The End of Time (8 page)

I
STARTED BACK in fright. Moonlight revealed the skull to be old, brown, and smashed in on one side, as if the person had been struck and thereby killed. Perhaps he had been a man of importance. He might as well have been a nobody. What could he tell me, teach me, warn me about? Though it was empty of life, I felt the skull was observing me. Disturbed, I made the sign of the cross over it and murmured a prayer for the person’s soul.

Even then I was not sure what to do. I had no desire to have a grinning skull for my night’s companion. Yet the place I’d discovered was better than anywhere else I’d found. In the end I decided to stay where I was, but rebury the bones.

Again making the sign of the cross—this time for my own protection—I edged nearer to the skull. I was about to replace the stones when I realized that the skull was resting not on earth but on the edge of a box.

I peered closer—the eye sockets were staring right up at me—and realized the box was made of iron. I studied it, wondering if it might contain anything of value. The
thought of pulling it out and opening it came to me. But though this was clearly not holy ground, I feared doing so would be disturbing a burial.

I went back to where I’d been and tried to settle myself. It wasn’t long before the heat of my work left me. I became colder than before.

As I lay there, trying to control my shivering, I kept thinking about that box, wondering what it might contain.

Impulsively I scrambled around, knelt by the skull, and began to pull away more stones until the box was much exposed. When it proved larger than I’d first perceived, my fancy began to enlarge in equal measure. Perhaps it held gold, or jewels. I might be as rich as Rauf! I could buy my own and Owen’s freedom.

I yanked away more stones until the box was completely uncovered. It was not so big that I could not wrap my arms around it. But to retrieve it, I would have to shift the skull.

Even as I told myself I might suffer for such actions, I gently shifted the skull—how weightless is an old death!—and pulled at the box. As I did, the skull fell back. In doing so, it twisted toward me, grinning, as if to watch what I was doing. Stifling my disquiet, I examined the box closely. Moonlight revealed a lid with a rusty clasp. I plucked it open and lifted the lid.

Inside was cloth. When I lifted it out, it proved to be a woven wool coat, enriched with some small embroidery as well as metal clasps. Beneath lay plain leggings, leather boots, even a dark over-tunic with a long-tailed hood. Nothing else. No purse or wealth of any kind. Yet to my eyes, what I had found was far better than jewels.

I gathered the clothing in my hands and felt its fullness and warmth. I did wonder why the clothing had been left. Perhaps it was all this man had, his only wealth. Or possibly he’d been wrapped in a shroud, and these things were set aside in due respect.

Should I take them? I recalled what Bear—in my thoughts—had said: “God gave you life! Who are you to deny it?” Had I not believed it a sin to take money from that man Rauf murdered? But then there were Gerard’s words, that we’re “merely mangy dogs, forever fighting over scraps and bones.”

Was that what I was: a mangy dog, about to steal some scraps of warmth?

Gazing at the dead man’s bones, I told myself that this man’s soul was—praise God—somewhere sweet, that he had no use for such garb. Not as much as I.

I decided to believe Bear had answered my prayers by bringing me these remains. With that reassuring thought,
I pulled off the tatters I had worn so long—with their foul, bloody stains—and replaced them with the dead man’s clothing: leggings, jacket, hood, boots, and finally, the over-tunic. They were large for me, but not by very much. Beyond all else, they warmed me wonderfully well. In all my life, I had never been so clothed!

As I changed my garments, the coin that Rauf had given me clinked to the ground. Briefly I considered leaving it as an offering, but told myself I might have a need.

Closing the box with a clank, I returned it to where it had been, replacing the skull where it had rested on the box’s edge. With care, I put the stones back as well.

Once again I whispered prayers for the dead man’s soul, adding words of gratitude and thanks. That done, I went back to my place and gathered my new clothing about me, the hood pulled around my head. With such kindness as the angels had bestowed upon me, I was certain I would survive for the night. I’d be able to find Owen.

That gave me another thought. In helping Owen, I would be acting as Bear had done for me. The thought that I was like Bear—if only to a small degree—caused me to grin and filled me with satisfaction.

And so I slept—kept alive by one dead man’s clothing and another’s acts of love.

T
HOUGH MORNING SUNLIGHT coming over the broken walls opened my eyes, the warmth of my new garments kept me drowsy. In all my life, I’d never woken to such woolly softness. Rare luxury!

For a while I was content to lie in my newfound ease, breathing cold air seasoned with the scent of sea. In the sky overhead, raucous birds whirled about as if I was an intruder in this empty place. No doubt I was.

Stretching, I turned somewhat, only to come against some stones. They brought me back hard to where I was and the peril I was in: alone in an unknown land, and now very hungry.

Reminding myself that I must go on and find Calais and Owen, I murmured one more prayer for the soul of the dead man from whom I’d taken the clothing, begging forgiveness. I also made a prayer of thanks for my survival and took the time to beg a blessing for the unfolding day. That done, I came to my feet and adjusted my new clothing. Only then did I survey the land about me in the clear light. Thankfully there were no soldiers. All I saw was
barren emptiness: an open, marshy land with an occasional dune on firmer ground. Recalling that my way lay north, and using the sun as my guide, I set off.

At first I simply trudged along, constantly looking for people or something to eat. The land beneath my feet remained soft, often sandy, with countless streams and rivulets. There were brooks and water ditches that I had to wade across, holding my new boots over my head. I passed more ruins, too, some that seemed like decayed fortifications, as well as the remnants of small dwellings. I saw no people. All was forsaken, abandoned. And there was nothing I might eat.

Trees were rare. The little vegetation that grew was sparse and low. I wondered if Troth could have made anything of it. But as I passed a tuft of grass, a startled bird flew up. I searched and uncovered a nest with two small, speckled eggs. I broke them open and poured the contents into my dirty hand. One yellow yolk had a streak of blood. Though I considered it an ill omen, I swallowed it all down.

As I walked along, I gradually saw before me what I assumed was the crown of Calais: two church spires. As I would afterward learn, one was dedicated to Saint Mary, the other to Saint Nicholas, he who protected sailors.

Drawing closer, I saw the tops of other tall structures,
including a building big enough to be a watchtower. Then I spied a wide spread of stone wall that ran east to west. I was reminded of Great Wexley, the city where I had been with Bear, which was surrounded by circular walls. Here, however, the walls were long, straight, and high, built of large stones. Square towers were placed at regular intervals along the wall, round ones at the corners.

Drawing closer, I discovered that the city had double moats protecting its southern side. The first was right below the walls. The second was separated from the first by a mound of earth. The moats—with their filthy water—forced me to walk toward the east.

As I went along, armed soldiers spied down at me from the city walls. Wearing helmets, they were armed with pikes and crossbows. Though they did not look so very different from the French I had encountered, I assumed they were English.

I began to see ordinary people. For the most part, they were traveling alone, and of the few groups, none was as large as Elena’s family. Among them were two heavy wagons pulled by horses. All were proceeding in a line, as if upon a road. I could have little doubt: this was the way into Calais.

It took a short time to reach the road. It proved to be
a roadway somewhat elevated above the marshy land. For the most part, the people on it appeared to be merchants or peasants coming from the northeast. I looked to see if any of the wagons was the one the family had plundered. Happily I didn’t see it.

When the road veered around the eastern wall, I discovered that the depth of the town was far less than its width. But while I could see that Calais was not a very large town, the number of building tops and high towers suggested a crowded place. The largest tower I’d seen from a distance now displayed a flag with a red cross.

As I hurried along, I heard bells ring, slow and steady. From the sun’s placement in the sky, I guessed it was the hour of prime, and the bells were calling citizens to early mass. Once again my thoughts went to Troth. Was she at the convent church? Was she treating someone’s ailment, or gathering herbs in the woods? How different—and quickly—had our worlds become!

A little farther on, I spied the sea, or rather a bay that led to the sea. The tide was low, the smell of fish and seaweed strong. In the middle of the bay was a small island on which stood a fortress commanding the sea entry. More importantly, I noted many ships. Some were coming in or leaving the bay. Some were tied to wharfs or hauled up on
the shingle. One large ship was a hulk. Some of the larger boats I recognized as cogs, the kind of ship in which Bear, Troth, and I had come to France. I had no love of that memory. One cog, its single reddish brown square sail flapping idly in the light breeze, was being pulled to sea by a high-prowed long boat with men at oars. For the most part, though, what I saw were a slew of small fishing craft: crayers, pikers, and ketches.

I wondered if all had come from or were going to England. Please God, I thought, just one for Iceland! The thought excited me.

Despite the early hour, the scene before me was extremely busy. The dock area consisted of two wharfs, plus other landing places for the loading and unloading of ships, complete with ropes and lifting spars. Mariners and laborers were struggling with sacks, bales, chests, and barrels. Other men were working on the ships, replacing old rigging, cleaning, or making repairs. There was a steady rap of hammers. Midst it all I saw what I took to be merchants in fur-trimmed over-tunics and fine Flanders hats. In more than one hand, I saw an abacus. Armed soldiers were strolling about, too, as if keeping watch. There were even men whose flowing capes and looks of self-importance pronounced them officials of some sort.

I’ll not deny it: it came to mind that I should just go among these boats and find—if I could—a ship bound for Iceland. How easy to board it and be gone! Elena’s family would never know. But to think of the family was to think of Owen. My promise to Owen tugged at me. The constant thought—if I was to be like Bear, I must act like him—turned me toward the city gates.

As I went forward, I noticed a gallows at the far western side of the dock area. It gave me pause, the more so when I saw a body dangling. Swinging in the wind, it was black with rot, its stench putrid. It made me recall the ghastly corpse I’d come upon when I first fled my village. In haste, I made the sign of the cross, averted my eyes, and moved toward the city gates.

Even so, I could not help but look back at the gallows and its victim. It made me wonder if I were about to pass through the gates of hell.

B
UILT INTO THE WALLS, the entry to Calais consisted of a massive stone structure with a huge front gate of thick iron bars, which could be lifted and dropped by ropes. Poking out from these walls at an angle was a watchtower that looked down upon the entryway. Along its crenellated top, soldiers stood on guard.

Before the gate was an area paved with small stones. It was there that soldiers were questioning people seeking entry to Calais. Indeed, the city—with its walls, moats, towers, and soldiers—seemed a hard knot of war and defense, exceedingly difficult to enter.

Since the soldiers were closely examining everyone, the throng moved slowly. The one who appeared to be in charge was a soldier. A captain, I supposed. He was a tall, florid-faced man with a loud barking voice. His boots were high, his hands gloved. At his hip was a heavy sword. It would have taken a brave man to challenge him.

As I edged closer, I tried to learn what was being asked, wanting to be prepared with acceptable answers. It turned out the captain was demanding to know where people
had come from—what ship or town—and what manner of business they might have in Calais. Other soldiers were searching through baskets, poking into bales, and opening chests.

“Are they looking for something?” I asked a mariner who stood in the line before me.

“Smuggled goods.”

“Is it hard to gain entry?”

He made a grimace. “Just as hard to get out.”

“Why?”

“They will tax whatever goods are brought in or out.” He spat upon the ground.

For the most part, the people wishing entry were mariners and claimed—usually speaking English—that they had come off one ship or another and needed to reach masters already at the markets. Some of the people passing through spoke French. There were peasants, too, with baskets of food to sell. The captain reminded all that the city gates closed when the night bells rang for compline and would not open again until prime. No exceptions would be made.

“Boy! Step forward!” came the cry when it was my turn. I took a deep breath, told myself not to be fearful, and walked forward.

The captain looked down at me with hostile eyes.
“Quickly, boy! What brings you here?”

“Please, sir, I was with a group of musicians hoping to play at the wedding feast that will be given by Master Humfrey Talbot for his daughter.”

“Why aren’t you with them?” he demanded.

“We became separated,” I replied with a measure of truth. “Have they passed through?”

“I’ve no idea. A fair number of musicians have arrived,” he allowed.

“A family of five?” I said.

“I can’t say,” he returned gruffly. “All right. Pass along! Hurry!”

Much relieved, I hastened forward and finally entered the city of Calais.

After being in the open for so long, I was overwhelmed by the swarming city. The people were like penned sheep, a mass of men, women, children as well as horses and oxen. Citizens were generally of the poorer sort, but I could see numbers who were wealthy. They were all clothed in brown or black, with an occasional priest in white. Here and there a rich person arrayed in brilliantly colored cloth passed by, leading well-dressed servants.

The streets were stone paved while the closely built houses were timber framed, plastered with white or
yellow-brown clay. These houses were generally two stories high, although a few buildings had a third level hanging over the street. Many buildings bore flags and banners, as well as signs proclaiming the goods sold within, such as bread, tools, shoes, or cloth. Crowds of people were buying and selling, crying, “Hot pies, hot!” “Wine of Gascony!” “Flanders caps!” “Fresh water!” Armed soldiers strutted about like big, plump geese, and people made way for them. Over all was an intense city stench—dung, rot, bread, ale, and sweat.

Great Wexley’s streets had gone all which ways. In Calais, however, they ran in straight lines. Even so, when I first entered and began to wander, I kept coming upon the outer walls. Once I came upon a corner where walls joined. A round tower was set there, its entryway open, revealing stone steps that led to the ramparts.

At length I crossed over two narrow streets and stepped into a huge market area, far longer than it was wide, dominated by a tall central tower. At the far end of the market was a huge and bulky fortress.

The main market was crowded with stalls, tents, and pavilions of all sizes. Here was selling of a different order than on the streets: huge bales of sheep’s wool were everywhere, some open, some tightly wrapped with cord.
Merchants and tradesmen were bargaining in loud voices. I saw many coins exchanged and heard the clicking abacuses as accounts were reckoned. For the most part, English was being spoken. But I heard French, as well as other tongues unknown to me.

While the wool market was a major part of the trade, there was another large section in which quantities of fish were being sold. Some was fresh, but much was salted away in barrels. Then there were other parts where quantities of food, pottery, baskets, and clothing were offered.

I had never seen such a crowded place, not even Great Wexley. The throng was so thick, I hardly knew where to turn. Even so, I kept searching—often having to push my way through—constantly looking for members of Elena’s family.

Then, above the clamor, cries, and shouts, I recognized that skirling bagpipe sound. I had little doubt it was Rauf and the family. How different it sounded to me now! I hated these people. How then to explain the joy and relief I felt? It took me by surprise.

I followed the sound, and sure enough I spied them—encircled by a crowd—playing their instruments. Elena stood before the others, singing. Gerard had his harp, Rauf the bagpipe, Woodeth her mandola. Owen beat his drum.
In front of all was the monkey, Schim. Holding Rauf’s red cap in his paws, he approached people, begging and receiving coins.

Owen saw me first. The moment he did, he smiled broadly, only the second time I’d seen him do so. Then the other members of the family caught sight of me. They seemed startled that I was there, exchanging vexed looks. Nonetheless, it took only a moment before they shifted their response and acted welcoming—without ceasing their music making—with smiles and nods of greeting, which I had every reason to distrust.

Rauf even paused in his playing to rummage in his sack, which lay at his feet. From it he pulled up the old recorder and held it out. I took it and joined in the performance.

I do not know how long we played—not so very long—but at length the crowd’s interest waned enough that Elena called upon us to stop. When we did, Rauf snatched his cap from Schim—who hissed at him—took out the coins, and put them in his bag. Once released, the monkey darted to Owen, leaped up, and perched on his shoulder.

Meanwhile the whole family gathered around me with a cascade of questions:

“When did you arrive?”

“By what route did you come?”

“How did you escape the French?”

“How did you get here so quickly?”

“Where did you get your new clothing?”

I related what I had done, which they received with approval, even laughter. Indeed, they acted as if they were truly glad that I had rejoined them. In particular, they were much amused by my account of how I came to have a new set of clothing.

“Ah Crispin,” cried Rauf with a clap upon my shoulder, “that’s twice you’ve stolen from a dead man. You’re a true thief.”

Elena threw him a look of irritation, but to me she said, “Just know we’re glad to see you.”

My eyes went to Owen, who stood beyond the others. He made a small shake of his head.

I understood him all too well.