FOR THE REST OF THE DAY WE made our way without the benefit of roads. A few times we came upon narrow paths, and these we followed, but only for short times. Instead, Bear went this way, now that, following no reason that I could grasp, other than we moved farther and farther from the steward. As we went he hardly spoke.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I finally said.
“To where you can remain alive,” he replied.
It was dusk when he finally allowed us to stop. Rain had begun to fall. The dismal drizzle caused the overhanging leaves to drip with irritating monotony. Before a low and flaring fire, which sputtered in the damp, we ate two small pigeons Bear had managed to snare.
Perhaps to shift my mind from my worries, he showed me how he did his snaring, using a few long strands of horsetail hair that he kept in his bag. After tying the strands together he made them into a loop, which enabled him to trap—with great cunning—the birds, without their even knowing they were in danger. I was much engaged.
After eating we stayed on opposite sides of the fire taking what warmth we could. Bear was in a solemn mood and spoke very little, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts.
“Do you believe me now?” I said.
“About what?”
“That they are looking for me.”
“Yes,” he said.
I lay back and recalled what had happened in the forest at Stromford. “Bear,” I said, sitting up, “I remembered something else.”
“What?”
“The man the steward met had a horse, a fine one. He must have been a man of wealth.”
Bear only shrugged.
Then I said, “I wish I knew what the document was that the stranger brought to John Aycliffe. Though, even if I had seen it, I couldn’t have read it.”
“By and by I’ll teach you,” he said.
“Bear?”
“Yes, lad?” he said sleepily.
“I’ve remembered something else. Before I left, the priest told me my mother could read and write.”
“How could a miserable peasant woman acquire such skills?”
“I don’t know. I never saw her do so. But Father Quinel insisted it was true.”
“Did he teach her?”
“He didn’t say. But he insisted it was she who wrote on my cross.”
Bear rubbed his face and beard, then rolled down onto his back. “Enough,” he said. “We’d best sleep. If we intend to survive, we’ll need to find a village soon.”
As usual, before I lay down I fetched the cross from the pouch from around my neck and placed it between my hands when I, upon my knees, began to pray.
“Crispin!” I heard Bear cry out.
I looked around.
“Give me that cross.”
Remembering what he had said about crosses, and concerned that he might do it some harm, I said, “I’d rather not.”
“Give it!” he roared.
“It’s precious to me,” I said, holding it back.
“By God’s honest heart,” he said, “I won’t do it any harm.”
“Do you truly vow?”
“By the bloody hands of Christ,” he said.
Though reluctant, I gave him what he wanted. Taking the cross in his great hands—where it seemed even smaller than it was—he peered at it with his shrewd eyes, even feeling it with his fingers. Next he brought it near to the fire.
Knowing that lead could melt in fire, I cried, “Don’t cast it away.”
Paying me no mind, he held the cross in his palm, in such a way that it was illuminated by our little fire while he squinted at it closely. I realized then that he was looking at the words.
“Can you read what it says?” I asked.
He did not reply. Instead, he handed the cross back to me.
“The light is too weak,” he said. “And I need my sleep.” With that he rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes.
I looked at him and at the cross, certain he’d found a meaning that he was not prepared to tell.