Praise for CRISPIN: THE CROSS OF LEAD
“Historical fiction at its finest."—VOYA
“Avi’s plot is engineered for maximum thrills, with twists, turns and treachery aplenty…. A page-turner to delight Avi’s fans, it will leave readers hoping for a sequel.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“… [T]he book is a page-turner from beginning to end…. [A] meticulously crafted story, full of adventure, mystery, and action.”
—School Library Journal (starred review)
“Avi writes a fast-paced, action-packed adventure comfortably submerged in a fourteenth-century setting.”
—The Horn Book Magazine
“Avi … introduces some of his most unforgettable char acters….”
—Booklist (boxed review)
“…Crispin will entertain readers with a compelling story, while at the same time giving them an intimate peek into life in fourteenth-century England. And when your child is through with the book, you can enjoy it too.”
—BookPage
“Avi’s latest novel is a superb combination of mystery, historical fiction, and a coming-of-age tale…. Breathlessly paced, beautifully written, and filled with details of life in the Middle Ages, this compelling novel is one of Avi’s finest.”
—Book Report
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Copyright © 2002 by Avi
Frontispiece copyright © 2002 by Tristan Elwell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion Books for Children, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5960.
First Hyperion Paperback edition, 2004
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Designed by Christine Kettner
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
eISBN 978-1-4231-4071-9
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ILS No. J689-1817-1
258-2009
To Teofilo F. Ruiz
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
HISTORICAL NOTE
AN INTERVIEW WITH AVI
GLOSSARY
ENGLAND, A.D. 1377
“In the midst of life comes death.” How often did our village priest preach those words. Yet I have also heard that “in the midst of death comes life.” If this be a riddle, so was my life.
1
THE DAY AFTER MY MOTHER died, the priest and I wrapped her body in a gray shroud and carried her to the village church. Our burden was not great. In life she had been a small woman with little strength. Death made her even less.
Her name had been Asta.
Since our cottage was at the village fringe, the priest and I bore her remains along the narrow, rutted road that led to the cemetery. A steady, hissing rain had turned the ground to clinging mud. No birds sang. No bells tolled. The sun hid behind the dark and lowering clouds.
We passed village fields where people were at work in the rain and mud. No one knelt. They simply stared. As they had shunned my mother in life, so they shunned her now. As for me, I felt, as I often did, ashamed. It was as if I contained an unnamed sin that made me less than nothing in their eyes.
Other than the priest, my mother had no friends. She was often taunted by the villagers. Still, I had thought of her as a woman of beauty, as perhaps all children think upon their mothers.
The burial took place amongst the other paupers’ graves in the walled cemetery behind our church. It was there the priest and I dug her grave, in water-laden clay. There was no coffin. We laid her down with her feet toward the east so when the Day of Judgment came she would—may God grant it—rise up to face Jerusalem.
As the priest chanted the Latin prayers, whose meaning I barely understood, I knelt by his side and knew that God had taken away the one person I could claim as my own. But His will be done.
No sooner did we cover my mother’s remains with heavy earth than John Aycliffe, the steward of the manor, appeared outside the cemetery walls. Though I had not seen him, he must have been watching us from astride his horse.
“Asta’s son, come here,” he said to me.
Head bowed, I drew close.
“Look at me,” he commanded, reaching down and forcing my head up with a sharp slap of his gloved hand beneath my chin.
It was always hard for me to look on others. To look on John Aycliffe was hardest of all. His black-bearded face—hard, sharp eyes and frowning lips—forever scowled at me. When he deigned to look in my direction, he offered nothing but contempt. For me to pass near was to invite his scorn, his kicks, and sometimes, his blows.
No one ever accused John Aycliffe of any kindness. In the absence of Lord Furnival he was in charge of the manor, the laws, and the peasants. To be caught in some small transgression—missing a day of work, speaking harshly of his rule, failing to attend mass—brought an unforgiving penalty. It could be a whipping, a clipping of the ear, imprisonment, or a cut-off hand. For poaching a stag, John the ale-maker’s son was put to death on the commons gallows. As judge, jury, and willing executioner, Aycliffe had but to give the word, and the offender’s life was forfeit. We all lived in fear of him.
Aycliffe stared at me for a long while as if in search of something. All he said, however, was “With your mother gone you’re required to deliver your ox to the manor house tomorrow. It will serve as the death tax.”
“But … sir,” I said—for my speech was slow and ill formed—"if I do … I … I won’t be able to work the fields.”
“Then starve,” he said and rode away without a bac
kward glance.
Father Quinel whispered into my ear: “Come to church, Asta’s son. We’ll pray.”
Too upset, I only shook my head.
“God will protect you,” he said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “As he now protects your mother.”
His words only distressed me more. Was death my only hope? Seeking to escape my heart’s cage of sorrow, I rushed off toward the forest.
Barely aware of the earth beneath my feet or the roof of trees above, I paid no mind into what I ran, or that my sole garment, a gray wool tunic, tore on brambles and bushes. Nor did I care that my leather shoes, catching roots or stones, kept tripping me, causing me to fall. Each time I picked myself up and rushed on, panting, crying.
Deeper and deeper into the ancient woods I went, past thick bracken and stately oaks, until I tripped and fell again. This time, as God in His wisdom would have it, my head struck stone.
Stunned, I lay upon the decaying earth, fingers clutching rotting leaves, a cold rain drenching me. As daylight faded, I was entombed in a world darker than any night could bring.
2
LONG PAST THE HOUR OF Compline, the last prayers of the night, a sound aroused me to a confused state of wakefulness.
Because of the utter darkness and the painful throbbing in my head, I knew not where I was. Though unable to see, I could smell the air and realized I wasn’t at my home. Nor was I in the fields where I often slept with the ox. Only when I sniffed again did I become sure of the woodland smells and cloying air. The rain had ceased, but it was as if night itself had begun to sweat.
Then, in a burst, I recalled my mother’s death and burial, my leaving the cemetery and the priest, my plunge into the woods. I remembered tripping, falling.
Putting a hand to my forehead, I felt a welt and a crust of hardened blood. Though my touch made me wince, the pain banished the remaining dizziness. I realized I was in the forest and lost. My tunic was cold and wet.
Lifting my head, I looked about. Midst the tangle of trees, I saw a flickering light. Puzzled, I came up on my knees to see better. But save that flame, all was murk and midnight mist, and silence lay as thick as death. In haste, I made the sign of the cross and murmured protective prayers.
Mind, godly folk had no business beyond their lawful homes at such a time. Night was a mask for outlaws, hungry wolves, the Devil and his minions. Then who or what, I asked myself, had caused the sound that had brought me to my senses?
It was my curiosity—another name, my mother had often said, for Satan—that made me want to see what was there. Despite fear of discovery, I crept through the woods.
When I came as near to the light as I dared, I raised my head and tensed my legs, ready to flee if necessary.
Two men were standing in a clearing. One was John Aycliffe. In one hand he held a fluttering torch. As always, a sword was at his side.
The second man I’d never seen before. Dressed like a gentleman, with a face of older years, he wore a hood attached to a flowing cape that hung down behind his legs. Gray hair reached his shoulders. His blue over-tunic was long, quilted, and dark, with yellow clasps that gleamed in the torchlight.
Within the circle of light I also saw the fine head of a horse. I assumed it was the stranger’s.
The two men were talking. Straining to listen, forgetful of the danger, I rose up from the bushes where I hid.
As I looked on, the stranger pushed aside his cape and brought forth a wallet. From it he drew a parchment packet affixed with red wax seals. He handed it to Aycliffe.
The steward unfolded it. The parchment was wide and filled with what looked like writing. Three more red seals and ribbons dangled from the bottom edge.
Passing the stranger the torch so he could see better, Aycliffe took up the document and cast his eyes over it.
“By the bowels of Christ,” I heard him exclaim even as he made the sign of the cross over his chest. “When will it happen?”
“If God wills, it will come soon,” the stranger said.
“And am I to act immediately?” Aycliffe asked the man.
“Are you not her kin?” the stranger said. “Do you not see the consequences if you don’t?”
“A great danger to us all.”
“Precisely. There could be those who will see it so and act accordingly. You’ll be placed in danger, too.”
As a frowning Aycliffe began to fold the document, he turned away. When he shifted, he saw me.
Our eyes met. My heart all but stopped.
“Asta’s son!” Aycliffe cried.
The stranger whirled about.
“There!” the steward shouted, pointing right at me. Throwing the document aside, he snatched back the torch, drew his sword, and began to run in my direction.
Transfixed by fear, I stood rooted to the spot. Not until he came close to me did I turn and flee. But no sooner did I than I became ensnared in brambles that caught me in their thorny grasp. Though I struggled and pulled, it was to no avail. I was too well caught. All the while Aycliffe was drawing closer, his face filled with hate. When he drew near he lifted his sword and swung it down.
In his haste, the swords descending arc missed me, but cut the brambles, so that I could rip myself away before he could take another stroke.
I ran on.
Aycliffe continued to pursue me, sword and torch up. He would have caught me if I had not, in my blind panic, tumbled over a cliff. Though of no great height, it took me by such surprise I went hurtling through the air, crashing hard upon my side and rolling farther down a hill.
I was stunned, my breath gone, but I had enough sense to roll over and look back. Above me—at some distance—I saw Aycliffe’s torch, and his face peering down.
When I realized he had no idea where I was, I dared not move. When his light finally retreated did I pick myself up and flee.
I ran as far as strength and breath allowed, halting only when my legs gave out. Then I threw myself upon the ground, gasping for breath.
For the remainder of the night I found little rest. Not only was I in fear of being found and made subject to the stewards wrath, I was still engulfed by grief at my mother’s death. Then, too, I had turned from the priest when he had asked me to church. I had broken the curfew, too. Why, I’d even stolen church wine to ease my mother’s pains before she died. In short, I was certain God was punishing me.
Even as I waited for His next blow, I sought, with earnest prayers, forgiveness for my sinful life.
3
THAT LIFE OF MINE BEGAN ON the Feast of Saint Giles in the Year of our Lord 1363, the thirty-sixth year of the reign of Edward the Third, England’s great warrior king. We resided in Stromford Village, with its one hundred and fifty souls.
For as long as I could recall, my mother had simply called me “Son,” and, since her name was Asta, “Asta’s son” became my common name. In a world in which one lived by the light of a father’s name and rank, that meant—since I had no father—I existed in a shadow. But he, like so many, had died before my birth during a recurrence of the Great Mortality (often called the Plague)—or so my mother had informed me. She rarely mentioned him.
Nor did she ever take another husband, a circumstance I did not question. It would have been a rare man who would want so frail and impoverished a woman for a wife. For in the entire kingdom of England there could have been no poorer Christian souls than my mother and I.
I had few friends and none I completely trusted. As “Asta’s son,” I was oft the butt of jests, jibes, and relentless hounding.
“Why do they taunt me so?” I once asked Father Quinel during one of my confessions. These confessions were numerous, since I had become convinced there was some sin embedded in me, a sin I was desperate to root out.
“Be accepting,” was the priest’s advice. “Think how our Blessed Christ was taunted on His cross.”
I did try to accept my life, but unlike our perfect Jesus, I was filled with caution and suspicion, always expecting to be s
et upon or mocked. In short, I lived the life of the shunned, forever cast aside, yet looking on, curious as to how others lived.
There was little my mother or I could do about our plight. We were not slaves. But neither were we free. The steward, John Aycliffe, never lost an opportunity to remind us of the fact that we were villeins—serfs—bound to Furnival, Lord of Stromford Village.
Yet this Lord Furnival had fought in France or had been off to mercenary wars for so many years that most villagers, including myself, had never set eyes on him.
It did not matter. Spring, summer, and fall—save certain holy days—my mother and I, like every other Stromford villager, worked his fields from dawn to dusk.
When winter came, we fed the animals—we had an ox, and now and then a chicken—gathered wood and brush for heat, slept, and tried to stay alive.
At a time when bread cost a quarterpenny a loaf, the value of my mother’s daily labor—by King Edward’s royal decree—was a penny each day; mine, but a farthing.
Our food was barley bread, watered ale, and, from time to time, some cooked dried peas. If good fortune blessed us there might be a little meat at Christmastide.
Thus our lives never changed, but went round the rolling years beneath the starry vault of distant Heaven. Time was the great millstone, which ground us to dust like kerneled wheat. The Holy Church told us where we were in the alterations of the day, the year, and in our daily toil. Birth and death alone gave distinction to our lives, as we made the journey between the darkness whence we had come to the darkness where we were fated to await Judgment Day. Then God’s terrible gaze would fall on us and lift us to Heavens bliss or throw us down to the ever-lasting flames of Hell.
This was the life we led. It was no doubt the life my forefathers had led, as had all men and women since the days of Adam. With all my heart I believed that we would continue to live the same until Archangel Gabriel announced the end of time.
And with my mother’s death, it was as if that time had come.
4
FOLLOWING MY ESCAPE FROM John Aycliffe and my night of forest hiding, it was the sound of a tolling bell that woke me. Dawn had come, and the Stromford church was announcing early morning prayers, Prime.