At the Edge of the World (9 page)

23

T
HE SOUTHERN CLIFF
that fronted Rye was rocky and steep, but more steplike than not, so that we could climb down with ease. Moreover, Luke knew a path that in the growing darkness we would never have found on our own. With him going first, followed by Bear, Troth, and finally me, it took moments for us to reach the rocky base.

“Keep close,” Bear whispered.

Going as quickly as we could, we picked our way over boulders and stones until we turned the bend of Rye’s bluff Coming round we saw a large fire burning on the beach. By the gleaming firelight, I saw the two cogs I had seen earlier. They had been hauled up on the beach.

I looked to Bear. “There, you see.”

“We can but try,” he said and turned to Luke. “We’d best go on alone. Your mother may need you. In any case, if we can’t leave by boat, we’ll leave by another way. I’ll send word. Many blessings on your kindness.”

Luke had no desire to linger. “God give you grace,” he said and hastened away, running back the way we’d come.

As soon as he left, we three continued along the beach. Drawing closer, we could see that while there were two cogs, just one had people about—four in number. By the light of the fire we could see they were brawny fellows, working in pairs to load a host of barrels. Once the barrels were on the ship they wrestled them down a hatch to the hold. On the beach were some sixteen more tuns.

“Keep a look about,” Bear warned.

That said, we advanced upon the cog.

“God mend all,” called Bear as he approached. Troth and I held back some steps.

The men paused in their work. Once they saw who we were, they went on with their labor.

“Might I speak to the ship’s master?” asked Bear.

One of the men standing on the beach, who was just bringing a barrel forward, called out. “I’m here.”

He was a squat, bulky man, whose flat, weathered face featured bulging eyes, a high forehead, and small nose. Curly hair encircled his head like a fuzzy halo. His bare arms were thick and well-muscled.

“Godspeed,” said Bear with not the slightest hint of urgency. “Peradventure, would you be sailing soon?”

“Aye. When we load.”

“Where might you be sailing to?”

“Flanders.”

“Bringing wool?” said Bear, with a nod to the barrels.

“We are,” said the man. “Is there some matter here for you in all this? I’ve no time to gossip. We must sail at dawn.”

Bear advanced a few more steps. “My name is Bear, and I, along with my children”—he gestured back toward us—“are—may God grace our way—seeking passage to Flanders.”

“Are you now? For what reason?”

“I’m a weaver,” said Bear. “I’m seeking employment there.”

“And I’m short two men, and eager to load, but the attackers destroyed the machinery. You look strong enough. If you lend a hand I can offer a voyage for a shilling. With luck we should take no more than a day or two. But I’ll want to sail with the morning’s tide. A good wind is promised. If we catch it, we’ll make fair speed.”

“We’re more than willing,” said Bear.

Bear offered the coins that Benedicta had given us, and then the three of us took to rolling the barrels into the cog, which, I hoped, would take us to safety.

I was very tense as we worked, fearing those who sought Bear would appear at any moment. If Bear felt the same, he did not show it, but turned to the task at hand. I don’t know what aid Troth or I provided, but we pushed and rolled by his side, one heavy barrel at a time.

Once all the tuns had been lowered into the hold, a lid was placed over the hatchway and hammered in with bits of rope stuffed in the cracks. “To keep the seawater out,” Bear explained.

“Will none get in?” asked Troth.

“It will surely be all around us. But, God willing, not over us.”

When the barrels had been loaded, we all, at the shipmaster’s request, put our shoulders to the cog’s bow, and shoved her free from the sand into the water. With the ship afloat, Bear waded into the water and hoisted Troth and I onto the deck. Then he clambered aboard.

We were now on the cog. A line ran to the shore from the boat’s stern and was tied round a stone. Then one of the mariners went forward and heaved out the iron anchor from the bow. Between the two lines the cog held steady in mid-river. The sail was furled. In this fashion we were ready to depart at first light, winds—and God—willing.

With the boat secure, I watched the master’s three companions go off, moving up the shingle, past the remnants of the beach fire and into town through the Landgate. That left the ship’s master and us on board. Night was now with us.

The master called out to Bear, “Come, my good man, present yourself and your brood so I can see what manner of folk you might be.”

We approached the man where he stood at the stern. He held up a lit lantern and gazed at us.

“Your daughter is afflicted,” he said.

“Only to those who would see it so,” returned Bear.

“Does she bring bad luck?”

“As Jesus is my witness,” said Bear, his hand resting on her shoulder, “only good.”

“Well then, as God wills it,” murmured the man, putting his lantern to one side. “Now then, I thank you for your assistance and your coin. I suppose you’ll want to stay and sleep here till the dawn.”

“If it pleases,” said Bear.

“Best do,” said the master. “We’ll want to bestir ourselves as early as possible. If you can find a place to sleep by the bow, midst the chaff, be free to do so. I fear I’ve no food for you. I’ll be here,” he said, meaning the ship’s castle.

“We thank you for your kindness,” said Bear.

We took ourselves to the bow. There, upon the rough planking, was all manner of things strewn about: coils of old, rough rope; rusty hammers; axes; rotting rags; plus other things I did not know. We cleared some space next to the capstan, the better to spend the night. The master, having wrapped himself in a blanket, had doused his lamp so the only light came from smoldering coals on the shore. Above were naught but stars and a crescent moon.

“Will those men,” I whispered to Bear, “the ones who came for you, not search here too?”

“Let’s pray not,” said Bear.

“But those other men,” I said, “from the boat, they went into town. I saw them pass through the Landgate.”

“What of it?”

“Might they not go to a tavern?” I pressed. “Might not those brotherhood men go to such places and ask for you? And did you not once say to me that you were like a cardinal in a flock of ravens?”

In the darkness I heard Bear laugh. “Ah, Crispin—Saint Benedicta of Milan—she who looks after students—surely has blessed you. I daresay you are right and I’m wrong.”

“Then shouldn’t we keep watch?”

“We should. As an act of penance for my mindless ways I’ll stand the first part. I’ll wake you in good time, and you, in turn, can wake Troth.”

“Who will I look for?” asked Troth.

“Three men, I suppose,” I said.

Having agreed, Bear hauled himself up. As he did, he put his hand to his head. “My hat!” he cried.

“Where is it?”

“I left it at the inn.” He looked the picture of misery. “I’ve half a mind to fetch it.”

“You mustn’t,” I said.

“God’s truth,” he agreed. “But it gives me reason—someday—to return.” That said, he went to lean upon the deck walls midship so he could observe the shore. I watched as he stood there, slumped, thinking, I supposed, of his precious hat. Then Troth and I lay down and gave ourselves over to sleep in rhythm to the gently bobbing cog.

Troth dozed off first. I lay awake, staring into the sky and the multitude of stars. “All will be well,” I kept saying to myself. “It will.”

24

E
XACTLY WHEN IT WAS
that Bear woke me I don’t know. With the bells having been stolen from Rye’s church, it was hard to know the time. Regardless, he woke me with a shake, saying, “By your leave, lad, it’s your watch now.”

Though sleepy, I forced myself up. “Did you see anything?” I asked.

“Only the stars and moon,” he returned. But as he lay down, he placed Benedicta’s dagger by his side.

I stumbled to my feet and went to the place where I’d seen Bear keep his watch. Once there, I leaned upon the deck walls and looked toward the beach. The fire had gone out. Not so much as an ember glowed. Such light as there was came from above—just enough to vaguely see by.

I had not been there long when Troth joined me. “It’s not your time,” I said.

“I could not sleep,” she replied.

We stood quietly, side by side, looking at the darkness.

“Where is Flanders?” asked Troth.

“I don’t know,” I said, even though I recalled Bear saying the Flemish were a mercantile people and that he did not trust them.

“Will we be able to come back?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

The way we go.

“Will we be safe there?”

“Safer than here.”

After a long while during which neither of us did more than breathe, she said, “Aude told me you were good.”

“How would she know?”

“Aude knew everything. Crispin … I’m sad.”

“Why?”

“I’m leaving her.”

“Perhaps … perhaps she is in a better place.”

“Where?”

I thought for a moment, then said, “That place you spoke of, beyond the edge of the world.”

For a while Troth said nothing, though in the darkness I could hear her breathing hard. It was as if there was some struggle in her. From the folds of her clothing she pulled out the sprig of hawthorn tree she had taken. She held it over the water as if to drop it.

“You should keep it,” I said.

“Why?”

“It binds you to your love.”

She gazed at it, and then put it back in her safe place.

We spoke no more. Teased by the river swells, the cog heaved gently. Standing there, staring into the night, I dozed. I woke with a start when I heard Troth say, “Crispin, three men have come!”

“Where?” I whispered.

“There,” she said, pointing toward the dim shore.

Gradually I perceived what she had seen. Three men were walking along the beach. One of them held a small torch, hardly more than a fist of fire. But it was enough light for me to recognize the man we had met beyond Great Wexly: the archer who had wounded Bear.

On the instant, I ducked. Troth did the same. “Is that them?” she asked me quietly.

“Yes. Stay low,” I said and eased myself up, just enough to spy.

By God’s good grace, the three men paused at the first cog they came to, the one farther upstream. The torch-bearer held up the light, while the archer hauled himself onto the boat. Then he reached down, and took hold of the torch. The other men boarded.

I could see them move about, searching. I was sure when they found that cog deserted, they would come to us.

Trying to think what to do, I recalled Bear’s dagger.

“Troth,” I hissed. “Keep watching that boat.” I hurried to where Bear slept. Seeing his dagger by the faint gleam of its iron blade, I took it up and went back to Troth.

“Are they still on that cog?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Call if they start to come.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not far.” I crept to our boat’s stern. I could just see the ship’s master curled up on a blanket against one side, his curly hair exposed. I searched about, seeking where the rope—the one connected to the shoreline—was attached. It was not hard to find.

Working silently, I used the dagger to saw upon the multistranded rope. I made certain not to work at one spot, wanting the cut to be as jagged as possible—like a rip.

The boat’s movement helped; it kept the rope taut, with an occasional sharp tug that made my cutting easier. Sure enough, the rope began to fray. Fingers of cord sprang up. When the boat gave a sudden lurch, the rope split. Instantly pulled by the tide, the cog swung out. Drawing upon its bow anchor, it floated out into the middle of the river.

It was all so gentle the ship’s master did not stir.

I went back to where Troth was and looked back.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

I grinned and held up the dagger. “Where are those men?” I asked.

“Still on that other boat,” she said.

Not for long. As we watched, they quit the first cog and climbed down onto the beach.

I gripped the dagger.

We watched as they advanced along the shore. If they had expected to find our cog where it had been, they were surprised.

Holding up their torch, they stood upon water’s edge. I could hear the faint murmur of their voices. Unable to reach our cog, they soon departed, trudging toward town through the Landgate. “Jesus is kind,” I said. Even so, Troth and I remained on watch for the remainder of the night.

25

T
HE FIRST STREAK
of dawn had just appeared with a cock’s crow when the ship’s three mariners returned. They had to swim to the cog, which they did with many a curse. The Master, much perplexed, assumed the rope had frayed by itself. No accusations were made.

Troth and I gave a hurried, whispered explanation to Bear. “Saint Bathildis,” he said with a grin, “who protects children, must follow your footsteps very near.”

I was full of satisfaction.

Meanwhile, the mariners were busy, one climbing the mast until he perched cross-legged atop the sail yardarm.

“Let it fall!” cried the master. The knots of cord that held the sail were undone. The great square sheet of Brittany canvas unrolled, revealing alternating stripes of red and white. Two mariners caught the ropes at each corner, and tied them to the deck. The master threw his weight upon the rudder stick. The cog swung about. The sail crackled and filled with the morning’s breeze.

Now Bear, along with Troth and I, were called to turn the capstan so that the anchor—a two-pronged hook of iron—was hauled up. As the anchor lifted from the water, the cog began to glide down the river, into the lower bay, then quickly into the sea itself. We had left Rye behind.

Looking back, I swear I saw three men upon the shore looking out as we went on.

“We’re safe,” I said to Troth, full of pride.

With the ship’s master holding the rudder rod in strong and easy hands, we sailed out upon the rolling swell of sea. The cog’s blunt prow smacked the waves with a steady, splashing rhythm. The great, square sail snapped. The air was suffused with a salt-heavy dampness. Several squawking birds followed in our wake only to fall behind, indifferent to our fate. The green of England dropped away rapidly, growing ever smaller to my eyes.

How passing strange it was that though I was doing nothing, I was being carried somewhere at enormous speed. It was hard for me to know if the land was shifting or if it was we that moved. It was as if the earth had become unhinged and detached, moving several different ways at once.

In truth, all too soon, our cog crested the waves with such pitch and yaw that I felt as though I was always falling. The sound of the waves came with a repetitious roaring monotony as if the
voice
of eternity were trumpeting into my ears. My need to cling to something
not
moving was great, but nothing on that ship remained still.

Increasingly queasy, I stood near the ship’s master, clinging to the rail with both hands while taking great gulps of pungent air. Twice I purged my stomach, and in so doing, any further desire to be a mariner.

I looked round for Bear. He was forward on the deck, alone. He, like Troth, had his eyes turned toward the receding shore. His face bore such melancholy as I had never seen on him before. Had I wrongly urged our departure? Was it a mistake to have left England? But when I recalled those brotherhood men and Bear’s weakness, I knew we had to go. It
was
right, I told myself, then turned about and cast my eyes upon the sea.

What I saw was a numbing expanse of gray sea and sky, a world of utter emptiness, spotted by frothy white. I was upon a world I never knew, going to a place I could not imagine, in a fashion I could but dream. I was excited, frightened, and bewildered, alarmed to be leaving what was old, proud to be doing something new, eager to see what was yet to come, yet fearful that all the newness would find me wanting. And—recalling Troth’s thoughts about the edge of the world—I felt much unease.

“Will we lose sight of land?” I called to the ship’s master.

He looked round at me and pointed to the mast. “Climb that!” he shouted over the wind. “You’ll never lose sight of land. On a clear day you can see for fifteen leagues.”

I declined with a vigorous shake of my head.

Laughing, he shouted, “I take it you’ve never been to sea before!”

I shook my head anew, afraid to open my mouth for fear of what might come out.

“God’s eyes!” he exclaimed, grinning wide. “You need not worry. We’ll never be far from some shore. Then again, you mustn’t get too close to land.”

“Why?”

“A sudden change of wind and tide—and this narrow sea is infamous for such—and you’ll get sucked in and wrecked. A watery grave is a sodden place for a Christian soul to rest. Can you swim?” he asked, his eyes so merry they crinkled.

Refusing to be teased I said, “Do you often make this voyage?”

“There’s always wool to be brought and cloth to return.”

“Are we close to Flanders?”

“We’ll sail up the Kentish coast. Reaching the Dover light we’ll cross to Normandy in France—that’s the narrowest passage—then northward along that coast until we come to Flanders.”

Remembering how France was the one place Bear did
not
want to go, I said, “Will we touch France?”

“Not if God is kind.”

“Do you still think our voyage will take two days?”

He grinned. “Once it took twelve.”

“Twelve!”
I cried—and we without food.

He licked two dirty fingers and held them in the air. “The wind, my lad,” he said. “God’s great breath has us at His mercy. Confess your sins!” he said with glee. “Some never reach land at all.”

I swallowed hard. “Will it get rougher than it is now?”

He snorted. “This is
smooth.
So best get to your knees and pray. Blessed Saint Nicholas is kind to sailors and infants. And if he fails you, there’s always Saint Jude for lost causes.”

As we sailed on I had an urgent need to sit. To stand. To keep holding on. To let go. To hide. To do all those things at once yet dare not allow myself any excess movement. With my back pressed hard against the castle wall, my head bowed against my knees, I kept my eyes shut. Blackness somehow helped. Even so, the continual rise and fall of the cog was a constant reminder as to where I was and what was happening.

When Troth joined me I noted she was not ill. “You’re a better mariner than I,” I said.

“My herbs would cure you,” she said.

“Are you sorry we came?” I asked.

She shook her head, but would say no more.

From time to time my sickness eased, but the slightest extra movement tumbled my guts. Having nothing better to do, I was content to watch the mariners at their tasks.

Now and again, one of them flung out chips of wood from the bow and observed them traverse the whole ship’s length. Using his fingers, the man counted the time it took for the bits to flow past the boat, after which he would call the numbers to the master. Other times he would heave a lump of lead—connected to a line—overboard, then haul it up and cry how far it had plunged before hitting bottom. Sometimes he even touched his tongue to the lead. When I asked why he did these things, he explained that the flow of the chips allowed him to know how fast they sailed. Thatdropping the lead revealed the water’s depth. As for the tasting, he had sailed the course so often his mariner’s tongue informed him over which deep-water sand they sailed. In combination, these things could tell him just where they were. I could only marvel at his cunning.

After more time passed, I forced myself to stand and look about. To my dismay I could see no more land—nothing but the heavy, empty sea.

“Where are we?” I asked in sudden dread.

The master, who found much amusement in my woeful state, looked up into the sky at the pale sun, and finally said, “Still afloat.”

I sat back down in haste. Would our voyage—I wondered with no small misery—consist of two days or twelve?

Though there was nothing I could see—or know—to the contrary, I presumed we sailed easterly along the English coast toward Dover. As we beat on, however, stiffer winds bore down with increasing force. The master steered the cog first this way, now that, till my head was as uncorked as my stomach. The ship, which had appeared so substantial when beached at Rye, now seemed little more than an insignificant twig, tossed carelessly by wayward winds and water.

Bear, having roused himself from his private gloom, worked with the mariners, heeding the increasingly insistent calls of the ship’s master to tend the great sail, or to help keep the rudder steady when the sea began to swell.

Troth kept mostly to herself, standing by the rail, continuing to gaze upon the encircling sea. Whether she was looking back toward England, or searching for the sea’s edge, I did not know. I was much too concerned with my tumbled guts to pay heed to anyone but myself. Thus does a large private misery make public compassion small.

Whether we made any progress I could not tell, not even if we reached Dover’s Head. My vague sensation was that we were being beaten back. With increasing frequency, the cog pitched and rocked. Waves began to break across the deck, soaking all, leaving us shuddering with the sopping cold, while sluicing away anything not tied down. The mariners struggled to keep knots taut.

In the lowering gloom, they hung three lit lamps: upon the mast, on the bow, on the stern. Even as they did, the winds grew stiffer. The sea rose. The waves lashed. The sky began to darken balefully. It took three men to hold the rudder. The master filled his commands with angry shouts and oaths, upbraiding the Devil while urging his men to tasks with a growing fury that filled me with rising apprehension.

I began to say my prayers in earnest.

Bear called to Troth, and the two of them sat by me, he in the middle.

The mariners huddled by the master, darting forward now and again to obey shouted commands.

“Does night always bring such storms at sea?” I asked.

“God’s breath, Crispin,” Bear exclaimed. “It’s not night yet. But when you travel by sea, storms are part of the journey. Know that God is in his heaven, and the master is at his helm. We can do no better than that. These storms don’t last long.”

Though he spoke with confidence, I knew I was frightened, not that I would admit to it.

Bear, as if knowing my mind, said, “No harm will come if we stay together.”

He extended his arms round Troth and me, and drew us closer. Somewhat comforted, I asked, “Bear, are you sorry we’ve come?”

“We had no choice,” he said.

“We’ll go back,” I said, much as I had to Troth.

“In truth,” said Bear, “a wise man has as many hopes as reasons.”

“We
will”
I insisted.

“God grant it,” he said, grim again.