He turned and saw me. “Halt!” he cried.
I spun about and tore back through the rooms I’d entered, into the garden. Scrambling over the wall, I made my way along the narrow passageway by the side of the house.
Once I reached the street, I hastily looked up and down, saw that it was clear, and ran.
Whether or not the soldier came after me, I never knew. All I knew was that Bear had been taken by John Aycliffe. It was as I had feared. We’d been trapped.
47
DESPERATE TO FIND WHERE BEAR was being taken, I raced wildly through the town, more than once taking the chance to stop and speak to strangers.
“Did some soldiers holding a large red-bearded man go by?” I asked.
Twice, I was told that such a one had just been dragged along. What’s more, they were able to point in the direction the soldiers took. I rushed on.
Then, as before, I unexpectedly burst into the great square. Though very crowded, I could see a group of soldiers crossing the far side. People were hastily making way for them.
Scrambling forward, I wove and dodged through the crowd, tables and stalls, just in time to see the soldiers—with Aycliffe—drag Bear through the open doors of a large building. It was the building I’d noticed before, the one that stood directly opposite the great church.
As soon as the soldiers entered with Bear, the doors swung shut. Armed guards, helmets and weapons bright, their livery blue and gold, took up positions before them.
Standing there, I was engulfed by alternating waves of rage and helplessness. That it should come to this! In agony, I made the sign of the cross over my heart, and made a prayer for Bear’s safety. Yet I had little hope that it would bring either comfort or release for my one true friend. If only he had listened to my warning.
Then, afraid of being noticed, I stood behind a large man and peeked around him while trying to take measure of where Bear had been brought.
“What building is that?” I asked.
“The Furnivals’palace,” the man replied. “And may God give grace to her Ladyship.”
I continued to stare at the building as if I might see through the stone walls and discover what was happening inside. But while that, of course, proved useless, I did see a man appear on the second-level balcony, the one underneath which stone lions’ heads protruded. It was John Aycliffe.
He stood looking out over the square as if in search of someone. As I gazed at him I had little doubt it was me he was seeking. I watched him—my heart full of loathing—until he turned and went back inside.
He had taken Bear to get at me.
Not knowing what to do, I made my way back to the Green Man. Though disconsolate, I kept my eyes alert for soldiers. I saw a few, but did not think they saw me.
Fortunately, by then I had come to know the town well enough that I reached the inn in good time. But remembering the one-eyed man, I entered through the rear.
The house was very quiet. Though I knew I should go and find Widow Daventry and tell her what had happened, I was in too much torment. I felt a need for time alone to compose myself and think what next to do. Quietly then, I crept up to the second-story solar.
As I had expected, our room was empty. But just to see Bear’s sack and hat in one corner moved me greatly.
Exhausted, I lay down upon the pallet, my mind churning through a clutter of images, things, and words. Again and again the main questions returned: What would they do to Bear? What should I do? The truth was, I felt paralyzed.
In a spate of loneliness, I felt about inside Bear’s sack, found his recorder, and played a melody. It was the first one he had taught me. But to hear it brought such sadness, I put it away. Silence was the only voice that could speak to me.
But as I lay there—I don’t know for how long—I became aware of commotion. At first it appeared to come from the street. Before I could determine what it was, I heard a crash that shook the entire house.
I sat up, listening intently.
Now the tumult—shouts and cries—came from within the building itself. I heard a scream, followed by sounds of crashing, wood splintering, and I knew not what other violence.
Leaping up, I didn’t know what to do until I remembered the hiding place that Bear had told me about. It took but moments for me to slip the wall board out as he had instructed. Then I crept inside the opening, taking Bear’s sack and hat with me. As soon as I pulled the board back, darkness closed about me. I dared not move.
It wasn’t long before I heard heavy footfalls burst into the room right beyond my hiding place.
“He’s not here either,” I heard a voice say, followed by the sounds of breakage, and finally footsteps receding.
I pressed my ear against the wall. When I was certain no one was there, I eased my way out. The room had been completely tossed and turned. The little table had been crushed. Straw from the pallet lay strewn about.
With extreme caution, I went out into the hall. It was deserted. At the top of the steps I listened anew. From below came the sound of weeping.
48
I MADE MY WAY DOWN THE steps. When I came into the tavern room I received a further shock. The tables had been smashed. Benches were split. The serving counter was overturned. The tankards in which the ale and wine were served lay tumbled about. Many were broken.
Midst the ruins sat Widow Daventry. She was slumped and weeping. Her linen cap lay on the floor. Her hair, undone, hung down over her broad back. Her smock was torn.
Afraid to make my presence known, I stood motionless on the threshold of the room, trying to grasp what had happened. I must have made a sound, for the woman started and shifted her bulk around. She saw me and quickly turned away. But it was enough for me to see the bruises on her face, her red-rimmed eyes, her hollow mouth from which trickled a spike of blood. She gulped for air, and her crying ceased.
When I went and stood by her side, she lifted her head, looked at me, and raised a hand, once, twice, as if to pump up words. None came. It was as if she had been emptied of all life.
“Good Widow,” I stammered, “what … happened here?”
“Soldiers,” she lisped faintly. “From the palace. They’re searching for you.”
“Will they return?”
“Perhaps,” she said wearily.
Though I quickly decided not to tell her I had been in the house, I hardly knew what to say. “If … they find me,” I asked, hoping she would give me a different answer, “what will they do?”
“Kill you,” she said. Groaning with the effort, she came to her feet and surveyed the wreckage with a dazed look. When she spied her cap upon the floor, she picked it up and poked her fingers through its rents.
“Do you know why?” I said.
Disgusted, she tossed the cap away. “Best ask Bear.”
“Bear’s … been taken,” I said.
She swung around. “By whom?”
“The soldiers.”
“When?”
Diminished as she already was, my news reduced her even more. Clumsily, she righted a bench and sat down heavily. Her own weight seemed too much for her. “Tell me what happened.”
I told her all.
She listened intently, muttering sacred prayers along with profanities below her breath.
When I’d done, she said, “May Jesus protect him,” and made the sign of the cross. Then her shaking fingers sought her rosary beads.
I said, “What will happen to him?”
“A loving God will grant a speedy death,” she said, squeezing her hands together. Tears began to run down her sunken cheeks again. With a hasty, agitated gesture, she wiped them away.
I stood there awkwardly, hardly able to breath. I said, “I heard John Ball cry out that he was betrayed.”
The woman spat upon the floor. “Beware all men who confuse their righteousness with the will of God. They probably don’t even know that Ball was here. It’s you they want. I warned Bear.”
She went back to gazing
about the wreckage as if still unable to believe what she saw.
“Widow,” I said, “what should I do?”
At first she didn’t answer. Then she said, “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous. For you and me. They’ll try to get Bear to say where you are. But even if they make him reveal where you are, since they already searched this place and didn’t find you, they may not believe him. In any case, Bear will try not to say anything to harm you. He cares too much for you.”
Then she added, “But even the strongest can be broken by torture.”
“Torture!” I cried.
“Tonight, after curfew,” she went on, “you must escape from town. In the meanwhile don’t even come into this room. Stay upstairs. Did Bear show you where to hide?”
I nodded.
“Go on then. That’s where you need to be.”
I climbed the steps and returned to the room. After slipping inside the tiny hiding space, I closed myself in, welcoming the darkness as the only safe companion to my despair. So much bad had happened, and all because of me.
49
I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH TIME passed before I heard a tapping on the board that kept me hidden.
“Open up,” came Widow Daventry’s whisper.
I pushed the board out. In her hands was a bowl of soup and bread.
Grateful, I took the food and began to eat, though I was almost ashamed to be so hungry.
“What have you been doing?” she asked after setting down the small candle she’d brought.
“Thinking about Bear.”
“Ah,” she said with a sigh. “Well you might. Crispin, forgive me being so angry with you. God knows, it’s not your fault.” She lapsed into silence for a while.
“Did Bear ever tell you about me?” she asked abruptly.
“No,” I said.
“Two husbands. Seven children. None alive. And yet … I live.” She reached out and rested a heavy hand on me. “Crispin,” she whispered, “does God … have reasons?”
“I… don’t know.”
Head bowed, she began to weep again. I took her rough hand and squeezed it.
It was some time before she could compose herself.
Cautiously, I said, “Good Widow, can you read?”
She looked at me with vacant eyes. “A little. Why do you ask?”
“Can you tell me what it says … here?” I held out my cross.
She took it and turned it over in her hands. “It’s from the Great Sickness,” she said. “I don’t have to read it. Bear told me what it says.”
“He did?”
She nodded. “It says, ‘Crispin—son of Furnival.'”
I stared at her.
“You’re Lord Furnival’s son.”
“How can that be?”
“Who did you think your father was?”
“My mother only said my father died before I was born. In the Great Sickness.”
She shook her head. “Crispin, for these lords to have sons out of wedlock is common.”
“And Bear knew about me?” I managed to say.
“Yes.”
“And he told you.”
She nodded. “He guessed it from this cross, and because of what happened to you.” She offered the cross back to me.
I took it. “What else did Bear say?”
She sighed. “He supposed that your mother was attached to Lord Furnival’s court. That she must have been some young, gentle lady who knew how to write and read. Bear imagined her some beauty, enough to catch the eye of Lord Furnival. Furnival must have brought her—no doubt against her will—to your village.
“But when she quickened with child—you—he abandoned her, leaving orders that she be held in that place. Not killed, but never allowed to leave.”
“Because of … me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t Bear tell me?”
“He wanted to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Crispin,” she said, “what ever noble blood there is in you, is only … poison. Lady Furnival, who’s the power here, will never let you have the name. She’ll look on you as her enemy, knowing that anyone who chooses to oppose her will use you and what you are.”
“Does she even know of me?” I said, amazed.
When the woman said nothing, I repeated the question.
“If she knows as much as I, she may,” said the widow.
“What do you mean?” I cried.
“Crispin, I can not be certain, but if the rumor of the time—thirteen years ago—was true, I believe I know who your mother was. She was the youngest daughter of Lord Douglas. Lord Furnival became infatuated with her. It was the talk of the town. Then word was given out that this young woman died. Apparently not.”
“What difference does that make?” I asked bitterly. “She’s dead now.”
“But if Lord Douglas knew his daughter had a son by Lord Furnival, he might make a claim to the Furnival wealth through you. And if Lady Furnival knew of you as well, she would do anything to protect her power here.
“Your connection gives no honor. No position. What someone fears is not you, but that you will be used. Can’t you see it? Your noble blood is the warrant for your death. It will remain so till it flows no more.”
I stared at her. “Did Bear know this about my mother?”
“I did not tell him.”
“Why?”
“He thought of you as his son. Why put a greater distance between you?
“Crispin, if it’s any comfort, you’re probably not the only possible claimant. Considering Furnival’s reputation, you’re probably only one of many. The House of Furnival will want you all dead.”
“But… I make no claim.”
“Those who know of your existence fear you will. Which is why you must get away as fast as possible and never—ever—return to these parts.”
She reached out and touched me softly on the face with her rough hands. “May sweet Jesus protect you,” she said before she took her leave.
50
WHEN WIDOW DAVENTRY LEFT, I lay back down, and in the closeness of the hiding place, I held the cross of lead before my eyes. Though I could see nothing, I stared at it.
As I did, I began to see how my new knowledge made sense of the way my mother and I had lived for so many years.
Her words about my father. Few and bitter.
Father Quinel’s saying she could read and write, but never revealing it to me.
The way people in Stromford Village looked upon us as different.
Aycliffe treating us with such contempt.
Her calling me “Asta’s son,” since I was all she had, and that was all she could say. But all the same, christening me secretly with my father’s name.
No wonder she sometimes clung to me, and just as oft thrust me away. I was her life. She cared for me. Yet I was the cause of her destruction.
Thus we were foreigners to Stromford. Unwanted prisoners.
Then, the courier had arrived with his document, probably to announce the impending death of Lord Furnival. His protection—such as it was—was removed.
Only then did the words I heard in the forest make sense:
“And am I to act immediately?”
“It’s her precise command. Are you not her kin?
Do you not see the consequences if you don’t?”
“A great danger to us all.”
The her was Lady Furnival.
To say I had stolen money was merely Aycliffe’s excuse to declare me a wolf’s head. He sought to kill me because of who I was. No, not who I was, but who my father and mother were. For me—as Widow Daventry had said—they cared not so much as a rooster’s tooth.
Father Quinel must have known the truth. And he was killed. Again, Aycliffe’s hand.
And Bear came to know it but didn’t tell me. He was shielding me from the poison in my blood.
Now he had been taken, most likely to be killed. All because of me.
 
; No, I had to remind myself. Not because of me, or anything I’d done, but because I was—Lord Furnival’s son. The only question was, now that I knew who I was, what should I do?
Because it was clear to me that they had taken Bear to get at me.
51
FOR THE REST OF THE DAY I remained in the hiding place, thinking. In doing so, I continued to piece together the fragmentary bits of my life and place them together until they became a mosaic.
I kept asking myself if I felt different, if I was different. The answer was always yes. I was no longer nothing. I had become two people—Lord Furnival’s son … and Crispin.
How odd, I thought: it had taken my mother’s death, Father Quinel’s murder, and the desire of others to kill me for me to claim a life of my own.
But what kind of life?
I supposed some might have considered me blessed in that I was of high blood. But I knew that blood, as Widow Daventry had said, to be nothing but venom. That Lord Furnival was my father had been but a cruel burden. Bear—in the short time I had known him—was a thousandfold more a faithful father to me.
For the first time, I began to think upon John Ball’s words. They made sense. For what I recalled most was his saying “that no man, or woman either, shall be enslaved to any other, but stand free and equal to one another.”
I recalled too, what Bear had told me, that he was a fool because he should “like to be in Heaven before he died.”
I saw it then: Bear and Ball were talking about the very word Father Quinel had used, freedom. Something I had never had. Nor did anyone in my village, or the other villages through which we had passed. We lived in bondage.
To be a Furnival was to be part of that bondage.
As time passed in the darkness of my hiding place, the one thing I knew for sure was that as Bear had helped to free me, he had given me life. Therefore I resolved to help free him—even if it cost me that new life to do so.
52
IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER THE church bells rang for late-afternoon Vespers that the widow reappeared. “I’ve found someone to help you escape Great Wexly,” she said. “You’ll go tonight. The man knows a safe way over the walls. If all goes well, you’ll not be seen.”