The Door in the Wall (5 page)

“Crookshanks, here, is as fast as any of us,” Geoffrey said proudly. Then Robin felt as if he were one of them.

Once, when Robin dived under water and hid in the rushes, Brother Luke at first scolded him, for he was frightened. Then he said, “But I am glad for thy mischief, for it is a sign thou’rt well.”

Robin had another reason for knowing he was well, but he kept it secret.

Work was begun on the crutches.

They were to be simple, straight staves with crosspieces at the top to fit under Robin’s arms.

Brother Matthew had found the wood of proper kind and size, then he sawed it the right length, allowing a little for finishing. Brother Luke wheeled Robin to the shed where he could watch. When the first piece of wood was put into the vise and Brother Matthew began to draw the spokes have down the length of it, Robin thought it time to tell his secret, for he wanted very much to have a hand in making the crutches with which he hoped to walk.

“Can I shape the pieces, think you?” he asked. “Look!” he directed. “I can bear my weight upon my feet, though I cannot stand long alone, nor can I straighten. But can I not lean upon the bench?”

To the surprise of both Brothers, Robin hitched along slowly toward Brother Matthew’s workbench, where he leaned for a few moments before he found it necessary to sit down.

“Now praise our Lord’s mercy!” said Brother Luke fervently, at the same time putting forth a high stool for Robin to sit on. “Now ’twill be thine own crutches thou wilt wear made by thine own hands.” Brother Matthew blessed himself to show how grateful he was, and arranged the work so that Robin could better attend to it for himself.

It was more exciting to work at a real bench, to draw the sharp knife along the clean wood; to hear it “snick” as the knife took hold, then slither off into shavings. The oak was very hard, and took real strength to work, but swimming had given Robin good muscle in his arms, so that little by little he was able to shape the staff.

Several weeks went by before Robin finished the crutches. But at last they were done, and he could hardly wait to try them.

“There should be padding and leather on the crosspieces,” said Brother Luke. “Let us go into the city to the Pouchmakers’ Guild. I have errands for the Prior as well. Besides, it is Midsummer Eve! We shall see the gaiety.”

“Shall I walk then?” asked Robin. “For look you, I have been trying the crutches already and can go at a good pace. See you?” Robin slid off the stool, fitted the crutches under his arms, and was off across the Garth all in one motion.

“Softly, softly,” Brother Luke advised. “ ’Tis a goodway into the city, even though its sounds and odors do seem to reach us here. It would be better to go pickaback and carry thy crosses most of the way. Thou’lt be glad of my old back ere we come to Ludgate, I’ll be bound.”

It was exciting to go back into the city, especially this Midsummer Eve. The doorways were decked with branches of green birch, long fennel, and St.-John’s-wort. Some had garlands of flowers—white lilies and such like. Neighbor was merry with neighbor, and those who had wealth set out food and drink before their houses for all who passed by.

“Can we not stay even a little while?” Robin begged.

“No, my son, when we have done our errands, we shall go back.”

The Bracegirdler down Leather Lane willingly gave Robin enough leather to cover the crosspieces of the crutches and hair to stuff it.

“ ’Tis not fit to be sold,” he said, “being poorly dyed. But ’twill serve thy purpose.”

They were not far from Robin’s home, but he had no wish to see it empty and deserted. How he wished it had been open, and his father and mother there!

O
NE
Friday toward the end of September the monks of the choir stood practicing in the chantry. Standing by the lectern to turn the pages of the missal was Robin in scarlet cassock and white linen cotta. They were singing the Sanctus, and had just come to the Amen when the verger appeared.

He held up his hand for their attention.

“A messenger has come for young Robin from his father,” he said. “Let him come with me.” Robin followed the verger down the corridor to the parlor, the thud of his crutches alternating with the sound of his soft shoes on the stone floor. Robin wondered who the messenger could be, Elfred the Dane or Rolfe the Bowyer? It was neither. It was John-go-in-the-Wynd, the minstrel, who had carried Robin’s letter to his father weeks ago.

“Good young master,” he said to Robin, “this letter I bring from thy noble father in all haste. For long I could not find him, for that the battle did go first to one place then to another. And the Scots be so fierce in fighting that often the battle went against our side.”

“And how goes it now?” asked Robin. “Is my father alive? Is he well and safe?”

“It goes well now,” said John. “And here is thy letter.”

“My thanks, John-go-in-the-Wynd,” said Robin, then
he took the letter to the light to read it. His hands shook, for it was the first word he had had from his father since early winter, the first letter he had ever received indeed, and it was exciting to know that now he could read it for himself.

It grieves me, my son, more than I can tell you to know that you are ill. I thank Heaven it is not the Plague you have had, for that enemy has slain more men than battle, besides the women and children it has taken toll of. It shocked me to learn that you had been left to the care of strangers. Your mother would hardly bear it if I should tell her, but I will not. She is with the Queen, who is indelicate health. I dare not say where, lest this letter fall into unfriendly hands.

She supposes that you are far away from London, in Shropshire. It is well. Let her continue to think so, for in truth you soon will be, God willing and your health permitting, for I have requested the Prior to arrange your journey with all speed. You will travel in care of Brother Luke and John-go-in-the-Wynd.

I had a message from Sir Peter only the day before your letter reached me asking what had happened to you, for John-the-Fletcher never returned. Some evil befell him surely, for he was an honorable servant. Sir Peter was wounded while bringing up forces to my aid, so sorely wounded that he has been taken to a castle near by where he will stay until he is able to be taken home.

The Scots are being slowly pushed back and we are gaining ground, since receiving the added help from London and the nearby towns. The King hopes for a peace by the Sacrament of Christmas, but the Scots are a stubborn race.

I trust that you are improving in health, my son, and in God’s Grace.

So, Farewell,

Preparations for Robin’s departure began immediately. Brother Luke and Brother Matthew between them devised a sort of chair-saddle in which Robin could ride. Part of it was to be made of iron, then it was to be finished with padding and leather at the saddler’s. They made another journey in to town, taking to Dame Agnes such of Robin’s clothing as needed repair. The ironmonger promised to send the framework to the saddler by the following Monday, as early as he was able. The saddler agreed to have his part of the work done by evening of the next day. Dame Agnes put aside her embroidery to do what was required of her, and she, too, promised that the work would be finished early in the week.

Meantime, John-go-in-the-Wynd helped Brother Luke lay out a plan of travel. Brother Andrew took Brother Luke’s place as cook’s helper, and the Prior gave orders for certain foods to be put aside for the journey.

When all was ready, saddlebags were filled with clothing on one side and food on the other. There were loaves fresh from the oven, a great slab of bacon, cheese, some dried herring, fruits from the garden, and, last of all, a pasty wasset in the top. In it were larks and a rabbit seasoned with herbs and colored yellow with saffron. The fruits were apples and early pears and plums which Brother Michael had picked from the trees and vines kept trained flat along the garden wall.

“ ’Twill be good for noon quench,” he said, “when there is no ale to he had, and will mind thee to be thankful for God’s gifts.”

On the morning they set out the air was crisp and cool. The sun had not risen above the horizon, but it cast a bright glow into the heavens, promising a fair day. Larks rose from the meadow, straight up, as if from pure joy, and they sang,
Robin thought, as if it had been the first day of the world. He felt sorry to leave Brother Matthew and all the others who had been so good to him, but it was exciting to start out on the long journey.

“There are over a hundred English miles to go,” said John-go-in-the-Wynd, “and frost is not far off, so we must go steadily.”

He and Brother Luke shared Bayard, the horse, taking turn about, one riding, the other walking beside Robin.

They went toward the Oxford Road, then turned westward through Holborn, stopping a moment to pray at each wayside cross, just as if they had been on a pilgrimage.

“It is indeed a sort of pilgrimage,” said Brother Luke, “for always we shall set forth for the honor of God and in the hope that young Robin will be even stronger at the end of our journey than he is now.”

Because it was a market day, the road was crowded with people and animals going toward London. For long no one had been allowed to come into the city because of the plague, but now that the danger was over, people came from everywhere to exchange goods. Some rode in carts piled high with produce: cabbages and bags of grain, cheese, butter and bacon, chickens and ducks. Some drove flocks of goats and sheep, or led pigs or carried faggots of firewood.

By noon the promise of sunshine failed and the travelers took refuge from a sudden shower under a spreading beech. They were joined by a minstrel, who was glad to share their bread and cheese and pay for his entertainment by singing alay which John-go-in-the-Wynd picked out on the harp.

“Brother Michael’s pears and grapes are a welcome treat to my thirsty throat,” said John.

“It seems a week since we broke our fast this morning,” said Robin, eating hungrily.

“We’ve come a goodly way since early morning,” said John. “But we must not linger or we shall not reach the White Swan by nightfall. I have it from Peter the Hayward that it lies but a good day’s journey out of London. It is well to be safe housed after dark, for cutpurses and roisterers do roam the country hereabout.”

“If my father were with us, we should have no fear of anyone,” said Robin.

“We shall have faith in the Father of us all,” saidthe friar.

It was Brother Luke’s turn to ride, so John-go-in-the-Wynd walked beside Robin. As he strode along, he began to sing, playing the tune on his harp. The tune was lively and well measured. Bayard stepped up his pace, the jennet pranced and arched her neck, and Robin wanted to get down and swing along with the others.

“Lend me a hand, John-go-in-the-Wynd, and set the crutches so I may walk awhile,” he directed, interrupting the song. Brother Luke looked back to see what was delaying them, but nodded as he saw Robin afoot, and John again plucking the strings of the little harp. They hummed as if they had been voices, so that Robin’s fingers itched to touch them.

He watched John’s fingers as they searched out the tune, how they danced on the strings to make the differing chords. He noticed the smooth wood of the harp and how the strings were held with wooden pegs. He wished he could play on it, and wondered if he could make such an instrument.

Now that noon was past, there were few people on the road, but soon they fell in with a peasant with a shepherd’s crook over his shoulder. They asked the way to the next village.

“The village lies just yonder about an hour’s journey,”
he said. “The road goes through the wood, over the downs, crosses a bridge, then winds up the hill where thou’lt find a butter cross where the market is held. Likely there’ll be nought to buy there, as ’tis past noon. Beyond the cross the road turns more northerly and there is a fork where it divides. Beyond that I know not how it goes.”

“Go you to the village?” asked Robin.

“No, I go to the forest of my lord’s manor where wood for house fires may be gathered. We country folk may have such branches as can be gathered by hook or by crook from the standing trees of the lord’s forest.” He left them with a “good day” and crossed the field.

Robin grew tired, for he had walked more than a mile. John-go-in-the-Wynd helped him into the saddle again and fastened the crutches on behind.

A windmill swung its giant arms in slow obedience to the wind and a farmer passed them carrying a sack of grain to be ground. Over the treetops the spire of the village church could be seen, and thatched cottages began to appear at the road’s edge.

They entered the village where the stone bridge crossed a stream. The butter cross in the center square stood open to the four winds. The stone paving was still wet from the washing down after market, and the last of the farmers gathered baskets and gear before going home.