The Badger Knight

by Kathryn Erskine

  I’m relieved when I finally see Sir Geoffrey and Lightning on the battlefield. I even start to wave, although I don’t expect him to wave back. He doesn’t notice me, but seeing him gives me strength. He said I was brave, brave enough to be a knight like him. I take a deep breath, force the bile back down in my stomach, and start down the hill to the battle.

  But while I’m making my descent, Sir Geoffrey is struck down, an arrow piercing his neck, and he falls from his mount. Lightning notices right away, turning in confusion, but there’s nothing he can do. We both watch in horror as the Scottish savages heave swords and axes at Sir Geoffrey’s writhing body.

  Suddenly, my own body lurches violently and I crawl into the underbrush, where I retch, my body convulsing over and over as if I, too, am being torn apart. I can see the chunks of rabbit in my vomit and I think of the poor defenseless rabbit that had no weapon at all against mine, and I retch some more.

  I lie there, sick and stunned, for I don’t know how long. When I realize that the fighting noises have died down, I look over at the battlefield toward Sir Geoffrey’s body. Englishmen are burying him, or the parts of him that are left. When they’re finished and gallop off, heading south, I make my way over to the burial mound.

  Kneeling by his makeshift grave, I think of how Sir Geoffrey wanted nothing more than to be a monk and instead he ended up here. Destiny, he said. He called it both a friend and a curse. I think it’s only a curse. Destiny dictates that Hugh remains a peasant though he’s brave and strong and at fifteen could be a squire, if he’d been born a noble. Destiny is what makes Henry a street boy, though he’s as good as any noble. Destiny is what makes me puny and useless. I look down at the grave. If this is what destiny brings, I don’t want any part of it.

  I pull out the medal from Sir Geoffrey and am about to place it on his burial mound when I hear a voice behind me.

  “What is that, boy?”

  I whirl around to face a leper and stagger to my feet so I can keep five steps away from him. He has several leather pouches slung over his shoulder and two swords in his belt. He’s scavenging the corpses!

  “How dare you?” I scream at him. “Stealing from brave soldiers?”

  “Calm down, boy. It’s not as if I can work in a field or learn a trade. What would you have me do? I’m cast out yet I’m still a man, struggling to survive.”

  “Well, there’s nothing here for you!” I yell at him, I’m so enraged.

  “Except that coin,” he says, staring at my hand.

  I grab my bow and load an arrow so quickly I surprise even myself. The leper is truly surprised. He backs away, then turns to hobble off as fast as he can, calling over his shoulder, “How else am I to care for myself? Have mercy!”

  I don’t shoot him but I feel no mercy.

  Turning back to Sir Geoffrey’s grave, I decide to scribe something instead, since the medal will likely be stolen.

  I use my finger to scratch into the cold earth, choosing something from the Bible since he wanted to be a monk:

  Thou shalt not kill.

  Godspeed, Sir Geoffrey, valiant knight and friend.

  My throat is raw as I leave Sir Geoffrey and head south. God’s eyes help me find Hugh — and God’s heart help me find him alive.

  I AM COLD AND WEAK AND MISERABLE. I WALK AS IF IN A trance. I reach the place where I set my fire and cooked the rabbits, the last time I used my bow, and I curse myself for not using my bow on the battlefield. Could I have saved Sir Geoffrey? If I’m a master archer, I should have. Why didn’t I?

  If it weren’t for practically stumbling over the rocks that look like sheep, the tree roots that look like arrows, I’d be lost. I come to a stream and walk right through it instead of looking for a better place to cross. When I look down at the water and see my reflection, it’s shaking as if shivering from fright. It doesn’t look like a master archer. It looks like a small, scared boy. Useless. And that’s how I feel.

  Without stopping, I walk on. I can’t eat, the battle scene playing over and over in my head. It’s growing darker and colder and the rain begins. I’m dangerously close to crying, again. I can’t even tell if the wetness on my face is rain or tears.

  But I continue to step one foot in front of the other, putting distance between myself and the field of blood, looking for Hugh. I come to Hadrian’s Wall and cross back into England. I can’t believe that just yesterday I was here, finding trinkets and shooting trees, playing like a child when there was war and killing close by. I don’t feel like playing anymore.

  When it’s completely dark, I tread carefully, both because I keep tripping on the wet leaves and mud and because I don’t want to come upon the wrong encampment. Yesterday, at Hadrian’s Wall, the worst I feared from a Scottish soldier was his piss. Today, I know better. A pagan Scot will not think twice to cleave in two a man, a boy, a knight, a friend. I shudder, thinking of both Sir Geoffrey and Hugh as I walk through the night.

  A small campfire is ahead, and the sounds of men talking and eating. If they’re English soldiers, I want to make myself known and sit with them, telling them what I’ve seen, sharing the horrors of war. I creep closer and peek through the trees, in case they’re Scots. But their accents are too familiar. So are the smells of food, and I’m about to walk into their camp when a voice stops me.

  “Don’t aim for their padding, you fool. Cut an arm off! That’ll stop their blow!”

  “Right!” says another. “Or torture him so much he’ll commit suicide and take himself to hell.”

  There’s much laughter as more men join in, discussing the best forms of mutilation. I can’t believe my ears. They’re Englishmen but they talk like pagans!

  I move on. After some time, I hear a howling and then grunting, and I force myself to believe it’s wolves because I’d rather be torn to shreds by God’s creatures than by pagan Scots.

  I remember to arm myself, my arrow ready to fly once I can pinpoint where the commotion comes from. I can see almost nothing and am as likely to hit a tree or bush as the grunting beast. I take a step forward and a twig snaps under my foot.

  That’s when I hear a voice and realize it’s not animal but man — no, two men.

  “Whist!” a voice says.

  “I dinnae think —” the second voice says, definitely a Scot!

  “Whist!” the first one commands again.

  There’s a growling cry and the breaking of branches as something moves toward me. The pagans are charging at me!

  I draw back my bow and shoot an arrow.

  It hits its mark because I hear a cry of pain.

  “Stay back!” I command. “I’ll kill you both!”

  “No — A-A —” One man struggles to speak.

  I don’t know what he says, nor where the other man is. “I warn you! Stay back!” And I load my next arrow.

  “Adrian?” The voice is weak and soft and pained, barely able to breathe. But I know that voice. It’s Hugh’s.

  God’s heart! I’ve shot my best friend!

  “HUGH!” I CRY, SHRILLY.

  There’s no answer.

  I try to reach him but trip in the darkness, falling over a groaning body. I shake him, yell at him, try to pull him up, at least lift his head and finally realize he’s facedown. “Hugh!” I scream.

  “Stop!” Hugh cries, but not from this body, rather behind me.

  I jump up, backing away from the body, falling in the mud. “Where are you? Are you shot?”

  “Here. No. Your arrow missed us both.”

  “What’s going on? Who’s … this?”

  “A fallen soldier.”

  My mind finally catches up with what’s happening. There were two men. And one of them was a Scot. “A fallen … Scottish soldier?”

  There’s no answer.

  I still can’t see Hugh. Again, I ask, “What’s going on?”

  Hugh’s voice is weak, exhausted. “What are you doing here, Adrian?”

  “I came to find you, to help you.”
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  “But I —”

  “I know you said not to, but —”

  “What about your father?”

  I shrug, although I know he can’t see me in the dark.

  “What about Bess?”

  “She’s fine.”

  The man on the ground groans and I feel Hugh brush past me to kneel at his side. I simply stare.

  “We need to get him back to my camp.”

  “Hugh! He’s the enemy. Let’s get out of here. Fast!”

  “No!” The loudness of his voice surprises me.

  I think of the English camp I just passed. “Do you know what our own soldiers will do to us if we help him?”

  “I know,” Hugh says in such a dark voice that I wouldn’t know it was Hugh if I weren’t already convinced of it.

  “Why are you doing this?” I whisper.

  “He was stopping his own soldiers from killing an English boy and was hit by their ax on the head and, here, on the shoulder.” I can’t see in the dark but I know Hugh is examining him. “Then, behind him, an English soldier shot an arrow in his arm.” Hugh’s voice cracks. “He was just trying to save the boy. We have to get him to my camp.”

  I hesitate, stalling for time. “Your camp? You have a camp?”

  “Yes. It’s not much, just a place for a fire and branches to cover me from the rain, but there’s more shelter than here.”

  “You’re alone? Why aren’t you with the other soldiers?”

  “They don’t accept me as one of their own. Nor I, they,” he mutters, or at least it sounds like that’s what he says. “I’m still looking for Father. Once I find him, I’ll join the men of our village.”

  I’m glad Hugh can’t see me shudder in the dark. From what I’ve seen today — all those men killed — Hugh may no longer have a father.

  “You said you came to help me,” Hugh says, his voice worn out.

  “Yes, but not for … this!”

  “Please, Adam?”

  Why do I always weaken when he calls me his dead brother’s name?

  With difficulty, we drag the man for what seems like forever. Several times I almost ask Hugh how far his stupid camp is and can’t we stop, but I don’t want to sound weak and sniveling, so I keep going. Mostly I stay quiet because I don’t want to be caught by any of our countrymen.

  I know because of his training from Grandmother that Hugh can’t just let the man die. And maybe my friend’s mind is confused by the horrors of groaning, dying men. My brain is a bit addlepated, too. It must be, because I’m helping him. But when we finally reach Hugh’s camp and he starts a fire, I try to reason with him.

  “If he’s badly wounded, maybe you should just kill him.”

  “What? But … he’s not even on the battlefield.”

  I think about what the Scots did to Sir Geoffrey. “He’s the enemy.”

  “I’m not truly a soldier.”

  “But it’s a mercy killing if he’s going to die anyway.”

  Hugh stares at the man. “I believe I can cure him.”

  I stare at Hugh. “Do you know what you’re saying? He’s a wild Scot!”

  “Does he look wild to you?”

  I look down at the man. “Well, no, but that may be because he’s wounded.”

  Hugh sighs, opening his medicine pouch. “Or because he’s an ordinary man like our own fathers.” Hugh starts toward him. The man lets out a cry and his arm shoots up, and we both back up a step. Though the arm falls back to earth again, I can’t help but notice how large the hand is. I can’t take my eyes off it. The man is a monster. And he’s muttering unearthly, frightening sounds.

  It’s only when Hugh moves toward the monster that I stop my frozen staring.

  “Hugh! What are you doing?”

  Hugh is already kneeling by the man. He hesitates for just a moment, but continues taking herbs out of his bag.

  I cover him with my bow, shakily. I pray that the monster is wounded enough to be incapacitated because I’m shaking so much I couldn’t hit a creature the size of Bessie even if it were right in front of me. The only reason I don’t shoot is that I’m just as likely to hit Hugh as I am to hit the Scot.

  “I think you can put that down,” Hugh says. “I need your help.”

  When I draw closer, I see not only how large he is, but also his hair color. “Look how red his hair is!”

  Hugh doesn’t answer, but keeps working on him.

  “Uncle says the redder the hair, the wilder the Scot.”

  Hugh snorts. “Your uncle is an ale-head.”

  That I can’t argue. “Still, it doesn’t mean that everything Uncle says is wrong.”

  “How many Scots does he know?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “How many?” Hugh insists, his voice raspy.

  “None.”

  “I know one,” Hugh says, turning to look up at me, “and I’ve never seen a braver man.”

  Maybe this Scot wasn’t brave to try to save an enemy boy in the middle of battle. Maybe he’s an addlepate, and I tell Hugh that. “Addlepate and pagan is not a safe combination.”

  “It’s safe because he didn’t want to kill a boy our age, certainly not as young as you. You don’t need to be scared of him.”

  “I’m not scared!”

  “That’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “Well, maybe you need a poultice for your ears because you’re not hearing right!”

  “Fine, then help me. Put your hand on his wound.”

  I look down at the soldier and see the blood oozing through the slash in his leather armor.

  “Put your hand on the cut while I make a poultice!”

  I see the man’s chest rise and fall, and hear his moans and, maybe because it’s dark, I can’t see the full pagan-ness, and I pretend he could be any man from our village, so I do what Hugh says, holding my hand over the bloody gash. But I’m not happy about it, and my stomach is churning. I thought I’d have pagan blood on my hands from killing one, not by trying to heal him. I thought I’d prove to everyone that I’m not the one they should fear, but the pagan Scots, and that I’d save them from the pagans. I feel like a traitor to Sir Geoffrey. I want to retch.

  Hugh works on the Scot for what seems like an hour. My friend has always been serious about herbs, but never quite like this. Something has come over Hugh and it’s a frightening thing. He seems to have forgotten which end of the arrow is the point and which is the goose feather. Yet he seems possessed and I dare not cross him.

  After we move the soldier closer to the fire, the rain that had died down starts again and the wind picks up.

  Hugh eyes my cloak. “May I borrow that to cover him?”

  “What?”

  “He’s ill. He’s shivering. I need —”

  “No!” I’m sure my mother wouldn’t want her cloak used in such a way.

  After Hugh builds a lean-to of branches to protect the fire so it won’t go out, he shields the man from the wind with his own body. I sit huddled against the trunk of a tree, trying to stay warm and dry but feeling wretched, as much from my selfish behavior as from the rain.

  It’s not the reunion I pictured. Maybe Hugh and I have both seen too much. The horrible death of Sir Geoffrey is enough to make me never want to see a Scottish soldier again, never mind heal him. I know Hugh is a healer at heart. He has knowledge and patience like Nigel. He’s noble like Henry and Sir Geoffrey. He’s my best friend. But right now, I can’t even stand to look at him.

  BY THE LIGHT OF DAY, I CAN SEE THE PAGAN-NESS IN THE soldier. What I thought was dirt on his face is a grizzly beard. His shirt and leggings are coarse and ripped. His hands and feet are the size of a bear’s. The man even smells foul.

  Hugh is already tending the fire and cooking something over it. My mouth waters since I didn’t eat at all yesterday.

  I stretch and walk over to the fire. “What are you making?”

  “A poultice for him,” Hugh says, nodding his head toward the sold
ier.

  “The one pot we have for cooking and you’re using it for treating the enemy’s wounds?”

  Hugh looks at me darkly and rises from the fire. “I’m going to find garlic,” he says, grabbing his pouch and striding off into the woods.

  I feel angry and resentful, and also starving. I think about calling some choice words after him, but he’s already disappeared. When I hear an unearthly noise behind me, I turn and see the large pagan soldier sitting up and growling like a beast, his piercing blue eyes glaring at me as if I’m the cause of his injuries.

  All I feel now is fear. He’s struggling to his feet, keeping his eyes on me. He means to hurt me! My bow is over where I slept, behind him. A quick glance around the camp shows me a few sticks and tiny acorns. Even David couldn’t fight this Goliath with acorns. There’s not even boiling water in the pot to throw at him. It’s Hugh’s soothing poultice. If I pitch it at him it might only serve to heal him.

  My only option is to run, which I do, fast. I want to catch up with Hugh but after only a few dozen paces I realize I have no idea which way he went. I jump behind a tree to give myself a moment to think. Panting, I peek around to see how close the soldier is.

  I don’t see him at first. And then I notice the lump on the ground, about where he was sleeping. And he’s silent.

  Now I look around quickly to see if Hugh is anywhere nearby, possibly laughing at my hiding from a wounded soldier who is collapsed in a heap at our camp. I straighten myself up and try to put on an air of dignity. After all, I was only acting wisely. He might’ve been dangerous. He still could be. I tread slowly and carefully back to our camp, never taking my eyes off the soldier lump.

  As I draw close, I hear the soldier muttering something. “Mee-ree, Ku-hin.”

  The second part sounds like “cut him” and the first must be a pagan battle cry! Maybe he was calling for reinforcements to come and cut, or kill, his enemy!

  Moments later, I hear Hugh returning, and I’m silently grateful that I’m back in camp and not behind that tree.

  Hugh drops his pouch and runs to the soldier, kneeling next to him. “What happened?”

  “He made some pagan battle cries — I think he was trying to come after me — and then he collapsed.”