LONG PAST THE HOUR OF Compline, the last prayers of the night, a sound aroused me to a confused state of wakefulness.
Because of the utter darkness and the painful throbbing in my head, I knew not where I was. Though unable to see, I could smell the air and realized I wasn’t at my home. Nor was I in the fields where I often slept with the ox. Only when I sniffed again did I become sure of the woodland smells and cloying air. The rain had ceased, but it was as if night itself had begun to sweat.
Then, in a burst, I recalled my mother’s death and burial, my leaving the cemetery and the priest, my plunge into the woods. I remembered tripping, falling.
Putting a hand to my forehead, I felt a welt and a crust of hardened blood. Though my touch made me wince, the pain banished the remaining dizziness. I realized I was in the forest and lost. My tunic was cold and wet.
Lifting my head, I looked about. Midst the tangle of trees, I saw a flickering light. Puzzled, I came up on my knees to see better. But save that flame, all was murk and midnight mist, and silence lay as thick as death. In haste, I made the sign of the cross and murmured protective prayers.
Mind, godly folk had no business beyond their lawful homes at such a time. Night was a mask for outlaws, hungry wolves, the Devil and his minions. Then who or what, I asked myself, had caused the sound that had brought me to my senses?
It was my curiosity—another name, my mother had often said, for Satan—that made me want to see what was there. Despite fear of discovery, I crept through the woods.
When I came as near to the light as I dared, I raised my head and tensed my legs, ready to flee if necessary.
Two men were standing in a clearing. One was John Aycliffe. In one hand he held a fluttering torch. As always, a sword was at his side.
The second man I’d never seen before. Dressed like a gentleman, with a face of older years, he wore a hood attached to a flowing cape that hung down behind his legs. Gray hair reached his shoulders. His blue over-tunic was long, quilted, and dark, with yellow clasps that gleamed in the torchlight.
Within the circle of light I also saw the fine head of a horse. I assumed it was the stranger’s.
The two men were talking. Straining to listen, forgetful of the danger, I rose up from the bushes where I hid.
As I looked on, the stranger pushed aside his cape and brought forth a wallet. From it he drew a parchment packet affixed with red wax seals. He handed it to Aycliffe.
The steward unfolded it. The parchment was wide and filled with what looked like writing. Three more red seals and ribbons dangled from the bottom edge.
Passing the stranger the torch so he could see better, Aycliffe took up the document and cast his eyes over it.
“By the bowels of Christ,” I heard him exclaim even as he made the sign of the cross over his chest. “When will it happen?”
“If God wills, it will come soon,” the stranger said.
“And am I to act immediately?” Aycliffe asked the man.
“Are you not her kin?” the stranger said. “Do you not see the consequences if you don’t?”
“A great danger to us all.”
“Precisely. There could be those who will see it so and act accordingly. You’ll be placed in danger, too.”
As a frowning Aycliffe began to fold the document, he turned away. When he shifted, he saw me.
Our eyes met. My heart all but stopped.
“Asta’s son!” Aycliffe cried.
The stranger whirled about.
“There!” the steward shouted, pointing right at me. Throwing the document aside, he snatched back the torch, drew his sword, and began to run in my direction.
Transfixed by fear, I stood rooted to the spot. Not until he came close to me did I turn and flee. But no sooner did I than I became ensnared in brambles that caught me in their thorny grasp. Though I struggled and pulled, it was to no avail. I was too well caught. All the while Aycliffe was drawing closer, his face filled with hate. When he drew near he lifted his sword and swung it down.
In his haste, the swords descending arc missed me, but cut the brambles, so that I could rip myself away before he could take another stroke.
I ran on.
Aycliffe continued to pursue me, sword and torch up. He would have caught me if I had not, in my blind panic, tumbled over a cliff. Though of no great height, it took me by such surprise I went hurtling through the air, crashing hard upon my side and rolling farther down a hill.
I was stunned, my breath gone, but I had enough sense to roll over and look back. Above me—at some distance—I saw Aycliffe’s torch, and his face peering down.
When I realized he had no idea where I was, I dared not move. When his light finally retreated did I pick myself up and flee.
I ran as far as strength and breath allowed, halting only when my legs gave out. Then I threw myself upon the ground, gasping for breath.
For the remainder of the night I found little rest. Not only was I in fear of being found and made subject to the stewards wrath, I was still engulfed by grief at my mother’s death. Then, too, I had turned from the priest when he had asked me to church. I had broken the curfew, too. Why, I’d even stolen church wine to ease my mother’s pains before she died. In short, I was certain God was punishing me.
Even as I waited for His next blow, I sought, with earnest prayers, forgiveness for my sinful life.