The Badger Knight

by Kathryn Erskine

  The gates are open and horses are in the stable yard as I cross through. I pass squires, or perhaps young knights, talking in low voices. They must be speaking of battle. Near them, several boys, younger than me, practice fighting with wooden swords. How I wish I were to the manor born so I could fight with a sword!

  I knock on the wooden door of the kitchen next to the manor house, although it’s half open. It smells rich and muttony. The cook works over the roaring fire and doesn’t hear me, so I step inside and call out, “Good day!”

  She jumps. “You! Boy! What a fright you gave me! What do you want?”

  “I’ve come from Ashcroft to —”

  “You came all the way from Ashcroft? In the dark?”

  She looks so angry I don’t think it wise to point out that it’s light now.

  “With ghouls and ghosts and thieves on the road? Foolish child!”

  She steps toward me and it’s only because I’m so nimble that I avoid her hand that tries to smack my head. I smile sheepishly at her from the other side of the table and pull the parchment out of my bag. “I wanted to get the recipe and this salve to my lady’s physic as quickly as possible.”

  “Well,” she grumbles, “that is a good cause.” She looks past me. “Thomas!”

  I whirl around and am relieved to see it’s not Thomas the leper, but a boy, younger than me, carrying a headless goose by the neck.

  “What?” the boy says, backing up a step. “You said goose, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, give it here!”

  Thomas the boy runs to give it to Cook.

  “Now you must go see Roger.”

  The boy steps back, shaking his head vigorously. “I’m not sick!” He eyes me, crunching up his nose, then points at me. “That boy is sick! Look how pale he is!”

  Cook rolls her eyes. “Take those recipes and salve to Roger.”

  Thomas leans away from me even as he snatches the parchment and pot of salve from my hand. Throwing me a final grimace, he runs off.

  “Never mind Thomas,” Cook says, turning her attention to me. Her voice is kinder now, as if making up for Thomas, but I’ve been treated far worse. “I suppose you want some food, boy?”

  “Yes, madam, I would be very much obliged.”

  She pours me a large bowl of stew, some of the best I’ve ever tasted, and gives me not just a hunk of bread but also some cheese! She puts a tankard of watered-down ale in front of me and I gulp it down. I eat fast, too, so I can be on my way.

  Cook smacks my shoulder. “Slow down, boy, or you’ll make yourself sick!”

  After eating and giving my thanks, I start to leave, but Cook catches me at the door. She gives me bread, cheese, and a lecture about all the evil travelers on the road, especially Pippin, the cobbler’s son, whose thieving is at full tilt now that there’s a war on, and who can sniff out fools like me from miles away.

  Again I start to leave but am stopped at the door, this time by the lady of the manor herself. She has dark hair, soft skin, and rosy cheeks. I’ve never seen her up close before, but now that I do I think she’s more beautiful than Jane. Or maybe it’s because she smiles. I bow my head but can’t stop from staring at her overly large stomach.

  Cook smacks the back of my head. “Stop your gawking!”

  My lady’s voice is gentle. “Who are you, young man?”

  “Adrian Black of Ashcroft,” I say, standing up straight, “John the bowyer’s son. I’m delivering recipes for Grandmother, the woman at Ashcroft who is well-known for her remedies. Well, she’s not my real grandmother, because I don’t have one, but rather my friend Hugh’s. He —”

  Cook shakes my arm. “Whist! She didn’t ask your life story!”

  But my lady is smiling widely now, though she tries not to show it. “It’s fine, Cook. Go on, Adrian of Ashcroft.”

  “I — I was only saying that Hugh will be a healer himself, a physic, I imagine.”

  “And you, Adrian, what will you be?” She smooths her rich green kirtle around her growing belly, as if caressing the baby inside.

  “A bowyer,” I say proudly. “And until then, an archer.”

  “Indeed,” the lady says, losing her smile and looking out the door into the distance. “For every bowyer we need a healer.”

  “Hugh is a great one.”

  She turns back to me. “He is your age?”

  “He’s almost fifteen, my lady, a grown man.” And then I add, “Much like me.”

  Cook snorts, but my lady smiles. “He resembles you?”

  In truth, Hugh has a handsome, chiseled face, while mine is only memorable for its pale, wan, sickly look. Everyone likes Hugh Stout. People would rather avoid me. Father Fraud only teaches seven boys, and he knows all their names, except mine. He just points to me and asks the other boys, What is that?

  “Well,” I say, “Hugh is stockier and stronger and a head taller — but we’re both masters with the bow.”

  “Aye, and modest, too,” says Cook, rolling her eyes.

  “This Hugh — is he studying to be a physic?” the lady asks.

  “He has studied his whole life, my lady, and learned everything Grandmother has taught him.”

  The lady sighs. “We could use a good physic here. Still, we must be happy with our lot, even if it’s not exactly what we want. Isn’t that right, Adrian?”

  “Yes, my lady,” I say, although I don’t mean it in the least. I don’t want to be puny, weak, or useless, and I intend to change all of those things, not be happy with them.

  The lady reaches into the purse tied to her belt and pulls out some silver coins. “Let me pay for the scribe your grandmother hired to write the recipes.”

  At that moment, I realize that I have no money. What a fool! How will I buy food or supplies for Hugh or myself? But I shake my head. “There was no scribe, my lady. It was just me.”

  “You know how to write?” She raises her eyebrows as if she doesn’t believe me.

  “I was taught by Father Frau — I mean, our priest. Only because my mother felt that scribing was better than bow making.”

  The lady smiles. “I believe I would like your mother, Adrian.”

  “She died in the last plague, eight years ago.”

  “That’s very sad,” she says, looking down at her belly. “Then I will pay you both for delivering the recipes and scribing them.” She drops three groats into my hand.

  That’s a whole shilling! I stare at the coins until Cook clobbers me on the head, again, to remind me to say thank you.

  “You are wrong about one thing,” my lady says. “A scribe did write those recipes, Adrian. You are the scribe.” She even makes it sound like a good thing, not something I should hide as I’m so used to doing around Bryce. “Godspeed. I pray you get home safely.”

  WHEN I LEAVE THE MANOR, I AM ON A PART OF THE ROAD, the woods, the world that I have never seen before. Going to the manor on my own was a first, because I’d only been with Hugh before. But now, I am truly on my own. Every step brings me closer to Scotland, and battle.

  I stop after losing sight of the manor and stare ahead. Not because I’m scared. It’s wise to get your bearings and know what you’re doing. It is then that I hear the sounds of metal on metal, and it’s moving this way. A fight! The battle? Already?

  I hear a brave English soldier’s voice. “Cowards! Heathens! Scum!” There is more clashing of swords, yelling and jeering, and it’s getting closer.

  I jump behind the bushes on the side of the road. There are too many of them for me to take them on single-handedly.

  “Next time,” the Englishman says, “I’ll have other soldiers with me and will take back my money and more!”

  It’s not a battle taking place but a robbery. The pagan Scots are robbing a soldier! I wish he’d run them through with his sword!

  But the Scots only laugh at the soldier, who must’ve run in the other direction because the heathens are coming toward me! I crouch lower in the bushes, my heart pounding. My first pagans!


  They’re laughing and cheering and jeering, three men, dressed much like I am, but their hoods cover their faces and they have swords as well as bows. When they pull their hoods off I’m stunned.

  I recognize the tall man from the market fair, although he’s not from our village. “These are good times,” he says. “Men are getting paid for their soldiering services in advance so they can buy their equipment.”

  “Aye,” says a shorter man, whom I don’t recognize, but his accent is also English. “The land is rich!”

  It sickens me that it’s our own Englishmen who would attack someone as brave as a soldier. Have they no honor? All for money?

  After that, I pay heed to Cook’s lecture about the dangers of the road. I seem to walk as many miles sideways as I do forward because I keep running away from the road, deep into the woods, to hide from pilgrims and traders and anyone else who might be evil. I keep my bow in hand, lest there be someone in the woods who tries to take me unawares.

  Soldiers, in particular, I avoid as if they’re all Thomas the leper, because if they’re pagan Scots they might eat me alive and if they’re English they may threaten to do so for coming into battle when they’ll think I’m about nine years old. Or for being a white-haired evil omen. Even if someone dragged me back to my village alive, I don’t even want to think of what punishment Good Aunt would boil up for me.

  At one point, the road and the land around it are wide open with only sheep fields. I don’t want to waste time hiding in the woods, so instead I pretend to be a shepherd boy. I make sure my bow and arrows are well concealed under my cloak and my white hair is hidden under my hood so as not to draw attention to myself. When no one is on the road, I hurry, but when I see someone, I look at the sheep as if I’m tending them.

  It works until several knights on horseback see me. One of them calls to me from the road and I look the other way. Maybe he’ll think I’m deaf. He calls again and, though my heart is pounding, I walk toward one of the sheep. I talk to it soothingly, like Bess does to Bessie, hoping it will stay calm. Kneeling beside it, I lift its hoof and examine it, as if I know what I’m doing.

  The man calls a third time and rides over to me. I can’t ignore him anymore when he nears and demands, “Didn’t you hear me calling, boy?”

  I look around me. “Oh. Were you speaking to me?”

  He lets his horse’s reins drop and thrusts his arms in the air. “Who else is in this field but sheep?”

  “Um … no one?”

  He glares at me. “I want to know if any knights have passed through this field today.”

  “None that I’ve seen,” I tell him, although I don’t mention that I’ve just arrived at this field myself.

  He grunts, as if reading my mind. “How long have you been here today?”

  “Oh, all day. Since early morning, sir.”

  “Funny,” he says, rubbing his chin, “I passed by here early this morning and did not see you.”

  I feel myself shrink, wishing I could hide behind a tree and not be seen. Happily, that gives me an idea. “I — I may have been sleeping, sir, over there,” I tell him, pointing to a copse of trees I notice nearby. “Please don’t tell my aunt,” I add hastily, hoping he’ll believe my story. “She will beat me for sure!”

  His grimace is almost a smile. Turning, he calls to his men, “No luck here,” and leaves me without another word.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and stay with the sheep at least an hour in case he comes back to check on me.

  Finally, although it’s only late afternoon, I stop by a small stream to sleep, finding a soft mossy patch under a tree. I know I should walk farther, while it’s still light, but I’m too tired, having started before dawn. I finally get a fire started with my flint. Making fires is not my strong suit. I ate only a bite of bread at midday so I allow myself a piece of the eel and more of the loaf. I’m doing my best to make the food last as long as possible.

  I see some mushrooms at arm’s length, and that’s where they must stay. I would love to pick and eat them, because they can be quite delicious, but just as I can’t tell one herb from another, I can’t tell one mushroom for another, and the wrong one can poison you as quick as a pagan Scot can cut off your head.

  I fall asleep quickly, but while it’s still light I wake up and my heart is pounding. I can’t get my breath. I realize that I’m lying right on top of some mushrooms, which, while they make a nice, soft place for my head, must have started my wheezing. Quickly, I back away from the mushrooms. I plunge my head into the stream, cold though it is, to wash all trace of the offending mushrooms off me.

  Thankfully, there are still glowing embers from my fire, so I add more tinder and twigs to start a good flame, and pull out the elfwort from the pouch of herbs. Using the clay bowl from Bess, I soon have hot water that I put the elfwort in, and I breathe in the steam. I force myself to drink the bitter tea, even though it’s without the honey that Grandmother usually adds. Whether it’s the vapors or the elfwort, I don’t know, nor do I care, because now I’m breathing easier.

  * * *

  Just before dawn, the rain begins. As it falls harder, I get up and move lest I get too cold. Soon, it’s pouring like bucket after bucket of water dousing the fire at the tithe barn two years ago. Why didn’t God send rain like this then? I don’t need it now.

  The rain makes my leggings and tunic stick to my skin like large, clammy, cold hands that refuse to let go. I trudge through the muddy woods, trying not to slip, rejoicing every time I avoid a fall. As the water rises, every floating stick I see I’m scared is a snake, and I jump out of its way. That’s when I slip and fall. Each time. I’m tripping so much it feels as if I’m wearing those long-toed shoes again. I can only imagine how much slower my progress would be if I were.

  The footpath becomes like a creek, deep enough in places to reach almost up to my calves. I hug the edge of the path, but that makes my back scrape against the bushes and trees, which deposit their cold rain down my back.

  When I reach the River Eden, it’s so swollen that it’s like a wild animal roiling. The wind that I thought was bellowing yesterday morning is nothing compared to the deathly roar of this water. I walk along the bank, hoping I’m going in the right direction to find a bridge, hoping that there actually is a bridge or some narrow place I can cross, preferably with a log or stones that are up high out of the water.

  After what feels like hours, I finally find a log across a narrower part of the water. It’s down a muddy embankment about four feet, but the log looks solid and long enough to safely bridge the width of water. Even so, I’m not happy about having to walk along a slippery, wet log across a rushing river, but I say a prayer before heading down the bank.

  Maybe I picked the wrong prayer because no sooner do I descend the muddy bank than my feet fly out from under me and I’m in the water with a crash, flailing to keep myself from drowning, clutching for anything. For several terrifying moments there’s nothing to hold on to. When I grab at a bunch of branches my face is scratched and my arms are yanked near off, but I hold fast, pull hard, and I’m soon on the other bank, panting and relieved. Until I turn back to the water that I have conquered and see a sight that makes my heart stop.

  I watch my sack of food swirl down the river, and I’m helpless to stop it. I can’t swim. If I go after it I may lose my life as well as the food.

  I’m so cold from being wet, yet it’s now dark and still raining and I can’t see the path. I don’t know which is worse: Stop for the night and freeze, or keep going so that my body stays warm but I risk falling in the river and drowning.

  In the end, I find a place under several trees, one of which is rotten and has fallen against the live ones, making a partial shelter. I’m still rained on. I’m still cold. I can’t make a fire because every branch and leaf is as soaked as I am. I hug my knees, shivering, hoping I find the battle soon because no matter how bad Father says battles are, I’d rather dodge swords and axes, and send arrow
s flying, than huddle in cold, wet misery.

  WHEN I AWAKE, I’M STIFF AND COLD BUT, PRAISE GOD, the rain has stopped and the sun has even come out! I’m much happier, except for my belly, which reminds me, over and over, that I need food. “Shut up, Belly!” I tell it, but, as usual, it doesn’t listen.

  The sun is already high in the sky, so I get moving, stiff and soggy though I am. My cloak is starting to dry although it stinks of wet sheep, which is not my favorite smell. I walk along the edge of the muddy road because it’s not as bad as squelching through the woods. I can’t believe that with all yesterday’s rain I’m thirsty. I keep looking and listening for signs of water.

  Before long I hear a stream — hoorah! I head left into the woods, following the gurgling sound. It quenches my ears just like it will soon quench my thirst.

  I stop short when I hear voices, and pull out my bow and two arrows. I creep closer, softly, so I can hear, crouching down behind a line of ash trees. Two men are sitting down together, facing the stream. Even looking at their backs I can see that one is large and wears green, and the other, much thinner, is in brown and looks like a twig compared to Big Green. Big Green is eating, but I can’t tell what. He has a large money pouch on him and I wonder if he’s a merchant or a thief. The Twig Man is filling a flask with water. He has a loaf of bread next to him and my belly starts grumbling so loudly I fear they’ll hear, so I put both arms across my stomach. I so want to ask them for food, but I don’t know if they can be trusted.

  I see that they’re speaking now but I can’t quite hear what they say, despite Big Green’s booming voice. The Twig’s sounds whiny and sour. I can hear the tone of their voices but can’t make out the words. While I thought the gurgling sound of the water was beautiful music before, now I wish it would shut up so I could know what the men say.

  Eventually, I hear “boy run off” and “his father” and “near Penrith” and I can’t help but crawl closer, bow in one hand, arrows in the other. I lie in some low witch hazel bushes, flat on my stomach, barely ten feet away but unseen.