by Avi
Gulping for breath, spitting water, my shivering body coated with mud, I stopped and turned about. The French horseman had now reached the river’s bank and was yelling at his horse, urging him forward. The horse, after some hesitation, went on, only to sink into the same morass of mud into which I had sunk. The horse, moreover, carried far greater weight than I and so sank deeper, completely hampering his movement. Snorting and whinnying, he thrashed wildly even while being sucked down.
The Frenchman grasped the danger. He flung himself off the horse and, while trying to avoid its frenzy, struggled to find his own footing on the more solid bank. Once he reached it, he stretched out for the horse’s reins, grabbed them, and began to coax and pull the beast back to safety.
For the moment I was forgotten. I stood there staring until, with a start, I grasped that I was—at least for now—safe. Making the most of it, I turned and fled.
Though cold and wet, I ran as fast as I could, now and again looking back, relieved to see the Frenchman was still struggling with his horse. Surely he no longer cared about me. But then I wasn’t looking where I was going, either. One moment I was running freely. The next moment I was hurtling through the air.
16
I LANDED WITH a bruising thud that blew all breath from me. The plunge left me stunned, face pressed into the muddy ground. With my head spinning, I could not move for some time. At length I was able to roll onto my back and gaze up at the vast gray sky. All I could see was its emptiness.
Gradually I pushed myself up onto my knees and looked about. I had fallen into a wide, muddy ditch. It was not very deep, so I could prop myself up and peer over the bank to see if I was still being pursued. At first I could see no one. Only when I swiveled about did I see the French soldier. He was leading his horse away from me, his mount now appearing to be lame. With a deep breath of relief, I gave thanks to Saint Giles.
For a while I remained in place, wiping mud away from my face and arms until I felt more composed.
My sense of calm was only temporary. Though I had been safely delivered, my tattered rags were wet, I was cold, and the day was passing quickly. Shivering, I tried to think what next to do. Had Elena’s family succeeded in traveling on to Calais? Was Owen safe? Which direction should I go?
I peeked over the ditch anew, wanting to be sure that the Frenchman was truly gone. He was. Even so, I feared to stand up, but took some time to study the land in all directions.
The ditch I had fallen into had a sharply cut bank and lay so perfectly straight I decided it had been made by men, not shaped by God. A small thread of water trickled down its center. It appeared to lead nowhere. Standing up, I tried to determine the best way to go.
When I had stood upon the hill, I had seen, in a northward direction, what I thought was Calais. Where I now stood, so low, I could no longer see it. But from the position of the sun, it was easy enough to determine which way lay north. Since the ditch I’d fallen into was cut along a north-south line, I chose to go in a northern way.
For some time I traveled in this fashion in hopes of seeing anything that might assure me I was going the right way. Wanting a better view, I climbed out of the ditch. Everywhere I looked, the land proved as desolate as it first appeared, made more barren by a chill twilight wind that had begun to blow. As it increased in force, it carried bits of sand, stinging my face and arms.
Looking around, not knowing what to do, I noticed what appeared to be the ruins of stone walls not too far away. I was reminded of the deserted village where I first met Bear, a place ravaged by the great mortality. Into my head even now came the song I’d heard him sing:
Ah, dear God, how can this be?
That all things wear and waste away!
When I considered the splintered timber that lay amid the widely scattered stones, I concluded that the buildings had been destroyed with violence—as if by war. Did not Elena say the French and English were always fighting here? No doubt, the inhabitants had been driven away or killed.
As the crescent moon rose above the eastern sky, I felt an increasingly sharp wind. With my clothing still damp, I was forced to contemplate a cold and lonely night without fire, food, or shelter. Moreover, I had no true idea how far away Calais was. It seemed best to seek some protection among the ruins.
It was dusk when I drew near the broken walls. The closer I came, the more wretched and wasted the rubble appeared. The cutting wind and daggerlike shadows shaped by moonlight made it appear like a shrine to war. It was a spot where Death himself might sleep.
I reached a wall no higher than my chest. It had been built of wood and wattle, but now seemed more likely to tumble and mingle with the debris about my feet. I made my way to the largest structure, another low and broken wall of stone, more intact than others. Between where it stood and a long mound of heaped-up stones was a shallow trench. Judging that the trench might afford some protection against the wind, I lay down in it. With cold skin against cold stone, I hugged my arms and gave myself over to a long and bitter night.
As I lay there unable to sleep, I began to think that—rough-hewn though it might be—I was already in my grave. When I wondered where Troth might be sleeping, a sob rose in my throat. Did she ever think of me? Did she regret having stayed behind? I pushed such painful thoughts away. Instead, I tried to convince myself that I would be safer on the morrow.
But as the moon rose higher and the wind began to sing a steady sigh, the cold increased. I began to wonder if I would last through the night. Was I about to die?
That made me think of Bear. It was easy to imagine his large shape, hear his booming voice, and feel his all-enveloping force. Crispin, I could almost hear him cry, you young fool! God gave you life! Who are you to deny it? Be alive!
His figure and voice were so vivid in my ear and inner sight, it made me whisper as if in prayer, “Dear Bear, forgive me. I herewith vow to live—in your and Jesus’s names!”
Such thoughts of life and death made me think that the pile of rubble against which I was pressed might actually be a burial mound. It looked as if it could be. Just the thought was unsettling.
The more I thought the spot was a grave, the less I could not think on it. In the end I decided there was only one way to compose myself: push away some of the mound’s stones and free my foolish head of such fretful fancies.
I swung up onto my knees and, by the light of the white moon, began to throw off stones. The hard work brought some heat within me. Once begun, I labored hard and continued as if in self-mockery. But that self-mockery turned piercing when, upon turning over a large last stone, I discovered a broken-jawed skull grinning up at me.
17
I STARTED BACK in fright. Moonlight revealed the skull to be old, brown, and smashed in on one side, as if the person had been struck and thereby killed. Perhaps he had been a man of importance. He might as well have been a nobody. What could he tell me, teach me, warn me about? Though it was empty of life, I felt the skull was observing me. Disturbed, I made the sign of the cross over it and murmured a prayer for the person’s soul.
Even then I was not sure what to do. I had no desire to have a grinning skull for my night’s companion. Yet the place I’d discovered was better than anywhere else I’d found. In the end I decided to stay where I was, but rebury the bones.
Again making the sign of the cross—this time for my own protection—I edged nearer to the skull. I was about to replace the stones when I realized that the skull was resting not on earth but on the edge of a box.
I peered closer—the eye sockets were staring right up at me—and realized the box was made of iron. I studied it, wondering if it might contain anything of value. The thought of pulling it out and opening it came to me. But though this was clearly not holy ground, I feared doing so would be disturbing a burial.
I went back to where I’d been and tried to settle myself. It wasn’t long before the heat of my work left me. I became colder than before.
As I lay there, trying to control my shivering
, I kept thinking about that box, wondering what it might contain.
Impulsively I scrambled around, knelt by the skull, and began to pull away more stones until the box was much exposed. When it proved larger than I’d first perceived, my fancy began to enlarge in equal measure. Perhaps it held gold, or jewels. I might be as rich as Rauf! I could buy my own and Owen’s freedom.
I yanked away more stones until the box was completely uncovered. It was not so big that I could not wrap my arms around it. But to retrieve it, I would have to shift the skull.
Even as I told myself I might suffer for such actions, I gently shifted the skull—how weightless is an old death!—and pulled at the box. As I did, the skull fell back. In doing so, it twisted toward me, grinning, as if to watch what I was doing. Stifling my disquiet, I examined the box closely. Moonlight revealed a lid with a rusty clasp. I plucked it open and lifted the lid.
Inside was cloth. When I lifted it out, it proved to be a woven wool coat, enriched with some small embroidery as well as metal clasps. Beneath lay plain leggings, leather boots, even a dark over-tunic with a long-tailed hood. Nothing else. No purse or wealth of any kind. Yet to my eyes, what I had found was far better than jewels.
I gathered the clothing in my hands and felt its fullness and warmth. I did wonder why the clothing had been left. Perhaps it was all this man had, his only wealth. Or possibly he’d been wrapped in a shroud, and these things were set aside in due respect.
Should I take them? I recalled what Bear—in my thoughts—had said: “God gave you life! Who are you to deny it?” Had I not believed it a sin to take money from that man Rauf murdered? But then there were Gerard’s words, that we’re “merely mangy dogs, forever fighting over scraps and bones.”
Was that what I was: a mangy dog, about to steal some scraps of warmth?
Gazing at the dead man’s bones, I told myself that this man’s soul was—praise God—somewhere sweet, that he had no use for such garb. Not as much as I.
I decided to believe Bear had answered my prayers by bringing me these remains. With that reassuring thought, I pulled off the tatters I had worn so long—with their foul, bloody stains—and replaced them with the dead man’s clothing: leggings, jacket, hood, boots, and finally, the over-tunic. They were large for me, but not by very much. Beyond all else, they warmed me wonderfully well. In all my life, I had never been so clothed!
As I changed my garments, the coin that Rauf had given me clinked to the ground. Briefly I considered leaving it as an offering, but told myself I might have a need.
Closing the box with a clank, I returned it to where it had been, replacing the skull where it had rested on the box’s edge. With care, I put the stones back as well.
Once again I whispered prayers for the dead man’s soul, adding words of gratitude and thanks. That done, I went back to my place and gathered my new clothing about me, the hood pulled around my head. With such kindness as the angels had bestowed upon me, I was certain I would survive for the night. I’d be able to find Owen.
That gave me another thought. In helping Owen, I would be acting as Bear had done for me. The thought that I was like Bear—if only to a small degree—caused me to grin and filled me with satisfaction.
And so I slept—kept alive by one dead man’s clothing and another’s acts of love.
18
THOUGH MORNING SUNLIGHT coming over the broken walls opened my eyes, the warmth of my new garments kept me drowsy. In all my life, I’d never woken to such woolly softness. Rare luxury!
For a while I was content to lie in my newfound ease, breathing cold air seasoned with the scent of sea. In the sky overhead, raucous birds whirled about as if I was an intruder in this empty place. No doubt I was.
Stretching, I turned somewhat, only to come against some stones. They brought me back hard to where I was and the peril I was in: alone in an unknown land, and now very hungry.
Reminding myself that I must go on and find Calais and Owen, I murmured one more prayer for the soul of the dead man from whom I’d taken the clothing, begging forgiveness. I also made a prayer of thanks for my survival and took the time to beg a blessing for the unfolding day. That done, I came to my feet and adjusted my new clothing. Only then did I survey the land about me in the clear light. Thankfully there were no soldiers. All I saw was barren emptiness: an open, marshy land with an occasional dune on firmer ground. Recalling that my way lay north, and using the sun as my guide, I set off.
At first I simply trudged along, constantly looking for people or something to eat. The land beneath my feet remained soft, often sandy, with countless streams and rivulets. There were brooks and water ditches that I had to wade across, holding my new boots over my head. I passed more ruins, too, some that seemed like decayed fortifications, as well as the remnants of small dwellings. I saw no people. All was forsaken, abandoned. And there was nothing I might eat.
Trees were rare. The little vegetation that grew was sparse and low. I wondered if Troth could have made anything of it. But as I passed a tuft of grass, a startled bird flew up. I searched and uncovered a nest with two small, speckled eggs. I broke them open and poured the contents into my dirty hand. One yellow yolk had a streak of blood. Though I considered it an ill omen, I swallowed it all down.
As I walked along, I gradually saw before me what I assumed was the crown of Calais: two church spires. As I would afterward learn, one was dedicated to Saint Mary, the other to Saint Nicholas, he who protected sailors.
Drawing closer, I saw the tops of other tall structures, including a building big enough to be a watchtower. Then I spied a wide spread of stone wall that ran east to west. I was reminded of Great Wexley, the city where I had been with Bear, which was surrounded by circular walls. Here, however, the walls were long, straight, and high, built of large stones. Square towers were placed at regular intervals along the wall, round ones at the corners.
Drawing closer, I discovered that the city had double moats protecting its southern side. The first was right below the walls. The second was separated from the first by a mound of earth. The moats—with their filthy water—forced me to walk toward the east.
As I went along, armed soldiers spied down at me from the city walls. Wearing helmets, they were armed with pikes and crossbows. Though they did not look so very different from the French I had encountered, I assumed they were English.
I began to see ordinary people. For the most part, they were traveling alone, and of the few groups, none was as large as Elena’s family. Among them were two heavy wagons pulled by horses. All were proceeding in a line, as if upon a road. I could have little doubt: this was the way into Calais.
It took a short time to reach the road. It proved to be a roadway somewhat elevated above the marshy land. For the most part, the people on it appeared to be merchants or peasants coming from the northeast. I looked to see if any of the wagons was the one the family had plundered. Happily I didn’t see it.
When the road veered around the eastern wall, I discovered that the depth of the town was far less than its width. But while I could see that Calais was not a very large town, the number of building tops and high towers suggested a crowded place. The largest tower I’d seen from a distance now displayed a flag with a red cross.
As I hurried along, I heard bells ring, slow and steady. From the sun’s placement in the sky, I guessed it was the hour of prime, and the bells were calling citizens to early mass. Once again my thoughts went to Troth. Was she at the convent church? Was she treating someone’s ailment, or gathering herbs in the woods? How different—and quickly—had our worlds become!
A little farther on, I spied the sea, or rather a bay that led to the sea. The tide was low, the smell of fish and seaweed strong. In the middle of the bay was a small island on which stood a fortress commanding the sea entry. More importantly, I noted many ships. Some were coming in or leaving the bay. Some were tied to wharfs or hauled up on the shingle. One large ship was a hulk. Some of the larger boats I recogni
zed as cogs, the kind of ship in which Bear, Troth, and I had come to France. I had no love of that memory. One cog, its single reddish brown square sail flapping idly in the light breeze, was being pulled to sea by a high-prowed long boat with men at oars. For the most part, though, what I saw were a slew of small fishing craft: crayers, pikers, and ketches.
I wondered if all had come from or were going to England. Please God, I thought, just one for Iceland! The thought excited me.
Despite the early hour, the scene before me was extremely busy. The dock area consisted of two wharfs, plus other landing places for the loading and unloading of ships, complete with ropes and lifting spars. Mariners and laborers were struggling with sacks, bales, chests, and barrels. Other men were working on the ships, replacing old rigging, cleaning, or making repairs. There was a steady rap of hammers. Midst it all I saw what I took to be merchants in fur-trimmed over-tunics and fine Flanders hats. In more than one hand, I saw an abacus. Armed soldiers were strolling about, too, as if keeping watch. There were even men whose flowing capes and looks of self-importance pronounced them officials of some sort.
I’ll not deny it: it came to mind that I should just go among these boats and find—if I could—a ship bound for Iceland. How easy to board it and be gone! Elena’s family would never know. But to think of the family was to think of Owen. My promise to Owen tugged at me. The constant thought—if I was to be like Bear, I must act like him—turned me toward the city gates.
As I went forward, I noticed a gallows at the far western side of the dock area. It gave me pause, the more so when I saw a body dangling. Swinging in the wind, it was black with rot, its stench putrid. It made me recall the ghastly corpse I’d come upon when I first fled my village. In haste, I made the sign of the cross, averted my eyes, and moved toward the city gates.
Even so, I could not help but look back at the gallows and its victim. It made me wonder if I were about to pass through the gates of hell.
