The Cross of Lead (4 page)

9

I
N THE EARLY MORNING, I climbed back on the rock to watch for any hunting party that might resume its search for me. Happily, I saw none. Not entirely trusting what I saw, I spent my day in anxious idleness, watching, dozing, searching for acorns and berries for my food.

Sometimes I prayed for guidance as my mother had done, her small cross pressed between my hands. Occasionally I would say the name
Crispin
out loud. It was rather like a new garment that replaces an old: desired but not yet comfortable.

I tried to guess what the priest was going to tell me about my father. In truth, I feared the worst: that he was an outlaw, perhaps a traitor or someone exiled from the church, a person to make me even more ashamed of myself than I already was. I even wondered
if that
was why I had become a wolf’s head—because my father had been one.

But what I kept pondering endlessly were the priest’s revelations about my mother.

Though the day seemed to last forever, night returned at last. When it became completely dark, I set out for the village and the church. Though upset, I was resolved to do as the priest had instructed.

The sky was clear. A slender moon was in the sky. Nothing along the way gave me pause. But no sooner did I draw near the church than a figure rose up before me. I stopped, heart pounding.

“Is that Asta’s son?” came a whispered voice.

Afraid to answer, I kept still.

“It’s me, Cerdic,” the voice said. Cerdic was a village boy a little older than myself.

Instantly suspicious, I said, “What do you want?”

“Father Quinel told me to come,” he said. “I was to say he could not meet you.”

“Not meet me?”
I cried.

“Instead, he said you were to follow me.”

“But … where is he?” I said. “And why couldn’t he come?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he speak to you?” I said.

“I … don’t know that either,” Cerdic stammered.

I stared into the dark. “Where am I to follow you?

“Along the road that leads west,” Cerdic said. “Father Quinel said to say it’s the safest way to go.”

“But he told me I was to go to Goodwife Peregrine’s,” I protested. “To meet him there.”

“I told you: he can’t.”

Not certain I should trust the boy, but unsure what to do, I stood where I was.

Cerdic moved off a few paces. “Are you coming?” he called.

“I need to do as I was told,” I said and set off in the direction of Peregrine’s cottage.

Cerdic followed.

Peregrine was not just the oldest person in our village, she had a special wisdom for healing, midwifery, and ancient magic. The village hag, she was a tiny, stooped woman with a dull red mark on her right cheek and wayward hairs upon her chin. It was she, no doubt, who had delivered me into this world. Like others, I looked upon her with fear and fascination.

The old crone’s cottage, like most other Stromford dwellings, was built with a few timbers. It had a thatched roof, and daub-and-wattle walls. There was a space to either side of the single entry-way, which had no door. One side of the space was for her animals, her cow, pigs, goose, and general storage. The other side was for her living.

I came through the entryway full of foreboding. An open fire pit lay on Peregrine’s side and gave the only light. Smoke thickened the air, making the herbs that hung from the rafters look like dangling carcasses. Over the fire sat a three-legged iron pot in which something cooked. The food smells made my mouth water.

“Who’s there?” Peregrine called through the smoke in her rasping, broken-toothed voice.

“It’s me, Asta’s son.”

“Is that the priest with you?”

“It’s Cerdic.”

“Where’s the priest? I expected him.”

“He told me he couldn’t come,” said Cerdic. He had come up close behind me.

She peered at the boy through the smoke. “Did he give a reason?”

“None.”

Muttering, “Something must have happened,” she looked up into my face. Her stench was strong, and I was aware of the mark on her face. “Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“The priest said I must.”

“Aye. You’re being hunted by many. The steward’s offering twenty shillings reward for you.”

“Twenty shillings!” I cried. The amount was half a year’s wages. No one in the village had such a sum. “Why should he offer so much?”

“He wants you dead,” she said.

“Do you know where the steward will be looking?” I said, very frightened.

Cerdic answered. “The bailiff told people he intends to go along the northern road.”

“Then best to go south,” Peregrine said to me.

“Are there towns or cities there?” I said.

“I wouldn’t know,” the old woman said. “Now, draw closer,” she commanded. “The priest asked me to provide you with protection. I do it for him, Asta’s boy, not you.”

I stepped forward reluctantly. She reached up and dropped a thong—with a small leather pouch—about my neck. Then she spoke some words I didn’t understand.

“Eat this before you go,” she said, thrusting a bowl of porridge into my hand.

After putting the cross of lead into the leather pouch, I stuffed porridge into my mouth with my fingers. Once done, I returned the bowl.

“And here,” the old woman said, offering me a bag, “is some bread. It won’t take you far, but it’ll take you off”

As soon as I took the bag, the old woman grasped my arm with her tiny hand, pulled me to the entry way, and all but pushed me out. “God be with you, Asta’s son.”

She too wished me gone.

10

D
ON’T GO SOUTH,” CERDIC SAID as soon as we were outside and alone.

“Why not?” I said, trying to push away my disquiet.

“It’s what I told you: the steward will be looking north. Why should he have said that if he wished to keep it secret? I think he
wants
you south. Go a different way.”

“But which way?” I said.

“If the steward says he’s looking north, go the way they least expect, west. That’s what Father Quinel said to do.”

“But that would take me by the manor house,” I said.

“The last place anyone would think you’d go.”

Though I was not sure I trusted Cerdic, what he said made sense. But I said, “I want to go by the church first. Maybe Father Quinel’s there.”

“You’d better hurry.”

With Cerdic at my side, I made my way through the village. For safety’s sake I kept away from the road, skirting behind the cottages, moving quietly along the back lanes.

Upon reaching the church, I knocked on the door to the priest’s room. When no one answered, I went into the church proper. No one was there either.

Cerdic must have sensed my thoughts. “Perhaps,” he said, “he’s waiting on the other side of the river. Maybe that’s why he said to go that way.”

Grasping at any hope, I swung round to the road and moved in a westerly direction. Cerdic stayed close. Soon Lord Furnival’s manor house loomed before us. Light beamed through a window upon the road that ran before it. The light illuminated the boundary cross and I could see the mill just opposite the manor. To see the cross moved me greatly. It meant I was truly about to leave. I hesitated.

“It’s the only way,” Cerdic said. He made the sign of the cross over his heart.

I peered into the dark, seeing no one but praying that Father Quinel would be waiting for me across the river.

“Keep walking,” Cerdic said.

I took but a few more steps when a beating sound, as if someone were striking a drum, came from behind. Startled, I halted, and peered back into the darkness.

There was still nothing to be seen, though the drum kept beating. Then I realized Cerdic had begun to back away from me. I turned to face the boundary cross again. This time I saw shadowy forms rise up from the side of the road. It was four men. They lumbered across the road, blocking my way.

“Cerdic,” I called.

When he made no reply, I looked around. He was gone.

I swung back. I saw now that two of the men were armed with glaives. In another’s hands I saw the shimmering glint of a sword.

I turned around to see if I could retreat, only to see four more men approach. I had been led into a trap.

11

A
STA’S SON,” CAME AYCLIFFE’S voice, “in the name of Lord Furnival, you’re herewith charged with theft. Give way.”

I was too stunned to move.

“The boy’s a wolf’s head!” the steward shouted. “Slay him if you can.”

From either side, men ran forward.

I ran the only way open to me, toward the mill. Reaching it, I felt about its outer walls. Finding a grip, I hoisted myself up in hope of escaping by climbing and hiding. But then a great
crack
exploded a hand’s breadth from my head. Twisting around, I saw an arrow embedded in the timbers of the mill.

Faint with horror, I loosened my grip and dropped to the ground. For a moment I squatted, trying to regain my breath and wits. Hearing the men draw closer, I leaped up and scrambled around the corner of the mill.

Aycliffe urged the men on. “Hurry! He went around the mill. Head him off. He mustn’t escape.”

The other side of the mill was completely dark. For all I saw, I might have been blind. Sure enough, the next moment my feet slipped out from under me, and I crashed into water.

Gasping for breath, I flailed around until my feet touched bottom. The water was up to my chest. I’d dropped into the millrace, the ditch where the river water ran to turn the mill’s wheels.

Knowing I was in no danger of drowning, I paused to catch my breath and listen.

In the darkness I heard the steward continually cry out while the other men stumbled about, trying to find where I was.

Deciding to use the millrace as a path, I waded forward against the water flow, knowing it would take me to the river. The farther I went, the more the tumult behind me lessened. Even so, I had little doubt they were still searching.

The press of water increased. Stopping, I grasped the edge of the race and hauled myself out, rolled over, and hugged the ground.

I could hear the river before me. I crawled forward, making my way down a gentle slope until my hand touched water again. It was the river.

Unable to swim, not certain how deep the river was at this spot, I hugged the bank, too timid to pass over.

I spied lights upstream. They looked like torch flares. The men were hovering near the fording place, thinking I’d try a crossing there. I had to either cross where I was or go a different way.

Afraid of the river, I chose to turn and work my way back to the millrun. I slipped in, waded across, and came up on the other side. Gaining firm ground, I began to run.

I went past the cottages and across new-plowed fields until I reached the road. Not stopping, I rushed on.

In such moonlight as there was, I made my way to the southern end of Stromford and another boundary cross.

It was when I knelt down to pray that I saw a form on the ground. It took a moment for me to realize someone was lying there.

My first thought was that it was a guard meant to stand against me and that he had fallen asleep. But when the person didn’t move, I drew forward, albeit timidly.

It was Father Quinel. He lay very still. “Father?” I called softly.

He did not answer.

I knelt down, reached out and touched him gently. “Father?” I said a second time.

He still did not move.

I peered closer only to see that his throat had been slit. His blood, made black by night, lay pooled upon the ground.

Stifling a shriek, I knelt down, my whole body shaking. Terrified, I made a short and desperate prayer to Saint Giles, imploring his blessings on the priest and on myself. That done, I ran away.

God, I was certain, had completely abandoned me.

12

S
OMETIMES I RAN, SOMETIMES all I could do was walk. All I knew was that if the steward overtook me—and he with horse—I’d not survive for long.

With every step I took, and with every look back, I shed tears of grief. That the death of Father Quinel had to do with my mother and me, I didn’t doubt. I wondered if it was because the priest was helping me, or if it was because he was about to tell me about my father or something more about my mother.

I forced myself along, keeping to the road, though to speak of the muddy path I took as a
road
was a gross exaggeration. Though uneven as well as muddy, and barely half a rod across, it’s what I followed.

I had gone for but a short time when I realized I’d lost the sack of food Goodwife Peregrine had given me. I halted, even considered going back to find it, but knew that would be folly. I’d have to forage as I went.

I did touch the thong around my neck. The little pouch the old hag had given me—with the cross of lead—remained. Grateful to have that at least, I pushed on.

At first the road took me by open areas, but soon it led me into a forest of densely twisted trees that allowed neither moon nor starlight to seep through. After going a little more I halted, too exhausted to go on. I sank down, back propped against a tree.

Though worn out from my flight, my close escape, not to mention my churning emotions, I could not rest. I kept thinking of all that had happened, trying to make sense of what had occurred, of how I had become a wolf’s head. As for what
would
happen, I could see little but an early death in an unmarked grave—if I were lucky to have even that. What’s more, I knew that that if I died alone, without the benefit of sacred rites, I’d plunge straight to Hell, and my torments would go on forever.

Unable to sleep, I sat midst the swarming darkness, starting at every random rustling and crackling that came to ear. Then the wind began to moan, causing branches to stir and trees to creak and knock one upon one another. These sounds were lanced by the hooting of the Devil’s own bird, an owl. Far worse were the sudden silences that suggested
something
lurking near.

At length I flung myself upon my knees and prayed long and hard to Our Savior Jesus, to His Sainted Mother Mary, and most of all to my blessed Saint Giles, for mercy, guidance, comfort, and protection.

This putting myself in God’s merciful hands brought me a little relief, enough to allow me to fall into an irregular sleep, unsure what the next day would bring.