At the Edge of the World

by Avi

  “I’ll go with Crispin,” said Troth.

  “Keep safe,” muttered Bear, who had laid himself out on his back, face to sun, arms spread wide.

  Troth and I waited. It took only moments before Bear fell asleep. Without another word, Troth and I turned and started across the fields.

  I found pleasure in striding over ground that did not move, pushing through grass almost as tall as Troth. The grass was wonderfully sweet to smell and, here and there, yellow flowers rose as if to remind us we had returned to a more loving earth. With the sun’s golden glow beating on our faces, it almost seemed a paradise. When I thought of where we had been, no contrast could have been greater. Rejoicing, I breathed deeply, and allowed myself to give thanks to God for His mercy.

  As we went further, I glanced back in the direction from where we’d come. To my surprise the ocean seemed to have vanished—as if it didn’t exist. I had to remind myself that it was merely below the cliff. I didn’t see Bear either.

  A touch from Troth brought me out of my prayerful musings.

  “Crispin,” she said, looking up at me with her solemn eyes.

  “What?”

  “On the ship—during the storm—I thought we were going to die.”

  I stopped walking. “I thought so, too,” I said.

  “It was Bear,” she said, “who saved us.”

  “I know.”

  She looked back where he was. “But,” she whispered, “it exhausted him.”

  “If we care for him,” I said, “he’ll regain his strength.”

  She hesitated before saying, “I’m not so sure.”

  “I promise you he will!” The words came out angrily.

  She turned and went on silently. I ran after her and we went on toward the trees, neither of us speaking. It was as if we had quarreled.

  As I drew closer to the trees, I could see that they were not very tall, and were twisted into bizarre shapes. It was as if winds and storms coming off the sea had shaped them.

  We were perhaps twenty yards from them when I suddenly halted. “Look there!” I cried, pointing up. “Birds.”

  Black birds were flying over the trees in a circular movement.

  “What about them?” asked Troth.

  “They’re fleeing something. Bear taught me to look for that.”

  “It could be an animal.”

  “Or a person.” I looked back. With Bear sleeping on the ground, there was no sign of him. Knowing how tired he was, I had no wish to disturb him—less so if there was nothing to relate. “We’d best first find what it is,” I said.

  Cautious about going directly to where the birds flew, I led the way to one side. In moments, we were among the trees, where it was easy to be concealed. Once there I changed our direction, going where I thought the birds had flown. We moved from tree to tree quietly. Then—unmistakably—we heard the whinny of a horse.

  We halted. From Troth’s look, I knew she had heard it, too.

  “Where did it come from?” I whispered.

  “There,” she said, and crept forward silently, somewhat crouched, head turned slightly to catch any sounds—the image of Aude. Suddenly she stood, extended one arm, and whispered, “There!”

  I looked. There were three horses.

  They were powerful beasts, destriers, the kind of horses used by soldiers. Tethered, they were at their ease, eating grass. All had leather harnesses without any decorations, reins over necks, bits in their mouths. There were three saddles stacked on a stump, one atop the other. The saddles had high seats that allowed a rider to ride standing. There were protective pommels too.

  Troth looked to me as if I could provide some explanation.

  “Soldiers’horses,” I whispered.

  I sniffed, sensing a faint smell of roasting meat.

  We stood in place, searching for the people we knew must be near. Farther in among the trees I noticed a two-wheeled cart, and not far from it, an ox.

  Suddenly, Troth began to move.

  “Troth!” I called. “Don’t!”

  Ignoring me, she went on. I thought to hold her back, but then I recalled the time when I first saw her in the woods: she had been as silent as any spirit—all but invisible. Still, I watched her go with sudden trepidation. How hard, I thought, if something happened to her!

  Then—as if one thought followed from the other—I thought of what she had said of Bear: that he had never fully recovered from his time in Great Wexly or the arrow wound. Then we had had to flee. The storm had worn him more. He was much weaker. It would not have surprised me if he still had a fever.

  Standing there, in a world I did not know, Troth before me, Bear behind—both out of sight—I had the keenest sense of how much these two—so different one from each other—made up my world. From that flowed an almost overwhelming sense that loving meant I must also know what it must be to lose them.

  I don’t know how long I waited nervously, but Troth returned as suddenly and as silently as she had gone.

  “Did you find anything?” I asked.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing. “People.” Not knowing how to count, she held her hand up many times.

  “Forty? Men? Women?”

  “Men.”

  “What are they?”

  “Some had swords. Some wore helmets. I saw bows leaning against a tree. There were poles with metal points.”

  “Did you hear them speak?”

  “I wasn’t close enough. Do you want me to go back?”

  “Show them to me.”

  She set off and I followed. Within moments, we covered some forty or fifty yards, keeping ourselves hidden among the trees. Troth knelt and pointed.

  Sure enough, perhaps forty men were gathered in a clearing. For the most part, the men were young, though I saw one with graying hair. They were dirty, tattered, and ill-shaven. Exposed arms had scars. Among them I saw no smiles, not one gentle face. No two were dressed the same. A few wore helmets, some of the kettle-hat kind, others, open-faced basinets. These helmets were dented and rusty. One or two had jagged holes. All the men wore shoes or boots, but no two jackets were alike. There was some metal plating worn, much tarnished. Some soldiers carried bullock daggers on their hips, some carried swords. A few shields, dented and without design or insignia, had been propped against a tree. I saw a pole with a banneret leaning against a tree, but could not make out its heraldry.

  Some of the men were resting, backs against trees. One man had his eyes shut, sleeping. Others lay stretched out on the ground, perhaps also asleep. Most were standing, sharpening swords, or working arrows. It was as if they were preparing for some action. One small man tended a fire upon which sat a large pot. It was that which we had smelled.

  I spied yet another man sitting against a tree. The soldiers seemed to defer to him. I took him to be their captain. He did not look to be very different from the others, though beneath his quilted jacket I spied what appeared to be chain mail covering his chest and arms.

  “What are they doing?” whispered Troth.

  “I don’t know. Resting. Preparing.”

  “For what?”

  “Battle.”

  Then the one I took to be their captain lifted an arm, and called, “Jason! Come here.”

  They were Englishmen.

  29

  FOR A MOMENT, I was tempted to rush forward and announce ourselves. I even took a step in that direction, but Troth held me back,

  “You don’t know who they are,” she said. “We need to get Bear.”

  Deciding she was right, we hurried back over the field, running once we were clear of the trees. Bear was as we’d left him, asleep.

  We sat by his side, waiting for him to waken. From time to time, I stood and looked toward the trees. Though no one came, I was increasingly anxious.

  “I think we should get him up,” I finally said and shook his foot.

  Bear stirred. “Good morrow,” he muttered.

  I leaned over his face. “Bear,” I s
aid. “We’ve found people.”

  “Where?” he said, without opening his eyes.

  “Back among those trees.”

  “What are they?”

  “They speak English.”

  “Are we in England, then?” he said, sounding relieved.

  “I don’t know. Bear, they’re soldiers.”

  “God’s grief,” he sighed, opening his eyes. “How many?”

  “Say, forty.”

  “No more?”

  I told him what we had seen.

  He pushed himself up and rubbed his face, as if to restore his blood. Looking at him, I had a thought I never had before: he seemed old. I would have sworn his beard had streaks of gray.

  “No more than forty?” he asked again.

  “It seems.”

  “By Saint Barnabas … No more than that?” he asked a third time.

  “Why is the number important?”

  “A troop of just a few soldiers—unattached—could be a free company.”

  “Should we fear them?” asked Troth.

  “In truth, if we were in England,” said Bear, “they might be just going home.”

  I said, “Where else could we be?”

  He marked the places on his fingers: “England. France. Normandy. Brittany. Aquitaine. Flanders. Navarre.”

  He remained sitting, sometimes glancing at the sun, or at the distant trees. He even studied one of his large hands. At last he heaved himself up. “Come along,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “God’s bones! Crispin, I’ve no stomach to meet with any soldiers. There is no safety with them.”

  “Bear,” I blurted out, “there’s no safety anywhere!”

  “What’s wrong with the soldiers?” said Troth. “Were you not one?”

  He gave her a piercing glance, and seemed to swell with anger. She shrank back. The next moment, Bear’s fury faded. “We’ll get back on the cog,” he said, “and try to ride her out. There was another sail in the hold. Perhaps I missed a rudder. If we are in England and we could get to some other place along this coast, I’d feel much better.”

  That said, he started back toward the cliff. Troth and I, following, exchanged worried looks. When we reached the cliff’s edge, Bear knelt and looked out.

  “In the name of the Father!” he roared. “I am being held captive by my sins!”

  “Why?” I said. “What’s the matter?”

  “Look!” he said and pointed down.

  Troth and I peered over the cliff. The cog, lifted by an incoming tide, had drifted out of the cove. She was bobbing out upon the sea.

  He sat back heavily. “We could never reach her,” he said in such a voice I thought he might cry.

  With the cliff before us falling away so sharply, we dared do no more than sit and gaze out upon the ocean. There, the cog floated on the water’s surface like an empty jug, moving still farther from the shore.

  “By Saint Anthony,” Bear muttered. “What kind of folly is it not to know if one is lost or saved?”

  “Shall I go back to those soldiers?” I offered. “Learn more about them?”

  “Crispin,” Bear said, “if we are in England and they are English troops, we will have gained much. But if we are anywhere else, things might go badly.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s likely to be a free company. Thieves. Outlaws.”

  Troth said, “We could hide below.”

  “There is no hiding,” said Bear, “from the will of God.”

  The wretchedness in his voice hurt my heart. It was much like that time in Rye when I told him of our pursuers: Bear in defeat. But then, I’d known of a way to escape.

  Not now.

  As we remained where we were, Troth and I exchanged anxious glances. I was sure she agreed we had to do something. Besides, it was a long while since we had eaten, and I was very hungry.

  “The soldiers had food,” I said.

  “Crispin!” snapped Bear. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Bear,” I cried, “we must do something.”

  “Then pray to Saint Jude,” said Bear.

  “Who is that?” asked Troth.

  “A saint who intervenes for lost causes,” said Bear.

  She turned to Bear. “Is our cause lost?”

  He did not answer.

  I looked across at Troth. She made another hand sign, which I understood to mean, “Wait.”

  Bear got up slowly, stiffly. “We’ll all go,” he said.

  “Where?” I said.

  “I don’t think it matters. Let God decide.”

  Troth stood.

  “Why don’t you just rest here?” I said.

  “By the breath of Jesus, Crispin!” Bear shouted. “Don’t presume to decide for me or heave me on the refuse pile. Not yet.”

  “Bear—”

  “Let’s go!” he cried.

  I pointed to the trees. “The soldiers are over there,” I said, though I saw no sign of them.

  “Eastward,” said Bear. “Then we’ll go north or south.”

  Troth looked at me.

  “South,” I said for no good reason.

  We began to walk along the edge of the cliff. I went first, followed by Bear, then Troth. I went as fast as I could, but Bear was hobbling.

  “Do you wish to me to go slower?” I asked.

  “Crispin …” he growled.

  We went on. But we had not gone for very long or far when Troth shouted, “Crispin!”

  I turned and saw what she had seen. It was the troop of English soldiers. Led by three men on horseback, they had emerged from the trees in file. One of the horsemen held a banneret. Though faded, it bore a golden lion, rampant on a field of red.

  We halted.

  So did they. We had been discovered.

  30

  THE MAN on the lead horse, the one who seemed to be their captain, lifted an arm and pointed in our direction.

  “God have mercy,” Bear murmured, making the sign of the cross over his heart.

  I made a movement toward the cliff only to have Bear clamp a hand to my arm to hold me fast. “Do you wish to be killed!” he hissed. “Stay!”

  “But what are we to do?” I whispered.

  “Be still,” said Bear. “And say nothing.”

  The three horsemen drew swords and broke into a gallop, driving their horses right at us. Having no doubt they could dispatch us with ease if such was their will, I moved closer to Bear, even as Troth drew nearer to me.

  The lead man held his sword high, as if to strike. I could not help but cower. Troth whimpered. But when the horsemen came within five yards of us, they reined in hard. Their trembling horses, nostrils flaring, arched their necks and pawed the ground, as though wishing—and willing—to trample us. The riders glowered.

  I pressed closer to Bear.

  “We are English!” Bear shouted. “English!” He held up both hands, palms toward the soldiers, to show he held no weapon.

  The horsemen remained where they were, though the lead rider, the one who held the sword, slowly lowered it. He studied us, but it seemed to me that he was staring at Troth in particular. “Who are you,” he demanded, “and why are you here?”

  “We’re shipwrecked pilgrims!” said Bear. “And by Saint George, we have no notion where we are. Are we in England?”

  The question surprised the riders. They exchanged a few words that we could not hear.

  “You are in Brittany,” the horseman called out. “France.”

  Bear grunted with displeasure.

  The captain trotted forward, then stopped a few feet from where we stood, so near I could feel the hot breath of his horse. I noticed a dull iron helmet attached to his saddle.

  The man looked down at us. He was short and stocky, yellow-haired, with broad shoulders. His face seemed squeezed from top to bottom, with deep-set eyes of hard gray, a thin mouth, large nose, and strong chin. I was reminded of an angry ox.

  Beneath his gaze Troth drew h
er hair over her mouth and shrank back. Irritated by the man’s presumption, I clenched my fists, though there was nothing I could do.

  “What of this ship of yours?” he demanded.

  “A cog,” said Bear. “Out of Rye, for Flanders.”

  “What cargo?”

  “Wool. We were overtaken by a storm that raged at sea last night. All perished, save us—thanks be to God.”

  “Where is it?”

  “When the boat drifted close to shore, we managed to get off, but then it went out with the tide. You can still see it.” Bear beckoned toward the sea.

  The man gazed at Bear without responding—as if measuring the words, or the man. He made no movement to see the boat. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Orson Hagar. I’m called Bear. Late of York. A traveling juggler and, if it pleases, pilgrim,” he said for the second time. “These are my children.”

  The man turned his hard scrutiny on Troth again.

  She looked down.

  “The girl is unsightly,” the man barked. “What afflicts her?”

  “The rudeness of others,” returned Bear with a touch of his old spirit.

  Glowering, the captain leaned forward against his saddle pummel, staring at Bear, at me, Troth, then back to Bear, as if trying to make a decision. His two horse companions edged their mounts forward and waited on him.

  He turned and said something to them, which I could not hear. Then he said to Bear, “The girl—she may be ugly, but is she nimble and strong?”

  Bristling, Bear said, “She’s my daughter. There’s no need to insult her.”

  “By Saint Magnus!” cried the man. “Answer! Will she do as told?”

  “If lawful.”

  The man sat back. “I make my own laws,” he said.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the soldiers had drawn in, forming a half circle about us so that there was no possible way of escape.

  “Have you any money?” asked the captain.

  “By Saint Alexius,” said Bear, “having lost all, we are true beggars.” He spoke with care, not wanting to give any offense. “May I ask who you are?”

  “Richard Dudley. Of the Kentish Downs.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” said Bear.