Authors: Avi
H
E CAME FROM the direction of the house, sack in hand. Even in the morning murkiness, I could see the sack was full, so I had little doubt he’d been at his thievery. In his other hand, he clutched his dagger.
For the smallest part of a moment, the three of us stood in the little light, staring at one another as if each could not believe what the other was seeing.
“Where…where are you going?” he hissed in a voice thick with rage. “Get back where you belong!” He pointed his blade toward the stall.
“We’re…we’re leaving,” I somehow found voice to say.
“The devil you are!” cried Rauf. Face full of fury, he flung the sack aside and advanced upon us, dagger forward. He grabbed Owen’s arm and yanked. The boy cried out. No sooner did he do so than Schim, screeching like a demon, leaped at Rauf’s face, biting and clawing.
Attacked so unexpectedly, Rauf thrust Owen away. As the boy fell, Rauf slashed the beast with his blade. The monkey, torn and bloody, fell to the ground.
For one gawking, terrifying moment, I just stood there, appalled.
But Owen became engulfed by rage. He leaped up and, screaming “Murderer!”, flung himself at his tormentor, beating upon Rauf with his small and frantic fists. The boy’s fury took Rauf completely by surprise. Dropping his dagger, he staggered back, slipping on the monkey’s blood and dropping down onto his knees. Owen kept hitting him. A floundering Rauf groped frantically for his dagger.
In that moment I leaped forward, snatched Owen’s arm, and dragged him away down along the alley. “Murderer!” the boy kept screaming back. “Murderer!”
At the turning, I paused for just an instant to look back. Rauf had found his dagger and pulled himself up even as shouts erupted from the stall: “Thieves! Thieves!”
It was Elena, shrieking.
“Run!” I shouted. Clutching Owen’s hand, I plunged toward the street. But once I reached it, I hardly knew which way to go. The boy was now clinging to me, moaning, “He killed Schim!” again and again.
“Thieves! Alarm!” came cries from behind us.
“Just come!” I yelled at Owen. I hardly knew if he held me or I him, but we raced along until we reached the next crossing. There we turned yet again and went on, taking another turn, and yet one more. There, out of breath, my panic great, I had to pause.
I had no notion which direction to go. My knowledge of Calais, such as it was, was rendered all but useless by my terror and the dark. The deserted streets appeared all the same.
Unable to decide which way to go, I took refuge in the shadowy recess of a deep-set door. Overwhelmed by what had happened, I staggered against a wall and pressed my forehead against a stone. Cold and trembling, short of breath, all I could think was, If they catch us, they’ll kill us now.
I felt a pull on my arm. Owen was standing there, look
ing up at me, eyes large with fright, grimy face streaked with tears. No one could have appeared more wretched.
“He’ll try to kill me, too!” he cried piteously. “He will.”
Then, even as I stood there, trying to think what to do, I heard shouts: “Murderers! Thieves! Alarm!”
My dread redoubled: they were calling the night watch. We had to get out of the city.
I tried to recall where the tavern the girl spoke of might be. “Stay close to me!” I said to Owen. Though uncertain—but knowing we must move—I stepped away from our hiding place and looked up and down the street. Thin light came from the crescent moon and the array of cold stars above. A hint of dawn glimmered.
“Murderers! Thieves!” came the cry again, from yet a different place. I heard running, the sound of several people’s steps. “Back!” I cried, and retreated to the doorway.
Next moment a man, broadsword in hand, raced down the street directly in front of us. God and the shadows provided protection. The man passed on. Though I could not see who it was, I had no doubt he was hunting us.
Once the man had passed, I grabbed Owen and crept out from our hiding place. “Come on!” I commanded, and began to run.
I tried to recognize landmarks—a sign, a door as we
went. Anything. I met with little success. On we went, racing down one street and then another, pausing at each corner while trying to see what danger might lurk ahead.
“Are we going to that tavern?” asked Owen.
“Just stay close.”
We reached a turn. That time I recognized a narrow door and was fairly certain the tavern was just beyond. I stole a quick glance. Sure enough, it was there. But so too were a goodly number of men—soldiers among them. They were milling about its door. All were armed. It was the night watch.
Recoiling, I snatched Owen’s hand again and tugged him down the street in the opposite direction. I pulled so hard he stumbled to his knees and cried out. I yanked him up and raced on. Only when we had gone around a few more turns did I stop. My side pained me. My breath was labored. Owen, his knee bloody from his fall, was also gasping and gulping for air.
Trying to think, I looked about. The street we were on was deserted. A morning breeze made signboards creak. An excited dog began to bark and was answered by another. From somewhere came those cries: “Murder! Alarm! Murder!”
I plunged through a maze of streets, halting frequently
to look all ways. The shouts of “Murder! Murder!” seemed to come from everywhere. I sensed them closing in, but I still didn’t know where to go.
Owen slumped against a wall. “I can’t…I can’t go anymore,” he gasped.
Needing to think, wanting to give the boy—and me—a rest, I hid ourselves behind some barrels. To my dismay, the sky above was lighter. Dawn was close. It would allow me to see better, but we would also be easier to find. And—to add to my desperation—I knew that the Icelandic ship would be leaving soon.
“Can you go on?” I asked the boy.
He shook his head. His chest was heaving. Tears were streaming along his cheeks.
I squatted down and stretched my arms behind me. “Get on my back!” I said. As he pressed himself against me, I clasped my one hand with the other and so was able to hold him up.
With Owen on my back, I staggered down yet another street. There I saw we had reached the town’s edge, where the city wall rose above the houses. I hurried down the alley until I reached it.
“Slide off!”
When the boy dropped down, I examined the wall.
Made of stone blocks, it rose up some seventy-five feet. I reached high and sought to find some finger grip, hoping to haul myself up. The stones, however, were too finely set. I couldn’t get a hold. Climbing would be impossible.
“Come on!”
We tried the next street, where the wall continued, but I couldn’t climb there either. Even so, we went on for two more streets. This time we had come to a place where walls met. Built into the corner was a stout, round tower with an open entryway. Within it, I could make out a narrow, curving flight of stone steps, which led up.
“This way!”
I dashed inside and tried to see—without success—the top of the steps. All I saw was greater light, which made me think the steps reached the open ramparts. That made me remember I’d seen soldiers there when I first came to the city. What if they were there now?
Even before I could think what to do, I heard the sound of footfalls.
“Someone’s coming!” Owen gasped.
We darted up the steps, all but falling up, if such a thing is possible. Upon reaching the top of the wall, I glanced around. What I saw was a wide, stone-paved walkway walled on either side. The walls reached the height
of my shoulders. The outer walls had irregular gaps, wide enough to allow soldiers to look out and, no doubt, shoot their arrows and bolts. I could see no one about.
I ran to one of the gaps, hauled myself up, and looked down. Morning’s dull glimmer allowed me to see water some hundred feet or so below: the city’s double moats.
I jumped back down to the rampart and went to the city-side wall and peered down. I could see streets and low rooftops, as well as churches and watchtowers. At first it seemed deserted; but even as I looked, Elena and Rauf rushed into the street below, the very place where we had been. Both were armed.
They were conferring right below me, turning now this way, now that, as if considering the ways we might have gone. They didn’t think to look up, not at first.
Soon as I saw them, I leaped back.
“Rauf and Elena!” I hissed.
“Where?”
“Below!”
I stole another quick glance down. That time I saw Elena pointing up, before turning and running toward the tower steps.
“This way!” I cried, grabbing hold of Owen’s hand and racing along the rampart. As we ran, I spied another wall
tower ahead of me. This one was not placed at a corner, but midway along the wall. Thinking we could use it to get back down to the streets, I aimed for it.
As I ran, I glanced back. Elena and Rauf had burst onto the wall. It took but a moment for them to see me.
“Crispin! Owen! Stop!”
I redoubled my pace, only to see, from the very tower toward which we were heading, a troop of soldiers bursting forth. A few held torches. Some were armed with swords or crossbows. Leading them was the captain whom Rauf had made me meet.
Upon seeing me, the soldiers stopped.
We were caught between the two: Elena and Rauf on one side, the soldiers on the other.
I swung about, grabbed at Owen, and dashed to the outer wall. I scrambled atop and braced myself between one of the gaps. Owen held up his arms. I hauled him up. I looked back only to see one of the soldiers kneeling, a crossbow pressed against his shoulder. He was aiming it at us.
“Jump!” I cried, and fairly pushed Owen off the wall. Next moment I followed.
I
T TOOK BUT an instant before I struck cold water. Down I sank, swallowed by the moat’s filth. Gagging and gasping, trying to keep my mouth tightly clenched, I plunged down deep, sinking to such a depth that my foot struck the muck-clogged bottom. Without thinking, I kicked, which reversed my direction and shot me up.
Desperate to reach air, I thrashed my arms and kicked my legs until I burst upon the water’s surface. Once there I flailed, spinning and turning, looking desperately for Owen, until my hand struck something soft and slippery. I tried to grip whatever it was, only to slide away. First with one hand and then another, still coughing and spitting, I found a grip and kept myself from sinking a second time. Even so, it took a moment before I realized I was clinging to the city wall.
Shouts came from above. Twisting, I saw torches and faces illuminated by the flames. Like gargoyles, soldiers were peering down through the morning murkiness. But kind fortune had set me on the very inside of the moat, which made it hard for them to locate me.
I pushed myself as flat as possible, trying to decide what to do next, still wondering where Owen was, even as I was in danger of slipping.
My hold gave way. I went down a second time. As I dropped, I swung my body about and kicked back as hard as I could against the wall. In so doing, I thrust myself a good way toward the moat’s other side.
The strength of that wild shove carried me halfway across the moat, after which I began a wild flailing and kicking, much as I had done in that ditch to escape the Frenchman. It brought me into the sight and sound of those above.
“There!” came a cry. Arrows hissed by me, once, twice. Striking out in mindless frenzy, I went forward, enough so that I reached the far side of the moat. There I grasped whatever weeds or stones I could, anything to hold me and keep me from dropping back. In such a fashion, I managed to crawl out of the water.
Free of the first moat, I scampered madly from the water’s edge and flung myself down on the far side of the mound between the moats. For a few moments I could do no more than lay where I was, dripping wet, shivering, struggling for breath, spewing foul water. I realized I had lost my boots.
Twisting around, I got a glimpse of the wall I had just
left. I saw figures peering down from the walls, holding up torches, looking for me. Having yet to discover where I was, I was safe from their arrows, for the moment.
I still saw no trace of Owen. Fearful he might have drowned, I took the chance to lift my head higher and look about. I caught sight of him: his head was resting on the mound, but from the waist down he was still in the water. I was not even sure if he was alive.
Impulsively, I jumped up and ran toward him.
“There! He’s there!” came shouts from the wall.
A crossbow bolt, hissing with invisible speed, shot past, piercing the earth. Its featherwork quivered by my foot.
I reached where Owen lay, gripped his arms with my two hands, and struggled to drag him up the mound. A second bolt went into the dirt.
When I reached the top, I rolled Owen over the crest and then dove after him, even as an arrow struck the ground close to where I stood.
I tumbled down, rolling toward the second moat until I burrowed my fingers into the earth to keep myself from falling back into the water.
Below the mound’s crest, above the second moat, I could no longer see the city walls, which meant my pursuers could not see me.
I crawled to where Owen lay on his back. When I turned him over, he began to spit out water, coughing and gagging.
“Owen,” I said into his ear. “Owen!”
He shook his head but did not get up.
Relieved that he was yet alive and deciding to let him rest, I pushed myself onto my knees and searched in all directions. In the steadily increasing light, I could see no one. But I knew it would not remain that way for long. They would be coming after us.
I knelt by Owen’s side. “Owen!” I called. “We have to move. Quickly!”
Shaking his head like a wet dog, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.
“We have to get across the second moat.”
“I…can’t.”
“You have to,” I told him. “Run down and leap as far as you can. You must do it now! They’ll be after us.”
For a moment he did nothing. Then, as if by force of will, he abruptly jumped up, raced down the mound, and leaped, with arms churning like windmills, as far as he could. I did just the same, beating my arms as if hoping to take flight.
I hit the water. This time, even as I struck, I swung my arms and kicked. Though I sank some and struggled for
breath, I was so determined to reach the far side that I fairly clawed my way across. Once I had, I scratched my way onto land.
Owen had managed to get across too and now lay upon his back, one arm flung over his face. “Good boy!” I called to him.
I sat up and was able to see the road that led to the city and the strand. Despite the early hour, people were already there. That was where we needed to go.
“Owen. We must get to the ship!” I called.
He staggered up. I took his hand and we rushed on. As we went, I wondered what the family and the night watch were doing. Would they think we had drowned? Would they look for us at the strand among the boats? Or would they be at the city gates? How would I find Thorvard? I had no answers.
Owen said nothing but went on doggedly, as much staggering as running. Once he stopped and bent over, retching, struggling for strength.
“Crispin…”
I told him to climb on my back again, which he did. Then I ran as best I could, not as
if
our lives depended on it, but because I knew they did.