Journey of the Pale Bear

by Susan Fletcher

  The doctor straightened, and I did too. The envoy kept up a smooth stream of chatter in a tongue I did not know. The king was frowning. There was something odd about his face—one eyelid drooped, as if he was halfway attending to his kingly duties and halfway longing for sleep.

  The king flicked an impatient hand, and even I understood he was signaling the envoy to cease with his nattering. The king drew closer to the bear; the envoy started to follow, but the king shook his head, and the envoy stayed behind.

  And now, as Henry regarded the bear, his frown softened. His countenance grew thoughtful and grave. The bear ceased sniffing and slowly turned toward him. They regarded each other in silence.

  I don’t know if it was the eye, but all at once it seemed to me that the king looked sorrowful. There was something of recognition in his gaze. I recalled that somewhere I’d heard talk of Henry’s troubles with his nobles, and it occurred to me to wonder . . . Might it be that the king, too, knew what it was to have life hem him in and trap him, blocking his will as surely as the bars of an iron cage? Might it be that even kings were not entirely free?

  The bear let out a low, warning rumble.

  The king, with a slight smile, nodded, as if to a foreign potentate of equal rank. Abruptly, he turned and strode back to the tent.

  The procession started up again: The soldiers regrouped; the ox lumbered forward; the cartwheels creaked; the musicians strummed and tootled in fits and starts. The envoy scurried to the fore, as if to demonstrate that he was leading our little band. When we came to the narrow wooden bridge across the moat, the soldiers peeled off and formed a rank to our rear. Now it was only the envoy, the ox, the bear, the doctor, and me. Our footsteps thudded on the boards; the sounds of music and voices grew dim behind. We crossed the moat and came to the guards before the gate, a makeshift gate with heaps of fallen stones to either side. The cart squeaked to a halt.

  The bear was sniffing, sniffing. She turned to me and grunted, as if to say, What are we doing now, Arthur? Who are these people? What is this place?

  I moved to the cage, and she snuffled in my hair and licked my right ear, the one the arrow had grazed. She pressed her nose into my neck. I felt a raw, ragged crater opening deep in the pit of my heart. I began to squeeze between the bars, to be with her. But the envoy honked out an indignant protest, and the doctor set a hand on my shoulder and said, “Arthur.” He said, “Son.”

  And the gate swung open, and the ox began to move, and the creaky wheels squeaked, and the bear raised her nose into the air to search for answers I could not give her. I watched as the old fortress swallowed them up: the ox, and then the bear.

  The envoy, scowling, snatched the fine, new cloak from my shoulders. And then the gate slammed shut with a resounding thump, and she was gone.

  CHAPTER 43

  He Will Find No Defenders

  I KEPT MY fine new tunic, cap, stockings, and boots. The envoy did not come for them, and the doctor said I had earned them, in any case. “You’ll grow into those boots soon enough,” he said. “You’ll see.” He bought me a cloak—not so fine as the one the envoy had lent me, but still very handsome, and warm.

  We went to an inn, where the doctor fed us both—a rich pie filled with mutton and eels. Then he took a room for us—a small, dim chamber with two cots, a desk, and a low bench upon which he kept his chest of herbs and remedies.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about the bear.

  What would they feed her? Would they know to hum to her? Scratch behind her ears? Would she even let them come near her?

  The doctor assured me that the king could provide better fare than ever the bear had on the ship. And surely he would find a keeper who had a way with animals, like me.

  I told myself that she would do well enough without me. But when I recalled the comfort of her great, furry paw pressed up against my side, an aching engulfed me, and I selfishly hoped she’d never do that with another.

  The doctor told me of his plans to take us to Wales. Us, for he had always wanted to see Wales, he said, and so would travel there long enough to see me settled.

  I had nearly abandoned hope of Wales. The letter was gone, and the more I considered the matter, the more I doubted I could find kin and property there without a letter to show those who might guide me. And would they accept me as my father’s son? Did I favor him, I wondered, beyond my coloring and size? Would they see his face in mine?

  Still, at the mention of Wales, I felt old hopes buoy up, confusing me. I didn’t quite know who I was anymore, nor where I belonged.

  “But the letter . . . ,” I said. “The shipwreck . . .”

  The doctor held up a finger. “Wait,” he said, and smiled. Then he opened his chest and pulled out a folded parchment, and I recognized the broken seal.

  The letter!

  “But . . . Hauk stole it,” I said.

  “Thorvald threatened him within an inch of his life, and Hauk showed where he’d hidden your letter. Then Thorvald returned it to me.”

  “But the shipwreck . . .”

  “The ship went aground,” the doctor said, “not under. Some things were ruined but others survived.”

  So Hauk, without intending it, had likely done me a boon. For if he hadn’t stolen it, the letter might well have been ruined by flooding water in the storeroom when the ship went aground.

  “Still, no one can read it,” I said. “It’s in Welsh, not Latin.”

  “Perhaps no one in Norway can read it, but Welshmen are thick upon the ground in London. You can understand Welsh, can’t you? If it’s read to you?”

  I nodded, a flicker of hope kindling in me.

  “So we’ll seek out a Welshman who can read.”

  We found one the next day in an alehouse nearby.

  He was not tall, and his hair and eyes were dark. Like me. They said he was popular with the ladies, and indeed, his features were remarkably well-favored, and I caught a roguish twinkle in his eye. His name, he said, was Llyn. He took a deep swig from the tankard at his elbow and then reached out a hand for the letter.

  But I hesitated.

  I had been so certain of what the letter must say, had staked so much upon it. But now, of a sudden, I began to wonder if I had been mistaken. What had led me to judge so surely that my Welsh kin wanted and needed me to come and claim my birthright? Was it only hope that had made me believe?

  “Arthur?” the doctor said.

  I gave Llyn the letter.

  He unfolded it, leaned in close to the flickering lamp on the table before us, and passed a finger over the first couple of lines. Looking up, he grinned and spoke to me in Welsh. “Oh, aye,” he said. “I can decipher this, easy as falling off a pony.” He spread out the letter on the table and began to read.

  “ ‘To her dearest Signy, formerly wife of Morcan of Gwynedd; Lady Cadwyn, sister of Morcan, sends peace and greetings.’ ”

  The names, familiar from long ago, jolted something within me. I felt a flush warm my face, and tingle of excitement. The doctor was looking at me, questioning. “The writer is my aunt, Cadwyn,” I said. “She sends greetings to my mother, whose name is Signy. Morcan was my father.”

  Llyn read on:

  “ ‘You should know, my friend, that there is very great distress and immense sorrow in my heart.’ ”

  I shifted on the bench. This boded ill.

  “ ‘I cannot ken what word you have had of Wales, but since the truce with England, the young princes have been squabbling among themselves, and at the same time holding fast to their rancor against the former defenders of David.’ ”

  Such as my father. This boded even worse.

  Llyn read on, elaborating upon the royal family’s quarrel, and then: “ ‘It is Henry I blame for this,’ ” he read. “ ‘I . . .’ ” Llyn looked about him, as if he feared someone might hear. Four men had come to sit at the table nearest us, but they were drinking and laughing; they paid us no mind. “Your aunt says,” Lyn continued in
a softer voice, “ ‘I revile him. I curse his name. For had Henry not stripped us of lands fairly won, there would be enough of land and titles to satisfy all of the young princes, and they would have neither inclination nor leisure for the bearing of old grudges.’ ”

  “Well?” the doctor asked me.

  “Ah,” I said, not wanting to give voice to my fears, “it seems that my aunt bears little love for the King of England.”

  Llyn read on:

  “ ‘These years since you departed I have striven to hold Morcan’s lands against the arrival of your son, Arthur, when he comes into his majority next year. But now two of the young princes have seized . . .’ ”

  Llyn flicked me a quick glance and read silently on, frowning. A serving maid brushed past our table; shadows flickered across the parchment. “Uh, your aunt says . . .” Llyn made a funny little humming sound deep in his throat, clearly discomfited.

  “What is it, son?” the doctor asked me. Upon receiving no reply, he turned to Llyn. “Read, man, what are you waiting for!”

  Llyn didn’t know Norse, but the doctor’s meaning was clear. Llyn hoisted his tankard, drank deeply, and then continued:

  “ ‘. . . have seized Morcan’s lands and there is naught to be done. With affairs standing as they are, I . . .’ ” Llyn’s voice sank to a murmur, and I had to strain my ears to hear him over the rising din of talk and laughter. “ ‘. . . I urge you not to send Arthur back to claim his birthright, for he will find no defenders and might provoke further retribution against me and my suffering daughters.’ ”

  Llyn cleared his throat. He did not look up.

  “Arthur, what is it?” the doctor asked.

  . . . seized Morcan’s lands . . .

  . . . he will find no defenders . . .

  . . . provoke further retribution against me and my suffering daughters . . .

  They didn’t want me.

  It was true that I had had second thoughts about returning to Wales, but this—after all my dreams and imaginings, after leaving home and risking the long journey—this struck me like a mule kick to the chest.

  Abruptly, I stood, face burning. The bench scraped and toppled behind me; I held out my hand for the letter.

  “Arthur?” the doctor said.

  Llyn looked uncertain. He did not relinquish the letter straightaway, but quickly scanned what was left and said, “There’s a bit more about Welsh politics. Your aunt wishes that your mother and your kin may abide in peace and prosperity, and—”

  “Give it to me,” I said.

  With a glance at the doctor, Llyn made a careful, silent production of folding the letter.

  A burst of laughter arose from the next table. A burly man stumbled into ours; the ale sloshed from its tankards; the candlelight leaped. I took a deep breath of burning tallow and sour brew and sweat. Suddenly, I felt ill.

  Llyn handed me the letter. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  The doctor slipped him a couple of coins; I fled.

  CHAPTER 44

  Trouble with the Bear

  OUTSIDE THE ALEHOUSE, I flung the accursed letter into the muddy verge and trod it underfoot, then set off through the streets of London. A fine rain was sifting down, and though I had intended to return to the inn, shame and disappointment burned hot within me, and I couldn’t abide the thought of penning myself up in a dim, cramped room. I jostled a woman with a market basket on her arm; she shook her fist and scolded me. I dodged to avoid a black-robed friar and then plowed through a knot of gossiping fishermen when a hay cart blocked my path. Before long I caught a glimpse of the Tower looming above the rooftops ahead, and I knew I’d been yearning to go there all along.

  By the time I reached the wooden bridge across the moat, my cloak was sodden and my fine new boots caked with mud. I jogged across, my footsteps loud and hollow. The gate loomed before me, with hillocks of rocky rubble stretching out to either side. Two guards flanked the gate, watching me.

  My feet slowed, then stopped. “Bear!” I called.

  One of the guards stepped forward.

  “Bear!” I cried again. “Do you hear me, Bear?”

  The guard was walking toward me, but I held my ground and strained my ears, for I felt that if I could only hear her—just one little grunt or snort from her—I would be able to turn back round and face whatever of life that must be faced. But there was only the crunch of the guard’s feet on the gravel; there was only the chink of the stonemasons’ chisels; there were only the men’s voices in the bailey beyond the gate.

  “Bear! Can you hear me?”

  The guard halted a few steps before me. He said something in a gruff voice, and though I didn’t know his language, I knew he was telling me to leave. And I would have obeyed, if I only could have heard her voice, just once.

  “Bear!”

  The guard lifted his pike and pointed it at me. He barked out something harsh. And then I heard footsteps behind me, and there was the doctor, running hard and out of breath. He commenced to speak in French; the guard, listening, lowered his pike. There was a colloquy back and forth between them, the doctor coming near me, taking my arm.

  “Tell him I want to see her,” I told the doctor. “Tell him I want to be sure they’re caring for her properly.”

  “You can’t see her, son,” the doctor said. “She belongs to the king.”

  I pulled my arm away. “Don’t call me son. I’m not your son! I had a father—a real father—and he loved me, and if he were alive, he would have wanted me beside him. He would have taught me to train the royal horses. We would have ridden with the princes to battle the enemies of Wales. We would have—”

  Something broke inside me. My knees buckled, and a horrible, convulsive sound escaped my lips.

  The guard raised his pike again, advanced upon us. The doctor had words with him in French and then turned to me.

  “Arthur,” he said, “let’s go. There are things I need to say to you. Come. Come along back with me, please.”

  I listened again for the bear, but there was only the swish of grasses in the wind; there was only the bleak cry of a raven overhead. This time, I let the doctor take me by the arm and lead me back across the bridge.

  “I had a son,” he told me. “I had a wife.”

  We were back in our room again, each sitting on his own cot. A ray of late sunlight slipped through the shutters and lay a long, yellow ribbon upon the floor.

  “They perished of the fever,” the doctor said. “Both of them.”

  I looked up. The fever. Like my father.

  “And after that,” he said, “I never wanted . . . to lose another that way. And so with you, I resolved that it would be a practical alliance only, that I would serve your interests, and you mine. But when the ship went aground, and I thought I would never lay eyes on you again . . .”

  He bowed his head, holding the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  I breathed in the quiet darkness of the room. The running thrum was entirely gone from my body, and just for this moment, I had no desire to be anywhere other than here, with this quiet, steady man.

  “King Haakon has released me now,” he said, turning to me, “and I’m free to work where I please. I would like to return to Bergen. You could be my eyes for close-up work, and I could train you. Or, if you prefer, I could return you to your mother and stepfather.”

  “But you said you wanted to see Wales.”

  “Only because of you, Arthur. It’s time to choose: Where do you want to go?”

  I heard the echo of the question I had asked the bear after I had freed her from the noose. Her presence nearby still tugged at me hard, and I longed to be close.

  But I knew I couldn’t stay here alone. I had no means to earn room and board and couldn’t even have speech with these Londoners. And the doctor, who had treated me more like a son than ever my stepfather had done . . . The doctor had offered me a safe home and secure living at a skilled trade. And I could see Mama agai
n, and ease her mind.

  So, I, like the bear, chose to return whence I had come. I told the doctor I would go to Norway to work with him, and I surely would have done so . . . if not for the knock at the door.

  It came a week later, after we had booked passage on a ship bound for Bergen.

  The doctor pulled the door ajar and spoke to someone in the hallway. Then he stepped aside, and a stranger entered our room.

  He was tall and thin and knobby—knobby knees, knobby knuckles, knobby nose, knobby Adam’s apple in his throat. I surmised from his dress that he was a bit of a dandy, with a fine red woollen cloak and matching cap, and boots worked in two colors of leather. He dipped his head in a small, friendly greeting as he spoke to the doctor in French. But his eyes sought past the doctor—sought me—his long, homely face creased with worry.

  “Arthur,” the doctor said, “here is William de Botton, who has been appointed by the king as keeper of his menagerie. He wishes to have words with you.”

  Why he would want to speak with me I could not begin to guess. And what was that word, menagerie?

  The man seemed to read the puzzlement in my face, for he launched into a longish stretch of French, addressing the doctor and me, in turn.

  “It seems,” the doctor translated, “that a number of beasts are kept within the fortress of the Tower of London—not just the bear. Rare beasts—most, like the bear, gifts to the king from foreign rulers. Master de Botton heard about you from the guard at the gate, and he has searched you out.”

  The keeper turned and spoke directly to me. His look of worry deepened; he seemed to be making a plea. Though I could not comprehend a word of it, I knew, somehow, the gist of what he had to say.

  There was trouble. Trouble with the bear.

  CHAPTER 45

  Master de Botton

  WE HAD AN uneasy moment, then, as Master de Botton plainly wished to stay and have speech with us for a time, and there was no proper place for him to sit. But the doctor bade him come within, removing the medicine chest from the bench and gesturing for the keeper to take it. We perched on a cot, the doctor and I, and fixed our eyes upon the keeper.