The Scarlet Cross by Karleen Bradford Read Free Book Online Page B

water burbled over rocks, tall trees cast a welcome shade.
    “Come,” the priest continued, throwing down his pack. “Let us gather wood and make a fire. Father Bertrand was most generous and I have the makings of a good soup here.”
    At this the younger boys’ eyes brightened and they immediately set about searching for twigs and small branches.The older boy threw himself down with his back to a tree, however, still scowling.
    Stephen looked at him, annoyed. He was about to say something, when Father Martin touched his arm. The priest shook his head slightly.
    “Give him a little time,” he said.
    Stephen shrugged and closed his mouth.
    Father Martin soon had a good fire going. Stephen was surprised to see how adept the priest was at fire building. He fairly hopped around it. His robe swirled around his legs and, to Stephen’s consternation, now and then almost brushed the flames. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
    “A fire brightens the spirit and the heart,” he said, brushing ashes off his robe and rubbing his hands together over the heat. He pulled out a pot from his sack.
    “You look strong, my lad,” he called to the surly boy, “will you fill this for us?”
    At first Stephen thought the boy would refuse, but then he lurched to his feet, gave a quick bob of his head to Father Martin, took the pot, and headed for the stream. When he returned with the pot full of water, Father Martin set it at the edge of the fire. He delved into his sack again and emerged with a handful of turnips and onions. These he cut up with a small knife that he took from a pocket in his cassock and tossed them into the water.
    “And a final blessing!” he exclaimed as he pulled out a joint with shreds of meat still sticking to it. “God has provided us with a feast! Through Father Bertrand,” he added hastily.
    The smaller boys drew near to the fire. They watched eagerly as the water in the pot began to boil and the smell of vegetables and meat began to waft out of it. The smallest child licked his lips.
    They look as if they have not eaten for days, Stephen thought. Hard upon that came another thought.
    I am responsible for them now. I will have to provide for them.
    That thought made him catch his breath.
    Father Martin produced cheese and chunks of bread that were only slightly stale. When the soup was ready, they dipped the hard crusts into the soup and the bread softened up marvellously. The boys sopped up all the broth, then dipped in with their fingers to snatch out morsels of turnip and onions. For a while nothing was heard but slurping and grunts of satisfaction.
    When they had finished, Father Martin took out the bone and wrapped it in a cloth.
    “This will do us for many a meal,” he said with a healthy burp. “Now,” he said, “let us find out more about you lads.”
    There was a moment of silence, then the older boy spoke up.
    “My name is Renard,” he said. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, but his face still looked set and sullen in the firelight. “I have run away from a master who beats me day and night.” He stared across the fire at Stephen. “I heard your words,” he said. “I heard the promises you made.” The tone of his voice was defiant and angry. “Is what you said true?” he demanded.
    Stephen returned his look.
    “I spoke the truth,” he said. “I will keep the promises I made.” He kept his voice steady, kept his eyes fixed onto Renard’s, but with the coming of darkness, the fire that had filled him in the church when he preached was flickering. The certainty that had overwhelmed him began to crumble. It was as if the shadows of the night were entering his heart and chilling it. Could he really keep his vow to this boy? He looked again at the younger ones. The sense of responsibility flooded back over him tenfold. He could not desert them like he had deserted his sheep.
    Father Martin broke in quickly, as if sensing Stephen’s doubts.
    “We will go to the