Will Sparrow's Road (17 page)

The audience cheered again and threw more pennies. Fitz put them into his pouch.

Will brought the onion Tidball back and sang again, and the onlookers joined in:

Thomas Tidball is who I be—
Pardona moy je vous en pree—
Master of these persons three
With never a penny of money.

"Thus we repay the terrible Tidball!” someone shouted, and there was more laughter.

At the edge of the audience, Will's eye fell on a face that was not laughing.

Tidball!

Will's heart thumped in his chest. What did the man here? Had he heard everything? As Will struggled to contain his panic, he saw Tidball turn and disappear.

Grace clutched Will's jerkin. "Did he hear us?” she whispered.

Will shrugged. "Belike.” He exchanged glances with Fitz, and the three stood together in silence. Benjamin tootled on as if all were well. Presently the audience, with the sudden halt to the merriment, drifted away, and the only sound left was the soft melody of Benjamin's flute.

"What?” he finally asked. "Why the quiet? Has something happened?”

"Tidball was here,” Will said.

"Here?” Benjamin shook his head. "Woe and lackaday, that bodes not well.”

Will agreed. He thought of Samuel's riddle—if you bite an onion, it will bite you back. Will pulled the onion off the knife and threw it into the fire. They could but wait for Tidball's bite. Will feared it would be terrible.

OF MASTER TIDBALL'S HEAD AND
WILL SPARROW'S FEET

A
SOFT BUT
steady dawn rain washed clean the stalls and wagons of the fair, turned dusty paths into slippery sewers, and dripped maddeningly onto the fair folk as they readied their departure.

Will, Fitz, and Benjamin stood in soggy silence. The fair was over, first light had come and gone, and still Tidball was not to be seen. "What shall we do now?” Will asked.

"We can only do what we know to do,” said Fitz with a shrug. So Benjamin went to an open space behind the ale stall to practice, and Fitz and Will packed the oddities and prodigies into the wagon, dismantled the booth, and fastened it to the top. Lest Tidball return and find her free, Grace squeezed herself into the wagon between a giant turtle shell and the head of the oneeyed pig.

"You fetch us something to break our fast,” Fitz told Will when all was in readiness, "and I will fetch Benjamin.”

Most of the food vendors had packed up and left, but finally, at the far end of the market square, Will found a baker's stall. The oven had cooled, so there was no fresh bread, and Will had to be satisfied with a loaf left from yestermorn with but a few mouse nibbles. He then stopped at the ale stall for a small pail of watery beer and turned for the wagon.

The wagon? The wagon! He looked around in shock. Where was the wagon? Will's head swiveled furiously, but he saw no wagon. It was like his jest of the night before except that he, not Tidball, was the one returning to find the wagon gone. And Grace! Was Grace in the wagon and gone too?

"Master Brewer,” Will called to the man tending the ale stall, "did you see Tidball's wagon depart? Or hear it? Did the girl perchance climb out before it left?”

The man shook his head and shrugged.

Will visited the few booths and stalls left near the oddities booth, but it was fruitless. No one had seen Tidball or the girl in the blue cloak, nor could they tell the sound of one wagon from another.

An archer with his quiver on his back was striding past, and Will asked him as well. "Aye,” the man said. "I walked with Thomas from the inn but moments ago. He said he was come to fetch the wild girl and take her back to the inn. Said he had sold her.”

"Sold her! Nay, he would not,” Will said, but his heart began to thump. Doubtless he would, the scurvy knave!

Will ran behind the ale stall. "Fitz!” he cried. "To me! To me!” He grabbed the little man by the shoulder. "Tidball has sold Grace! Sold her! They have gone to the inn.”

Fitz's cheeks paled, his eyes bulged, and without a word he raced past Will.

Benjamin took Will's arm, and they followed the little man, tripping and slipping in the mud. "I fear he is punishing her for our mockery,” Will said. "'Tis my fault! Mine!”

The three skidded to a stop in the inn yard: the wagon was not there. Had the bargain been completed and everyone scattered? Will's heart thumped even louder.

From the stables behind the inn rang frantic cries, and they hurried in that direction. There was Tidball, pulling Grace by the arm into the stables, though she kicked and fought.

"Stop, Tidball, you villain!” Fitz roared.

Holding Grace fast, Tidball looked them over, his face twisted in scorn. "You three ungrateful louts,” he said, "get you gone. I want nothing more to do with you.” He held tightly to his walking stick with one hand and Grace's arm with the other. Pull and tug as she might, Grace could not escape. "The wild girl's new owner will be here in a moment. He will not be as gentle and generous with her as I have been.”

"Nay, you venomous toad!” shouted Fitz. "You shall not use her thus, scurvy, barbarous brute!” He lunged at Tidball and grabbed him around the waist. Letting Grace loose, Master Tidball lifted his walking stick and struck Fitz again and again. The girl cowered against the wall as the air rang with the sound of whacks and wallops.

"Nay, Thomas, nay!” Benjamin called out. "Whatever violence you be doing, cease!”

The little man fell to the ground, and Master Tidball kept striking him. Will watched in horror. Fitz was a skilled fair wrestler, but he was no match for an enraged man with a stout stick.

"Stop!” Grace cried, lunging at Tidball. "Stop! No more! I will go wherever you wish and do whatever you command. I will go willingly to a new owner. I will hiss like a cat or bay like a hound. Just do not hurt Fitz anymore!” She pulled on Master Tidball's arm. Whirling, he backhanded her across the face. She flew and crashed into the stable door.

Angry blood pounded in Will's ears. In a fury he charged Tidball and caught hold of his arm. The man lifted the stick to swing at Will, but Will grabbed it and held on. Tidball twisted the stick violently, and Will fell. Then, remembering Fitz and the giant, Will scrambled to his feet, ran behind Tidball, pulled up his unhurt foot, and twisted. Tidball tottered unsteadily on his injured leg for a moment and then toppled to the ground, where he lay still, a jagged rock beneath his head, blood oozing.

Fitz struggled to his feet, helped Grace rise, and took her by the hand. All three stood and looked down while Benjamin repeated, "What? What? Is it over? How fare you all?”

"Is he dead?” Grace asked.

"Oh, fire and brimstone!” said Fitz in a hoarse whisper. "Dead.”

"Dead? Who is dead?” asked Benjamin. "Quickly, tell me!”

"'Tis Master Tidball,” said Grace in a small, tight voice.

"And he is dead?
Ei, ei, ei,”
Benjamin said, shaking his head in dismay. "We must have the sheriff. Belike someone will hang for this.”

Dead? The sheriff? Hang?
He
would hang! Will's heart gave one huge thump and then started beating wildly. And he ran as if the Devil were on his tail, through the town, back toward the fair.

Dead. The man was dead. The bailiff would be called, and the sheriff, and Will would be blamed. Ah, woe! His neck would be stretched, and his body left hanging on the gibbet for crows to pick at. He dashed tears of fear and guilt and self-pity from his eyes as he ran past the ale stall and the pastry shop.

Or ... would the others be blamed? Would the law take Fitz and Grace and punish them? There would be no one to speak up for them, tell the sheriff the wicked thing Tidball had done, selling Grace like a wheel of cheese, and how they were just trying to protect her. He slowed as he ran behind the toy seller and the pewter-smith, through the archery range.

Fitz and Grace were oddities, easy to accuse. Will's face flushed with shame. He had left them to take the blame. But he cared for no one but himself, did he not?

When he reached the road from Ely, he stopped to catch his breath. The fens lay ahead, he thought, and then ... and then ... Where would he go? He was, as Grace had called him, a pitiful stray. He had joined them because he needed them, and he knew it. And they knew it and allowed him to stay.

He turned and began the trek back to town to face whatever would come. He left the road to cross the bit of woodland where he and Grace had taken the Duchess. What would Samuel think of him now—a murderer? And he passed through the clearing where Fitz had wrestled for their suppers.

More than once Will stopped to turn and run again, but he did not, though his steps grew leaden and slow. His shoulders were heavy with fear, dread, and shame, although he felt, too, a small measure of pride.

The rain had stopped before he reached the market square. Wagons moved to and fro, pack horses whinnied, merchants shouted and argued and called farewell. All was hurly-burly.

Where were Fitz and Benjamin and Grace? Had the sheriff come and taken them? If so, how could Will discover where they had gone? His mouth was dry with fear.

"Will Sparrow, open your eyes,” he heard someone call. He whirled around. There at the side of the road sat an odd-looking trio: a very small man with yellow hair and great bushy eyebrows, a threadbare fellow tossing a ball from hand to hand, and a creature with a friendly cat face wrapped in a blue cloak. Rips and muddy smears marred their clothing, but their faces were bright.

"We knew you would come back,” said Grace, and she smiled a smile that lit the gray day and put Will in mind of silver bells and honey cake.

"Why? How?” he asked. "I left you to take the blame.”

"You would ne'er abandon us,” said Grace.

"But I did.”

Grace stood up, brushed mud and leaves from her cloak, and put her hand into Will's. "Nay, you came back, just as we knew you would. You have had enough of running.”

Will stood still for a moment, experiencing the unfamiliar warmth of another's hand in his. He left it there and turned to Fitz. The little man's face was bruised and his lip bloodied.

"How do you, Fitz?” Will asked.

Fitz smiled. He was missing another tooth. "My pains are but trifling things compared to my joy.”

"Joy? How so joy?” Will asked him. "Where have they taken Tidball? And what is to happen to us?”

"He were not dead, young Sparrow,” Fitz said. Will huffed in astonishment. "He slept as if dead for a wee time and then awoke with an aching head and a raging temper. I told him you had run and taken the girl with you.”

"But I did not.”

"No, you did not. I had her hidden behind the stables. And his walking stick also, lest he thought to cudgel me again. He raged about duty and debt and ingratitude and then washed his hands of the lot of us. Said he was finished with odd folk and henceforth would traffic only in bird bones and turtle shells. And he raced away as fast as Solomon could go.” Fitz stuck his legs out in front of him and smiled a smile full of pride and relief. "Did you not see him on the road?”

"Nay,” said Will. "I came another way.”

Grace was laughing. "The last time Master Tidball himself drove the wagon, he raged so at sheep blocking the road that he fell from the seat, injured his arm, and twisted his ankle.”

"In good sooth? That was the accident that led him to hire me?”

"Aye, and a happy accident indeed, for it brought you to us.” Grace squeezed his hand.

Benjamin and Fitz stood. "We are free now,” said Fitz, "to live upon our own.”

"I am for Stourbridge, Fitz,” Benjamin said. "Belike you and the girl could go along. Be who you are and profit by it. Share your takings with no one.”

Fitz raised his eyebrows and looked at Grace. She shook her head. "Nay, I think we are finished with fairs,” he said. "We are people, not exhibitions. We will make an ordinary life in King's Lynn with my wife and daughter.”

Benjamin nodded and said, "Doubtless 'tis best. But I will venture on.
Carpe diem,
seize the day; fortune favors the brave. I am off for new places and adventures.”

Will looked at the chill gray sky and then down at his ill-gotten jerkin. He pulled the jerkin off and slipped it into Benjamin's sack. It was not an action he was accustomed to, putting something
into
a sack.

Fitz added a handful of coins. "Stay on this main road,” he said to the juggler, "and likely you will find a fair-bound company to travel with.”

"
Valete, valete,
farewell,” Benjamin said, with a salute to his cap, "
ab imopectore,
from my heart. God keep you, Fitz.”

Grace took Tidball's walking stick from behind her and handed it to Benjamin. "I shall miss you, Sir Juggler.”

"And I you, Grace. Be of good cheer, my lovely. Remember, as the ancients said,
suum cuique pulchritudine,
to each his own beauty. And you, Will Sparrow, fare you well.
Ne obliviscaris,
do not forget all we spoke of. Learn how to juggle life.” He began his trek down the path away from the fair, so surefooted and certain that for a moment Will wondered if his sight had been miraculously restored.

"Best we start also,” said Fitz as he looked at the sky.

Grace stepped forward. She had the three-legged chicken on a leash of red ribbon. As she pulled the hood of her blue cloak over her head, Fitz turned and looked at Will. "And you, boy?”

And Will walked right up to them as if he belonged there. Which, he supposed, he did. Oddities, all of them—a liar and thief, a disagreeable little man, and a girl with the face of a cat—belonging nowhere but with each other.

"I still have the coins thrown at the Tidball puppet last night,” Fitz said to Will. "Before we leave, I think Master Tidball ought to buy you boots. King's Lynn is some days' walk from here.”

A spark of hope, a small thing but true, crept into Will's chest. A home and safety. Might he stay there long enough to grow tall? And chin whiskers? And Fitz's sweet-voiced Cecily—might she be kind and soft and, well, motherly? And boots. Boots! Will wiggled his toes in glee and looked down the road that lay ahead.