LET ME GO,” I CRIED, TRYING TO pull back. “I only wanted bread.” “Bread is never free, boy,” he roared. He was still upon the ground, but his arms were long, and his huge hand held me fast while the bells of his hat tinkled with the force of his exertion. “Or is it treason to say that, too?”
No matter how I tried to pry away his fingers, I could not break his grip.
“And what I’d guess,” he went on, “is that you’ve run away from your lawful place. Out with it now, or by the wondrous music of Saint Gregory, as sure as I beat my drum, I’ll beat it out of you.”
“Please, sir, let me go,” I screamed, for his hold was intense.
“Boy,” he bellowed, “I want the truth from you, or you’ll suffer from it.” His fingers tightened.
“I told you, I’m going to a town.”
“For what purpose?”
“To save myself.”
“Save yourself?” He laughed. “No man can do so on his own. No boy, either. What makes you think you’ll do it in a town?”
“I was … told.”
“By what authority?”
“Father Quinel.”
“A priest” he said mockingly gripping me tighter. “I might have guessed. And you believed him?”
“Sir, you’re hurting me.”
“The Devil take your hurts. Why did you run away?”
“I had to.”
“Had to?” he said, his grasp so hard I thought my arm would snap.
“I … was proclaimed a wolf’s head.”
“A wolf’s head. That’s extreme. For what reasons?”
“My master accused me of theft.”
“What master?”
“The steward. I feared he’d take my life.”
“And what did you steal?”
“Nothing.”
“And yet you ran away.”
“To save my life, sir.”
“And failed to note that anyone who catches you may haul you back?”
“Please, sir, I’m in great pain.”
“And what of that father whom you seek?”
“He’s dead.”
“Mother?”
“Dead, too.”
I no sooner said that than he released me. But in the same motion he leaped up, swung about, and stood between me and the doorway of the ruined church. My way was blocked.