“A leper, sir!”
All of the men back their horses away now.
“Why did you not say so before?” Sir Reginald demands.
“It’s all right,” I say, “as long as you’re five paces away. See? My rope is even marked.”
“What are you doing with a leper, boy?” The knight’s face is sour and pinched.
I pull out my letter quickly and head toward him.
“Leave the leper behind you!” he says sharply.
I drop the rope and Donald stands still, cowering.
I run over to the knight’s courser with the letter I’ve scribed. As I hand it up to him eagerly, his eyes catch mine and his face looks thoughtful. Quickly, I step back, hanging my head to hide my face and show my tonsure. I thank Bess for coloring my hair and skin and hope the disguise works. I hope I look subservient, but really I’m afraid. Is it possible he could recognize me? With different hair, skin, voice, clothes, and no soot under my eyes this time? He has seen me only once. The squire has seen me twice, though.
I hear the parchment crinkle and the knight say, “This is a poor excuse for sealing wax. Why has the esteemed prior used mud?”
I swallow hard but, God be praised, my brain works. “Because the pagan Scots stole Prior Osmund’s seal, and his parchment, too. Indeed, that’s why the prior wrote the letter on the back of a poultice recipe. And that’s also why he’s so angry.”
I can’t help but look up at the knight, who now squints at the letter. I gasp at what he pulls out of his pouch. St. Jerome’s eyes!
“The spectacles!” I hear myself say, and inside I curse myself.
The knight narrows his eyes at me. “What do you mean, boy, ‘the spectacles’?”
“I — I’ve heard of them before but never seen them.” That, at least, is true. I don’t tell him that I know where they came from and whose nose they’re supposed to be on.
“Why so interested?”
“My grandmother has failing eyes and she’s an herbalist.” That’s also true. “I’ve wondered if having spectacles could help her.”
He smirks. “An herbalist cannot afford such things. It would be a waste.”
Now that I’m past the fear of being caught for my slipup, I find myself growing angry. And bold. Those are Nigel’s spectacles!
I ball up my fists and step toward the knight, but Donald starts coughing, loudly.
A soldier gags, covering his mouth with his hood. He pulls his horse farther away. “Stay back, my lord,” he says in a muffled voice. “The leper is already missing fingers.”
I look back, surprised, and I see that it does appear Donald is missing two fingers. Then I realize he has folded them up out of view and remember how nimble his fingers are from whistle playing. I also see him wiggle his two remaining fingers just a bit, like our spider sign.
“Keep away, leper!” a soldier orders, and Donald retreats a couple of steps.
I look back at Sir Reginald, who takes the spectacles from his nose. “Interesting.” He licks his lips as he slowly folds the letter and holds it up in the air, flicking it back and forth as if taunting me to grab it. His eyes meet mine and lock them in so hard to his dark gaze that I feel as if they have skewered right through me, like I’m a pig on a spit.
He has me exactly where he wants me because his eyes don’t leave mine, nor do they even blink. “You say this letter was written by the prior of Lanercost?”
I nod, but the murmuring among the men is not a good sign.
“Tell me, boy,” the knight says with a smirk, “how could he write a letter when he’s dead?”
I feel as the pig must feel held over the flame, only now I am being turned on the spit because I feel dizzy and burned.
“The Scots laid waste to Lanercost,” Sir Reginald says coldly.
“Look how ashen the boy is,” someone says.
All eyes are on me. I don’t know what to do. Think, Adrian, think! Ockham’s razor! You’re a boy who yearns to be a monk — yes!
I drop to my knees, cross myself, and begin to pray. The words are for the prior’s soul, but truly the prayers are for the souls of Donald and myself. And Nigel, because I worry now that he has been hurt, or worse. Also, it gives me time to think.
I hear some of the men praying for the prior, too, while Sir Reginald calls to his squire and mumbles something I can’t hear.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I jump. I look up and see Squire Gawain leaning down toward me, his back to the group of men. “Ten,” he says, so softly and quickly that I barely hear it before he speaks out loud. “Rise, boy, my liege has a question for you.”
The knight leans forward in his saddle, his eyes smiling and eager. “Tell us how many days you have been walking with this letter and the leper.”
The men who were praying or grumbling have stopped and all look at me, expectant.
I look at Gawain, who has mounted his horse again, and can only hope the word he whispered in my ear is to save me and not a trick.
“T-ten, sir?” It comes out as a question, which I didn’t mean.
Squire Gawain nods his head once.
“You sound doubtful,” the knight says.
“I am distraught, sir, but, yes, now I remember it’s ten because I’ve already finished counting all of my fingers and just this morning thanked God that I have ten toes to move on to, unlike my uncle, who lost three when he was drunk and plowed right over his foot.”
While some of the men chuckle, Gawain says, as if he has just figured it out, “It was only eight days ago that the prior was so brutally slain.”
The knight’s face is sour as he glares at me. “Ten days, you say? That is slow progress from Lanercost. It’s less than thirty miles from here.”
“True, sir, but I can’t walk fast because the leper is nearly blind and terribly afflicted. He can only take a few steps at a time before he must rest.”
For the first time, the knight glares at Donald, and I fear his piercing, all-knowing eyes much more now than when they looked at me. “Perhaps we should put the poor fellow out of his misery.”
I try not to gasp out loud. Even a few of the men are wide-eyed. The man who covered his face with his cloak backs up, as if worried that he will be called on to get close to a leper. I hate to think what Donald must be thinking.
Finally, my brain works, and then my tongue. Picking up Donald’s rope, I say, “But, sir, it was one of the prior’s last wishes for me to lead the leper to Scotland. Indeed, from what you have said, it was practically his dying wish. You wouldn’t take that away from any man, would you, sir? Especially a man of God?”
It’s bold of me to say, and challenging, but it puts the seed of worry in the heads of the others, and there’s enough rumbling among the men and a half-coughed “Let’s move on,” for the knight to get the message although, clearly, he doesn’t like it. He throws the letter on the ground and I grab it, giving him a relieved “Thank you, sir.”
My relief is short-lived.
“I’m not finished with you, boy,” Sir Reginald says, leaning forward in his saddle and peering at me. “You seem too … familiar.”
I feel the rope tremble but I don’t know if it’s Donald or me.
Gawain finally breaks the horrible silence. “These children,” he says with a strained laugh, “they all look the same, my liege. Begging, playing —”
“No,” Sir Reginald says, examining me, “I think …”
Every second of silence worries me more that he’ll find that place in his memory where I almost shot him with an arrow.
“I know!” Gawain cries. “He’s the boy who was weighing fish in the market at Carlisle!”
“Yes!” I say.
“No.” The knight shakes his head. “That is not he.”
“My liege, he wore a large hood but I remember his face.”
“The one whose father screamed at him so?” Sir Reginald says thoughtfully.
“Yes, my liege,” Gawain says with relief.
Gawain turns pale and trips over his words. “I think — I thought — perhaps —”
“Boy!” Sir Reginald says, turning to face me. “Scribe something in the dirt there with a stick.”
Gawain looks at me with alarm and, I think, pleading.
“Or can you not scribe?” the knight asks with a leer.
Gawain shifts nervously in his saddle and the other men look either amused or bored.
I pick up a stick. “What would you have me write, sir?”
Sir Reginald flings his arms out magnanimously so all I can see above me is purple and silver, glinting in the sunlight. “Whatever you like, boy.”
I scratch away at the dirt, and when I’m done Gawain is shaking in his saddle with silent laughter, as are some of the other men.
The knight, too, reads what I have written, but his face is as sour as Good Aunt’s. He looks at me again, his eyes narrowing. “You and your leper had best be gone from my land by sundown or he will not live to see tomorrow.” He turns his courser roughly, the other men following. “Come, Gawain, we must be off!”
“Yes, my liege,” the squire answers, giving me a quick nod before leaving.
Donald exhales as if he has held his breath the entire time. “That was too close.”
“I know,” I say. “We must get moving.”
After we’re well under way, Donald stops for breath, leaning against a tree. “Tell me, laddie, what did you write on the ground for Sir Reginald to read?”
I grin. “ ‘Never fear: Spiderwort root will loosen even the tightest bowels.’ ”
Donald puts his head back and roars until his face is red with laughter.
THE NEXT DAY WE FORGE ON, AVOIDING SOLDIERS, PILGRIMS, beggars, and thieves. Donald is getting stronger but it’s easier for him to walk on the road rather than through the woods. We are on the road when I hear footsteps behind us. Instinctively, I push Donald into the woods and peer out to see who’s coming. To my surprise, it’s neither soldiers nor thieves but children, mostly, with two women, one young and one old. I step out into the road because I’m curious.
A girl runs up to me. “Brother, do you have food or alms for us?”
“No,” I say honestly, and she hangs her head. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” She forces a smile. “We’ll keep going.”
“Where are you headed?”
The rest of the group has caught up to her.
She shrugs. “Nowhere. Anywhere. We can’t stay in our village.”
“Why not?”
“Our fathers never came back from the war. The reeve took our homes because we can’t work the fields on our own.”
“But the men may come back yet! The war isn’t over.”
The young woman steps forward. “Did you not hear, Brother? King David was captured some nights ago. If my husband were alive,” she says, her voice shaking, “he would’ve returned by now. The war is indeed over.”
“Aye,” says the older woman, “and with it, our lives.”
The young woman takes her hand. “We’ll find a way to survive, Edith, don’t worry.”
“And feed all these orphans we’ve collected?” Edith asks.
The younger woman doesn’t have an answer for that. “Come on, children,” she says, and the group straggles down the road.
I go back into the woods and start to tell Donald what I learned, but he interrupts me.
“I heard.”
“Sorry,” I say, “that your side lost.”
“Och, laddie,” he says, shaking his head, “we’ve all lost.”
We’re silent for the rest of the day. I hadn’t thought about after the war. Of women and children without homes and without a means to survive. I wonder how I could’ve missed that important detail when I planned to be an archer. If I’d been a successful archer, how many orphans would I have made?
That night, as we sit around our fire, Donald says, “I think you should go home, laddie. I can get myself the rest of the way.”
We both know he’ll never make it if he doesn’t have me to lean on during the day, to feed him in the evening, and to protect him at night. I try to distract him with stories of my village, Father Fraud, the unholy trinity, and my journey, like I do every night. This evening, though, he’s insistent because of the news that the war is over.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I say, “it’s still dangerous for you.”
“You’ve saved my life enough times, laddie, and —”
“Exactly!” I say, cutting him off, and putting the squirrel I just cooked in front of him. “And I’m not letting all my efforts go to waste by leaving you now. You’re still a Scot in English territory.”
“We’ll soon be at the border,” he argues.
“And we’ll see how you’re doing then. If —”
I see movement out of the corner of my eye and stand up to look left. A small boy has my bag in his hand.
“Hey!” I cry. “Give that back!”
He takes off but I grab his arm, catching him quickly because the boy has a limp. And torn clothes. And big eyes like Otto.
“Sorry,” he squeaks, “I’m hungry is all.”
“Why didn’t you ask for food?”
He looks at the ground. “Everyone says, ‘No, go away!’ ”
I take my bag and let go of his arm. “Don’t you have any family?”
He nods, pointing at his leg. “I ran away because I’m a burden. My father died in the war and nobody wants to marry my mother because of me. I wanted her and my baby sister to have a home. So I left. They’re better off without me.”
I feel sick to my stomach, and it must show on my face because the little boy pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Brother, I’ll be fine.” He gives me a wide smile that shows his missing front teeth. “My name’s Lorcan. Mother says it means ‘small but fierce.’ See, I’ll be all right!”
“Och, ye brave wee laddie —” Donald starts to say, but the boy backs away.
He’s not smiling anymore and his eyes are wide. “That’s a Scot!”
“It’s all right,” I say, grabbing his arm as he tries to run. “He’s a friend.”
The boy still pulls against me and it takes me a while to coax him by our fire. He stares at Donald.
“I’m going to see if I can catch you a squirrel before it gets too dark, all right? You look like you could use some meat.”
He nods.
“Stay here and I’ll be back soon.”
I search for food, though my eyes are tired and it’s hard to see. I aim at a scurrying — a rabbit or squirrel? — but miss because the creature runs under a log. I ready my arrow and step quietly to the other side of the log to catch the animal as soon as it emerges. When it pokes its head out I almost let my arrow fly until I see its eyes with black stripes underneath. It’s a young badger. We stare at each other for several moments until I shudder, then step back, leaving him be.
I do manage to catch a squirrel, but when I return to camp the boy is gone.
“What happened?”
Donald shakes his head. “He was too nervous around me and bolted. I did get him to take my dirk, though.”
“Your knife? Now you have no weapon at all.”
“I’m going home, laddie. That wee bairn has nothing. And no one.”
It’s true. “Do you think …” Something catches in my throat and I stop.
“Do I think what?”
After a deep breath, I say, “Do you think he’ll survive?”
“Aye,” Donald says readily, “I do.”
I look at him. “Really? How?”
“Spirit.”
“The Holy Spirit?”
“Nay, his own spirit.”
Maybe Donald is right but I can’t help but feel angry, although I’m not sure with whom. It wasn’t his mother who cast him out. And certainly his father didn’t want to die and leave them. I know the
boy is being noble by taking himself away from the village. Still, what kind of world is it that would put such a heavy burden on one small soul?
“What about you, Adrian?”
I startle. “What about me?”
“What will you do with your life, I wonder?” he says, lying down and closing his eyes.
There is not much I can do, considering who I am. I look down at my monk costume and wonder if I could ever be like Nigel. I suppose a priory might take me, even though I’m odd. At least I can scribe, although the idea of sitting and scribing all day makes my head hurt, not to mention my eyes. And praying and chanting at all hours would drive me to be an addlepate if I’m not one already. I could never make a good monk, like Nigel, but I understand now what he was saying about finding the truth.
And yet, who will accept me as a scribe? What will I do with my life? Donald must be asleep by now but I answer him anyway. “I’ll be useless.”
Donald sits bolt upright. “What!” He looks at me and holds my gaze. “You’ve saved my life! You’re shepherding me, a grown man, through enemy territory all the way to Scotland! You’re a scribe and an archer, and have a strong mind. If it weren’t for you, I’d be long gone! Useless? I don’t ever want to hear such foolishness again!”
His tirade seems to exhaust him and he closes his eyes and is soon asleep.
Maybe Donald is right that I’m not useless. I have done some things that are, well, surprising — I have even surprised myself. I suppose they are all useful things. But saving a Scottish soldier multiple times? How can I explain that to those in my village, or anyone, really? What am I going to tell them when I finally return?
I could say I got lost and that’s why it took me so long to get home, which makes me an addlepate. Or perhaps I can say I got sick, but that just makes me weak. Or the truth — that I am a traitor. Hugh must’ve explained the truth to Father, but they can’t share it with anyone. Who would understand? Truly, I think I’m doing the right thing, but if I didn’t know Donald, and just heard about an English person aiding a Scottish soldier, I would think it dead wrong. That’s what they’ll think of me. And perhaps hang me for being a traitor.
The Badger Knight Page 22
