God’s lips! I don’t know what to say. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll believe the story of dragging a leper across the border to infect Scotland and, even if he does, he’ll probably still want to pray with him.
“He’s gone now,” I say quickly, remembering what the unholy trinity used to do to Thomas. “I threw stones at him so he’d clear off!”
The priest grabs my arm and shakes me. “He is one of God’s children, boy! How dare you be so cruel?”
I don’t mind being shaken because at least the topic has changed from my odd looks and questionable story to my simply being a rotten boy.
“Come on, men,” their leader says wearily.
I watch them pass with relief that turns to panic, because the leader orders his men to fan out in different directions to keep looking for evidence of Scots. Satan’s arrow, please don’t let them come near our camp!
As soon as I’m over a rise and out of their sight, I take off at a desperate speed, sprinting all the way back to our camp. As I approach, I see that Donald has put out the fire and is hidden from view, so all’s well except that, St. Jerome’s lungs, I’ve been running so fast and the air is so cold, I can’t breathe! It’s as if I must now pay for the many days I’ve had free of problems. And I must pay a very large price, too. I collapse on the ground and my world goes black.
WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, DONALD’S FACE IS ABOVE ME. HE’S talking and fretting, like Father used to when I was younger and had such terrible wheezing fits. He has tucked my cloak around me and even put something soft beneath my head.
“Mullein,” he says. “I’ll fix it up right now, laddie — hold on!”
I see the blood oozing from his arm and try to tell him to lie down, but I can barely speak. He tells me to hush anyway, in between his own groans. St. Jerome’s bones, we’re like two wounded animals from different packs who are trying to save each other.
I close my eyes again and try to focus on breathing while I hear Donald start a fire, muttering “Mul-lein, flea-bane,” like it’s a chant. I don’t know how much time goes by but I wonder why it’s taking the water so long to boil and why he hasn’t brought it to me when I realize that, although it’s smoky and my eyes are stinging, I’m breathing easier. When I finally open my eyes, Donald is sitting next to me, staring eagerly, as if I’m a dancing bear and he’s waiting for me to perform.
“You’re a scrappy wee lad, you are. What is it you call yourself? The Badger? Aye, it fits.” He smiles so wide his beard seems to grow. “You’re breathing easier.”
I nod.
“I am, too,” he says. “Hugh has much herbal wisdom.”
“But you didn’t even use the mullein.”
“I did!”
I prop myself up on my elbow and look around me. “Where’s the pot, then?”
“What pot?”
“The pot with the boiled mullein.”
His face falls. “Is that what you’re supposed to do with it?”
“Yes. Why, what did you do?”
“I threw it in the fire.”
“What!”
Donald’s face turns pink. “Well, that’s what you do with fleabane!”
I can’t help laughing. “It worked, anyway. I feel much better.”
I start to get up but he pushes me down. “Stay still,” he says, sounding like Hugh.
“No, I have to keep a lookout for those soldiers.”
“They’re long gone,” Donald assures me. “You were out for a while.”
“I have to get up. The squirrels need cleaning.”
“Later,” Donald says.
I still struggle against him. “But —”
“I prayed hard for your recovery, lad. I’m not losing you now.”
That is enough to stop me. “You prayed for me?”
“Aye. How else do you think you’re alive? I know nothing about curing people.” He points to the ashes of mullein and grunts. “Obviously.” He grins. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m a pagan.”
“I don’t think that. It’s just —”
Donald holds his hand up. “I suppose if you asked my priest he’d say I skip mass enough to be a pagan.” He coughs for a while before regaining his breath. “Och, I know I’m not perfect but somehow I don’t think the good Lord would begrudge me drinking a wee bit more ale than I should … or even taking back what’s rightfully mine.”
“It’s people back home, who don’t know you, who think Scots are all pagans.”
“Aye, that’s what I heard about the English, how brutal you are. I find that hard to believe now. Depends on the man. I imagine it’s much the same everywhere, even lands across the sea, including the Saracens.”
“Even Saracens?” I say. “That can’t be. They truly are pagans.”
“They follow a different religion,” Donald says.
I shake my head. “Haven’t you heard the stories of the Crusades?”
“Aye, I have, just as I’ve heard stories about the English. And” — he looks at me pointedly, but not unkindly — “about people with overly pale hair, skin, and eyes. I may not be the best Catholic,” Donald says, “but does that make me a pagan?”
I don’t answer. I know what Father Fraud would say but he’s wrong. I think about our church, and what the one in Donald’s village might be like. I wonder if they sing the same songs? I wonder if the Psalter pictures are the same? I wonder if their priests use those Psalters to whack boys like me on the head when they’re not listening? I suppose I’m no better than Donald when it comes right down to it. I ignore the priest and try to skip mass whenever I can. Does that make me a pagan?
Finally, Donald lets me start skinning the squirrels. He tries to help but I tell him to lie back or I’ll yell at him just like Hugh.
“He’s a good lad,” Donald says, “with a noble calling.”
“Physic?” I don’t mean to sound so surprised.
Donald raises his eyebrows.
“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being a physic, it’s just not what I’d call noble.”
“Ah, the archer, the warrior — that is the noble one, eh?”
He coughs as I nod.
“Hugh is a healer, laddie. How much more powerful is it to save a life than to take one?”
I concentrate on skinning the squirrels, scraping their fur off with my knife. I could never be a physic or a healer. “I’ve had enough of illness, herbs, and remedies to last me a lifetime.”
“Aye, but it’s Hugh’s calling. The battle is not for him. What is your calling, Adrian?”
“Bowyer, like my father,” I say, out of habit. But Father won’t allow it and even being an archer has lost its appeal. I always thought they were such noble callings. Now, as I gut the squirrels and remember Sir Geoffrey’s death, I wonder what, exactly, noble means.
“My Mairi hopes Colyne will become a monk, perhaps even a prior.”
I make a face and Donald asks me why, so I tell him about Prior Osmund and Nigel, and the reliquaries, jewels, and thievery. “The prior even stole the spectacles, something Nigel desperately needs!” I realize I’m shouting.
Donald stares at me.
“Stealing is wrong,” I say, but that’s not the only reason I’m upset. Every night, my eyes are so tired that my vision gets as bad as Nigel’s. I know what it feels like. “The prior sold the spectacles so he could buy more jewels, something he definitely doesn’t need.”
“What are spectacles?” Donald asks.
“It’s special glass held in a frame that rests on your nose so you can see clearly, if you have poor eyesight like Nigel.” Or me, by the end of the day, I think to myself. “Nigel wants to be a scribe, so he needs the special glass in front of his eyes instead of holding a large piece of glass above his hand as he tries to write.”
“You could be a scribe,” Donald says.
I shake my head.
“You wrote a letter that looks like it’s written by a prior!”
“Yes, but no one would hire me b
ecause of the way I look. If the lord of our manor needs a scribe, he’ll hire Bryce, the reeve’s son.” I skewer the squirrels on sticks. “I’m not fit for farming. I can’t be a bowyer, I can’t be an archer, I can’t do anything.”
We’re both silent as we watch the squirrels on the fire. Finally, Donald looks at me seriously. “Have you heard the story of Robert the Bruce and the spider?”
“I’m not interested in Scottish heroes.”
“Ah, but he’s not the wise one in this story. It’s the wee spider that teaches him a thing or two.”
“Spider?” I say, in spite of myself.
“Aye. The Bruce was hiding in a cave after six defeats by the English, wondering if it was worth all those battles, all the lives lost, and he noticed a spider, trying to spin a web from the roof of the cave to the wall.” He has to stop to catch his breath. “She failed. He counted her trying — six times — and failing, just like he had. He decided that if she failed the seventh time, he was going to lose the next battle and should give up right then. But she didn’t. On the seventh try, she succeeded. The Bruce went on to his seventh battle — and won.”
Donald looks at me. “Don’t give up, laddie. You’ll succeed.”
But I don’t even know what my calling is anymore. I just wanted to be a hero.
That night I dream of slaying a knight on the battlefield, first knocking him from his horse with one arrow and then stabbing him with a saber. I’m feeling victorious until somehow, as often happens in dreams, things twist around so that it’s now Sir Geoffrey who’s lying dead, and maggots have started crawling into his open wounds and, as I try to hit them away, the dead body becomes mine and I wake up swatting at myself.
Still half asleep, I pull my tunic over my head to get at the horrible pests. I slowly realize it was a dream, but then I see my naked underarms and — St. Jerome’s bones! — spiders have been spinning their webs in my armpits!
I scream, waking Donald, as I try to get rid of them. “They’re stuck! Cobwebs! In my armpits!”
Donald is awake now, wide-eyed, and, St. Jerome’s armpits, he starts laughing!
“You think this is funny?” I hold my arms up high for him to see the cobwebs that refuse to be removed.
He only laughs more, rolling back on the ground, wheezing, too weak to even sit up. “It’s your own hair, Adrian!”
I stop. “Hair? In my armpits?”
“Aye, laddie, it’s perfectly normal.”
“But how did it happen so fast? Overnight?”
“You just hadn’t noticed it before. When was the last time you bathed?”
“I — I was busy these last weeks.”
“So were your armpits.” Donald is still smiling. “You’ve seen men’s armpits before.”
“Yes, but the hair on Hugh’s head is fair yet the hair in his armpits is dark.”
“It starts out light but it turns dark,” Donald says. “I imagine it may even do so for you, although you’re so pale.”
I stare at the hair under my arms.
“Not while you’re looking!” Donald laughs again. “Just as you grow older.”
His laughter stops and his face becomes serious as he stares at me, and I realize the importance of this moment. My feet are bigger, I’m taller, and now I have hair under my arms. I am growing into a man.
WE WALK FOR DAYS, BUT WHEN THE HEAVY RAIN STARTS we don’t even try trekking through the slippery mud. I make a dome of branches like a cave so we have some shelter and keep the fire going so we have warmth. It’s actually good for Donald because it gives him time to rest, and he seems to get better. We have gone no more than ten miles, maybe less since we left Hugh and Bess, and probably have fifty miles to go to Donald’s home. There is still a long journey ahead of us.
Donald is in good humor despite his pain. He keeps calling me the “tough wee spider.” It’s not exactly the name I’d pick for myself — at least a badger is fierce — but I know he means it as a compliment. We even have a hand gesture now, instead of a wave. We curl our hands into a claw and wiggle our fingers, like a spider. In fact, I feel like the spider as I go off to find food and herbs for Donald because he’s like the failing Bruce and I’m small, but determined, and maybe the only one who can save him.
The bad thing is that Donald’s face paint is now gone. Between his sweat and the rain, it has all washed off. We’ll just have to make sure he keeps his hood up to cover his face as much as possible for the rest of the journey.
I return with only old onions, but the sight of Donald cheers me up. He has taken his whistle out. It looks small in his grasp, not as long as his large hand and thinner than the width of his pinkie finger. His injured arm at his side, he blows into the whistle, which sounds like a bird. He looks around to see if it’s all right to play, but he needn’t worry because he’s not able to blow it very loudly, so it simply sounds like a robin singing in the bushes. Besides, we’d hear anyone approach because they’d be slipping, sliding, and probably swearing.
As I watch Donald, I can’t help but smile. He’s a giant of a man yet he’s like that gnome, the one my mother told me about when I was little, the good gnome who gives lifesaving drinks to thirsty knights and then disappears — unless you’re a bad knight, then you’re the one who disappears.
I like the music, but Donald takes the whistle from his lips and sighs.
“Why are you stopping?”
“I need two working hands.”
I grin and raise my right hand.
Donald moves over next to me. He tries to teach me just the right-handed notes of a tune. It’s not easy, especially since I’m not musically minded.
“Keep your first finger down on that hole,” he wheezes, “until the chorus. Your second finger covers that hole on the third, sixth, and twelfth notes.”
I try but it comes out awful, and we’re both laughing, which sounds particularly funny since Donald is blowing into the whistle at the same time.
Donald shakes his head as he catches his breath. “I thought you went to school.”
“They don’t teach music at school!”
“Do they not teach you how to count at school in England?” He grins before I have a chance to get angry. Between coughs, Donald calls out numbers to the tune of the song, emphasizing where I’m supposed to put my finger down on the whistle’s hole. “Let’s practice once more, laddie. One-two-down, four-five-down, seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-down.”
This time, we play and I even recognize the tune. It’s amazing how being a few notes off or not having the timing right can make it sound like a completely different song. He tells me the words that go with it, about a bird who flies away from the nest, and his mother is both sad that he’s going and glad that he has his whole life ahead of him.
We’re almost through the song a second time when we hear someone approach and we freeze, the tune dying into silence. Judas’s bones! I should’ve been keeping watch!
The rain has stopped and the woods are a quiet mist. A fairly well-dressed man in a fine hat stands staring at us, not ten feet away. How did I not hear him?!
Quickly, Donald grabs his bowl and stick and starts clapping them together and moaning.
“Leper, sir!” I call out.
“You’re a leper, my boy?”
“No, but the man I’m with is one so you’d best move on.”
“You’ll be a leper soon, too, if you don’t move on.”
“It’s all right. I’m a postulant.”
“I see.” The man eyes us both.
Donald puts his head down. I stand up and gauge how quickly I can grab my bow, which I’ve left several steps away. When the man starts fishing in his bag, maybe for a knife, I leap over to my weapon.
“Calm down, boy,” he says. “I’m just getting some food out for you and your” — he coughs, a very fake-sounding cough — “leper.” The man gets two apples and a loaf of bread and puts them on the ground. “He plays very well for a leper. I suppose the illness hasn’t rea
ched his fingers yet.” The man gives a sly smile. “One can gain much food, and even money, by posing as a leper. That’s why King Edward sent them all out of London two years ago. There were probably more mock lepers than real lepers preying on people’s good nature.”
I start to speak, to tell him the whole story of Prior Osmund sending a leper to infect Scotland, but he interrupts me.
“Whist.” He looks around furtively. “I’ll make you a deal. If you haven’t seen me, then I haven’t seen you or the leper, all right?”
I nod. “I don’t even know who you are, sir.”
He smiles. “Nor I, you.” And he disappears into the mist.
My heart is still beating fast and I finally take a deep breath and exhale. “Do you think he’ll tell anyone about us?”
Donald shakes his head. “I think he has other things to worry about. He’d rather avoid people, and he’s good at it. He managed to sneak up on us easily.”
I clutch my bow. “I’m taking watch now.”
“We’ll take turns,” Donald says, even though his face is haggard and I know he needs to sleep.
“No, we won’t. You’ll rest so we can walk far tomorrow.”
He tries to argue but I make the crawling-spider sign with my hand every time he opens his mouth, and he finally closes his eyes, a smile still on his lips.
THE SUN IS SHINING AND DONALD AND I WAKE UP refreshed. I think we both feel as if we can face anything. Which is good, because before long we round a corner, straight into the standing horses of none other than Sir Reginald; his squire, Gawain; and several other soldiers, who have stopped to let their horses rest as the men stretch in their saddles.
I freeze. So does the squire, who, I’m afraid, recognizes me. Sir Reginald stops drinking from his flask.
“Who are you?” He eyes me, and then Donald, who has his head hung down and partially covered by his hood.
I hadn’t even thought of a name for myself! Henry comes to mind and I say it, quickly adding, “of Lanercost Priory.”
“Indeed?” The knight begins to smirk, but when the breeze blows Donald’s hood and Donald clutches it, and starts coughing, he backs his horse up, his face turning serious. “Who is that man?”
The Badger Knight Page 21
