The Cross of Lead

  “That … I’m considered not human,” I said, my voice faltering. “That anyone may … kill me.

  Is that why they pulled down our house?”

  1 suppose.

  “But… why?”

  The priest sat back and gave himself over to thought. In the dim light I studied his face. He seemed distraught, as if the pain of the whole world had settled in his soul.

  “Father,” I ventured, “is it something about my mother?”

  He bowed his head. When he looked up it was to gaze at me. “Asta’s son, unless you flee, you won’t live long.”

  “But how can I leave?” I said. “I’m bound to the land. They’ll never give me permission to go.”

  He sighed, reached forward, and placed the side of his frail hand aside my face. “Asta’s son, listen to me with the greatest care. When I baptized you, you were named … Crispin.”

  “I was?” I cried.

  “It was done in secret. What’s more, your mother begged me not to tell you or anyone. She chose to simply call you ‘Son.'”

  “But… why?” I asked.

  He took a deep breath and then said, “Did she tell you anything about your father?”

  Once again the priest took me by surprise. “My father? Only that he died before I was born. In the Great Mortality,” I reminded him. “But what has that to do with my name? Or any of this?”

  “Dearest boy,” the priest said wearily, “I beg you to find your way to some town or city with its own liberties. If you can stay there for a year and a day, you’ll gain your freedom.”

  “Freedom?” I said. “What has that to do with me?”

  “You could live by your own choices. As … a highborn lord … or a king.”

  “Father,” I said, “that’s impossible for me. I am what I am. I know nothing but Stromford.”

  “Even so, you must go. There are cities enough: Canterbury, Great Wexly, Winchester. Even London.”

  “What… what are these places like?”

  “They have many souls living there, far more than here. Too many to count. But I assure you they are Christians.”

  “Father,” I said, “I don’t even know where these cities are.”

  “I’m not so certain myself,” he admitted. “Follow the roads. Ask for help as you go. God will guide you.”

  “Is there no other way?”

  “You could find an abbey and offer yourself to the church. But it’s a grave step, and you’re hardly prepared. In any case, you don’t have the fees. If I had them, they would be yours. No, the most important thing is for you to get away.”

  “There’s something about my mother that you are keeping from me, is there not?” I said.

  He made no reply.

  “Father …” I pressed, “was God angry at her… and me?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not for men to know what God does or does not will. What I do know is that you must leave.”

  Frustrated, I rose up, only to have the priest hold me back. “Your way will be long and difficult,” he said. “If you can remain hidden in the forest for another day, I’ll find some food to sustain you for a while. And perhaps someone will know the best way to go.”

  “As you say.”

  “Your obedience speaks well for you. Come back tomorrow night prepared to leave. Meet me at Goodwife Peregrine’s house. I’ll ask her to give you some things to protect you on your way.”

  I started off again.

  “And,” he added, as if coming to a decision, “when you come … I’ll tell you about your father.”

  I turned back. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “Better—safer—to learn such things just before you go. That and my blessing are all I can give.”

  “Was he a sinner?” I demanded. “Did he commit some crime? Should I be ashamed of him?”

  “I’ll tell you all I know when you come to Peregrine’s. Make sure it’s dark so you’ll not be seen.”

  I took his hand, kissed it, then started off, only to have him draw me back again.

  “Can you read?”

  “No more than my mother.”

  “But she could.”

  “Father, you’re greatly mistaken.”

  “She could write, too.”

  I shook my head in puzzlement. “These things you say: a name. Reading. Writing. My father … Why would my mother keep such things from me?”

  The priest became very still. Then, from his pocket, he removed my mother’s cross of lead, the one with which she so oft prayed, which was in her hands when she died. I had forgotten about it. He held it up.

  “Your mother’s.”

  “I know,” I said sullenly.

  “Do you know what’s on it?”

  “Some writing, I think.”

  “I saw your mother write those words.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “But—”

  “Tomorrow,” he said, cutting me off and folding my fingers over the cross, “I’ll explain. Just remember, God mends all. Now go,” he said. “And stay well hidden.”

  Filled with dissatisfaction, I stepped from the church. As I did, I thought I saw a shadow move.

  Concerned that I had been observed, I stood still and scrutinized the place where I’d seen movement. But nothing shifted or gave sound.

  Deciding it had been just my fancy, and in any case too upset to investigate, I made my way back to the forest, where I slept but poorly.

  Why had I been so falsely accused? I kept asking myself. How could I be proclaimed a wolf’s head?

  Regarding my father, why had my mother told me nothing about him? And what possible matter of importance could Father Quinel reveal of that connection?

  Mostly, however, I kept marveling at the priest’s revelations about my mother. That she had given me a name … Crispin. It did not seem to be me. If true, why had she held it secret? As for her being able to read and write, surely that could not be true. But if true, why would she have kept such skills from me? In the darkness where I lay I held her cross before my eyes. Of course I could make out nothing. In any case I could not read.

  If there was one person I thought I knew, depended on, and trusted utterly, it was my mother. Yet I had been told things that said I did not know her.

  I hardly knew what to think. Closer to the truth, I was in such a state of wretched disorder, I did not want to think. The things the priest had said made my heart feel like a city under siege.

  9

  IN THE EARLY MORNING, I climbed back on the rock to watch for any hunting party that might resume its search for me. Happily, I saw none. Not entirely trusting what I saw, I spent my day in anxious idleness, watching, dozing, searching for acorns and berries for my food.

  Sometimes I prayed for guidance as my mother had done, her small cross pressed between my hands. Occasionally I would say the name Crispin out loud. It was rather like a new garment that replaces an old: desired but not yet comfortable.

  I tried to guess what the priest was going to tell me about my father. In truth, I feared the worst: that he was an outlaw, perhaps a traitor or someone exiled from the church, a person to make me even more ashamed of myself than I already was. I even wondered if that was why I had become a wolf’s head—because my father had been one.

  But what I kept pondering endlessly were the priest’s revelations about my mother.

  Though the day seemed to last forever, night returned at last. When it became completely dark, I set out for the village and the church. Though upset, I was resolved to do as the priest had instructed.

  The sky was clear. A slender moon was in the sky. Nothing along the way gave me pause. But no sooner did I draw near the church than a figure rose up before me. I stopped, heart pounding.

  “Is that Asta’s son?” came a whispered voice.

  Afraid to answer, I kept still.

  “It’s me, Cerdic,” the voice said. Cerdic was a village boy a little older than myself.

  Instantly suspicious, I s
aid, “What do you want?”

  “Father Quinel told me to come,” he said. “I was to say he could not meet you.”

  “Not meet me?” I cried.

  “Instead, he said you were to follow me.”

  “But … where is he?” I said. “And why couldn’t he come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did he speak to you?” I said.

  “I … don’t know that either,” Cerdic stammered.

  I stared into the dark. “Where am I to follow you?

  “Along the road that leads west,” Cerdic said. “Father Quinel said to say it’s the safest way to go.”

  “But he told me I was to go to Goodwife Peregrine’s,” I protested. “To meet him there.”

  “I told you: he can’t.”

  Not certain I should trust the boy, but unsure what to do, I stood where I was.

  Cerdic moved off a few paces. “Are you coming?” he called.

  “I need to do as I was told,” I said and set off in the direction of Peregrine’s cottage.

  Cerdic followed.

  Peregrine was not just the oldest person in our village, she had a special wisdom for healing, midwifery, and ancient magic. The village hag, she was a tiny, stooped woman with a dull red mark on her right cheek and wayward hairs upon her chin. It was she, no doubt, who had delivered me into this world. Like others, I looked upon her with fear and fascination.

  The old crone’s cottage, like most other Stromford dwellings, was built with a few timbers. It had a thatched roof, and daub-and-wattle walls. There was a space to either side of the single entry-way, which had no door. One side of the space was for her animals, her cow, pigs, goose, and general storage. The other side was for her living.

  I came through the entryway full of foreboding. An open fire pit lay on Peregrine’s side and gave the only light. Smoke thickened the air, making the herbs that hung from the rafters look like dangling carcasses. Over the fire sat a three-legged iron pot in which something cooked. The food smells made my mouth water.

  “Who’s there?” Peregrine called through the smoke in her rasping, broken-toothed voice.

  “It’s me, Asta’s son.”

  “Is that the priest with you?”

  “It’s Cerdic.”

  “Where’s the priest? I expected him.”

  “He told me he couldn’t come,” said Cerdic. He had come up close behind me.

  She peered at the boy through the smoke. “Did he give a reason?”

  “None.”

  Muttering, “Something must have happened,” she looked up into my face. Her stench was strong, and I was aware of the mark on her face. “Are you ready to go?” she asked.

  “The priest said I must.”

  “Aye. You’re being hunted by many. The steward’s offering twenty shillings reward for you.”

  “Twenty shillings!” I cried. The amount was half a year’s wages. No one in the village had such a sum. “Why should he offer so much?”

  “He wants you dead,” she said.

  “Do you know where the steward will be looking?” I said, very frightened.

  Cerdic answered. “The bailiff told people he intends to go along the northern road.”

  “Then best to go south,” Peregrine said to me.

  “Are there towns or cities there?” I said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” the old woman said. “Now, draw closer,” she commanded. “The priest asked me to provide you with protection. I do it for him, Asta’s boy, not you.”

  I stepped forward reluctantly. She reached up and dropped a thong—with a small leather pouch—about my neck. Then she spoke some words I didn’t understand.

  “Eat this before you go,” she said, thrusting a bowl of porridge into my hand.

  After putting the cross of lead into the leather pouch, I stuffed porridge into my mouth with my fingers. Once done, I returned the bowl.

  “And here,” the old woman said, offering me a bag, “is some bread. It won’t take you far, but it’ll take you off”

  As soon as I took the bag, the old woman grasped my arm with her tiny hand, pulled me to the entry way, and all but pushed me out. “God be with you, Asta’s son.”

  She too wished me gone.

  10

  DON’T GO SOUTH,” CERDIC SAID as soon as we were outside and alone.

  “Why not?” I said, trying to push away my disquiet.

  “It’s what I told you: the steward will be looking north. Why should he have said that if he wished to keep it secret? I think he wants you south. Go a different way.”

  “But which way?” I said.

  “If the steward says he’s looking north, go the way they least expect, west. That’s what Father Quinel said to do.”

  “But that would take me by the manor house,” I said.

  “The last place anyone would think you’d go.”

  Though I was not sure I trusted Cerdic, what he said made sense. But I said, “I want to go by the church first. Maybe Father Quinel’s there.”

  “You’d better hurry.”

  With Cerdic at my side, I made my way through the village. For safety’s sake I kept away from the road, skirting behind the cottages, moving quietly along the back lanes.

  Upon reaching the church, I knocked on the door to the priest’s room. When no one answered, I went into the church proper. No one was there either.

  Cerdic must have sensed my thoughts. “Perhaps,” he said, “he’s waiting on the other side of the river. Maybe that’s why he said to go that way.”

  Grasping at any hope, I swung round to the road and moved in a westerly direction. Cerdic stayed close. Soon Lord Furnival’s manor house loomed before us. Light beamed through a window upon the road that ran before it. The light illuminated the boundary cross and I could see the mill just opposite the manor. To see the cross moved me greatly. It meant I was truly about to leave. I hesitated.

  “It’s the only way,” Cerdic said. He made the sign of the cross over his heart.

  I peered into the dark, seeing no one but praying that Father Quinel would be waiting for me across the river.

  “Keep walking,” Cerdic said.

  I took but a few more steps when a beating sound, as if someone were striking a drum, came from behind. Startled, I halted, and peered back into the darkness.

  There was still nothing to be seen, though the drum kept beating. Then I realized Cerdic had begun to back away from me. I turned to face the boundary cross again. This time I saw shadowy forms rise up from the side of the road. It was four men. They lumbered across the road, blocking my way.

  “Cerdic,” I called.

  When he made no reply, I looked around. He was gone.

  I swung back. I saw now that two of the men were armed with glaives. In another’s hands I saw the shimmering glint of a sword.

  I turned around to see if I could retreat, only to see four more men approach. I had been led into a trap.

  11

  ASTA’S SON,” CAME AYCLIFFE’S voice, “in the name of Lord Furnival, you’re herewith charged with theft. Give way.”

  I was too stunned to move.

  “The boy’s a wolf’s head!” the steward shouted. “Slay him if you can.”

  From either side, men ran forward.

  I ran the only way open to me, toward the mill. Reaching it, I felt about its outer walls. Finding a grip, I hoisted myself up in hope of escaping by climbing and hiding. But then a great crack exploded a hand’s breadth from my head. Twisting around, I saw an arrow embedded in the timbers of the mill.

  Faint with horror, I loosened my grip and dropped to the ground. For a moment I squatted, trying to regain my breath and wits. Hearing the men draw closer, I leaped up and scrambled around the corner of the mill.

  Aycliffe urged the men on. “Hurry! He went around the mill. Head him off. He mustn’t escape.”

  The other side of the mill was completely dark. For all I saw, I might have been blind. Sure enough, the next mom
ent my feet slipped out from under me, and I crashed into water.

  Gasping for breath, I flailed around until my feet touched bottom. The water was up to my chest. I’d dropped into the millrace, the ditch where the river water ran to turn the mill’s wheels.

  Knowing I was in no danger of drowning, I paused to catch my breath and listen.

  In the darkness I heard the steward continually cry out while the other men stumbled about, trying to find where I was.

  Deciding to use the millrace as a path, I waded forward against the water flow, knowing it would take me to the river. The farther I went, the more the tumult behind me lessened. Even so, I had little doubt they were still searching.

  The press of water increased. Stopping, I grasped the edge of the race and hauled myself out, rolled over, and hugged the ground.

  I could hear the river before me. I crawled forward, making my way down a gentle slope until my hand touched water again. It was the river.

  Unable to swim, not certain how deep the river was at this spot, I hugged the bank, too timid to pass over.

  I spied lights upstream. They looked like torch flares. The men were hovering near the fording place, thinking I’d try a crossing there. I had to either cross where I was or go a different way.

  Afraid of the river, I chose to turn and work my way back to the millrun. I slipped in, waded across, and came up on the other side. Gaining firm ground, I began to run.

  I went past the cottages and across new-plowed fields until I reached the road. Not stopping, I rushed on.

  In such moonlight as there was, I made my way to the southern end of Stromford and another boundary cross.

  It was when I knelt down to pray that I saw a form on the ground. It took a moment for me to realize someone was lying there.

  My first thought was that it was a guard meant to stand against me and that he had fallen asleep. But when the person didn’t move, I drew forward, albeit timidly.

  It was Father Quinel. He lay very still. “Father?” I called softly.

  He did not answer.

  I knelt down, reached out and touched him gently. “Father?” I said a second time.

  He still did not move.

  I peered closer only to see that his throat had been slit. His blood, made black by night, lay pooled upon the ground.