NEXT MORNING WE SET OFF AT dawn and soon were trudging along the dirt road. At that place it meandered among low hills, so that we never had a clear view for very far. Only through the tree breaks did we catch glimpses of open fields.
We had been going a little while when Bear abruptly halted.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Look,” he said, pointing to the sky. I saw nothing but a flock of wood pigeons swirling high above some ways beyond where we were.
“The pigeons?” I said.
“They’re agitated by something.”
“What?”
“We’d best find out,” he said. “Stay close.” Straight away he loped off the road, and I followed. He led me into a small spinney, ample enough to hide us from view. Once there, he spied out. Without speaking, he pointed toward a hill some ways across the nearest field. When I nodded my understanding he ran toward it. I kept close.
Upon reaching the base of the hill, he dropped upon his hands and knees. Motioning that I should leave the sack behind, he began to crawl toward the hill crest.
When he reached it, he pulled off his cap, then lifted his head just above the summit. After gazing awhile, he turned slightly, beckoned me closer, and whispered, “Look, but be careful not to show yourself.”
Cautiously, I raised my head.
What I saw before me was the road we’d been traveling on, but somewhat farther along. At a place that had been hidden from our view was a small plank bridge spanning a river. Some twelve men were loitering about. A few were sitting on the ground. Others stood by the bridge. All were armed with swords and longbows. It was as if they were waiting for someone.
Among them was one I recognized.
“Bear,” I whispered, my heart pounding. “It’s John Aycliffe. The steward of Stromford Village.”
Bear looked at me—but in a different way than he had before—then at the men again. After a few more moments he edged back. Pulling at my arm, he bade me follow.
We went partway down the hill to a place where we would not be seen. Once there he sat in silence while I waited anxiously for him to tell me what to do.
“Crispin,” he said with the utmost solemnity, “mortal men are never perfect. In my life, I’ve done things I’m ashamed of, things that the all-seeing God shall see emblazoned on my soul. You said they proclaimed you a wolf’s head because you stole. You deny you were a thief. It’s not for me to punish you. God awaits. But I must know the absolute truth: by all that’s sacred, did or did you not do what they said you did?”
The way he spoke distressed me. Even so, I only said, “No.”
He sighed and shook his head. “I believe you. But it makes no sense. They should be glad you fled. At best, you’re a nuisance. Why are they searching so hard for you?” he wondered out loud. “And why should they think—or care—that you’re heading for Great Wexly?”
“How do they even know?”
“This is the only road,” he explained. “Have you anything to say to this?”
“I told you they would come after me.”
“You were right. I should have listened more. But, Crispin, there must be something more here, more than you know.”
Whatever satisfaction I had in hearing him admit that I was right, paled when I saw his alarm. “What are we going to do?” I said.
“We’ll go no farther along this road,” he said.
“That’s certain. But I must go forward. Wed better strike across there,” he said, pointing beyond the fields toward some outlying woods. “It’ll take us away from those men—and your steward.”
Without further ado he rose and marched off with great strides. I rushed to keep up, more than once looking back.
As we went along, I kept thinking how Bear had noticed the birds, which allowed him to see the soldiers. If, I told myself, I was to stay alive in this new world, I must learn such skills as he had. The sooner I learned, I told myself, the longer my life.