It was all so fantastical I was convinced these were bewitched people—if they were truly people.
And yet, and yet, they seemed kind.
Once, when Troth went to fetch more wood, and Aude was tending to Bear and therefore close to me, I said, “Is Troth your daughter?”
She considered momentarily before shaking her head.
“Then … how did she come to you?”
“Her mother died when giving birth. The father, seeing that face, pronounced her Devil’s work and would not keep her. No one would. But Aude took Troth and let her live.”
I said, “How was she able to touch that fox?”
“Creatures do not fear her. Humans do.” She leaned toward me so that I felt skewered by her one good eye. “But then men fear most what they understand least. Ignorance,” she hissed, “makes fear.”
“What do you mean?” I said, wondering if she thought me ignorant.
She turned away, leaving me to brood upon her words.
Not till next day did Bear truly wake. That’s to say, he opened his eyes and pushed himself up a bit with his good arm. Much weight had been lost. His face was gaunt, his small eyes dark rimmed.
I went to his side.
“How long have we been here?” he asked, as if rising from a long, deep sleep.
“Two days.”
He shook his great head, looked about, scratched his red beard, and rubbed his bald pate. “I’ve little memory of coming,” he said.
Trying to move his wounded arm, he winced and lay back down, eyes closed.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“A bear is always hungry,” he whispered with a welcome hint of smile, though his eyes remained shut.
“He wants to eat,” I called to Aude.
She and Troth came to his side bringing a mazer of broth.
Bear opened his eyes and gazed up at the old woman. “Good morrow,” he said.
Aude stared at him.
“May the blessing of Jesus be with you for your kindness,” Bear murmured.
Making no reply, but working silently, Aude and Troth fed him. When done, they withdrew.
“How far have we come from Great Wexly?” he asked when I returned to his side.
“We had already walked some time when the arrow struck you. Even then we went on. Bear,” I whispered into his ear, “I don’t know what these people are. They have been kind … But they’re strange. Not like anyone I’ve known. I don’t know if we should trust them. Perhaps we should go on.”
“Where?”
“Anyplace.”
He shook his head. “John Ball’s brotherhood is everywhere. They’ve marked me as a traitor and—”
“What?”
“As long as we’re not discovered, we should be fine. Besides, I can’t travel.”
“But—”
“Patience, Crispin. Patience.” He lay back, closed his eyes. Then he said, “I wish a priest was near.”
“Why?”
He sighed, swallowed hard then said, “Crispin, like most men, I’ve done things that … need God’s mercy and forgiveness.”
I gazed at him. It was what he had suggested before. And as before, if there was something he needed to confess, I was uncertain I wanted to hear. “Shall … shall I try to find a priest?” I asked.
“No,” he whispered. “I’m not ready.” He was silent for a while. Then he said, “Once I knew a man who owned a great bear. This man kept this bear cruelly with a chain, so as to make him dance at will. For years he kept that beast, bragging he’d tamed him, though he never turned his back. Then one day, he did turn his back and the bear smote him dead. But the bear let me—who had been kind to him—cut that chain. When I did, the bear lumbered off”
“What am I to learn from that?”
“I took my name from that bear.”
“Why?”
“That bear knew when it was time to free himself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Because,” he whispered, “that bear was held back from his natural state, as if … as if the links of the chain were his sins. My sins bind me—just so.”
I felt increasingly uncomfortable. “Bear,” I blurted out, “I don’t want to know your sins!”
He closed his eyes. “To love a man,” he whispered, “you must know his failings.”
That said, he closed his eyes and slept.
I withdrew, greatly troubled. But then, I trusted myself—a gift from Bear—to know right from wrong. I would not, could not allow myself to think of Bear in any way but as goodness itself. How could he have done bad things? No, I didn’t want to know.
How hard it was for me to discern when evil clothed itself in goodness, or when there might be a kernel of goodness within the chaff of evil. Then I recalled what Aude had said: Ignorance made fear. But my thought was—as I looked at Bear and pondered what he’d said—if ignorance gave comfort, I would rather cleave to that.
11
BEAR CONTINUED to mend. Now and again he sat up, but it was a struggle for him to move. His arm still ailed. Now and again he laughed, always a measure of his health. Best of all, I could see that each passing day brought him strength.
Though he tried to talk to Troth, she kept apart. As for Aude, she paid Bear little mind but went about her mumbling motions.
Occasionally, Troth tried to teach me some hand signs, gestures that seemed to mean go, or come, or more. It seemed to please her when we communicated that way.
Thus did our days pass. I felt as if I were being held in some formless time and place, tottering between worlds I could neither see nor grasp nor fully understand.
I kept thinking that, though Bear was far from recovered, we should leave. Surely it was wrong to stay with such folk. Perhaps it was a sin. Every day we did not go, my tension grew: Would Bear never get fully well? Had they put him under a spell? Were they—in fact—holding us?
One day Troth was gone from morning till night, but when she returned she had some rough cloth. As I was to learn much later, she had purchased it (I knew not where) with the pennies I had given Aude. Under the tutelage of the old woman, the girl fashioned the cloth into rough breeches and a kirtle for Bear.
He was pleased. I, recalling his blue-and-red leggings, his pointy shoes of better days, was not as pleased. Still, I tried to tell myself that it might bring us a little closer to leaving.
Now and again, Aude and Troth left the bower for periods of time. Whenever they walked out, Aude kept a hand on Troths shoulder. She was that dependent on the girl. Though they stayed away all day, they did not tell us where they were going.
Then for an entire night they were gone. When they returned the next morning I was startled to see what looked to be blood on Aude’s garments. It alarmed me greatly. After all, I had never seen them with meat of any kind, only the plants Troth found in the woods. What kind of blood rituals might they have done?
I crept to Bear’s side.
“Bear,” I whispered, “did you see the blood on Aude?”
He nodded.
“What can it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bear,” I said to him, “surely you must know now we’re in great danger.”
“I don’t know. What makes you think so?”
“These people … I suspect they are … witches.”
His look seemed to suppress a smile. “Have you questioned them?” he asked.
“Of course not!”
“Perhaps I should, then.”
Feeling he spoke as if I were a child, I quit his side and kept to myself. What kind of freedom, thought I, did I have if it meant I was always bound by his decisions?
Later on, I lay with my head cushioned in my arms, feeling drowsy. Troth was busy with her herbs. Aude sat before the smoldering fire. Bear pulled himself from the bed of old straw and sat opposite the woman, across the flames. After a goodly while, I heard him say, “Old dame, may I ask a question?”
Aude mumbled
her assent.
“Might that,” said Bear, “be stains of blood upon your garments?”
Across the bower Troth stopped her work and looked around. I dared not move but listened closely.
“It is,” I heard the woman say.
“Have you been hurt?” said Bear. He spoke gently.
At first Aude said nothing to this. Then she muttered, “Aude practices midwifery.”
“Ah!” cried Bear. “Then you helped deliver a woman of a babe.”
She nodded.
“And all was well?”
“It was.”
Bear was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Where would this have happened?” asked Bear.
“In the village.”
“A village!” said Bear. “I had no idea one was near.”
“A few leagues.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Chaunton.”
“I never heard of the place. Do they call on you often?”
Aude seemed to consider the question. Then she said, “There is no Christian priest in Chaunton. There is only a bailiff, who lords over all and even preaches to the people. Falsely so, they tell Aude in secret, for they fear him. That bailiff rejects Aude. Spits on Aude. Calls Aude pagan. Tells people that Troth is evil. Warns them not to use Aude, lest they lose their souls.”
“But all the same, they call on you,” said Bear.
“The women do. And some men.”
“And you help them in their time.”
“Aude has the hands, the skill, and a belt that’s never been fastened.”
“Then you are much blessed,” said Bear. “And does Troth assist you?”
“Aude is very old. More and more Nerthus calls to her. Aude shall go to her soon. Aude is teaching Troth all she knows. Troth will take Aude’s place.”
Only when Aude and Troth slept did I dare question Bear. “Why does Aude use a belt?” I asked.
“An open belt laid on the birthing woman’s belly gives her ease. But then, opening all closed things in her dwelling can help, too. I assure you, Crispin, it’s common wisdom. The town is blessed to have Aude near.”
“But, Bear,” I burst out, “what are these people?
He looked at me, smiled and only said, “Kind.”
“Aude spoke of a town close by,” I pressed. “You said yourself we’re not far enough away from Great Wexly. The longer we stay, the more likely we’ll be discovered.”
This time Bear considered my words seriously. “As for that … you may be right,” he said. “While I would have preferred to wait and regain all my strength, I suppose we should leave soon.”
“Where could we go?”
“Do you remember that road we were on?”
I nodded.
“I think it would have delivered us toward Scotland.”
“Is that a good place?”
“For all I care,” he said, “that road could take us to the land of the Great Chan. What matters is that we keep our liberty.”
“Bear, lead us wherever you want. You’ve been everywhere.”
“I assure you,” he returned, “my everywhere is not God’s everyplace!’ With a stubby finger he drew crude lines in the bower’s mud.
“Here,” he said with a jab, “sits the realm of Edward’s England. For walking, there’s Wales to the west. That’s closest of all. Alas, the love of English is rather meager there, and they speak a language I don’t know.
“As for Scotland, where we can also walk, that’s to the far north, here. The pity is they speak a knapped warp of English tongue. More importantly, they have been our enemies for endless years in useless wars. Thank old Edward Long Shanks for that. Now, then,” he went on, “England is an island.”
“It is?”
“In the name of Saint Augustine!” cried Bear, “there are times I forget the depth of your ignorance. Yes, England is an island. And the world beyond is very large. Well, then,” he continued, “all round England sits deep sea.”
“Bear …”
“What?”
“What is … sea?”
Bear looked at me with astonishment. Next moment he broke into boisterous laughter, his first great laugh since being ill. “Oh, God!” he cried looking heavenward, “who hath all wisdom, I pray You lend—You need not give—just lend one eyelash of Your wisdom to this most ignorant of boys.”
“Bear!” I cried, quite abashed.
“Forgive me, Crispin. It’s not your fault. I mock no man’s ignorance, but his ignorance of his ignorance.
“The sea, Crispin, is water—also called ocean—which covers the world in greater magnitude than land.”
“You mock me,” I said, scoffing at such an absurdity.
He lifted up his good right hand. “I swear it’s true,” he said. “Someday, perhaps, you’ll go to the sea and measure its depth with your own toes. And Crispin, this ocean is not just vast, but second only to God in power, so that in winter it hurls mighty storms one day in three. In summer, one in ten. As Heaven knows, many a man sails to sea in a leaky cog and never touches dry land again.”
I sighed. The more I came to know of the world, the more I knew I knew it not.
“Now, Crispin,” Bear went on, returning to his mud sketch, “sail your fat cog upon the sea this way—east—and there’s France. All we’ll find there is war and devastation. Satan’s playing fields. May good Jesus keep us from that.
“Now, there’s Flanders, here, east as well, but I don’t put trust in such a mercantile people.
“Further north and west is a land—some say—that’s all but beyond the world. A land of ice, it’s called Iceland. But so cold no kings or lords will rule there. They live without government. Or war. But that seems too fantastical.
“Go south, here, and back across the ocean. You’ll find the Kingdoms of Navarre and Castile. Alas for the overreaching folk of Babel, they too speak a language I don’t know.
“Cross the sea this way—westerly beyond Wales—there’s Ireland. Some say it’s a savage place, but I’ve heard honest men say otherwise. That attracts me.”
“Is the world so truly vast?” I asked, amazed by what he had drawn.
“Aye,” he said, “and much more still unknown to me. And Crispin,” he said, leaning into my ear and whispering, “some say it’s all guarded by dragons.”
“Dragons!” I said, staring at his grinning face. “Bear, I’ve never even heard of these places. Have they … Christian peoples?”
“Some, I suppose, have infidels.”
“Bear, we need to go someplace that’s free from all danger.”
“I doubt such exists. In any case, I’ve not yet the strength to go too far.”
“Bear,” I said, “you think I’m too young to give advice. But I’m fearful that we’ll be found. The old woman spoke of a nearby village. We need to leave before we’re found.”
He lay back and closed his eyes. “You may be right.”
“But—”
“Just give me a little more time, Crispin.”
Certain I was right, I took it upon myself to find a way to make him go the sooner. Bear would then see I was not the child he thought me. If he was too weak to make decisions, then I would have to make them for us.
12
A FEW DAYS LATER, when the sun was high in the sky, Troth rushed into the bower. She went right to Aude, and made some of her sounds into the old woman’s ear. She also made fists of her hands and clenched them, signing. Her urgency made me watch closely.
The old woman nodded. Even as she did, a man appeared at the bower entryway.
Startled—for aside from Aude and Troth, we had seen no others since we’d gone into the forest—I moved toward Bear, ready for the worst.
The man was in his older days: that’s to say, of some fifty years, grizzled, and slight. From his garb I saw he was a peasant. He wore a dirty, belted, brown wool tunic that reached his knees, ragged sleeves that almost touched his wrists, plus a back-pointed hood. Leather s
traps bound his leggings of cloth. He must have been running, for he was all of a sweat, panting deeply. From the way he stood, uncertain as to his footing, with constant fretful glances around, a flexing of his hand upon his staff, he appeared apprehensive. Though his eyes were mostly on Aude, he kept darting brief, worried glances at Bear and me.
Aude, barely looking up, finally said, “Goodman Piers, what brings you here?”
“Old dame,” the man said with a hesitant, rocking motion that might have been a bow of courtesy but could just as well have been agitation, “Goodman William bade me come. His wife is heavy with child. Ready to burst. Being in great pain she’s called for you to come without delay.” He stole another glance at Bear, who was seated against one of the boulders. As for Troth, he seemed to take pains not to look at her. She pulled her hair across her mouth, hiding her disfigurement.
Only then did I realize it was something she had stopped doing for Bear and me.
“How fares the woman?” said Aude.
“Good dame, her labor is full of agony,” the man cried. “She’s frightened her babe is not set well.”
Staring into the fire, Aude said, “Nerthus wants life. Aude will help.” It was what she had said to me, when she first tended Bear.
The man wiped his mouth and the back of his neck with his hand. His eyes shifted nervously. Looking round at Bear yet again, this time, he nodded. “Our Lord’s peace to you, stranger,” he murmured.
Bear said, “May all the grace of Our Blessed Lady be with your village woman.”
“Aye, aye, exactly so,” the man said with a vigorous nod. “May Jesus grant it.” He seemed eased by Bear’s Christian blessing. Then he added, “There were some men who passed through the village. They were looking for a large, red-bearded man. Perhaps you were the one.”
Startled, I looked round to Bear.
“Who were they?” he asked.
“I know not.”
Then Bear asked, “What came of them?”
“Since we knew nothing of you, they went away.”