The Badger Knight by Kathryn Erskine
In the morning, I’m awakened by Bess shaking me.
“Adrian! Adrian! He’s gone!” she wails.
I look around. It’s true Hugh has left. I’m sorry I missed him but I don’t know why she’s so distraught. She knew he was going to battle.
“Look!” she says, showing me the St. Aldegundis medal he pinned to her tunic.
“Oh, right. He wanted you to have it.”
“But he’s going into battle!”
We can hear the fighting in the distance already. Donald is awake, his eyes wide.
Bess stands up. “I’m going after him!”
“What?” Donald and I both say. He tries to get up but I’m on my feet much faster. “You can’t! You’re just a girl!”
She wheels around, her eyes narrowed. “When are you going to stop saying that, Adrian? You’re just a boy. I can go after him as well as you can.”
Donald is on his feet now, looming over us. “Neither of you will go!”
Bess hardly gets out a “But —” before Donald cuts her off.
“I cannot allow a lassie into that hell!”
“I’m going,” I say, although I really don’t want to.
“Oh, no you don’t, laddie, you’ll stay and take care of Bess. It’s what Hugh would want. I’ll go to battle.”
“But you’re not ready for battle,” I tell him.
“Despite what you might think, laddie, neither are you!”
Somehow, Donald gathers his things — which, I realize, are only his pouch and his knife — and drags himself off toward the clashing and yelling of battle.
Bess and I are quiet for a while, sitting uncomfortably by the fire, not eating, not talking, not doing anything. Much as I don’t want to see battle again, I can’t stand staying here and thinking about what might be happening.
We hear a hideous cry and Bess cringes.
I jump to my feet. “I’m going after them.”
She rises quickly. “I’m coming, too.”
“Please, Bess. Hugh wanted me to look after you. If I take you into battle he’ll hate me forever.”
She crosses her arms, staring me down. I have to think of another argument. “What if either one of them is hurt? They’ll come back here needing help. You know I can’t take care of them.”
She drops her arms and looks down. I take my chance while I have it. “I’ll be back soon,” I say, taking off at a run.
The battle is as awful as the one I saw before, only much bigger. There are thousands of men this time. I look for the standard bearers to see who’s who, and quickly see that I’m in between the two armies.
The longbowmen, probably Welsh, are raining their arrows down on the Scots, who have no chance. They’re trying to fight back but it’s complete and bloody mayhem. The English are definitely winning. I wish I could feel happier about that.
And I realize I didn’t even bring my bow with me! Not that it would do much good. My hands are shaking too much and I feel as if I may puke any moment. I swallow the bile back down in my stomach and try to focus on what I must do — find Hugh and Donald.
Soldiers are running every which way, some wounded, some dying, all trying to escape the hell and none of them, God be praised, caring about me. I keep skirting the woods around the battle, looking for Hugh, his father, and Donald. Why can’t I find them? Hugh is tall, and so is Donald. They should be easy to spot. Unless they’ve both fallen.
Finally, when I’m near the place where I first arrived, I see Donald. I only notice him because two men in a row fall over a large body on the ground. I let out a cry.
Donald is huge, even lying down. I pray he’s still alive. Even if he’s not, I have to get him off the battlefield and give him a Christian burial. A soldier trips over his body as he clashes swords with another. I must get to Donald soon or he’ll be trampled.
Fortunately, he’s close to the edge of the battlefield. When there’s no one right next to him anymore, I say a prayer for both of us as I dash over to him, hoping I’m not trampled by a horse or hit by an arrow.
I grab his legs and start pulling and — St. Jerome’s eyes! — I see a flash of armor and purple surcoat above me. It’s Sir Reginald! I pray he doesn’t turn in his saddle and see me. I also pray Big Sword is nowhere nearby. I put my head down fast, but not fast enough, because Sir Reginald’s squire sees me. The young man holds my eyes — I swear he recognizes me — until I look down and pull Donald’s legs frantically.
“What are you doing, boy?” I hold my breath, not wanting to answer, but the horse is blocking my way.
I look up, expecting to see the squire, but it’s another soldier on horseback, although the squire is right behind him, still staring at me. “That’s a Scot!” the soldier says. “Leave him to die, and get out of here!”
“My father tripped over him, sir,” I say quickly. “I don’t want another soldier getting hurt.”
The squire’s mouth drops open, hearing me speak without a Scottish accent this time. St. Jerome’s lips! I have given myself away! I am dead.
The soldier stares at me, too, his eyes almost gentle and his voice now kind. “Acts of valor in the middle of hell. You are a brave one, lad. Carry on.”
I can’t help glancing at the squire because I’m sure he’s about to stop me. He’ll tell the soldier this is no act of valor. He’ll tell him I’m a traitor. And then he’ll hang me.
I hear the clanging of swords and Sir Reginald’s yell. “Gawain! Your help! Now!” and the squire turns his courser and dashes to the knight.
I put my head down fast lest Sir Reginald see me, but my body moves slowly, not just from the weight of Donald. It’s also because the squire’s name is Gawain, and I can’t help thinking of King Arthur and his chivalrous knight, Sir Gawain, who was also a healer. Squire Gawain still reminds me of Hugh, and Hugh wouldn’t give someone like me away. I send up a prayer for Squire Gawain, and then one for Donald, who coughs — God be praised! He’s alive! But he keeps blinking like he can’t focus.
It’s only twenty feet to the woods, and when I get him there I drop down on the ground next to him. “It’s all right, it’s me, Adrian. I’m taking you back to camp.”
He doesn’t answer, only breathes heavily.
“Have you seen Hugh?” I ask him.
“Hugh … Hugh’s,” and then there are only sounds I can’t make out through all the gasping, wheezing, and noise of battle before the last word finally comes out, “dead.”
“What? What are you saying? Hugh is d-dead?” God’s heart, please tell me I am hearing wrong or Donald is too sick to know what he says!
His eyes are closed, his voice barely audible. “Must help … bury body.”
I hear crashing leaves and sticks behind me and I lean over Donald, trying to protect his body with my own, until I see that it’s Bess, with my bow and quiver slung over her shoulder. “You forgot your —” She stops and quickly looks around. “Where’s Hugh?”
Donald’s eyes open briefly and he says, “Lassie … go,” before passing out.
I almost tell her off for coming but I’m glad for her help. Somehow we drag Donald back to our camp, Bess asking all the while have I seen Hugh and is he all right and why isn’t he here? I keep saying I don’t know, I don’t know, because I don’t. And I’m not telling her what Donald said. I just keep hoping that Hugh is alive.
THE SUN HAS SET AND THE BATTLE NOISES HAVE LONG died out. Donald is still unconscious. His condition has kept Bess scurrying for herbs and making poultices and nursing him so her mind has been off Hugh, mostly. At least she has stopped asking me about him. Now she sits by Donald but her eyes are constantly scanning the woods.
Mine are, too. We’re both looking for Hugh but I’m also protecting our camp, now that it’s dark. I’m aware we’re susceptible to many dangers, human and animal and who knows what else. It’s better than thinking of the battle. And of what might’ve happened to Hugh. I picture him kneeling over Donald, only in place of Donald it’s his father a
When I hear uneven footsteps near our camp, I rise quietly and load my bow. Drawing back, I’m ready to let loose until I make out the form of the man staggering into camp.
“Hugh!”
I run to him, ready to embrace him, but he falls to the ground and I smell the vomit on him and while Bess cries out and runs over to him, kissing him and checking him for wounds, I close my eyes because I realize what has happened.
I know, because even in the dim firelight I can tell that Hugh is not wounded but shattered. I stumbled through the woods just like this after I saw the battle that lost Sir Geoffrey. And like me, Hugh has vomited at the horror of what he has seen. That’s what Donald’s wide eyes and few words were trying to tell me.
I drop to my knees to join Hugh and Bess. Bess is shaking Hugh because he won’t speak, so I grab her arms to stop her. “He’s not wounded,” I say, my voice sounding dull and far away.
“Then what’s wrong with him?” she asks, struggling to be free of me.
“Hugh’s father is dead.”
She freezes for a moment before a moan comes out of her.
Bess takes Hugh and rocks him in her arms, for hours, but still he doesn’t speak. He stares in a trance, clutching his father’s leather bag. I stay awake to guard us, checking periodically on Donald to ensure he’s still alive. I hear victory parties throughout the night and I don’t even know who won the battle, although I think it’s us. Still, I wonder how anyone can rejoice when so many have died.
In the middle of the night, Hugh lets out a cry, startling himself awake. Donald, too, opens his eyes. He stares at me for a long moment as, I suppose, the fog clears from his head, because he looks around quickly and sees Bess and Hugh, and his face grimaces in pain. He remembers what happened.
I go and sit next to him. “He’s been like that for hours,” I say.
“He saw it happen,” Donald says.
I want to retch again, thinking of Sir Geoffrey and imagining how much worse it was for Hugh to see his own father slain.
There are tears in Donald’s eyes and his voice is hoarse. “I tried to help them. I called out a warning. I was making my way over to be with him, and …”
His voice trails off but I know what happened. He wasn’t paying attention to the battle anymore. He was focused on Hugh. That’s when an English archer hit him — another injury to his right arm — and he fell, hit his head, and was knocked out.
Hugh suddenly jumps to his feet, pacing around camp. Bess follows him, trying to calm him. Since it’s dark, he practically stumbles over Donald. When he looks down, his eyes grow wide, almost stricken, and I wonder, is he seeing the friend who tried to help him or the enemy he helped nurse back to health?
Bess tries to stop Hugh’s wild pacing but he pushes her away as if he doesn’t know who she is. He starts muttering, cursing, and he doesn’t seem like Hugh at all. Bess talks to him softly but he only yells at the sky. “Why?” He keeps pacing like a sick animal and I stare at him, not knowing what to do.
Finally, it’s dawn. As sick as I feel, I know we’ll need food. No one else is in a condition to do it, so I must. I tell Bess I will not go far nor leave them for long. I am their only protector.
A shroud of mist hangs over everything, as if the whole world is in mourning. My eyes are having trouble adjusting to the dim light in the woods, probably because they’re so tired. I end up walking into a hanging limb of a tree, yet it doesn’t hurt, but is rather soft. When my eyes finally focus on it I see that it wears a boot.
I scream and jump back, slowly looking upward until I see the rest of the body.
There are two of them. Men. Hanged by the neck. Their faces bluish-gray.
“Beautiful, eh?” a gruff voice behind me says, and I yelp.
I turn to see a large man with filthy hair in a rough tunic, slicing pieces of apple with a knife and popping them in his mouth. He grins, bits of white apple falling from his lips, and raises his eyebrows at the hanging bodies.
“Wh-who are they?” I ask.
He jerks his thumb at the body on the left. “Scot.” He takes another bite of apple, chews it, and then spits at the body on the right. “This one’s even worse than a pagan. English, but a traitor.”
I gulp. “Traitor?” My voice goes up at the end.
He narrows his eyes at me and stops chewing. “Know you any traitors?”
I shake my head quickly, gulping again. “No, sir.”
He steps toward me and eyes me closely. “Are you sure? Have you seen any pagans? Remember, treason is a hanging offense, even for boys.”
“No, sir, no pagans, either,” I say. My voice is steady because that is not a lie. Now that I know him, I realize that Donald, husband of Mairi and father of Colyne, isn’t a pagan to me.
Thankfully, the man turns away as we hear horses approach. Wiping his mouth, he drops the apple and puts the knife in his belt. “I should get a shilling for these two,” he says, jerking his head to the swinging bodies, “maybe even a shilling apiece.”
I shudder, and then almost scream when I see who is coming … Sir Reginald!
I’m still running, and gasping for air, when I reach camp. I kick dirt on the fire. “We have to leave! Now!”
BESS IS TOO WORRIED ABOUT THE HEALTH OF BOTH HUGH and Donald, so she refuses to budge. I drag branches to our camp to make as much of a den as I can, watching the entire time to see if Sir Reginald is coming. Bess starts packing so that when she finally decides we can leave we’ll actually be ready.
“It’s all right,” Bess says calmly.
“It is not all right!” I hiss. “The warden will recognize me, and probably Donald, too, although he couldn’t see him very well the last time since I’d put my cloak over him. And if he thinks someone my age can be a traitor, he’ll certainly accuse Hugh of that!”
I can tell by her worried look that she knows it’s not all right at all. She was just trying to be strong. And now I wish I hadn’t snapped at her.
It’s strange to think how much I actually care about her after all these years of snubbing her. I want her to get home safely. I look at Hugh, who still sits stunned. Donald is out cold. It is up to me.
The mist has gotten even thicker and I see it as a gift from God. Not only does it protect us from Sir Reginald possibly finding us but also it will give me a chance to do what I must.
I tug on Bess’s arm and speak softly. “I have to teach you archery. You’ll need to know for the way home. Hugh will be distracted.”
She stops stuffing herbs into Hugh’s pouch. “But you’re a sure shot. Hugh told me how good you are.”
“Don’t you want to learn?” I say, not ready yet to tell her my plans.
It’s as if she knows she has to learn fast, because she does. After dropping the first few arrows and being embarrassed, which is something many people do, she quickly gets the feel for it. She could probably shoot some food or scare off an attacker. And I tell her that.
“Thank you for not making fun of me.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shrugs. “It’s what my family always does.”
And I marvel that she can be kind and strong in spite of her ale-head father, and horrible mother and sister.
When we get back to camp, Hugh raises his head in greeting. Bess sits next to him and puts her arms around his waist. I sit on the other side of him and put a hand on his shoulder. He nods. We don’t need to say anything. He knows how bad we feel for him.
We stay quiet for a long while. I don’t want to tell him about the hanging bodies. But after a time of sitting in silence, I finally say that Sir Reginald is near, Donald is in danger, and we are, too.
Saying it seems to spur Bess into action, and she finishes packing. Hugh is thinking about his father, though. He cries silently, maybe so Bess won’t notice. “Why?” he keeps whispering. “Why?”
I don’t know what to say. I think he’s not expecting an answer, really, but it hurts to see him in such pain. I try to come up with an explanation. Did the Scots really think they could take over England? Was it so England could conquer the pagan Scots, although I know now that they’re not all pagans? Is that why Hugh’s father had to die? I come up empty.
Suddenly, Hugh sits up straight, as if ready to pounce. Hissing through gritted teeth, he doesn’t sound like Hugh at all. “I wanted to kill them all. Put an arrow through each one of their hearts. Every last Scot.” He claws at the ground like he’s shredding his prey.
Bess and I both glance at Donald. I can’t believe Hugh would do anything to hurt him but I’ve never heard him speak like this.
Just as suddenly, he slumps into a heap again.
I sit next to him, trying to be of comfort, but not knowing what to say.
“I was useless, Adam,” Hugh whispers.
I don’t know if he’s addressing me or thinking of his dead brother.
“No, you weren’t,” I tell him, putting an arm on his shoulder.
He shakes his head. “My mother, my brother, my father, and now Grandmother …”
“You were only six when your mother and Adam died, Hugh. And,” I add softly, “there was nothing you could do for your father.”
I wish I hadn’t said it because his face clenches in pain and he heaves several times, but I know I have to go on. Bess sits next to him and holds him.
“You’re still a healer, and now you have to help Donald,” I say, adding quickly, “He’s still someone’s father — Colyne’s father — and Mairi’s husband.” I almost say, and our friend, but I don’t want to push it. “He’s in danger now and we have to get him home.”
“Home,” he repeats. “I have to get Bess home. I can’t help Donald.”
I squirm because this doesn’t sound like my friend. He’s a healer first and foremost. Even if Donald is a Scot, and technically the enemy, like those who killed his father, he’s still … Donald.
“I have to get you both home,” Hugh says, staring intently into space. “That was my father’s dying wish. That is what I must do.”