Authors: Avi
H
EARING MY NAME CALLED SO terrified me, I stopped and turned around. The man had drawn closer, but as I could not see his face, I shrank away.
Only when the voice called out again, even angrier, “Crispin, you stunted son of a scoundrel!” did I realize it was Bear.
Heart exploding with relief, I ran toward him and flung myself at his knees, embracing him with fervor.
“Where, by the sins of Lucifer, have you been?” the huge man said, setting his lantern on the ground. Prying me loose, then putting his great hands on both my shoulders, he made me stand before him. At the same time he went to his knees, so I could look into his eyes.
“Bear …” I said, unable to say more because I had put my arms about him and pressed into his neck and beard, like an infant sparrow returned to its nest.
“Crispin,” he scolded, “I waited all afternoon for you to return. Did you forget me so soon? Is this the way you repay my kindness? I should give you a sound whipping.”
“I didn’t mean to. I lost my way. And I was attacked.”
“Attacked?” he said, prying me loose from his neck so he could look into my face. “By whom?”
“The stewards men.”
“What steward?”
“From Stromford. John Aycliffe. He’s come after me,” I went on in a rush. “I saw him in the great church. But he saw me, too. The moment he did, he set men upon me. And Bear, I remembered something else: he’s Lady Furnival’s kin. I even saw her. You said Great Wexly was Furnival’s principal home. That Stromford was one of his holdings. Now that Lord Furnival is dead, Lady Furnival must have summoned Aycliffe.”
“I feared that might happen.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to avoid it all.”
“My wrist is numb where they struck me.”
“Then you’ll have to walk on your feet,” he said, grinning.
With that, he turned about and began to wend his way through back streets and dark alleys, his lantern barely showing the way through the dark and rain.
“When I tried to defend myself,” I said after we had gone for a while, “I lost your dagger.”
“I’m sure you used it well.”
“Bear?” I said as we went along.
“What?”
“God bless you.”
“And you also,” he returned gruffly.
Only when I was secure behind the doors of Widow Daventry’s inn did I draw a fully relaxed breath. I looked about. The main room was deserted.
“Bear, you need to tell me what I should do
if—”
The widow came into the room. As she did, Bear put up his hand to silence me.
“Ah,” the woman said. “You found him.”
“He was wandering and became lost,” Bear said, not mentioning the attack.
“Did the watch see you?” she asked me.
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.” She drew herself up. “I’m afraid John Ball has just arrived.”
“Where is he?” Bear said.
“In the kitchen. He demanded to be fed.”
“Fine. I’ll get the boy to the room. Can you fetch him something to eat? And some dry clothes.”
“I’ll get some,” the woman said and left the room.
Giving me no explanation as to what his exchange with Widow Daventry had been about, Bear and I returned to our room. Once there, he set the lantern on the table, then bade me lie down on the pallet. When I did, Bear sat down by my side, but instead of speaking, became lost in his thoughts. Even so, I felt comforted.
Widow Daventry opened the door and stuck her head inside. “He’s getting anxious,” she said.
“He always was the impatient man,” Bear muttered. “I’m coming.”
The woman left. Bear stood and stepped toward the door.
“Now eat your bread and go to sleep.”
“Will you truly forgive me?” I said.
“There’s nothing to forgive. Sometimes I forget.”
“Forget what?”
“How little you know.”
With no further words, he went away.
Left alone, I hardly knew what to think. But after what had just happened to me—and how he had come after me—I had no heart to question him.
I
SAT ON THE STRAW AND ATE the bread. Afterward, wanting to give thanks for my safe return, I took Goodwife Peregrines pouch from around my neck, and removed my mother’s cross of lead. With it in my hands, I began to say my prayers in a low voice.
As usual, I prayed for the well-being of my mother’s and my father’s souls. This time I added Bear’s name to those for whom I begged protection.
Prayers done, I lay back on the pallet and thought of all I had seen and done that day. It was hard to grasp.
Then I listened to the rain as it continued to beat down, hoping it would lull me to sleep. My mind kept returning to this man, this John Ball, whom Bear was meeting, wondering if he were part of my puzzle, and why Bear was hiding him from me.
Unable to resist, I got up and crept out the door, then out to the dim hall. When I reached the steps I moved down silently, holding on to the wall for balance. Halfway, I paused and looked into the dimly lit room.
Bear was sitting at a table, his back to me. Standing by his side was Widow Daventry. Seated opposite was a man, who I assumed was John Ball.
Compared to Bear, the man was quite small, though his face, what I could make out of it, was strong, with a large nose, deep-set eyes, and a severe mouth. His brown robes and tonsured hair showed him to be a priest.
That in itself surprised me, because Bear had told me he had little faith in priests.
“… and the city apprentices,” I heard Bear say, “what of them?”
“Of like minds,” said John Ball. “As angry as any other. The constant wars in France, the taxes and harsh fees, these things grind them down as well as any man, peasant or not. They want—need—better wages and an end to the guilds.”
“All that may be true,” Bear said, “but from what I’ve seen and heard in my travels, they won’t rise up now.”
“They will if they can reclaim their ancient freedoms,” said Ball. “And, with the righteous hand of God"—he lifted a fist—"it is my destiny to lead them.”
“Then you had better to wait till King Edward dies,” Bear said.
“How long will that be?” boon.
“Can you be certain?”
“It’s all the talk of London,” Bear said, “as well as the court at Westminster.”
“And who will succeed to the throne?” said John Ball.
“It could be his son, the Duke of Lancaster.”
“The most hated man in England. That would help us.”
“But the true heir,” Bear went on, “is the king’s grandson, Richard of Bordeaux.”
“The child?” said John Ball. “Better yet. That would bring even greater weakness.”
“Why do you think this is the proper time for an uprising in these parts?” I heard Bear ask.
“Lord Furnival is dead,” said John Ball. “There is already much confusion. Lady Furnival has summoned all the authorities from his manors. With no known heirs, she is vulnerable.”
“Now, listen to me, John Ball,” Bear said. “It’s not for me to tell you how to act. But if we are to talk of Furnival’s heirs, in my travels I’ve discovered something of great importance.”
He spoke so low that his words became indistinct.
But I had heard enough. I drew back up the stairs.
That Bear was engaged in rebellion of some sort I could not doubt. In Stromford mere
talk
of such things was considered a hanging offense. What would happen if Bear were caught? It seemed, moreover, that he was not just a juggler, but some kind of spy.
As I lay on the pallet, I tossed and turned until I finally decided it was air I needed. Getting up, I poked the shuttered window open a little way, then glanced down upon the street. At first I thought it was deserted. Then, across the way, I saw a figure standing in the shadow of an overhanging building.
I thought of going down the steps and telling Bear. Instead, I held back. This time I would stay put as I’d been told.
As I lay back on the hay, I was determined to remain awake until Bear returned so I could tell him what I’d seen.
But the day had been long and tumultuous. Despite my intentions, I fell asleep.
I
WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to the deafening peal of bells. They were so loud, so tumultuous, for a brief moment I thought the Day of Judgment had arrived. Then I remembered I was in the town of Great Wexly with its many churches, and it was the Feast of John the Baptist. Even so, it was strange to waken in so closed a space, the air stale, the only light being that which slipped through the cracks in the shuttered window. But the pain in my wrist had gone, with only a blue mark to remind me of the attack.
I turned to Bear, wanting to tell him about the man I’d seen outside the tavern the night before. But he, taking up most of the space on the pallet, remained asleep.
To amuse myself, I plucked fleas from the straw and crushed them between my fingers. When Bear still didn’t wake, I grew restless and crept out of the room, making my way down the steps to the inn’s main floor.
Halfway down I stopped. The smell of wine was ripe and blended into the more embracing warmth of new-baked bread. Through the open door, bright light streamed in. The rain had ceased. The tavern room was crowded.
There were tradesmen as well as peasants, men in livery, and here and there, a woman. Most people were dressed in dark and rough brown clothing, but some were very elegant in bright colors and fur trim. Midst the cloaks and hoods were hats of more variety than I could reckon.
People ate by dipping large chunks of bread into bowls of wine, stuffing themselves, then hurrying away. The talk, loud and spoken quickly, went faster than my ear could catch. What I grasped seemed mostly about the day’s market, and that it was a glorious day.
Presiding over all was Widow Daventry, louder to my ears than all the people combined. She fairly threw down loaves and bowls of drink on the tables, now and again buffeting men with her fists, or exchanging insults with a boisterous tongue, even as she put coins in her purse—the bread costing a penny, the wine the same.
As I watched, more people came in, sat and ate. Midst the swarm of people, mangy dogs wandered. I even saw a pig, snuffling up what had fallen to the ground. No one appeared to notice, or even care.
At one point I noticed a young man enter and stand at the threshold, casting his eye about the crowd. I say
eye
because I instantly recognized him as the one-eyed man we had seen in the first town in which Bear and I had performed.
I immediately backed up some steps.
His survey, however, was brief, for he turned and went.
I recalled Bear saying people would come a great distance for the market day. Even so I asked myself if it was merely accidental that he came to the Green Man’s door. Could he be in search of me? Or Bear?
I hastened up to our room to tell Bear, but he was still asleep. Reluctant to wake him, I returned to the steps to stay on guard. But as I sat there, I found it impossible to escape the sensation that
something
dangerous was drawing in upon to us. It put me to mind of the snares Bear used to catch the birds we ate: an unseen loop, pulled tight, until the unsuspecting birds were caught. Perhaps we now were those birds.
I
HAD BEEN SITTING FOR I DON’T know how long when Widow Daventry noticed me. For a moment she stared at me as if she’d not seen me before.
“You there, boy,” she called, avoiding my name, though she knew it perfectly well. “You’re supposed to be in the kitchen.”
Taken by surprise—for I was sure I hadn’t been told I belonged there—I made no protest but came down the steps. In haste, she took me by an arm and led me away. Though one or two of the men called out, asking who I was, she did not answer.
“Where’s Bear?” she asked when we entered the back room.
“Asleep.”
“You mustn’t be seen,” she said. “He should have told you.”
I made no reply, assuming Bear had told her of the attack on me, and that she felt a need to protect me. If Bear trusted her, I told myself, so should I.
I looked about. We were in a kitchen filled with food. On one side stood great barrels. From the smell of them, they contained wine or ale. Against another wall was a brick oven. There were shelves upon the walls where loaves of bread and trenchers lay. They smelled like bliss itself, enough to make my mouth water.
“Make sure the pies in the oven don’t burn,” the woman told me, handing me a long, shovellike wooden tool. “Place the done ones there,” she said, pointing to the shelf. “There are breads ready to bake in there,” she added, indicating a wooden chest.
Then she bustled out, but not before saying firmly, “And stay in here.”
I peeked into the oven where the pies were baking. With the tool I’d been given, I reached in and fetched out some. Seeing that they were not so brown as those on the shelves, I returned them to the heat.
While waiting, now and again adding more wood to the oven fire, I looked about me, amazed anew at the quantities of foods I saw. Dangling from a ceiling hook was a piece of meat as large as I had ever seen, spotted thickly with flies. Bunches of herbs—I recognized parsley, sage, and rosemary—hung from the ceiling, as did onions and leeks. Turnips and cabbages sat on shelves. Bushels of grain were there. There were clay jars and bowls aplenty, filled with I knew not what. Everything had a different smell, some pleasing, others not.
After a while I rechecked the oven. The pies were now uniformly brown. In haste, I slid them out and attempted to place them on the shelves with the others, all but scorching my hand. One was so hot it slipped from my fingers and fell to the ground, where it broke open.
In a panic, I scooped up the pieces and tried to push them together. When the bits failed to stay, I looked for a place to hide the damage, but finding none, I simply ate it, bolting the pieces like a hungry dog.
Despite my nervousness—and the speed with which I ate—I could hardly believe how rich and fine it tasted, filled with savory things I had never eaten and could not name. What’s more, being hot from the oven, it filled me with a pleasing warmth.
Widow Daventry bustled in. “Have you taken the pies out?”
Feeling guilty, I said, “I put them on the shelf”
She considered them, then me. “Except for the one you ate,” she said. She opened a wooden chest and took up five unbaked loaves of bread. “Bake these,” she said, “but eat no more,” she admonished before hurrying out.
Embarrassed, I did as I’d been told, being much more careful this time. Still, I confess, the memory of the goodness lingered for a long time in my mouth.
After a while Widow Daventry returned. “Now come with me,” she said, and led me into the tavern room. It was empty of her customers. What remained were scraps of bread upon on the floor, and mostly empty tankards on the tables.
“Gather up the tankards,” she commanded. “And bring them to me.”
I did as I was told. She took them, sloshing out what remained onto the floor.
We worked in silence. She seemed tense. But then, as if she’d been thinking the matter over for some time, she said, “Crispin, I’m sorry for your troubles, but if ever a boy could find a good master, you’ve found him in Bear. As God is merciful, keep him close to his true calling—his juggling and his music. Don’t let him mingle too much with those who would cause trouble. Because"—she looked at me as if I knew something I didn’t—"if you don’t help him, things could go much the worse for you both.”