IN THE MORNING, BEAR WAS much subdued. Now and again, as we prepared to go, I caught him glancing at me when he thought I would not notice. He said nothing, however, and I decided not to ask. I knew him well enough by then to know that he’d speak only when he chose.
We set off over hills and through woods, until at last we came upon a narrow, winding path. Here Bear paused.
“We’ll go this way,” he announced. “It will lead us somewhere.”
Sure enough, by midmorning we heard the distant tolling of a bell. We stopped.
“There must be a village a league or so ahead,” Bear cautioned. “Can you remember everything I told you about how we should enter such a place?”
“I think so.”
“Try your tunes,” he said.
I took out the recorder and played. He listened intently.
“Good,” he said. “You’ve learned well enough. We’ll prosper as long as you do as I’ve taught you.”
Rare for him, he seemed nervous.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Crispin,” he said solemnly, “if there is any trouble—ever—you’re not to pay any mind to me. Just run.”
“Run?” I said, taken aback. “From what?”
“If any one should try to harm or apprehend you.
“But where would I go?”
He thought for a moment. “As far north as you can go.”
“Why there?”
“You’ll be safest out of the kingdom.”
“But aren’t we going to Great Wexly?”
“We are. On the twenty-third of June, the eve of the Feast of the Saint John the Baptist.”
“Why then?” I asked.
“It’s Midsummer Day. The city will be crowded with a large market and festivities. That’s always good for mummers. We should do well. And, as I told you, I have some matters with a man.”
“What man?”
He ruffled his beard. “It’s a private matter.” Then he added as if to mollify me, “I’ve promised to be there, and so I must.”
He was being evasive again, as when I’d asked him about the writing on my cross. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Crispin, I’m part of a … brotherhood. It’s to make things better. To bring some change.”
“Nothing really changes,” I said, thinking he had misspoken.
He looked at me with a smile. “Have you not changed?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“Crispin, I merely wish to bring some of that freedom you seek.” He studied the sky as if some answer might be there. “But I fear the time isn’t ready.”
“You expect some hazard, don’t you?”
Though I knew he heard my question, he acted as if he hadn’t. “Is there some danger there for me?” I pressed.
“By Saint Pancras,” he said, “I was surprised when we saw that gathering waiting for you at the bridge.”
“That’s for me. What about you?”
He shrugged. “I never fear for myself.”
“Why?”
“I make my own choices.”
“Then do you fear for me there?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why?”
“Crispin, when it comes to the affairs of men, I only worry about what I cannot understand.”
“And?”
“I can’t make sense of your … innocence. In a ruthless world I find innocence more a puzzle than evil.”
“Must we go there, then?”
“Crispin, I told you, I promised this … brother hood that in my travels I’d survey the kingdom. That I would bring them the judgment of my observations. I try to keep my word. They’re waiting for me.” He picked up some dirt and rubbed it between his hands. “I must give them the benefit of my judgment. That’s all.”
“You read the writing on my cross,” I said. “What did it say?”
He offered up a wry smile. “Crispin, if we wish to survive, it’s time for us to go to work.”
“Bear—”
“Enough,” he said with sudden authority, and turned away.