“Think on it, John,” she says as she lifts her excess kirtle. “The fields would be good for him.”
I believe Father and I both sigh with relief when she leaves.
“Father, what I wanted to ask —”
“I have found ash, sir, but no more yew.” It’s Peter at the door with a bundle of wood, and I roll my eyes in frustration, though neither of them sees.
“Very well,” says Father, “we must make do with what we have. The point is to complete as many longbows as possible in a week’s time.”
“And that’s where I come in!” I say.
They both turn and look at me like I’m a nightingale who has mysteriously appeared in the middle of winter.
“I can be your apprentice now, Father. The time is here.”
Peter lets out a snort but turns away upon seeing Father’s frown.
Father stares at me for a good long while. “That knight who spoke at the church, George de Cluny, will be back in one week to pick up all the bows we can make. I don’t have time to teach you, nor can you contribute much in seven days.”
“I know a lot already, and the demand for bows and arrows will increase throughout the war. You’ll need another hand.”
“Indeed I will,” Father says somberly, and my heart jumps. “De Cluny is sending another journeyman to assist me.”
My heart sinks. I look at Peter. He’s no longer smirking. In fact, he’s already working on the wood he brought in. Bringing competition from elsewhere will likely make him be more serious about his work and forget about the alehouse. As for me, another journeyman means I have no chance at being apprentice.
“I’m sorry, son. For now, I need you to collect as many staves and goose feathers as you can for the arrows.”
“That’s all?”
“And you may practice your letters —”
“The priest is leaving! Haven’t you heard?” The anger comes out in my voice and, while Peter glances warily at Father, I’m not reprimanded.
Father only sighs. “And, eventually, you’ll be needed in your uncle’s field.”
“What!”
“He’d like to pay his way out of battle but I’m afraid that’s where he’ll end up eventually. Good Aunt is right enough that there’ll be no one to work the fields. They’re still family. We must help.”
“But I could do so much more —”
“You will, someday, I’m sure.” But he doesn’t sound sure at all as he turns back to his wood.
“When, Father? When? I’m not a child! I may be small but I’m almost a man! Don’t you see? Are you as blind as Ailwin the Useless?”
His shoulders stiffen but he neither speaks nor turns around. Peter is frozen, too, though his eyes manage to glare at me as if to say, You had best take that pagan mouth and be gone!
I storm out into the dark. It’s night now, and I’m grateful for its blackness so that no one can see the angry tears on my face.
WE HAVE PUSHED AND WORKED AND SWEATED AND STILL only gotten Bessie through two rows of Uncle’s field. I’m wheezing and Uncle is not much better. He wipes his face with his sleeve and says he must “deliver a message to the alehouse.”
“Shall I deliver it for you, Uncle?” I can’t resist asking, if only to hear what he says.
“No, no, it’s …” and he mutters something unintelligible. It doesn’t matter. It’s a lie, anyway. He only wants to go drink ale, much ale, while he leaves me here in the field. “Start this row, and I expect it and two more like it to be done by the time I return.”
What? Has he had too much ale already? How can I plow one row myself, much less three? We’ve worked together all morning and only done two.
There’s a spring in his step as he heads for the alehouse. Maybe it’s a mistake for his main field to be so close to it. He can see the alehouse from almost every angle.
The sign swings in the breeze above the door of the alehouse, knocking against the building, but it’s quiet compared to the drunken commotion there’ll surely be in a few hours, when work is done for the day. That’s when Uncle brings his dice along with his thirst. Good Aunt ignores his gambling because he’s so good at it. I think she hopes he’ll buy his way to yeoman soon. Uncle just wants to buy his way out of battle.
The smell of fires warms me enough that I ignore the breezes. Though it’s only September it’s a cold day. The smell of baking bread from the mill fills my nostrils but isn’t enough by itself to fill my belly. I’m reminded that it’s almost suppertime. Lately, I’ve been famished although I eat as much as usual. I hope I don’t have some vile disease. But if I had a vile disease, wouldn’t the food be coming out rather than going in?
I ponder such things to pass the time as I move one step forward, sometimes backward, through a solitary row in Uncle’s field. My feet are sore and Bessie won’t cooperate no matter how hard I push or yell or swat at her.
“St. Jerome’s bones, I’ll beat you till you bellow!” I cry, but she ignores me. I poke her with the goad — not hard, for she might turn and trample me — but enough for her to know there is someone back here who expects her to work for her supper, same as I have to. I can only hope that Uncle will be too gleeful with ale to remember which row he left me on. Maybe I can make him believe it was me who plowed the two rows we already did.
The next step I take lands me on my back because my foot has slipped out from under me. As I smell the stench I realize why. It’s Bessie’s dung! Fresh and odiferous! St. Jerome’s nose! It’s even in my hair, so the smell will be surrounding me all day!
I catch movement beyond the field’s fence and I jump up quickly, lest it be the unholy trinity ready to pummel me while I’m down. But it’s my cousin, carrying a large loaf of bread and something else, which is a mystery because it’s wrapped in cloth. It’s Bess — the cousin, not the thing wrapped in cloth. She puts that on the ground at the edge of the field with the bread on top of it.
Her face is prune-ish, as is her body, just like Good Aunt’s. I can’t stand the look of her. Why doesn’t she just leave the food and go home?
As if in answer, she says, “Father said I must stay because you need help.”
I stare at her as if that’s the most outlandish thing to say, as if I had not just slid on my ass. “I don’t need your help.” Even as I say it, I wonder at myself. Don’t I want help? Yes, but not hers. She’s most likely laughing at me behind her pinched face.
Grabbing the plow, I push with all my might and yell at the stupid ox. Repeatedly. We don’t move.
“She won’t work like that,” my cousin says.
“She won’t work at all!” I reply.
“She will for me,” Bess says quietly.
I fling my hands off the plow, step back, and cross my arms. “Splendid. I will eat, then. You take the beast.”
I strut to the food pile, break off a piece of bread, and stuff it in my mouth. Unwrapping the cloth, I find eel, which I love, and decide to eat most of it. Uncle won’t mind. He’s happy with ale.
I settle comfortably in the hollow trunk of an old tree to eat. I watch Bess deal with Bessie, who snorts and farts, whether because of a change of driver or just being herself, who can tell. But what my cousin does next amazes me. Instead of prodding Bessie’s back end with the goad, she goes to her snorting front end and proceeds to talk to her and even pet her! I’ve heard of shepherds singing to sheep to calm them but talking to a belligerent ox? She’s as addlepated as I supposedly am! I laugh out loud but before long I stop.
Bessie stops complaining and stands like a docile pig while my cousin goes behind her to take hold of the plow. Bess makes a clicking sound and — St. Jerome’s legs! — that beast begins to walk down the row, not fast, but still she’s moving, and it’s forward movement, faltering only when meeting the largest stones that take extra effort to move. I stare at my cousin and I think she sees me out of the corner of her eye.
I feel the hot blood rising to my face and my breath comes more rapidly. Fine! So s
he knows how to handle an ox. I don’t even want to know how to handle that beast. I’m only here until — hopefully — Uncle buys his way out of battle.
I’m amazed, though, at how Bessie keeps moving for her. And how my cousin’s sweet-talking seems to calm the ox. And how strong my cousin is with the plow, practically lifting it out of the earth when it gets stuck. That piece of iron weighs more than Uncle. I can barely move it. How does she handle it like that, skinny as she is?
I begin to sneeze. When I look down and see the moldy green stuff growing all around the tree I’m sitting in, I groan. And then sneeze some more, my nose and chest feeling fuller by the moment. I think about what Hugh’s grandmother has said of certain plant life. Some sneezing and wheezing is brought on by plants. Good Aunt says that’s nonsense, the idea that nature can hurt us, but if some plants are powerful enough to cure diseases, why can’t some start them?
I move away from the offending plants and try to blow out my nose and slow my breathing. When I look at the field, my cousin is already turning Bessie and the plow at the end of the row. I look away quickly because I don’t want her to see me watching and think I’m impressed. Or see the water running out of my eyes and think I’m crying.
And it’s exactly when I turn my head that the clod of dirt hits. Not me, this time, but my cousin. From the laughter, far to my left, I know the culprits are the same. The unholy trinity.
The next clod hits Bessie and she flinches.
“Leave her alone!” my cousin cries. “Why would you hurt her?”
Now a clod hits my cousin square in the chest.
“Is that better?” Bryce calls, as William and Warren cheer.
“It doesn’t matter,” William says, or maybe it’s Warren, “I can’t tell which is the ox!”
“Fool,” says Bryce, “the one on four legs is the ox, the other is so ugly it must be a boy!”
They laugh again and proceed to throw more earth, even stones, and I start to feel sorry for my cousin, much as I dislike her. I’m about to come out of hiding so they’ll attack me instead, when I realize that Bess is quite skillful at dodging their weapons. And she ignores their jeers and continues to plow. Amazingly, they leave. Are they afraid of Bess? Or Bessie? While I’m happy they’re gone, I’m perplexed and not a little vexed that my cousin seems to have more power against the unholy trinity than I do. I feel completely useless.
Shortly after, Hugh appears. He looks at me quizzically. I hope he didn’t see what the unholy trinity did, and that I did nothing about it. But he only smirks and says, “You’re letting your cousin do all the work?”
I stand up quickly. “I — she —”
He loses his smirk, eyeing my face and seeing the redness and snot. “It doesn’t matter,” he says quickly. “I’m here to help, anyway. Grandmother needs you to write out herbal recipes for the lady of the manor. She spoke with Good Aunt and exchanged my services in the field for your scribing.”
In truth, I’m delighted, because although I don’t like school, scribing is much easier than field work. Still, I don’t want to look weak, so I shrug and say, “I could do the plowing, except for that wretched ox.”
Hugh turns to watch Bessie. “Your cousin seems to handle her just fine.”
I grit my teeth. It appears she handles the unholy trinity, the plow, and the stupid ox better than I can.
“Listen,” says Hugh, tilting his head and smiling, “how sweetly she speaks to the ox.”
“Yes, they seem to understand each other well, Bess and Bessie. Maybe they’re related.”
Hugh loses his smile, shaking his head. “Adrian, you shouldn’t say such mean things about your own family.”
“They deserve it.”
“What has Bess ever done to you?”
I have to think for a while. Good Aunt has done plenty. And so has Jane. When I was just a small boy, Jane held me upside down over the well, threatening to drop me inside, simply because I splashed mud — by accident! — on her precious kirtle.
“I’m waiting,” Hugh says, crossing his arms like Reeve Elliot, the boss of the whole village.
“I’m still thinking. Ah, yes. She tattled on me.”
Hugh scrunches his face in thought. “Are you sure that wasn’t Jane?”
“Well of course it was Jane! But I bet some of the times it was Bess, too.”
Hugh gives me a disappointed look — I wish he weren’t so virtuous! — and walks onto the field, toward cousin and ox. Bess looks away shyly and I wonder if she’s following her sister’s lead and plans to smack Hugh once he reaches her. But she relinquishes the plow to Hugh and walks alongside Bessie, whispering in her ear.
It’s like the picture on the page of our church Psalter for growing season, a happy husband and wife plowing the field with their bovine companion. Worse, it’s a living picture of bliss because the “husband” and “wife” even speak. I can’t hear what they say, but they’re obviously enjoying themselves. I hear Hugh laugh, and when I catch glimpses of Bess’s ugly face I see a smile on it. Why? They couldn’t possibly like each other. But Hugh’s manner is that of a gentleman, even Good Aunt says so, though he’s but a lowly farmer, and he could make the sourest plum smile.
Still, as I watch them, I’m not smiling. I don’t like this frivolity. Hugh is my best friend and his smiles and jokes should be reserved for me. Why is he sharing them with the likes of my cousin?
MY HAND IS GROWING CRAMPED WRITING ALL OF THE recipes for Grandmother, and the ingredients are swimming around in my head: two sprigs of rosemary, a pinch of sage, a handful of wild onion, some yarrow; crush, blend with butter, boil for two hours. Coriander to prevent fever, chamomile to prevent headaches, thyme can be used to fumigate against infection, and a crushed bullhorn burned in a fire will keep fleas away.
The scent from the fire is sweet, though, and it’s warm and dry inside and I’m grateful to be here rather than in the rainy, muddy fields, like Hugh. I’m even feeling guilty that I have such easy labor while he will have to work in Uncle’s fields, as well as his own, but neither Hugh nor Grandmother can scribe, so there’s no choice.
Still, I’m somewhat peeved with Hugh for spending his time with Bess. In the field is fine, but he doesn’t need to walk her home afterward. Does he think she’s forgotten the way? And how he looks at her! As if eyeing a savory meat pie or the best yew bow ever made. It sickens you enough to need Grandmother’s potions!
“Adrian, are you listening?”
“What? Yes.”
“Crushed spiderwort root? Did you write that?”
I squint at the parchment with my right eye. Even my good eye doesn’t work well in this dim light. I see nothing about crushed spiderwort root. “Is that for the melancholy?”
“Nay, it’s for loosening the bowels.”
I snort.
“You may laugh, but it’s no laughing matter when a pregnant woman’s bowels are blocked.”
“I don’t even know how to write bowels! It’s not a word the priest has taught us.”
“Do your best. We’re almost done. Then you may deliver some remedies around the village. I’ll ask Hugh to deliver the recipes to the manor after mass on Sunday.”
Maybe Hugh would like a rest. And I would like to get out of going to mass by saying it takes me a long time to walk all the way there and back. I think Father is getting suspicious that I always have wheezing attacks on Sunday mornings and have to stay home. “I can take them.” Maybe I’d even see some knights on their way to battle!
“The manor is some many miles from here.”
“I’ve been with Hugh before. It’s an easy walk.” In truth, the first time I went, Hugh had to carry me piggyback part of the way home because I had a fit of wheezing. But that was when I was even smaller than I am now.
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure your father can spare you.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, yes, my important task of gathering goose feathers.”
Grandmother gives a hint of a smi
le. “Hugh might like the excuse for a walk, perhaps with a lady friend.”
I roll my eyes again. “With Bess. I know.”
“He’s growing fond of her, it seems.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I say sarcastically.
Grandmother laughs.
“It’s annoying,” I retort.
She smiles. “It’s a part of growing up.”
“Yes, but his growing up is affecting me.”
“Indeed, it does affect others.” She looks at Hugh’s father’s pack and leather armor piled in the corner in readiness for his trip to battle, gazing at it with the smile a mother gives her ailing baby, although Hugh’s father is a grown man.
Why, I wonder, doesn’t growing up happen to me? Why is everyone else growing and I’m not? When is it my turn?
Grandmother sniffs and turns to me as if she has smelled my thoughts. “It will happen to you, too.”
I look down at my small self and sigh. “Good Aunt says I was always tiny and, having barely survived illness, I should be grateful to be alive, albeit forever puny.”
“You’ll grow. Not to the size of Hugh — not many will — but you will grow.”
“Maybe,” I say, although I am not convinced. “She says I’m too sickly to grow very much.”
“Doesn’t she remember your mother, her own sister, who had the wheezing worse than you but, eventually, it faded? Haven’t you yourself seen a difference in your malady over these past several years?”
I stop and think about it. Maybe she’s right. I used to have the wheezing every day, many times a day. Now I can go for days at a time without suffering. But will it go away altogether? Not according to Good Aunt. “Good Aunt says —”
Grandmother slaps her thigh sharply. “And which one of us — Good Aunt or I — is the better healer and physic, do you think?”
I laugh outright. “On that there’s no contest. You, of course.” Good Aunt thinks she knows more about everything. She has even tried giving Grandmother advice!
“I’m not dead yet,” Grandmother says, “though she would sorely like to take over my position as healer.”
The Badger Knight Page 3
