The End of Time Page 7

  14

  IN THE MORNING Elena announced that Gerard was fit to travel. Besides, she reminded us, that wedding at which they wished to perform would take place soon. She was determined to reach Calais as quickly as possible.

  Haste was fine with me. I could not get there—and then away from them—fast enough. As for Owen, he kept stealing glances at me in the most furtive of fashions. Fearful he would be noticed, I wanted to tell him to stop but dared not.

  We set off, moving through the woods until we came upon a path, then a road, no doubt the same we had been on before. Once there I was in dread that they would find some new innocents and prey upon them as before. Happily, none appeared.

  It was during the afternoon that I began to smell that mix of salt and seaweed which I remembered as being the sea.

  “We’re closer to the Calais border than I thought,” Elena proclaimed with delight when we took a rest. “From here on we should have an easy time of it.”

  I saw Gerard and Rauf exchange a glance, but could make nothing of it. On the contrary, as we walked on, the musical instruments were brought out—Gerard excused because of his arm—and much merry music was practiced and songs sung. I played the recorder. It served to distract me from the chill. But once again I marveled at these people, able to play such sweet sounds and yet be so cruel.

  The forest began to thin. The soil turned loamy. In places it became sandy. The sea smells grew in intensity. Then, just as we were coming around a clump of trees, where the land abruptly lay open, we saw soldiers.

  Because we had come directly out of the woods, we saw them without their noticing us. Rauf, who had been in the lead, reacted swiftly and had us retreat in haste back among the trees. From there we were able to spy out with perfect safety.

  I counted nine soldiers. All had metal bassinets on their heads and wore what looked to be leather jerkins over chain mail. Some were armed with swords; others held pikes. All of which meant they were in a state of warlike readiness. One of the soldiers—he had a white cross emblazoned on his chest—stood near a horse.

  They appeared to be gathered around a fire from which a small curl of smoke drifted in the air. Moreover, their position suggested that they were encamped near the road upon which we were traveling. If we went forward, we would surely go near to where they were.

  As we stared, no one spoke. I whispered, “Who are they?”

  “Can’t you tell?” said Elena, never taking her eyes from the soldiers. “The one near the horse is wearing the cross of Saint Denis.”

  “The sign of the French,” said Woodeth.

  “But…what are they doing?” I said.

  “We must be close to the border,” said Rauf. He spoke more to Elena than to me.

  “The English pale should be just beyond,” said Gerard.

  “But we’ve not crossed the sea,” I said.

  “Fool!” said Rauf with his usual brusqueness. “I told you: Calais, though in France, is English. But the French control the outlying area to the east and south.”

  “What he means,” Elena said to me more kindly, “is that these soldiers are blocking this road to keep anyone from passing into Calais.”

  “Is there war here?” I asked.

  Woodeth pushed her hair away from her face as if to see better. “The French and the English are always at war.”

  “Let’s pray,” said Rauf, “there aren’t more about. But may the devil take these.” He spat on the ground.

  Remembering what the French had done in Rye as well as the awful consequences of our dealings with English soldiers, I asked, “Will they do us any harm?”

  “Only if they catch us,” said Gerard. “God’s wounds, they have no love for the English.”

  As we stood there watching, Rauf kept glancing at me, enough to make me uncomfortable. Then, abruptly, he pointed some short distance away. “Crispin! Stand back there. Owen! You too!”

  I looked to Elena.

  “Do as you’re told,” she said.

  Given no choice, Owen and I moved where we’d been told to go. The monkey, perched upon the boy’s shoulder, chattered softly.

  While Woodeth stayed near us, Gerard, Rauf, and Elena drew close and began to confer amongst themselves in low voices. I could not hear what they said. But more than once Rauf glanced in my direction. It made me uneasy.

  After a while Elena turned. “Crispin!” she called. “Come here!”

  Apprehensive, I went to them. As I approached, Rauf put a heavy arm around my shoulder and gathered me in while the others drew close. I felt small and trapped.

  Rauf cupped my face in his rough hand and stared down at me. “We have a vital task for you,” he said.

  “What you’re going to do,” said Elena, “will be of great importance.”

  “And when you do it,” said Gerard, “as you surely will, we shall feel very grateful toward you.”

  The mock camaraderie of their voices rankled in my ears.

  Rauf—still holding me hard—glanced toward the French, then turned back to me. “There’s no saying what those soldiers might do if we try to cross right before their eyes. Poor minstrels that we are, they might let us through.”

  “In God’s world miracles do happen,” said Gerard, “but then again, it might not come to pass.”

  “More than likely they would search us,” said Rauf, offering me a knowing look.

  My mind went to his money bag.

  “So you must see, Crispin,” Elena said to me, “it’s not a chance we should take, is it?”

  “I suppose not,” I murmured, guessing that was what they wished me to say.

  “You suppose correctly,” said Rauf, grinning while giving me a rough shake. “You’ll be pleased to know that when you first stepped out of the woods, I had the thought that you might be useful at such a place as this.”

  I could not tell if he was mocking me or not.

  “What we need of you, Crispin,” said Elena, “is to coax those Frenchmen away from where they are—away from us—so we can reach the city safely.”

  “Me?” I cried.

  “Here’s what you will do,” Rauf said as if it were all decided. “We shall retreat back among the trees and then proceed that way.” He gestured in an eastward direction. “As we do, you will go forth and attract the attention of those soldiers.”

  “But…how could I?” I said, shocked by what they were telling me to do.

  “By walking that way,” said Rauf, pointing in a westerly direction, toward some hills, “you’ll attract them.”

  “Enough to bring them after you,” said Gerard.

  “And when you do lead them there,” Rauf went on, “we, having gone east, shall cross northward over the plain. Of course, when you escape these Frenchmen, you can rejoin us.”

  “Together,” continued Elena, “we shall make our way to the city.”

  “But…but,” I said, finding it hard to breathe, “what if they catch me?”

  “You’ll need to make sure you don’t let them,” said Rauf with a false smile. “Because if they do—and Crispin, I am nothing if not honest to you—they will most likely kill you.”

  I could hardly believe what they were telling me to do.

  “But if you’re quick,” added Elena, “you’ll live.”

  “Could…could Owen come with me?” I said, with perhaps too much hope in my voice.

  “The boy?” said Rauf. He glanced around at Owen, who was standing with Woodeth. “Of course not. We need him. I realize he has become your friend. Fair enough. Just know, if you don’t do what we ask, I promise you it will go the worse for him.”

  “What do you mean?” I cried.

  An impatient Elena said, “Don’t be stupid, Crispin. By doing what we ask, you’ll keep the boy safe from harm. Is that clear enough?”

  I could not reply. How could I? To protect themselves and their wealth, they were prepared to have me killed. And do harm to the boy. It took me some moments before I found tongue enough t
o say, “Will…will you…will you give me a weapon to defend myself?”

  Rauf looked at Elena before saying, “We’ve none to spare.”

  “Crispin,” said Elena, “if you’re in danger, use your legs.”

  With a tumbling sense of dread, I glanced at Owen. He returned my gaze. I don’t know what message I was trying to send. I had hoped to save him, and now there was no great likelihood I could even save myself.

  Rauf clapped a hard hand on my shoulder, swung me about, and walked me forcibly until I reached the edge of the grove where we had been concealed.

  “Crispin,” he said, as if confiding, “we wish you to be part of us. Consider this a test. The more you prove yourself, the more you’ll be with us.” He ruffled my hair in a gesture of affection.

  Feeling only loathing for them all, particularly for him, I said nothing.

  “Godspeed,” said Rauf. With that, he gave me a hard shove, so that I fairly stumbled out of the trees and into open land.

  15

  HANDS BALLED INTO fists, struggling not to look back or burst into tears, I walked off a number of paces. Then I paused, took a deep breath, and tried to gain a full sense of where I was, how the land lay before me, and what I must do.

  I was in an area where the forest had almost ceased to be, though here and about stood random trees and low stubble. These few trees were not tall and appeared to be windblown into grotesque forms, as if squeezed and shaped by some clumsy hand. As for the land, it was not entirely level but had scattered hills to the southwest, which rose to some height. To the east and north, it was flat and, to my eyes, lifeless.

  The ground beneath my bare feet was softer than within the forest, damp and almost marshy. My toes could press into it. The air held a damp heaviness, ripe with the smell of sea. How far off the sea was I had no idea, but surely not so very far.

  Overhead the sky was as gray and cold as dull battle armor, enough to make me shiver. Perhaps it was fear. For I could see the French soldiers with perfect clarity, though they appeared not to have noticed me—not yet—for which I was grateful.

  I glanced back. When I saw that the family had already gone, that I was abandoned, my heart seemed to squeeze with pain. I had to remind myself they had only done what Rauf said they’d do, move eastward through the trees while I went west.

  Who, I asked myself, was my greater enemy: the family or the French? It was a sensation I had before: as if I were a kernel of wheat between two millstones, likely to be ground to powder.

  For a few moments, I played with the notion that I might go directly to the French and tell them about Elena and her family in hopes they would provide a rescue. At least for Owen. I fingered the coin Rauf had given me, the one taken from the murdered merchant. Momentarily I considered bribing the soldiers. But I had little doubt it would not be enough.

  Then I realized that since I could not speak their language, I could never even explain. In any case, being French, they might kill me before I could.

  But then a new thought came to me: I was free of the family! I need not go back to their murderous ways. Next moment, however, I thought of Owen and my vow to rescue him. I’ll not deny it: at that point I wished I had not given my word to help the boy. The next emotion I felt was shame that I should forsake him so. What if Bear—I chided myself—had acted that way toward me?

  Tense, I glanced heavenward. How I wished I knew the names of all the holy saints Bear had called upon for each special need! The most I could whisper was “Heavenly saints, and you, dear Saint Giles, who have so blessed me with your favor, look over me!”

  With a trembling hand, I made the sign of the cross. Commending my soul and my hope of heaven to my Maker, I turned, knowing it was time to attract the French soldiers’ attention and lead them toward the west.

  I decided, however, that if I drifted in a more northerly direction, I would also be going toward where I understood Calais was. That would mean there would be the forest on one side—the place from which I had emerged—and on the other, northern side, somewhere, Calais. Though it was to Calais I truly desired to go, if the need came, I might escape back into the forest.

  With that plan in mind, I began to walk away from the soldiers, having little doubt that they would soon see me. That I was finally going at a steady pace served to calm me.

  As I walked, I tried, by keeping my head down, to avoid looking at the French. My fright, however, had me constantly stealing glances to where they were. So it was that I had gone no more than a few hundred paces when I saw that one of the soldiers had shifted and was now facing in my direction. I began to walk faster.

  It didn’t take long before all the French soldiers were looking at me. Though I reminded myself this was only what I was supposed to do—lure them toward me—it was all I could do not to run for safety back among the trees. Trying to strengthen my will by staring straight ahead and whispering prayers, I kept on.

  The soldier with the cross of Saint Denis on his chest climbed upon his horse and gestured to his companions. The whole French troop now began to move, not in any haste—I was, after all, a solitary boy. I supposed they were bored and had nothing better to do. But I could have little doubt they were coming after me. If so, I had been successful in my task. Simultaneously, as I grasped more than ever the risk into which I had been placed, my heart began to pound.

  I glanced toward the forest, wondering if it was not better to seek safety. Then I looked in a southwest direction and considered the hills I’d noted before, wondering if I could reach the top. If I could safely reach it, I might have a better sense of how the land lay. Might even find some escape. Calais—my real goal—could be closer than I thought. I decided to try.

  I walked faster, trying to act as if I were paying no mind to the soldiers. All the same, I kept glancing around. It served only to make the horseman begin to lope. His companions trotted by his side.

  Though the French were still a considerable distance from me, fear took hold. I broke into a run, racing toward the hills. It was the worst thing I could have done. I heard shouts behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the mounted soldier coming faster after me. He was calling to me too, and though I did not understand, I could have little doubt he was telling me to stop.

  Redoubling my speed, I reached the bottom of a hill. I clambered up, struggling, until, gasping for breath, I reached the high point. Once there I stood panting, heart beating to the point of pain.

  Open, barren land stretched before me. But to the far north, I thought I spied something that looked like a walled city, with a few churchlike spires, which I assumed was Calais. I saw, too—or fancied I saw—a ribbon of gray upon the farthest horizon, which I took to be the sea. But between the place where I stood and that escape lay an expanse of emptiness. There was so far to go!

  I also noted a multitude of small, meandering streams, many of which looked to be no more than ditches. Some had water in them, others not. There was even one right below where I stood. But though the land was broken in this fashion, I could not see any place to hide.

  I looked back toward my pursuers. The one on horseback was coming directly toward me, moving at a steady pace. Those on foot were now moving between me and the forest. It took but an instant to grasp what they were doing: cutting off any retreat in that direction.

  Undecided which way to go, I remained in place and stared at the dreary land before me, praying I’d find some way to save myself.

  The soldier on horseback—now coming up the hill—began to shout. I had no understanding of his words, but saw only too clearly the sword he held aloft. Moreover, he had set his horse galloping toward me. I could have little doubt the Frenchman was intent on trampling me down, or at the least striking me with his weapon.

  Terrified, I bolted down the far side of the hill.

  Running as fast as I could, I all but tumbled down the hill. When I reached the bottom, I paused briefly, struggling for clear thought, trying to decide which way to go.

/>   I glanced back. The horseman was now where I had been, atop the hill, looking down at me. Once again he cried out. Once again I ignored him.

  I recalled there had been one of those streams before me. Unsure what protection it might afford—if any—but unable to think of anything else, I ran for it. In moments I reached its bank.

  The stream was not very wide—no more than thirty feet—with a muddy, gently sloping bank and water flowing at a sluggish pace. Whether it was shallow or deep, I could not tell.

  I looked back. In pursuit, the horseman was plunging down the hill.

  I had no choice. I charged out to the edge of the stream only to sink deep into cloying, clinging mud that reached my knees. Worse, it held me. To go forward I had to yank up each leg one at a time. Every step took enormous effort and made a ghastly sucking sound. It was as if the mud were a greedy mouth, seeking to swallow me whole.

  It took frantic efforts to move on, half stepping, half falling, forcing myself through mud and then into the stream itself. Once in water, I finally found sounder footing.

  I was now able to walk forward, albeit clumsily. I dared not look back, but stumbled on with strained breath. The water quickly rose to my chest, the cold making me gasp. Then came new alarm: I didn’t know how deep the stream might be, and I could not swim. Even as I kept going—I really had no choice—I feared that the water might rise above my head.

  So it proved. As I pushed on, the river’s bottom seemed to fall from my feet. In an instant I found myself floundering, sinking, and struggling for air. Certain I was about to drown, I kicked my legs wildly and thrashed my arms.

  My blessed Saint Giles must have been with me. There proved just enough forward momentum to carry me on so that my toes touched firm bottom again.

  The surge of relief I felt swept me on, enough so I staggered to the far side of the stream. There, as before, I had to work my way through thick mud until, at last, I crawled onto the other side.