IN 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.