“We’re not children, Hugh!” I’m feeling foolish enough that he’s going off as a man and I’m left here as a child.
“All right, but will you go find food? And don’t be too loud or go too far in case any soldiers are around.”
I roll my eyes. “You can go now.” I don’t know why he’s so worried. We could see someone coming from a mile away because we’re right in the middle of fairly open woods, although we ourselves can shrink down below the bushes.
Hugh nods, taking his bow and quiver from the tree, and heads east to find the battle.
Donald calls after him, “Best of luck, lad, in finding your father.” His calling starts a fit of coughing, which he manages to suppress until Hugh is out of earshot.
“Maybe you should use the mullein,” I tell him, taking my own bow and quiver from the base of the tree. “I’m getting some food. I’m still starving.”
Donald grabs his bag with the oaten cakes and holds it up to me. “Here, eat this” — he stops to cough — “before Hugh returns and tells me off like I’m a naughty wee bairn.”
I can’t help grinning, but I shake my head. “It’s all right. I’ll find meat.”
It’s a bright day and I put soot from the fire under my eyes to cut the glare as I prepare to hunt for food. “If you hear anything,” I tell Donald, “throw some dirt on the fire and duck under my cloak.” He’s already partly under the bushes and well camouflaged, as is Hugh’s small pot and supply of herbs. Still, he’s lying there helpless. I know that one less Scottish soldier would be good for the English side, but I’d rather it not be Donald. It’s hard to hate a man who has a name, and a son.
I start to leave, but Donald’s coughing grows worse. It’s so bad it’s frightening. I try to get him to drink the strongest medicine that Hugh said to save for last. I’m aware of breaking twigs and commotion behind me and I think Hugh has returned, hopefully to check on Donald.
But when I see Donald’s eyes widen, I realize it’s far too much noise for Hugh alone.
I jump to my feet, turning at the same time, so I can see the enemy.
There are three of them. On horseback. One is a knight in full metal armor. Another man has a huge sword although he’s so large himself he hardly needs it. The third man isn’t much older than Hugh, probably the knight’s squire.
I can tell from the coat of arms on the knight’s shield that they’re English. My heart sinks. They could just as well be Scots, because any Englishman will be angry that I’m aiding the enemy.
The knight glares down at me, looking fierce in his great helmet with just slits for eyes. Even when he takes it off, he still looks intense in the metal armor and chain mail showing beneath his purple surcoat. “Who are you, boy? And what are you doing?”
My mouth is dry and I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say, anyway. I try to think fast but my mind won’t work! My eyes dart to the other men, both large and strong, with chain mail and leather helmets. All I can think is that they outnumber us, even if Donald were healthy and I were actually a man.
The knight’s eyes darken and narrow as he stares at Donald, then me, then spits on the ground. He will hang me for being a traitor!
The knight points at Donald. “See how these pagans have no shame? This I have not seen before, but he drags his young son into battle with him? They are barbarians!”
He thinks I’m Donald’s son? His bairn, as Donald says? Ockham’s razor! The knight thinks I’m a young Scottish boy! I’m not in danger of being hanged as a traitor! As much as I’m relieved for myself, I see the daggers in the eyes of all three Englishmen as they stare at Donald.
Donald tries to speak, barely able to get out a “Nay — not my bairn.”
“What was that?” the knight asks.
“Whist!” I say to Donald, who’s struggling to prop himself up on an elbow.
Turning back to the knight, I shout, “I am nae a bairn!” in my best imitation of Donald’s speech. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donald flinch.
Quickly — before the soldiers can even react — I grab my bow, load an arrow, and point it at them.
Big Sword laughs so hard he practically falls off his horse.
“My, my, what do we have here?” the knight says. “A miniature King David?”
“Maybe he prefers being Robert the Bruce,” Big Sword says. “Look at the war paint under his eyes! See how they teach their pagan babes to fight? How pathetic.”
Pathetic? My hands are shaking, from both fear and rage. I almost forget to speak like a Scot. “Dinnae think I cannae use this!”
The knight holds up his hand. “We will not harm you, boy, since you are so young, and we are decent Englishmen.” He glares at Donald. “Run along, now. We must take the soldier as a prisoner and … we will provide for him.”
Does he think I’m a fool? He’ll kill Donald on the spot as soon as I leave. “Nay, never!”
Big Sword chuckles. “See how the boy’s hands tremble like a leaf!”
“A leaf?” I fairly shout it. “A leaf it is, then!”
The knight’s face is as sour as Good Aunt’s. “What about a leaf, boy?”
I squint at the large oak behind them, much like the ones on which Hugh and I practice. The leaves move a fair amount in the breeze but I point at a branch with three leaves on the end, looking like a trefoil. “Can ye see yon trefoil?”
The knight keeps his eyes on me but the others look to where my arrow points. When they turn back again, the knight looks at the tree, then looks at me and smiles, his eyebrows raised.
“See that leaf in the middle? I’ll split it in two.”
“I would like to see that,” the knight says, smirking along with Big Sword.
So, focusing my right eye, I nock-mark-draw-loose and, in spite of the breeze, I oblige.
No one is laughing now. The young squire raises his eyebrows at me and I think I even see him smile. While the men are momentarily stunned, I reload my bow and aim at the right eye of the knight.
The knight’s face has no trace of a smile now, but rather a grimace. “Perhaps you should turn your bow away, boy, lest there be an accident.”
“Perhaps,” I say, keeping my accent steady, “ye should turn your horses away from us, Englishman, lest there be such an accident.”
Big Sword laughs. “You can’t kill us all with one arrow.”
The knight does not take his eyes off me but speaks to Big Sword. “Brave words, my friend, when the arrow is not pointed at you. Very well, boy. We will be off.”
Big Sword splutters. “But what about the soldier?”
“He’ll be dead by morning,” the knight replies, putting his helmet back on, turning his courser, and trotting off into the woods.
His squire turns to follow him but looks back at me and nods, like Sir Geoffrey did when he took his leave. There is something kind about this squire. He reminds me a little of Sir Geoffrey and a little of Hugh. I’m glad I don’t have to shoot him.
I don’t have the same feeling about Big Sword, however, who gives me a threatening leer. “We’ll be back, boy,” he says. “You’ve toyed with the wrong man. This knight is vigilant in protecting his territory. He’s —” but when I aim my arrow at his evil eyes he turns quickly and practically gallops after the others.
I stand there for several minutes, my bow taut, my arrow ready, lest they decide to turn on me and charge. Finally, I let my aching arms drop and heave a sigh.
I hear a whisper from Donald. “Thank you.”
I nod. He doesn’t need to thank me. It’s not as if I’d let him be killed. “Come on,” I say, “we have to leave this place fast.”
I FEEL LIKE I DRAG DONALD FOR HOURS. IN TRUTH, Donald walks a great deal of the way, but leaning on me, and he’s heavy as a boulder. He keeps looking behind us. He asks me three times how Hugh will find us and three times I reassure him that I made a little pile of dirt with a cross on it, the way we mark food for Thomas the leper. I pointed the top of the cross in the di
rection we headed.
I just hope Hugh understands my sign.
I finally find a place near a stream with plenty of rocks and bushes to hide us, and get a fire started.
As usual, I’m starving. I give Donald some water and start covering him with leaves. “I’m going to find food.”
He starts to get up. “I’m going to find Hugh.”
“No! Stay here. Hugh will find us. If he doesn’t, I’ll go look for him.” Hugh will never forgive me if I let his patient run around the woods looking for him.
Donald struggles to his feet.
“Stop!” I say, trying to push him down but, even wounded, Donald is strong.
“You have done too much already, laddie!”
“Stop it!” I tell him.
“You can’t stop me!”
“Oh, yes, I will!” I yell, still struggling with him.
I hear a scream behind me and turn to see a boy, like someone in Henry’s gang from the streets of Carlisle, come charging at us, throwing himself on Donald and kicking me away at the same time. I fall on my ass and am momentarily stunned until I see that the boy is pummeling Donald, who has his good arm in front of his face.
“Stop!” I yell, pulling the boy off, eventually, and tussling with him until finally pinning his arms to the ground and kneeling on his chest.
The boy is panting so hard he can’t speak, so I stare at him, trying to understand his behavior, noticing the long golden hair that has fallen out of his cap, and I find myself looking into very familiar blue-green eyes.
“Bess?” I say, not quite believing myself.
“Look out for the soldier!” she yells.
“Bess?” I say again.
“Get off me and fight the soldier, you ninny!”
I try to explain about Donald but I am still stunned. “Bess —”
“Would you stop saying my name?” She pushes me off and backs away from Donald like she’s a cat and he’s someone who has thrown rocks at her. She picks up a rock herself and, without taking her eyes off Donald, addresses me. “Maybe Mother is right that you’re an addlepate!”
Hearing that word again shakes me to my senses. “I am not an addlepate! I just didn’t expect to find a girl in the middle of battle, dressed as a boy, and attacking my … my …” I wasn’t sure what Donald was, although I finally say, “friend.”
She seems to lose her rage. “I thought he was a Scottish soldier.”
“Well, he is, but … he’s also sort of a … friend.”
She looks at me as if I’m more addlepated than ever, then looks at Donald, drawing her arm back to throw the rock at him.
I lunge at her. “Stop! Hugh is nursing him back to health!”
“Hugh?” She drops her arm and lets the rock fall to the ground. Her voice is soft. “Why?”
I explain quickly and she drops to her knees next to Donald as if she has clobbered Hugh himself. “I’m so sorry, sir! Please forgive me! It’s just that Adrian’s my cousin and I was trying to protect him. I had no idea!”
“Of course, lassie. You’re a brave one, you are.”
“Are you all right?” I ask Donald.
“Aye, I’m fine.”
“This is Donald Stewart of Linton, and this is my cousin Bess.”
Bess nods at Donald, then looks at me. “Where’s Hugh?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but when I see her stricken face, I quickly add, “He’s fine. He went off to look for his father this morning.” I pause before going on. “The only thing is, some English soldiers found Donald and me, so we had to leave our camp. I left a sign for Hugh — you know, one of those crosses we leave for Thomas? Anyway, I think he’ll figure it out.” I look over at Donald. “He was struggling with me because he wanted to go look for Hugh but I told him he needs to rest.”
Bess smiles warmly at Donald, tears in her eyes. It’s hard to believe she attacked him only moments ago. She turns to me. “I saw your cross. And your campfire that was still going.” I cringe, realizing that in my haste to leave I’d never put it out. “That’s how I knew it was you the men were talking about.”
“What men?”
“A knight in a fancy purple surcoat —”
Donald groans.
“He was talking about a small boy with a bow and war paint under his eyes.”
“That small boy sent him running,” I snap, “so I’m not scared of him.”
Her face grows tight. “You should be, Adrian. He’s a very powerful man.” She takes a deep breath. “He’s the warden of the entire Middle Marches of England.”
Donald bolts upright, uttering some curse I can’t understand. “Sir Reginald!”
“So?”
Bess puts her hands on my shoulders. I’m surprised to notice that she’s not that much taller than I am anymore. It makes me feel more like a man. “Adrian. He said, ‘If I see that child again, I’ll kill him.’ ”
“Well, he won’t see me, will he?” I sound braver than I feel.
Donald is on his knees. “It’s his job to patrol these woods constantly, laddie! We will likely run into him again.”
“There’s a lot of woods,” I say.
“He has a fast horse and a lot of men!” Donald retorts. “He’s a sneak and a thief! He’s supposed to stop the reivers, the thieves, but he’s as bad as they are!”
“And,” Bess adds, “you’ve made him look like a fool, so he’ll be seeking revenge.”
“I’m not scared,” I say, although now my voice sounds small.
Donald utters some more oaths and makes me wipe the soot from under my eyes and promise to never put it on again until I’m safely back in my village.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask Bess, as much to change the subject as to get the answer.
“You never came back, Adrian. You never brought Hugh. I decided to come myself.”
“But you’re just a girl.”
She gives me a face as sour as Good Aunt’s.
“I mean, you could’ve gotten caught. You could’ve been killed!”
“That lassie can take care of herself quite well,” Donald says, “and you should heed her warnings about the warden because she’s trying to take care of you, too!” He starts coughing, and Bess immediately grabs for my pouch.
“Adrian, where are all the herbs Grandmother has you carry for your breathing?”
I shrug. “I don’t need them anymore. Not often, anyway.”
She stops rummaging for a moment and stares at me until Donald’s coughing grows worse.
“There’s some mullein in there,” I say, nodding at my pouch.
I build a fire while Bess tends to Donald. He is soon asleep, or maybe unconscious. Bess hovers over him like Hugh.
“I can’t believe you saved a Scottish soldier,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t want to,” I point out. “It’s a treasonous act, and I thought we should kill him.”
Bess wheels around to face me, her eyes wide. “Kill him?”
“Well, he was badly wounded. And look at the size of him — like a bear, with wild red hair.”
She shakes her head. “You’re always like that.”
“Like what?”
“Judging people on their appearance rather than who they are.”
“What? I do not!”
“Donald, because he’s large and has red hair.”
“And he’s the enemy!”
“Lepers, like poor Thomas. You can’t even stand to look at him.”
“Lots of people can’t!” At least, I think to myself, I don’t throw stones at him like Bryce, William, and Warren.
She turns back to Donald and her voice is softer. “You said I was horrible simply because I look like my mother.”
“I — I don’t remember saying that.” I know that I thought it a lot, though.
“It was a year ago. I overheard you speaking to Hugh.”
I swallow. It’s true. Now that I think on it, I’ve probably said that more than once to Hu
gh.
“That’s how I knew what a kind person Hugh was, because he chastised you for saying so.”
That is true, too. I’ve been chastised much by Hugh. “I don’t think you’re horrible anymore.”
“Thanks very much,” she says with a frown.
“I mean … well, I guess you’re right that sometimes I’m like that.”
“Sometimes? What about those stupid shoes you bought just so you could look all fancy? Really, Adrian, who cares what you look like?”
That’s easy for her to say. She hasn’t had to put up with looking like me her whole life. Although, I realize, she has never teased me or been mean to me like every child in the village, other than Hugh. And it wasn’t because she was my cousin. Jane teased me mercilessly. She even conducted a mock witch trial of me years ago, which the unholy trinity loved. When I think about it, it was Father who came to stop it, but Bess who held his hand. She was probably the one who went to fetch him when she saw what her sister was up to.
I feel like such a fool. For being mean to Bess and for being, well, exactly what she says I am — shallow, judging people on their looks. Me, of all people! I stare at the fire for a long time, only vaguely aware of Bess bustling around camp, until she brings me some pine-needle tea and sits across the fire from me.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
She shrugs. “I was mad at the way you always were. I don’t think you’re like that anymore, at least not so much.”
“Really?”
“Why else would you be trying to protect Donald now?” She gives me a smile and sips her tea.
I look over at Donald, pale and silent. I thought I was just saving him because that’s what Hugh would want. Yet, now that I think on it, I couldn’t stand seeing him as a sitting duck. It wasn’t right. Even if he is Scottish and the soldiers are English. Maybe I really am changing.
I suddenly realize I’m famished. It’s getting late and will be dark before long. I get up and grab my bow. “I’ll go get us some food.” I hesitate, worried about leaving Bess and Donald alone.
Bess brightens. “Can you bring back some St.-John’s-wort and marigold?”
I stare at her blankly.
The Badger Knight Page 17
