Hugh gently pulls the giant onto his back, straightening out his arms and legs. “He was probably wanting help.”
“I don’t know about that. He was saying things that sounded more like an attack.” I try to imitate the words, including the ones sounding like “cut him.”
Hugh only shrugs, still tending the man. “Maybe it’s names of his family.”
“What? Pagans call out the names of their family when attacking in battle?”
Hugh looks up at me. “He’s not attacking in battle. He’s a sick, wounded man, lying in pain, looking for comfort. Grandmother says the most frequent utterances of the wounded and sick are the names of their loved ones.”
“MEE-ree? Who is MEE-ree, then?”
“Mary? Marie? Mairi? His wife?”
“He didn’t say ‘Ma-ry.’ He said ‘MEE-ree.’ ”
“He’s a Scot. Their speech is somewhat different.”
“And ‘cut him’? What name would that be?”
Hugh smirks at me. “Maybe you misheard and it’s you who needs a poultice for your ears.”
I snort.
“Adrian, they call their babies ‘bairns’ and name their bread ‘bannock.’ Haven’t you heard these terms before?”
“I’ve heard of Bannockburn before.” I glare at him, reminding him of the battle in our grandparents’ time when Robert the Bruce attacked and defeated the English, ending in Scottish independence.
He is clearly uncomfortable with my reminding him of that. After all, his own grandmother’s brother was killed in that battle. Grandmother has no love in her heart for the Scots and would likely think Hugh a traitor for protecting one.
But Hugh says nothing, taking the poultice from the fire and pulling garlic out of his pouch. The way he dresses the man’s wounds both fascinates and annoys me. It’s as if he doesn’t see the face of his patient, only the wound that needs treating. He’s both scientist and healer. His eyes are sharp, all-seeing, all-knowing, yet his face shows compassion and care, even pain, wincing with his patient. I respect his ability but I’m still angry that he’s using it on the enemy.
I slump down, partly from defeat and partly because I’m famished. When I see Hugh take hawthorn berries out of his pouch, mash them into a mush, and try to get the man to eat them, I shake with rage.
“Bad enough we’re sheltering and healing the enemy, but you want to give him our only food? What’s wrong with you, Hugh Stout?”
Hugh’s eyes widen. “I’m simply doing what’s necessary for the herbs to work. Rest, warmth, and sustenance.” He adds, “You may have some berries, too,” but I sense reluctance, as if he’d rather I leave them for the Scot.
He hands me the pot, now empty. “I’m done with this. Why don’t you fill it with water? There’s a stream straight back that way.” He points behind me. “Also, if you’d like to bring us a rabbit or a squirrel, we could have a real meal.”
“All of us, you mean?”
“He won’t eat much,” Hugh answers, “but a little broth would do him good.”
I grab the pot and my bow and storm into the woods. I swear, loudly, that I will eat heath pea, that bitter vetch, to stave my hunger for several more days before I’ll kill a rabbit and give the enemy some broth.
But hard as I search, heath pea doesn’t exist in this wretched place. It’s not my fault. I’m craving food so much I kill several squirrels.
I feel better after eating. I don’t hate the Scot or Hugh so much, although I still don’t like them. I rapidly lose even that goodwill when Hugh tells me he’s going to find the battle and look for his father, and has the nerve to say that I must look after the soldier.
“Me? I’m supposed to be going into battle with you!” In truth, after seeing what battle is like, I’m in no rush to go back. But I don’t want to stay with this pagan, either.
“Adrian, I really want you to go home, but we’ll talk about that when I get back. If you want to do something useful, go hunt more food. We could use that. But, please, if you leave him, cover him with leaves so no one finds him.”
When Hugh is gone I spend much time kicking the acorns around camp, not caring if I hit the pagan, wishing he were a pig who would eat the acorns then move on to the next batch and leave us alone. Eventually, I go out hunting, after sprinkling a few leaves on the stupid pagan.
When I return with squirrels, I see that the soldier hasn’t moved. I put my catch up in the branches to keep it away from scavenging animals. When I turn around I notice for the first time that the man has a pouch around his waist. What does a pagan carry with him into battle? I have to know.
I walk stealthily to the soldier, whose breath is even, and he appears fast asleep. Still, I stand next to him for a while staring at the buckle on his pouch before kneeling silently at his side. With trembling hands, I reach out and begin to unbuckle his pouch. It takes me ten times longer than usual because I don’t want to give the pagan a hint of what I’m doing.
I have it almost open when the breath catches in his throat and he takes several gulps, his head turning toward me, and I dare not move my hands from the buckle lest I make a sound. I stay still as a rabbit in plain view, hoping not to be seen.
When his breathing evens out I start, very carefully, removing the items from his pouch. There are some hard, flat oaten loaves, and I’m angry that we are feeding him when he could be feeding us! There’s a leather flask that I open and sniff and nearly fall over at the acrid smell that burns my nose. It’s some kind of sour ale. I put it on the ground next to the hard bread. Next, I pull out a thin whistle with six holes. What, is he a minstrel? I give it a soft blow and it squeaks. I freeze but the soldier doesn’t move. There’s also a crudely carved stick of wood that may be a weapon or, more likely, some pagan ritual item. I hold on to it lest he try to use it against us.
The best find by far is a knife that may be short, but is thin and shiny and lethal. The grip feels good in my hand. It’ll be better than mine for skinning the squirrels. I shudder at what else this knife might have skinned.
But I have no time to think of that because a huge hand grabs my wrist like a vise. “That’s my dirk!”
I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG WE FREEZE THAT WAY — THE Scot holding my wrist and I holding his knife — while we stare at each other. I only know that at some point Hugh appears. The Scot loosens his grip on my wrist but I hold tight to the knife.
“What is going on?” Hugh says.
Neither the Scot nor I answer.
Hugh crouches beside us and says again, “What’s going on?” sounding accusatory while he looks at me — me! — instead of the Scot.
I look at the ground and see the flask and oaten cakes. “Look! He has food. And” — I glare at Hugh — “a knife. I’ll hold on to this.”
“What else do you have there?” Hugh asks, pointing at the wooden carving.
“That,” the man says in a thick Scottish accent, “is from my son … Colyne.”
Hugh looks at me as if to say, I told you he was talking about his family.
But we both say nothing and continue to glare at each other.
“He” — the man stops, cringing in pain — “made it for me himself, the wee bairn. It’s a —” He stops again, gasping and crying out this time.
“Stay still,” Hugh says, kneeling over him.
I clutch the Scot’s knife, glad it’s in my hand and not his.
“You’re wounded,” Hugh says, “and shouldn’t be talking.”
“Aye,” the man breathes, closing his eyes, and for a moment I think he’s dead. I even hope that he is.
But Hugh isn’t reacting so he must still be alive. When I see the man’s chest moving, I know he’s breathing.
Finally, Hugh stands and turns to me, his face in a frown, which deepens as he sees me clutching the wooden carving. “Why are you so scared of him and his things?” he hisses. “It’s simply a carving from his son.”
“If we can believe what he says,” I say.
Hugh shakes his head, muttering about St. Someone’s bones, and it startles me because he never curses and because I’m reminded that I still have Bess’s St. Aldegundis token that I should’ve given him already. I still grip the knife in one hand but put down the boy’s carving and use my other hand to undo the medal from my tunic. At that moment, I realize that the boy, Colyne, was simply giving his father what Bess gives Hugh: a remembrance, and hopefully a talisman of safety.
I hand the token to Hugh. “Bess wanted me to give this to you.”
Hugh says nothing, slowly taking the medal and shaking his head at me.
I’m suddenly feeling very small and not full of fire and venom.
The Scot speaks weakly. “Don’t be angry with your friend, laddie. He’s only trying to take care of you.”
I turn on the soldier. “And how is helping you taking care of me?” I snap.
The soldier opens his eyes and looks at me. “I was speaking to the other laddie. You took my knife to protect him, to keep you both safe.” He closes his eyes again and groans, his voice barely audible. “I understand that. So should he.”
I steal a glance at Hugh, who is looking at the ground, just as when Grandmother chastises him. I don’t know how to feel, grateful to the enemy soldier for standing up for me and trying to have Hugh see reason? Or angry that he dare take my side on anything?
It’s quiet except for the ragged breathing of the soldier.
Hugh finally breaks the silence. “I’m Hugh Stout of Ashcroft, near Penrith, and this” — he nods toward me — “is my friend Adri —”
“The Badger,” I say firmly, though Hugh’s face scrunches in confusion.
I lean toward him and hiss, “You shouldn’t tell the enemy our real names.”
He simply shakes his head at me and turns back to the Scot.
“I’m Donald Stewart of Linton.” The soldier takes another breath, his eyes now open. “I’m grateful to you lads for my very life.”
“It wasn’t me,” I say defensively. “It was all Hugh’s doing.”
“Hugh, lad” — Donald stops to take a labored breath — “why did you save me?”
“Because you could’ve killed that boy on the battlefield and you didn’t. You risked your life picking him up and carrying him to safety. And you were shot while doing so.” Hugh stares at him. “Why did you do that?”
Donald begins to chuckle but stops, gasping with pain. Tears run out of his eyes but he ignores them. “I’m a wee bit of a fool, I am. The lad’s face reminded me of my son’s. I wanted him to go home, be safe.” He tries to turn his head to look at us better. “Why are you laddies here? You should be home and safe as well.” He looks so concerned for us, even though he’s the one injured, that I feel my first pang of conscience that he may not be a brutal pagan.
Hugh’s eyes are downcast. “I’m looking for my father.” His voice drops to a whisper. “He needs me.” When Hugh turns his head to me, his voice is suddenly sharp. “I’d like to hear Adrian’s answer.”
“I came to help you!” I say, sounding far too much like a petulant child. “I —” I want to tell him of all that I’ve been through — a near flood and losing my food, surviving the streets of Carlisle, trying to bring a wicked prior to justice, the death of Sir Geoffrey — but I know it will all pale compared to the battlefield, and battle is something I’ve only seen and not been through. I throw the soldier’s knife on the ground and storm off into the woods. Hugh does nothing to call me back.
I sit down on the bank of the stream, throwing stones in the water for a long time before Hugh sits down beside me.
He doesn’t look at me but says, “I’m sorry I’ve been so angry with you. I just don’t want you here.”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping he hears my sarcasm.
He sighs. “I mean, I’ve seen things I don’t want you — or anyone — to see. I want you to go back.”
“I can’t go back.” I look at Hugh. “It’s too late. I’ve already seen things I wish I hadn’t.” His eyes are sad but I want more than sympathy. I want respect.
My words tumble out. “A knight — Sir Geoffrey de Molay — and I were trying to expose the embezzlement of the prior at Lanercost, who was cheating the villagers for his own wealth.”
Hugh’s eyes widen because we both know that this is a man’s business, and not something either of us has done. Until now.
I go on. “I stole a scroll, proof of the crime, and rode with Sir Geoffrey to the point at Hadrian’s Wall, where he went north and I went to Housesteads Fort, to meet the soldiers as they came south. But when I spied on some Scottish soldiers, I heard about the battle — and someone I thought might be you. I decided to go over Hadrian’s Wall myself.”
Hugh looks even more amazed, shaking his head, not in denial or reprimand, but in awe. And respect. I’m satisfied now but I still tell him of Sir Geoffrey’s death. And it dawns on me, for the first time, that the prior may not be brought to justice because who knows what happened to the scroll? That was the only proof we had! I feel, again, like I’ve let Sir Geoffrey down. He wanted the prior to be caught; now he’ll be free.
Hugh tries to reassure me, telling me that his fellow soldiers will have taken his horse and saddlebags into their protection, and when they see he was a free lance for the bishop of Durham, they’ll deliver the scroll safely. I pray that’s true.
Hugh goes on to share the many battle scenes he has witnessed. The deaths sound much like those I saw in Sir Geoffrey’s battle. I feel ill again. We both stare at the stream for a long time.
Finally, Hugh asks, “How did you spy on the soldiers at Hadrian’s Wall?”
I can’t help but smirk. “I hid in the latrines.” When I tell him the story, we both laugh.
After our laughter dies, Hugh says, “I know you don’t agree with saving Donald.”
“It’s a traitorous act, Hugh.”
He nods. “That’s another reason it’s too much of a risk for you to stay. I’m the one who has done wrong. You haven’t. I don’t want you punished for my rash act.”
I shrug. It wouldn’t be the first risk I’ve taken on this journey. Besides, I’m beginning to wonder if saving Donald was such a rash act after all. “Donald … well, he isn’t what I thought a pagan Scot would be.”
“None of them are. That is,” he adds, “some of them are ruthless, but then some of our English are, as well.” Hugh turns to look at me and his blue eyes are piercing. “Adrian, when I pulled Donald into the woods, keeping an eye out in case our own English soldiers came after us, I realized for the first time that they were as frightening as the Scots.” He shakes his head as if in wonder. “It all depends which side you’re on.”
“Yes,” I say, “and you — and I — are in the middle.” I emphasize and I. At first, I think Hugh is going to argue because he opens his mouth. No words come out, however, and after a look of resignation settles on his brow, he smiles.
“It’s good to have you here … Badger.”
We embrace for the first time since we were mere playmates whose biggest enemies were Good Aunt and the unholy trinity.
THE NEXT MORNING, HUGH COOKS UP SOME BROTH AND tries to get Donald to eat.
“Nay,” he replies and, with his good arm, holds out his pouch that I found the food in. “You eat.”
I take it, pulling his oaten cakes out of the bag and chomping down on one.
“Not all of them,” Hugh hisses. “Save some for him. He’ll need that when he goes back to …”
He doesn’t say “battle,” but we both know that’s what he means. We look at each other briefly and then look away. Donald might be all right here, as a wounded man, but as a pagan soldier, fighting against Hugh’s father … that’s a very different story.
“You’re both growing lads,” Donald says. “You need it more than I do.”
We’re conflicted and say nothing. Hugh finally takes two of the oatcakes and puts the rest back in Donald’s bag.
“Nay, you have alre
ady done so much —” Donald’s voice breaks and he continues in a whisper. “How can I thank you?”
“By being a good patient,” Hugh says. “Now drink.”
Donald knows he’s defeated and follows Hugh’s orders, but then tries to sit up. “I must leave.”
“You’re not supposed to move!” Hugh says.
Donald struggles again to get up but it’s obvious that he won’t even be able to stand, much less walk. “I must” — he takes a ragged breath — “go back to battle. You lads … must go home. You’ll be in trouble … for harboring the enemy.”
He’s right about that.
Hugh puts down the bowl of broth. “Adrian, I was awake half the night thinking … you need to go home.”
“What?”
“It’s not fair of me to drag you into this.”
“It’s my choice!” I answer. Even though I’m not sure I can ever go into battle, the last thing I want to do is go back to my village and prove to Father, and everyone, that I can’t take care of myself. That I need protecting. That I’m useless.
Donald moans. “You should … both go.”
I glare at Hugh. “See? You’re not supposed to be here, either.”
Donald starts coughing so much he is spitting up something, so I look away because I can’t stand to watch. Hugh forgets our argument as he turns into a physic again. “I’m worried about leaving him,” Hugh mutters, and I see my chance.
“All right,” I say, as if I’m disappointed, “I’ll stay with him while you go look for your father.”
“Really? You can’t bear sickness.”
I sigh. “I know, but I’ll do it.”
Hugh gives me a wry smile. “I’d be grateful if you watch him today but I’ll be back tonight … and tomorrow, you go home.” There is no hint of a smile left now.
“Fine,” I say. I’ll think of another excuse by tonight.
Before he leaves, Hugh fusses over us like a mother. “Here’s some broth for him, here’s garlic for his wounds, here’s mullein for his breathing, and yarrow to stop the bleeding. I brought some extra wood for the fire. If it gets cold —”
The Badger Knight Page 16
