by Avi
In haste, I made the sign of the cross over my heart, offered up my daily prayer, and listened closely. All I heard was the sound of the bell and muted forest babble—nothing to alarm me.
Once awake, however, I could only think of what I’d seen the night before, the meeting in the woods of the steward and the stranger. Nor could I remove from my mind the stewards hateful look when he brought down his sword with the clear intent of killing me.
Even so, I tried to convince myself that it would not matter. In the past Aycliffe had treated me badly. His attack on me the night before was not that great an exception. Why should he, I told myself, be concerned that I, a nobody, had seen him at his forest meeting? It seemed my best course of action would be to return to my home and act as though nothing untoward had occurred.
With the coming of morning’s light it took little to determine where I was. I made my way toward the village.
Since my mother had been a cottar—one who held no land in her own right—she and I lived in a rented one-room dwelling that stood at the far edge of our village by the northern boundary cross. A thin thatch roof kept out most rain. Earth was our floor. And since it was at some distance from the village, I was able to remain hidden from those who had already gone to their daily labor.
I was just about to emerge from the woods and run toward our hut when I caught sight of the bailiff, Roger Kinsworthy, and the reeve, Odo Langland. Not only were they carrying pikes and axes, they were heading for my cottage.
Unsettled, I drew back quickly and concealed myself behind some bushes to observe their intentions as they entered our small building. Perhaps they were looking for me, because they emerged in moments. But then, to my great shock, they began to use their tools to pull the structure down.
The cottage, being of small, mean construction, could not withstand their assault. Within moments it was little more than a heap of thatch, wattle, and clay. Not content with that, Kinsworthy produced a flint from his wallet, struck sparks, and set ablaze the place I had called my home for thirteen years.
Deeply shaken, I fled back to the forest. As I went, I kept asking myself why they should have done such a thing. I could not believe it was merely because I’d seen the steward in the forest the night before.
Once within the woods, I decided to go to a high rock which stood near the forest edge and overlooked our village. Though the rock was difficult to climb, I’d done so before on one of my solitary rambles. It was to be hoped that I’d see something to help me understand what was happening.
It was not, however, till midmorning—which I knew by the position of the sun and the ringing of the church bell proclaiming Terce—that I reached the rock.
Once having made sure I was alone, I climbed. While the rock was not an easy ascent—at some places it was little less than a cliff—I reached the pinnacle. Once there I took the further precaution of lying down. Only then did I lift my head and look about.
Before me—like some rolled-out tapestry—was my entire world, beneath a sky as blue as Our Lady’s blessed robes, a contrast to the greening spring that lay abundant everywhere. Overhead, swallows flitted, free as birds ever are.
To the west meandered the river Strom, glittering like a silver ribbon in the golden sun. At this point the river ran at a shallow depth. Like most, I could not swim, but for much of the year, one could wade across. Above and below this ford, depending on the season, the water ran quite deep.
A few paces from the river’s bank, on the village side, stood one of the stone crosses that marked Stromford’s western limit. Covered by mystic markings, this cross had been erected where Saint Giles had once appeared.
There, on the rivers low, tree-lined banks, stood our noble’s house—Lord Furnival’s manor—the grandest house I knew. It was where the steward had lived for many years in the absence of the knight.
With stone walls two levels high and small windows, the manor was to me like a castle, high, mighty, and impenetrable. Inside—I had never been allowed to enter, but I’d been told—was an arched hall with a long trestle table and benches, several sleeping rooms, and a chapel. On the walls hung pictures of saints along with ancient battle shields. The lower level was a large storage place meant for the wheat and other foods the village produced.
Opposite the manor house, across a road, was the mill. Smaller than Lord Furnival’s dwelling, it was built of stout timbers, with grinding wheels of massive stone. These wheels were turned by river water delivered by a run.
Not only did the mill grind our wheat and barley—at a cost—it contained the ovens where we villagers, by the stewards decree, baked our bread, which required yet another fee.
A road led from the riverbank. Once a traveler had crossed the river, a road lead east and reached another road that ran north and south. Where these roads met, our stone church, Saint Giles by-the-River, stood with its ancient bell.
Above and below the church were our dwelling places, some forty cottages and huts of wattle and daub, thatch and wood, dirt and mud, all in varying shades of brown.
North of the village was the commons, where we peasants grazed our own oxen and sheep. Here too were the archery butts where men of age were required, by King Edward’s decree, to practice every Sunday. It was also the place where the public stocks and gallows stood.
The land for growing crops was laid out in long, narrow strips. One of three strips was planted with barley; another, wheat. The final third lay fallow for the grazing of the manor’s cattle.
As for the two roads that passed through Stromford, all I knew was that they led to the rest of England, of which I had no knowledge. And beyond England, I supposed, came the remaining world: “Great Christendom,” our priest called it. But in all my life I’d never gone past the boundary crosses, which marked the limits of our village.
Everything—from the woods, the cottages, the manor house, the mill, the roads, the growing lands, the commons, even the church itself, to the tiny crofts behind our cottages used for planting herbs and roots—everything belonged to Lord Furnival, who held it in the King’s name.
Indeed, the steward said we belonged to our lord as well. Like all villagers, we were required to ask the steward’s permission to be excused from work if ill, to grind our wheat, or bake it, to buy or sell, to travel from our parish, to marry, even to baptize our children.
In return we gained two things:
When we died there was a hope of Heaven.
And Lord Furnival protected us from the Scots, the French, the Danes, and the wicked infidels.
But that morning I had little doubt: I’d never be protected again.
5
AS I GAZED FROM THE HIGH rock, all seemed calm, and completely normal. Men, women, and children were in the fields at their lawful labor, plowing, weeding, sowing, where they would remain till dusk.
But as I watched, I saw two horses with riders emerge from the manor house. By the way one of the riders sat—not well—I was sure it was John Aycliffe, the steward. The other man, I supposed, was the one I’d seen with him the night before.
The two rode slowly to the church, dismounted, and then went inside.
I waited.
The church bell began to ring. It was not the slow, rhythmic pealing that announced the canonical hours, but a strident, urgent clamor, a call to important news.
In the fields, people stopped their work and looked about. Within moments, they began to walk toward the church. Others emerged from cottages. It did not take long before the entire village was assembled in front of the church porch. Once all had gathered, the bell ceased to ring.
Three men stepped from the church. The first to come was the steward. Then the stranger. The last was Father Quinel, whom I recognized because old age had marked him with a stoop.
The trio placed themselves before the doors of the church where the steward briefly addressed the crowd. Then the stranger held forth at greater length.
Finally, Father Quinel spoke. Then, followe
d by the steward and the stranger, as well as all the villagers, he led the way back into church.
The church bell now began to toll again, as if a Mass were being announced. But for whom or what purpose I could not guess.
I was tempted to go forward. But my apprehension—greatly increased by the destruction of my home—kept me back. Instead, I bowed my head in prayer: “O Great and Giving Jesus, I, who have no name, who am nothing, who do not know what to do, who am all alone in Thy world, I, who am full of sin, I implore Thy blessed help, or I’m undone.”
6
IN TIME, PEOPLE EMERGED from the church. Most went their several ways, some back to the fields, others to their cottages. Others remained in groups, gossiping, or so I supposed. I’d have given much to hear their words.
As for the steward and the stranger, they remounted their horses and retreated to the manor house. Some of the village men went along.
Once more I had to decide what to do. I thought of going to the village for help, but there was only one person whom I could trust: Father Quinel. Had not my mother trusted him? Had not he, alone in the village, treated me with some kindness?
Even as I decided to speak to him, I saw the steward and the bailiff emerge from the manor house, along with men from the village. They were armed with glaives—long poles with sharp blades attached—as well as bows. I even saw a longbow. Just to see them made me know my worst fears had come true: a hue and cry had been raised against me.
Clinging to the rock, I watched the search party for as long as I was able. But when they became hidden by forest cover, it was time for me to flee. My visit to the priest would have to wait until the night.
7
MY DAY WAS SPENT IN A HIDING game. Even though I was hunted in many places, the merciful saints were kind. I was not caught.
The searchers did come close. Once, twice, I could have touched their garments as they passed. On one such occasion, I learned enough to confirm my worst suspicions.
It fell out this way: late in the day I had climbed into a great oak so thick with leaves it hid me completely. Below, passing, then pausing, were two men.
Matthew was a stout, honest fellow known for his skill with the glaive. Luke was a small, wiry man, considered Stromford’s finest archer. Both men lived near the mill.
Pausing beneath the tree in which I hid, I heard Matthew say, “I don’t think we’ll find the boy. He’ll have gone leagues by now.”
Then Matthew, shaking his head, said, “There’s a kind of strength in lunacy. I’ve seen it before. And the steward says it was madness over his mother’s death that caused the boy to break into the manor house and steal his money.”
When I, in my high perch, heard these words, I could hardly believe them: I was being accused of a theft I had not done.
“So it’s said,” Luke replied, but not, I thought, with much conviction.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Matthew, in a low, cautious voice, said, “If you believe it. Do you?”
I held my breath as Luke took his time to answer. Then he said, “Do I think that Asta’s son, a boy of thirteen—who’s as skittish as a new chick—entered the steward’s home, broke into the money chest, and ran off into the forest? Ah, Matthew, I’m sure marvelous things happen in this world. I’ve seen a few of them myself. But no, by the true cross, I don’t believe he did such a thing.”
“Nor do I,” Matthew said with greater strength. “But the steward says it’s so.”
“And that’s the end of it,” Luke added with a sigh.
Then they spoke bitterly of the things the steward had done: how he had increased their labors, imposed countless fines, taken many taxes, increased punishments, and, all in all, limited their ancient freedoms by being a tyrant in the name of Lord Furnival.
Luke spat upon the ground and said, “He’s no kin of Lord Furnival. Only of his wife.”
To which Matthew added, “God grant our lord long life so he may visit us soon and we might put our petitions before him.”
Both men crossed themselves. Having spoken, they drifted off.
I’d listened to such talk before, but always whispered. People often complained about their lives, taxes, work, and fees. Indeed, there had been so much talk that the steward—who must have heard of it—called a moot and informed one and all that such speech went against the will of God; our king; and our master, Lord Furnival. That henceforward he would treat all such talk as treason, a hanging offense.
Knowing these things could not be changed—despite the words of men like Matthew and Luke—I cared little for such matters. But in learning that I was being blamed for a crime I had not done, my incomprehension as to my plight only grew.
The rest of the day I spent hiding, not even daring—despite my hunger—to search for food. Instead, I waited for darkness, past Vespers and beyond, choosing not to stir until I heard the church bell ring the last prayers of the night, Compline. Still I held back, for fear of being seen.
But once the day was truly over, when the curfew bell had rung and all lay still as stone, I crawled from my hiding place.
The night was intensely dark. Low clouds hid the moon and stars. The air was calm, though animals’ slops and whiffs of burning wood made it rank. No lights came from the village, but some gleamed in the manor house.
Only then did I creep toward the church, alone, uncertain, and very full of fear.
8
FATHER QUINEL LIVED BEHIND our stone church in an attached room without windows. Though I saw no light beneath his door—one of the few doors our village boasted—I knocked softly.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Father Quinel. Asta’s son.”
A slight sound came from within. The door pulled open. The priest’s small, pale face peered out. His once-white alb, which covered him neck to foot, seemed ghostlike.
Frail from his many years, Father Quinel had served in Stromford his entire life. Now he was small and wizened, with sparse gray tonsured hair. Some claimed he was the unwanted son of the previous Lord Furnival, who had provided him with the church living when Quinel was still a boy.
“God be praised. Is that truly you?” he whispered.
“Yes, Father,” I said, adding quickly, “and I didn’t steal that money.”
He made the sign of the cross. “Bless Jesus to hear you say it. I didn’t think it likely.” Clutching me with his trembling, bony hand, he said, “Come quickly. The church will be safest. You’re being looked for everywhere. I have some food for you. If anyone comes, claim sanctuary.”
He led me inside the church. A large building, it took a man standing on another’s shoulders to reach the pointed roof. Some said it was as old as the world, built when our Blessed Savior was first born. Not even Goodwife Peregrine—who was the oldest person in our village—knew for sure.
The church contained a single, open space where we villagers knelt on the rush-strewn floor to face our priest and altar during mass. Above, in deep shadow, was the carved crucifix—Jesus in His agony. Below Him—on the altar—stood the fat tallow candle, whose constant fluttering flame shed some light upon the white walls of painted lime. The font where our babes were baptized was off to one side.
Two faded images were on the walls: one was of our Blessed Lady, her eyes big with grief, the tiny Holy Child in her arms. The other revealed Saint Giles, protecting the innocent deer from hunters, a constant reminder as to what our faith should be. Since I was born on his day, and as he was the village’s patron saint, I held him for the kin I never had. When no one else was there, I would creep into the church to pray to him. I wished to be the deer that he protected.
Near the altar the priest genuflected. I did the same. Then we knelt, facing each other. “Speak low,” he said. “There’s always Judas lurking. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, Father,” I murmured.
From behind the tattered altar cloth he produced a loaf of barley bread and gave it to me. “I was hoping yo
u would come,” he said.
I took the heavy bread and began to devour it.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“In the forest.”
“Did you know they’ve been searching for you?”
My mouth full, I nodded.
“Aycliffe claims you stole money from the manor.”
“Father,” I said, “in all my life, I’ve never even been in there.”
“I don’t doubt you,” the priest said, gently putting his hand to my face to keep me calm. “Most people in the village don’t believe the accusation, either. But why does Aycliffe put your name to the crime?”
I told the priest what had happened when I ran from my mother’s burial—my fall, my waking to witness the meeting in the clearing, Aycliffe’s attempt to kill me.
“He said none of this,” the priest said. “It’s true.”
“What was the thing the steward read?” the priest asked. “He never mentioned that either.”
“I don’t know,” I said. Then I asked, “Who was the man he met?”
“Sir Richard du Brey,” the priest said. “He’s brought word that Lord Furnival—God keep him well—has returned from the wars. He’s ill and expected to die.”
“The stranger said Aycliffe must act immediately.”
“About what?”
I shrugged. “He said, ‘Are you not her kin? Do you not see the consequences if you don’t?’To which Aycliffe replied, A great danger to us all. ‘Then the man said, ‘Precisely. There could be those who will see it so and act accordingly. You’ll be placed in danger, too.’It made no sense to me,” I said.
The priest pondered the words in silence.
“Father,” I said, “what will happen if I’m caught?”
The priest put his hand on my shoulder. “The steward,” he said, “has declared you a wolf’s head.”
“A wolfs head!” I gasped, horrified.
“Do you understand what it means?”