The End of Time

by Avi

  A startled Owen turned around even as Elena and Woodeth exchanged looks of indecision.

  After a moment Elena said, “It’s always better to appear well at these feasts. And you’re almost elegant in your dead man’s clothes,” she added with some mockery. “If you wish to waste your money, I suppose Owen could look better.”

  Woodeth, clearly eager to get away from the stable, said, “There are many shops. I’ll go with them.”

  Though that disappointed me, I said nothing.

  “But let the monkey stay with me,” said Elena with a smile I took to be false. “Then I’ll know you’ll come back.”

  After a moment’s pause, Owen gave up the beast. Elena wrapped the leash about her wrist and gave a harsh tug. Schim had to stay.

  The three of us set off.

  We did not go through the house but along the narrow alley that lay behind, then on to a regular street. The church bells had already struck sext, but when we reached the market, it was as crowded as the morning.

  What I needed was a ship for Iceland. Of course, I would not find one in the markets, but my hope was to find someone who could offer some help. I kept trying to think what Bear would advise. Beyond being patient, I could think of nothing and had to be content to walk a step behind Owen and Woodeth, who meandered along in no great haste.

  At length we came upon a shop over whose door hung a sign that bore an image of a sheep. A woman was standing by the door, trying to draw in buyers. She wore a headband, with two long braids hanging down over her chest. The plain brown kirtle she wore was ankle-length, with long sleeves. It looked newly made.

  Woodeth pushed Owen forward. “Mistress,” she announced to the shopkeeper, “this boy needs a simple garment.”

  The woman swept disdainful eyes over the excited Owen. “Be so good as to enter.”

  We stepped into a small room crowded with two low tables. Such light as there was came from three tallow candles on sticks. On one table lay folded cloth. Behind the other a man sat sewing. In a corner another man sat at a loom, weaving. When the woman began to show off her goods, I decided to take a chance.

  “It’s too crowded here for me,” I announced, giving my coin to Owen and retreating before Woodeth could object.

  Once outside the shop, I leaned against the doorframe and observed the crowd going by. There were plenty of peddlers and hawkers, offering all kinds of wares. “Pins!” cried one. “Pieces of horn!” cried another. And then I heard it: “Stockfish from Iceland!”

  22

  IT TOOK A MOMENT for me to grasp what I had heard. By then the seller—a boy—had already passed by. I bolted after him and caught him by an arm.

  “What do you want?” he cried, twisting away with much annoyance.

  “Are your fish truly from Iceland?” I asked, breathless.

  “Of course they are. Dried to perfection,” he said. “Six for a penny.” He held one up. It was twice as large as my hand, dull gray in color with dry, sunken eyes.

  “But…where do they come from?”

  “Are you deaf? Iceland!”

  “In faith,” I said with growing excitement. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Not I.”

  “Then how do you come by these fish?”

  “A man in the market”—he pointed—“offered me a penny if I would walk about and sell.”

  “What kind of man?”

  “You are a dunce! A fisherman. With a white beard. Do you wish to buy or not?”

  I could barely contain myself. “Did he come from Iceland?”

  “How should I know? Leave me be,” said the boy, and he went on, crying, “Stockfish from Iceland! Stockfish from Iceland!”

  I looked back, prepared to follow, only to see Owen step out from the shop wearing a new kirtle. It was woolen, plain gray in color, and reached his bare feet. Long sleeves were folded back at his thin wrists. It was far too big. But his face, showing great—and unusual—pleasure, offered me a look of gratitude as he returned the few coins that remained.

  Woodeth also emerged. “We’d best go back,” she told us. “Rauf will be annoyed.”

  Owen and I walked side by side. He kept fingering the cloth of his new garment. “Thank you for your gift,” he whispered. “I’ve…I’ve never had so fine.”

  “I’ve a better gift,” I said under my breath.

  He looked up at me.

  In a small voice, I said, “I may have found a ship from Iceland.”

  First his eyes grew wide, but the next moment he slapped a hand over his mouth to hide a grin.

  As we approached the stable in which we had been quartered, I heard Gerard say, “…Rauf will arrange. With as little pay as these soldiers receive, they’ll be happy to gain more. All we need do—”

  The moment we appeared, he stopped talking.

  He and Elena were sitting side by side on the straw, against a side wall. Rauf was sprawled out, asleep, the stink of ale about him.

  As soon as Schim saw Owen, the monkey started to chatter, broke from Elena, and leaped on the boy’s shoulder. When Owen gave him a stroke, the beast quieted down.

  Elena considered Owen’s new clothing.

  “Well done,” she said. “A true improvement!” She stood up. “Crispin, come! I need to introduce you,” she said to me, glancing back toward Gerard as if he understood what she was doing. Though mystified, I went with her.

  By then all the stable stalls were filled with musicians, some of whom spoke English, others not. Elena introduced me to many. Though these people did not seem to be very interested in meeting me, she made sure I was noted.

  These musicians had many instruments, some I’d never seen before. Elena gave them names: a metal trumpet, a psaltery with strings, a bowed fiddle, a lute, even something she called a hurdy-gurdy with a turning wheel.

  Elena was still making her introductions when the steward, Master Throckmorton, appeared. He called for all the musicians to stand before him—and that included Rauf, Gerard, Woodeth, and Owen. When they had gathered in front of him, he said, “Worthy musicians! If you will proceed to the kitchen, you shall be fed. Once you are there, I shall inform you of Master Talbot’s wishes regarding your several performances during the next few days.”

  He repeated himself in French.

  The kitchen was hot and smoky with the clattering commotion of food preparation. As many as five cooks and their assistants were at work. As for the musicians, seventeen of us—plus one reciter of tales—sat around a long trestle table. For the most part, people separated themselves into groups according to language.

  Seated among the English musicians, I heard much talk about travels, where each had played, as well as the news from London. There was gossip, too, about Richard, the new boy king of England, and his court.

  “It’s said,” asserted one of the musicians, “that he loves food, books, and fine fashion. Quite French. As for his taste in music, I fear I have no knowledge yet.”

  Elena and Woodeth were quite chatty, but Rauf and Gerard said little. As for the food we ate, it was wonderful fare, better than I had ever eaten: barley bread, bacon, onion, garlic, leeks, even something called a jannock: an oat bread. Watered wine and ale were also offered. My hunger was well appeased.

  As we concluded our feast, the steward reappeared and, reading from a long scroll, delivered his orders, telling each group in what sequence they would ascend to the balcony during the feast days. There would be many performances.

  Our group retreated to the alleyway before our sleeping stall. There Elena led us in practice sessions of the songs and melodies she wished us to play.

  All this took us into the early evening. Betimes, I became more than ready to sleep. I asked for and received permission to go into the stall. Owen came with me. But as before, Woodeth was sent to stand sentry over us. When we entered the stall, she placed herself as great a distance from us as possible. “Do not give me any trouble,” she scolded.

  Owen and I settled into a far c
orner, burying ourselves in straw. Once there, and with Woodeth keeping her distance, I was finally able to tell Owen of my encounter with the boy who was selling the Icelandic fish.

  “Do you think you can find the Icelanders?” he asked.

  “I’ll go to the market in the early morning,” I told him cautiously. “God willing, I’ll find them.”

  Owen was silent for a while. Then he said, “Will you tell them about me?”

  “Of course.”

  He moved closer. “Crispin,” he warned, “they’re keeping close watch on us. They won’t be happy to find you gone.”

  He was right, of course. “I have a few coins,” I said after some thought. “I’ll find something to purchase to soothe their tempers. Now best get to sleep.”

  Owen settled down. Taking my own advice, but with my mind set on the morrow and what it might bring, I too closed my eyes. Sleep came quickly. But I was not to slumber for long. Perhaps it was because I fell asleep so early. Maybe I was already thinking of rising in the morning. But—at some time—as I lay half buried in the straw, Rauf’s voice woke me.

  “It was as I thought,” I heard him say, though he was trying to keep his voice low. It was, however, slurred with drink, and just loud enough for me to hear.

  “The soldiers were an easy purchase,” he continued rather brashly. “God’s blood, the captain to whom I spoke earns but eight shillings a day. The devil take them all! I promised him five pounds’ value if he’d let us through the gates without a search. He could hardly contain his glee. And when I told him I’d offer up a thief to satisfy the magistrates, he was even more willing.”

  “To everything?” It was Elena’s voice.

  “Everything!”

  “Shh! And you trust them?”

  Rauf laughed. “Money binds trust. Have no fear; I’ll work my way with some of the other soldiers with as much ease.” He laughed. “God’s blood—they earn but eight pence a day.”

  “Fine,” said Elena. “I’ll seek a trader and bargain a passage.

  “Now, then,” she went on, “the wedding will take place in two days. Starting tomorrow night, these people will spend most of the time at tables. But they must sleep sometimes.” Her voice became lower. “Right after we play will be the best time for you to go about the house and—” She cut herself short.

  “Don’t worry,” Rauf scoffed. “I’ve already sifted about. It’s a rich house.”

  “The morning following the wedding,” Elena went on, “there will be more festivities. That will be the best time for us to slip away.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Now get some sleep,” Elena urged. “We’ll need our full wits on the morrow. I don’t wish to stumble and lose all.”

  “Amen to that.”

  There the talk ended, though I heard Elena murmur a prayer. Then they too burrowed into the straw and soon were asleep.

  I lay there pondering what I had heard. That they were planning to plunder the house was not news. It was the thief Rauf intended to use to satisfy the magistrates that worried me. I didn’t think it would be his brother or his wife. In truth, I could think of no one else that he might mean but me.

  Though hardly a surprise, the notion was enough to bring a tightness of breath, as if my throat was being clutched. It was not difficult to grasp what it meant: Owen and I had but one day to make good our escape.

  23

  I DID NOT SLEEP much that night. I am sure I heard the bells for lauds. From then on, sometimes dozing, sometimes not, I lay still until the call for prime rang clear.

  I sat up. It being cold and damp, I was grateful for my new clothes. In the alley across the way, upon the wall, an all-but-gutted candle burned in a hanging lantern. By its shadowy light, I counted the whole family—including Schim, who was tucked close to Owen. With great care—for I had no desire to wake anyone—I came to my feet and slipped out of the stall.

  Once free, I made me way along the alley until I came to the stone-paved street. Shafts of light from surrounding houses enabled me to see. I heard few sounds.

  I headed for what I believed would be the city’s center, the marketplace. By the time I reached it, though the sky was only a faint gray-blue, the market was already busy with soldiers on patrol. Torches on poles shed enough light to reveal open stalls and pavilions. Here and there a brazier hot with glowing charcoal drew men to warm their hands and turn their faces red. Many more men, their breath misting the chilly air, were pushing barrows and carts, hauling canvas bales of wool. Others were shifting large bundles, sometimes partly opening them, so the fleece could best be seen. The market air smelled of raw and greasy wool.

  I made my way through the wool section—the largest part of the market—around the central watchtower. My nose led me to the fish market. Here, too, business was brisk. Boxes, baskets, and tubs of fish, fresh and dried, were everywhere. So too were oysters and cockles. Throngs of people were selling as well as making purchases.

  I wandered about looking for I knew not what. I did spy a burly man with a leather apron standing behind what looked to be a barrel of black eels, the eels twisting themselves into knots.

  “Please, sir,” I asked, “do you know where I might find Iceland fish?”

  He looked at me with disdain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a scowl.

  “Iceland fish.”

  “Fish is fish. These are eels.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

  I went on. I had to inquire twice more before I heard: “Stockfish from Iceland!”

  I hastened forward and found a woman standing before some piled wicker baskets full of dried fish. Though her face was weathered, she was young, indeed comely, with round, sun-dark cheeks and bright blue eyes. Her fair, braided hair was wrapped around her head like a crown. The wool jacket she wore was colored blue.

  As I approached, she smiled, held up a gray fish by its stiff tail, and fairly brayed, “Stockfish from Iceland!”

  Behind her were two men, one old and white bearded, the other young and stubble chinned. They were stacking empty baskets and loading them into a two-wheeled cart.

  I stood before the young woman, staring up at her, trying to find words to speak but afraid to. What if she turned me away?

  “Do I look so odd to you that you must stare, boy?” she asked as if amused. Her speech was different to my ear: somewhat harsh, with a rough catch that seemed to come from her throat.

  “No, mistress,” I managed with a bob of my head.

  “Then do you want to purchase some fish?” she asked, not unkindly. “Or have you never seen an Icelandic stockfish before?”

  “Your…fish,” I stammered. “Are…are they truly from that place called Iceland?”

  “God’s truth and glory,” she said, her eyes laughing. “That they are. Which makes them the best. The King of Norway starts his day with them each morning.”

  I forced myself to look up. “And you, mistress, are…are you from that Iceland?”

  She looked at me quizzically. “No more. We live in Bergen now. Norway.”

  “Is…Iceland close to Calais?”

  Her cheerful face bloomed into a smile. “It’s above and beyond the northern seas, and then twice as far as that. More than a thousand miles from here. Why so full of questions?”

  Though shocked to learn that Iceland was that far, I took a deep breath and said, “Please, mistress, I…I wish to go there.”

  The young woman stared at me as if I had said the most remarkable thing. She even turned and called to one of the men—the old one—in a different tongue. He halted in his work, peered around, and then stomped forward and considered me gravely.

  The man’s face was fringed with a thick, snow-white beard, a contrast to his deeply dark-tanned face, which bore many lines spreading from his deep gray eyes. Yellow-white hair reached his shoulders. He wore a coarse brown belted gown that reached his raw knees. Around his scraggly neck was a cord attached to a sheathed dagger that hung
beneath his arm. Seeing a resemblance to the young woman, I took them to be father and daughter.

  “To Iceland, boy?” he bellowed. “You say you wish to go to Iceland?”

  The force of his voice made me step back. “Yes, sir. I…do,” I struggled to get out.

  He considered me, then turned toward the young man who had been laboring with baskets. “Mord!” he called, and spoke something to him in his language.

  The young man—grinning—put aside his work to join the others. Short, with brawny arms, the fellow had enough resemblance to the old man to suggest close kin, too. What they also shared was the reek of fish.

  The old man stared down at me, his face showing amusement one moment, exasperation the next. “Now then, boy,” he said, “it’s the rare soul who wishes to go to Iceland. By Saint Thorlac of blessed name, it’s mostly the opposite. Why, no sooner did I arrive at this appalling place than I lost my two mariners. Ran off! May the devil swallow them by their tails! God’s truth! Now, who are you and why should a boy want to go there? The Englishman who goes there is as rare as a mermaid.”

  Having no idea what mermaids were, I said, “Please, master, my name is Crispin. It’s just…” There I faltered, fearful of explaining too much. “I just wish to go,” I said.

  “He just wishes to,” the man said to the others mockingly. “And what would you do if you got there?”

  “Live,” I blurted out, which truly was all I wished.

  “Live!” he echoed, with much laughter, showing good white teeth. “If you wish to live there, you must be fleeing some brute of a master.”

  I tried to stand tall. “I’m a freeman, master.”

  “But by My Lady, not such a large one. Nor very strong, either, I’ll wager.”

  “I can work hard,” I protested. “And…and I can bring another with me.”

  “As big as you?” asked his daughter, smiling.