At the Edge of the World (7 page)

18

A
S WE WENT
on, Bear instructed Troth about our performances. “Now, Troth,” he said, “Crispin and I shall show you how we eke out pennies. We’re heading for a village. Let’s pray it’s small and remote. When we arrive, Crispin will play the recorder while I sing, dance a jig, and juggle. If the good people look kindly upon us, we might earn enough to buy some bread.”

I could see that, though Bear’s words made Troth nervous, she made no response other than to nod.

Bear went on: “Therefore, Troth, you must study and learn from us, for in good time you must do your part. We’ll have no sluggishness here. Have no fears. No harm will befall you. Just stay close to Crispin and me.”

After going for perhaps a few leagues, we came upon a narrow road, which appeared sparsely used. Wagon tracks were shallow and for our brief passage we saw no one on it. It suggested an isolated place—just what we desired.

We pressed on, passing over a bridge that crossed a frothy stream. There we drank our fill. We also paused long enough for Bear to search out some smooth stones, which, by the way he hefted them, I guessed would be for his juggling. Then on we continued until the village we’d been seeking appeared before us.

Bear handed me the recorder.

“There, you see?” he said, as I gave a few fluttering trills. “We’re as ripe and reedy as ever.”

“Are you?” I asked, doubting it.

“Crispin,” he said, “I think we have no choice.” He flexed his arms and hands until his knuckles cracked, smoothed his beard and took a deep breath.

Excited to reengage with our old life, I put the recorder to my lips and offered up a light and lilting air, an easy one to step. Bear slipped into it, like foot to boot, and began his dance.

To see Bear romp caused Troth’s eyes to open wide with delight, for—fever or no—Bear was stepping high and lively, now moving forward, heading for the town, hat bells a-jingle. Step for step I was with him with all my being, piping out my pithy tune.

Troth ran to keep up with us, calling, “Bear! Crispin! Wait for me!”

As God willed, it was a miserably poor village we’d come to. But then, the kingdom had no end to such impoverishment. Hardly bigger than Chaunton, it was far less than my Stromford. Otherwise, it was much the same and thus unworthy of description. No doubt it was smaller than its name, which no one ever bothered to divulge. Perhaps it had none.

As always, the children were the first to see us come. Where they came from one never knew, but come they did, running and tumbling like tail-shaking, squealing piglets at their play. No doubt we were as rare as furry eggs. They laughed and clapped their hands. Some made attempts to dance like Bear, skipping along, knees high, and hands clapping, as we came into what passed for the center of the village.

I think Bear loved these parades of tumbling, gleeful youth as he headed—in our normal fashion—for the church.

The village church proved fairly large and suggested that the community it served had once been larger, perhaps before the great sickness. I could see Troth eyeing the building with wonder. Remembering tiny Chaunton, no doubt it was the biggest structure she had ever seen. It allowed me to think that I had seen much of the world.

When we drew close to the church porch, Bear sank to his knees and removed his cap with a generous flourish, making the bells ring with merriment.

I stopped playing and knelt by his side, head bowed. Troth, imitating us, did the same, staying close to me. She was tense, with eyes for everything, while trying to shield her mouth with her hair. I reached out and tried to reassure her with a touch. She edged nearer.

As curious villagers gathered round we kept in place. It was not long before a priest arrived. He was an elderly, tonsured man, tall and thin, who looked—despite his advanced age—strong as an ox. Indeed, it appeared as if he had just come in from the fields, and had been working hard.

“My blessings on you, strangers,” called the priest, as he approached. “Do you wish words with me?”

Bear gave his usual response, with just enough alterations to make it appear fresh upon his lips: “Most reverend Father,” he began, head still bowed, but loud enough so all might hear, “I, known as Bear, am a juggler. My son, daughter, and I, being but lowly pilgrims, are making our way from York City toward Canterbury to pay our humble homage to England’s sainted Becket, there to beseech his blessings upon the children’s late deceased mother, my lawful, churched wife. For so doing we humbly ask your approval.”

I noted that Bear now included Troth as his daughter, as well as providing us with a common mother and him a wife. I wondered if Troth had heard and what would be her thoughts.

“You may gladly have my blessing,” returned the priest, and he lifted his hand to bless us with his Latin words and the sign of the cross. “But I suspect,” he added with a generous smile, “there’s something else you wish.”

“My children and I,” Bear went on, “beg leave to perform some simple songs and dances for the greater glory of God, for this fair village, and for his grace, King Edward, England’s golden lion, with whom I have had the honor of fighting on the victorious fields of France.”

“With King Edward, you say?” said the priest.

“Himself”

“Did you not know he has died?”

“Died!” cried Bear, looking up sharply. “When?”

“The news reached us these past few days.”

“And is Edward’s son, the Duke of Lancaster, the new king?” asked Bear.

“Apparently not. It’s the true heir, the late king’s grandson, Richard of Bordeaux, who has been crowned. God grant him long life! But mark this: it seems that when our young king was crowned—he’s been styled Richard the Second—and was being carried away, one of his shoes fell off. An ill prophecy for his reign.”

“Who put it back on?”

“His uncle, the duke. Still, let’s pray there’ll be some measure of peace for a while. God knows, despite the truce, the word is the war in France goes on.”

“How far are we from the coast?” Bear inquired.

“The sea?” returned the priest. “The closest port is the town of Rye. Perhaps a week’s journey. I’ve never seen it myself, but there are those among us who can tell you the way.”

“Father,” said Bear, “I’m grateful for your information and your blessing.” That said, he sprang up and with a nod to me—his signal for me to start—and I commenced to play and Bear to dance.

As God was kind to us, we earned enough to purchase three loaves of bread. Bear, I could see, was much wearied. But no one spoke ill—to our hearing—of Troth, who had shyly passed Bear’s hat.

That night we were allowed to sleep in a donkey stall, sharing our place with the beast. The cost to us was another song and dance for the crofter’s family. Still, this man not only provided us a place to sleep, but some rare mutton and turnip and enough to drink.

“Bear,” I asked as we sat about after eating, “will the king’s death make a difference to us?”

Troth looked up. “What’s … king?” she asked.

To which Bear replied: “A king, Troth, is the ruler our loving God bestows upon us. While at times the gift appears to bless us, at other times it seems meant as a trial.”

“Is the new one good or bad?” I asked.

“He’s a child. Some nine years old.”

“Nine!” I
cried.

“And whereas an infant may still have angels hovering round his head, as king he’ll more likely bring on the Devil. The point being, he’ll not truly reign. Not for years. It will be his uncle who holds the power, if not the scepter.”

“Who is that?”

“The Duke of Lancaster, John of Ghent.”

“The one who replaced the king’s shoe?” asked Troth.

“Exactly so. And small events can foretell great acts. There are four things that can be said for the Duke: He’s brother to the late king. The wealthiest man in all England. Perhaps the world. England’s most powerful man. And the most hated.”

“Why hated?” I asked.

“He’s haughty. A poor soldier. A man greedy for power.”

No one spoke for a while. Not until a somber Troth stood before Bear and said, “Bear … am I … your daughter now?”

Bear’s somber mood was replaced by a grin. He clapped a large hand on my shoulder, another on hers. “If this lad can be my son,” he said, “you can be my daughter. Will you have me?”

To this the ever-solemn Troth said, “I will.”

To which I said, “Then, Troth, I am your brother.”

“So be it!” cried Bear, and reaching out with his great arms he encircled and bussed us both. “My two cubs!” He laughed.

Was ever a family more wondrously made?

19

W
E PRESSED ON
in a southerly direction, Bear choosing not to travel by any road. It took us longer, but I suspected he picked a leisurely pace, the more to mend. In truth he was in grim humor, not given to much jesting or even speaking. While he did not say, I suppose he also thought Troth would be better off with just us. For her part, she remained mostly mute, but always close. I was pleased that there were just the three of us.

The first night after our visit to the small village, we stopped in a clump of small trees near the top of a hill. For food, we ate some bread and cheese we had purchased.

“What will we find in that place called Rye?” I asked.

“I’ve never been,” he said. “I know it only as a port.”

“Is it safe there?”

He shrugged. “As always, we must watch, listen, and beyond all else, pray.”

“To whom?”

“Whoever hears you best.”

“Bear,” I asked, “why are there so many saints?”

“I suppose,” said Bear, “this wretched world has so many woes, even God almighty needs help.”

Indeed, that night he chose to drill us—both Troth and me—in using a pike (a tree branch) and a dagger (a stick) to defend ourselves.

“Do you think we’re being followed?” Troth asked.

“Alas,” he said, “we all have our enemies. A soldier I once knew used to say, ‘He who thinks his enemies are fools is the bigger fool.’”

Avoiding villages for a few days, we continued south. To pass the time I tried to get Bear to talk about some of the places he had visited.

Once I said, “Tell us what your soldiering days were like.”

He shook his great head. “I’d rather not talk of those things.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Some things are too awful to want a second seeing.”

“You’re only telling.”

“A good telling is a good seeing,” he returned. “And it was war.”

“What is war?” asked Troth.

“Dear Troth, may God grant it never touches you,” said a grim-faced Bear.

“Then tell us,” I said, “about that place you
never
saw—the one which has no kings, armies or wars—that land of ice.”

“Iceland?” he said, with a broad grin. “I don’t even know if it exists.”

“Then,” I suggested, “you can make it even better.”

“I suppose—from its name—it’s all ice.” That said, he spun some marvelous tales—stories of giants, of trolls and dragons, of great deeds by ice-draped warriors.

Troth and I listened, enthralled.

To earn our necessary bread we performed three times, always heading south. Though these villages were pitiful places, we gathered enough thin coins to eat.

The second time we performed, Troth joined in on her own. Taking Bear’s hat, she shook it rhythmically, adding to our sound. What pleased her most, I think, was that few paid her any mind. All eyes were set on Bear, his dancing and juggling.

By night, Bear told us more fabulous tales, of holy saints and their miracles, of beasts and the great acts of the ancients. It was as if we traveled more by night—not moving, just listening—than we did all day by foot.

Those were nights of joy: the cloaking darkness our guardian, the spread of stars above, each star a promise of God’s infinite grace, a blessed eye upon our little family. Oh, how I adored that feeling of
us,
the embrace of star-blessed love! If we could have been that way forever—a family below that overarching heaven which flowed on so gracefully—I would have been much content.

But as we pressed on I began to notice something: when we were in the villages to perform, Bear made a point of going off to speak alone to some of the menfolk. It was as he’d done before in Great Wexly—though at the time I did not know it—when he was gathering information for John Ball’s brotherhood. Now, when he did this, he seemed glum, and as we moved farther south, increasingly so.

“Is it news about the new king you’re seeking?” I asked when he came back one such time.

“There is no news of him,” was his curt reply.

“Are you hearing word of the brotherhood, then?”

He made a face. “Let’s pray we never see their like again.”

“But something is troubling you,” I persisted.

“We shall have to see,” was all the answer he allowed.

Avoiding common roads, and, for a time, even villages, we approached the port of Rye from the north. Thus we followed footpaths of which there were increasing numbers, often wending our way through grazing flocks of bleating sheep.

As it fell out, long before the town came into sight, I began to smell something I never had before. It was strong, and fairly reeked of I knew not what.

“What is
that?”
I demanded of Bear, for it made my nose itch.

“You’re smelling the sea,” he said.

“What’s
seal”
asked Troth.

Bear looked to me.

“The sea, Troth,” I replied with much self-assurance, “is water—also called ocean—and it covers the earth more than land.” That said, both Troth and I looked to Bear: I to see if I’d spoken correctly; Troth, I suspect, in disbelief.

“Crispin speaks true,” said a grinning Bear to both of us.

Excited to see something so vast and strange as
sea,
I urged us on, and soon enough, as we came round a stand of trees, the town we had been seeking lay before us.

And then I learned what was worrying Bear.

20

T
HE ANCIENT TOWN
of Rye is situated on a high knob of land like a clenched fist. It is surrounded on three sides by low water channels, rivers, and a marshy mix of sand and sea. These waters flow directly into a bay, the bay opening to the sea, though coming from the north as we did, the sea was hidden by the rise of land.

But Rye itself, being elevated, could be observed from a distance. There was a large cluster of houses and a tower that looked to be a castle. A church spire could also be seen. What we also saw was a large amount of hazy smoke.

“The town. It’s on fire!” I said, proclaiming the obvious.

“Then it’s true,” he said.

“What’s true?” I demanded.

“I was told French and Castilians attacked and laid waste to Rye. I didn’t wish to believe them.”

“Why not?”

He shook his great head. “You heard the priest: there’s supposed to be a truce in the war. An attack at this time seemed unlikely. But it’s true.”

“Who told you about it?”

“In the towns—some of the people shared the news.”

“Why would Rye be attacked?” I asked.

“When England claimed the French crown, we brought the war to them. They’ve now returned the compliment.”

“Is that the meaning of the new king’s lost shoe? The omen that priest spoke of?”

“Or,” said Bear, “the French wishing to test the young king.”

“Bear … are they still here?”

“I was told they struck hard and fast, and fled. It should be safe. Let’s hope so.”

To reach the town we had to cross one of the rivers, which was so wide we had to pay a ferryman one of our well-worn pennies to pole us across.

He was an old man, stooped and grizzled, whose skin was as dark and speckled as a brown egg, his boat a narrow hollowed-out log with a bottom as flat as any shoe. At first I feared we might tumble into the water, but the man showed his skill and kept us on even keel.

“Tell us of the attack,” Bear said to this man as he carried us to the other shore.

“It was a sweet, cloudless day when they came,” was the reply. “They came by sea, at dawn, swooping in, killing almost seventy. Four men were taken away for ransom. Looting was rampant. Many homes were burned. They burnt our church, stealing everything they could, even taking the bells.” He paused in his poling to lift a fist in anger. “May God strike them down, hard!” He marked his words with a shove upon his pole, punctuating them by spitting into the water.

“And they claim Saint Dennis as their protector, he who is a defense against strife. May Jesus blast them all.”

“Was there no resistance?” asked Bear.

“We did resist. Fiercely. But were ill-prepared. Those who failed in their responsibility have paid the penalty.”

“How so?” asked Bear.

“Execution,” said the man. “God rot them.” He spat into the water.

“That,” suggested Bear, “will surely make them better prepared next time.”

The man went on: “Happily after two days, the abbot of St. Martins—his name is Hamo—led a force to drive them away.”

“And all this took place—when?” asked Bear.

“Seven days ago,” said the man. “And with news of the sacking, the traders have shied away. But perhaps some—not knowing of our plight—will yet arrive. Was there somewhere you wished to sail?”

“Not us,” Bear said.

“You’re strangers. Where do you come from?”

“York,” said Bear, who had clearly been prepared for this question.

“Did they attack elsewhere?”

“We don’t know,” said Bear. “We have been traveling.”

“Then travel on to France or Castile and slay them all for me,” said the man, who, with a final shove, beached the little boat upon a shingle of gravel and sand.

On the shore, heaps of burnt and half-burnt wood lay about at random, no doubt dragged there to rot. They stank mightily. Whatever docking or lifting machines had existed, were destroyed. It was also there that I first saw a cog, the sort of boat Bear told me about, that carried most goods to other ports.

Above us stood the town of Rye, situated on a hill behind the town’s portal called the Landgate. The gate itself had escaped destruction.

Once we entered Rye’s grid of streets, we lost the rich tang of sea, to be enveloped by the stench of the town, the normal stink of offal, ordure, and slops. There was also the reek of destruction. Many a house had been burnt, with a fair number still smoking. Most houses were without roofs, mullioned windows destroyed, shutters aslant. Indeed, no wood structure was left unharmed. Charred wood was so common that the acrid smell of burn and smoke stuffed our noses. Everywhere was the chaos of destruction: the litter of countless broken things, clay, cloth, and wood. Stone structures fared somewhat better.

In two places we saw the charred and stinking bodies of fly-encrusted dogs, and even, to my horror, a foul human not yet claimed.

Hardly a wonder, then, that the survivors paid scant attention to us. The people of Rye moved slowly, faces taut with bewilderment and suffering. Some must have been in great pain, for they were bandaged, or limped, showing hurt in many ways. For others, the grief must have been contained within. When children looked at us, they did so furtively, clinging to their elders’legs.

“Why did the French do this?” asked Troth.

“We did the same to them,” returned Bear quietly. He seemed much disturbed.

The town being on a hill, we trudged upward along its narrow, winding streets, toward the top. No rumble and uproar of people as in Great Wexly. No flashes of joy as we had seen in even smaller towns. No chatter or light laughter such as one normally hears. Here, only destruction to see and terror to sense, broken now and again by the thud of what must have been hammers attempting to set things aright—or perhaps in making coffins.

At the town’s crown we came to Rye’s church—or what had become of the church. Doors had been wrenched away. Windows were broken. Shards of colored glass lay about on the ground—as if a rainbow had fallen from the sky and shattered.

When we looked within, all was smashed, much of it buried beneath the mangled remains of a collapsed and still-smoldering roof.

“Was it the infidels who did this?” I asked, shocked by the desecration of such a holy place.

“There are no infidels in France,” said a grim Bear, as he turned away. “Just Christians. Like me.”

We went forward and there I had my first look upon the great sea.

What I saw astounded me: a vast plain of flat and endlessly empty gray, which was overwhelming. The word
forever
was thus made real, the boundaries of my world turned infinite.

Thus it was that in one brief time I saw the hand of God’s creation as thrice awesome—and the hand of man’s destruction, frightening three times more.