The Badger Knight

by Kathryn Erskine

  The Twig shrugs. “It’s not the first time a boy has run off to battle, nor the last.”

  “But this one is tiny and sickly, his father says. He looks odd and appears to be aged eight or nine, though he be almost thirteen.”

  I grit my teeth.

  “He’ll turn and run for home before long,” the Twig says. “What can a small boy do out here?”

  I grip my arrows so tight I fear I might snap them.

  “By all accounts he’s a master with the bow,” Big Green says.

  My ears perk up at this. Master? Me? Who calls me that?

  The Twig grunts. “A child? A master archer? Ha!”

  “So his father says.”

  Father? Father said that? I feel the pride swelling up my chest so large I wouldn’t be surprised if my huge chest sticks out from the bushes and gives me away!

  “Pah! That’s merely a father’s love.”

  “It’s said that the boy can shoot a squirrel as it jumps between tree branches or a crow circling overhead, even if it’s foggy.”

  The Twig shakes his head as if not believing. I want to jump out and proclaim, “It’s true! I can!”

  “And,” Big Green says, his voice rising, “that he can shoot a leaf off a tree at fifty feet even in a stiff breeze.”

  The other man shrugs. “It’s no great skill to aim at a tree and hit some leaf. Many an archer can do that.”

  “Aye,” Big Green says, his eyebrows rising, “but can they name which leaf?”

  It takes a moment for what Big Green says to sink in. I know because the Twig’s head jerks and he turns to stare at the other man. “Nay,” he says, his whiny voice half disbelieving, half questioning.

  It’s Big Green’s turn to shrug. “That’s what they say.”

  “I’d like to see such a boy.”

  It’s all I can do not to jump out from behind the trees and say, “It is I! Adrian of Ashcroft, near Penrith … master archer!”

  “Well, if what they say is true, then no doubt the boy can take care of himself.”

  Big Green turns to face the other man and I see the smile fade from his lips. “His father fears that he’ll be put to use. A small child in a tree shooting a bow could do some damage before …”

  The Twig stops what he’s doing and looks hard at the man. “Before a pagan Scot shoots and kills him.”

  “Aye. That is his father’s dread.”

  I swallow hard but tell myself that I’m not scared. I don’t think anyone could shoot me out of a tree. Besides, they’ll be too busy shooting one another.

  Big Green stands up with a grunt. “I pulled my cart into the woods and my horse will surely warn me if anyone approaches. Still, I must be away if I want to make Carlisle by nightfall. Safe travels, pilgrim!” He whistles that tune about summer coming, which I think is odd because it’s already fall and it’s winter that comes next.

  The Twig crosses the stream as the large peddler ambles off to my right. He must be a peddler if he has a cart and a large pouch of money. I keep as still as Bessie when she’s particularly stubborn, and I remain unseen.

  After hearing the men talk about me, I know that I must be even more careful about hiding. It also makes me realize that Father is very worried about me, and for that I do feel bad. I’m happy that he thinks I’m a master with the bow, however. It proves that he was watching all those times I tested his bows. And that he knows what I can do. A master, I am.

  Even without food, I have high spirits as I walk uphill and down, taking shortcuts through the woods rather than following the winding road. I can also hide better this way. When I trip over an apple on the ground, I look up at several apples hanging from the branches above my head and realize I’ve found food. Good Aunt says it’s only wise to eat apples cooked, so I hesitate for a moment. Then I consider the source of that wisdom and eat six apples raw. They’re crisp and juicy and sweet. If I don’t puke, I am always going to eat apples this way!

  After a while, I allow myself some easy walking on the road, as my feet are tired from stepping on rocks and jumping over logs in the woods. Before long, though, I hear a cart coming and I duck into the woods again. I stop when a sound catches my ear. It’s the loud whistle of that peddler. At least, I think it must be him, because he’s whistling the same wrong-season song about summer coming. I hide behind trees at the edge of the road. It takes a few minutes for the cart to reach me, and while it does, I get an idea. Wouldn’t it be nice to sit in the back of a cart and ride along instead of walk? The peddler said he was heading to Carlisle. Well, so am I. By the time the wagon passes at its slow rate, I’ve decided to hitch a ride.

  It’s risky, because the peddler knows my story and might guess me to be the boy — the master archer — who has run off from the village near Penrith. Still, he has a business and wants to make Carlisle by nightfall, so I don’t think he’d turn around and drive me all the way to Ashcroft. The worst he’d do is throw me out of his cart once he discovers me and I’d have to walk, which is no worse than where I am now. In fact, it’s better, because I’ll be well rested while having made progress north.

  The cart moves so slowly that I just need to follow it until I see my chance to hop on. Luckily, there must be a lot of pottery inside, because it makes a jingling racket. That’ll cover any noise I make. Still, I must be careful. I know that Bessie is sensitive to any pulling on the plow or cart behind her and a horse is surely smarter than Bessie, so I’ll have to choose my time wisely.

  When I see the road ahead has some stones and debris from the recent storm, I have my chance. The horse picks its way, slowly, jerkily, over the piles, and I grab on to the side of the cart and gently slide onto the back. The horse whinnies and I cringe, but the peddler talks soothingly for a moment and then goes back to singing.

  I crawl slowly under some cowhides, which, though they stink, cover me completely. There are clay pots and bolts of cloth and balls of cheese. The cloth is soft, and just smelling the cheese makes my belly rumble, so I can’t stop from eating almost half of the ball. I try to squish it back into a ball as best I can and hope that the damage isn’t too noticeable. With a full belly, the singing of the peddler, the rocking of the cart, and the bliss in not having to walk but rather lie on soft cloth, I am soon asleep.

  I WAKE UP AND WONDER FOR A MOMENT WHERE I AM IN the darkness, especially when I see through a crack that the earth is moving beneath my feet! Then I remember I’ve hitched a ride with the peddler. Next, I notice the noise. There must be a hundred people on the road with all the shouting and laughing and horses and church bells and — wait … church bells?

  The wagon lurches to a halt, and my head bangs against a clay pot. With all the noise, no one hears my yelp.

  “You’ve arrived just in time,” a gruff voice says. “The gates are about to close.”

  Gates? We must have reached Carlisle!

  “Toll, peddler!” the gruff voice continues.

  I hear the shaking of coins and the peddler mutter, loudly, “Highway robbery.”

  The cart lurches forward again and the sounds of horses, people shouting, and bells continue. Soon we come to a halt, and I feel the cart shake from side to side as the peddler steps down with a groan.

  “Here, boy!” the peddler’s voice booms.

  I freeze because for a moment I think he is talking to me, but a boy’s voice answers. “Sir?”

  “Watch my cart. Here’s a penny and there’ll be another two pennies in it for you when I come out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  After a few moments, when I’m sure the peddler has gone, I put my hood up and slide off the back of the cart as quietly as possible.

  “Oy! You!” the boy’s voice calls out.

  I take off running, slamming into the crowd, bouncing off people like a stone skipping in the water. There are so many people! Everyone is yelling at me, even those I don’t hit, and I scramble like a rat to get away, helter-skelter. I finally realize that the boy will not likely follow m
e any farther because he’ll want to get his money from the peddler. So I stop and breathe, bending over with my hands on my knees.

  Now it’s my turn to be run into by the crowds until I’m knocked against a building and end up on my ass, my feet splayed out, at risk of being trampled. I scramble to my feet and flatten myself against the wall of the building, trying to slow my breathing.

  As my breath returns I start to focus on everything around me. My eyes and ears and head hurt with the frenzy. There are people everywhere of all different shapes, sizes, and manners of dress, even monks — gray friars and white friars and a black friar yelling to people to repent their sins. His voice is drowned out by the street vendors, calling out, “Fresh fish!” “Last chance for eggs!” “Fine shoes!” “Rushes fair and green!” Other people call out to one another, too, over the vendors’ voices and the squeals of pigs and barking of dogs and the clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer so that everything blends together like a loud and tuneless song.

  And the smell! Trash and horse dung and sweat mixed with baking bread and “Ribs of beef and many a pie!” Meat carcasses and fish stare at me as I pass by the stalls. The scent of leather and spices is around the next corner.

  I’m jostled along with horses and carts and I finally realize that we’re all on a road. The city is so narrow and close, the buildings even hang over the street, the upper floors jutting out over the first floors so that it looks like they’ll topple any second. Signs hang from many of the buildings: a boot for the cobbler, a pig for the butcher, a loaf of bread for the baker. People move quickly and nimbly as if in a fast dance, and everyone seems to know where to go except me.

  I walk aimlessly as night falls and the crowds thin, searching for Hugh. One street looks much like another and every place is full of twists and turns. As darkness clamps down on me, I realize that Bess is wiser than I thought. She’s right that it’ll be hard to find someone here, almost impossible. The town is so large, yet also so closed in with the maze of streets, overhanging buildings, animals, and people. I can hardly see three oxcarts in front of me. What did I think? That it would be sprawled out with open fields like my village, only larger, and I could simply scan the horizon and find Hugh? I am an addlepate.

  I round another corner and smell fish and sweat and manure, but above all of it I smell meat pies, and my belly rumbles. St. Jerome’s belly! I’m hungry again! I look in the door of a building with a sign that has a plow on it. It’s definitely not a place that makes plows, but rather a tavern with long wooden tables with tankards and bowls and hunks of bread. I can smell the ale and meat pies. Sitting on the benches are men, all eating, and I feel faint with hunger.

  I start to go inside, thinking to ask the men if they’re soldiers and might know where Hugh is, or at least the battle. I might also buy some food. But I’m roughly grabbed by the neck, lifted, and turned to face a large man with a lantern and stick.

  The bailiff. Just like Elliot, our reeve, only more important.

  “What are you up to, scoundrel?”

  “Nothing, sir!”

  “It had better be nothing. It’s almost curfew and if I find you in a few minutes’ time, it’s the almshouse for you!” He lets me go, but walks off muttering, “Nothing but a scoundrel.”

  I don’t want to risk getting locked in an almshouse, so I slink away, staying in the shadows, frightened of being caught, but not knowing where to go. When the church bells ring again, loudly now, for the church must be near, I decide to take asylum there.

  In the darkness, I can just make out a tower, high above the other buildings, and I slowly find my way there. When I reach it I’m breathless, not from running or fear but from the sheer size of the massive cathedral.

  I crouch by the bushes in the dark and watch as a small group of townspeople, maybe even a family, brings baskets to the front door of the cathedral. A monk in black robes greets them at the door and bows to them. I can’t hear what they say, but the people leave and the monk uses one basket to prop the door open as he carries in another.

  Quietly, I approach, hovering around the corner from the front door, but peeking out to watch, hoping my shroud of darkness will conceal me. Before the monk returns, I see that it’s all food! The basket propping open the door is full of apples. Another basket holds meat pies, another bread, and a smaller one has eggs. My mouth is watering.

  The monk appears, picks up the basket of eggs, and disappears again. He might give me food if I ask, but then he’d want to know who I am and where I’m from and likely send me to the almshouse. How would I find Hugh then?

  Instead, I dart forward, grab a meat pie, then hesitate and take a second one, and race back to hiding. When I’m safely around the corner again, I take a big whiff of the pies. I believe they’re mincemeat, that delicious combination of sweet and savory. Hoorah!

  The monk returns, picking up the basket of meat pies, pausing for a moment as he looks at them. Surely he doesn’t realize that two are missing? Thankfully, he turns and brings the basket inside. This time, I count how long the monk is gone while I run to grab a small loaf of bread.

  I’ve counted to twenty-nine by the time the monk comes back. He picks up the basket of bread and does a double take, tilting his head at it. St. Jerome’s eyes, does he know there’s one missing? He looks up, and around, even at my hiding place — where my head is still peeking out from the corner of the building! I dare not move, though, because that would draw even more attention, so I freeze. After a few moments, which feel like an entire school day, he shakes his head as if convincing himself it’s his imagination, and he turns with the basket and heads inside. I finally let my shoulders down and take a breath.

  Still staring at where the monk was, I see there’s only one more basket, the one that props open the door. When that’s gone, the door will be shut and I may have no place to stay. Quickly, I dash to the door, hesitating when I see two apples on the stoop. Did they fall out of the basket? Or did the monk leave them for me? I don’t hesitate long, knowing he’ll be back soon, so I grab them. Once inside, I head for the nave and dive under a pew without stopping to look at anything.

  The door shuts and I hear the shuffling of the monk’s feet as he carries the last basket away. I quietly munch my supper, although it does stick in my throat somewhat as I realize that today I’ve stolen a ride from a peddler as well as his cheese. I’ve stolen food from the monks, which is either their supper or maybe alms for the poor, and am now eating stolen food — except perhaps the two apples left on the stoop — inside of a house of God, which I snuck into. Like the bailiff said, I’m nothing but a scoundrel.

  WHEN I AWAKEN I THINK I’VE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN. Angels are singing and a sweet smell is in the air. When I open my eyes, I see shafts of colored light — red, blue, yellow, green! Could it be heaven? Quickly, my addled brain remembers that I’m a scoundrel, so this could never be heaven.

  I sit up fast and bang my head on the underside of the pew. Although I see stars, I’m sure it’s not heaven. And it hurts. Carefully, I crawl out from under the pew and peek down the aisle toward the singing. What I see makes me catch my breath. I barely notice the singing because my eyes are stuck on the hugest painting I’ve ever seen. At least, I think it’s a painting at first, because it’s too bright for my eyes and I can’t focus on it. Eventually, I see that there are many scenes of people and animals; some of them I recognize from Bible stories. When I’m able to focus my eyes better, I realize it’s a window made out of brightly colored glass. With the sun shining through, the pictures are so bright they light up the very floor of the cathedral. I’ve never seen so much color in my life, not even at a fair. I feel like I’m in a whole different world.

  I’ve never been in such a massive building. In the darkness last night I had no idea of its size. Our entire parish church could fit inside of it many times over. Our church could fit inside the colored-glass window! I know because below the window are the singers, half a dozen boys and four men, and they
’re tiny compared to the window. If all six boys were stacked on top of one another, the window would be taller, and if the four men were laid end to end, the window would be wider.

  My belly rumbles and I think about food, and also the food I stole yesterday. If I had a penny or two, I would leave those as a donation, but a whole groat? I’ll need that to buy food or supplies for Hugh and me. Now I must find more food, and find Hugh. Although I hate to leave the singing, the sound will cover my dash to the front door and outside before anyone notices.

  The air is cold, and outside the world of the cathedral the streets are bustling — carts squeaking, pigs squealing, men shouting. I pull my hood tight around my head. My nose breathes in the delicious smell of meat pies and my feet take me to the source. A tavern called the Black Bear. I don’t want a bailiff collaring me again, so I walk around to the back. That’s where the baking smells are coming from, anyway.

  I look in the open door and see a round, bald man sweating as he takes meat pies out of the oven. A woman, her hair gray and face lined, pats out dough and tosses meat onto it. “Can’t you go any faster?” she says, nodding her head at the floor. “There’s another paddleful waiting to go in.”

  “I know that, woman!” the man answers. “I can’t do two things at once!”

  She mutters something, looking up from her work to roll her eyes, and catches me. I suck in my cheeks to make my face as thin as possible, and open my eyes wide and plaintively. The woman’s face is stern at first, but her eyes start to twinkle and she even gives me a half smile. St. Jerome’s lips! Maybe she’ll give me a pie!

  I wish I hadn’t grinned, because the large man turns around and sees me, his red face squishing into ugliness. “Get away, you filthy rascal!”

  I’m surprised enough that I don’t move at first, until he takes the paddle the meat pies were on and shakes it at me. I back away, but can’t help pleading, though meekly, for charity. “Are there any broken ones you can’t sell? I’ll eat anything.”