Journey of the Pale Bear

by Susan Fletcher

  CHAPTER 49

  Fourteen Different Kinds of Havoc

  I TOLD MYSELF not to raise my hopes too far, that it was a fanciful plan with only a sliver of hope of success. But a kind of fire had begun to burn within me, and it persisted no matter how I tried to damp it.

  And so, the next afternoon, I left the menagerie earlier than usual. I made my way west through the streets of London until I beheld the great stone bridge across the River Thames—a bridge unlike any I had seen before, a bridge that looked like a city street lined on either side with shops and houses. I found my way onto it, jostling against friars and fishwives, merchants and beggars, and packs of roving dogs. I veered to dodge a clattering donkey cart filled with turnips and onions, ducked between two pilgrims on ponies, and flattened myself against a wall to avoid a flock of bleating sheep. I passed a lute-strumming minstrel, a spice monger hawking his fragrant wares, and a man who shoveled animal dung from the street.

  On the far side of the Thames, I headed back eastward. In the gaps between the warehouses on the riverfront, I saw ships sailing upstream and down, and fishing boats bobbing on the waves, and smaller craft darting in and out, ferrying folk from one side of the river to the other.

  I walked down to the sand-and-grass verge of the Thames, directly across from the white tower. From here I could see the southern castle wall, and the roofs of the smaller towers in the inner ward, where king and company stayed when at the fortress. The riverbank—a long, thin strip of sand with a stout wooden pier—lay just outside the wall. The water gate, with its iron portcullis, created a narrow passage from the riverbank to the outer bailey—not far from the menagerie itself.

  Yes. It might be possible.

  I knelt, and swished my hand in the water. It was cold, but not so cold as it might be. Summer was passing, but the river yet held its heat.

  So much about my idea seemed doubtful. Doubtful that it would work at all; doubtful that those in power would allow me to try. I would have to persuade the doctor first, tonight. And if I managed that, I would have to persuade the keeper, and he would have to persuade a string of men above him, and the more I thought of them, the more the word impossible slipped in and dragged at me.

  But still . . .

  The bear was dying. That was clear. And I had done all within my power to keep her alive, except for this one last thing.

  “Swim?” the doctor said. “In the river? Arthur, you know they won’t let her—”

  “Wait, I haven’t yet told you—”

  “Why, she would just swim away,” the doctor said, “wouldn’t she? And then she would climb ashore somewhere in the city and wreak fourteen different kinds of havoc. We would have to capture her again, and the Lord only knows what they would do to her then.” He rose, scraping the stool on the floor behind him, and began to pace the floor.

  “There would be a harness,” I said. “And a long, strong rope that would be staked to the ground or made fast to the portcullis.”

  “And how would we convey her from her cage to the river?” he demanded. “Tell me that. Because they won’t go to the trouble of hoisting her cage onto a cart and hitching an ox to it once a month or once a week or whenever it suits the bear’s fancy.”

  “Every day. She—”

  “Every day! That’s impossible, Arthur. And—”

  “I’ll lead her to the river. She’ll follow. And two strong men with ropes could hold her, though we won’t truly need them; she—”

  He turned on one heel and stabbed a forefinger in my direction. “Two men couldn’t hold her. Nor three, nor four. Did de Botton put this cockeyed notion into your head? God’s truth, that man is consumed with his creatures; he treats them like nobility!”

  “I thought of it. It’s my notion. And I’m asking you . . . to translate for me when I tell it to the keeper.”

  “Listen, Arthur. I know the keeper is fond of you, but he’s the king’s man. Believe me, they’ll put the bear’s safety over yours. We can’t trust them not to leave you in peril of your life. If the bear escapes, they’ll use you as bait to get her back—”

  “Do you mean they might make me lead the bear into her cage, all by myself, by leaving a trail of fish?”

  The doctor stopped. He gazed at me for a moment and then lowered himself onto his cot. He bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  The hearth fire crackled and leaped, sending shadows across the room. I could hear a horse clop by outside, and voices. I halfway wished I could take back my words, but they had been gnawing at me for a good long while, and no force on Earth could unsay them.

  When the doctor looked up, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I should have protected you then. I should never have allowed—” He shook his head. “I have rued it ever since.”

  I turned away. I knew I could make it easier for him. I could say that I had imperiled myself with the bear more than he had endangered me, which was true. I could say that the bear had never shown me the slightest danger or harm, which was also true. I could say that the doctor had protected me and aided me over and over since that time. True again. And that I knew that for quite some while he had loved me as a son.

  But he had put me in harm’s way, that once. And for my purposes now, I couldn’t hold him blameless.

  “After all that’s passed,” I said, “I owe the bear my protection. Maybe I can do nothing for her, but I have to try. Do you see? And if you love me—”

  “Arthur—”

  “If you love me, you will help.”

  Something moved in the doctor’s throat. He gazed at me for a long moment, and then he said, “I do and I will, my son.”

  “Swim?” the keeper said. “In the river? Arthur, you know I can’t permit . . .”

  With the doctor translating all the while, the keeper raised many of the same objections I had heard from the doctor. That the bear might not have the will to escape, but nobody could hold her at the end of a rope if she did. That she could fetch up somewhere in London, causing injury to herself and others and creating no end of trouble for us all. That the keeper would have to send me to help bring her back, at much peril to myself. That she was a wild creature, and wild creatures were ever unpredictable.

  But the keeper had seen firsthand the bond between the bear and me. And he knew how feeble she was—so she might more easily be restrained.

  In the end he made me no promises. But neither did he refuse outright.

  CHAPTER 50

  Le Roi

  ON A FROSTY autumn day, the king and his party came to stay at the Tower. The entire fortress was now overrun with knights and squires, farriers and grooms, servants and maids and ladies-in-waiting. A week after they arrived, I looked up from cleaning the bear’s cage and saw a messenger in royal livery striding past. He spoke briefly to the keeper, who seemed to grow taller as he listened. When the messenger had finished, the keeper brushed off his red cloak and straightened his cap. He glanced at me and said something to the messenger, who looked back at me, frowned, and shrugged.

  The keeper called my name, pointing at my boots with a flicking gesture. Then he walked a few steps backward, saying something in French, and made a large, scooping motion with one arm. He pivoted and set off with the messenger toward the gate to the inner ward.

  I didn’t understand a word the keeper said, and yet his meaning was clear:

  Scrape your boots. Follow me.

  We headed down the path toward the tower near the river where the king kept his residence. Two armored guards stepped aside at the doorway to admit the keeper and the messenger, but one of the guards moved to block my way.

  The keeper spoke to him, lifting his chin in my direction.

  The guard didn’t move. He looked me up and down, taking in the grime on the hem of my cloak and the bits of filth I hadn’t entirely scraped off my boots.

  The messenger said something to the guard. It was not French he spoke, but the language of the common folk here.<
br />
  The guard stepped aside.

  The keeper gestured me to wait in the small, stone-lined anteroom just within the door. He flicked his hand toward my boots, and up a bit, silently bidding me to clean off the remaining muck. Then he followed the messenger through an arched doorway and up a spiral stone staircase.

  I was alone.

  A narrow stone bench stood against one wall, but I was too restless to sit. I brushed at my boots and cloak to little effect, soiling my hands in the process. I paced back and forth in the small chamber, as the bear used to do in her cage.

  I was in the residence of the king. Maybe the keeper was telling Henry my idea—mine!—at this very moment. And the bear . . . Maybe there was a chance for her.

  Would the king consider my plea? Would he grant leave to put it to a test?

  Soon, I heard a commotion outside the door—voices, a clattering of footsteps. I heard the honking tones of the Norwegian envoy, sounding rushed and breathless, much displeased. He burst into the room, glared at me, and with two aides behind him, pounded up the spiral stairs.

  I slumped onto the bench. If the king relied on his counsel, my plan was doomed. I sat for a while, but then the running thrum came into me again, jangling in my legs and arms, and I resumed my restless pacing.

  After a while I heard more footsteps on the stairs. The keeper shot out of the archway. He plucked a piece of straw from my hair, scrubbed at a spot on my cloak, and then motioned me to turn around. I felt him brushing at my back, and when I had turned to face him again, he tossed a few more bits of straw to the floor and surveyed me with a frown. He motioned me to follow, and headed across the anteroom toward the stairs.

  My legs would not obey. The keeper turned back and said something in a gentler tone than I had expected. I did not understand his words, of course, except for a single term that the doctor had taught me: le roi.

  The king.

  CHAPTER 51

  Tell Me Who You Are

  SOMEHOW, I FOLLOWED the keeper up the stairs. My heart swelled to thrice its usual size and beat at the walls of my throat; the stone-cold air pressed against me like river water when you wade upstream. I heard a murmuring of voices—softer in the stone staircase, and then louder as we emerged.

  A dim corridor.

  An arched doorway ahead—streaming with light.

  The keeper halted, set his hands on my shoulders, and gazed straight into my eyes. I couldn’t decipher his look, for it seemed full of many contrary sentiments. Hope and pity. Solace and fear.

  At last he turned, and we strode down the corridor together.

  Two men-at-arms at the door moved aside to let us pass. I trailed behind the keeper and mimicked what he did: knelt and doffed my cap. Entered at a voiced command. Made my way across the wide stone floor.

  At first, I couldn’t find the king. Sunlight slanted in through a window just ahead, dazzling my eyes. To my left, rivers of colored light washed across the floor, and to my right, fire blazed in a wide hearth with bright-hued tapestries to either side. A knot of men stood in one corner of the room. Beyond them I saw the candlelit sconces; I saw the high, white throne; I saw the king, clad in scarlet and gold, upon it.

  We moved toward him, and when we were near, the keeper knelt again, and so did I. The flames of a dozen flickering candles jumped as the king gestured for us to rise.

  I remembered him from before—the halo of light brown hair; the golden circlet; the one odd, half-closed eye. He regarded me steadily, and I didn’t know what to do with my own eyes, whether it would be better to look at him directly, or away. So I studied the rich fabric of his gown, below his knees—a thick velvet the color of rubies. I breathed in the smells of beeswax, of sweat, and of smoke.

  The king spoke in French, and while I could not make out the meaning of what he said, I picked out my name among the words. The horse-faced envoy stepped forward from among the group of men. He smiled at me in a way I did not trust. “His Majesty says he has heard that the bear tolerates your presence in her cage,” he said to me in Norse. “He desires to understand why this is, and if the bear is dangerous.”

  These were not simple questions. Why did the bear tolerate me? I could not truly say. “Your Majesty,” I said. “I can only surmise—”

  But the envoy broke in. “Is the bear dangerous?” he demanded.

  Dangerous? Certainly, she was dangerous, but if the king judged her very dangerous, he might not allow her to venture outside her cage. “To some people, yes,” I said, “but only if—”

  Only if she feels threatened, I was going to say, which was not quite entirely true, but the envoy turned from me before I could fully explain; he began to speak to the king in French. The king frowned and furrowed his brow. The envoy went on, and it seemed to me that it couldn’t possibly take so long to translate what little I had managed to say. I ventured a glance at the keeper. He looked worried.

  The king said something to the envoy, who turned back to me. “What excuse do you have for the fact that the bear has fallen deathly ill while in your care?” he demanded.

  Excuse? While in my care? Alarmed, I shot another glance at the keeper, whose demeanor had gone from worry to outright fear.

  “She . . . I . . .” I swallowed hard. “I think she is sad. I think she misses her home. I think—”

  Again, the envoy cut me off. He turned back to the king and spoke for so long that this time I was certain that he could not be translating what I had said, that he must be pouring his own notions into the king’s ear, maybe lying outright. The king had begun to glower at me in a way that turned my bones to liquid. The keeper spoke up, now, but the king and the envoy both glared at him, and he ceased. The king spoke, briefly and harshly, and then the envoy wheeled upon me.

  “Why did you steal His Majesty’s bear?”

  Steal? Steal the bear?

  A dark surge of hopelessness engulfed me. There was nothing to be done. No matter what I said, he would twist my words, condemn me. No one else in the room could understand me; I might as well be mute. The bear . . . There was no help for her now. I had failed her.

  I would be disgraced—or worse. Maybe put to death as a thief by the old enemy of my father. . . .

  My father.

  But wait.

  Was it possible?

  Might the king . . . speak Welsh?

  The envoy repeated the question. “Why did you steal the bear?”

  I turned to the king and began to answer him directly in my native tongue.

  I had hoped to see comprehension in his face, but instead, his scowl deepened. The envoy honked out a loud protest, riding over my words. The keeper looked deeply sorrowful now; the words all left my mouth.

  It was done.

  The king turned to one side and spoke to his knot of retainers. One man peeled off from the group, said something to the king, and moved toward me. I didn’t know if he was going to escort me from the room, or clap me in irons, or slit my throat on the spot. But he halted before me and said in perfect Welsh: “You speak as a born Welshman. Tell me who you are.”

  CHAPTER 52

  To Be a Bear Again

  I TOLD HIM my father’s name, and my mother’s. I told him the names of my father’s father, and of his father, also. The Welshman said his name was Bevyn, and that he had known my father, though not well. He said he had bought a good horse from him. He told me he had heard that my mother had returned to Norway and had taken me with her. He told me he had heard that she had married again. I affirmed that all of this was true, and told him my stepfather’s name.

  “You and I will speak more of this anon,” Bevyn told me. “But first, did you steal the bear?”

  “The ship ran aground in a storm,” I said. “I didn’t want the bear to drown in her cage, so I released her. I thought we could capture her later, if we survived, but if the ship went down, she would die.”

  “Did the ship go down?”

  “Well, no, but I thought it was going to.”

/>   “Who can confirm your story?”

  “Anyone who was aboard can tell of the storm and how we ran aground! The captain or the ship’s doctor . . . Maybe they knew it wasn’t as dire as I had feared, but . . .”

  I could see doubt in Bevyn’s eyes, though it seemed to me that he wanted to believe me. “Listen,” I said, “there was another time, after the pirates, when the bear escaped and I led her back into her cage by myself. The entire crew saw.”

  “Pirates?”

  “Yes, the bear saved us from them.”

  “You say that others witnessed this?”

  “Yes!”

  “This doctor and the captain . . . Are they in London still?”

  “The doctor is. The captain, no.”

  Bevyn motioned me to wait, and then he turned to the king and spoke to him in French.

  All eyes turned to me as he did so. The king’s countenance seemed to soften a bit and grow curious. The envoy, though—his face reddened, and he began to bleat, but the king silenced him with a gesture and a word.

  The king spoke to Bevyn, who turned to me and said, “His Majesty requests to know how you came to be the keeper of the bear. He requests to hear of the pirates, and the shipwreck, and of the bear’s escapes.”

  I told my tale up to the point when the captain took me on, leaving out that I had stolen the rabbit haunch. Nor did I tell about the running energy, or the humming, for I did not want the king to think me crackbrained. The king then prodded me to know what had befallen thereafter, and soon enough, I found myself skimming across the surface of the entire adventure. I made sure to tell how the bear had taken me to shore, and caught fish for me to eat, and protected me from the boars. I did not tell what was in my heart—that, in the end, I had wanted to free her—but I did say that I owed her a debt of honor and whatever aid I might provide.

  When I had done, the king rested his chin on a fist, regarding me. He said something else, which Bevyn relayed: “And why does the bear refuse to eat now?”