Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [45]
We halted.
So did they. We had been discovered.
30
THE MAN on the lead horse, the one who seemed to be their captain, lifted an arm and pointed in our direction.
“God have mercy,” Bear murmured, making the sign of the cross over his heart.
I made a movement toward the cliff only to have Bear clamp a hand to my arm to hold me fast. “Do you wish to be killed!” he hissed. “Stay!”
“But what are we to do?” I whispered.
“Be still,” said Bear. “And say nothing.”
The three horsemen drew swords and broke into a gallop, driving their horses right at us. Having no doubt they could dispatch us with ease if such was their will, I moved closer to Bear, even as Troth drew nearer to me.
The lead man held his sword high, as if to strike. I could not help but cower. Troth whimpered. But when the horsemen came within five yards of us, they reined in hard. Their trembling horses, nostrils flaring, arched their necks and pawed the ground, as though wishing—and willing—to trample us. The riders glowered.
I pressed closer to Bear.
“We are English!” Bear shouted. “English!” He held up both hands, palms toward the soldiers, to show he held no weapon.
The horsemen remained where they were, though the lead rider, the one who held the sword, slowly lowered it. He studied us, but it seemed to me that he was staring at Troth in particular. “Who are you,” he demanded, “and why are you here?”
“We’re shipwrecked pilgrims!” said Bear. “And by Saint George, we have no notion where we are. Are we in England?”
The question surprised the riders. They exchanged a few words that we could not hear.
“You are in Brittany,” the horseman called out. “France.”
Bear grunted with displeasure.
The captain trotted forward, then stopped a few feet from where we stood, so near I could feel the hot breath of his horse. I noticed a dull iron helmet attached to his saddle.
The man looked down at us. He was short and stocky, yellow-haired, with broad shoulders. His face seemed squeezed from top to bottom, with deep-set eyes of hard gray, a thin mouth, large nose, and strong chin. I was reminded of an angry ox.
Beneath his gaze Troth drew her hair over her mouth and shrank back. Irritated by the man’s presumption, I clenched my fists, though there was nothing I could do.
“What of this ship of yours?” he demanded.
“A cog,” said Bear. “Out of Rye, for Flanders.”
“What cargo?”
“Wool. We were overtaken by a storm that raged at sea last night. All perished, save us—thanks be to God.”
“Where is it?”
“When the boat drifted close to shore, we managed to get off, but then it went out with the tide. You can still see it.” Bear beckoned toward the sea.
The man gazed at Bear without responding—as if measuring the words, or the man. He made no movement to see the boat. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Orson Hagar. I’m called Bear. Late of York. A traveling juggler and, if it pleases, pilgrim,” he said for the second time. “These are my children.”
The man turned his hard scrutiny on Troth again.
She looked down.
“The girl is unsightly,” the man barked. “What afflicts her?”
“The rudeness of others,” returned Bear with a touch of his old spirit.
Glowering, the captain leaned forward against his saddle pummel, staring at Bear, at me, Troth, then back to Bear, as if trying to make a decision. His two horse companions edged their mounts forward and waited on him.
He turned and said something to them, which I could not hear. Then he said to Bear, “The girl—she may be ugly, but is she nimble and strong?”
Bristling, Bear said, “She’s my daughter. There’s no need to insult her.”
“By Saint Magnus!” cried the man. “Answer! Will she do as told?”
“If lawful.”
The man sat back. “I make my own laws,” he said.
Meanwhile, the rest of the soldiers had drawn in, forming a half circle about us so that there was no possible way of escape.
“Have you any money?” asked the captain.