It’s a long while before I can sleep.
I’m awakened by Donald fixing us pine-needle tea. He’s breathing heavily.
“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be resting!”
He smiles. “I decided it was my turn to start breakfast. You needed the rest.”
I feel the warmth of the sun and look up at the sky. St. Jerome’s bones! It must be almost noon! How did I sleep so long?
“Do you feel better?” he asks. “Many a night it is you’ve been up late. Your body was catching up on sleep.”
I shake myself fully awake as he hands me the warm tea. “Thanks.”
I’m just getting up to find food when a pilgrim passes on the road close by. Looking through the trees, he waves and calls out a good-day. Donald, rather sheepishly, claps his wooden spoon against his bowl. The man nods and starts to take a loaf of bread from his bag, hesitates, and puts the whole bag on the ground, giving us a whistle.
“God bless you, sir!” I call out as I run to take the food. It’s not only bread but four meat pies as well!
Many have given us food, believing Donald to be a leper, but never this much. We both feel guilty to be posing as a leper and his companion. I think, as I do every day, about the thieves and beggars in London who pretended to be lepers just to get free handouts, and I feel worse. Somehow, I resolve, I’ll make up for this.
Still, the food gives us the sustenance we need to head north, and we’re grateful. We’re in high spirits, having gorged on the bread and each eaten a meat pie. The sun is warm. As we crest a hill, I see it. Hadrian’s Wall. Again. This time I’m not scared of it, though. In fact, I’m almost happy to reach it because we’ll be in Scotland, Donald’s home, away from English soldiers, specifically Sir Reginald.
Donald is grinning as we climb over the wall. He points to a strip of blue water. “The River Tyne!”
We soon reach the cool, clear river, where we drink. The water looks so inviting as it reflects the sunshine that we put our tired feet in. Shivering and laughing with the tickling relief it brings, we turn to look at each other.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
Donald grins and steps into the water, and I splash in after him.
Soon we are scrubbing ourselves and our clothes clean. Donald is no longer a leper and, in truth, he looks healthier now. I’m no longer a tanned and dirtied monk. My skin and hair are bright white. Indeed, Donald has to squint at my brightness as much as I’m squinting from the sun.
He shades his eyes and jokes, “I feel like I’m looking at the sun itself!”
I laugh, feeling as powerful as the sun. “I’m nae a wee spider,” I shout. “I’m Robert the Bruce!” I raise my arms and clench my fists, making my arm muscles bulge. In truth, they don’t bulge much, which makes Donald start laughing, so I splash him.
“So, it’s going to be like that, is it?” he says, still laughing. He paws the water, and even with just his good arm he makes a frothy whiteness like waves.
I splash him again and in no time the water is churning like a whirlpool because we’re splashing each other so much and we don’t stop until we’ve both fallen on our asses in the river, near breathless from laughing. When our laughter dies down, it’s silent. Too silent. No birds singing, nothing. I look behind us on the riverbank and see an entire regiment of soldiers with swords and arrows pointed right at us!
“HE’S A DEVIL!” A MAN SHOUTS, POINTING HIS PICKAX AT ME.
“Aye,” another one says. “I’ll take care of the wee demon.” The man rushes toward me, his sword extended.
“Stop! Right! There!” Donald yells, struggling to his feet. Even wounded and in just his short, wet breeches, he looks a menacing beast.
The man with the sword stops at the brink of the creek but doesn’t take his eyes off me. I’m shivering in the water, wondering how long the standoff will last — and who will win — when one of the men on the bank struggles through the others to the front of the line.
“Donald?” he says.
Donald squints up at the man. “Malcolm?”
The man grins. “What are ye doing swimming with the devil?”
“He’s no devil,” Donald says, and I can feel him relax. “He saved my life!”
The man with the sword lets us out of the river and we put our clothes and weapons back on. I put on my cloak, too, because suddenly I feel chilled.
When Donald and Malcolm embrace I think, for a moment, that everything is going to be all right. But two men grab me and, when Donald yells at them, several more hold him back.
“You fools!” Donald shouts. “The lad has brought me through enemy territory all the way here. He risked his life to take me home. And he and his friend fed and sheltered me when I was so wounded I would have died! We should be celebrating him!”
The men stare at me but they don’t look like they want to celebrate. A man with white hair and a black robe steps forward and speaks gently. “I’m afraid you’re under the devil’s spell.”
“Och, for heaven’s sake!” Donald shouts. “Malcolm! You know me. Tell them, I don’t even listen to the priest! Why would I heed a devil child?”
“Aye, that’s true enough,” Malcolm says, but his words are met only with grumblings from the other men.
The men part and a tall man with a helmet and real armor emerges. His hair is dark and wild and his eyes look down on me over his beaklike nose.
Donald’s face goes from rage to disgust. He spits on the ground. “MacGregor. You thief. I should’ve known. Who have you been stealing from lately?”
MacGregor sneers. “Don’t go all holier-than-thou, Donald Stewart. You’ve done your share of stealing.”
I feel my mouth drop open and I stop struggling. Donald? A thief? And I know this MacGregor must be right because Donald’s shoulders slump.
“Only when I had to keep my family from starving — and the English had stolen my sheep!” Donald looks over at me and looks away quickly, with a pained face.
I realize my mouth is still open. But I don’t blame Donald for stealing if his family was starving. It’s what Henry’s gang has to do. People don’t just starve in cities. In the winter, you can starve in the country, too. And, anyway, the English stole from Donald.
“At least,” says Donald, glaring at MacGregor, “I don’t kill women and children.”
MacGregor seems to have nothing to say to that, although his mouth is moving around as if he’d like to.
I know Donald would never kill women and children. He even saved an English boy. But this MacGregor will likely have no qualms about killing me. I start struggling again.
“Surely you can’t believe the boy is a devil,” Donald says. “Just let him go.”
MacGregor smirks. “Aye, but what am I to do if my men think he is?”
“A fine leader you are, eh? You can’t control your own men.”
Now it’s MacGregor who spits at Donald’s feet. “Tie them both up!”
It takes four men to pull Donald away from me, although he keeps yelling at MacGregor. When I see MacGregor kick Donald in the back I want to yell, too.
“We’d be better off without this demon,” a man says.
“Aye,” the man with the sword says, pointing it at me again. “What are you?”
Suddenly, I’m not feeling the least bit scared. All I feel is rage. “I’m not a what! I’m a who! I’m a boy — a man — just like you!” My voice is so loud some of the men step back. “I’m not possessed just because I look different!”
“Poor wee lad,” the white-haired man says, “it’s not your fault that your body has been possessed. And yet —”
“And yet you want to get rid of me anyway? Well, you can’t just throw me away!” I think about what Donald said last night. “I am not useless.” I look around at the crowd. Some of the men meet my eye, others don’t.
“All those who look like you,” the old man says gently, “are the same. They —”
“What?
” I cry. I nod my head at a man who stares at the ground. “He has black hair. Is everyone with black hair the same? And him,” I say, looking at another man, “are all short, fat people the same? And what about you? You have white hair just like me. Are we the same, then?”
There’s a murmuring and I hope the men are actually thinking, and maybe even agreeing with me.
“Silence!” MacGregor yells, barreling his way through the men. “Take the devil child away! He’s poisoning your brains.”
“You’re the poison!” I say. “Why are you scared of me? A boy? Why do you kill children?”
There’s a louder rumble from the men, and MacGregor hits me across the face so hard I fall down.
I hear a roar, as if from a wounded bear, and I realize it’s Donald. They must be dragging him away because his screams are growing more distant. Someone lifts me up and makes me walk although I can’t even see straight. The pain in my jaw is making my eyes water so I barely see my boots and the leaves as I’m dragged to a log, tied with my hands behind my back, and dropped on the ground.
I want to scream or cry, I can’t decide which, but there are several men standing guard over me and I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I have to think of a way out. My bow is on my back but it’s useless to me with my hands tied.
There’s a crashing through the branches and leaves and suddenly Donald, pushed by several men, is next to me. There’s a rope around his waist, pinning his arms to his side. His face is bloody.
I stare at him as he drops onto the log next to me. “Are you all right?”
He nods, but before he speaks he spits out a tooth. “What about you, laddie?”
“I’m fine,” I say. We’re both lying, but sometimes friends do that for each other to keep their spirits up.
There are several more guards now, probably because of Donald, so we can’t discuss any escape plans. Not that I have any. My head is ringing and it hurts to think.
Donald taps my arm and makes the spider sign with his hand. I have to smile, even though it hurts my face. We still don’t talk but I feel more hopeful.
After a while, Malcolm comes. He stands over us with his feet apart, hands on his hips, and yells, which I wish he wouldn’t do because my head still hurts. Besides, I thought he was a friend. I hang my head and see Donald’s hand nearest me making the spider sign.
I give him a defeated look, as if to say even your friend is against us. Donald’s head is down and he’s trying not to smile. When I look in his eyes, they’re twinkling. He glances toward Malcolm and makes the spider sign again.
Ockham’s razor! Malcolm is Donald’s friend. He’s only pretending to be on MacGregor’s side! He’s really here to help us!
I decide to listen to Malcolm’s ranting. There is probably some useful information he’s giving us.
“So,” he says, “the warden will be here by nightfall and we’ll have the trial then. He will decide what to do with the boy.”
“Warden?” says Donald, who has just lost his grin.
“Aye, of the Middle Marches.”
Donald and I look at each other.
“Scottish or English?” I say, before I can stop myself, because if it’s Sir Reginald, of the English Middle March, I am in serious trouble.
“Does it matter?” one of the guards says. “He rules them both.”
“What?” Again, I can’t stop myself from speaking.
“Sir Reginald,” Malcolm says.
“But he’s English!” I say.
“His wife is Scottish,” one of the guards says.
“And,” another adds, “he takes money from both sides, which makes him powerful in both the Scottish and English Middle Marches.”
I groan. “He’s a thief!”
The guards behind me laugh.
“We’re all thieves,” one of them says.
“Aye, but not like Sir Reginald,” another adds, with no hint of laughter.
The others murmur in agreement.
“But he’s supposed to be a man of law!” I say. “Instead, he’s a worse thief than anyone!”
Malcolm inspects the fingernails on one hand as if he’s completely bored and not even listening. But, I realize, he could’ve silenced me if he wanted to. Instead, he’s letting me speak. He must want the other men to hear.
So I oblige. I tell them all about Sir Reginald and the prior and the stolen goods and Nigel. When I get to the starving townspeople who had to support the priory while the monks got fat, the guards are enraged.
As I’m talking, I’m reminded of Nigel and his search for the truth. I think of what I always believed to be truths — Scots are pagans, thieves are bad, knights are noble, girls are weak, war is glorious — and how all these “truths” aren’t real at all. They’re things I was taught or everyone believes, just as all people who look like me are supposedly angels or, more often, devils. I didn’t believe Nigel when he said that scribing was power, that seeking the truth and sharing it is mightier than being a soldier.
Now I see what he means. And I resolve to seek the truth myself. Instead of hiding and letting others decide my fate, I will follow my own truth. I will finish Sir Geoffrey’s mission. I may not have saved his life but I can finish his life’s work.
I will go see the bishop of Durham myself.
That is something the people of Ashcroft can be proud of. And so will Father. And so will I.
I’m so excited that I tell the soldiers my plan. “I’m going to tell the bishop of Durham exactly what has been happening in his realm!”
They stare at me. And then they laugh.
“You’re just a wee boy!”
“Aye, and an odd one at that!”
“That’s a man’s job!”
Donald stands up and turns to face them. “He is a man! You just can’t see it yet.” He smiles at me. “I’m glad you finally have.”
“But,” one of the soldiers says, “why would the bishop talk to you?”
“He doesn’t have to. He just has to listen. And I’ll write it all down, everything I can remember, so he’ll see I’m no fool. I even know who’s wearing Nigel’s spectacles.”
Another man rolls his eyes. “And what if Sir Reginald and the bishop are friends?”
“That’s why I’ll write it all down, and scribe copies, and give them to other members of the clergy. And any merchant and scholar and lawyer in Durham who’ll read it.”
Donald’s eyes are twinkling now. “Aye, you wield much power in that hand.”
“Och, it’s a waste of time, laddie. You said yourself the prior is already dead.”
“I can still stop Brother Bernard and the others! Besides, the truth is never a waste of time.”
“Sir Reginald’s arriving!” someone shouts.
“Well,” says the gruff-voiced guard, “we’ll let the warden decide what happens to you and your fancy ideas of running all the way to Durham.”
I watch the horses in the distance — there must be at least a dozen of them — approach the camp, and I slump, wishing I could disappear.
Malcolm clears his throat. “MacGregor’s bringing out the ale tonight for the warden and his men.”
“What?” the gruff-voiced man says. “What about us? His own men?”
“Why don’t you go get some before it’s all gone?” Malcolm says.
“I’ll not leave my post!” the man replies.
Malcolm shrugs. “Suit yourself. Hamish and Gordon, if you two want to go have a wee dram I’ll take over for you.”
“What about me?” a young voice says.
Malcolm laughs. “All right, Ian, you too. Bring some back for old Jock here.”
“More than a wee dram!” the gruff-voiced man orders.
I look behind me and see we still have three guards, and one of them is Jock, who wants Sir Reginald to seal my fate. How will we get away? And how far could we get on foot, anyway?
“MacGregor is angry with you,” Malcolm says to Donald, his voice indi
fferent. “He doesn’t much like being made to look a fool. Still, he knows not to turn on one of his own.” I’m relieved to hear that until Malcolm yawns, and adds, “The boy, though — who knows what’s to become of him?”
Malcolm looks at Donald. “Because of our long friendship, I’ll help you get home to your family, whether this boy is a devil or not. You’re fatigued. I’ll let you ride Fire. She’s right over there.” He points behind us to a lone chestnut pony tied to a birch. All of the other horses are where Sir Reginald is now dismounting, on the other side of camp. I wonder if Fire is so wild that she can’t be kept with the others.
“Ah,” says Donald slowly, looking at me, “right. I’m not such a good rider, of course.”
“Och, I know that,” Malcolm says. “You’ve no skill at all. It’s a good thing she knows what to do even with someone who has absolutely no experience riding.” Malcolm raises his eyebrows at me. “All you have to do is hold on. Aye, she’s a special girl, she is. She can run far and fast, through woods, even through the night.”
Wait. I look at Donald. Does Malcolm mean for me to ride Fire out of here? Donald nods his head once and I know the answer is yes. But I’m still tied up. I can’t even get on a pony, never mind ride, with my arms useless like this.
The guards are back with ale, and when Jock sits down to drink, Malcolm urges them all to face west to look at the sunset. Meanwhile, he slips Donald his knife and I feel Donald sawing at the ropes that bind my hands, even though it’s hard for him with his arms still pinned to his side. When I’m free I quickly cut his ropes.
“Fire,” he whispers.
But the men are all looking in the direction of the pony so I can’t go now.
“Go around,” Donald murmurs, “and stay low.” He smiles. “All the way to Durham.”
Malcolm looks across camp to where the other horses are, then gives us a nod.
I don’t know how to say good-bye. “I —”
“Whist! Go!” Donald says sternly, although there are tears in his eyes. “Godspeed, Adrian. We will meet again.”
As the men talk and laugh and drink, I sneak around the trees heading for Fire, stopping when I hear Sir Reginald’s voice. Although it strikes me with fear, it also reminds me … the spectacles! I have no scroll to bring to the bishop when I make my case against Sir Reginald, but I could bring the spectacles. I must. And then return them to Nigel, their rightful owner.
The Badger Knight Page 23
