There Will Be Wolves by Karleen Bradford

Author:Karleen Bradford [Bradford, Karleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4434-1193-6
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 1992-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

The minstrels joined the Crusade and sang every evening. The men drank and joked with any who would treat them to ale or wine, but the woman kept herself and her child apart. Ursula grew worried about the small girl. It seemed that no sooner did one bruise fade but another appeared. One evening the woman herself had a swollen lip and her eyes looked as if she had been weeping. Try as she might, though, Ursula could find no way to speak to her. During the day the woman walked with the men, and after each performance at night she and her daughter seemed to just disappear.

April turned into May, and the farther south they went, the warmer it became. One afternoon, after they had made camp, Ursula determined to bathe herself as best as she could in the slow-flowing river. She had made do with pails of lukewarm water heated on their inadequate campfires long enough. The river’s water would still be freezing, but at least she could wash her hair. She walked to the river bank. Several women were already there ahead of her, however, washing pots and fetching water. She turned back downstream to seek out a more private place. As she pushed through a tangle of bushes on the bank, she heard soft singing. There, sitting on a patch of grass, was the young woman from the minstrels’ group. Her daughter was in her arms. She was cradling the child, rocking her gently as she sang. Ursula stood for a moment, watching; then the woman looked up and saw her. She made as if to jump up.

“No, stay, please,” Ursula cried. “Please don’t go. I’ve been wanting to speak to you—I’ve enjoyed your singing so much.”

The woman looked back at her, then beyond her as if to see if anyone else was there.

“I’m alone,” Ursula said quickly, divining her thoughts. “There’s no one else here. My name is Ursula,” she went on. “We’ve come from Cologne.”

The young woman hesitated for a moment before answering, and then, timidly, pointed to herself. “Elizabeth,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth.” She spoke the Germanic dialect poorly and with obvious effort. She looked down at the child in her lap with pride. “My daughter, Verity.” The names sounded foreign and strange to Ursula.

“Where do you come from?” Ursula asked.

Elizabeth pointed north. “From far away. Across the sea. From England.”

“Why are you here?” Ursula persisted. “Why are you so far away from your home?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I follow my man,” she said simply.

“That man—the one who is your leader—is he your husband?” Ursula asked.

Elizabeth’s face clouded over. “No,” she answered slowly. “My husband is dead. He died of plague. Lemmet is just my man. He takes care of me and my daughter. Without him we would have starved,” she added. There was an odd note of defiance in her words. “He found us after my husband died. He took us in and taught me to sing. He takes care of us,” she repeated.

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