Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [48]
“Nothing can be done,” said Bear.
“But, Bear—” I began.
“Crispin,” snapped Bear, “don’t waste words!”
I felt abashed.
No one spoke until Troth whispered, “What does that soldier want of me?”
“I don’t know,” said Bear.
“Will it be dangerous?” I said.
“I swear,” said Bear, “as I live and breathe, no harm shall come to either of you.”
“Bear,” I asked, “what’s a bastide?”
“A small market town,” he said, “that’s meant to defend itself. With walls perhaps, or some kind of fortification. The English and French kings built them to defend this land from Christian heretics as well as against each other.”
“Bear,” I asked cautiously, “those stories of war you told—they were fanciful, weren’t they? You were only trying to win their sympathy … weren’t you?”
Avoiding my look and questions, all he said was, “The both of you need your sleep.”
“You didn’t an—”
“Crispin,” he growled, “we’re in need of rest,” and rolled so that his back was toward me.
I lay down. Through a break in the trees overhead I gazed upon the multitude of stars above. When I heard Bear begin his quiet snore, I twisted round and put my face close to Troth.
“Troth, do you think he really did those things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you fearful?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“I am too,” I said. “I’m not sure Bear can protect us.”
She didn’t respond.
I looked upward again. “Troth,” I said, “can you read the stars to tell the future?”
“I don’t wish to.”
“Why?”
“It’s too hard.”
Whether she meant it was too hard to see the future, or too hard to accept what she saw, I was afraid to ask.
32
WE SET out the next day at dawn. Beneath low clouds, the sky was layered bloodred, the air damp enough to promise rain. Richard Dudley led the way on his horse. The other soldiers marched behind, Bear, Troth, and I among them.
At one point, Dudley wheeled about and came back to speak a few words to Bear. I did not hear them. When I asked Bear what was said, he would only shake his head. His look, however, was grim enough to fill me with foreboding.
We went on. Our pace was moderate, for which I was grateful since Bear seemed weaker. He had begun to limp again and clutch the old wound. All I could think was: we must get him free.
Midmorning, a chill rain began to fall. Sometimes heavy, it turned the road and us muddy. A few times the oxcart bogged down and needed pushing and pulling to keep it going.
The farther we went, the more somber the men grew.
“Bear,” I said, “what’s going to happen?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” he said.
It was afternoon—the rain had become a gray drizzle—when we emerged from a small thicket of trees and paused. Dudley cantered back to Bear.
“The village I told you about this morning is just ahead,” he said. “We’ll get provisions there. Do you still not wish to take part? You can show off your sword skills.”
Bear shook his head.
“But you will watch,” said Dudley. “Next time—that’s the important one—you’ll have no choice. Is that understood?”
When Bear only nodded, Dudley galloped off.
“Bear—” I said, “you must tell us what’s going to happen.
“They are going to attack a village.”
“Attack!” I cried.
“And loot it.”
Troth, not knowing the word, said, “What’s loot?”
“To steal.”
“Does some enemy of theirs live there?” she asked.
“Their enemy is whoever they choose to call such,” said Bear.
The soldiers gathered round the oxcart. From beneath its canvas cover, they took up body armor and helmets. There were mostly dull and rusty pieces, battle-battered. Broadswords were hefted, shields gripped. Five of the men, archers, filled their quivers with arrows.
It did not take long for the men to ready themselves. A rough, ragged, and motley lot, they bristled like hedgehogs with their weaponry. Though sullen, many knelt and offered up reverent prayers and crossed themselves. Richard Dudley did the same.
When their observances were complete—marked by Dudley’s standing and putting on his helmet—they moved out from beneath the cover of the trees. It was then I noticed that one of the men—armed with a sword