The Badger Knight

by Kathryn Erskine

  “Along with his stomach,” Sir Geoffrey adds, “and his head. Man of God, indeed!” He picks up a stone and throws it into the water and it skips four times. His dark eyes are deep pools. “I really wanted to be a monk myself.”

  “A monk?” I stare at him stupidly because I can’t imagine him as anything but the grand figure of a knight that he is. And why would anyone rather be a monk than a knight?

  He smiles sadly. “But, it’s my lot. I was the one sent to be a squire. My brother, who is better suited to be a knight, has just started as a novitiate.”

  “Does he like it?”

  His smile grows more impish. “He hates it. Absolutely hates it!” Losing his smile, he shakes his head. “Destiny. It’s both a friend and a curse.”

  I wonder at Nigel’s destiny and ask Sir Geoffrey what might happen to my friend. “I scribed a note, saying I’m a spy, and making it sound that Nigel had no idea. He really didn’t have any idea that I was going to steal the scroll, only what it said.”

  He pats my shoulder twice. “You are, indeed, clever. And brave.” He looks me in the eye and stares for a moment. “Maybe it’s you who should be the knight.” Rolling the scroll back up, he adds, “I suspect Nigel will be fine. And, once the bishop sees this scroll, the person who will be in danger is the prior.”

  “And Brother Bernard and the others who support him?”

  Sir Geoffrey nods. “The bishop will look into all of it.” He secures the scroll to his saddle. When he takes out meat pies from his saddlebag, my mouth starts watering.

  He hands one to me and I eat hungrily. He laughs. “Maybe you would make a good shepherd, given how much you like mutton.”

  “Never has a mutton pie tasted so good — not that I get them often, but this is the best one I’ve ever had!” I take another overly large bite.

  “I think it’s partly your age,” he says.

  “I’m thirteen,” I say defiantly, even though my mouth is full.

  “Exactly. Lads your age are growing fast and would eat leather if it had enough gravy on it.”

  I swallow. “Oh. People always think me younger because of my size.”

  “You’re too wise and traveled for a young boy.” The sun is behind him and he looks past me. “Still, I would think your family might like you home.”

  I stop eating. “I can’t, sir. Not yet. I have to find Hugh.” I look toward what must be north and point. “Is that where the battle will be?”

  He nods. “Likely.”

  “Are you going?”

  He nods again. “I must get to Durham, but I’d like to see how far the Scots have come and do my part to send them back. Then I’ll report to the bishop at Durham, both on the battle and” — he pats the scroll — “the wicked prior.”

  “Can I … ride with you?”

  He sighs. “I can’t make you go home. You’re making your own way now.”

  My chest almost bursts with pride.

  “However,” he adds, “you’re still too young for me to take you into battle.”

  “But —”

  He holds up his hand. “I can’t even say for sure where the battle is. The Scots may have crossed Hadrian’s Wall already, or at least be headed there. Tell me what this Hugh Stout looks like, and I’ll keep an eye out for him and tell him that his brave friend Adrian — the Badger” — he winks — “will be waiting for him at Housesteads Fort, a likely crossing place for the soldiers on their way to Durham.”

  I describe Hugh but tell Sir Geoffrey, “I’d rather go into battle now.”

  He smiles and points east. “Housesteads is that way, about five miles. You may see me there soon if I don’t find the fighting. That’s where I’ll cross.” He pats his horse, looks at me, and stops. Slowly he opens his saddlebag and takes out a soft black cloth, unfolding it. He hands me what looks to be a coin. “You should have this.”

  It’s a medal stamped with a special seal: two knights riding one horse.

  “It was my great-grandfather’s,” Sir Geoffrey says. “That’s the insignia of the Knights Templar. No matter what the truth is about them, it has always brought me good luck.”

  “Shouldn’t you keep it, then?”

  He mounts his horse and smiles down at me. “But I’m a free lance and protected by the bishop. I give it to you to remember this day.” He points to the image on the coin. “You are the second knight, Adrian.” Patting the scroll again, he says, “Thank you for your service to God and the king.” He even nods his head to me in a little bow, as if I’m truly a knight!

  I return the gesture, bowing lower, of course, because he’s the real knight.

  I watch him ride north, beyond Hadrian’s Wall, and disappear over the hills. I clutch my medal and stare into the gloomy land of the Scots beyond the wall, part of me wanting to cross it, and part of me glad not to.

  WALKING IS DIFFICULT BECAUSE MY CROTCH IS SORE FROM riding. I have to walk with my feet wide apart, as if I still have a horse under me, to avoid chafing. I imagine Bryce, and William and Warren, and Simon — anyone, really — laughing at my strange walk. I, however, am not finding it amusing. At least it’s a dry, sunny day so I don’t have to slip and slide over muddy paths. That would be painful.

  I’m also glad the day is clear so I can keep a wary watch on the other side of Hadrian’s Wall in case any wild Scots attack me unaware. I pass the rubble remains of Roman settlements and it’s not long before I reach the sprawling ruins of Housesteads Fort. It was almost as big as our village and makes me wonder what the Roman soldiers were like over a thousand years ago and how different they were from us today.

  I know one way we’re all the same, though, and I head to the far corner of the fort ruins to see … the latrines! I smile when I think of Nigel, and I can picture exactly how the soldiers would’ve sat around the huge vault with its stone channels that flushed water in and waste out. I peer down into the latrine to see how deep it is and a glinting catches my eye. Awkwardly, I lower myself into the latrine, which hasn’t been used for centuries, so it doesn’t even smell. In the corner I look to see what caused the shining, and it takes me a moment to find it. Aha! It’s a coin, but not like any coin I’ve ever seen. Although it’s worn, I can make out a man’s head on one side and what looks like someone sitting on a rock on the other side. There aren’t any letters, or they’ve all worn off, but I think the coin is Roman! I put it in my pouch along with the medal from Sir Geoffrey.

  I have to find some rocks that stick out from the wall before I can boost myself high enough to grab the edge of the giant privy and crawl out. The clinking of the coin against Sir Geoffrey’s medal makes it worth it, especially since I don’t have any real money anymore. I sit on the edge of the latrine to catch my breath and realize that I haven’t used my money to buy food for Hugh or me. The fish I bought went to stave off Simon’s wrath, and the last coin saved Henry’s knife. I wonder now what I was thinking — that I’d just go shopping for food and then go next door to the battlefield?

  Thinking of food gets my belly rumbling, so I walk to the woods nearby in search of game. I want to stay in sight of Housesteads in case Sir Geoffrey comes, hopefully with Hugh! I’m so heartened by that thought that I start to sing. There’s no one around so I won’t hurt anyone’s ears, I think to myself, smiling, because that’s what Hugh says about my singing. The wildlife must hear me coming, though, because I see nothing but a few squirrels, and they’re quick, quicker than I am with my bow. I start practicing my archery against a birch because, obviously, I need to. It feels good to nock-mark-draw-loose over and over, letting the arrows fly until I hit a sweet rhythm.

  As the sun goes down, my belly reminds me of my hunger, so I scrounge until I find some apples on the ground. They’re mostly rotten but there are good bits, and I wolf those down. I hurry back to the fort to see if anyone is coming.

  Before long, I see a group of riders! I’m about to start jumping to get their attention when I see the lion rampant on their flag and dive behind
a rock. It’s the Scottish Army! Or at least half a dozen of them. And they’re riding straight for me! I can’t stay behind this rock because it only gives me protection from one side. I’m on a barren hill in plain sight.

  Ockham’s razor! Think! What’s the most obvious answer, the only place where I can’t be seen on this wide-open hill? The latrine! I crawl to the corner of the fort and drop myself in the ancient privy even as I hear the horses’ hooves and the men’s voices. Please, God, let them not have seen me!

  I push my back against the wall of the latrine and hope the overhang will hide me well enough now that it’s dusk. In my head, I thank Father for the millionth time that he returned those stupid pointed shoes, which would now be sticking out so much they’d give me away. If I live to see Father again, I’ll thank him to his face.

  I hold my breath as I hear the horses’ hooves and the jangling of swords and pots and who knows what else on the saddles. The men dismount and their voices get louder because — St. Jerome’s bones! — they’re heading this way.

  “He’s barely more than a lad and he puts many a man at risk in his rash judgment and haste!” a gruff voice bellows, and I shrink back even more, imagining how large he must be.

  “Aye, many a man who has family and farm to care for,” another man adds.

  There are grunts of agreement and I wonder who they’re talking about.

  “But,” a younger voice says, “he was pressured to by the king of France. Do ye not think it’s wise to keep France as a friend? What about the Auld Alliance?”

  Another man snorts. “The Auld Alliance! I dinnae see France rushing to our aid, so why should we rush to theirs? Nay, the timing was no’ right for this type of attack.”

  “Why not?”

  “Daft boy!” the gruff voice says. “Do you truly think that King Edward would take his whole army to France? Say what you will about him, but the man is no fool. Would he leave no men behind to defend his own kingdom? Of course not. England may be weaker but how weak? Weak enough for us to take over? I think not.”

  I realize that they’re talking about their King David and his ill-reasoned decision to attack England. The gruff-voiced man is right about that! From what they say next, I know that this is an advance team and that King David intends to lay waste all the way down to the border and across it.

  “After tomorrow’s battle,” the gruff voice says, “they can come south using this route. I dinnae see any English soldiers here. They’re likely waiting at Durham.”

  “I wish we’d taken out more of their longbows,” a whiny voice says. “They’re lethal. I’m glad I got one of their archers, at least.”

  There’s a roar of laughter. “Aye,” the gruff voice says, “a lad who was younger than Rory here.”

  “With long fair hair like a maid!” the young voice says.

  I fight to keep the bitter bile in my stomach from coming up. A longbow man who was a boy with long fair hair? Could it be Hugh? I pray to Our Maker and all the saints that it was not Hugh.

  “A tall, good-looking lad, though,” a man says. “There’s a girl in love with him back home and she’ll be heartbroken.”

  I think of Bess as several soldiers laugh until a sharper voice cuts in. “Poor lad kept looking at the man beside him, his father, I’ll wager.”

  His father? It must be Hugh, then. My legs almost buckle. I want to wail. I want to scream. I no longer care what they do to me. They killed my best friend! How much worse could they do? I reach behind me for my bow. I can hit one of them before they get me. I hope I hit Hugh’s killer, but if not at least I’ll cut down one pagan!

  “It’s not my fault the lad had no skill as an archer,” the whiny voice says, and I freeze. “He could barely hold the bow, never mind shoot an arrow. They should never have let him on the battlefield.”

  It wasn’t Hugh! I praise God even as I ask Him to care for the family and girlfriend of the boy who was shot. I can’t keep a sigh of relief from escaping my lips, but the soldiers don’t hear for all their jeering at the whiny-voiced man.

  “Shall we camp here for the night?” a soldier asks.

  Please, no! I can’t stand like this all night, stiff as a statue, my back pressed against the stone wall.

  “What?” the gruff voice says. “On the top of a hill where everyone can see us?”

  “Not if we’re lying low among the ruins.”

  “Ruins, they are, and not much of anything to hide us. Nay, we must move on.”

  There are groans and grumblings but the gruff-voiced man seems to be their leader. “What are you doing?” I hear him say.

  A man laughs. “These were the latrines. I’m going to relieve myself!”

  I push my back against the wall and turn my head so my cheek is pressed against the stone and clench my eyes and lips tight shut as the piss rains down. Fortunately, I am spared from both piss and capture, as the soldiers mount their horses and ride south.

  When I’m sure they’re far away, I climb out of the latrine. I look down the hill where they rode off, taking them into England and everything familiar to me — my village, my family, my home. I turn and gaze north across Hadrian’s Wall, into the unknown, darkening woods, remembering the map of Scotland at Lanercost Priory. With heart pounding and legs trembling, I pick my way over Housesteads ruins and stare at Hadrian’s Wall.

  I climb to the top of the wall and take a deep breath. I pray to be noble like Henry and smart like Nigel and brave like Sir Geoffrey, and Hugh, wherever he is. As I crawl across, I lose my footing and tumble over the other side, scraping my cheek on the stone and drawing blood. A cry escapes my lips, followed by an eerie silence, and I feel exposed, as if the whole world knows I don’t belong here.

  ONCE MORE I’M GRATEFUL TO NIGEL AND WHAT HE taught me because I use his loci trick to remember my route through these pagan Scottish woods so I can find my way out again. I pass a gall on an oak that looks like Father Fraud’s fat face. That represents the church, at the south end of our village. The tree roots that resemble arrows, pointing north, are for my home and shop at the north end of our village. The three pale rocks huddled together like sheep stand for the field of sheep where I pretended to be a shepherd my first day on the road.

  Before it’s completely dark, I stop and make camp by a stream. I manage to kill two rabbits. The practicing I did in the woods must’ve helped my aim. One rabbit is very small but the other is larger. It’s good I got two because the scrawny one has little meat. I almost wish I hadn’t shot the small one. His scared eyes make me think of the boy those soldiers talked about, the one I thought was Hugh, until they said he wasn’t a skilled archer. I wonder how the boy felt at that last moment before he was shot. I think about how Hugh gives a blessing to the creatures he kills, thanking them for providing him sustenance, which I always thought strange. I’ve never before felt the need to say a prayer like that, but I do now.

  I make a fire and cook the rabbits, skewering them on sticks. The light and heat give me some comfort. I’m not much worried about being seen because soldiers will be gathered north of here for tomorrow’s battle. I’ll rise early to find the fight.

  But first, I eat both rabbits because I’m famished, sucking the skewers when I’m done. I don’t even feel sick from all that meat, only gluttonous, but I don’t care. I need to be fortified because tomorrow I’ll take part in my first battle. For God and country.

  * * *

  I’m awakened early by a noise that’s like the entire Scottish army invading my camp. I grab my bow, my eyes still blurry, and dive behind a tree. I come face-to-face with a squirrel that’s as frozen as I am, but only for a moment. He bounds off, crashing through the dead leaves, and I wonder how a creature so small can make so much noise.

  Still, I’m grateful to be up early as I hurry northward to find the battle, even following a ready-made path through the woods at one point. I wonder if the path is leading me the right way. By the sun, I know it’s north.

  By midmorning I h
ear men’s voices and the clashing of swords! I grab my bow and load an arrow. Following the sound, I climb a steep wooded hill, and when I reach the top I see the glorious battlefield. Panting, I stand there, mesmerized.

  Below me, English longbowmen are stationed in groups around the field and I hear constant shouts of “Nock, mark, draw, loose! Nock, mark, draw, loose!” as they let loose volley after volley of arrows. The arrows hit their targets, even finding men with no armor, not even padding, so the arrows cut into their bodies, sometimes going through their chests and sticking out their backs, or skewering arms or legs like the rabbit on my stick. I am frozen.

  “Nock, mark, draw, loose! Nock, mark, draw, loose!”

  Men fall with each volley, amid shouts and groans, horses twisting and turning, swords clashing against shields, against other swords, against men.

  “Nock, mark, draw, loose! Nock, mark, draw, loose!”

  More arrows. Men pierced with arrows bleed around their wounds or sometimes out of their mouths. But sword fighting is even worse. Men slashed with swords spew blood from their wounds, so that clothes and faces and earth and air are sprayed with the life — no, the death — of men. Worst of all are the pickaxes that chop up men like animals in an agonizingly slow way that leaves men screaming for mercy, and yet there is none.

  “Nock, mark, draw, loose! Nock, mark, draw, loose!”

  My stomach and face are twisted into a knot. I’m shaking, yet I can’t stop watching, though I’ve seen enough. I can’t make myself go onto the battlefield. I don’t know if I could even hold my bow steady, never mind hit a target. And what target? A man’s chest? So I can watch him die like the rest of these men? I clutch my pouch with Sir Geoffrey’s medal, but I wonder if God Himself could save anyone from this hell.

  I stand there, hearing men scream in pain as they are cut down by arrow, sword, and ax. I don’t even know which side is which, since it looks like a mass of bodies and blood. My bow hand grows stiff, as I stand at the edge of the woods, cowering against a tree.