Authors: Avi
W
E ENTERED INTO A LARGE room in which a few small tallow candles had been stuck into crannies in the walls. Despite the sputtering light, it was a dim and smoky place that reeked of bad ale, stale bread, and sour wine. Trestle tables and benches, more than I had ever seen in one place, stood beneath a low beamed ceiling. The floor was made of thick wood slabs, strewn with dirty rushes. To one side stood a kind of counter, upon which sat rows of wooden tankards.
Behind this counter stood a large, buxom woman. Dressed in a brown, grease-spotted kirtle, she had a lopsided white linen cap upon her dark and gray-streaked tresses. Around her waist was a belt of glassy rosary beads, from which dangled a leather purse. Wooden pattens were on her feet. As for her face, it was a flushed and rosy red. Her nose was flat, as if it had once been broken. Her cheeks were sunken, too. Withal, she cast off a brimming, bustling force.
When we came forward, she squinted to see who was there. As Bear loomed large before her, a grand grin spread upon her face, revealing not just joy, but a complete lack of teeth.
“God’s wounds,” she cried with lisping, spittle-spraying laughter, “it’s the Bear set loose among us again.”
“And on my honor,” Bear said, his voice booming, his arms spread wide, “it’s the Widow Daventry.”
The two embraced in the middle of the room.
“Welcome back to Great Wexly,” the woman said, pushing Bear away even as she looked him up and down. “I was wondering if you’d come. But you’ve been true.”
“Fair lady.” Bear laughed, making a mock bow. “I always keep my word.”
“But once again, sir, I fear you’ve not come to court me,” she said.
“Alas, it’s my other business,” said he.
Then, to my astonishment, the woman smote him hard in the chest with a tight fist, a blow which only made him laugh even more. Not content with that assault, she pulled his beard and tweaked his cheek. “And what escapades have befallen you since you were here last?” she asked, laughing with such delight I could not keep from grinning too.
“Many an adventure, you can be sure,” he said. “And there stands one of them.” Bear pointed at me.
The woman turned and considered me with squinty eyes. “Is he yours, or did you find him in some swamp?”
Before he answered, Bear looked around. What he might have been searching for I don’t know, for only the three of us were there.
“It was God’s sweet grace that let him find me.”
“How did that happen?”
“We met in an abandoned village. He had fled his village.”
“Did he?” the woman said and looked at me with new interest. “For what reason?”
“In search of a grander world,” said Bear.
“And what of his father? His mother?”
“Both gone to a better world.”
“An orphan then. And not pursued?” she asked, clearly relishing the tale.
“That’s another matter,” Bear said with a frown. “But by the laws of this realm,” he said, “he’s fully bound to me now. My apprentice. And a likely lad.”
It felt good to hear his praise.
“What’s your name?” she asked me.
I made myself look up. “It’s … Crispin.”
“Now there’s a highborn name for a lowly lad,” the woman said. “But, Crispin, pay no heed to my bantering. Bear’s friends are mine. Welcome to the Green Man’s Inn. Where do you come from?”
When I hesitated, Bear said, “Crispin, name your village.”
“Stromford,” I said.
“Never heard of it,” the woman said with a shrug.
“One of Lord Furnival’s holdings,” Bear said.
“Lord Furnival,” the woman said, turning from me back to Bear. “Have you not heard the news?”
“That Lord Furnival died?” he said.
“Aye. Two weeks ago,” the woman said.
As Bear made the sign of the cross over his heart, I said, “How did you know?” not sure which surprised me more, that he had known or that he hadn’t told me.
“The black cloth draped around town,” he replied. “And the extra soldiers at the gates.”
“To be sure,” the woman said. “When great men die there’s always unrest. He died in his bed,” she added. “From the wounds he earned at the French wars. I suppose it will only encourage your enterprise,” she said with some unease.
“Widow,” he said, “it’s not
my
enterprise.”
As I watched and listened to the two of them, it was clear she had more knowledge of Bear and his business than I. It gave me a jealous pang.
“Who will succeed the lord?” Bear said.
“He has no legal heirs,” the woman said. “Though it’s been rumored there are some illegitimate ones.”
“And all his property?”
“It now belongs to his widow, the Lady Furnival. Unless some bastard son—with an army at his back—makes a claim. Or until she marries.
If
she marries. But they say that’s unlikely. She’s not the type to relinquish her new powers. She never traveled with Lord Furnival, but preferred to stay in her court. You know what women say,” she added with a grin: “’If the first marriage is a gift from God, the second comes straight from Hell.'”
That said, there was an awkward moment of silence. Bear was tense. I did not know exactly what had occurred, but it made me recall something Father Quinel had told me once at confession: a moment of silence in the midst of talk means Death’s Angel is close at hand. I shuddered.
B
UT YOU, SHE SAID TO BEAR, “must sit and slake your thirst. I want to know all you’ve learned since you’ve last been here.”
Bear relaxed. “If you’ll be so good as to fetch me the key to my room in the solar—the
special
one,” he added, “I’ll settle the boy. Then we can speak.”
Though realizing I was being put aside, I said nothing, but simply followed Bear.
Key in one hand, he led me up the steps to the second story. I had never climbed so high in a building before, so high that I furtively put a hand to the wall to steady myself.
We went along a dark, narrow hallway until we reached a door, which he unlocked.
“Our solar,” he informed me. “Go on.”
I stepped inside. By the little light that seeped through a shuttered window, I observed a small room. Old rushes lay on the floor. A small, low table stood in one corner. In another corner was a large pallet of hay. The place had a rank, close smell of sweat and ale that made me feel slightly ill, used as I was to open air.
Bear fluffed up the pallet.
“Bear?”
“What?”
“This building … it’s so high. Might… might it fall down?”
He looked at me for a disbelieving moment, then erupted with one of his big laughs. “There is no chance. None.”
There was a knock on the door. Widow Daventry entered. In her hands was a bowl with meat in thick sauce. Pieces of bread were mixed in. To my surprise, she offered it to me. I took it gratefully.
“Yours is below,” she said to Bear and left.
I sat on the hay cross-legged, bowl in my lap, horn spoon in hand.
As Bear removed his dagger and laid it on the table, I said, “Will we perform here?” I asked.
“I think not,” he said to my further surprise. “Our time here will be very short. But I must show you something.” He went to the wall, and felt about the wooden boards. “This is a special room,” he said. “My friend below always gives it to me.”
Under the pressure of his hands, a slab of wood popped out from the wall. “It’s a hiding place. It will hold you, and me too, for that matter, if there’s need.”
“Will there be a need?”
“By all of Heaven’s sacred saints, I pray not.”
“Bear,” I said looking directly at him, “what is it you
really
do?”
He laughed. “When we met,” he said, “you dared not even ask my name. Now you stare brazenly at me and presume to ask of my affairs. Have we risen in the world, or fallen?”
“That’s for you to say,” I said.
“As to what I
really
do,” he said with a placating smile, “I’m a fool because I should like to be in Heaven
before
I die.” He reached for the door.
“I don’t want to stay here,” I said. “It’s close and ill smelling.”
“You’ll do as you’re told.”
“Yes, master,” I said, knowing my saying so would irritate him. “Then at least don’t lock the door.”
“I won’t,” he said, then paused. For a moment I thought he would speak more. But all he said was, “Crispin, on your life, remain here until I return.” With that, he left.
Feeling much aggrieved, I ate the food, then lay back upon the straw. I was not very happy. Why, I asked myself, should I remain in such a stuffy place while he did as he pleased? Besides, my glimpses of the town had only whetted my curiosity. And I had a penny of my own. There was much still to see, but it sounded as if Bear intended to keep me in the room for what now appeared to be a short stay.
For a while I remained where I was, though as time passed, I fretted more and more.
Finally, I got up, went to the door, and peeked into the hall. Seeing no one about, I made up my mind to wander the town for a short time. My intent was that I would return before Bear even noticed I had left.
I was just about to leave when I went to the table and plucked up Bear’s sheathed dagger and hid it underneath my tunic. Had he not taught me to use it? Was not this the town in which to claim my liberties?
Moving quietly, I crept halfway down the stairs and listened. From somewhere I could hear the murmurs of Bear’s talk, as well as Widow Daventry’s. Exactly where they were I didn’t know.
I continued down, until I was certain no one was in the tavern room.
At the base of the steps, I decided it would be better if I didn’t use the front door, lest they see me. Instead, I made a sharp turn and went along a narrow hall. At the end of it I reached a small door.
Pushing it open, I stepped into an alley that had the most appalling stench. It was the place where privies were set over open ditches.
Holding my nose, I shut the door behind me, and raced away.
I
T WAS MIDAFTERNOON, SHORTLY after the bells had rung for None, when I stepped away from the back door of the Green Man. Running, I regained the main street and once there began to look upon the town at my ease.
As I went about, the hurly-burly world of countless people, buildings, and wares struck me with even greater force. If anything, Great Wexly seemed more tumultuous, with more people, more happenings than even before. But I was feeling bold and quite sure of myself. I don’t need Bear to see the world, thought I.
As I stood upon the street—enjoying the buffeting of those who passed, not sure which way I wished to go—a crowd of children rushed by, yowling and laughing. Curious to know where they would go and what they would do, I ran after them.
The young people turned this way and that, and then, just as they had appeared, they vanished. I had not the slightest idea where they had gone.
Though baffled, I was not a bit disconcerted. With so much to see, I was content to ramble on, pausing to look at whatever took my interest, of which there was no scarcity. As for my penny, I purchased some white bread from a street vendor. It was light and sweet, and took little chewing to get down, which I found passing strange.
After a while I found the courage to leave the main, stone-paved street, and began to wander among back ways. These proved to be dirt and mud lanes. Though very narrow, they cast an even greater stench than the main thoroughfare.
These ways twisted and turned in every conceivable direction, with no logic that I could grasp.
Yet I found myself excited
not
to know where I was going. How marvelously odd, I thought, to be required to pick and choose which way to go. What did I care that I had to make so many choices? It give my head a pleasing whirl.
And still more people. Of so many kinds. Some I could see—from the way they dressed—were poor. Yet even so, they appeared to mingle with others of far greater wealth, and no one took offense.
In time I found myself upon the main stone street again. It was there I saw a woman riding sidesaddle astride a great black palfrey whose saddle and harness were trimmed with gleaming silver. Though the lady wore a black cape, I could see her gown. It was a brilliant blue, trimmed with golden fur. Her hair was tucked behind a squared-off, ruffled, netted cap of black lace. Her feet were shod in golden shoes with pointy tips. Her small hands were encrusted with sparkling jewels. As for her face of elder years, it was pale and haughty, and did not—or so it seemed—take in the world about her. Yet as she went by, she pressed a silken cloth to her nose as if to block the offending street stench. Her nose knew where she was.
Before her marched a boy dressed entirely in black, a short gold-and-blue cape draped over one shoulder. He carried a long horn of bright metal from which dangled a flag of blue and gold. With every few steps he took he lifted the horn to his lips and blared out notes to announce the lady’s progress.
Clustered around this lady were six men, wearing tunics with padded chests, their puffed sleeves lengthened to cover half their hands. One man led the lady’s horse. Others marched on either side of her, while three more came behind. By the swords they carried, it was clear they were her guards. Though not so sumptuously dressed as she, they were splendid enough to look upon in their blue-and-gold livery. On each left sleeve was a band of black.
For me she was an amazing sight. I had never seen such astounding wealth. Another marvel for my eyes.
As she passed, people on the streets hastily made way for her, some doffing their hats, or inclining their heads in reverence. Some even went down upon their knees, so I knew her to be a personage of great power.
And yet when the noble lady had once gone by, the crowds knitted together just as before, milling about, strolling, buying or selling. It was as if she had never been there.
“Who was that?” I asked a boy standing near.
He gave me a look of astonishment, as if I should have known. “Why, it’s Lady Furnival.”
I turned quickly to look after her, but she had gone.