Authors: Avi
I
MADE MY WAY DOWN THE steps. When I came into the tavern room I received a further shock. The tables had been smashed. Benches were split. The serving counter was overturned. The tankards in which the ale and wine were served lay tumbled about. Many were broken.
Midst the ruins sat Widow Daventry. She was slumped and weeping. Her linen cap lay on the floor. Her hair, undone, hung down over her broad back. Her smock was torn.
Afraid to make my presence known, I stood motionless on the threshold of the room, trying to grasp what had happened. I must have made a sound, for the woman started and shifted her bulk around. She saw me and quickly turned away. But it was enough for me to see the bruises on her face, her red-rimmed eyes, her hollow mouth from which trickled a spike of blood. She gulped for air, and her crying ceased.
When I went and stood by her side, she lifted her head, looked at me, and raised a hand, once, twice, as if to pump up words. None came. It was as if she had been emptied of all life.
“Good Widow,” I stammered, “what … happened here?”
“Soldiers,” she lisped faintly. “From the palace. They’re searching for you.”
“Will they return?”
“Perhaps,” she said wearily.
Though I quickly decided not to tell her I had been in the house, I hardly knew what to say. “If … they find me,” I asked, hoping she would give me a different answer, “what will they do?”
“Kill you,” she said. Groaning with the effort, she came to her feet and surveyed the wreckage with a dazed look. When she spied her cap upon the floor, she picked it up and poked her fingers through its rents.
“Do you know why?” I said.
Disgusted, she tossed the cap away. “Best ask Bear.”
“Bear’s … been taken,” I said.
She swung around. “By whom?”
“The soldiers.”
“When?”
Diminished as she already was, my news reduced her even more. Clumsily, she righted a bench and sat down heavily. Her own weight seemed too much for her. “Tell me what happened.”
I told her all.
She listened intently, muttering sacred prayers along with profanities below her breath.
When I’d done, she said, “May Jesus protect him,” and made the sign of the cross. Then her shaking fingers sought her rosary beads.
I said, “What will happen to him?”
“A loving God will grant a speedy death,” she said, squeezing her hands together. Tears began to run down her sunken cheeks again. With a hasty, agitated gesture, she wiped them away.
I stood there awkwardly, hardly able to breath. I said, “I heard John Ball cry out that he was betrayed.”
The woman spat upon the floor. “Beware all men who confuse their righteousness with the will of God. They probably don’t even know that Ball was here. It’s you they want. I warned Bear.”
She went back to gazing about the wreckage as if still unable to believe what she saw.
“Widow,” I said, “what should I do?”
At first she didn’t answer. Then she said, “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous. For you and me. They’ll try to get Bear to say where you are. But even if they make him reveal where you are, since they already searched this place and didn’t find you, they may not believe him. In any case, Bear will try not to say anything to harm you. He cares too much for you.”
Then she added, “But even the strongest can be broken by torture.”
“Torture!”
I cried.
“Tonight, after curfew,” she went on, “you must escape from town. In the meanwhile don’t even come into this room. Stay upstairs. Did Bear show you where to hide?”
I nodded.
“Go on then. That’s where you need to be.”
I climbed the steps and returned to the room. After slipping inside the tiny hiding space, I closed myself in, welcoming the darkness as the only safe companion to my despair. So much bad had happened, and all because of me.
I
DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH TIME passed before I heard a tapping on the board that kept me hidden.
“Open up,” came Widow Daventry’s whisper.
I pushed the board out. In her hands was a bowl of soup and bread.
Grateful, I took the food and began to eat, though I was almost ashamed to be so hungry.
“What have you been doing?” she asked after setting down the small candle she’d brought.
“Thinking about Bear.”
“Ah,” she said with a sigh. “Well you might. Crispin, forgive me being so angry with you. God knows, it’s not your fault.” She lapsed into silence for a while.
“Did Bear ever tell you about me?” she asked abruptly.
“No,” I said.
“Two husbands. Seven children. None alive. And yet … I live.” She reached out and rested a heavy hand on me. “Crispin,” she whispered, “does God … have reasons?”
“I… don’t know.”
Head bowed, she began to weep again. I took her rough hand and squeezed it.
It was some time before she could compose herself.
Cautiously, I said, “Good Widow, can you read?”
She looked at me with vacant eyes. “A little. Why do you ask?”
“Can you tell me what it says … here?” I held out my cross.
She took it and turned it over in her hands. “It’s from the Great Sickness,” she said. “I don’t have to read it. Bear told me what it says.”
“He did?”
She nodded. “It says, ‘Crispin—son of Furnival.'”
I stared at her.
“You’re Lord Furnival’s son.”
“How can that be?”
“Who did you think your father was?”
“My mother only said my father died before I was born. In the Great Sickness.”
She shook her head. “Crispin, for these lords to have sons out of wedlock is common.”
“And Bear knew about me?” I managed to say.
“Yes.”
“And he told you.”
She nodded. “He guessed it from this cross, and because of what happened to you.” She offered the cross back to me.
I took it. “What else did Bear say?”
She sighed. “He supposed that your mother was attached to Lord Furnival’s court. That she must have been some young, gentle lady who knew how to write and read. Bear imagined her some beauty, enough to catch the eye of Lord Furnival. Furnival must have brought her—no doubt against her will—to your village.
“But when she quickened with child—you—he abandoned her, leaving orders that she be held in that place. Not killed, but never allowed to leave.”
“Because of …
me
?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t Bear tell me?”
“He wanted to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Crispin,” she said, “what ever noble blood there is in you, is only …
poison.
Lady Furnival, who’s the power here, will never let you have the name. She’ll look on you as her enemy, knowing that anyone who chooses to oppose her will use you and what you are.”
“Does she even know of me?” I said, amazed.
When the woman said nothing, I repeated the question.
“If she knows as much as I, she may,” said the widow.
“What do you mean?” I cried.
“Crispin, I can not be certain, but if the rumor of the time—thirteen years ago—was true, I believe I know who your mother was. She was the youngest daughter of Lord Douglas. Lord Furnival became infatuated with her. It was the talk of the town. Then word was given out that this young woman died. Apparently not.”
“What difference does that make?” I asked bitterly. “She’s dead now.”
“But if Lord Douglas knew his daughter had a son by Lord Furnival, he might make a claim to the Furnival wealth through you. And if Lady Furnival knew of you as well, she would do anything to protect her power here.
“Your connection gives no honor. No position. What someone fears is not you, but that you will be used. Can’t you see it? Your noble blood is the warrant for your death. It will remain so till it flows no more.”
I stared at her. “Did Bear know this about my mother?”
“I did not tell him.”
“Why?”
“He thought of you as his son. Why put a greater distance between you?
“Crispin, if it’s any comfort, you’re probably not the only possible claimant. Considering Furnival’s reputation, you’re probably only one of many. The House of Furnival will want you
all
dead.”
“But… I make no claim.”
“Those who know of your existence fear you will. Which is why you must get away as fast as possible and never—ever—return to these parts.”
She reached out and touched me softly on the face with her rough hands. “May sweet Jesus protect you,” she said before she took her leave.
W
HEN WIDOW DAVENTRY LEFT, I lay back down, and in the closeness of the hiding place, I held the cross of lead before my eyes. Though I could see nothing, I stared at it.
As I did, I began to see how my new knowledge made sense of the way my mother and I had lived for so many years.
Her words about my father. Few and bitter.
Father Quinel’s saying she could read and write, but never revealing it to me.
The way people in Stromford Village looked upon us as different.
Aycliffe treating us with such contempt.
Her calling me “Asta’s son,” since I was all she had, and that was all she could say. But all the same, christening me secretly with my father’s name.
No wonder she sometimes clung to me, and just as oft thrust me away. I was her life. She cared for me. Yet I was the cause of her destruction.
Thus we were foreigners to Stromford. Unwanted prisoners.
Then, the courier had arrived with his document, probably to announce the impending death of Lord Furnival. His protection—such as it was—was removed.
Only then did the words I heard in the forest make sense:
“And am I to act immediately?”
“It’s her precise command. Are you not her kin?
Do you not see the consequences if you don’t?”
“
A great danger to us all.”
The
her
was Lady Furnival.
To say I had stolen money was merely Aycliffe’s excuse to declare me a wolf’s head. He sought to kill me because of who I was. No, not who I was, but who my father and mother were. For me—as Widow Daventry had said—they cared not so much as a rooster’s tooth.
Father Quinel must have known the truth. And he was killed. Again, Aycliffe’s hand.
And Bear came to know it but didn’t tell me. He was shielding me from the poison in my blood.
Now he had been taken, most likely to be killed. All because of me.
No, I had to remind myself. Not because of me, or anything I’d done, but because I was—Lord Furnival’s son. The only question was, now that I knew who I was, what should I do?
Because it was clear to me that they had taken Bear to get at me.
F
OR THE REST OF THE DAY I remained in the hiding place, thinking. In doing so, I continued to piece together the fragmentary bits of my life and place them together until they became a mosaic.
I kept asking myself if I felt different, if I
was
different. The answer was always
yes.
I was no longer nothing. I had become two people—Lord Furnival’s son … and Crispin.
How odd, I thought: it had taken my mother’s death, Father Quinel’s murder, and the desire of others to kill me for me to claim a life of my own.
But what kind of life?
I supposed some might have considered me blessed in that I was of high blood. But I knew that blood, as Widow Daventry had said, to be nothing but venom. That Lord Furnival was my father had been but a cruel burden. Bear—in the short time I had known him—was a thousandfold more a faithful father to me.
For the first time, I began to think upon John Ball’s words. They made sense. For what I recalled most was his saying “that no man, or woman either, shall be enslaved to any other, but stand free and equal to one another.”
I recalled too, what Bear had told me, that he was a fool because he should “like to be in Heaven before he died.”
I saw it then: Bear and Ball were talking about the very word Father Quinel had used, freedom. Something I had never had. Nor did anyone in my village, or the other villages through which we had passed. We lived in bondage.
To be a Furnival was to be part of that bondage.
As time passed in the darkness of my hiding place, the one thing I knew for sure was that as Bear had helped to free me, he had given me life. Therefore I resolved to help free him—even if it cost me that new life to do so.
I
T WAS SHORTLY AFTER THE church bells rang for late-afternoon Vespers that the widow reappeared. “I’ve found someone to help you escape Great Wexly,” she said. “You’ll go tonight. The man knows a safe way over the walls. If all goes well, you’ll not be seen.”
“But what about Bear?”
“In the name of God, Crispin,” she said, “you cannot help him. He’s already lost.”
She started to leave.
“Where do you think I should go?” I said.
She shrugged. “Go as far away as possible.”
“Bear spoke of going to Scotland.”
“Perhaps out of the kingdom is best.”
“I don’t know where Scotland is.”
“To the north,” she said.
“When will your man come?” I asked.
“After Compline—and curfew. Pray for clouds.”
“Why?”
“It will be darker.”
“Widow,” I said as the woman moved to leave me. “Where is the White Stag?”
“By the Western Gate. Why do you ask?”
Not wishing to mention John Ball—whom she seemed to hate—I said, “Bear spoke of it.”
She smiled grimly. “I’m sure Bear, God keep him, spoke of many taverns.”
I fell asleep, only to waken at the sound of ringing bells. Shortly after, I heard the tramp of feet outside. Then, from some distance came the cry, “The hour of Compline is at hand. The curfew is in force. No one may be on the streets.”
Not much later the widow appeared holding a lighted lamp. “The man is here. It’s time.”
I got up, making sure I took Bear’s sack as
well
as his hat. I also took some of the pennies we had earned and placed them in a pocket. Lastly, I touched around my neck to make certain my leather purse was there. I did not want to leave my sole possession—the cross of lead—behind.
“Widow,” I said, “I should pay for our lodging.”
“Don’t be foolish. You’ll need whatever you have.”
She led me down the steps. In the dimness of the empty tavern room, a man stood. He was rather small, with one shoulder higher than the other. His garb—jacket, leggings, and boots—was dark. He had a scabrous face, with a dirty cloth wrapped around his neck. His mouth was a narrow slit.
“God be with you,” I said to him.
“And you,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
Widow Daventry led us to the back door. Before she reached it she blew out the lantern. Only then did she open the door.
“The moon is full,” she whispered. “Be careful. God keep you well.”
“The Lord’s blessings on you for your help,” I returned.
Impulsively, she reached out and embraced me tightly, then with a sigh pushed me away.
I stepped into the alley. The man came close behind and shut the door behind us.
“Follow me,” he said.
Without a backward look he moved away. One foot dragged, so that as he walked, he made a little scraping sound upon the ground.
I glanced up to the clear sky with its bright, full moon. Ill omen or good, it occurred to me that I might never see the sun again.