At the Edge of the World (11 page)

29

F
OR A MOMENT
, I was tempted to rush forward and announce ourselves. I even took a step in that direction, but Troth held me back,

“You don’t know who they are,” she said. “We need to get Bear.”

Deciding she was right, we hurried back over the field, running once we were clear of the trees. Bear was as
we’d left
him, asleep.

We sat by his side, waiting for him to waken. From time to time, I stood and looked toward the trees. Though no one came, I was increasingly anxious.

“I think we should get him up,” I finally said and shook his foot.

Bear stirred. “Good morrow,” he muttered.

I leaned over his face. “Bear,” I said. “We’ve found people.”

“Where?” he said, without opening his eyes.

“Back among those trees.”

“What are they?”

“They speak English.”

“Are we in England, then?” he said, sounding relieved.

“I don’t know. Bear, they’re soldiers.”

“God’s grief,” he sighed, opening his eyes. “How many?”

“Say, forty.”

“No more?”

I told him what we had seen.

He pushed himself up and rubbed his face, as if to restore his blood. Looking at him, I had a thought I never had before: he seemed old. I would have sworn his beard had streaks of gray.

“No more than forty?” he asked again.

“It seems.”

“By Saint Barnabas … No more than that?” he asked a third time.

“Why is the number important?”

“A troop of just a few soldiers—unattached—could be a free company.”

“Should we fear them?” asked Troth.

“In truth, if we were in England,” said Bear, “they might be just going home.”

I said, “Where else could we be?”

He marked the places on his fingers: “England. France. Normandy. Brittany. Aquitaine. Flanders. Navarre.”

He remained sitting, sometimes glancing at the sun, or at the distant trees. He even studied one of his large hands. At last he heaved himself up. “Come along,” he said.

“Where?”

“God’s bones! Crispin, I’ve no stomach to meet with any soldiers. There is no safety with them.”

“Bear,” I blurted out, “there’s no safety anywhere!”

“What’s wrong with the soldiers?” said Troth. “Were you not one?”

He gave her a piercing glance, and seemed to swell with anger. She shrank back. The next moment, Bear’s fury faded. “We’ll get back on the cog,” he said, “and try to ride her out. There was another sail in the hold. Perhaps I missed a rudder. If we are in England and we could get to some other place along this coast, I’d feel much better.”

That said, he started back toward the cliff. Troth and I, following, exchanged worried looks. When we reached the cliff’s edge, Bear knelt and looked out.

“In the name of the Father!” he roared. “I am being held captive by my sins!”

“Why?” I said. “What’s the matter?”

“Look!” he said and pointed down.

Troth and I peered over the cliff. The cog, lifted by an incoming tide, had drifted out of the cove. She was bobbing out upon the sea.

He sat back heavily. “We could never reach her,” he said in such a voice I thought he might cry.

With the cliff before us falling away so sharply, we dared do no more than sit and gaze out upon the ocean. There, the cog floated on the water’s surface like an empty jug, moving still farther from the shore.

“By Saint Anthony,” Bear muttered. “What kind of folly is it not to know if one is lost or saved?”

“Shall I go back to those soldiers?” I offered. “Learn more about them?”

“Crispin,” Bear said, “if we are in England and they are English troops, we will have gained much. But if we are anywhere else, things might go badly.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s likely to be a free company. Thieves. Outlaws.”

Troth said, “We could hide below.”

“There is no hiding,” said Bear, “from the will of God.”

The wretchedness in his voice hurt my heart. It was much like that time in Rye when I told him of our pursuers: Bear in defeat. But then, I’d known of a way to escape.

Not now.

As we remained where we were, Troth and I exchanged anxious glances. I was sure she agreed we had to do something. Besides, it was a long while since we had eaten, and I was very hungry.

“The soldiers had food,” I said.

“Crispin!” snapped Bear. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Bear,” I cried, “we must do
something.”

“Then pray to Saint Jude,” said Bear.

“Who is that?” asked Troth.

“A saint who intervenes for lost causes,” said Bear.

She turned to Bear. “Is our cause lost?”

He did not answer.

I looked across at Troth. She made another hand sign, which I understood to mean, “Wait.”

Bear got up slowly, stiffly. “We’ll all go,” he said.

“Where?” I said.

“I don’t think it matters. Let God decide.”

Troth stood.

“Why don’t you just rest here?” I said.

“By the breath of Jesus, Crispin!” Bear shouted. “Don’t presume to decide for me or heave me on the refuse pile. Not yet.”

“Bear—”

“Let’s go!” he cried.

I pointed to the trees. “The soldiers are over there,” I said, though I saw no sign of them.

“Eastward,” said Bear. “Then we’ll go north or south.”

Troth looked at me.

“South,” I said for no good reason.

We began to walk along the edge of the cliff. I went first, followed by Bear, then Troth. I went as fast as I could, but Bear was hobbling.

“Do you wish to me to go slower?” I asked.

“Crispin …” he growled.

We went on. But we had not gone for very long or far when Troth shouted, “Crispin!”

I turned and saw what she had seen. It was the troop of English soldiers. Led by three men on horseback, they had emerged from the trees in file. One of the horsemen held a banneret. Though faded, it bore a golden lion, rampant on a field of red.

We halted.

So did they. We had been discovered.

30

T
HE MAN
on the lead horse, the one who seemed to be their captain, lifted an arm and pointed in our direction.

“God have mercy,” Bear murmured, making the sign of the cross over his heart.

I made a movement toward the cliff only to have Bear clamp a hand to my arm to hold me fast. “Do you wish to be killed!” he hissed. “Stay!”

“But what are we to do?” I whispered.

“Be still,” said Bear. “And say nothing.”

The three horsemen drew swords and broke into a gallop, driving their horses right at us. Having no doubt they could dispatch us with ease if such was their will, I moved closer to Bear, even as Troth drew nearer to me.

The lead man held his sword high, as if to strike. I could not help but cower. Troth whimpered. But when the horsemen came within five yards of us, they reined in hard. Their trembling horses, nostrils flaring, arched their necks and pawed the ground, as though wishing—and willing—to trample us. The riders glowered.

I pressed closer to Bear.

“We are English!” Bear shouted.
“English!”
He held up both hands, palms toward the soldiers, to show he held no weapon.

The horsemen remained where they were, though the lead rider, the one who held the sword, slowly lowered it. He studied us, but it seemed to me that he was staring at Troth in particular. “Who are you,” he demanded, “and why are you here?”

“We’re shipwrecked pilgrims!” said Bear. “And by Saint George, we have no notion where we are. Are we in England?”

The question surprised the riders. They exchanged a few words that we could not hear.

“You are in Brittany,” the horseman called out. “France.”

Bear grunted with displeasure.

The captain trotted forward, then stopped a few feet from where we stood, so near I could feel the hot breath of his horse. I noticed a dull iron helmet attached to his saddle.

The man looked down at us. He was short and stocky, yellow-haired, with broad shoulders. His face seemed squeezed from top to bottom, with deep-set eyes of hard gray, a thin mouth, large nose, and strong chin. I was reminded of an angry ox.

Beneath his gaze Troth drew her hair over her mouth and shrank back. Irritated by the man’s presumption, I clenched my fists, though there was nothing I could do.

“What of this ship of yours?” he demanded.

“A cog,” said Bear. “Out of Rye, for Flanders.”

“What cargo?”

“Wool. We were overtaken by a storm that raged at sea last night. All perished, save us—thanks be to God.”

“Where is it?”

“When the boat drifted close to shore, we managed to get off, but then it went out with the tide. You can still see it.” Bear beckoned toward the sea.

The man gazed at Bear without responding—as if measuring the words, or the man. He made no movement to see the boat. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Orson Hagar. I’m called Bear. Late of York. A traveling juggler and, if it pleases, pilgrim,” he said for the second time. “These are my children.”

The man turned his hard scrutiny on Troth again.

She looked down.

“The girl is unsightly,” the man barked. “What afflicts her?”

“The rudeness of others,” returned Bear with a touch of his old spirit.

Glowering, the captain leaned forward against his saddle pummel, staring at Bear, at me, Troth, then back to Bear, as if trying to make a decision. His two horse companions edged their mounts forward and waited on him.

He turned and said something to them, which I could not hear. Then he said to Bear, “The girl—she may be ugly, but is she nimble and strong?”

Bristling, Bear said, “She’s my daughter. There’s no need to insult her.”

“By Saint Magnus!” cried the man. “Answer! Will she do as told?”

“If lawful.”

The man sat back. “I make my own laws,” he said.

Meanwhile, the rest of the soldiers had drawn in, forming a half circle about us so that there was no possible way of escape.

“Have you any money?” asked the captain.

“By Saint Alexius,” said Bear, “having lost all, we are true beggars.” He spoke with care, not wanting to give any offense. “May I ask who you are?”

“Richard Dudley. Of the Kentish Downs.”

“You’re a long way from home,” said Bear.

“That’s as may be.”

“May I ask,” said Bear, “if you serve King Richard?”

Dudley frowned. “Who is he?”

“By the grace of God, Master Dudley, he’s England’s king.”

This caused a stir among the soldiers.

“What of King Edward?” Dudley demanded.

“God give him grace,” said Bear. “He’s been dead these two months. Richard of Bordeaux—his grandchild—has been crowned King.”

Dudley made a hasty sign of the cross over his heart. “Our Edward was a great solider,” he said.

“He was all of that,” said Bear. “I served with his son, the Black Prince, at Poitiers. A famous victory.”

“Did you?” cried Dudley. “Would that he were king.” He sat back in his saddle, appraising Bear in what seemed a new way. Bear’s words made the soldiers nod and nudge each other and consider him with some respect. At least, they seemed to relax.”

“Then you were a soldier,” said Dudley.

“I was,” said Bear. “But I grew old. And worn.”

Dudley, sword hand lowered, leaned forward again, his free hand at rest. Once more he studied Troth, as if appraising her. He shifted back to Bear. “Well, then,” he said with grin or grimace—hard to say which—“I offer you the good fortune of joining us.”

“Your generosity does you honor,” returned Bear. “Do I have a choice?”

“I think not,” said Dudley.

“In the name of God, then,” said Bear, “whom do you serve?

That time, Dudley allowed himself a smile. “Myself,” he said.

31

R
ICHARD DUDLEY
called Bear to him, and told him to stay close. Putting rusty spurs to his horse’s flank, he went forward at an easy walk. Bear was just able to remain by his side, while Troth and I kept apace. Right behind us came another horseman. The third horseman trotted in tandem. The rest of the soldiers, following, were strung out in a ragged line, the oxcart coming last. Though no one said as much, we were so hemmed in we might as well have been called prisoners.

At first Dudley asked Bear about his soldiering days, which to my surprise, Bear was willing to recount at length. These were stories I had not heard before. Hard and brutal, even shocking, it was as if Bear were trying to impress the man. It greatly troubled me that Bear would invent such tales, so as to pretend he was what he wasn’t.

At one point, Dudley asked Bear, “And what weapon did you fight with?”

“In those days, a sword.”

“It can be so again,” said Dudley. “Our cart has enough.”

Bear only said, “How did you come here?”

“With the Duke of Lancaster,” said Dudley. “Unlike his brother, the duke’s a hateful villain. A poisonous traitor. A spawn of Satan. He’s given what’s English to the French, then abandoned us. Kings and princes may make wars, Master Bear, but their subjects fight them. I never signed the truce. Well then, so be it!”

“I’ve little love for the duke,” agreed Bear.

“Then you may have an interest in where we are going,” said Dudley.

“If you wish to tell me,” returned Bear.

“To a bastide I know well,” said Dudley. “And by my faith, a curious one.”

I had no idea what a
bastide
was, but since Bear made no response, I merely listened.

“It’s called Bources,” said Dudley. “Do you know it?”

Bear shook his head.

“It’s a village laid down—God’s truth—in a perfect circle. With a castle built long ago by our own King Edward. A river moat goes round the entire town. Nothing remarkable in that, save that Bources is small, with an undersized garrison. Most curious of all, the church sits just beyond that river moat.”

Bear merely nodded.

“In this church—as I have reason to know,” Dudley went on, “sits a treasure chest. Graciously left by King Edward to pay for his soldiers and the church. Well then,
we
are soldiers, are we not? I mean to have it.”

“By Saint Martin of Tours,” said Bear after a moment, “I have no great love for priests, but to steal from a church—”

“You’ll do nothing to stain your faith,” said Dudley. “Your girl can do the honors.”

A startled Troth looked around. I also turned, but while I had no idea what Dudley meant—even as I urgently wanted to know—I dared not speak. I glanced at Bear, but he would not return my questioning look. Instead, he tried to gain more knowledge, but Richard Dudley provided nothing more. He said, “Master Bear, it would be better for you to join us willingly. But one way or another, your ugly daughter will take part.” That said, he spurred his horse and trotted on ahead. When he did so, the other two horsemen pressed in close. There was to be no escaping.

Troth’s trembling hand reached out to me. I squeezed it back.

We continued on—no one speaking—but soon turned away from cliff and coast, and headed inland. We followed no road—but what seemed more like a path. The pace was slow and under the warm sun, almost pleasing. The green land became hilly, with scattered clumps of trees. Now and again, we passed a stream. We saw no other people. Once, twice, we went by what must have been houses—save that they had been destroyed. One had been tumbled, the other burned. I thought of Rye. Who, I wondered, had done
this
destruction? I recalled what Bear had once said of France, that it was full of wars—“Satan’s playing fields.” And here we were, marching with soldiers intent upon a
private
war, and who demanded we take part.

For the rest of the day, we went on without exchanging further words with the captain. At some point, we came upon a well-marked road and began to follow that. Bear marched along with slow steps and deep breaths. Now and again, he grunted so that I could see he had yet to recover from the voyage.

Twice we paused at small streams where the men and horses drank. Their cook—a small, skinny, and older man hardly bigger than I, with beaky nose and squinty eyes, who watched us with great interest, passed bread about, and we received a share. Ravenous, I bolted it. I had not eaten in three days.

I wanted to ask Bear many questions, but when I managed one, he only reached out and tousled my head—as much as to say, “Not yet.”

That night, the captain chose to make his camp atop a hill shielded by a cap of trees. The soldiers lay about a central fire. The cook brought round a large three-legged pot and set it upon a flame. Water was fetched from a nearby stream. Dried meat, cabbage, onions, and barley—taken from the cart—were thrown in. While the cooking smells made my mouth water, my stomach spoke its appetite.

We three sat among the soldiers, for it was clear they wished us enclosed. They asked Bear about the Black Prince and his campaigns. Once again, he was nothing loath to entertain them with his tales: accounts of bloody battle and slaughter.

I listened again in stunned surprise, for he told his harsh stories with much delight and laughter. I began to wonder: were
these
things that Bear had actually done? The things he needed to confess? That he would not speak to me? I could not believe it was the Bear I knew.

Then at one point, Richard Dudley called out, “Master Bear! You claim you are a juggler! Entertain us!”

Only then did I recall that we had lost Bear’s recorder—washed over during the storm. After hesitating momentarily, Bear stood up, called for some stones, and then, by the light of the flames, proceeded to juggle. The men who looked on were amused, but Bear was hardly his best. Laboring hard, he twice missed the stones. Oaflike. I was embarrassed for him. When he sat down, he was panting heavily. And he would not look at me.

I thought—with a pang—how not only had Bear’s possessions been stripped away, but he had also lost his bulk, his health, and as I began to think, his dignity. When I shifted about, I saw that Troth’s eyes were fixed on Bear, too. Her look was full of pain.

Before we were allowed to sleep, Dudley made sure we knew he’d posted sentries all around—no doubt meant to protect his force, but also to keep us close.

Bear set us so that we lay with our faces close, and we could talk without being overheard.

Troth put a hand to Bear’s face. “There’s too much warmth,” she said. “Your fever has returned.”

“Nothing can be done,” said Bear.

“But, Bear—” I began.

“Crispin,” snapped Bear, “don’t waste words!”

I felt abashed.

No one spoke until Troth whispered, “What does that soldier want of me?”

“I don’t know,” said Bear.

“Will it be dangerous?” I said.

“I swear,” said Bear, “as I live and breathe, no harm shall come to either of you.”

“Bear,” I asked, “what’s a bastide?”

“A small market town,” he said, “that’s meant to defend itself. With walls perhaps, or some kind of fortification. The English and French kings built them to defend this land from Christian heretics as well as against each other.”

“Bear,” I asked cautiously, “those stories of war you told—they were fanciful, weren’t they? You were only trying to win their sympathy … weren’t you?”

Avoiding my look and questions, all he said was, “The both of you need your sleep.”

“You didn’t an—”

“Crispin,” he growled, “we’re in need of rest,” and rolled so that his back was toward me.

I lay down. Through a break in the trees overhead I gazed upon the multitude of stars above. When I heard Bear begin his quiet snore, I twisted round and put my face close to Troth.

“Troth, do you think he really did those things?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you fearful?” I asked her.

“Yes.”

“I am too,” I said. “I’m not sure Bear can protect us.”

She didn’t respond.

I looked upward again. “Troth,” I said, “can you read the stars to tell the future?”

“I don’t wish to.”

“Why?”

“It’s too hard.”

Whether she meant it was too hard to see the future, or too hard to accept what she saw, I was afraid to ask.