At the Edge of the World

  He spoke with ease. That he meant to act by his orders, I had little doubt. He had his sword, and there was a dagger in his hand. I had nothing.

  I swung back round to watch the troops. They had begun to move off the hill, presumably toward the castle. The last I saw of Bear, he was being led away like a captive beast.

  36

  WHAT I DID FIRST—with my back to the cook—was pluck at the knot that held me. But it was too tightly drawn, and when I glanced round at the cook and found his eyes on me, I left off.

  Baffled, I slumped against the cart and racked my brains for something else to do. It was then that I recalled Bear’s words: he had turned to the guard and said, “There are swords in there,” and nodded toward the cart.

  Belatedly, I realized he had been talking to me! He had told me where I might find a sword.

  Heart pounding, I measured with my eye the rope that held me, as well as the height of the cart. I decided the rope was—hopefully—long enough to let me reach into the cart.

  I glanced at the cook. For the moment he was turned away from me, dagger in his belt, tearing at some cabbage leaves. “Saint Giles, be with me,” I whispered. Fully aware that I would have but one chance, I made a hasty sign of the cross.

  I took a deep breath, set one foot on a wheel spoke, then hastily heaved myself up. My leap was barely high enough to allow me to bend into the cart. Sure enough I saw a sword—had Bear moved it closer? I reached for it. In my haste, not only did I miss, I tipped it away. Frantic, I lunged a second time. That effort allowed me to snatch the hilt. Grasping it tightly, I swung it around in a wide arch, while leaping back, so that I landed awkwardly on my feet.

  The cook heard me. Startled, he turned about. Seeing what I’d done, he gawked for a moment. In that brief time, I pulled the rope that bound me tight, swung the sword down, and chopped at it with all my strength. It split apart.

  I was free.

  But now the cook snatched up his sword and leaped toward me.

  I was no swordsman, much less a fighter. I could only do such things as Bear had tried to teach me. What’s more, no matter the cook’s intent, I had no desire of harming the little man. Escape was all.

  Yet the cook would have at me, swinging wildly with his sword, swearing vile oaths, vowing he would kill me. But as God was kind, I found myself quick enough to parry his efforts with my sword. When he fell back, ready to strike again, I grasped the handle of my sword in both hands and swung out at him as hard as I was able. Even as I did, he also struck so that our swords met with an ear-breaking clang of metal. The force of my blow caught him unprepared. His sword was knocked entirely out of his hands, where it fell some paces away.

  Red-faced with rage, he gave not an inch but snatched up his dagger and came at me furiously. I retreated, holding the sword before me. “Get back!” I screamed.

  Trying to outwit me, he sidestepped, and then, with dagger raised and poised to strike, he threw himself at me. In hasty defense, I swung round, lifted my sword toward him—so that he ran himself upon it.

  He hung there, openmouthed, in skewered surprise.

  Terrified by what I’d done, I jumped back, bloody sword in hand, and stood there as he fell to his knees, blood gushing from his wound and mouth. Eyes rolling, he mouthed some garbled words—might they have been holy prayers!—then fell forward, face into the earth.

  Horrified, my stomach heaving, so dizzy with fright I could hardly stand, I was compelled to lean upon the nearby wagon. “Forgive me, forgive me …” I murmured, and though I tried to make the sign of the cross, my hand shook so I could not.

  I waited one more dreadful moment, gulping for air, afraid to look at the dead man. Then I recalled myself, turned, and ran, the death-dripping sword still in hand.

  Trying not to think of what had just happened, I charged to the crest of the hill where we had stood before and looked down at the round village of Bources. The view was much the same, and yet in process of much alteration.

  Dudley and his men were marching in a line toward the castle, banneret fluttering. They were going very slowly, deliberately, even slower than when they attacked the village.

  I looked for Bear, and saw him easily enough, he being larger than the rest. He was close to Dudley, held by the rope that kept him a hostage to Troth’s success.

  At first I was puzzled by the soldiers slow advance. Then I realized it was only what Dudley had schemed—to show himself and his force, thereby bringing all the opposition garrison to the castle, away from the church.

  Sure enough, I could see considerable movement on the castle ramparts. Soldiers were rushing about behind the crenellation. Horns were being blown, bleating shrill alarms. A bell began to sound.

  The peasants in the field stopped, listened, and began to run toward the village.

  I turned toward the church and the fortified tower. The church doors swung open. A body of soldiers and a priest burst out. From the way their faces were set, I could see they were looking toward Dudley and his men. Even as I watched, the priest and the soldiers raced across the drawbridge—going, I presumed, to defend and be protected by the castle. As soon as they passed, the drawbridge lifted. Not all the soldiers went. A few returned to the church. The doors shut.

  It was all as Dudley had planned.

  But were there more soldiers within the church? How many would there be for Troth to contend with?

  Trying to keep from panicking, I gazed about but did not see her. I had no doubt, however, she was heading for that tower hole.

  Sword in hand, I ran down the hill, straight for the tower. I had taken no more than a few steps when I realized I must take pains not to be seen. Not by Dudley’s men. Nor by anyone in the church. If I were seen by anyone, Bear’s life would be forfeit.

  Crouched but still running, I ran forward in a great circle, away from Dudley’s force but hoping to come upon the tower indirectly. Now and again, I bobbed up in hopes of seeing Troth. But even when I came within fifty yards of the church tower, I had no idea where she was.

  Meanwhile, Dudley and his men were now opposite the castle, keeping to the far side of the moat. His archers were shooting arrows. Though I was sure Dudley would make no attempt to cross the moat, those within the castle could not know that. I saw archers atop the castle ramparts lean forward and loose their arrows at the attackers. And Bear without a shield!

  Knowing I had to find Troth, I forced myself to take my eye from the castle and look at the church tower. First, I took note of the flow hole that Dudley had spoken of, the one that he told Troth she must use to gain entry to the tower. I found it easily enough. I also caught sight of some movement aloft, behind the tower archer holes. That meant that some of the soldiers I had seen—still impossible to know how many—were within, ready to defend the treasure. The more there were, the more danger for Troth.

  Taking a chance, I stood up, looked about. This time I saw her. She’d done as I had expected, gone to the tower, albeit indirectly, moving along the moat’s embankment, trying to reach the tower walls without being seen.

  Wanting to reach her before she went any farther, I dashed around—as she must have done—toward the river moat. I knew I might be observed from the far side of the moat, but felt I had no choice.

  I reached the embankment safely, and dropped down, wanting to keep myself hidden from those within the tower.

  Troth was some thirty yards before me. She appeared to be gathering herself for a run to the tower.

  Ignoring caution, I shouted, “Troth!”

  She paused, turned, and looked back.

  “Wait!” I cried. Still bent over, I ran forward along the moat bank.

  “Troth,” I blurted out when I reached her, “I killed the one guarding me.” I held up the sword, still stained with blood.

  In revulsion, she stepped back.

  “He would have killed me,” I said. “Troth, he attacked me.

  She gazed at me for a moment, then turned away, and looked towar
d the church.

  “What do you wish to do?” she asked, her face averted.

  “I don’t care what Bear told us,” I said. “We must help him.”

  “I thought the same,” said Troth. “I’ve an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll do what Dudley ordered. When I open the church doors—that’s what he wanted—he’ll lead his soldiers to the church. But, Crispin, he’ll be thinking mostly of the treasure. Then that’s when we must reach Bear and get him away.”

  “Troth, Dudley tied a rope to Bear’s neck to hold him.”

  Her mouth opened in shock.

  “And not all the soldiers left the church.”

  “How many are there?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure I saw some in the tower. Behind the arrow slits.”

  Troth looked up. “I’m going anyway,” she said. “Stay here—in case I fail.” She made a movement to go.

  I held her with a hand. “We’ll have a better chance to get the doors open with two of us inside.”

  Troth offered no argument. Instead, she turned back to scrutinize the tower. “Crispin,” she said, “if we can get against the tower and move flat along the walls, they shouldn’t be able to see us, or shoot at us, before we get to that hole.”

  She was right: the arrow slots were some one hundred feet above the ground, designed to repel attackers at a distance. Nor were there any turrets for shooting directly down.

  “But we must hurry,” I agreed.

  That said, she jumped up and raced for the church walls. I scrambled to follow, too fearful to look up.

  37

  WITH TROTH in the lead, me following behind, we ran hard. The ground between the moat and the church being level, we reached the church walls quickly. No arrows were shot, which, I could only pray, meant that we were as yet unnoticed.

  Once arrived, we pressed against the rough, stone church walls, and began to edge around. As we went, I could hear shouts, cries, and blaring horns from the castle side, but we could see nothing. I kept thinking of Bear.

  We reached the base of the tower, and—as far as I knew—had still not been observed. Pushing forward, we came to the hole.

  Once there, while trying to regain our breath, we squatted down and studied what to do.

  The hole was some two feet wide, perhaps two in height. That is, large enough for us to pass through, as long at it became no smaller within. But when I squatted down to look inside, I found the hole blocked. With Troth looking over my shoulder, I used my sword to poke about.

  To my relief, I found that the hole was stuffed with little more than leaves and silt. Working hard with my sword and hands, I was able to scoop it clear to some depth.

  “I’ll go first,” I said. “I’ll tell you if it’s safe.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “You must flee,” I said, and before she could return an answer, I handed her my sword, and plunged headfirst into the hole, arms first to feel my way, my feet kicking me forward.

  It was dim within the hole. The stone surrounding me was hard, rough, and cold. Such light as there was seeped in from behind. Happily, the farther in I went, the more the hole widened. As I slithered forward in snakelike fashion, I came upon more dirt, which I was able to push behind me, even as I wriggled on.

  I pressed forward for what must have been some five feet—the thickness of the tower wall. Before me I saw dim light. Just when I thought I was clear, my fingers, which I had extended as far out as I could reach, touched metal.

  It was too dark to see what it was, but when I worked my fingers about, it felt as if crossed bars had been set across the inside opening as a kind of net. I squeezed forward, grasped the bars with my one free hand, and shook them. The bars were somewhat loose, perhaps rusted from water flow. Encouraged, I rattled them with greater violence. The bars gave way, falling in with a clatter.

  Kicking and pulling, I eased out of the hole. Once free, I stood on the stone floor and glanced about. The room was square, stone-walled, suffused by dim light, which seeped down from a stairwell in one corner. Circular steps led upward.

  At the other side of the room was a large door fitted with elaborate iron fastenings, including a handle. Near the door’s base were holes, perhaps for the flow of water. There was nothing else.

  On my knees I called to Troth through the hole. “Come through,” I called.

  “Take the sword first,” she called.

  Within moments, I had the sword, and Troth was with me. She wasted no time, but went directly to the wooden door and jerked the handle. The door would not budge.

  “We can try that way,” I whispered, nodding toward the steps.

  The narrow steps wound tightly upward. As we climbed—I first, with sword in hand—we pressed against the cold, inner wall. After some forty-or-so high steps, we reached a new level and another door, a small one. We paused to listen. From the stairwell above we could hear sounds, even excited voices, but we could not make out the words.

  Troth went to the small door and shoved. It creaked open. Cautiously, she pushed it further, then peeked out. She made a hand gesture that I understood to mean safe, then passed on through the doorway.

  I followed.

  We found ourselves upon a narrow balcony enclosed by an iron railing. Thirty feet below us was the high altar, upon which stood a stone cross. To the right of that, a baptismal font. Above us, a stained glass window, rich in blues and reds. Before us, the stone-paved nave opened out. As far as we could see, all was deserted.

  We could also see the principal doorway to the church—the one we were supposed to open—off to one side at the far end, quite opposite where we stood. I took note of the wooden crossbeam that kept it closed. It was large, and from the look of it, heavy.

  I also saw an alcove midway along the length of the church’s nave. A Lady chapel perhaps. And, in the very middle of the nave, a low stone platform, upon which a chest had been placed. The chest was wrapped about with chains. I had no doubt. It was that for which Dudley lusted: King Edward’s treasure.

  I leaned over the railing. Below us I could see a door in the wall, near the baptismal font. I supposed it to be the door we could not open.

  But the narrow balcony—upon which we stood and which ran round the altar—had a ladder at its farthest end. Built into the wall, it reached the church floor. Since we needed to get down to the nave, we’d have to use it.

  I nudged Troth and pointed to the ladder.

  Halfway to the ladder, we heard a great bang, followed by agitated voices. Not knowing where the noise was coming from, we stopped. A glance at the church’s front entry-way revealed nothing. When the voices grew louder, I guessed they were coming from the tower door. Sure enough, the next moment we saw two soldiers—one old, the other young—run the span of the nave below. One was armed with a sword.

  In haste, we threw ourselves flat upon the balcony floor so as to be unnoticed. But we could see the soldiers go to the main door. At first I thought they meant to open it. It appeared, however, that they were only making certain it remained closed. The task done, they headed back the way they came, only to momentarily disappear from view. In quick time, one of the soldiers emerged—the older one. He ran, empty-handed, back in the direction of the tower door.

  One soldier remained. And he—I realized—must have kept the sword.

  Since it was clear that if we used the ladder we would be observed, we remained where we were, stymied. I made bold to lean out over the balcony, and looked back toward the door that we’d been unable to open before. What I discovered was the door had been left ajar—no doubt by the soldier we had just seen.

  I reached out, touched Troth, and motioned for her to follow. We hurried back as we came, down the steps, then slipped through the open door. By so doing, we found ourselves on the floor of the church. I pointed toward the alcove where the young soldier must be praying. Troth nodded her understanding.

  I darted forward and crouched behind
the stone altar. Troth joined me.

  “If we rush forward at the same time,” I whispered, “that soldier won’t be able to stop both of us. I’ll engage with him while you get to the door.”

  “Crispin,” she said, “he has a sword.”

  By way of answer, I held up mine. “He’s young,” I said. “No bigger than me.”

  She said, “He’s a soldier.”

  “Troth, think of Bear. We have to hurry. Are you ready?”

  She nodded.

  Heart thumping, I took a deep breath, gripped my sword tightly, and sprinted loudly toward the main door. Halfway there, the soldier poked his head out from the alcove. When he saw us, the look on his face was one of surprise. It lasted only a moment. Sword in hand, he jumped out in front of us. “I … I command you to stop!” he stammered.

  “Troth!” I shouted. “To the door!” and placed myself between her and the soldier, my own sword raised.

  The soldier made a movement toward Troth, only to stop and turn about when I shouted, “Give way!”

  Sword extended, he advanced on me. He had a pale, youthful face, eyes large with fright. Unsure of himself, he was panting for breath.

  Desiring to draw him from Troth, I took a step back. Even as I did—from the corner of my eye—I saw her slip past.

  The soldier, grasping what we were doing, spun about, and went after Troth. She had reached the door. Her hands were on the beam, her back to the soldier.

  “Troth!” I screamed.

  Turning, she saw the young soldier just as he was about to bring his sword down and leaped away. The soldier swung again, violently, wildly. For a second time she managed to elude him. Rushing forward, I cried “Here!” to draw the soldier’s attention. The soldier whirled about anew—as if he knew not which way to turn—to now confront me with his sword. Once more I tried to lead him away by backing up.