What went unreported that day was a solemn vow of devotion made by one Simon of Greenwich, in the upper bedroom of the Five Chances Inn, at midnight, mouthed silently and promised irrevocably to God, the contents of which would go neither mentioned nor confessed, ever, but could easily be surmised by the subsequent service of care he administered to his brother in Christ, his pledged bedfellow, George, also of Greenwich, of whom the informed have been made aware.
Few noticed George and Simon leaving the Five Chances in the silent morning after the festival, when the constables changed shifts and the breakfast bells had yet rung and the gulls fought for leftover leeks spilled from cartons and the cobbles were still wet with ale. Only the widow Marjorie of Goutter Lane could remember the discreet loitering of George and Simon in the alleyway behind her tailoring shop and the pleasant smiles on their faces when she agreed to let them in early, before working hours. She recounted to the equerry how easy they were to part with their money, and the awkwardness of the timid one, George, how he struggled to pair his understockings with his tunic, not understanding the correct knots for hiscloak shutting, his strange accent, his strange manner, his insistence on better shoes with thicker soles, and his easy laughter. Flippancy was what Marjorie called it.
“No man can afford to sling money around like those two did. Sure, all I operate is a brokerage of linens, all secondhand, but you’d have thought they was purchasing new ones in full—wanting the garments tailored to fit snug, which of course I obliged for the extra penny as needed, not uncommon, but for so many purchases and in such a rush, and outside trading hours—I warned them of the penalties I could yet face—and I promiseyou, Sir, I did not tally the coinage until the proper time. Oh the strange tongue on the one—to be of such flippancy and softness, yet unsure, yet demanding in such a silly way. To be honest I’d confess he was a delightful company to have, ’specially so early in the morning, and my ledgers being nicely fitted for the day—nicely for the week, mind you—once I had tallied them in proper—but how queer, how freely they both was together, the two of them. If you’d have told me they was the two boys from Greenwich gone escaped, who’d caused the ruckus at the manor and run so afoul of the lord there I’d have happily reported them straightway to the constable, but I had nary the faintest idea. Their politeness, their cheery abandon. At most my thoughts was that they might be new recruits headed east—gallant enough, new money, albeit so excitable and prone to laughter, I know how that younger lot are. But they weren’t going east, no far from it. North they said. Far north. And alone. Just the two of them. They both seemed so cheerfully unsure.”
George and Simon left London that morning and were far beyond the city gates by the time the sun finally warmed the landscape, colored the frost, heated the stains of sweat beneath their new garments and satchels filled with wares. A blanket, two porcelain plates, thread, a knife, brass buttons, a bow, a hatchet, netting, seeds—these clattered around in the rucksack George and Simon carried in turns, the contents of which were learned from receipts obtained at Duckett’s Green, a blacksmith at Berkhamsted, and the keeper of the Inn of the Sea Mare, in Aldbury, who remarked on the openness of the boys, their ease and decorum.
“Two lads starved on the road all day and you’d have thought they’d be right fit for demanding all sorts, but all they requested was a roof, nary the bread I scraped together and offered, which they took with great thanks. And though the stew had gone cold, it warmed up roundly with a dash of next morning’s porridge, and with the coals still warming they were indeed grateful more so than was worth the fuss. They seemed amateur but in good spirits, not full of themselves, eager to move as fast as they could. I recommended the carriageway northeast by a few farthings—if they could manage it in the morning, they’d catch the next caravan, albeit small, but safe and of a reliable guild, well protected. And if their silver was persuasive enough, there were older knights, hunting parties, and the like. If they were on the run from something, it was well enough disguised in their cheerfulness. They were not fearful but excitable as they spoke of the land they were heading toward—a homestead in the north—eyes misting in the one that spoke of the fells and trees, deep barrows of earth full of badgers and mushrooms, foxes, wetlogs the size of houses and a stream running through the middle of twenty acres, of water so pure like blanketed glass and deer at each bend, beavers, ravens, squirrels, bees; greenery lush like a cake. So stirring was how he talked, that I had forgotten the trail of conversation, and hadn’t noticed how little the other one—George, you say—had spoken. By the way he looked about his self, I saw a lostness, or a sense of thought too wide and great to fit through simple doors. Real feelings. Both lads had a rawness about them that I felt I was intruding myself upon. And that was the next thing I did in fact—excused myself. I left the two of them for the night before I could ask them exactly where they were going. I apologize I did not press them further.”
Records of George and Simon’s journey become harder to link together from here onward. We know a caravan was joined at Poynders End, bound for Peterborough. Of the land discussed with the innkeeper, a line of inquiry indeed found the reallocating of a smallholding by a judge at Malton, northeast of York, the recording of which is sparse, understandable given the nature of the land—it being just an old smallholding, untamed, gnarled, and tainted byXXXXXXresidue. Whilst the boundaries had been claimed, then reclaimed, passing from hand to hand, nothing of permanence had been done to solidify a patch of woodland squeezed between the Moors and Scarborough, where talk of aXXXXXXhad caused a desertion of industry and a pinch point of migration in an otherwise unnoteworthy realm. Even the old Roman roads had buckled and been broken by the strains of pure nature, the coastlineunabridged, the rivers melting into marsh and yet still a land grant was granted, a seal broken and resealed, soil daring to be tilled in the most feeble of winters. Something was in motion. The helm of the earth seemed unfettered. It was the year 1300 and a time traveler was in our midst. And I rode out to meet him.
5
The road north was not some fantastical journey into a land that time forgot. It was simply a road. It was difficult—because walking any long distance at the onset of winter is a stinging, uncomfortable undertaking in any century—but it wasn’t barbaric. Well, it was barbaric, but it wasn’t ferocious. The road—for all its meandering paths, its grifters, its threats of snow and mud—was defanged. There weren’t any wolves.
At times the “road” (a muddy line wrought through the dead landscape) felt like a long hallway. There was traffic. We’d shuffle along with everyone else, all of us fish with our own imperatives and internal compasses, sighing impatiently if we found ourselves stuck behind a group of slower travelers, glaring down those who could afford horses. We’d try not to waste too much time or money at kitschy roadside bazaars and we’d always avoid the watchful eyes of knights or anyone who seemed in a position of authority. Or at least Simon would. I was often too busy being agog at something: that child huckster with disturbingly adult facialexpressions and mannerisms; that horrifically swaybacked horse, how its belly nearly touched the ground; that nobleman being carried on the back of a stringy, elderly manservant.
“I don’t think we need to hide from him,” I said as the nobleman passed us and Simon ducked his head. The man sat on a wooden chair under a tattered silk canopy. I thought to myself, How did that get made? How do you make anything out here without what my cloudlike mind had only ever understood to be: machine, invoice, shipping fee, plastic wrap, google instructions, commerce,voilà! The chair lay on top of his poor servant’s ketchupy, calloused shoulders. “Surely they’re not looking for us all the way out here,” I said. “He doesn’t seem to be paying attention anyway.” The nobleman was slumped in the chair, asleep.
“I’d rather not find out the hard way,” said Simon. “You were the prized Danish prisoner of the lord at Greenwich. They’d have put out a reward for you.”
“But how? Do they send out letters or something about me? How would people even know what I look like?”
“They’d know.”
I chuckled. “They wouldn’t.”
“They would.” Simon was grinning. By now he was used to my rush to interrogate, not annoyed but amused by my ignorance and happy to explain this wild world.
“Be serious,” I said. “If those policemen back in Peterborough had seen me, how would they have known anything? There’s no photo of me. There’s no, like, alert system, no criminal database. How would they know?” (When I saidpolicemenand when I saidphotoanddatabase, I cushioned these words with several minutes’ worth of translating them to Simon’s realm ofunderstanding, explaining how a policeman was like a constable, but more omniscient, and a photo was just a miniature portrait, but witchy—“You have to believe me”—a one-to-one replica, an instantaneous miracle and a curse.)
“Fo-tois an insane-sounding word,” said Simon.
“It’s short for photography.”
“You two are strange,” said a woman walking behind us with her husband. By now the road had thinned out and it was just our traveling party, which was only five people. We had split the cost of a wagon with this middle-aged couple when we left Peterborough. A wagon driver and mule hauled our bags. The four of us trudged along behind it.
Simon turned around and said to the woman, “He’s a time traveler.” He grinned that grin of his and winked at me.
“OK.” I gasped and gave him a playful shove. “You can’t worry about police one minute and then out me in front of everyone. Your paranoia has to be consistent at least. Are we undercover or not?”
“What’s a police?” asked the woman’s husband.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“It’s a secret time traveler code word,” said Simon.
“Hey, if you’re a time traveler,” said the woman, “then why can’t you make this journey go any faster?”
“That’s not how it works,” Simon and I both said at the same time. We caught each other and broke into laughter, a laughter that was so generous I felt myself repressing it a notch, as if to shore up this easiness for a colder day, when the chill of winter wouldn’t be so easily teased. November was disfiguring itself into December right in front of us and yet we were laughing, mud-stomping, and singing, embroidering cheeky grins across everysecond of what I can really only call rejuvenating, life-affirming chitchat.
The wagon ahead of us came to a stop. Simon, myself, and the couple caught up to it with all our lazy giggles still going. The driver held up a hand to silence us.
“What’s going on?” said Simon.
The driver held a finger to his lips.
We were a two days’ journey away from the city of Lincoln, on a route that cut directly through dense woodland, on a less-traveled road. Misty steam from all our breaths faded up into the white sky. Trees and frost surrounded our party, and through the white fog, cutting through our echoes of laughter, was a baby’s cry.
