Free At the Edge of the World by Avi Page B

way through grazing flocks of bleating sheep.
    As it fell out, long before the town came into sight, I began to smell something I never had before. It was strong, and fairly reeked of I knew not what.
    “What is that?” I demanded of Bear, for it made my nose itch.
    “You’re smelling the sea,” he said.
    “What’s seal” asked Troth.
    Bear looked to me.
    “The sea, Troth,” I replied with much self-assurance, “is water—also called ocean—and it covers the earth more than land.” That said, both Troth and I looked to Bear: I to see if I’d spoken correctly; Troth, I suspect, in disbelief.
    “Crispin speaks true,” said a grinning Bear to both of us.
    Excited to see something so vast and strange as sea, I urged us on, and soon enough, as we came round a stand of trees, the town we had been seeking lay before us.
    And then I learned what was worrying Bear.

20
    T HE ANCIENT TOWN of Rye is situated on a high knob of land like a clenched fist. It is surrounded on three sides by low water channels, rivers, and a marshy mix of sand and sea. These waters flow directly into a bay, the bay opening to the sea, though coming from the north as we did, the sea was hidden by the rise of land.
    But Rye itself, being elevated, could be observed from a distance. There was a large cluster of houses and a tower that looked to be a castle. A church spire could also be seen. What we also saw was a large amount of hazy smoke.
    “The town. It’s on fire!” I said, proclaiming the obvious.
    “Then it’s true,” he said.
    “What’s true?” I demanded.
    “I was told French and Castilians attacked and laid waste to Rye. I didn’t wish to believe them.”
    “Why not?”
    He shook his great head. “You heard the priest: there’s supposed to be a truce in the war. An attack at this time seemed unlikely. But it’s true.”
    “Who told you about it?”
    “In the towns—some of the people shared the news.”
    “Why would Rye be attacked?” I asked.
    “When England claimed the French crown, we brought the war to them. They’ve now returned the compliment.”
    “Is that the meaning of the new king’s lost shoe? The omen that priest spoke of?”
    “Or,” said Bear, “the French wishing to test the young king.”
    “Bear … are they still here?”
    “I was told they struck hard and fast, and fled. It should be safe. Let’s hope so.”
    To reach the town we had to cross one of the rivers, which was so wide we had to pay a ferryman one of our well-worn pennies to pole us across.
    He was an old man, stooped and grizzled, whose skin was as dark and speckled as a brown egg, his boat a narrow hollowed-out log with a bottom as flat as any shoe. At first I feared we might tumble into the water, but the man showed his skill and kept us on even keel.
    “Tell us of the attack,” Bear said to this man as he carried us to the other shore.
    “It was a sweet, cloudless day when they came,” was the reply. “They came by sea, at dawn, swooping in, killing almost seventy. Four men were taken away for ransom. Looting was rampant. Many homes were burned. They burnt our church, stealing everything they could, even taking the bells.” He paused in his poling to lift a fist in anger. “May God strike them down, hard!” He marked his words with a shove upon his pole, punctuating them by spitting into the water.
    “And they claim Saint Dennis as their protector, he who is a defense against strife. May Jesus blast them all.”
    “Was there no resistance?” asked Bear.
    “We did resist. Fiercely. But were ill-prepared. Those who failed in their responsibility have paid the penalty.”
    “How so?” asked Bear.
    “Execution,” said the man. “God rot them.” He spat into the water.
    “That,” suggested Bear, “will surely make them better prepared next time.”
    The man went on: “Happily after two days, the abbot of St. Martins—his name is Hamo—led a force to drive them away.”
    “And all this took