At the Edge of the World (6 page)

15

W
E
ARRIVED
at the bower panting, gasping for breath. “Bear! Bear!” I cried as we burst in.

Troth, crying wildly, ran to Bear and buried her face in his chest. Taken by surprise, Bear wrapped his arms about her, even as he looked over at me for an explanation.

“They’ve killed Aude!” I shouted.

The blood seemed to drain from his face. “Who? Why?”

I told him what had happened as quickly as I could. “And they’re coming after us,” I said. “We must leave. Now!”

Bear looked at me then spoke into Troth’s ear, loud enough for me to hear. “Troth, you can’t stay here,” he said. “You must come with us. We’ll keep you safe.”

Troth, her whole body shaking, as if the tumult of her emotions were writhing within, frantic to burst free, nodded mutely to Bear’s words.

“Crispin,” he called to me, “get whatever’s ours. Hurry!”

I gathered up our sack, making sure it had our few things.

Gently, Bear pushed Troth away from him, and knelt before her, face to face.

I drew close, but didn’t know what to do or say.

“Troth, hear me,” Bear said. “By all that’s holy, I swear by your gods and mine—by blessed Saint Bathild—we shall take care of you. Protect you. Do you understand me?”

Troth, sobbing, struggling for breath, and constantly smearing tears with dirty hands, looked around at me.

“We will, Troth, we will,” I said, anxious that we leave.

Bear, not waiting for her to reply, asked, “Is there anything you wish to take?”

Crying with hard grief, she looked about, then ran out to the hawthorn tree and tore off a sprig, which she concealed among her clothing.

“Crispin,” Bear called, “are you ready?”

I held up our sack. “I have everything.”

Bear grasped the girl’s hand. “We must go,” he said.

Troth, as though unwilling to look at what she was leaving, pressed her face against Bear. He squeezed her close again.

I waited some few feet off.

Bear gazed upward toward the sun. He took a deep breath. “We’ll go south,” he said at last.

“Where?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “Away.”

With that Bear strode off, still holding on to the whimpering Troth. I came a few steps behind, sack in hand, looking back over my shoulder.

Suddenly Troth stopped. From her garments she took out the hawthorn, held it over her head, and murmured words I did not understand. Then, as though possessed, she turned and began to run.

16

A
S GOD WOULD HAVE IT
, Troth led the way. We went southward, first running, then walking, then running again. My great fear was that Bear, not fully healed, would be unable to keep her pace. As it was, he had to pause and rest more than once. My own breathing was heavy. My legs ached.

Troth never looked back. Not once. All that she had been she seemed to put behind her. Backward glances were left to me. With all my fearful turnings I grew stiff-necked but saw nothing to suggest we were being followed.

I did not speak. But, then, I did not know what to say or what to think. In my thoughts I kept seeing what had happened. Its dreadfulness did not, would not fade. It brought on a constant shivering, as if death’s cold hand gripped my neck and would not let it loose. What, I wondered, could Troth be seeing in
her
mind?

I recalled all the doubts I had about Aude and Troth: how I thought them evil, malignant spirits. Then—as if to excuse myself—I asked myself why my blessed God had
not
intervened in Aude’s final moments. Why had
He
let it happen? Was He waiting for
me
to act? Was He unmoved because Aude worshipped other gods? I did not want to believe that of my most merciful Jesus. I also asked, what of Aude’s gods, her beloved Nerthus? Why had
she
not saved Aude?

When my footsteps brought me no answers, I allowed myself the notion that to run away may well be the answer God provides.

It was dusk when we halted, still deep among the trees. How many leagues we had come, I could not begin to reckon. Troth, I think, could have gone on. It was Bear who insisted we must stop. Face flushed, in a filthy sweat, limping, he was exhausted.

Troth immediately sat down, rolled onto her stomach, and cradled her head in her arms, eyes turned from us. There she lay, unmoving, surely the most soul-weary of us all. Now and again she whimpered. Was this the first time she was so far from her bower? Away from Aude? I would have guessed as much.

“We better not light a fire,” Bear cautioned.

“Do you think we’ve been pursued?”

“May God, in His mercy, say no. But it’s best to take care.”

“And food?” I said, realizing we had not brought any.

“We’ll need to be content with nothing till the morrow,” said Bear.

He sat next to Troth, close enough that she might know he was there. I sat on her other side, my knees drawn up, held by my arms.

The day faded to darkness. But if stars were above, I saw them not. Above us, tree leaves stirred as though to soothe the air. The footfalls of small creatures plucked the darkness. An owl hooted twice. Whether Troth slept, I could not tell. From the way Bear breathed I knew he was still awake.

“Bear,” I called, “was it wrong for me to disobey you—when I went with Aude and Troth?”

“Wrong for you to have gone. Right that you were there.”

“But … but one does not follow from the other.”

“Ah, Crispin, you desire your freedom, don’t you?”

“Yes … I do.”

“Then best learn: freedom is not just to be, but to choose.”

Though I tried to understand of what he meant, it was too hard. My thoughts drifted. “Bear,” I asked, “what will happen to Troth?”

For a moment he said nothing. Then he said, “The girl’s marked, unwanted. Feared. What’s feared is abused. She’d perish. She must stay with us. Do you object?”

“No, no,” I said in haste. “Not at all. But, Bear, where will we go?”

“To the southern coast, to the sea.”

Remembering his words about the great ocean, something in me stirred. “And when we do …”

“It’s easier to find employment in coastal towns. Men come and go. Perhaps, as well, men who’ve seen a bigger world have bigger hearts. Hopefully they’ll be more accepting than peasant folk. We need some generosity. Let’s pray to Saint Lufthildis that he’ll protect us. He can be kind to those who are homeless.”

“Are we homeless, then?”

“Perhaps all are,” said Bear with a sigh. After some brooding silence he said, “When I was a child, there was a song often sung to me.” Lifting his voice, he began to sing:

Oh child, you are a pilgrim horn in sin

Who must forever wander in

This world where death flies out

of darkling doors

To cast down Adam’s kin,

as he has done so oft before.

For Adam, who, though once devout,

In God’s Eden of bright delight

Caused eternal suffering throughout,

By taking up the serpent’s gift of

never-ending night.

Then with a yawn, he said, “I’m exhausted. That running has heated my fever.”

“Bear,” I said, “will we never find some peace?”

“Every night,” he murmured, “gives way to day.”

“Does it
always
come?”

But Bear made no reply. I supposed he’d fallen asleep.

I—unable to get the images of Aude’s slaying out of my head—could not sleep. I still felt wretched that
I
had once thought so badly of the crone, and of Troth.

“Blessed Saint Giles,” I whispered, “it’s hard to be a man.” Full of remorse, I reached out and gently set my hand to Troth’s back.

I did not know if she slept. Even so, I said: “Troth, in the name of my God, I beg your forgiveness for all my unworthy thoughts, and herewith make a sacred vow by my Sacred Mother that I will treat you with true kindness, that I will be a brother to you for all my days forever and anon.”

To my surprise, she stirred, turned, and took my hand that had rested on her back, and set her broken mouth to it in a kiss. My heart swelled. I thought: though broken, a mouth cannot bestow such a forgiving blessing and be evil.

“Amen,” I whispered to her.

She turned away. No more was said.

Greatly wearied, I made myself go on my knees and prayed desperately to my Saint Giles. I prayed for Aude’s soul. I prayed too, for Troth’s. I prayed, of course, for Bear.

By then I could hardly keep my eyes open. Even as I drifted off, I realized I’d yet to pray for my own keep. “Saint Giles!” I cried to the all-embracing night. “Help me have an open heart. Help me know my ignorance.”

But mine was not an easy sleep. I had an ill-omened dream in which Aude’s eyes—the blind one and the good—gazed at me from some distant place. In my troubled fancies I knew she was seeing two futures, the good and the bad. Which future, I kept calling, would be mine?

And in my dream I heard Aude’s mumbling
voice.
“Crispin,” she was saying, “take heed. Be a man.”

“Have I not saved Troth? What more need I do to become a man?” I cried.

The dream gave no answer.

17

W
E WOKE
to a misty dawn. Like limp-winged moths emerging from cocoons, we tried to shrug out of our sleepiness. Once alert, we offered our prayers—I don’t know if Troth made any—and then continued on, trudging beneath the crowded trees.

Troth went first, small, dressed in rags. Next came great Bear in his rough-made garment, without shoes, red beard unkempt, his two-pronged hat with bells a-jangle. I came last. I had my tunic, much torn. My hair had become long again. And filthy. On my back was our mostly empty sack.

An odd threesome we were!

By midmorning we reached the forest’s edge. As if a veil was being lifted, the bosky dimness melted. We stood upon a bluff and gazed upon unending rolling hills of new green, broken occasionally by clumps of leafy trees. Grass was thick and tall. Swallows swooped low before soaring up to distant heights. Beyond southern hills, the distant spire of a holy church pointed heavenward. Higher still was the sun, a pale white disk in the vast gray sky, a reminder of Aude’s blind and milky eye.

“What is it about an empty countryside that seems so peaceful?” mused Bear.

“No people,” I replied. “And we have been fleeing them for too long. Do you know where we are?”

Bear was taking his rest, sitting with his back against a tree, gazing out upon the open world. Close by, I leaned against another tree. Troth sat near Bear on the ground, clasping her knees in her arms, staring at the landscape. I wondered if she had ever seen so much land in one vista before.

That made me recall how much
I
had come to see of the world. Indeed, as I gazed out upon the unending land, I sensed how much more there was for me to see. The thought pleased me.

Bear glanced at the sun. “We are still going south,” he said.

I asked, “Do you think anyone could be following us?”

Bear grunted. “There’s an old saying: ‘No matter where they go, the ignorant never travel far.’”

“May Heaven make it so,” I said.

We sat and stared. After a while I said, “Forgive me, but I’m hungry.”

“I am too,” said Bear. “Troth, are you?”

She shook her head, but whether to give a yea or nay, it was hard to know.

“Then it’s time we found some place to perform,” said Bear. “That church,” he said, pointing to the spire. “There should be a town or a village hard by. Crispin, it seems as if God wishes us to resume our old labors.”

“Are you strong enough?” I asked.

“Methinks I must be,” he returned.

“Will it be safe?”

“We can be watchful.”

“And Troth?”

“In time, she needs to learn the drum, or make music in some other way. Or even dance. She can begin by passing around my cap for coins.” He turned to her. “Troth,” he said, “I suppose that with Aude not given to much talk, you had little reason to use words.”

Troth nodded.

“Well, by Saint Ursula,” said Bear, “we’ll engage to teach you as much speech as we can until you converse as freely as a bishop. Come now, surely you can say your name.”

Troth, alarm in her eyes, looked down, as if ashamed. She forced herself to look up again. Her hands were fists. Indeed, her face contorted with some inner struggle until she said, “Oth.”

It was a reminder to me of her fierceness.

“Well done!” cried an exultant Bear, patting her back. “Did you hear, Crispin? Troth speaks her name as well as you and me.” He added a private wink over her head so I would not contradict him. “By Saint Drogo, Troth, before long we shall have you giving speeches before King Edward at Westminster!

“Now, then, Troth, can you say
Crispin?
Can you say
Bear?”

Shyly at first, the girl spoke her sounds with halting struggle. They were not the words as I might say them. But Bear was generous—as only he could be—in her praise. He would find no fault. And she, in her grave way, repeated the words over and again, determined to get them right.

Laughing with pleasure, Bear got up and took Troth by the hand so that she might walk by his side. We started for the place where the spire stood. As we went along, Bear paused to point out things and say them loudly to the girl, “Tree! Grass! Stone!” and such, insisting she repeat his words.

No matter what she uttered, Bear always told Troth she had spoken well, exceedingly well. I joined in the praise. The praise seemed to free her. She spoke with ever greater frequency.

From that point on, Troth spoke as if to make up for lost time. That it was hard for others to understand I can attest. And, God’s truth, she never did speak much, or with great complexity. Indeed, I learned to read her hands and eyes as much as I heard her words. Those eyes of her spoke much. Bear and I, who heard her repeatedly, came to understand her manner, voice, and speech. Or, as Bear once said: “Mind, Crispin: a loving heart hears more than ears.”

Thus when I render Troth’s talk here on forward, I’ll give it as we understood it, not the broken way it was spoke.