The Cross of Lead (9 page)

29

I
N THE MORNING, BEAR WAS much subdued. Now and again, as we prepared to go, I caught him glancing at me when he thought I would not notice. He said nothing, however, and I decided not to ask. I knew him well enough by then to know that he’d speak only when he chose.

We set off over hills and through woods, until at last we came upon a narrow, winding path. Here Bear paused.

“We’ll go this way,” he announced. “It will lead us somewhere.”

Sure enough, by midmorning we heard the distant tolling of a bell. We stopped.

“There must be a village a league or so ahead,” Bear cautioned. “Can you remember everything I told you about how we should enter such a place?”

“I think so.”

“Try your tunes,” he said.

I took out the recorder and played. He listened intently.

“Good,” he said. “You’ve learned well enough. We’ll prosper as long as you do as I’ve taught you.”

Rare for him, he seemed nervous.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Crispin,” he said solemnly, “if there is any trouble—ever—you’re not to pay any mind to me. Just run.”

“Run?” I said, taken aback. “From what?”

“If any one should try to harm or apprehend you.

“But where would I go?”

He thought for a moment. “As far north as you can go.”

“Why there?”

“You’ll be safest out of the kingdom.”

“But aren’t we going to Great Wexly?”

“We are. On the twenty-third of June, the eve of the Feast of the Saint John the Baptist.”

“Why then?” I asked.

“It’s Midsummer Day. The city will be crowded with a large market and festivities. That’s always good for mummers. We should do well. And, as I told you, I have some matters with a man.”

“What man?”

He ruffled his beard. “It’s a private matter.” Then he added as if to mollify me, “I’ve promised to be there, and so I must.”

He was being evasive again, as when I’d asked him about the writing on my cross. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Crispin, I’m part of a … brotherhood. It’s to make things better. To bring some change.”

“Nothing really changes,” I said, thinking he had misspoken.

He looked at me with a smile. “Have you not changed?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“Crispin, I merely wish to bring some of that freedom you seek.” He studied the sky as if some answer might be there. “But I fear the time isn’t ready.”

“You expect some hazard, don’t you?”

Though I knew he heard my question, he acted as if he hadn’t.
“Is
there some danger there for me?” I pressed.

“By Saint Pancras,” he said, “I was surprised when we saw that gathering waiting for you at the bridge.”

“That’s for me. What about you?”

He shrugged. “I never fear for myself.”

“Why?”

“I make my own choices.”

“Then do you fear for me there?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why?”

“Crispin, when it comes to the affairs of men, I only worry about what I cannot understand.”

“And?”

“I can’t make sense of your … innocence. In a ruthless world I find innocence more a puzzle than evil.”

“Must we go there, then?”

“Crispin, I told you, I promised this … brother hood that in my travels I’d survey the kingdom. That I would bring them the judgment of my observations. I try to keep my word. They’re waiting for me.” He picked up some dirt and rubbed it between his hands. “I must give them the benefit of my judgment. That’s all.”

“You read the writing on my cross,” I said. “What did it say?”

He offered up a wry smile. “Crispin, if we wish to survive, it’s time for us to go to work.”

“Bear—”

“Enough,” he said with sudden authority, and turned away.

30

I
T WAS NOT LONG BEFORE WE approached the wooded outskirts of a little village. Its name was Lodgecot, as we would later learn.

When we came out from the trees we saw cultivated fields. Men, women, and children were hard at work—just as at Stromford—plowing, weeding, and hoeing. The clothes they wore could have come right from my home, too. Here and there sheep and cattle grazed. I found it a marvel that I could see so much of the world, yet find it much the same.

As we passed the fields, people paused in their work to look at us. At first Bear ignored them. Only when we drew closer to the village itself did he pause and scrutinize what lay ahead.

“I don’t see any signs of trouble,” he said.

I looked around. “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

“The people looking for you. Now, play.”

Though nervous, I put the pipe to my mouth and began to make music. Even as I did, Bear began his dance. So it was that we entered the village.

If the village of Lodgecot had been exchanged with Stromford, I don’t think the world would have noticed. It contained the same cluster of small dwellings along a single rough road with but one or two structures larger than the rest. Every house was roofed with thatch, and had walls of wattle and daub. A stone church with a stubby tower stood close to the village center. On a low hill, not far away, I spied a manor house. It was larger than the other houses, but not by very much.

As we came into the village proper, dogs, pigs, and children approached us with a snuffling curiosity. They made sure to keep their distance. It was harder to say who was dirtier, the children or the beasts.

Women emerged from cottages to stare at us guardedly, keeping their younger children behind their skirts. One of these women had a whispered exchange with a child, who promptly raced off toward the church.

Remembering what I’d been told, I, still playing music, headed straight for the church, too. Even as we approached it, a priest emerged, no doubt alerted by the child. He was a younger man than Father Quinel, short, thin, with large round eyes and the stubble of an ill-shaved beard. He did not appear very clean. His robes were quite soiled. Frowning, he stood before the church doors, hands clasped before him.

I stepped aside and let Bear approach. He danced right up to where the priest stood, and then, to my astonishment, halted and sank to his knees, pulling off his cap.

I stopped playing, and hoped my unease did not show.

“Most reverend Father,” Bear said in voice loud enough so all onlookers might hear, “I, known as the Bear, am a juggler. My son and I have made our way from the City of York, going toward Canterbury to perform sacred penance. We do humbly beseech your blessing.”

The priest visibly softened.

“My boy and I beg your gracious permission to perform some simple songs and dances for the greater glory of God, for this village, and for his grace, King Edward, England’s warrior king, with whom I had the honor of fighting on the victorious fields of France.”

Then Bear bowed his head, but tilted it somewhat sideways, so as to keep an eye on me. I think he even winked.

The priest looked at Bear, then at me, then at Bear again.

“Do you know sacred songs?” “I do,” said Bear. Hands clapped together in prayer, he began to sing:

“Mary, maiden, gracious and free
Vessel of the Trinity,
Who graciously listens unto me
As 1 greet Thee with my song
Though my feet unclean be
And my hopes remain unborn.
Thou art the Queen of Paradise,
Of Heaven, of earth, and all that is.
Thou gav’st birth to the King of bliss
Without a sin or sore,
Putting to rights all who are poor
Winning life for us evermore.”

At the conclusion of his song, Bear bowed his head, crossed himself, and clasped his hands over his chest—the image of humility.

The priest was clearly pleased. Smiling, he raised his hands over Bear’s head and pronounced a blessing.

At this, Bear jumped up, and nodded to me. I took it to be a signal to resume my playing, which I did with gusto.

It was not long before most of the townspeople had gathered around us in a great circle. Off to one side, I played the music, while Bear performed in the center. Midway through his dance, he gathered up his leather balls and began to juggle.

I could hear “oohs” and “aahs” from the crowd, as Bear added first a third ball, then a fourth. Then, when he stepped forward and snatched a mazer from the hands of one of the onlookers and added it to the revolving mix, there was laughter and applause.

The young man from whom he’d taken the mazer was a small, one-eyed youth—he wore a patch over his other eye. He also had a thin, scraggly beard that seemed designed to proclaim him older than he was. Though others roared at Bear’s antics, this young man took offense at Bear’s gambols and, with growing anger, made three attempts to snatch his mazer back.

Each time, Bear, with great dexterity, seemed to offer him the mazer, but at the last moment, tossed it high. This was done to the great hilarity of the crowd, but to the increasing resentment of the young man.

Finally, muttering curses under his breath, the young man stormed away. No one seemed to care.

Attentive to what I’d been taught, I approached Bear. Still dancing and juggling, he inclined his head to allow me to remove his cap. I took it. Holding it before me, I moved about, saying nothing, but begging for coins.

To my great delight, we received a few pennies, as well as some bread.

When Bear was finally done and stood all in a sweat, people gathered around him, even as children surrounded me and pelted me with questions.

“What’s your name?” “Where are you from?” “Where are you going?” “How’d you learn such things?” “Is your father the biggest man in the world?” were among the questions I was asked.

I started to respond honestly, but caught myself and gave another name. Another place. As for Bear, remembering what he had said, I claimed him for my father.

At length Bear called me to his side. Led by the priest—who was nothing but smiles now—we entered the church. Many from the village followed us inside. One of them, I noticed, was the one-eyed young man, who had returned. He gazed at Bear with such malevolence I thought he might offer harm.

The church was like my own at Stromford, though with different imagery on the walls. In particular, there was a vision of Jesus harrowing Hell, the demons frightening to behold.

Before the altar both Bear and I knelt and I, at least, prayed.

“And where will you be going next?” the priest asked afterward.

The onlookers seemed as interested in our answers as was the priest.

“To Great Wexly for the fair on the Feast of John the Baptist,” Bear returned, “but always toward Canterbury,” he added.

“There are many villages here about,” the priest informed us. “But you need to be on the alert for a notorious murderer.”

I had been gazing at the images on the walls. Now I turned to listen.

“What do you mean?” Bear said to the priest.

“At a village north of here, I’m not sure which, a boy went mad. After robbing the manor house, he killed a priest.”

I hastily looked down lest I give myself away. But as I shifted, I became aware that the one-eyed young man was staring right at me.

“God mend all,” Bear cried with horror, making the sign of the cross. “Can’t they find him?”

“No one knows where he’s fled,” the priest said. “But an official came here, along with a troop of armed men. They say the youth is very dangerous. He’s been declared a wolf’s head. There’s a twenty-shilling reward for his taking dead or alive.”

“I’m grateful for your warning,” Bear said, stony faced. “We would love to earn that money. Who is your lord here?”

“Lord Furnival,” the priest replied. “And though he’s been gone for these fourteen years, we’ve received word that—give thanks to God—though gravely ill, he’s at last returned to England. We pray daily that he may recover and that we may see him soon.”

“God is kind to those who love Him,” Bear said. “How did you learn this news?”

“He sent a courier, a man named du Brey.”

With many gracious words, Bear took leave of the priest. Then he mingled with the townspeople and asked them many questions, about their crops, their harvests, the life they led.

And though I wished desperately to speak to him, I kept away.

31

T
HAT AFTERNOON, WHEN WE left the town, Bear told me to play. So it was that we departed the village as we entered, I playing music while Bear danced. This time we were followed by a host of gleeful children.

Gradually, the children abandoned us. It was only when we were entirely alone that Bear ended his dancing. Then I stopped my playing, too.

“Did you hear?” I blurted out right away. “They’re accusing me of murdering Father Quinel.”

“I heard.”

“That priest also said Lord Furnival was their master. How can that be?”

“These lords of the realm own more land than God Himself. Now we need to hurry.”

“But when the priest named the courier that had come to them, I recognized the name.”

“Did you?”

“It was the man my village’s steward, John Aycliffe, met in the woods. Father Quinel spoke his name. And that young one-eyed man you teased, the one who grew angry—I’ve been trying to notice things—he was paying close attention to me.”

Bear shrugged. “We’re strangers. For some, strangers are threats, and they look at us accordingly. Pay it no mind.”

“But you told them we were going to Great Wexly.”

“A small slip.”

“Bear …”

“What?”

“You also called me your son.”

“Ah, Crispin, you could do worse. Far worse.” Usually such a remark came with a laugh. This time he was very serious.

“How did I do?” I said.

“Very well.”

My heart swelled.

“Shouldn’t we be worried?”

“Crispin, there’s an old soldier’s saying: ‘If you have to choose between alertness and worry, being alert will bring you more days of life.’Now, even more important, let us see what we earned.”

I had completely forgotten about that. Kneeling on the ground, Bear emptied his sack. We had earned four silver pennies, four farthings, and six loaves of bread.

“That’s so much,” I said.

“I’m not so impressed,” he said. “But consider, Crispin, it belongs to no one else but ourselves. Honest pay for honest work. And you deserve some, too.” He offered me a whole penny.

“But I’m your servant,” I said.

“Ah, but you have earned it,” he said, folding my fingers over the coin. “And we’re free men.”

I looked at the coin as it lay in my palm. “Are you sure?”

“Did you work hard?”

“I tried.”

“Then you deserve it. Now come, we need to earn some more.”

We started off again, my thoughts enraptured by the notions that we were indeed free. Then, when I reminded myself that I was still a wolf’s head and pursued, the luster of the moment dimmed.