I double back to where the horses are. Donald is standing now, and he and Malcolm and even some of the guards are pointing toward Malcolm’s pony and shooing me in that direction, but I have to get the spectacles. I make my thumbs and forefingers into circles and hold them in front of my eyes to explain to Donald what I’m doing. He shakes his head fast. I don’t want to leave him distressed but I must go. I hold up my hand and make our spider sign. His shoulders slump and he still shakes his head, but he holds his hand up, too, wiggling his fingers, our sign of strength.
I creep over to Sir Reginald’s mount and fumble to find his saddlebag. I feel the warmth of the horse as he steps back, pushing against me, and snorts. I remember the way Sir Geoffrey spoke softly to his horse, so I do the same, even calling him Lightning because I don’t know his real name. I can’t see in the dim light, so I’m still fumbling with the clasp of his saddlebag when a large hand clamps down on my arm, and I freeze.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” A VOICE HISSES.
It startles me but for some reason I’m not scared, maybe because the man isn’t raising an alarm. I turn and see it’s Gawain, Sir Reginald’s squire. I don’t know if he thinks I’m stealing, which I suppose I am, but I don’t have time to explain. I manage to sputter, “Spectacles.”
He stares at me for a moment, nods once, and lets go of my arm. Deftly, he fishes them out of the bag and hands them to me. Maybe he knows how Sir Reginald got them.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Gawain!” It’s Sir Reginald’s voice.
“Coming, my liege!” Gawain calls out. “Godspeed,” he whispers as he slips away.
I know I should go but I see some parchment sticking out a tiny bit from under the saddle. I grab it. Could it be the accounting from Prior Osmund?
I open it. It’s not. My disappointment is replaced with curiosity, though, because it’s a map … with MacGregor’s land written on it and an X, followed by 20 head of cattle and take cattle through the Pennines.
The Pennines are the mountains west of here. Sir Reginald must be planning to steal cattle from MacGregor! Much as I dislike MacGregor, Sir Reginald is worse. And I want to prove that Sir Reginald is the one everyone should be suspicious of, not me.
Quickly, I scroll the map around an arrow and secure it with the string that tied it under his saddle. As I leave on Fire, I’ll shoot the arrow at MacGregor — not to hurt him, but for him to see the truth.
“Bring the boy!” I hear Sir Reginald yell.
St. Jerome’s bones! I run as fast as I can toward Malcolm’s pony. In my haste, I drop the spectacles’ case and it opens. Fortunately, the spectacles don’t fall out, but I see an inscription inside the lid. Fra Nigel, Lanercost. I know Fra means a brother or friar. Brother Nigel! His name! Evidence, clear as the spectacles themselves, for the bishop of Durham that Sir Reginald is a thief! This will seal Sir Reginald’s fate.
“Ockham’s razor!” I say out loud.
That’s when I hear the footsteps, or rather the halting of footsteps, as Sir Reginald, MacGregor, and many men face me, just yards away. They close in, surrounding me.
God’s heart! I am backed against a low rock. Scrambling on top of it, I’m panting with fear. This is it. I am dead. I face my enemy and realize I’m now eye to eye with these men, taller even than some of them.
“So, boy,” Sir Reginald says, leering, “we meet again. This time, you will not get away.”
“And neither will you!” I say, my voice loud in my ears.
Instantly, his face turns sour. “You are the one on trial here. Seize him!”
The arrow! I raise my bow, pointing the arrow with the map around it at Sir Reginald’s right eye.
“Stop!” he yells.
At first, I think it’s a command for me, though I don’t move, my right eye fixed on his.
“Back away!” he orders. “The boy is a sure shot.”
Ha! He’s scared. As well he should be. “You’ll want to see what’s on this arrow, MacGregor!” I shout. “It was hidden under Sir Reginald’s saddlebag.”
The knight startles. “How dare you steal from —”
“No, sir! How dare you steal, is the question! From the poor, from the ailing, and even from your fellow men, like MacGregor!”
“What?” MacGregor says, facing Sir Reginald, and the other men look at the knight, too.
Behind MacGregor and Sir Reginald, I see Donald and Malcolm, readying the pony. I don’t see how I can get to it. Escape seems impossible. But behind the helmets and heads of the crowd, I see Donald’s arm rise and his hand makes the spider sign.
I can’t return the sign because my hands hold my bow, but I give a nod.
A battle cry and shouting come from behind the men, and through the confused crowd Fire appears, rushing at me.
I let my arrow fly at the feet of MacGregor, but the men scatter as if I mean to harm them. It distracts them long enough for me to launch myself from the rock onto Fire’s back. As soon as I land on the pony, she takes off, with me grabbing on to both her reins and her mane, tangling my bow in the process. I lie low on her back since I have no defense now.
I hear MacGregor shouting, and Sir Reginald yelling at his men to chase me!
“That’s my mount!” Malcolm shouts. “I’ll go after him!”
“The four of you go!” MacGregor orders.
I groan. If it were just Malcolm, I’d be all right. “Come on, Fire!” I plead, clutching on to the flying animal.
“He’s a good man!” I hear Donald yell, and I want to look back but I’m too scared I’ll fall off. Is he telling me that Malcolm’s a good man or is he telling the others that I, Adrian, am a good man?
I’m far enough away now that I can’t hear what Malcolm says in reply. It doesn’t matter. I know he’s on my side. But whoever is with him may not be.
I crouch low on the pony’s back and want her to go faster to get away, but slower so I don’t fall off. I keep whispering, “Faster — no, not so fast! Faster! No, slow down!” But she doesn’t listen to me, anyway. Like Malcolm says, she follows her own road, and it’s as if she knows that we’re in a race and she must win.
I yelp and close my eyes when Fire rushes through trees, the branches scraping my head, as I pray to St. Jerome for my very survival. The air rushes past and I remember the feeling from Lightning, although I think Fire goes even faster. As she descends a hill I’m sure I’ll be tossed off, and I clutch on to her even with my knees, which only seems to make her go faster.
She slows a little when we cross a river. The cold water splashes me and I’m grateful for Fire’s warmth as the night air rushes past my wet legs. I cringe as I see that she’s heading for a line of trees, an entire forest, and I prepare for the worst. Once inside the wooded area, however, she stops altogether.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, as if she’ll answer. “Keep going!” I dare to look back and I see a pack of men on horseback up on the hill behind me, silhouetted against the dusky sky. I’m hoping they’ll turn around, but instead they come barreling down the slope toward me.
“Move! Go! Please!” But Fire is frozen. It seems that she’s even trying to make her breathing as quiet as possible, so I do the same.
“I saw him!” a man says. “He went into those trees!”
“Nay!” another answers, and I think it’s Malcolm. “Fire went that way.”
“He’s in the woods, I tell you!”
“I know my own mount!” Malcolm says, sounding angry. “You saw a deer!”
“Are you calling me blind?” the other man shouts.
“Nay,” says Malcolm, “I’m calling you stupid!”
The man curses at Malcolm. “I have good eyes!”
“Maybe,” Malcolm says, looking straight at the woods where I am, “but you, my friend, do not have as many eyes as a wee spider.” He turns his horse and trots away.
Fire whinnies softly at her owner. “Hush,” I whisper.
“We can’t give up!” a ma
n calls after him. “We need the boy. And you, Malcolm, don’t you want your pony?”
“Fire will come back on her own. I’m not worried.”
I peek through the trees and see a man throw his arms in the air, shake his head, and trot off. The others soon follow and I breathe a sigh of relief. Fire lets out one more whinny, louder this time, but the men don’t hear over the noise of their own horses.
That’s when I notice the lone horseman at the top of the hill, hunched over in the saddle. He must never have come down because the others are still behind Malcolm, climbing back up the hill.
The man at the top of the hill raises his left arm and, in the moonlight, I see him make the sign of the spider.
Donald. I grin and make the sign back, although he probably can’t see me. He knows I’m here. And I know that, someday, I’ll see him again. We might play the whistle and recount our adventures like men do. Maybe I’ll meet his family, even teach Colyne to read and write.
But for now, I have my calling. I’m going to finish what Sir Geoffrey set out to do. “Come on, Fire,” I say, urging her onward under the rising moon, “we’re going to see the bishop.”
It must be many miles to Durham but I’ll get there. I have no idea what I’ll encounter but I know now that I will survive. I’m the Badger, tough and scrappy. I’m the Spider, small but determined. Mostly, I’m someone useful from the village of Ashcroft. My name is Adrian Black, and I am a man.
I WROTE THIS BOOK FOR THE MANY READERS WHO WERE excited at the prospect of an adventure set in the Middle Ages, a period I’ve always loved. History, especially medieval history, is like fantasy — only it’s based on how people really lived and what actually happened, which, I think, makes it particularly compelling. Although I took the liberty of updating the language to make the book more accessible to today’s readers, the events in this story are centered around battles that actually took place between the English and the Scots from October 7 to October 17, 1346. I followed Adrian’s trail myself, starting at the imaginary village of Ashcroft, south of the real village of Penrith, visiting Mayburgh Henge, Brougham Castle, Carlisle Castle, Carlisle Cathedral, Lanercost Priory, Hadrian’s Wall, and the surrounding countryside. These places still exist and I hope readers are able to visit some of these fascinating sites and see where Adrian hurried past a Neolithic monument at dawn, stopped at a lord’s castle, sought sanctuary in a massive cathedral, jumped from a scriptorium window, and hid in a Roman latrine. You can have the same adventure.
Many thanks to the museum curators, historic site managers, and professors who answered my questions, especially Professor Joshua Eyler at George Mason University, who did independent research on my behalf about the possible attitudes toward those with albinism in the mid-fourteenth century. Thanks also to fellow authors like Rebecca Barnhouse and Karen Cushman, who helped directly or indirectly. Thanks to my husband for driving me around England and Scotland for research, being my sounding board, and putting up with my lapses into old English. He is indeed a noble knight. And thanks, as always, to my agent, Linda Pratt, and editor, Andrea Davis Pinkney, for their help in making this book possible — what an exhilarating ride!
I have scribed some words and their meanings for you. Like you, some of them I knew already but some of them I didn’t. I don’t like being in the dark and I didn’t want you to be, either.
As I have learned on this journey, there is power in words.
ADDLEPATE — a person who is confused (which I am NOT even though Good Aunt claims I am)
ALMSHOUSE — a shelter for elderly or poor people (but the rules are strict and there is lots of praying)
APPRENTICE — a person who is learning a craft from a professional; an apprentice works about seven years for free in exchange for the training (which I would happily do if Father would only apprentice me)
ARCHER — a person who uses a bow and arrow (like me)
BAILIFF — a person who works for the lord of the manor and is in charge of villagers or townspeople, much like a reeve, but gets paid and enjoys a higher status (generally unfriendly to boys on the run; to be avoided)
BOWYER — a person who makes bows for archers (like Father)
BUTT — an archery target, often a bale of hay with a target painted on it (which I can hit better than any man in our village, except maybe the blacksmith)
FISHMONGER — a person who sells fish and seafood (raw, but if you’re clever, like Henry, you might be able to get him to cook it for you)
GARDYLOO — from the French for look and water, it’s a warning that a chamber pot is being emptied out of the window onto the street (the “water” being the water people have passed from their bodies; you DEFINITELY want to get out of the way)
GROAT — a coin worth about four pence, or pennies; three groats equal one shilling (especially nice if you have three of them)
JOURNEYMAN — a person who is experienced in a craft and has already served an apprenticeship but is not yet a master craftsman (like Peter)
KIRTLE — a woman’s dress or gown (like Jane’s, which I got mud on — I’m still not sorry)
LAUDS — the early hour of the day, immediately after dawn (too early)
LEPER — a person who suffers from leprosy (like Thomas)
MATINS — the very early hours of the day, before dawn (definitely too early)
MARCHES (WEST, MIDDLE, AND EAST) — lands on the border between England and Scotland, far from the capital cities of London and Edinburgh, where wardens are appointed to keep law and order (and it’s very hard to tell whose side you should be on)
MICHAELMAS — the feast day of St. Michael, occurring on 29 September (also occurring five days before my birthday!)
PHYSIC — a person who makes you well again (unless it’s Roger at the manor, in which case you’re far better off getting herbal remedies from Grandmother)
POSTULANT — a person who wants to join a monastery and is in a trial period (like me, only I was just pretending)
PRIME — morning hour, after Matins and Lauds, usually around seven o’clock (early enough)
PSALTER — a book of psalms (which Father Fraud uses mostly to whack me over the head)
REEVE — a person who works for the lord of the manor to oversee his estate, sometimes including tax collection (NOT as important as a bailiff even if Reeve Elliot thinks so)
REIVERS — thieves terrorizing the marches, or border, between England and Scotland (careful: sometimes those who are supposed to be keeping order are themselves thieves)
RELIQUARY — a container for holy objects, such as the bones of a saint (as in “St. Jerome’s bones!” only I haven’t actually seen his bones, it’s just an expression, and one that gets me hit over the head with the aforementioned Psalter)
ST. ALDEGUNDIS — a saint who protects children, among others (she is on the pilgrim’s badge Bess gives Hugh to keep him safe)
ST. CRISPIN’S DAY — the feast day of St. Crispin, occurring on 25 October (and my prediction of when the war with the Scots would be over)
SCRIBE — a person who writes (like Nigel … and like me)
SHILLING — a coin worth twelve pence, or pennies (a very nice coin to have)
SUMPTUARY LAWS — regulations that limit the type of food, drink, clothing, and other luxuries people may have, for moral purposes, but also to regulate social class (yes, I’m talking about Reeve Elliot)
SURCOAT — a tunic worn by a knight over his armor, often indicating for whom the knight is fighting (like Sir Reginald’s purple one)
TONSURE — a shaved spot on top of the head indicating that a person is a monk or in the clergy (which I would not recommend, especially if it’s done by plucking out your hairs, unless you absolutely have to)
WATTLE AND DAUB — a type of building construction where upright pieces of wood are connected by woven straw and the openings are filled in with clay or mud (like my house)
WHIST — an expression to stop someone from talking, similar to “Shh!” (ni
cer than “Shut up!”)
YEOMAN — a farmer who owns land for himself rather than merely working the land for the lord of the manor (which is what Uncle wants so he can buy his way out of battle)
Kathryn Erskine is the acclaimed author of many distinguished novels for young readers, including Seeing Red, which Booklist magazine hailed as “powerful” in a starred review; Mockingbird, winner of the National Book Award; The Absolute Value of Mike, an Amazon Best Book and ALA Notable Book; and Quaking, an ALA Top Ten Quick Pick for Reluctant Readers. Kathryn lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia, with her family.
Copyright © 2014 by Kathryn Erskine
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
First edition, September 2014
Cover illustration and design by Nina Goffi created from the following images: Boy © 2014 Michael Frost;
Dagger: lynnette/Shutterstock; Portrait of young monk (10-12) in Burma: Scott Stulberg/Corbis
e-ISBN 978-0-545-66293-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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