragement to the boy he had a sudden twinge of uneasiness. How far
was
Jerusalem, really?

Not even Father Martin could tell him that.

“I talked long with Father Benoit last night,” Father Martin said to Stephen as they sat by a lingering fire. They had made camp again in a woods. The villagers had been generous and there had been vegetables enough to make a thick soup. The newcomers had bolted it down gratefully and, their bellies full, now lay sleeping around the embers in the warm spring night. Only Angeline was still awake. She sat slightly apart from Stephen and Father Martin. Dominic was snuggled up against her as usual. The two imps, Yves and Marc, lay close together not far away.

Their faces looked so angelic in the flickering firelight, Stephen thought wryly, but those two were certainly not angels. They had been chased back to camp only that day by an irate villager who claimed he had caught them stealing turnips from his small garden.

“We have food enough,” Stephen had protested when he chastised them. “There is no need for you to steal. Why did you do it?”

They had not answered him, merely hung their heads. He would have thought them contrite but for the sly smile he caught them exchanging.

“They know naught but stealing,” Angeline had defended them.

“That is no excuse,” Stephen had replied, stiffly. “We are on God’s mission. We cannot accomplish that if we steal from the very people who would assist us.”

“But that miserly man
wouldn’t
give us anything,” Marc exclaimed then, looking up with an aggrieved face. “We had to steal from him.”

Now Stephen watched Angeline as she sat, staring into the fire. She looked as if her mind were far away; her face was sad.

What is she thinking about?
he wondered.
Does she regret joining us?

Then Father Martin interrupted his thoughts.

“Father Benoit told me that the king is holding court at his palace in St. Denys, just outside Paris, so that is where we should go,” he said. “I gave him a letter that he kindly agreed to send to my brother, who is a priest in service to the bishop of Chartres. In it, I told my brother of you and of your mission. I asked him to persuade the bishop to recommend you to the king. You will have need of such a recommendation, I think, else the king might not agree to see you, and I am certain that my brother would be happy to help you obtain it. Even though many did not, my brother celebrated the truce that King Richard made with the Muslim Sultan Salah-ud-Din when he and King Philip went on crusade to the Holy Land. My brother has always been a peaceable man and he thought this a good solution—I know he feels it unfortunate that the truce did not last. He will be delighted to hear of your crusade, Stephen, and will do all in his power to help you.”

Stephen’s ponderings about Angeline fled from his mind. He looked up at the priest sharply. He had really only heard one thing.

“The king might refuse to see me?” he asked. “Even though I bear a letter from our Lord himself?” Truly, he had not thought that far ahead. He had been fearful about seeing the king, but he had not considered that the king would ignore a summons from God.

“We can but pray that he will,” Father Martin replied.

The answer did not reassure Stephen. More doubts, now, to add to the misgivings that already weighed down his heart.

The next morning, after they had broken their fast, Angeline came to sit beside him. She had a poultice of herbs wrapped in leaves.

“May I bind this around your arm?” she asked. “I can see that it is still horribly bruised from where my uncle struck you.”

Stephen was at a loss for words. Angeline rushed on.

“I apologize for my clodpole of an uncle,” she said. “He is naught but a brute. My mother taught me about herbs,” she added quickly. “These will take away the swelling.”

Stephen finally found his tongue.

“I thank you,” he said. “It is not so painful…” Then, fearing that he seemed ungrateful, he added, “but I appreciate your poultice. It is kind of you.”

Angeline smiled, and again Stephen was taken aback by the way her whole face brightened.

He sat and watched her while she bound the poultice onto his arm with a strip of cloth. Her fingers were quick and clever. The herbs felt cool and moist. Truly, they did ease the pain almost immediately.

“And your hand,” Angeline said when she had finished.
“I see that Father Martin has tended to that. How did you burn it?”

“It is naught,” Stephen replied. Too quickly. Too stiffly. He could not speak to her of his father.

Angeline drew back. “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”

“No…” Stephen began. “It is not that…”

But Angeline had jumped to her feet and turned to chivvy the little ones into preparing to move on. Stephen bit his lip in frustration. It seemed he could not put two sentences together without offending this peppery young maid.

It was impossible to remain glum that day, however. The sun shone with a warmth that promised summer and the air was filled with birdsong and the strong smell of earth awakening after a long and dismal winter. Stephen found himself striding along beside Father Martin with a spring in his step. He had not felt so eager and full of life since he had left his home. With full bellies for perhaps the first time in their lives, the three younger children cavorted around him and chattered without ceasing. Even Renard’s scowl had faded. Then, behind him, he heard Angeline begin to sing. The three children immediately ran to trot beside her. This time Stephen felt no irritation, instead, he let himself relax and enjoy the sound of her voice.

She was singing about a wolf. “
Let’s go for a walk in the woods,
” she sang, “
while the wolf is not there.
”

“Perhaps not the best of songs to be singing,” Stephen muttered under his breath. “After all, there might well
be
wolves in the woods.” But the three little ones loved it.

“
I’m coming
!” Angeline sang then in a deep, wolf-like voice. “
I’m coming to eat you!
” and the three screamed in mock terror and ran to Stephen for protection. He peeled
them off his legs and furrowed his brow in warning at Angeline, but she laughed and kept on singing. By the time they had stopped for their midday rest, she had taught the children the words and they were happily playing parts—sometimes the wolf, sometimes the singer.

They came across a creek and Father Martin declared that they should stop there for their midday break. After they had eaten, they settled back to enjoy the sunshine. It was not long before Yves and Marc were sleeping. Renard dozed off as well, and even Father Martin, propped against a tree, began to snore. Stephen closed his eyes and leaned back against another tree. Bees buzzed in the tall grasses that lined the creek and a light breeze fingered through his hair. His mind drifted, at peace for the moment at least. Then Angeline’s voice startled him.

“I am going to look for herbs to add to our pot tonight,” she said. “Would you like to come with me?”

Stephen leaped to his feet.

“Most surely,” he said. In his haste he tripped over a root and fell flat.

Par Dieu!
he swore silently. What was it about this maid that caused him to be either irritated or clumsy?

Angeline smothered a laugh and bent to help him up. She held out her hand and he grasped it.

“
Shh,
” she whispered conspiratorially. “Let us not wake the others. The boys would be certain to want to come with us.”

Stephen looked at the sleeping children. His followers they might be, and his responsibility, but it would be very restful to be away from them for a time.

“And truth to tell,” Angeline added as she pulled him away from the campsite, “I am tired of Renard and his constant whining.”

It would not be seemly to speak ill of one of his followers, Stephen thought, but privately he had to agree with her.

He watched as she bent and dug with a small knife and foraged amongst the bushes and grasses. She told him the names of the roots and herbs that she collected, but Stephen forgot them almost as soon as she named them. He contented himself with carrying the bundle for her.

After a while she sat down in the shade of a tall oak tree to rest. Stephen sat beside her and offered her his waterskin. She drank, then sighed deeply.

“I know not where this journey will end, Stephen,” she said, “but I thank you for allowing me to join you. My life would have been a misery if I had been forced to stay with my uncle.”

“Will you tell me about him?” Stephen said. “Why you were in his charge, and how you escaped him?”

Angeline frowned and bit her lip. “I do not even like to think upon him,” she said, but after a moment she continued. “When my mother died,” she said, “he came to claim all her possessions, meagre as they were. She had never spoken to me of him. I wonder not about that—he was a greedy man, a horrible man. We were on our way to the market in your village when you met us. I am sorry that he struck you and sorry that he insulted Father Martin.”

“But how did you manage to get away from him?” Stephen asked.

“After selling all my poor mother’s things at the market, he took a room at the hostel. He had the innkeeper lock me in a closet off the kitchen. I shivered there all night long, perched on a box to keep my feet out of the way of the rats. I knew I had to get away from him. He meant to take me back home with him and use me as a servant—and worse. When a kitchen maid opened the door by mistake the next morning, I knocked her down and ran for the church. I hid there, not knowing what else to do. I sat in a corner during Mass, then your priest introduced you, and I recognized
you as the boy who had tried to help me the day before. I listened to you speak.” She turned to look at Stephen.

“I had never heard words such as yours before. As you spoke, Stephen, I could
see
Jerusalem! Our village priest had talked often of the Holy Land, but never had he been able to awaken my mind to it as you did. I was frightened and knew not what I was going to do, but as I watched and listened to you, I felt that God had shown me a way out. I knew I had to go with you.

“I followed you when you left the village, taking care to keep out of your sight, and hid in the woods nearby while you slept. The rest of my story you know. It was my good fortune that you were at the church that day,” she added.

“And mine, too, I think,” Stephen said.

Angeline looked quickly at him, as if startled by his words.

Stephen was as astonished as she was by what he had said, but that night, when Dominic awoke from a nightmare whimpering that a wolf was about to eat him, he groaned and buried his head in his arms. Let Angeline take care of the child—it was her song.

In the days that followed, Stephen regained his hope and his faith. He preached in every village and town along the way and at nearly every crossroads. The fields through which they passed were bright with young wheat and the air filled with the smoke of the burning tares—the weeds that farmers fought against constantly. Lambs gambolled in pastures, their tails flicking with excitement. Watching them brought a pang to Stephen’s heart. He could not help wondering how his sheep were doing, but he closed his mind to the worry. His mission was much more important than a flock of sheep.

It did not rain again, and while that made for easier travelling, it was not good for the growing crops. The fields were dry and the farmers from the villages through which they passed complained about the lack of moisture.

Every time, after Stephen preached, more and more young people joined them. Not all were orphans or urchins. Some were children from good families, lured away from their parents by the spell of Stephen’s voice. Nor were all of the parents in sympathy with the crusade, and sometimes an irate father would turn up in the evening to drag his unfortunate child away by the ear. More maidens joined, too. Now when Stephen looked back as they trudged on their way, he could not even count the number who followed them.

Numerous campfires sprang up every evening. The villagers and townsfolk continued to be generous and shared what they could with them. Most evenings they had bread and cheese aplenty and the pots that simmered over the fires were full of vegetables. Some of the boys were adept at snaring hares and other small animals, and when they did, those went into the pot as well. Angeline added herbs that she picked by the wayside. Finally, late in May, they reached the outskirts of St. Denys.

“This is a very holy city,” Father Martin said as they approached it. Stephen walked on one side of the priest, Renard on the other.

“How so, Father?” Renard asked.

“It is named for St. Dionysius,” Father Martin replied. “The Romans who ruled this land in his time had not yet received the true faith and they treated him cruelly. They tortured him for his beliefs and finally beheaded him. They threw his body into the River Seine, but he was such a holy man that he overcame death itself. To the horror of his murderers, he emerged again from the river, carrying
his head in his hands all the way to this place, where he desired to be buried. Kings and queens and princes have been buried here ever since, and pilgrims come from all over France to worship at the shrines.”

Renard’s mouth dropped open in amazement. “He carried his own head so far?”

“To carry it so far would not be a wonder,” Angeline said from behind them, “once he had managed that first step!” The words were accompanied by laughter.

Stephen whirled around.

“You should not speak so,” he burst out before he could help himself.

“But the story is ridiculous,” Angeline said.

Stephen scowled. Father Martin shook his head.

“Our Lord works His miracles in many ways,” the priest said. His words were heavy with reproach. “Is not Stephen himself proof of that? You are young yet, Angeline,” he added a little less sternly. “You will learn. If our Lord desired the good saint to walk from the river to this spot, He could make it happen.”

Angeline raised an eyebrow, but she said no more and disappeared back into the crowd of children.