tied to wharfs or hauled up onthe shingle. One large ship was a hulk. Some of the larger boats I recognized as cogs, the kind of ship in which Bear, Troth, and I had come to France. I had no love of that memory. One cog, its single reddish brown square sail flapping idly in the light breeze, was being pulled to sea by a high-prowed long boat with men at oars. For the most part, though, what I saw were a slew of small fishing craft: crayers, pikers, and ketches.
I wondered if all had come from or were going to England. Please God, I thought, just one for Iceland! The thought excited me.
Despite the early hour, the scene before me was extremely busy. The dock area consisted of two wharfs, plus other landing places for the loading and unloading of ships, complete with ropes and lifting spars. Mariners and laborers were struggling with sacks, bales, chests, and barrels. Other men were working on the ships, replacing old rigging, cleaning, or making repairs. There was a steady rap of hammers. Midst it all I saw what I took to be merchants in fur-trimmed over-tunics and fine Flanders hats. In more than one hand, I saw an abacus. Armed soldiers were strolling about, too, as if keeping watch. There were even men whose flowing capes and looks of self-importance pronounced them officials of some sort.
I’ll not deny it: it came to mind that I should just go among these boats and find—if I could—a ship bound for Iceland. How easy to board it and be gone! Elena’s family would never know. But to think of the family was to think of Owen. My promise to Owen tugged at me. The constant thought—if I was to be like Bear, I must act like him—turned me toward the city gates.
As I went forward, I noticed a gallows at the far western side of the dock area. It gave me pause, the more so when I saw a body dangling. Swinging in the wind, it was black with rot, its stench putrid. It made me recall the ghastly corpse I’d come upon when I first fled my village. In haste, I made the sign of the cross, averted my eyes, and moved toward the city gates.
Even so, I could not help but look back at the gallows and its victim. It made me wonder if I were about to pass through the gates of hell.
19
B UILT INTO THE WALLS, the entry to Calais consisted of a massive stone structure with a huge front gate of thick iron bars, which could be lifted and dropped by ropes. Poking out from these walls at an angle was a watchtower that looked down upon the entryway. Along its crenellated top, soldiers stood on guard.
Before the gate was an area paved with small stones. It was there that soldiers were questioning people seeking entry to Calais. Indeed, the city—with its walls, moats, towers, and soldiers—seemed a hard knot of war and defense, exceedingly difficult to enter.
Since the soldiers were closely examining everyone, the throng moved slowly. The one who appeared to be in charge was a soldier. A captain, I supposed. He was a tall, florid-faced man with a loud barking voice. His boots were high, his hands gloved. At his hip was a heavy sword. It would have taken a brave man to challenge him.
As I edged closer, I tried to learn what was being asked, wanting to be prepared with acceptable answers. It turned out the captain was demanding to know where peoplehad come from—what ship or town—and what manner of business they might have in Calais. Other soldiers were searching through baskets, poking into bales, and opening chests.
“Are they looking for something?” I asked a mariner who stood in the line before me.
“Smuggled goods.”
“Is it hard to gain entry?”
He made a grimace. “Just as hard to get out.”
“Why?”
“They will tax whatever goods are brought in or out.” He spat upon the ground.
For the most part, the people wishing entry were mariners and claimed—usually speaking English—that they had come off one ship or another and needed to reach masters already at the markets. Some of the people passing through
I wondered if all had come from or were going to England. Please God, I thought, just one for Iceland! The thought excited me.
Despite the early hour, the scene before me was extremely busy. The dock area consisted of two wharfs, plus other landing places for the loading and unloading of ships, complete with ropes and lifting spars. Mariners and laborers were struggling with sacks, bales, chests, and barrels. Other men were working on the ships, replacing old rigging, cleaning, or making repairs. There was a steady rap of hammers. Midst it all I saw what I took to be merchants in fur-trimmed over-tunics and fine Flanders hats. In more than one hand, I saw an abacus. Armed soldiers were strolling about, too, as if keeping watch. There were even men whose flowing capes and looks of self-importance pronounced them officials of some sort.
I’ll not deny it: it came to mind that I should just go among these boats and find—if I could—a ship bound for Iceland. How easy to board it and be gone! Elena’s family would never know. But to think of the family was to think of Owen. My promise to Owen tugged at me. The constant thought—if I was to be like Bear, I must act like him—turned me toward the city gates.
As I went forward, I noticed a gallows at the far western side of the dock area. It gave me pause, the more so when I saw a body dangling. Swinging in the wind, it was black with rot, its stench putrid. It made me recall the ghastly corpse I’d come upon when I first fled my village. In haste, I made the sign of the cross, averted my eyes, and moved toward the city gates.
Even so, I could not help but look back at the gallows and its victim. It made me wonder if I were about to pass through the gates of hell.
19
B UILT INTO THE WALLS, the entry to Calais consisted of a massive stone structure with a huge front gate of thick iron bars, which could be lifted and dropped by ropes. Poking out from these walls at an angle was a watchtower that looked down upon the entryway. Along its crenellated top, soldiers stood on guard.
Before the gate was an area paved with small stones. It was there that soldiers were questioning people seeking entry to Calais. Indeed, the city—with its walls, moats, towers, and soldiers—seemed a hard knot of war and defense, exceedingly difficult to enter.
Since the soldiers were closely examining everyone, the throng moved slowly. The one who appeared to be in charge was a soldier. A captain, I supposed. He was a tall, florid-faced man with a loud barking voice. His boots were high, his hands gloved. At his hip was a heavy sword. It would have taken a brave man to challenge him.
As I edged closer, I tried to learn what was being asked, wanting to be prepared with acceptable answers. It turned out the captain was demanding to know where peoplehad come from—what ship or town—and what manner of business they might have in Calais. Other soldiers were searching through baskets, poking into bales, and opening chests.
“Are they looking for something?” I asked a mariner who stood in the line before me.
“Smuggled goods.”
“Is it hard to gain entry?”
He made a grimace. “Just as hard to get out.”
“Why?”
“They will tax whatever goods are brought in or out.” He spat upon the ground.
For the most part, the people wishing entry were mariners and claimed—usually speaking English—that they had come off one ship or another and needed to reach masters already at the markets. Some of the people passing through
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