The Cross of Lead Read online

“Ah, Crispin, if I have learned one thing, it’s that he who knows a bit of everything, knows nothing. But he who knows a little bit well, knows much of all.”

  He said no more and was soon asleep, grunting like a pig.

  The fire had collapsed into a heap of smoldering coals. The night being cold, I drew closer to it and tried to make sense of the things that Bear had said. He had confused me. First he said it was better to live by questions. Then he said it was a mistake to know everything. I struggled to put the two notions together, but could not.

  What I did know was that he was unlike any man I had ever known. There was madness in him, to be sure. Yet, I could not deny, some kindness too….

  But what vexed me most was his saying that every man should be master of himself. If I knew anything it was that all men belonged to someone. Surely God Himself put us all in our places: Lords to rule and fight. Clergy to pray. All the rest—like me—were on earth to labor, to serve our masters and our God.

  Otherwise, it was as much to say stars could go their own way instead of being fixed to turn around our world.

  Bear had to be wrong. Yet I found myself thinking it was not so bad to have fallen in with him. To be sure, he was a rough-and-ready man. The things he said confused me. Even his calling me by the name Crispin was unsettling.

  Still, if Bear fed me and protected me, I might, at least, survive awhile. In any case I had little choice. God had willed it.

  And yet—thinking on what he said—I asked myself if I were to live by questions, what questions would they be? About my father? And those things Father Quinel had said about my mother—if they be true or not. And maybe—I allowed—I’d ask what was to be my fate.

  25

  WHEN I WOKE IN THE MORNING, I had spent so much time with Bear’s strange ideas I was in a cross mood, not wishing to deal with him. Nonetheless, he informed me that it was time to begin teaching me some skills.

  He explained how upon entering a town he played and danced, heading straight for the village church. “There I pray, hopefully at a Mass.”

  I said, “I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

  “What I think, Crispin, stays in my head. What I do is there for all the world to see. I must show reverence.”

  “I don’t understand you.'” I burst out, surprising even myself. “You tell me I don’t need a church. Then you talk like a priest. What are you?

  “A man. Nothing more or less. And you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why do you insist on that?”

  “Because I have no name,” I said, my rage bursting forth. “No home, no kin, no place in this world. I’m a wolf’s head. Any and all may kill me when they choose. Even you. You say you want me to do things. Think things. But when I won’t be able to, you’ll shun or betray me like the rest.”

  I had never said so many words in one breath in all my life. When I’d done I turned away, alarmed that I had spoken to my master in such a fashion.

  “Crispin, in the name of all the blessed saints, have you ever desired to be anything different from what you are?”

  “We must be content to be as God made us,” I said.

  “What if God wishes you to better yourself?”

  “Then He will do so.”

  “Crispin,” he said, grabbing me by the neck and hauling me along. “Come with me.”

  He dragged me to a little stream where we had fetched our water. “Have you ever seen what you look like?” he said.

  “A little, by our river. But I don’t like to.”

  “Gaze upon yourself,” he said.

  Puzzled, I did as he bid, staring at my image in the flowing water: my long hair, my dirty, bruised, and tear-streaked face, my red-rimmed eyes.

  “Now, then,” he commanded, “wash your face, using sand to scrub it. Go on. Or by God, I’ll do it for you.”

  After I did as he told me, he picked up his dagger.

  “What are you going to do?” I cried.

  “Cut your hair.”

  “Now look at yourself again,” he said when he was done. “What do you see now?”

  I considered my reflection anew.

  “Are you different?” he said.

  “A little,” I said.

  “And that was only water and a blade. Think what you might become if you were cleansed of thirteen years of dirt, neglect, and servitude.”

  I turned back to my image and gazed. It was different. For a moment I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to alter the rest of myself as well.

  “As I was trying to tell you,” Bear said, interrupting my thoughts, “when I reach a village, I apply to the priest, to the local lord, or bailiff. The reeve if necessary. Anyone in authority from whom I can get permission to perform.”

  “And … you wish me to go with you?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “But, Bear,” I said, “what if I’m recognized?”

  “Crispin, you are altered. Who would recognize you now?”

  “Anyone from Stromford.”

  “By the certainty of Saint Paul, they are gone. They’ll never bother you again.”

  “But what if they do?”

  “First you say you are nothing. Then you say half the world is looking for you. Make up your mind. If you have one.”

  “But, Bear,” I said, “the steward tried to kill me. Twice. And when I was hiding in the woods, he came along the road. I’m sure he was searching for me.”

  He looked at me slyly. “For an insignificant creature, you’re very vain. Give me one reason for their concern.”

  “They think I’m a thief”

  “Crispin, did you steal?”

  “As God is my witness, no.”

  “Then it’s all a sham. You were only being blamed for what someone else did.”

  “But it’s they who matter, not me.”

  “Then I shall make you matter,” he said. “I’ll teach you music.”

  “I won’t be able to learn,” I said.

  “Do the birds sing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do they have souls?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, somewhat confused.

  “Then surely you can sing no less than they, for you have a soul.”

  “Sometimes … I think I have none.”

  For once Bear was speechless. “In the name of Saint Remigius, why?”

  “I have … I have never felt it.” Bear gazed at me in silence. “Then we,” he said gruffly, “shall need to make sure you do.”

  26

  HE BEGAN BY INSTRUCTING ME about the pipe’s holes—the stops, he called them—and the way to shape my mouth around the blowing end, how to shift my fingers, how to make different sounds.

  Reluctantly, I took up the recorder, and with fingers like soft clay, tried to play. What came out were sorry, shallow squeaks. “You see,” I said, “I can’t do it.” I offered him back his pipe.

  Refusing, he railed at the top of his voice, threatening to inflict upon me every kind of grisly torture if I didn’t try.

  At first his shouted warnings terrified me. But as the day wore on, I realized he was mostly bluster. While I didn’t doubt he could have done the ghastly acts he threatened, it was but a rough kindness.

  The more I realized this, the less tense I became. Gradually I found my way with tongue, fingers, and breath. Before the day was half done, I managed to pipe out his simple song.

  “There. You’ve done it,” he cried out when first I did. “Tell me that you didn’t hear it, too.”

  No one was more amazed than me. To think that I, with my breath, could make a song, thrilled me deeply. I wanted to play it over and over again.

  Bear only made me work harder. Then, as I played, he began to strike his drum so as to keep the proper beats.

  It was midafternoon and I was playing, when something different happened. Before my astonished eyes, this enormous man jumped up and began to dance. Holding his large hands up,
pumping his knees high, prancing, his great red beard flapping, his two-pointed hat bobbing this way and that, the hat bells jingling, he was like one possessed. Though a giant, he appeared as light as a goose feather in a swelling breeze.

  I was so taken aback at the sight I stopped playing.

  “Now you know why I took you on,” he said with a grin.

  It took a moment for me to fully grasp his meaning—he wanted me to help him.

  “Play, fool,” he yelled. “That’s the point of it all.”

  Excited, I resumed, continuing to make music while he paused to scoop up his leather balls. For now, as he danced, he also juggled. Then to all of this he added singing.

  “Lady Fortune is friend and foe.

  Of poor she makes rich and rich poor also.

  Turns misery to prosperity

  And wellness unto woe.

  So let no man trust this lady

  Who turns her wheel ever so!”

  Finally, he stopped.

  Panting, he thumped me on the back and said, “There, Crispin, my young and fool-ish, soulless saint, you see what we shall do. While I perform my revels, you shall pipe the tune. I promise, it shall bring us pennies of plenty and we—the Bear and his cub—shall prosper greatly!”

  His words made me grin.

  At this Bear thrust his hand aloft, “O God,” he cried. “Look upon Thy miraculous gift. This wretched boy has given the world a smile!”

  That night, as we made ready to sleep, Bear informed me that on the following day we would reach a village by the name of Burley. “It’s only two leagues from where we are. An easy walk,” he said. “And on the main road to Great Wexly.”

  Bear’s news about the morrow made me very nervous. Since I had left Stromford, the only person I had been with was him. But I said nothing. He would, I feared, only mock my worries.

  Instead, when Bear was asleep, I went upon my knees and with my lead cross in hands, prayed.

  “Blessed Saint Giles,” I whispered to the cross, “let me play the music well. Let me be a credit to my master. And I beg Thee, let me have a soul, that I too may sing and dance like Bear. And, Saint Giles, do not let him betray me.”

  27

  NEXT MORNING WE SET OFF AT dawn and soon were trudging along the dirt road. At that place it meandered among low hills, so that we never had a clear view for very far. Only through the tree breaks did we catch glimpses of open fields.

  We had been going a little while when Bear abruptly halted.

  “What’s the matter?” I said. “Look,” he said, pointing to the sky. I saw nothing but a flock of wood pigeons swirling high above some ways beyond where we were.

  “The pigeons?” I said.

  “They’re agitated by something.”

  “What?”

  “We’d best find out,” he said. “Stay close.” Straight away he loped off the road, and I followed. He led me into a small spinney, ample enough to hide us from view. Once there, he spied out. Without speaking, he pointed toward a hill some ways across the nearest field. When I nodded my understanding he ran toward it. I kept close.

  Upon reaching the base of the hill, he dropped upon his hands and knees. Motioning that I should leave the sack behind, he began to crawl toward the hill crest.

  When he reached it, he pulled off his cap, then lifted his head just above the summit. After gazing awhile, he turned slightly, beckoned me closer, and whispered, “Look, but be careful not to show yourself.”

  Cautiously, I raised my head.

  What I saw before me was the road we’d been traveling on, but somewhat farther along. At a place that had been hidden from our view was a small plank bridge spanning a river. Some twelve men were loitering about. A few were sitting on the ground. Others stood by the bridge. All were armed with swords and longbows. It was as if they were waiting for someone.

  Among them was one I recognized.

  “Bear,” I whispered, my heart pounding. “It’s John Aycliffe. The steward of Stromford Village.”

  Bear looked at me—but in a different way than he had before—then at the men again. After a few more moments he edged back. Pulling at my arm, he bade me follow.

  We went partway down the hill to a place where we would not be seen. Once there he sat in silence while I waited anxiously for him to tell me what to do.

  “Crispin,” he said with the utmost solemnity, “mortal men are never perfect. In my life, I’ve done things I’m ashamed of, things that the all-seeing God shall see emblazoned on my soul. You said they proclaimed you a wolf’s head because you stole. You deny you were a thief. It’s not for me to punish you. God awaits. But I must know the absolute truth: by all that’s sacred, did or did you not do what they said you did?”

  The way he spoke distressed me. Even so, I only said, “No.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I believe you. But it makes no sense. They should be glad you fled. At best, you’re a nuisance. Why are they searching so hard for you?” he wondered out loud. “And why should they think—or care—that you’re heading for Great Wexly?”

  “How do they even know?”

  “This is the only road,” he explained. “Have you anything to say to this?”

  “I told you they would come after me.”

  “You were right. I should have listened more. But, Crispin, there must be something more here, more than you know.”

  Whatever satisfaction I had in hearing him admit that I was right, paled when I saw his alarm. “What are we going to do?” I said.

  “We’ll go no farther along this road,” he said.

  “That’s certain. But I must go forward. Wed better strike across there,” he said, pointing beyond the fields toward some outlying woods. “It’ll take us away from those men—and your steward.”

  Without further ado he rose and marched off with great strides. I rushed to keep up, more than once looking back.

  As we went along, I kept thinking how Bear had noticed the birds, which allowed him to see the soldiers. If, I told myself, I was to stay alive in this new world, I must learn such skills as he had. The sooner I learned, I told myself, the longer my life.

  28

  FOR THE REST OF THE DAY WE made our way without the benefit of roads. A few times we came upon narrow paths, and these we followed, but only for short times. Instead, Bear went this way, now that, following no reason that I could grasp, other than we moved farther and farther from the steward. As we went he hardly spoke.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I finally said.

  “To where you can remain alive,” he replied.

  It was dusk when he finally allowed us to stop. Rain had begun to fall. The dismal drizzle caused the overhanging leaves to drip with irritating monotony. Before a low and flaring fire, which sputtered in the damp, we ate two small pigeons Bear had managed to snare.

  Perhaps to shift my mind from my worries, he showed me how he did his snaring, using a few long strands of horsetail hair that he kept in his bag. After tying the strands together he made them into a loop, which enabled him to trap—with great cunning—the birds, without their even knowing they were in danger. I was much engaged.

  After eating we stayed on opposite sides of the fire taking what warmth we could. Bear was in a solemn mood and spoke very little, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  “Do you believe me now?” I said.

  “About what?”

  “That they are looking for me.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I lay back and recalled what had happened in the forest at Stromford. “Bear,” I said, sitting up, “I remembered something else.”

  “What?”

  “The man the steward met had a horse, a fine one. He must have been a man of wealth.”

  Bear only shrugged.

  Then I said, “I wish I knew what the document was that the stranger brought to John Aycliffe. Though, even if I had seen it, I couldn’t have read it.”

  “By and by I’ll
teach you,” he said.

  “Bear?”

  “Yes, lad?” he said sleepily.

  “I’ve remembered something else. Before I left, the priest told me my mother could read and write.”

  “How could a miserable peasant woman acquire such skills?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw her do so. But Father Quinel insisted it was true.”

  “Did he teach her?”

  “He didn’t say. But he insisted it was she who wrote on my cross.”

  Bear rubbed his face and beard, then rolled down onto his back. “Enough,” he said. “We’d best sleep. If we intend to survive, we’ll need to find a village soon.”

  As usual, before I lay down I fetched the cross from the pouch from around my neck and placed it between my hands when I, upon my knees, began to pray.

  “Crispin!” I heard Bear cry out.

  I looked around.

  “Give me that cross.”

  Remembering what he had said about crosses, and concerned that he might do it some harm, I said, “I’d rather not.”

  “Give it!” he roared.

  “It’s precious to me,” I said, holding it back.

  “By God’s honest heart,” he said, “I won’t do it any harm.”

  “Do you truly vow?”

  “By the bloody hands of Christ,” he said.

  Though reluctant, I gave him what he wanted. Taking the cross in his great hands—where it seemed even smaller than it was—he peered at it with his shrewd eyes, even feeling it with his fingers. Next he brought it near to the fire.

  Knowing that lead could melt in fire, I cried, “Don’t cast it away.”

  Paying me no mind, he held the cross in his palm, in such a way that it was illuminated by our little fire while he squinted at it closely. I realized then that he was looking at the words.

  “Can you read what it says?” I asked.

  He did not reply. Instead, he handed the cross back to me.

  “The light is too weak,” he said. “And I need my sleep.” With that he rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes.

  I looked at him and at the cross, certain he’d found a meaning that he was not prepared to tell.