Free At the Edge of the World by Avi

I have had the honor of fighting on the victorious fields of France.”
    “With King Edward, you say?” said the priest.
    “Himself”
    “Did you not know he has died?”
    “Died!” cried Bear, looking up sharply. “When?”
    “The news reached us these past few days.”
    “And is Edward’s son, the Duke of Lancaster, the new king?” asked Bear.
    “Apparently not. It’s the true heir, the late king’s grandson, Richard of Bordeaux, who has been crowned. God grant him long life! But mark this: it seems that when our young king was crowned—he’s been styled Richard the Second—and was being carried away, one of his shoes fell off. An ill prophecy for his reign.”
    “Who put it back on?”
    “His uncle, the duke. Still, let’s pray there’ll be some measure of peace for a while. God knows, despite the truce, the word is the war in France goes on.”
    “How far are we from the coast?” Bear inquired.
    “The sea?” returned the priest. “The closest port is the town of Rye. Perhaps a week’s journey. I’ve never seen it myself, but there are those among us who can tell you the way.”
    “Father,” said Bear, “I’m grateful for your information and your blessing.” That said, he sprang up and with a nod to me—his signal for me to start—and I commenced to play and Bear to dance.
    As God was kind to us, we earned enough to purchase three loaves of bread. Bear, I could see, was much wearied. But no one spoke ill—to our hearing—of Troth, who had shyly passed Bear’s hat.
    That night we were allowed to sleep in a donkey stall, sharing our place with the beast. The cost to us was another song and dance for the crofter’s family. Still, this man not only provided us a place to sleep, but some rare mutton and turnip and enough to drink.
    “Bear,” I asked as we sat about after eating, “will the king’s death make a difference to us?”
    Troth looked up. “What’s … king?” she asked.
    To which Bear replied: “A king, Troth, is the ruler our loving God bestows upon us. While at times the gift appears to bless us, at other times it seems meant as a trial.”
    “Is the new one good or bad?” I asked.
    “He’s a child. Some nine years old.”
    “Nine!” I cried.
    “And whereas an infant may still have angels hovering round his head, as king he’ll more likely bring on the Devil. The point being, he’ll not truly reign. Not for years. It will be his uncle who holds the power, if not the scepter.”
    “Who is that?”
    “The Duke of Lancaster, John of Ghent.”
    “The one who replaced the king’s shoe?” asked Troth.
    “Exactly so. And small events can foretell great acts. There are four things that can be said for the Duke: He’s brother to the late king. The wealthiest man in all England. Perhaps the world. England’s most powerful man. And the most hated.”
    “Why hated?” I asked.
    “He’s haughty. A poor soldier. A man greedy for power.”
    No one spoke for a while. Not until a somber Troth stood before Bear and said, “Bear … am I … your daughter now?”
    Bear’s somber mood was replaced by a grin. He clapped a large hand on my shoulder, another on hers. “If this lad can be my son,” he said, “you can be my daughter. Will you have me?”
    To this the ever-solemn Troth said, “I will.”
    To which I said, “Then, Troth, I am your brother.”
    “So be it!” cried Bear, and reaching out with his great arms he encircled and bussed us both. “My two cubs!” He laughed.
    Was ever a family more wondrously made?

19
    W E PRESSED ON in a southerly direction, Bear choosing not to travel by any road. It took us longer, but I suspected he picked a leisurely pace, the more to mend. In truth he was in grim humor, not given to much jesting or even speaking. While he did not say, I suppose he also thought Troth would be better off with just us. For her part, she remained mostly mute, but always close. I was pleased that there were just the three of us.
    The