“Jump!” I cried, and fairly pushed Owen off the wall. Next moment I followed.
30
IT TOOK BUT an instant before I struck cold water. Down I sank, swallowed by the moat’s filth. Gagging and gasping, trying to keep my mouth tightly clenched, I plunged down deep, sinking to such a depth that my foot struck the muck-clogged bottom. Without thinking, I kicked, which reversed my direction and shot me up.
Desperate to reach air, I thrashed my arms and kicked my legs until I burst upon the water’s surface. Once there I flailed, spinning and turning, looking desperately for Owen, until my hand struck something soft and slippery. I tried to grip whatever it was, only to slide away. First with one hand and then another, still coughing and spitting, I found a grip and kept myself from sinking a second time. Even so, it took a moment before I realized I was clinging to the city wall.
Shouts came from above. Twisting, I saw torches and faces illuminated by the flames. Like gargoyles, soldiers were peering down through the morning murkiness. But kind fortune had set me on the very inside of the moat, which made it hard for them to locate me.
I pushed myself as flat as possible, trying to decide what to do next, still wondering where Owen was, even as I was in danger of slipping.
My hold gave way. I went down a second time. As I dropped, I swung my body about and kicked back as hard as I could against the wall. In so doing, I thrust myself a good way toward the moat’s other side.
The strength of that wild shove carried me halfway across the moat, after which I began a wild flailing and kicking, much as I had done in that ditch to escape the Frenchman. It brought me into the sight and sound of those above.
“There!” came a cry. Arrows hissed by me, once, twice. Striking out in mindless frenzy, I went forward, enough so that I reached the far side of the moat. There I grasped whatever weeds or stones I could, anything to hold me and keep me from dropping back. In such a fashion, I managed to crawl out of the water.
Free of the first moat, I scampered madly from the water’s edge and flung myself down on the far side of the mound between the moats. For a few moments I could do no more than lay where I was, dripping wet, shivering, struggling for breath, spewing foul water. I realized I had lost my boots.
Twisting around, I got a glimpse of the wall I had just left. I saw figures peering down from the walls, holding up torches, looking for me. Having yet to discover where I was, I was safe from their arrows, for the moment.
I still saw no trace of Owen. Fearful he might have drowned, I took the chance to lift my head higher and look about. I caught sight of him: his head was resting on the mound, but from the waist down he was still in the water. I was not even sure if he was alive.
Impulsively, I jumped up and ran toward him.
“There! He’s there!” came shouts from the wall.
A crossbow bolt, hissing with invisible speed, shot past, piercing the earth. Its featherwork quivered by my foot.
I reached where Owen lay, gripped his arms with my two hands, and struggled to drag him up the mound. A second bolt went into the dirt.
When I reached the top, I rolled Owen over the crest and then dove after him, even as an arrow struck the ground close to where I stood.
I tumbled down, rolling toward the second moat until I burrowed my fingers into the earth to keep myself from falling back into the water.
Below the mound’s crest, above the second moat, I could no longer see the city walls, which meant my pursuers could not see me.
I crawled to where Owen lay on his back. When I turned him over, he began to spit out water, coughing and gagging.
“Owen,” I said into his ear. “Owen!”
He shook his head but did not get up.
Relieved that he was yet alive and deciding to let him rest, I pushed myself onto my knees and searched in all directions. In the steadily increasing light, I could see no one. But I knew it would not remain that way for long. They would be coming after us.
I knelt by Owen’s side. “Owen!” I called. “We have to move. Quickly!”
Shaking his head like a wet dog, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.
“We have to get across the second moat.”
“I…can’t.”
“You have to,” I told him. “Run down and leap as far as you can. You must do it now! They’ll be after us.”
For a moment he did nothing. Then, as if by force of will, he abruptly jumped up, raced down the mound, and leaped, with arms churning like windmills, as far as he could. I did just the same, beating my arms as if hoping to take flight.
I hit the water. This time, even as I struck, I swung my arms and kicked. Though I sank some and struggled for breath, I was so determined to reach the far side that I fairly clawed my way across. Once I had, I scratched my way onto land.
Owen had managed to get across too and now lay upon his back, one arm flung over his face. “Good boy!” I called to him.
I sat up and was able to see the road that led to the city and the strand. Despite the early hour, people were already there. That was where we needed to go.
“Owen. We must get to the ship!” I called.
He staggered up. I took his hand and we rushed on. As we went, I wondered what the family and the night watch were doing. Would they think we had drowned? Would they look for us at the strand among the boats? Or would they be at the city gates? How would I find Thorvard? I had no answers.
Owen said nothing but went on doggedly, as much staggering as running. Once he stopped and bent over, retching, struggling for strength.
“Crispin…”
I told him to climb on my back again, which he did. Then I ran as best I could, not as if our lives depended on it, but because I knew they did.
31
WE REACHED the road. Once there we were among many people, all presumably heading for Calais. For the most part, they were peasants and merchants with goods to sell. While I’m sure they considered us odd in our wet and dripping clothing, they asked no questions.
We stayed among them—Owen now on his own legs—going as fast as our strength allowed, all the while keeping alert for signs of our pursuers. As it happened, I noticed five soldiers running along the mound that divided the two moats. They were—praise God!—going in the opposite direction. But I knew that would not be the end of it.
We ran on.
As the road bent around the eastern end of the city, the bay lay before me. Beyond was the gray-blue sea. Two small boats—fishing ketches, with their triangular sails puffed by winds—were gliding out of the bay, passing the island fortress. How I wished we were on one of them!
While the people on the road made for the city gates, we turned toward the sea.
The strand was in plain view. Dozens of boats were pulled up to the shore or tied to the two wharves. They were crowded with bales and barrels as well as the mariners and laborers working with them.
High above the strand, away from most of the work, we stopped running and scanned the wharves.
“Where is our boat?” Owen asked. He was gripping my hand as if it were the only thing that kept him standing.
Thorvard had told me his ship was a cog, the same kind on which I had sailed from England. I could see three such ships. Two were tied to one wharf, one to the other. I could only pray that one of these was the Icelandic boat. It was past dawn, the time the Icelanders had said they meant to sail.
“Look there!” cried Owen, pointing.
I saw them: Gerard and Woodeth hurrying about on one of the wharves, where two of the cogs were tied. They stopped and talked to now one man and then another. While Elena and Rauf had searched within the city, these two must have come directly to the docks.
We darted behind a pile of wool bales, then peeked out and watched. I wondered if they remembered that I had wished to go to Iceland. Was that what Gerard was asking?
I turned back to the single cog and spied a man coming onto the high castle. My heart leaped: he had long
white hair and a white beard. Thorvard! He was gazing toward the land, as if in search of someone—hopefully me.
I turned back to watch Gerard and Woodeth. Woodeth was no longer there.
Where could she have gone? Gerard had moved farther along the other wharf. Upon reaching the end, he stopped and appeared to be talking to a laborer. After a few moments, that man shifted and pointed across the way, at the second wharf. I gasped. I was sure he was pointing out the Icelandic ship.
“Hurry!” I cried.
Dragging Owen along, I began to run, darting in and around the many workers and bales of goods. Then there was nothing but a few bales between us and the wharf.
We dashed forward only to have Woodeth step out from behind a bale and stand before us.
We halted. Owen pressed close to me. I could do no more than just look at her.
Woodeth stared back. But then, without a word, she turned away. Though I knew she had seen us, she acted as if she had not. Instead, she hurried toward the other wharf and, by so doing, allowed us to pass by. In haste I murmured a quick blessing on her and then turned to Owen.
“Come on!” I said. When we reached the wharf, we raced along until it reached the cog. A ramp of wooden planks had been set from the wharf to the ship. I paused and looked back. Woodeth was with Gerard again. She was shaking her head as they stepped out on the wharf.
We ran up the planks and jumped onto the ship. Mord was not there. But to my great relief, I saw Halla.
“Ah!” she cried when she saw me, offering up a bright smile. “You’ve come! Father!” she called back toward the stern. “The boy is here.”
The old man on the castle swung around. He gazed down at me, his face fierce. “So you’ve come,” he said, leaning his elbows on the rail, the better to consider us. “Is that the way you work? Ignoring your first order? Didn’t I tell you we must leave early?”
“Forgive me, master,” I cried. “We came as soon as we could!”
“Did you swim here?” he asked.
“No, master.”
“Is that your friend?”
I nodded.
Thorvard just stared at Owen.
Desperate, I cried, “Master, have mercy. We’re being hunted.”
“Ah! There it is! No less than I thought. By whom? Why?”
“I can’t explain. Not now,” I said, fearful that at any moment Gerard and Elena would appear and haul us away. “I beg you, by all the mercy of Jesus. Let us go with you. It’s worth our lives.”
“Father,” cried Halla, “let them!”
Thorvard made no reply. He looked up at the sky. He looked to his daughter. Then he leaned over the side of the boat and peered back along the wharf. At last he shifted back toward Halla.
“Stow them below,” he told her. “And get your brother up here. If we’re to leave before the wind eases, we need to hurry.”
We raced after Halla. She led us to an open square in the middle of the deck. She called down. “Mord!”
The young man climbed up. She said something in her own language. He nodded.
“Drop down there,” Halla said to us, adding in a softer voice, “quickly!”
We sat on the edge of the open space. In the hold below, I saw bolts of cloth and sacks of wheat. I let myself drop down, landing softly on some cloth. Then I turned and caught Owen as he followed. As soon as we were down there, the open area above our heads was covered. The only light was two beams that seeped through chinks in the wood. They cut through the darkness like glowing swords.
Alone, no longer running, utterly spent, my body shuddered with exhaustion, pain, and fear. “Dear Saint Giles,” I whispered. “Protect us!” It was the only prayer I could utter. But I kept repeating it.
Owen lay facedown upon the bolts of cloth. I could hear him crying. The best I could do was rest my hand upon his trembling back.
From overhead I heard footfalls on the deck. Then voices. One of the speakers—to my ears—sounded much like Gerard.
After a few moments the voices ceased.
I waited, breathless, afraid to guess what was happening. Abruptly, the silence was broken by a harsh rasping sound. The space overhead was yanked open. The hold where we were hiding was flooded with light. A hand reached down. A voice called, “Crispin! Come out of there!”
Trying to determine whose hand it was, I shrank back. But then all strength seemed to drain from me. I could struggle no more. Though I did not know whose hand it was, I grasped it and was hauled up like some limp sack.
32
ONLY WHEN I reached the deck did I realize it was Mord’s hand. His pretty sister was standing by his side, all but laughing at me. Thorvard was there too, looking grim. I glanced about: I saw nothing of Gerard or Woodeth.
I can only guess what I looked like, save that there could have been very little promise: bedraggled, cold, and wet. And very young. Desperation and fright must have been stamped large upon my face.
Perhaps it was my fancy, but I thought I saw a fleeting smile on Thorvard’s lips and in his crinkled eyes. He sighed as if, upon full examination, he questioned his judgment in taking us.
“Your self-proclaimed friends,” he informed me, “have gone. I’ll hear you out later. But if we’re to take advantage of the wind, we must make haste. Just know that if your work is worthless, I’ll hurl you back into the sea. Let’s go!”
I helped Owen out of the hold and told him we were safe. He flung his arms around me in relief.
Mord, meanwhile, went to the bow and began to untie the binding lines. Thorvard went the other way, climbing a short ladder to take his place on the castle by the rudder bar. As for Halla, she brought me to the base of the castle, where there was a windlass, the machine for hoisting the sail. It had a drum that wound a heavy rope, which was connected to the top of the mast and then looped down to the sail yard.
She handed me a wooden handspike and showed me how to insert it into the windlass and turn the wheel. The turning required all the strength I had.
As the large brown canvas sail rose up, it filled with wind, flapping and snapping loudly. Then, with a lurch, the cog heeled, veering from the wharf.
In moments we were moving through Calais bay, passing the island fortress. The city was falling behind us, its walls, towers, and spires becoming smaller.
Mord, having hauled in the wharf ropes, ran back to where we were, shoved me aside, and turned the windlass that much faster, until the sail reached the mast’s pinnacle. Then he raced back to lash down the dangling ropes that hung from both bottom corners of the sail. Now taut, the sail filled. Our speed increased.
Thorvard was standing with one hand on the rudder bar, guiding the boat out into the bay. For her part, Halla pounded pieces of wood into the windlass to keep it—and the sail—in place.
Thorvard gave a shout.
Mord turned to me. “He wants you.”
Leaving Owen, I climbed the ladder to where Thorvard stood on the castle. His large right hand was on the rudder bar, his eyes fixed somewhere on the water.
“Tell me your name again,” said Thorvard.
“Crispin.”
“And the other?”
“Owen.”
Thorvard shook his head as if in regret. “Crispin,” he said, “saints willing, you’re going to Iceland, though you look too puny for such a voyage.”
“God bless you, master,” I replied. “I swear, by the sacred blood of Jesus, I’ll work hard for you.”
“So you say,” he returned with a curt nod. “Pay heed. I speak bluntly. My orders shall be your obligations.” He fell into silence.
After a moment I said, “Please, master, how long will the voyage take?”
“No less than twenty days. Perhaps sixty. Maybe forever. We go by the wind, and the wind is God’s whip.”
Suddenly the cog lifted and dropped, making me stagger while sending a cold spray of water over us. I grabbed hold of a rail. We were now upon the sea.
“There! We’re barely out
of the bay and you’re twice wet,” said Thorvard. “Go on now! Mord will set you both to task. Go!” he bellowed when I didn’t move. “Your master has given orders. There’s needful work!”
I turned away and held on as the ship pitched and rolled among the ocean swells. It was not the movement of the ship that caused me such unsteadiness: it was the pain in my chest.
We sailed all day. For all our exhaustion, we worked throughout, sometimes under the direction of Mord or Halla, sometimes Thorvard.
There was nothing neat or clean about the Stjarna. She was a filthy, cluttered boat. Knots of rope lay everywhere midst tools, pieces of wood, parts of canvas bales, even shaggy clumps of wool. In the bow was stored a large stone anchor. The tall mast was set somewhat forward of mid-ship, and from it a tangle of ropes ran down to the deck. I could make no more sense of those strands than if I had been given a book to read.
Night came. On the castle Thorvard steered the ship. Halla had taken to Owen—as he to her—and she was treating him with special kindness. She had even made a bed for him in the hold with bolts of cloth, and he was sleeping the sleep of peace.
I sat near Thorvard by the rail at the high stern.
Waves rolled and sounded. The ship heaved. Our sail snapped and cracked. Now and again the sea sprayed over us. Above us was the vast array of stars. Staring at them, I recalled the night at the convent when I found Troth looking at them. Was she looking at them now? Though she was in her small world and I in this vast one, I hoped we were looking at the same stars.
Thorvard said, “Do you know the stars?”
“Just that they are there.”
“Learn the heavens,” he said, “and you will know the earth.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed up. “There’s a bull. There’s a fish. There’s Hercules.”
“Where?” I said, straining my neck.
Pointing, he began to mark these heavenly bodies by showing me how to draw lines in my head, thereby connecting the stars and turning them into pictures. It was amazing to see it thus. It was as if, by a kind of conjuring, the heavens turned into a vault of images.