Authors: Avi
A
S I GAZED FROM THE HIGH rock, all seemed calm, and completely normal. Men, women, and children were in the fields at their lawful labor, plowing, weeding, sowing, where they would remain till dusk.
But as I watched, I saw two horses with riders emerge from the manor house. By the way one of the riders sat—not well—I was sure it was John Aycliffe, the steward. The other man, I supposed, was the one I’d seen with him the night before.
The two rode slowly to the church, dismounted, and then went inside.
I waited.
The church bell began to ring. It was not the slow, rhythmic pealing that announced the canonical hours, but a strident, urgent clamor, a call to important news.
In the fields, people stopped their work and looked about. Within moments, they began to walk toward the church. Others emerged from cottages. It did not take long before the entire village was assembled in front of the church porch. Once all had gathered, the bell ceased to ring.
Three men stepped from the church. The first to come was the steward. Then the stranger. The last was Father Quinel, whom I recognized because old age had marked him with a stoop.
The trio placed themselves before the doors of the church where the steward briefly addressed the crowd. Then the stranger held forth at greater length.
Finally, Father Quinel spoke. Then, followed by the steward and the stranger, as well as all the villagers, he led the way back into church.
The church bell now began to toll again, as if a Mass were being announced. But for whom or what purpose I could not guess.
I was tempted to go forward. But my apprehension—greatly increased by the destruction of my home—kept me back. Instead, I bowed my head in prayer: “O Great and Giving Jesus, I, who have no name, who am nothing, who do not know what to do, who am all alone in Thy world, I, who am full of sin, I implore Thy blessed help, or I’m undone.”
I
N TIME, PEOPLE EMERGED from the church. Most went their several ways, some back to the fields, others to their cottages. Others remained in groups, gossiping, or so I supposed. I’d have given much to hear their words.
As for the steward and the stranger, they remounted their horses and retreated to the manor house. Some of the village men went along.
Once more I had to decide what to do. I thought of going to the village for help, but there was only one person whom I could trust: Father Quinel. Had not my mother trusted him? Had not he, alone in the village, treated me with some kindness?
Even as I decided to speak to him, I saw the steward and the bailiff emerge from the manor house, along with men from the village. They were armed with glaives—long poles with sharp blades attached—as well as bows. I even saw a longbow. Just to see them made me know my worst fears had come true: a hue and cry had been raised against me.
Clinging to the rock, I watched the search party for as long as I was able. But when they became hidden by forest cover, it was time for me to flee. My visit to the priest would have to wait until the night.
M
Y DAY WAS SPENT IN A HIDING game. Even though I was hunted in many places, the merciful saints were kind. I was not caught.
The searchers did come close. Once, twice, I could have touched their garments as they passed. On one such occasion, I learned enough to confirm my worst suspicions.
It fell out this way: late in the day I had climbed into a great oak so thick with leaves it hid me completely. Below, passing, then pausing, were two men.
Matthew was a stout, honest fellow known for his skill with the glaive. Luke was a small, wiry man, considered Stromford’s finest archer. Both men lived near the mill.
Pausing beneath the tree in which I hid, I heard Matthew say, “I don’t think we’ll find the boy. He’ll have gone leagues by now.”
Then Matthew, shaking his head, said, “There’s a kind of strength in lunacy. I’ve seen it before. And the steward says it was madness over his mother’s death that caused the boy to break into the manor house and steal his money.”
When I, in my high perch, heard these words, I could hardly believe them: I was being accused of a theft I had not done.
“So it’s said,” Luke replied, but not, I thought, with much conviction.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Matthew, in a low, cautious voice, said, “If you believe it. Do you?”
I held my breath as Luke took his time to answer. Then he said, “Do I think that Asta’s son, a boy of thirteen—who’s as skittish as a new chick—entered the steward’s home, broke into the money chest, and ran off into the forest? Ah, Matthew, I’m sure marvelous things happen in this world. I’ve seen a few of them myself. But no, by the true cross, I don’t believe he did such a thing.”
“Nor do I,” Matthew said with greater strength. “But the steward says it’s so.”
“And that’s the end of it,” Luke added with a sigh.
Then they spoke bitterly of the things the steward had done: how he had increased their labors, imposed countless fines, taken many taxes, increased punishments, and, all in all, limited their ancient freedoms by being a tyrant in the name of Lord Furnival.
Luke spat upon the ground and said, “He’s no kin of Lord Furnival. Only of his wife.”
To which Matthew added, “God grant our lord long life so he may visit us soon and we might put our petitions before him.”
Both men crossed themselves. Having spoken, they drifted off.
I’d listened to such talk before, but always whispered. People often complained about their lives, taxes, work, and fees. Indeed, there had been so much talk that the steward—who must have heard of it—called a moot and informed one and all that such speech went against the will of God; our king; and our master, Lord Furnival. That henceforward he would treat all such talk as treason, a hanging offense.
Knowing these things could not be changed—despite the words of men like Matthew and Luke—I cared little for such matters. But in learning that I was being blamed for a crime I had not done, my incomprehension as to my plight only grew.
The rest of the day I spent hiding, not even daring—despite my hunger—to search for food. Instead, I waited for darkness, past Vespers and beyond, choosing not to stir until I heard the church bell ring the last prayers of the night, Compline. Still I held back, for fear of being seen.
But once the day was truly over, when the curfew bell had rung and all lay still as stone, I crawled from my hiding place.
The night was intensely dark. Low clouds hid the moon and stars. The air was calm, though animals’ slops and whiffs of burning wood made it rank. No lights came from the village, but some gleamed in the manor house.
Only then did I creep toward the church, alone, uncertain, and very full of fear.
F
ATHER QUINEL LIVED BEHIND our stone church in an attached room without windows. Though I saw no light beneath his door—one of the few doors our village boasted—I knocked softly.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Father Quinel. Asta’s son.”
A slight sound came from within. The door pulled open. The priest’s small, pale face peered out. His once-white alb, which covered him neck to foot, seemed ghostlike.
Frail from his many years, Father Quinel had served in Stromford his entire life. Now he was small and wizened, with sparse gray tonsured hair. Some claimed he was the unwanted son of the previous Lord Furnival, who had provided him with the church living when Quinel was still a boy.
“God be praised. Is that truly you?” he whispered.
“Yes, Father,” I said, adding quickly, “and I didn’t steal that money.”
He made the sign of the cross. “Bless Jesus to hear you say it. I didn’t think it likely.” Clutching me with his trembling, bony hand, he said, “Come quickly. The church will be safest. You’re being looked for everywhere. I have some food for you. If anyone comes, claim sanctuary.”
He led me inside the church. A large building, it took a man standing on another’s shoulders to reach the pointed roof. Some said it was as old as the world, built when our Blessed Savior was first born. Not even Goodwife Peregrine—who was the oldest person in our village—knew for sure.
The church contained a single, open space where we villagers knelt on the rush-strewn floor to face our priest and altar during mass. Above, in deep shadow, was the carved crucifix—Jesus in His agony. Below Him—on the altar—stood the fat tallow candle, whose constant fluttering flame shed some light upon the white walls of painted lime. The font where our babes were baptized was off to one side.
Two faded images were on the walls: one was of our Blessed Lady, her eyes big with grief, the tiny Holy Child in her arms. The other revealed Saint Giles, protecting the innocent deer from hunters, a constant reminder as to what our faith should be. Since I was born on his day, and as he was the village’s patron saint, I held him for the kin I never had. When no one else was there, I would creep into the church to pray to him. I wished to be the deer that he protected.
Near the altar the priest genuflected. I did the same. Then we knelt, facing each other. “Speak low,” he said. “There’s always Judas lurking. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, Father,” I murmured.
From behind the tattered altar cloth he produced a loaf of barley bread and gave it to me. “I was hoping you would come,” he said.
I took the heavy bread and began to devour it.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“In the forest.”
“Did you know they’ve been searching for you?”
My mouth full, I nodded.
“Aycliffe claims you stole money from the manor.”
“Father,” I said, “in all my life, I’ve never even been in there.”
“I don’t doubt you,” the priest said, gently putting his hand to my face to keep me calm. “Most people in the village don’t believe the accusation, either. But why does Aycliffe put your name to the crime?”
I told the priest what had happened when I ran from my mother’s burial—my fall, my waking to witness the meeting in the clearing, Aycliffe’s attempt to kill me.
“He said none of this,” the priest said. “It’s true.”
“What was the thing the steward read?” the priest asked. “He never mentioned that either.”
“I don’t know,” I said. Then I asked, “Who was the man he met?”
“Sir Richard du Brey,” the priest said. “He’s brought word that Lord Furnival—God keep him well—has returned from the wars. He’s ill and expected to die.”
“The stranger said Aycliffe must act immediately.”
“About what?”
I shrugged. “He said, ‘Are you not her kin? Do you not see the consequences if you don’t?’To which Aycliffe replied, A great danger to us all. ‘Then the man said, ‘Precisely. There could be those who will see it so and act accordingly. You’ll be placed in danger, too.’It made no sense to me,” I said.
The priest pondered the words in silence.
“Father,” I said, “what will happen if I’m caught?”
The priest put his hand on my shoulder. “The steward,” he said, “has declared you a wolf’s head.”
“A wolfs head!”
I gasped, horrified.
“Do you understand what it means?”
“That … I’m considered not human,” I said, my voice faltering. “That anyone may … kill me.
Is that why they pulled down our house?”
1 suppose.
“But…
why?”
The priest sat back and gave himself over to thought. In the dim light I studied his face. He seemed distraught, as if the pain of the whole world had settled in his soul.
“Father,” I ventured, “is it something about my mother?”
He bowed his head. When he looked up it was to gaze at me. “Asta’s son, unless you flee, you won’t live long.”
“But how can I leave?” I said. “I’m bound to the land. They’ll never give me permission to go.”
He sighed, reached forward, and placed the side of his frail hand aside my face. “Asta’s son, listen to me with the greatest care. When I baptized you, you were named … Crispin.”
“I was?” I cried.
“It was done in secret. What’s more, your mother begged me not to tell you or anyone. She chose to simply call you ‘Son.'”
“But… why?” I asked.
He took a deep breath and then said, “Did she tell you anything about your father?”
Once again the priest took me by surprise. “My father? Only that he died before I was born. In the Great Mortality,” I reminded him. “But what has that to do with my name? Or any of this?”
“Dearest boy,” the priest said wearily, “I beg you to find your way to some town or city with its own liberties. If you can stay there for a year and a day, you’ll gain your freedom.”
“Freedom?” I said. “What has that to do with me?”
“You could live by your own choices. As … a highborn lord … or a king.”
“Father,” I said, “that’s impossible for me. I am what I am. I know nothing but Stromford.”
“Even so, you must go. There are cities enough: Canterbury, Great Wexly, Winchester. Even London.”
“What… what are these places like?”
“They have many souls living there, far more than here. Too many to count. But I assure you they are Christians.”
“Father,” I said, “I don’t even know where these cities are.”
“I’m not so certain myself,” he admitted. “Follow the roads. Ask for help as you go. God will guide you.”
“Is there no other way?”
“You could find an abbey and offer yourself to the church. But it’s a grave step, and you’re hardly prepared. In any case, you don’t have the fees. If I had them, they would be yours. No, the most important thing is for you to get away.”
“There’s something about my mother that you are keeping from me, is there not?” I said.
He made no reply.
“Father …” I pressed, “was God angry at her… and me?”
He shook his head. “It’s not for men to know what God does or does not will. What I do know is that you
must
leave.”
Frustrated, I rose up, only to have the priest hold me back. “Your way will be long and difficult,” he said. “If you can remain hidden in the forest for another day, I’ll find some food to sustain you for a while. And perhaps someone will know the best way to go.”
“As you say.”
“Your obedience speaks well for you. Come back tomorrow night prepared to leave. Meet me at Goodwife Peregrine’s house. I’ll ask her to give you some things to protect you on your way.”
I started off again.
“And,” he added, as if coming to a decision, “when you come … I’ll tell you about your father.”
I turned back. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Better—safer—to learn such things just before you go. That and my blessing are all I can give.”
“Was he a sinner?” I demanded. “Did he commit some crime? Should I be ashamed of him?”
“I’ll tell you all I know when you come to Peregrine’s. Make sure it’s dark so you’ll not be seen.”
I took his hand, kissed it, then started off, only to have him draw me back again.
“Can you read?”
“No more than my mother.”
“But she could.”
“Father, you’re greatly mistaken.”
“She could write, too.”
I shook my head in puzzlement. “These things you say: a name. Reading. Writing. My father … Why would my mother keep such things from me?”
The priest became very still. Then, from his pocket, he removed my mother’s cross of lead, the one with which she so oft prayed, which was in her hands when she died. I had forgotten about it. He held it up.
“Your mother’s.”
“I know,” I said sullenly.
“Do you know what’s on it?”
“Some writing, I think.”
“I saw your mother write those words.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “But—”
“Tomorrow,” he said, cutting me off and folding my fingers over the cross, “I’ll explain. Just remember, God mends all. Now go,” he said. “And stay well hidden.”
Filled with dissatisfaction, I stepped from the church. As I did, I thought I saw a shadow move.
Concerned that I had been observed, I stood still and scrutinized the place where I’d seen movement. But nothing shifted or gave sound.
Deciding it had been just my fancy, and in any case too upset to investigate, I made my way back to the forest, where I slept but poorly.
Why had I been so falsely accused? I kept asking myself. How could I be proclaimed a wolf’s head?
Regarding my father, why had my mother told me nothing about him? And what possible matter of importance could Father Quinel reveal of that connection?
Mostly, however, I kept marveling at the priest’s revelations about my mother. That she had given me a name …
Crispin.
It did not seem to be
me.
If true, why had she held it secret? As for her being able to read and write, surely that could not be true. But if true, why would she have kept such skills from me? In the darkness where I lay I held her cross before my eyes. Of course I could make out nothing. In any case I could not read.
If there was one person I thought I knew, depended on, and trusted utterly, it was my mother. Yet I had been told things that said I did not know her.
I hardly knew what to think. Closer to the truth, I was in such a state of wretched disorder, I did not
want
to think. The things the priest had said made my heart feel like a city under siege.