33

WE SET OUT EARLY THE NEXT day beneath gray skies and scudding clouds. The road was muddy, the air moist and cloying. I was very anxious. Though Bear tried to wear his customary cheerful face, I sensed that there was unease on his part, too. Of this, however, he gave no voice.

At first we traveled, as we usually did, alone. By midday, however, people began to join us on the narrow road. As we drew closer to Great Wexly their numbers increased.

To see so many added to my disquiet. Bear, who had come to know my humors well, worked hard to calm me. “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “You’ll be safe. In the name of Jesus, I’ll see to that.”

As the road began to widen, it became more and more crowded. Knowing how ignorant I was of everything, Bear tried to explain some of what we passed.

“That one is a pilgrim,” he said, pointing to a man walking very slowly, his head down. “Notice his gray robes, as well as the heavy metal cross around his neck. With his hood up and his eyes cast upon the ground, he’s surely reflecting on his many sins. From the look of it he’ll probably need to go all the way to Avignon to see the Pope in his French palace or perhaps go as far as Jerusalem.”

A closed wagon came by, its wheels rimmed with iron, something I’d never seen before and marveled at. Pulled by large horses, it was surrounded by a group of men armed with glaives. The wagon, Bear assured me, contained, “some rich lady, in search of a wayward husband.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m only guessing.”

“Could it be a rich man?”

“It could,” he said with a laugh. “And he looking for a wayward wife.”

There were many peasants with baskets and sacks upon their backs. One woman I saw bore two buckets, each one dangling from a shaft, the shaft balanced on her shoulders. Some folk walked beside their wagons. Others pulled them. Children were equally engaged.

Bear pointed out London, Flemish, and Italian merchants, identifying them by their particular garb or badges. There were also a great variety of priests, nuns, and monks.

One monk wore the black robes of the Benedictine order. A Dominican—"They preach well"—was in white. Still another was in rough brown robes and sandaled feet. “He’s a begging friar of the Franciscan rule,” Bear said. “They take their sacred vows of poverty to heart. May God always look kindly on him and his kind.”

He made me give the friar a penny.

Some officials were, he said, from the county. One or two, on horseback, he claimed had come from the royal court in Westminster, close to London.

“Have you been there?” I asked.

“I have,” he said, as if it were a common thing.

There were tradesmen, traders, tinkers, masons, and carpenters, hauling goods of one kind or another.

Bear indicated a doctor, a lawyer, and an apothecary. One man, astride a great horse was, he said, a tax collector. He was closely guarded by armed men. Just to see him made Bear irate.

By the roadside were scores of people crying goods for sale or trade. Their offerings were laid out in stalls, low tables, on pieces of cloth, even on the ground. For the most part they were dressed more poorly than others I had seen.

Once a troop of helmeted soldiers passed us by. They were chanting raucously, pushing people aside as they came. In their hands were long yew bows. Quivers of arrows were on their backs.

Aside from the sheer numbers of people, what struck me most were the many ways people dressed, along with the great variety of colors to their clothing, colors I had never seen before, nor could even name. It was as if rainbows had come to earth, draped themselves on these folk, and paraded along the road. I soon realized it was not just words I had to learn to read, but what people wore as well.

“The town will be crowded,” Bear said. “You’ll see. People come from great distances.” He seemed pleased.

Though all but overwhelmed by what I saw, I was fascinated. To be sure, I stayed close to Bear as he strode forward with his great swagger. When people saw him coming they hastily stepped aside, gazing at him in awe once he went by. It made me feel proud. And safe.

But now the market town of Great Wexly loomed before us, as if it had sprung from the ground. Its brown stone walls were immense, stretching away for as far as I could see.

“Where do those walls go?” I asked, for I had never seen anything so vast.

“They surround the town in a great circle,” Bear said.

“Why a circle?”

“To keep all enemies out.” Then after a pause he added, “And in.”

Above the walls I observed spires—some with crosses—from which hung a host of multicolored pennants tossed and turned by breezes. It may seem odd, but it made me think the town had long hair, and each strand blown by wind was yet another color. I saw many housetops, too. It all seemed immeasurable.

By now the people upon the road had swollen to such great numbers, the press became intense. A constant clamor filled the air. I kept turning about, trying to see and hear the all of it, asking Bear what this or that might be. But he, no longer of a mind to answer my endless questions, strode on silently. I found myself reaching out to touch him, lest I fall behind.

As we drew closer to the walls, people began to squeeze together tightly. I wondered why, until I saw the town’s entryway before us. Built into the great wall, it was a deep tunnel that revealed just how thick the walls were.

“The Bishop’s Gate,” Bear said.

This entryway consisted of two massive black wooden doors, each one studded with iron bolts. The doors had been swung open and pushed back against the walls. Behind them, a portcullis had been raised halfway up, looking like teeth prepared to bite.

Above the entryway was a design with markings on it that looked like a shield. Black cloth was wrapped around it. Bear was gazing at it intently, but when I started to ask him what it meant, I realized he’d shifted his gaze to the gate.

I followed his look. Soldiers, their chests covered with iron plates, were guarding the entry-way. Pointed metal helmets were on their heads. Tall glaives were in their hands, swords at their sides, daggers on their hips. Atop the walls were other guards. What’s more, the soldiers were allowing only a few people in at a time.

Remembering the men at the bridge, I grew alarmed. “I think,” I whispered, my mouth dry, “they’re looking for someone.”