THE LIFELESS VILLAGE WAS SOON behind us. Bear went first, moving over the road with the strides of a giant.
And what a strange sight he was with his black tunic, legs of two colors, split hat bobbing, and bells jangling. As for me, with his heavy sack upon my back, I had to struggle to keep up.
At first we didn’t speak. I was too down in my spirits. That I, in fleeing from one cruel master, should be bound to another, was almost too much to endure. And to a man who claimed he hated tyranny.
More than once I considered dropping the sack and running away. I had to remind myself that I had sworn a sacred oath to stay. To break it would cast me straightaway to Hell. There was nothing to do but march along and do as God had willed. Then I recalled that Great Wexly was one of the places Father Quinel had said I could gain my liberties. Perhaps there would be some advantage in my going there. Silently, I prayed it would be so.
For the rest of the day we tramped along. In all that time we saw no one, nor came to another village.
Once I asked, “Sir Bear, why are there no people about?”
“By Saint Roch, it’s the pestilence,” he said, confirming my fears. “Hardly any villages were spared in this area. But farther along, you’ll see people aplenty. And in the cities …”
“Is there no one left in them, sir?” I asked, worried that they too might have been abandoned.
He laughed. “In London, say thirty, forty thousand.”
“Forty thousand?” I cried, astonished.
“Don’t worry. It’s far more than any man—except the royal tax collectors—can count. And don’t call me sir,” he snarled.
“Why?”
“I’ts servile.”
“But you’re my master.”
His answer was a growl.
We had trudged on for I don’t know how much longer when Bear stopped. “We’ll take some rest here.”