“I don’t know for certain,” I said. “The doctor judges it may be that her humors are out of balance, or she has a pollution of the blood. The keeper deems she might miss her home in the north.”
The king said something, and Bevyn translated:
“What do you think?”
I hesitated, fearing that the king would take offense, for the bear was a gift to him, and he had a right to hold her. But the bear was dying, and it must be said. “I think it is the cage.”
When Bevyn translated, the king nodded, seeming to ponder this without offense. And then he spoke again, and Bevyn translated back to me:
“His Majesty desires to know if you think that a daily swim in the river will make a difference to the bear.”
Ah. So they had told him my idea. And he was, in fact, considering it! “I believe so,” I said.
The king wanted to know if I was certain.
“No, Your Majesty,” I owned.
The king wanted to know if I could lead the bear to the water without danger to myself and others and if I could persuade the bear to return to her cage.
I told him that I was hopeful that I could safely lead her to the water. And that I thought I could return her to her cage, but I wasn’t wholly sure, as I had used food to entice her before, and now she did not want to eat. “But still,” I said, “she often followed me with no food at all, when we were—” I almost said free, but stopped myself. “When we were lost in the Low Countries. And she is weaker now, Your Majesty. I think that two strong men with ropes could pull her back if she should balk or attempt to escape.”
Now the envoy cut in again. The keeper tried to put in a word, but the envoy galloped on, whinnying like a spooked horse, and only ceased when the king interrupted.
After the king had finished saying his piece, Bevyn turned to me. “His Majesty says that the envoy reminds us that the bear is a gift from the Norwegian king, and that if she escapes or has to be destroyed, it will be disrespectful to King Haakon and unfavorable to relations between the two lands. And the envoy claims that you are not to be trusted because you set the bear at liberty, and by his reckoning, you will certainly try to do so again. And the Keeper of the Menagerie says that if something does not change, the bear will inevitably die. Given all of these circumstances, His Majesty seeks to know what you advise.”
There was something odd about the way the king was looking at me. And it was likewise strange that he was asking for my counsel—for the second time. With that half-lidded eye, his face was hard to decipher. Was there something sly in it? Was this a trick of some kind?
But then I recalled a bit of gossip I had heard about this king. That he had been crowned when he was nine years old, upon the death of his father. That for many a year, others had made his choices for him, and that his nobles constrained him still. And I remembered how he had seemed before, when he had first laid eyes upon the bear. The sense of recognition, and of sorrow. I recalled how he had turned sharply away, as if it was painful to gaze on her for too long.
“As to escape,” I replied, “I swear to you on my father’s honor that I will not attempt it. And as to the rest . . . Since her capture the bear has been hemmed in on all sides by men who desire to use her for their own purposes. Noble purposes, to be sure, for she is a royal bear, and much honored in her native and adopted lands. And yet she is not free to be a bear and do the things that bears wish to do. And if she could, for a part of every day, have some time in which she could be a bear again . . . I believe she might decide to eat, and to live.”
When this was relayed, the king leaned back in his throne. He closed his eyes for a moment, then gazed up into the colored light that streamed in through the high stained-glass windows. The envoy flashed me a wrathful look, and the keeper quirked the corners of his mouth in a half smile. Some of the retainers shuffled, but no one spoke.
Then the king turned to the assembled company and made a final-sounding pronouncement, and I knew from his countenance that the answer was yes, even before Bevyn opened his mouth to speak.
CHAPTER 53
The River
WE WERE WAITING when they came.
I had slipped between the cage bars and buckled the new harness onto the bear. Now, leaning close, I breathed in the familiar musk of her and felt her warm, slow breath against me. She tensed, raising her head. In a moment, I heard voices. Outside the cage, the doctor and the keeper straightened and turned to face the western gate, where torchlight pricked the darkness.
Boots rang on the paving stones and then crunched in the frostbitten grass of the grove. I heard a jingling of chain mail, a clank of weapons. Moonlight bled through the web of black branches above and flowed like dappled waters across the advancing figures.
There were three of them, I saw—not two, as had been planned. I wondered if the envoy had changed his mind. He had said that he wanted no part of this, that he washed his hands of us entirely, that he would take no blame for the ill that would surely come of my misbegotten scheme.
I heard a rattling of quills from the direction of the prickly-beast’s cage, and a soft grunt from the humpbacked horse. One of the big cats coughed. The bear made a sound so low I couldn’t hear it, but rather felt it rumbling in her chest. I dug my fingers deep into the fur above one ear, and began to hum.
Now two of the men, wearing castle guards’ livery, advanced and spoke to the keeper. The third man, cloaked and hooded, stood well back.
The guards threw coils of thick rope to the ground. The keeper unlocked the padlock and opened the cage door a crack. The guards moved to block the door, lest the bear should try to escape, while the keeper threaded the ends of the rope through the crack. I tied each end to the rings attached to the bear’s harness, and tested the knots to make sure that they would hold.
The guards stepped away from the cage and stood braced to either side. The keeper tugged on the door, and with a rusty moan, it swung wide.
The bear raised her nose to sniff the air. She made a little grunting sound and nuzzled my hair. I could feel a tautness in her, held like a question. But the thrumming, running energy . . . It was gone.
I recalled the last time the bear had stood at the threshold of an open cage door, when the pirates had attacked. But this was a different season. This was a different bear.
I stepped through the doorway and stood just outside the cage. “Come,” I said to her. “Follow me.”
A small breeze creaked in the brittle tree branches. The bear snorted. Slowly, she clambered to her feet. “Come,” I said. She padded across the threshold to me. I hummed in her ear, then turned and began to walk across the dark, deserted grounds toward the ramp to the water gate.
Would she follow?
She hoisted her nose up into the air again and snuffled for so long, I feared she might stay there all night.
Come along, Bear!
Warily, she took a step in my direction, and then another.
The guards paid out their ropes and stood as far from the bear as they might. If she had truly wanted to escape, she might have done so—poor, starveling creature though she was. Even five or six muscle-bound men-at-arms of the garrison would have been no match for her in earlier days. But now, to my relief, she began to shuffle along behind me. The keeper, the doctor, and the hooded man followed.
When we came to the water gate, the guards tied the ropes to iron rings set in the stone walls to either side. One guard ratcheted up the great iron portcullis, with a harsh, rasping clatter. When he had done, both guards untied the knots from the wall rings and wrapped the ends of the ropes about their gloved hands.
And there we stood, with the whole of the Thames River before us and not a single bar to block the way.
The bear sniffed at the air again, shifting her weight from one side to another. She chuffed, sending up a plume of frozen breath. A sudden wind gust chilled my neck and made me shiver. The stars shone clear above us, and the moon made a bright, cold path across the Thames, and
the city stood dim and far across the water. And I couldn’t help but recall the season when we were alone and free, the bear and I, out in the wild world together, with no master to command or restrain us.
A voice spoke behind us. When I turned to look, moonlight shone in upon the cloaked man’s face, and I caught sight of a familiar, hooded eye.
Not the envoy—the king.
Then the keeper crunched across the sand to me. He glanced at the king and motioned me to make haste.
And I had been hoping she would go in of her own free will and that I wouldn’t have to go with her, because by now the river had grown frigid. But I took off my fine new boots and stepped into the River Thames, braving the sudden shock of icy water. And my heart was knocking hard against my chest, because if the bear didn’t follow soon, they would lead her back to her cage again, and she would never come out alive.
I waded out until the river reached my chest, burning cold like fire, until the waves licked and whispered at my ears. The bear lifted her nose in my direction and tasted the air. She took one pigeon-toed step and sniffed again.
I couldn’t even hum; I held my breath.
Of a sudden, she seemed to gather herself up and, with a great splash, plunged into the river. And now I felt the distant hum of the old running energy on her. She flowed through the water toward me, and I took her harness in both hands, and she was swimming, taking me with her.
And then, just for this moment, we were free.
A Note from the Author
THIS NOVEL IS based upon the true story of a “pale bear” given to King Henry III of England by King Haakon IV of Norway in 1251 or 1252.1 The bear was kept in the menagerie of the Tower of London and was allowed to swim in the Thames River. She lived for many years.
I first read about the bear in Daniel Hahn’s fascinating book, The Tower Menagerie, and I’ve been captivated by her ever since. We do know a few scant facts about this bear, but over the centuries, most of her story has been lost. How was she transported from Norway to London? Who took care of her? Who had the idea—and the courage—to let her out of her cage so that she could swim in the Thames River? Who gave permission for this dangerous plan, and why?
As far as possible I have remained true to what is known about the bear, but I have made up the rest of the story. In this note I will trace the line between what is known about the pale bear’s journey . . . and what I have imagined.
While I refer to the bear as “she,” the truth is that we don’t know if the actual historical bear was male or female. In fact, we can’t be absolutely certain that she was a polar bear, rather than a white strain of black bear, because in the Middle Ages, people didn’t classify species as precisely as we do today, and the records are incomplete. According to Hahn, the only known reference to the bear’s color may be found in a letter from Henry III, originally written in French and addressed to “the keeper of our pale [or white, depending upon the translation] bear, lately sent us from Norway, and which is in our Tower of London.”2 However, because the bear hailed from Norway, where polar bears are indigenous, I think it quite likely that she was a polar bear.
We know nothing about the bear’s journey from Norway to London. I have surmised that she would have traveled on a type of ship known as a keel, typical of Scandinavian merchant vessels at the time of this story. Keels had a single deck on which the crew worked, cooked, ate, and slept. The bear cage would have been secured to the deck, as the ship’s hold was very shallow and probably not entirely watertight; cargo stored below would have to be sealed in casks. When needful, sailors bailed by hand and by bucket.
Many keels had a sterncastle and/or a forecastle, which might have stood on wooden legs attached only to the deck or, increasingly with the passage of time, might have been built into and integrated with the sides of the ship. I have chosen the latter option for the Queen Margrete, dividing the space beneath the sterncastle into two rooms—the captain’s quarters and a storeroom. The Queen Margrete’s tiller, which connects to a centered, rear rudder, runs through a gap between the rooms. We don’t know for certain where sailors would have kept their seabags and sea chests; I have imagined that these would be stowed in the storeroom under the sterncastle.
In the thirteenth century, sea navigation was a dodgy enterprise, requiring much experience and skill on the part of sea captains. Compasses were not in general use, nor were the detailed sea charts of later times. Captains sailed within sight of land whenever possible, using their knowledge of landmarks, currents, the composition of the sea bottom, and the set of the sea swells to ascertain a ship’s position.3
The bear arrived in London accompanied by her own keeper from Norway. We know nothing about this keeper; I have imagined that he might have been a twelve-year-old boy, as boys were expected to go to work earlier then than now. We do know that the keeper of the entire Tower menagerie was one William de Botton, who was probably a minor household official of the king and who would have been expected to do much of the dirty work of managing the menagerie.4 It is unlikely that he had much special expertise with animals, save for what he learned on the job.
In any case, the sheriffs of the City of London provided a daily allowance toward the pale bear’s keep, and soon, at the king’s request, they invested in a muzzle and an iron chain (“to hold the bear without the water”) and a long, strong cord (“to hold the same bear fishing or washing . . . in the river Thames”).5 Feeding the bear must have been expensive; possibly it was believed that if the bear could shift for herself, she would be cheaper to keep. The sheriffs also paid for a thick wrap for the bear’s keeper, who, for reasons that are not entirely clear, was expected to accompany the bear on her fishing expeditions.6
In the Middle Ages, kings often kept collections of exotic animals, frequently gifts from other monarchs. Henry III’s great-grandfather, Henry I, kept an assortment of such animals at his manor in Woodstock, near Oxford. According to chronicler William of Malmesbury, they included lions, leopards, lynxes, camels, and a porcupine.7 At some point, probably during the reign of King John (1199–1216), a private collection of animals was begun at the Tower of London,8 and the whole Woodstock menagerie was transported to the Tower sometime in 1252.9 We don’t know precisely what kinds of animals resided in the menagerie when the pale bear lived there. For the purposes of this story, I have put in all of King Henry I’s animals (though surely the originals had died by 1252). Additionally, taking full advantage of artistic license, I have embroidered in a peacock.
It is uncertain exactly where the menagerie was kept within the complex of the Tower of London at the precise time of this story. To complicate matters, the Tower was under major construction then, parts of the western wall having collapsed in 1240, and again in 1241. In 1253, the western wall was still breached, and as late as 1253, the repairs and reconstruction continued.10 I have imagined that the animals were kept in cages in the outer bailey, in what was then a stand of trees—but I’m just guessing. Apparently, by the beginning of the fourteenth century, there may have been a berehaus, which would have located the bear’s quarters in the inner ward, near Henry’s private chambers.11 But perhaps the berehaus was for the brown bears that came to live in the Tower menagerie years after our bear was gone; I have chosen to keep the bear of our story in the grove with the rest of the animals.
On the other hand, it’s somewhat easier to surmise where the bear might have spent her days when chained near the Thames River. If you visit the Tower of London today, you will see a sculpture of the bear on the spot where she was most likely tethered.
Some readers may doubt whether our bear might have been able to catch fish, because polar bears are so specialized for hunting seals on ice. While it is known that polar bears eat eggs and birds and seaweed during summer ice melts, it’s unlikely that they could obtain sufficient nourishment that way year-round, and the prospect of our polar bear catching fish from a river, as grizzly bears do, might seem highly implausible. And yet I have seen conte
mporary photographs, videos, and anecdotal accounts of salmon-fishing polar bears, and some early explorers of Newfoundland witnessed and wrote about polar bears that caught fish, as well—John Cabot in 1497, and Captain George Cartwright around 1770.12 It is heartbreaking that this alien skill is unlikely to save polar bears if too much polar ice melts. But the evidence is sufficient to make me believe that this one particular ice bear might have fished for salmon in the Low Countries and on the banks of the River Thames.
I like to imagine her outside the confines of her cage, lolling on the riverbank beyond the Tower walls and bathing or fishing at her leisure. I like to imagine Arthur donning his “thick wrap” and swimming far out into the river with her—not in order to prevent her escape, but because he treasured the moments of freedom they had together. I like to imagine the citizens of thirteenth-century London navigating their ships and fishing boats and ferries around their resident pale bear, struck with awe at her magnificence, even as they knew she would not be with them forever.
* * *
1. Some sources say 1251, for instance: Geoffrey Parnell, The Royal Menagerie at the Tower of London (London: Royal Armouries Museum, 1999), 5. Others say 1252, for instance: Daniel Hahn, The Tower Menagerie (New York: Penguin, 2003), 21.
2. Hahn, 20.
3. For illustrations and more information about navigation and ships of this era, I recommend Robert Gardiner, ed., Reprint. Cogs, Caravels, and Galleons: The Sailing Ship 1000-1650 (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1994).
4. This and the following sentence are per Hahn, 29.
5. Hahn, 21. Also in Phillip Drennon Thomas, “The Tower of London’s Royal Menagerie,” History Today 46:8 (1996): 30.
6. Hahn, 21-2.
7. Hahn, 13.
8. Parnell, Menagerie, 2; and Hahn, 16.
9. Hahn, 18.
10. Edward Impey and Geoffrey Parnell, The Tower of London (London: Merrell, 2000), 29.
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