blessed Saint Margaret care for her in Heaven,” he said, crossing himself. “What manner of woman was she?”
Since no one had ever asked me about my mother, it was difficult to know where to begin. Just to think of her brought pain to my heart. “She was shunned by the others in our village,” I said. “Nor did she talk very much. When she did, she was bitter.”
“Why so?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I thought it was because she was slight and frail. The steward, the bailiff, and the reeve always set her difficult tasks. More often than not they made her work alone. But though she worked as hard as she could, she received little thanks.”
To my surprise there was a relief in speaking. How strange it was to have someone listen to me.
I went on: “Sometimes she would hold me to her. At other times she seemed to find me …repulsive. Sometimes I thought I was the cause of her misery.”
“And your father?”
“He died before I was born. In the pestilence.”
“No other kin?”
“None.”
His eyes narrowed. “How can that be?”
I shrugged. “My mother said they also died in the Great Death.”
“A common enough story. I escaped it.”
“How?”
“By running as far north as I could go, to Scotland’s wild northern isles. Had your mother no surname?”
“I never knew it.”
“Do you ever want to know these unknown things? About your name? Your mother? Your father?”
“I do,” I said, “but I don’t know how.”
He was quiet for a while, as if thinking on what I said. Then he said, “Now, Crispin, tell me of how you came to be proclaimed a wolf’s head.”
24
B Y THEN I HAD SLIPPED SO easily into talking I simply told him what had happened, as much as I could recall.
When I had done he asked, “And they proclaimed you a wolf’s head for that ?”
I nodded.
“To be a wolf’s head is to say you’re no longer human. So anyone may kill you.” He grinned. “Even me. But,” he went on seriously, “your priest told you to flee.”
“Yes.”
“And since your steward tried to kill you, your priest was proved right.”
After a moment, I said, “And they killed Father Quinel.”
Bear sat bolt upright. “Killed the priest?” he cried. “In the sacred name of Jesus, why?”
“I don’t know. But when he told me I had to leave, he also promised he’d tell me something of importance just before I left. Instead, he was slain.”
“Have you any idea what he was to say?”
“Something about my father. And mother. So I think his death was my doing. God was punishing me.
“By killing His priest? It’s a thing I’ve noticed,” the big man said with laughing scorn, “that the greater a man’s—or boy’s—ignorance of the world, the more certain he is that he sits in the center of that world.”
I hung my head.
“Crispin,” he said after a moment of silence, “I’ll give you some advice. You’re full of sadness. Those who bring remorse are shunned. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because sorrow is the common fate of man. Who then would want more? But wit and laughter, Crispin, why, no one ever has enough. When I think on the perfections of our Savior, I choose to think most upon His most perfect laughter. It must have been the kind that makes us laugh, too. For mirth is the coin that brings a welcome. Lose your sorrows, and you’ll find your freedom.”
I remembered the word— -freedom —as one which Father Quinel used.
After a moment I said, “But you gave me no choice but to stay with you.”
His eyes flashed with anger, enough so that I regretted I had spoken. But then, as happened so often with him, he laughed. “Crispin, do you know why my hat is split into two parts?”
“No.”
“Like all men with a skill, I wear the livery of my trade. For me, the two-part hat informs the world that there’s more than a simple nature residing in my soul. There’s bad and good.”
But I am only bad, I thought to myself, wishing yet again I
Since no one had ever asked me about my mother, it was difficult to know where to begin. Just to think of her brought pain to my heart. “She was shunned by the others in our village,” I said. “Nor did she talk very much. When she did, she was bitter.”
“Why so?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I thought it was because she was slight and frail. The steward, the bailiff, and the reeve always set her difficult tasks. More often than not they made her work alone. But though she worked as hard as she could, she received little thanks.”
To my surprise there was a relief in speaking. How strange it was to have someone listen to me.
I went on: “Sometimes she would hold me to her. At other times she seemed to find me …repulsive. Sometimes I thought I was the cause of her misery.”
“And your father?”
“He died before I was born. In the pestilence.”
“No other kin?”
“None.”
His eyes narrowed. “How can that be?”
I shrugged. “My mother said they also died in the Great Death.”
“A common enough story. I escaped it.”
“How?”
“By running as far north as I could go, to Scotland’s wild northern isles. Had your mother no surname?”
“I never knew it.”
“Do you ever want to know these unknown things? About your name? Your mother? Your father?”
“I do,” I said, “but I don’t know how.”
He was quiet for a while, as if thinking on what I said. Then he said, “Now, Crispin, tell me of how you came to be proclaimed a wolf’s head.”
24
B Y THEN I HAD SLIPPED SO easily into talking I simply told him what had happened, as much as I could recall.
When I had done he asked, “And they proclaimed you a wolf’s head for that ?”
I nodded.
“To be a wolf’s head is to say you’re no longer human. So anyone may kill you.” He grinned. “Even me. But,” he went on seriously, “your priest told you to flee.”
“Yes.”
“And since your steward tried to kill you, your priest was proved right.”
After a moment, I said, “And they killed Father Quinel.”
Bear sat bolt upright. “Killed the priest?” he cried. “In the sacred name of Jesus, why?”
“I don’t know. But when he told me I had to leave, he also promised he’d tell me something of importance just before I left. Instead, he was slain.”
“Have you any idea what he was to say?”
“Something about my father. And mother. So I think his death was my doing. God was punishing me.
“By killing His priest? It’s a thing I’ve noticed,” the big man said with laughing scorn, “that the greater a man’s—or boy’s—ignorance of the world, the more certain he is that he sits in the center of that world.”
I hung my head.
“Crispin,” he said after a moment of silence, “I’ll give you some advice. You’re full of sadness. Those who bring remorse are shunned. Do you know why?”
I shook my head.
“Because sorrow is the common fate of man. Who then would want more? But wit and laughter, Crispin, why, no one ever has enough. When I think on the perfections of our Savior, I choose to think most upon His most perfect laughter. It must have been the kind that makes us laugh, too. For mirth is the coin that brings a welcome. Lose your sorrows, and you’ll find your freedom.”
I remembered the word— -freedom —as one which Father Quinel used.
After a moment I said, “But you gave me no choice but to stay with you.”
His eyes flashed with anger, enough so that I regretted I had spoken. But then, as happened so often with him, he laughed. “Crispin, do you know why my hat is split into two parts?”
“No.”
“Like all men with a skill, I wear the livery of my trade. For me, the two-part hat informs the world that there’s more than a simple nature residing in my soul. There’s bad and good.”
But I am only bad, I thought to myself, wishing yet again I
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