The End of Time (10 page)

I
DID NOT SLEEP much that night. I am sure I heard the bells for lauds. From then on, sometimes dozing, sometimes not, I lay still until the call for prime rang clear.

I sat up. It being cold and damp, I was grateful for my new clothes. In the alley across the way, upon the wall, an all-but-gutted candle burned in a hanging lantern. By its shadowy light, I counted the whole family—including Schim, who was tucked close to Owen. With great care—for I had no desire to wake anyone—I came to my feet and slipped out of the stall.

Once free, I made me way along the alley until I came to the stone-paved street. Shafts of light from surrounding houses enabled me to see. I heard few sounds.

I headed for what I believed would be the city’s center, the marketplace. By the time I reached it, though the sky
was only a faint gray-blue, the market was already busy with soldiers on patrol. Torches on poles shed enough light to reveal open stalls and pavilions. Here and there a brazier hot with glowing charcoal drew men to warm their hands and turn their faces red. Many more men, their breath misting the chilly air, were pushing barrows and carts, hauling canvas bales of wool. Others were shifting large bundles, sometimes partly opening them, so the fleece could best be seen. The market air smelled of raw and greasy wool.

I made my way through the wool section—the largest part of the market—around the central watchtower. My nose led me to the fish market. Here, too, business was brisk. Boxes, baskets, and tubs of fish, fresh and dried, were everywhere. So too were oysters and cockles. Throngs of people were selling as well as making purchases.

I wandered about looking for I knew not what. I did spy a burly man with a leather apron standing behind what looked to be a barrel of black eels, the eels twisting themselves into knots.

“Please, sir,” I asked, “do you know where I might find Iceland fish?”

He looked at me with disdain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a scowl.

“Iceland fish.”

“Fish is fish. These are eels.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

I went on. I had to inquire twice more before I heard: “Stockfish from Iceland!”

I hastened forward and found a woman standing before some piled wicker baskets full of dried fish. Though her face was weathered, she was young, indeed comely, with round, sun-dark cheeks and bright blue eyes. Her fair, braided hair was wrapped around her head like a crown. The wool jacket she wore was colored blue.

As I approached, she smiled, held up a gray fish by its stiff tail, and fairly brayed, “Stockfish from Iceland!”

Behind her were two men, one old and white bearded, the other young and stubble chinned. They were stacking empty baskets and loading them into a two-wheeled cart.

I stood before the young woman, staring up at her, trying to find words to speak but afraid to. What if she turned me away?

“Do I look so odd to you that you must stare, boy?” she asked as if amused. Her speech was different to my ear: somewhat harsh, with a rough catch that seemed to come from her throat.

“No, mistress,” I managed with a bob of my head.

“Then do you want to purchase some fish?” she asked,
not unkindly. “Or have you never seen an Icelandic stockfish before?”

“Your…fish,” I stammered. “Are…are they truly from that place called Iceland?”

“God’s truth and glory,” she said, her eyes laughing. “That they are. Which makes them the best. The King of Norway starts his day with them each morning.”

I forced myself to look up. “And you, mistress, are…are you from that Iceland?”

She looked at me quizzically. “No more. We live in Bergen now. Norway.”

“Is…Iceland close to Calais?”

Her cheerful face bloomed into a smile. “It’s above and beyond the northern seas, and then twice as far as that. More than a thousand miles from here. Why so full of questions?”

Though shocked to learn that Iceland was that far, I took a deep breath and said, “Please, mistress, I…I wish to go there.”

The young woman stared at me as if I had said the most remarkable thing. She even turned and called to one of the men—the old one—in a different tongue. He halted in his work, peered around, and then stomped forward and considered me gravely.

The man’s face was fringed with a thick, snow-white
beard, a contrast to his deeply dark-tanned face, which bore many lines spreading from his deep gray eyes. Yellow-white hair reached his shoulders. He wore a coarse brown belted gown that reached his raw knees. Around his scraggly neck was a cord attached to a sheathed dagger that hung beneath his arm. Seeing a resemblance to the young woman, I took them to be father and daughter.

“To Iceland, boy?” he bellowed. “You say you wish to
go
to Iceland?”

The force of his voice made me step back. “Yes, sir. I…do,” I struggled to get out.

He considered me, then turned toward the young man who had been laboring with baskets. “Mord!” he called, and spoke something to him in his language.

The young man—grinning—put aside his work to join the others. Short, with brawny arms, the fellow had enough resemblance to the old man to suggest close kin, too. What they also shared was the reek of fish.

The old man stared down at me, his face showing amusement one moment, exasperation the next. “Now then, boy,” he said, “it’s the rare soul who wishes to go to Iceland. By Saint Thorlac of blessed name, it’s mostly the opposite. Why, no sooner did I arrive at this appalling place than I lost my two mariners. Ran off! May the devil swal
low them by their tails! God’s truth! Now, who are
you
and why should a boy want to go there? The Englishman who goes there is as rare as a mermaid.”

Having no idea what mermaids were, I said, “Please, master, my name is Crispin. It’s just…” There I faltered, fearful of explaining too much. “I just wish to go,” I said.

“He just wishes to,” the man said to the others mockingly. “And what would you do if you got there?”

“Live,” I blurted out, which truly was all I wished.

“Live!” he echoed, with much laughter, showing good white teeth. “If you wish to live there, you must be fleeing some brute of a master.”

I tried to stand tall. “I’m a freeman, master.”

“But by My Lady, not such a large one. Nor very strong, either, I’ll wager.”

“I can work hard,” I protested. “And…and I can bring another with me.”

“As big as you?” asked his daughter, smiling.

I nodded earnestly.

“My name is Thorvard,” said the old man. “Thorvard Hjalmarsson. My son, Mord Thorvardsson. My daughter, Halla Thorvardsdotter. Once from Iceland.” He spat upon the ground as though disgusted. “Now from Bergen in Norway. We speak English because we trade with
Englishmen.” He held out his large hand.

I took it. It was calloused, his fingernails yellowing and cracked. The other two crowded close, full of grinning cheer, poking each other as if telling jests.

“Mind, once to Iceland,” Thorvard went on, “there’s little beyond!”

I could only nod.

“What might you know of ships and sailing?” demanded Thorvard. “We sail an old cog.”

“I’ve sailed one.”

“Not in northern seas, I’ll wager,” said Mord. “Not in winter.”

“In storms,” I assured him, which was true.

“Even so,” said Thorvard, “it’s a long way to Iceland. Not many voyage there at this time of the year.” He plumped a heavy finger on my chest. “It’s brutal work to sail northern seas.”

I forced myself to stand still as if to demonstrate my bravery. “I’m…not afraid.”

He glared down at me. “If we are to get there before full winter is upon us, we must leave—God and wind willing—soon. Say, tomorrow at dawn. But as I said, we’re short of men. I’ll offer this much: come back at the end of day. If I can’t find anyone, better a minnow to chew than no fish at
all. Did you say there were two of you?”

“Yes, master.”

“Good! Come back, and I’ll see what has transpired. I may have no choice but to take you on.”

Grateful for even that, I bobbed my head and turned to go when he called. “Boy! What do you know about Iceland?”

I swung back. “If it pleases, master,” I said with knowing, “Iceland is a land without kings, or lords, or armies. Men live in freedom there.”

“Freedom?” He laughed loudly. “Who told you that?”

“A…good man.”

“Good? If the one who told you such things believed them, he was the devil’s own fool. Maybe such was true one or two hundred years ago. Not now. Iceland is ruled by Norway’s king. Bad rule, but rule it is. Håkon the Sixth he’s called. As for lords? We have them. Armies? Men can and will defend their families and kin. Often. And they don’t do so alone. Soldiers? You may be sure they’re there.

“Yes, some live in peace, but many don’t. We have our earls, our bishops. The land itself is full of anger. Cold and hot burst forth all the time. In short, Iceland is as far from Eden as it is from here!”

I was so stunned by his words, all I could do was stare
at the man, searching for some hint that he was teasing. “Is…that…true, what you just said?” I got out, hardly able to breathe.

“As God is my witness!” he roared. “Iceland’s an awful, godforsaken place! Here! Ask my children.”

Halla, the young woman, perhaps sensing I was upset, nodded solemnly but said, “It’s a beautiful place!”

My very soul was shaking. I could barely stand. Somehow I managed to murmur, “I’ll…I’ll come back, master. I…promise.”

Reeling, I turned away only to see Elena on the other side of the market.

S
URE THAT ELENA was searching for me, I hastily ducked away and, keeping low, scurried around the fishmongers. Only when I thought it safe did I try to see where she had gone. Since she was short, moving quickly, and the day not yet very bright, it took a while to locate her.

As I watched, I saw her go from stall to stall, talking to the sellers much as I had done. I glanced toward my Iceland man, fearful she would go to him. By God’s grace, she did not. Then I realized she was only doing what she’d told Rauf she’d do: seek a voyage to England. But I had to believe she was also looking for me.

Half running, I circled around, wanting to find some place to gather my tumbling thoughts. I moved from the market and made for the outer rim of the city, near the walls. All the while I tried to keep alert, ready to bolt in case anyone from the family came into view. It was by keeping such a constant watch that this time I saw Rauf.

There were moments I truly thought these people were devils bent on tormenting me!

Rauf was standing with a group of soldiers before the open door of a tavern built against the city walls. The sign over the tavern door portrayed a golden lamb. Among the soldiers was the very captain I had seen at the city gates. The same one who had questioned me.

At first the soldiers and Rauf seemed to be doing no more than talking. But as I watched, I observed Rauf drop coins into each of their hands. I had little doubt: he was selling me.

I backed away in haste, and then dashed down one of the side streets, intent on a quick return to the stables. I
braced myself for a scolding, or worse.

But as I ran along, I came upon a church so small it might have been a chapel. Desperately wanting some time to calm my spinning thoughts, I darted inside.

It was dark and cold within, the air touched by a trace of incense. A small and solitary candle burned on the altar. Its light illuminated the cross, which bore the broken figure of Jesus. The floor was stone, covered with old, dry rushes that crinkled beneath my step. Walls were stone, too, with paintings too faded for me to see what tale they told.

I looked for some sign, some picture as to which saint was sacred there to make acknowledgment. It was too dim. And I was too upset to make a study. But I did see that against one wall was a tomb, placed so the morning’s light fell there first. It rather looked like a table, its top supported by thick pillars. On this slab lay the sculptured form of a rich lady, her long-fingered hands—made of stone—clasped in calm and everlasting prayer.

Would that I was as peaceful! I fell to my knees, bowed my head, and pressed my shaking hands together. As soon as I did, I began to sob, deep body-racking sobs, as if the very calmness I had sought gave vent to my anguish. In my head I kept hearing what Thorvard claimed: that Bear’s
words about Iceland were false. That nothing good was there. That I would never find my freedom.

But how—I asked myself again and again—could Bear have told me something so wrong? How could he have not known? Did he not know everything?

My heart raged and cried. Even as I wept, a storm of anger at Bear swept through me—a sense of betrayal, a piercing pain that cut my heart and caused me to cover my face with my hands. How could he tell me something untrue! Were all my struggles to go to Iceland for naught? How could I take Owen to such a place? Would I not be free there? Bear had not known! A liar! I hated him! All I could do was weep. I was lost!

The choice that loomed before me—to stay or flee—seemed appalling! To stay meant I would be hanged in exchange for the family’s thievery and murder. But if I should flee to Iceland, I would be going to a very distant place that offered nothing of what I wanted! Where I might not be any better off than where I was!

But in the end—in my desperate state—it seemed to me that Iceland—whatever it might be—offered a small grain of hope—which is to say, life—and that little hope was better than what Elena’s family had planned for me.

“Dear God,” I whispered, “bring me some kind of
miracle, some kindness, that we might go off with that Icelandic ship—if that man will only take us.”

But how could we get out of Calais? It was walled. Harder to get out than in, I had been told. I could see that for myself. And soldiers were everywhere. Soldiers, paid to catch me.

“Dear Saint Giles,” I whispered to the empty darkness. “I need you so much now. It’s all too hard. I’m too young. I can’t do this by myself. I beg you! Help me! Tell me what I should do!”

Alas, no voice or vision was bestowed on me.

I remained in the chapel for some more moments, trying to settle myself. How long I remained there, I don’t know. I even gazed upon the stone lady, wishing that I were her! Then, quite abruptly, I realized I must get back to the house and the family before Elena and Rauf. To do otherwise would make things even worse.

First, however, I had wits enough to search hastily about in the food market and, for a halfpenny, purchase three apples. They would be, I could only hope, my bribe to the family to excuse my absence.

I raced back to the merchant’s house. Once I found it, I plunged around to the back alley and went to the stable stall.

Standing there was Rauf, waiting for me.

“Where were you?” he yelled, his anger as immediate as it was intense.

“At the market,” I said. Behind him, Woodeth was watching. So were Gerard and Elena. Owen was in a corner, looking terrified.

“Who gave you permission to go?” Rauf demanded.

“No…one.” I drew out the apples and presented them as an offering. “I went to get these…for all.”

He reached out and knocked my hands. The apples flew all which ways.

“Not for one moment are you to go off alone!” he shouted. “Is that understood? You’re to stay with us. Always! With me!”

“If it pleases—”

Furious, he swung the full weight of his hand against the side of my head. It was so unexpected, I fell to the ground in pain and dizziness. Before I could recover, he stepped over me and kicked me in my side. “Do you understand me now?” he cried.

“Yes…” I managed to say, in great pain. I wanted to strike back, but I knew it would be useless.

He bent over and shook his fist in my face. “You’re to do only as I say!”

My side throbbing, my nose bleeding, I remained on
the ground, hoping to be left alone. But the next moment he grabbed my arm and hauled me up. “Come with me!”

Too stunned to resist, I allowed myself to be dragged away. None of the family tried to interfere.

Rauf shoved me out of the stall and into the alley.

“Where…where are we going?” I said, smearing the blood away from my face.

“The night watch wishes to meet you!” he said, and shoved me forward.

He marched me out to the street, constantly pushing and shoving. Soon enough I realized where we were going: the tavern where I had seen him talking to the soldiers. Was he to hand me over to them right then?

When we reached the tavern, we went inside. It was a large, dark, and smoky room, the ceiling low with heavy beams, with one small, open window and a hearth burning wood. Set about the room were heavy oak tables, with men sitting around them. For the most part, they had tankards before them, while a few had trenchers from which they were eating.

In the far back was a high table. A large man with a stained apron over his bulging belly was using a ladle to pour drinks from a barrel into tankards, which were then served by a woman.

Rauf—still gripping me tightly by my arm—took me into a corner where some soldiers were seated around a table, drinking. Among them I recognized the captain, the same one whom I had seen him talking to a short time ago.

Rauf shoved me forward. “This is the boy I told you about.”

The soldiers looked up at me with, at most, indifference.

The captain nodded and said, “You need not worry. We’ve marked him now.”

The other soldiers laughed. One cried, “He’ll barely weight the noose.”

I recalled the gallows I had seen upon the strand.

Rauf pulled at me anew, this time leading me out of the tavern.

“There,” he said, without releasing me, “don’t doubt it but they know you now.”

Though I was sure I understood what he had done, I asked, “Why did you bring me?”

“So they might know you as one of us,” he sneered. “It’s the love I have for you, Crispin. When we leave the city, I wouldn’t want them to take you up, would I? Now let’s go back to the others.” He gave me a shove, and I stumbled on.

For my part, I was perfectly aware that he had made it even harder for me—and Owen—to escape.