The Badger Knight

by Kathryn Erskine

  “That’s my wife’s doing,” Uncle says, “if there’s anything amiss.”

  “Then,” Elliot sneers, “perhaps you should have a word with your wife.”

  Uncle mutters, but this time I hear him. “I’d rather control the ox than that beast.”

  “A man who cannot control his own wife is —”

  “I didn’t say I can’t!” Uncle says, his chest puffed out and hands on his waist.

  “See that you do,” the reeve says, and turns to pay for his new shoes. They are a bright, rich brown that’s almost red. And they have long, curled-up toes.

  “Badger,” I hear Bryce hiss behind me, making me jump.

  Bryce laughs. His father turns and, upon seeing Bryce, smiles. When he sees me, the smile becomes a grimace, and he raises his eyebrows.

  “I — I’m here for new boots,” I stammer, although I’m angry for feeling that I have to explain myself.

  “I trust your father is wiser than your uncle,” the reeve says, as if giving me a warning. “Common boots for common craftsmen.” He walks off with a flourish.

  Common craftsmen? Father is a bowyer! The king himself is indebted to Father for his knowledge. That’s far better than a pompous fool like Bryce’s father. All he does is collect money from all of us for the lord of the manor.

  Bryce shoves me and laughs coldly. “You’ll never amount to anything.”

  His words sting. He’s not merely ridiculing Father’s profession, but also my size and strength. St. Jerome’s bones! Now I know what kind of shoes I’m getting!

  I try to enter the stall but Tom’s wife’s backside blocks my way and it’s too wide to get around. I’m about to ask her to move but she lets out a shriek.

  “This is from your side of the family! It’s your brother’s bad blood in his veins! Our son is a thief and he always has been!”

  “Nay,” says a man’s voice, which I think is Tom’s, but I can’t see around the aforementioned backside of his wife. “Pippin wasn’t always bad. Think on his boyhood. Remember he pulled you out of the stream when you fell in?”

  “Aye, because I slipped down the bank trying to get back the penny he stole from my pocket!”

  Tom’s voice does not boom as much. “He brought us bread when we had nothing to eat.”

  “Which he stole!” she screams.

  Meekly, Tom says, “Maybe he’s like Robin Hood.”

  “Pah! Robin Hood, indeed! He’s an evil dolt! I’d ask the devil himself to rip his heart out, it’s so black with his vile actions. And now that men are being paid good money for soldiering supplies, he’s having a heyday stealing from them. It disgusts me!”

  Tom’s wife may be coarse but she’s also right. I’ve heard of several people who’ve been robbed by Pippin. And he was always mean. Just like Bryce.

  She whirls around and makes to storm out of the shop, nearly knocking me over. “What do you want, boy?” She doesn’t wait for an answer but marches off, muttering.

  Tom gives me an apologetic smile and motions outside. “I have children’s shoes out front.”

  “I want those,” I say, pointing to a pair on the wall behind him. They are a rich brown leather, almost as red as the reeve’s, with long, pointed toes, even curling up slightly.

  “They’re fine boots, fit for gentry.” He eyes my clothes. “They won’t last long in a field.”

  “I don’t work in a field!”

  He smirks, picking up a shoe he is sewing, and I feel my ire rising.

  “I’m Adrian Black of Ashcroft, John the bowyer’s son.”

  He grunts and nods, seeming to accept the importance of Father’s position, as well he should. He puts down his sewing and hands me the beautiful pair of shoes.

  I put them on and the soft leather feels like feathers on my feet. “How much are they?”

  I gulp when I hear the price, but it doesn’t stop me. “I’ll take them.”

  “They’re too big for you.”

  “Father said to buy them overly large because my feet grow so fast.” Those aren’t Father’s exact words, but he said something like it.

  “Aye, but these are big enough that they violate the sumptuary laws.”

  I look down at my feet and try to measure in my head if the pointy end of the shoe is more than two inches beyond my toes. It is. But it makes my feet look large. And it feels good to stand out as big, even if it’s only my feet. I decide it’s worth the risk of being caught by Bryce’s father.

  “My toes are almost at the end of the boot,” I say.

  Tom clucks and shakes his head but is willing enough to take my money when I pull it out of my pouch. I walk out of the stall with pride and soon learn how to walk in oversize, pointy shoes without tripping. Much.

  I get a good deal on tallow because I carve new pieces of wood to replace the rotten ones on the peddler’s cart. And I tell him the tallow is for the war effort. Still, I hope Father doesn’t count what’s left in his money pouch.

  Carving the wood reminds me that I could be making bows, if Father would only realize that I could help the journeyman de Cluny sent. Stephen is nicer than Peter, but not as fast. I know the feel of a bow so well, I could do a better job than either of them.

  When I hear the unholy trinity behind me, yelling, “Badger, Badger,” I take off at a run, as fast as my shoes will allow. I feel like a badger being hunted by bears. They pelt me with clods of dirt but are too busy laughing hysterically when I trip over my own feet, several times, that they don’t come after me, and that’s all I wish for.

  I wish for a little more when I get home, however. I wish that Peter and Stephen would stop snickering at my feet and Father wouldn’t be so angry that I have “wasted good money on ridiculous shoes.” Mostly I wish that Good Aunt were not here, telling Father that this is but more proof that I am a useless addlepate.

  I SNEAK OFF WHILE GOOD AUNT CONTINUES HER TIRADE so that I’m not around when she decides to send me to the fields or subject me to cupping or the Lord only knows what else. I get to the woods, where my bow and quiver are stashed in the birch tree. Although it feels good to practice, it doesn’t feel good to keep tripping over my shoes.

  I hear Thomas the leper clapping his spoon against his bowl and I retreat farther into the woods. Sometimes I feel guilty for avoiding him, but at least I don’t throw stones at him like the unholy trinity. Thomas calls out a thank-you and Hugh calls back, wishing him a good day. It’s all right for Hugh to leave food for Thomas but he really shouldn’t get so close to him. Even Grandmother says to keep five paces away, and I’ve seen Hugh get as near as two paces. I shudder to think of the likes of Thomas, but grin when I see Hugh striding toward me.

  Taking a step toward him, I trip over my own shoes, again.

  Hugh bites his lip, trying not to laugh.

  “What?” I say, challenging him, as I struggle to my feet.

  He shakes his head briefly. “Nothing. It’s just” — he nods at my shoes — “they don’t suit you.”

  “Why not?”

  “They look … large.”

  “Maybe it’s my feet that are large.”

  Hugh twists his mouth around. It’s painful for him to hear something that even sounds like it might be a lie.

  I sigh. “Fine. They’re a bit big, but they make my feet look bigger.”

  “Why must your feet look bigger?”

  I look at him askance. Surely he knows why.

  “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much about your size.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” I snort.

  Hugh starts to answer but I cut him off. “The reeve says Father only does common crafts! And Bryce says I’ll never amount to anything. They’re such swine. Well, I can wear finery, too.”

  Hugh lets an arrow fly, hitting the center of a knot hole in an oak. “You wear them to show you’re as good as Bryce?”

  I glare at him. “I wear them to show I’m of his class.”

  Hugh lowers his bow and looks at me, disappoin
tment in his gaze. “Adrian, you don’t need to prove anything to the likes of him.”

  Although he’s my best friend, Hugh sometimes makes me feel like a fool. It’s a part of his nature I don’t really care for. I change the subject. “I heard what happened at the practice field. Showing your skill worked!”

  Hugh smiles. “Aye, it did.” His face grows serious again. “But Father says Elliot is weakening and may wait until I’m fifteen to send me. A lot can happen in that time. Father is not the best shot.”

  I can’t argue with that. “So will you go to battle on your own?”

  “I think I must.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’? Of course I’m going with you!”

  “I won’t allow it,” Hugh says, his face getting redder. “Absolutely not!”

  “You’re not my father so you can’t tell me what to do!” I shout back. “I’m just as good of an archer as you, even better, and if I want to go —”

  “It doesn’t matter how good your archery skills are, Adam!”

  He calls me his dead brother’s name and this time it angers me that he thinks me a young boy. “I am not —”

  “You’re still twelve years old. You shouldn’t see what goes on in battle. Besides, there’ll be few enough men left in the village and you’ll need to help tend the fields, carry the water —”

  “Carry water? Tend the fields? Have Bessie the ox stomping on me while you’re off in battle getting all the glory?” I load an arrow, aim, and shoot a squirrel as it jumps from one tree to the next. It falls with a thud. “You can’t have all the glory, Hugh!”

  I hear a loud crackling in the trees behind us and whirl around, bow in hand, in time to see William and Warren running away.

  Hugh chuckles. “You scared them off.”

  “They were probably after me but saw that you were here and got scared.”

  “More likely,” Hugh says, “they saw what a sure shot you are with the bow and that sent them scurrying off like scared rabbits.”

  I have to laugh because they did look exactly like two scared rabbits!

  We practice our archery without speaking of going to battle, but I’m hoping that since Hugh has seen my might, he’ll change his mind. At least he’s happy about the squirrel I killed because now he has a meal to give Thomas. Despite our arguing, I consider the afternoon a success.

  Until I return home. Father crosses his arms and frowns at me. Peter and Stephen look at each other, quietly put their tools down, and edge past me, leaving the shop.

  “The reeve tells me that you and Hugh were practicing archery in the woods.”

  How did he — St. Jerome’s bones! The twins told Bryce, who squealed on us!

  “I can explain, Father.”

  “Go on.”

  Why did I say that? What do I explain? I hesitate. “It’s just that Hugh needs to be ready for battle — when the time comes.”

  “And what about you? Why are you practicing?”

  “To help Hugh. You want him prepared, don’t you?”

  “Aye, and that is what the practice field is for. And the other men.” He emphasizes the word men to make me feel puny.

  “Pig slop!” I say.

  I hear gasps from Peter and Stephen outside. Father’s jaw drops, as do his arms. Maybe this time I really have spoken too much. But I hurry on.

  “Father, you know that most of the men in the village are not as sure a shot as I am! I can hit the center of the target! I can hit a leaf at fifty yards! I can hit a squirrel in —”

  “Enough!” Father looks down at me, so angry he’s quivering.

  I stand my ground, even if he decides to hit me. I will not flinch.

  Instead, he stands there shaking, breathing fiercely through his nostrils until, finally, he calms down. He turns to the door and calls, “You are both dismissed for the day!”

  I hear the scurrying and whispers of Peter and Stephen moving away as Father looks back at me and we’re alone. I’m not afraid. His face is sagging and his arms droop, as if he’s a bellows emptied of all air.

  Sighing, he sits back down and orders me to do the same. I back up to the stool in the corner and sit.

  Father holds his palms together as if in prayer for some time before he finally says, “I know you wish to be my apprentice.”

  I hold my breath. Maybe he’ll finally accept me?

  “I have refused because of your mother.”

  “Mother?”

  “She’s the one who started you on your letters. Do you remember how she told you stories and showed you the words that made them?”

  I remember that. She showed me much. And the things she had no chance to show me, I learned at school, where Father made me start going after she died.

  “She didn’t want you in this” — he sweeps his hand around the shop — “trade.”

  “Why not?”

  He lowers his voice, as if the walls have ears. “She came to believe that war, and all of its weapons, were merely the toys of kings and nobles, a way for them to gain land and money and power.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  He sighs. “With this war against the French and so many battles with the Scots, and even English noble against English noble, I do wonder at the purpose.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen too many people die. It’s easy to say that it’s all for God and country and honor. It’s harder to believe it.”

  “Then why do you stay a bowyer?” I challenge him.

  His eyes examine the ground. “I am less and less happy in my profession. Yet it has given me much. I don’t need to farm at all and that’s unusual, also a godsend, given that we’re a very small family and I’m growing old.”

  And I’m not much use in a field, I add to myself. But I don’t want to end up like Ailwin the Useless. “Where are you thinking of apprenticing me, then?”

  Father looks away. “You know I have always said that I will care for you.”

  This time I tell him the truth. “I want to care for myself.”

  He nods but he doesn’t look as if he agrees. “It is better for you to stay in our village.”

  “And do what? The reeve despises me, so he’ll sabotage anything I try. The blacksmith is the only one who’ll stand up to him, but I’ll never be big enough to handle that job.”

  “I will always take care of you, Adrian,” he repeats.

  “Then I’ll be an archer!”

  “No! If people know how good you are, they will want you in battle.”

  I try not to grin but he must see the happiness on my face.

  He shakes his head. “No, Adrian. It is not good. I do not wish to lose you. Reeve Elliot wants to send Hugh into battle with the men, maybe as soon as a fortnight. Hugh’s father is arguing with the reeve right now.”

  “Why?”

  Father looks at me, his eyes wide. “Because Hugh is too young for battle.”

  “He’ll be fifteen by the feast of St. Martin.”

  “Aye,” says Father, “less than two months away. That’s when the reeve says he must go — if he agrees to let him wait until then.”

  “Hugh wants to go,” I venture.

  “Only because he doesn’t know any better.”

  “Hugh is not a fool!”

  “Of course not. But he’s young and thinks battle is a glorious thing.”

  “It is,” I say to myself.

  But Father hears me and speaks sharply. “You wouldn’t think so if you saw him wounded — or worse.”

  “That won’t happen to Hugh! He’s too skillful!”

  Father shakes his head, closes his eyes, and his voice is soft now. “It’s not all about skill. There is much that can happen beyond the soldier’s control.” He sighs and looks at me. “Fortunately, you’re so small that there’s no chance of your being sent to battle.”

  I bristle at his remark. I am not useless! I’m a better shot than most of the men.
And I’m older than he treats me. Maybe Father is right that I won’t be sent to battle. But who’s to stop me from going of my own free will?

  ON MICHAELMAS, THE WHOLE VILLAGE GOES TO CHAPEL to pray for our good men before they head off for battle. It’s a short service because Father Fraud now stays at the manor and is eager to get back, probably for a Michaelmas feast, although no one is celebrating here.

  After the service, the men leave the village, walking north past Penrith to Carlisle. Some have leather helmets. Some wear chest plates. Some carry pikes. But all have longbows, thanks to Father. I watch Hugh and his father embrace and see the sadness in his father’s eyes. But I know something his father doesn’t. Hugh will follow them.

  Hugh, Bess, and I meet in Uncle’s field near the tavern.

  Bess pleads with Hugh not to go. “You don’t need to prove you’re brave! I know you’re brave already!”

  “I must fight beside my father,” Hugh says softly. “I don’t want to lose him.”

  “And I don’t want to lose you!” she says, her voice catching.

  Bess cries quietly and Hugh comforts her with one arm, pulling her to his chest. With his other arm, he grabs my shoulder. “Don’t follow me, Adrian. Please.” Hugh’s eyes beseech me and I want to assure him.

  “I won’t,” I say, although what I mean is I won’t follow you now. Soon, however, I will.

  “And take care of Bess —”

  “Whist!” says Bess, pushing away from him and wiping her eyes. “How do you think I’ve survived all these years? How? By my own self!”

  Even though she chastises him, Hugh smiles. “I do love that spirit of yours, Bessie.”

  Bess blushes, smiles, and snuggles up against Hugh’s chest again.

  I groan and turn away. “Must I leave you two?”

  Bess giggles.

  I’m about to go, but Hugh stops me. “Adrian, please leave food for Thomas. Now that I’m not here, he’ll have no one providing for him.”

  “Of course,” I say, although it turns my stomach to think of Thomas the leper and the scabs on his face and his missing fingers and the stench of him. I know it’s not his fault and I know he’s suffering his hell on earth so he’ll go straight to heaven, but I still can’t stand to look at him. But it’s the least I can do for Hugh to put food out for him — at least, until it’s my turn, too, to leave for battle.