by Avi
“That’s as may be.”
“May I ask,” said Bear, “if you serve King Richard?”
Dudley frowned. “Who is he?”
“By the grace of God, Master Dudley, he’s England’s king.”
This caused a stir among the soldiers.
“What of King Edward?” Dudley demanded.
“God give him grace,” said Bear. “He’s been dead these two months. Richard of Bordeaux—his grandchild—has been crowned King.”
Dudley made a hasty sign of the cross over his heart. “Our Edward was a great solider,” he said.
“He was all of that,” said Bear. “I served with his son, the Black Prince, at Poitiers. A famous victory.”
“Did you?” cried Dudley. “Would that he were king.” He sat back in his saddle, appraising Bear in what seemed a new way. Bear’s words made the soldiers nod and nudge each other and consider him with some respect. At least, they seemed to relax.”
“Then you were a soldier,” said Dudley.
“I was,” said Bear. “But I grew old. And worn.”
Dudley, sword hand lowered, leaned forward again, his free hand at rest. Once more he studied Troth, as if appraising her. He shifted back to Bear. “Well, then,” he said with grin or grimace—hard to say which—“I offer you the good fortune of joining us.”
“Your generosity does you honor,” returned Bear. “Do I have a choice?”
“I think not,” said Dudley.
“In the name of God, then,” said Bear, “whom do you serve?
That time, Dudley allowed himself a smile. “Myself,” he said.
31
RICHARD DUDLEY called Bear to him, and told him to stay close. Putting rusty spurs to his horse’s flank, he went forward at an easy walk. Bear was just able to remain by his side, while Troth and I kept apace. Right behind us came another horseman. The third horseman trotted in tandem. The rest of the soldiers, following, were strung out in a ragged line, the oxcart coming last. Though no one said as much, we were so hemmed in we might as well have been called prisoners.
At first Dudley asked Bear about his soldiering days, which to my surprise, Bear was willing to recount at length. These were stories I had not heard before. Hard and brutal, even shocking, it was as if Bear were trying to impress the man. It greatly troubled me that Bear would invent such tales, so as to pretend he was what he wasn’t.
At one point, Dudley asked Bear, “And what weapon did you fight with?”
“In those days, a sword.”
“It can be so again,” said Dudley. “Our cart has enough.”
Bear only said, “How did you come here?”
“With the Duke of Lancaster,” said Dudley. “Unlike his brother, the duke’s a hateful villain. A poisonous traitor. A spawn of Satan. He’s given what’s English to the French, then abandoned us. Kings and princes may make wars, Master Bear, but their subjects fight them. I never signed the truce. Well then, so be it!”
“I’ve little love for the duke,” agreed Bear.
“Then you may have an interest in where we are going,” said Dudley.
“If you wish to tell me,” returned Bear.
“To a bastide I know well,” said Dudley. “And by my faith, a curious one.”
I had no idea what a bastide was, but since Bear made no response, I merely listened.
“It’s called Bources,” said Dudley. “Do you know it?”
Bear shook his head.
“It’s a village laid down—God’s truth—in a perfect circle. With a castle built long ago by our own King Edward. A river moat goes round the entire town. Nothing remarkable in that, save that Bources is small, with an undersized garrison. Most curious of all, the church sits just beyond that river moat.”
Bear merely nodded.
“In this church—as I have reason to know,” Dudley went on, “sits a treasure chest. Graciously left by King Edward to pay for his soldiers and the church. Well then, we are soldiers, are we not? I mean to have it.”
“By Saint Martin of Tours,” said Bear after a moment, “I have no great love for priests, but to steal from a church—”
“You’ll do nothing to stain your faith,” said Dudley. “Your girl can do the honors.”
A startled Troth looked around. I also turned, but while I had no idea what Dudley meant—even as I urgently wanted to know—I dared not speak. I glanced at Bear, but he would not return my questioning look. Instead, he tried to gain more knowledge, but Richard Dudley provided nothing more. He said, “Master Bear, it would be better for you to join us willingly. But one way or another, your ugly daughter will take part.” That said, he spurred his horse and trotted on ahead. When he did so, the other two horsemen pressed in close. There was to be no escaping.
Troth’s trembling hand reached out to me. I squeezed it back.
We continued on—no one speaking—but soon turned away from cliff and coast, and headed inland. We followed no road—but what seemed more like a path. The pace was slow and under the warm sun, almost pleasing. The green land became hilly, with scattered clumps of trees. Now and again, we passed a stream. We saw no other people. Once, twice, we went by what must have been houses—save that they had been destroyed. One had been tumbled, the other burned. I thought of Rye. Who, I wondered, had done this destruction? I recalled what Bear had once said of France, that it was full of wars—“Satan’s playing fields.” And here we were, marching with soldiers intent upon a private war, and who demanded we take part.
For the rest of the day, we went on without exchanging further words with the captain. At some point, we came upon a well-marked road and began to follow that. Bear marched along with slow steps and deep breaths. Now and again, he grunted so that I could see he had yet to recover from the voyage.
Twice we paused at small streams where the men and horses drank. Their cook—a small, skinny, and older man hardly bigger than I, with beaky nose and squinty eyes, who watched us with great interest, passed bread about, and we received a share. Ravenous, I bolted it. I had not eaten in three days.
I wanted to ask Bear many questions, but when I managed one, he only reached out and tousled my head—as much as to say, “Not yet.”
That night, the captain chose to make his camp atop a hill shielded by a cap of trees. The soldiers lay about a central fire. The cook brought round a large three-legged pot and set it upon a flame. Water was fetched from a nearby stream. Dried meat, cabbage, onions, and barley—taken from the cart—were thrown in. While the cooking smells made my mouth water, my stomach spoke its appetite.
We three sat among the soldiers, for it was clear they wished us enclosed. They asked Bear about the Black Prince and his campaigns. Once again, he was nothing loath to entertain them with his tales: accounts of bloody battle and slaughter.
I listened again in stunned surprise, for he told his harsh stories with much delight and laughter. I began to wonder: were these things that Bear had actually done? The things he needed to confess? That he would not speak to me? I could not believe it was the Bear I knew.
Then at one point, Richard Dudley called out, “Master Bear! You claim you are a juggler! Entertain us!”
Only then did I recall that we had lost Bear’s recorder—washed over during the storm. After hesitating momentarily, Bear stood up, called for some stones, and then, by the light of the flames, proceeded to juggle. The men who looked on were amused, but Bear was hardly his best. Laboring hard, he twice missed the stones. Oaflike. I was embarrassed for him. When he sat down, he was panting heavily. And he would not look at me.
I thought—with a pang—how not only had Bear’s possessions been stripped away, but he had also lost his bulk, his health, and as I began to think, his dignity. When I shifted about, I saw that Troth’s eyes were fixed on Bear, too. Her look was full of pain.
Before we were allowed to sleep, Dudley made sure we knew he’d posted sentries all around—no doubt meant to protect his force, but also to keep us close.
/> Bear set us so that we lay with our faces close, and we could talk without being overheard.
Troth put a hand to Bear’s face. “There’s too much warmth,” she said. “Your fever has returned.”
“Nothing can be done,” said Bear.
“But, Bear—” I began.
“Crispin,” snapped Bear, “don’t waste words!”
I felt abashed.
No one spoke until Troth whispered, “What does that soldier want of me?”
“I don’t know,” said Bear.
“Will it be dangerous?” I said.
“I swear,” said Bear, “as I live and breathe, no harm shall come to either of you.”
“Bear,” I asked, “what’s a bastide?”
“A small market town,” he said, “that’s meant to defend itself. With walls perhaps, or some kind of fortification. The English and French kings built them to defend this land from Christian heretics as well as against each other.”
“Bear,” I asked cautiously, “those stories of war you told—they were fanciful, weren’t they? You were only trying to win their sympathy … weren’t you?”
Avoiding my look and questions, all he said was, “The both of you need your sleep.”
“You didn’t an—”
“Crispin,” he growled, “we’re in need of rest,” and rolled so that his back was toward me.
I lay down. Through a break in the trees overhead I gazed upon the multitude of stars above. When I heard Bear begin his quiet snore, I twisted round and put my face close to Troth.
“Troth, do you think he really did those things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you fearful?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“I am too,” I said. “I’m not sure Bear can protect us.”
She didn’t respond.
I looked upward again. “Troth,” I said, “can you read the stars to tell the future?”
“I don’t wish to.”
“Why?”
“It’s too hard.”
Whether she meant it was too hard to see the future, or too hard to accept what she saw, I was afraid to ask.
32
WE SET out the next day at dawn. Beneath low clouds, the sky was layered bloodred, the air damp enough to promise rain. Richard Dudley led the way on his horse. The other soldiers marched behind, Bear, Troth, and I among them.
At one point, Dudley wheeled about and came back to speak a few words to Bear. I did not hear them. When I asked Bear what was said, he would only shake his head. His look, however, was grim enough to fill me with foreboding.
We went on. Our pace was moderate, for which I was grateful since Bear seemed weaker. He had begun to limp again and clutch the old wound. All I could think was: we must get him free.
Midmorning, a chill rain began to fall. Sometimes heavy, it turned the road and us muddy. A few times the oxcart bogged down and needed pushing and pulling to keep it going.
The farther we went, the more somber the men grew.
“Bear,” I said, “what’s going to happen?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” he said.
It was afternoon—the rain had become a gray drizzle—when we emerged from a small thicket of trees and paused. Dudley cantered back to Bear.
“The village I told you about this morning is just ahead,” he said. “We’ll get provisions there. Do you still not wish to take part? You can show off your sword skills.”
Bear shook his head.
“But you will watch,” said Dudley. “Next time—that’s the important one—you’ll have no choice. Is that understood?”
When Bear only nodded, Dudley galloped off.
“Bear—” I said, “you must tell us what’s going to happen.
“They are going to attack a village.”
“Attack!” I cried.
“And loot it.”
Troth, not knowing the word, said, “What’s loot?”
“To steal.”
“Does some enemy of theirs live there?” she asked.
“Their enemy is whoever they choose to call such,” said Bear.
The soldiers gathered round the oxcart. From beneath its canvas cover, they took up body armor and helmets. There were mostly dull and rusty pieces, battle-battered. Broadswords were hefted, shields gripped. Five of the men, archers, filled their quivers with arrows.
It did not take long for the men to ready themselves. A rough, ragged, and motley lot, they bristled like hedgehogs with their weaponry. Though sullen, many knelt and offered up reverent prayers and crossed themselves. Richard Dudley did the same.
When their observances were complete—marked by Dudley’s standing and putting on his helmet—they moved out from beneath the cover of the trees. It was then I noticed that one of the men—armed with a sword—had been posted to guard us closely.
We moved with the others until I saw the village they were about to strike. It consisted of some fifteen small stone houses on a hillside, set so close together I was reminded of a flock of huddled sheep. Tilled fields lay below on flat land. The houses, built of russet stone, had large wooden doors braced with iron fittings. Roofs were of red tile. Windows were small, without covering. I think I saw a little church. The air was gray, the fields dull green.
Though drizzling, perhaps fifteen people—men, women, and children—were in the field before the village. They looked no different from English peasants: boots, brown tunics, caps of muted color. One man was using an ox to break the soil with a wheeled plow. The rest were also working the earth with steady thrusts of spades. I might as well have been in my own English home.
We three were ordered to remain where we were—behind the soldiers—and observe. Our guard stood closest to Troth—as if she were the prize.
Before us, the muddy soldiers were drawn up in a long line. Led by Dudley, they began to move forward. As they did, a cock crowed. I shivered with fright.
There was nothing forceful or rushed in the soldiers’ forward advance. Instead, they moved with a severe steadiness that bespoke their harrowing intent. In the center of the line came the five archers, bows in hand, each with an arrow nocked.
“Bear!” I said, “They are—”
“Be quiet!” snapped our guard.
“God have mercy,” whispered Bear, and made the sign of the cross. Troth started to cover her eyes, but was so transfixed she did not do so.
The soldiers were no more than a hundred yards from the village when one of the field women stood to stretch her back. In so doing, she happened to glance round. Seeing the soldiers coming, she let out a shriek, hoisted her tunic, and ran. Startled, the other villagers looked up. Tools were dropped or flung away. The ox was abandoned. The peasants scrambled toward their houses.
Drawing bowstrings to their ears, the archers loosed their arrows. I watched—amazed—as each archer sent off some ten arrows in almost no time at all. The arrows flew in great, high arcs with a thin, hishing sound—only to plunge with terrible speed. Five people fell.
Even as they dropped, Richard Dudley raised his sword. He and the two horsemen galloped forward. The other soldiers—save the cook and the one who guarded us—dashed forward, swords in hand, bellowing as they went. Anyone who stood in their way was struck down.
Terrified people burst from houses, trying to escape. A few attempted to stand firm with sticks or rods. One or two had swords. I think I saw a priest. I heard a bell clang. But the resistance lasted no more than moments. All were over-186whelmed. My own eyes saw some two dozen killed, mostly men, but a few women. At least two children. The priest as well.
I sank to my knees, horrified. Troth began to cry. Bear swore mightily.
Our guard laughed.
There was more. As I looked on, the soldiers began kicking doors open, moving in and out of houses, taking what they chose. They met no opposition. Mostly they took food and drink. There were too, or so I heard, a few coins stolen, perhaps some weapons. The plunder was heap
ed into the cart that the cook had guided to the village center to receive the goods.
Butchery and looting complete, Dudley and his free company marched off, leaving the living to bemoan their fate. As they trudged along the muddy road, the soldiers talked brightly, boasting with mirth of their martial deeds, their faces streaked with helmet rust and blood. Wine was drunk. Some men staggered. A stolen ox, tethered to the cart, was led along. Once, twice, he bellowed.
I hardly knew what to think or say. The high spirits of the soldiers brought me the deepest pain. Bear spoke not at all. Troth, by my side, now and again took my hand. That hand was cold, and trembled.
I turned to Bear more than once. All I could ask was, “Why?”
“We’ll talk later,” he muttered and cast a darting glance at the men around us by way of warning. I said no more.
But Heaven—with its gentle, if unceasing rain—wept.
33
THAT NIGHT, after camp was set atop a small hill—their usual defensive practice—the soldiers made merry. They drank much and sang harsh songs. Dudley joined them. At one point, he staggered up to us—for we sat glumly apart—and, pointing right at Troth, shouted, “Tomorrow, ugly one, you’ll be there with us!”
As he stumbled away, Bear reached out and drew Troth to his chest. She pulled away and sat rigidly, fingering her hawthorn sprig, staring I knew not where. Though not said, we understood the need to wait until we could talk privately.
Gradually, the soldiers succumbed to sleep. Such light as there was came from the dwindling central fire. I could just see Bear’s face—wan, full of sorrow. Troth’s visage—pale, tense.
“Bear,” I whispered, “you must talk to us.”
He shook his great head. “God’s truth! What can I tell you that you don’t already know?”
“Why did these men do such a thing?”
He took a deep breath. “Earlier this year, the Duke of Lancaster—he for King Edward—and the Frenchman, Bernard Du Guesclin—he for his King Charles—made a truce. Which is to say, yet another pause in this never-ending war. As usually happens, there are dismissed soldiers with nowhere to go. Answering to no lord, they do as they choose, plundering as they wish. Free companies, they’re called. Though they may send their prayers to our Jesus, they’re no better than those who killed Him. Brigands. Murderers.”