The Badger Knight by Kathryn Erskine
Hugh’s voice is quiet and serious. “I must head north … toward Scotland.”
Bess shivers when he utters the word Scotland, as do I. Only grown, strong men have crossed into the land of the Scots, and many of them have not returned.
After Hugh gives Bess one last, and overly long, embrace, he heads toward the hills. I don’t know which one of us is in more pain, Bess or myself, as we watch him walk off on his journey, avoiding the road lest someone try to send him back home. I stare after him and notice that even after walking a fair distance his stature doesn’t seem to diminish. He stands out dark and strong against the sun. But then, after raising his arm in a final farewell, he disappears over the hill.
Wiping her eyes, Bess heads for Uncle’s far field to weed. It’s her plan to be well occupied when people begin to notice that Hugh is gone. Hugh told Grandmother he would be in the farthest fields first so she wouldn’t miss him immediately. For my part, I’m collecting staves and goose feathers and pondering what Mother said about learning my letters and how bad it is to be a bowyer. At least, that’s what I’ll tell Father.
The village seems deserted. There is no celebrating this Michaelmas, no men shouting back and forth to one another, and fewer people on the road. When I pass the alehouse, even the sign that so often bangs above the door is hanging still and quiet. It’s almost eerie. As I pass a few women and children on the road or in the field, they only nod or look away. It’s as if they’re already in mourning. It’s just a battle! We’ll repel the pagan Scots quickly, our men will be back before St. Crispin’s Day, and we’ll all rejoice!
I spend the day practicing my archery in earnest since it’s my plan to follow Hugh into battle soon. I’ll show everyone my might. I’ll show them I’m not useless. I’ll show them I’m a hero.
Hitting a target is too easy a task, however, and I spend my time splitting leaves, especially moving ones, and even catch myself a rabbit, two squirrels, and one crow, because although a crow hasn’t got much meat on it, I don’t like those creatures. I move around different wooded areas because I want to avoid the unholy trinity. Also, it’s good practice because I can spin around or jump out from behind trees, hitting targets with which I’m not so familiar.
I must admit that the boots Father traded for my pointy shoes are much better for running, jumping, turning, climbing — well, in truth, they’re better for just about anything than the pointy shoes. Father says they’re better for helping Hugh in the field. Little does he know that it’s the battlefield where I’ll be helping Hugh!
As the sun starts to go down, I stop on the road where Thomas the leper passes. Wrapping the crow and squirrels I’ve shot, I put the bundle in a shallow grave with a cross made of sticks that Hugh always uses as a sign. No one would disturb a grave and Thomas knows it’s meant for him. Maybe the squirrels and crow will give him sustenance for a while. The rabbit I save to bring home for dinner. Now that Father knows I practice archery, maybe he’ll be happy with what I can provide.
But before I even walk into the shop, I know the news has spread about Hugh. Women huddle on the road whispering and Father is standing outside, a hand over his brow, squinting up the road to the north, as if he’ll be able to find Hugh.
When Father sees me, he calls out, “Adrian! Do you know where Hugh is?”
I walk toward him and call back, “No.” It’s an honest statement. He’s on the road somewhere, heading northwest, but I don’t know exactly where he is.
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
“To weed the fields.” That also is true.
Father cocks his head at me, narrowing his eyes.
I try to appear as innocent as a babe. “Look!” I say, now standing in front of him, holding up the rabbit. “We’ll have a fine supper!”
“Aren’t you worried about your friend?”
I wonder if I’m playing my role right. “Hugh is well, I am sure.”
“Well on his way to battle, is that it?”
I let the rabbit dangle in the dirt and sigh. It’s no use pretending. I can only try to make him see reason. “Hugh wants to help his father —”
“Even though his father forbade it? You’re his best friend. Couldn’t you stop him?”
I shake my head. Indeed, I didn’t even try. It was me who put the idea in his head. But he would’ve gone anyway, I’m sure of it.
Father sighs. “I must try to stop him.”
“What? Father, he left many hours ago. You’ll never catch up with him.”
“Stupid fool!” Good Aunt shrieks from behind me.
I cower, expecting a thrashing for something I’ve done or not done, I don’t know which.
“It’s true, then,” she sputters. “He had less than two months to wait but he abandons his duty to my fields and prances off to battle like a court jester.”
“That’s not true!” I cry, losing my fear of her in my anger. “Hugh is brave and noble and has gone to battle to take care of his father! He may even save your own husband’s neck since Uncle shoots a bow like a —”
“Adrian!” Father cuts me off.
Good Aunt gives me a sour face but then points her finger at Father. “The only thing more foolish would be for you to go after him. The men will send the stupid boy back home.”
“They will not!” I say. “He looks like a man so how will —”
“Adrian.” Father doesn’t yell at me this time, but his hand squeezes my shoulder. “Your aunt is right. I want to help but it’s more likely that he’ll happen upon someone from our village or the manor who knows him. Perhaps they’ll send him back or at least protect him.” He squeezes my shoulder more tightly, as if he’ll never let go.
Good Aunt deigns to look down at me again. “Since I’ve lost my field worker for a time, you’ll have to take his place.”
I groan.
“First,” says Father, “please pay our respect to Hugh’s grandmother and give her this.” He takes a coin from his pocket and presses it into my hand, although his other hand is still clutching my shoulder.
“Respect?” Good Aunt barks. “Hugh is not dead, for heaven’s sake!”
“Still,” says Father sternly, “she’s now all alone.”
Good Aunt rolls her eyes. “I shall take care of this rabbit for supper,” she says, grabbing it from my hand so quickly I have no chance to grip it.
I look at Father, who moves his head somewhere between shaking it and a nod, as if to say he gives up and it’s not worth fighting her.
I wish now I’d left the rabbit for Thomas.
I CAN TELL THAT GRANDMOTHER HAS BEEN CRYING. “IS your father going after Hugh?”
She sounds so hopeful I can’t tell her the truth. “He was talking about that when I left him.”
She twists a sprig of rosemary in her hand. “He must make haste! Hugh is in danger.”
“Hugh is very smart and brave, and quick with his bow,” I reassure her.
It doesn’t work. “You boys do not understand. You don’t know the horrors that await him. He’ll see things he has never even dreamed of.” She looks at me accusingly.
I don’t know what she fears he’ll run into, other than Scots, but I’m almost feeling guilty now for helping Hugh go. “I’ll pray for him,” I tell her. “I’ll pray that he’ll be safe from both pagans and dragons.”
“Dragons, indeed! There’s enough to be fearful of in this world without men making up horrors.” She bangs around her pots, picking some up, slamming them down again. “And the reeve thinks it a good thing that a boy has gone to war! He should be ashamed of himself for putting the idea in the boy’s head in the first place!”
I avert my eyes, knowing it wasn’t the reeve’s fault, but my own.
Grandmother continues. “Will he send his own son? Nay, he says, Bryce is just a boy. Bah! He is large and coarse and belches and farts as loud as any man, but no, his precious Bryce can’t be sent to battle.” Grandmother shakes her head.
“Silence, woman!
I jump and turn around to see standing in the doorway none other than Reeve Elliot himself. I swallow hard, holding my breath and hoping that he doesn’t punish Grandmother too badly.
“What do you want now?” Grandmother screams at him.
It startles the reeve as much as me. He hands a basket of bread, onions, and some kind of herb through the doorway, and his tone is more submissive than irritated. “From my wife. She bids you well.”
Grandmother does not take the basket but stares an evil eye at the reeve, who, upon seeing it and perhaps remembering how some call her a witch, quickly puts the basket down and leaves.
Grandmother looks away, blinking. Eventually, she looks down at the basket. “Comfrey!” she says, reminding me of the name of that herb lying next to the onion. Her body fairly crumples, wrinkling in on itself. “Adrian, I was supposed to send a salve and recipe for our lady of the manor. She needs medicine for her pregnancy pain.” Grandmother squeezes her eyes shut and speaks in a whisper, as if she is in pain herself. “I was going to ask Hugh …”
“I’ll take it,” I say hastily.
“Thank you, Adrian.” Grandmother sighs and dictates to me while I write on the parchment that I left there. My hand is shaking because I realize what this means. Going to the manor is the perfect cover for the start of my journey. Tomorrow I go to battle!
Grandmother gives me several bags of herbs, telling what they are all for, and I try desperately to remember but my head is elsewhere. “I’ll bring this to the manor first thing tomorrow.” And, I think to myself, go off to battle. Despite what Hugh says. Despite what anyone says. It’s my turn now.
I go by Uncle’s field as the sun is setting and am relieved to find Bess weeding so I can share my plan of going to find Hugh. When I tell her, she stands up and a cry escapes her lips.
“Hush!” I tell her, kneeling down in the dirt, pretending to weed.
She quickly does the same. “How will you be able to find him?”
“He’s most likely following the road north and will stop wherever there’s a battle to check if it involves the men of our village. The Scots will no doubt try to take Carlisle, as they’ve tried so many times before and failed. I’ll head there first.”
Her eyes are wide. “Carlisle? But that’s a huge town. How will you find him there?”
Girls know nothing when it comes to matters of war. “I’ll look for groups of soldiers, of course.”
“But what if they’re in hiding? What if they’ve split into many groups? What if he isn’t even with a group but is walking by himself?”
“Bess, I know his walk from half a mile away.”
“What if he has crossed Hadrian’s Wall and” — she swallows hard — “entered the land of the Scots?”
I can’t help but swallow hard myself at the thought of crossing over Hadrian’s Wall. Building the wall was how the Romans tried to stop the pagan Scots from entering England, over a thousand years ago. It didn’t work for the Romans, either.
I take a deep breath. “Then I will enter Scotland, too.” My voice is less firm than I want, but at least my words are strong. Besides, it’s unlikely that I’ll have to cross the wall. The battles will likely be on English soil. “I’ll find him, whatever it takes.”
“You’re very brave, Adrian.”
I’ve never been called brave before. I shrug as if it’s nothing to go off to battle, but I press my lips together to keep the proud grin from appearing.
“I’m so grateful to you for bringing him back, but don’t let yourself get hurt.”
Bringing him back? What is she thinking? I’m not bringing him back! I’m joining him.
“We’ll all feel better once you’ve both returned.”
I nod because that may be true, although it’s not happening. Not soon, anyway. But Father will be less angry with me if he thinks I’ve just gone to bring Hugh home, so I’ll let Bess believe that. When Good Aunt and Father question her, she’ll have a good story.
“When do you think you’ll be back?”
“It … may take some time — to find him, and then return. The battle is likely several days’ walk, maybe more.”
She chews the inside of her cheek and reminds me how much she looks like Good Aunt, though that’s not her fault. “I’ll make a pouch of food for you — with meat — and leave it behind your house when I bring over your supper.”
“Thank you.”
She chews her cheek and lip some more. “And from now on, when I deliver food to your father I’ll take extra and leave it for Thomas. Hugh would want that.”
I nod. In truth, I’d forgotten about Thomas.
“Oh, and will you give this to Hugh?” She unpins the pewter metal of St. Aldegundis from her kirtle.
“Shouldn’t you keep it yourself? It’s all that protects you.” I know the power of St. Aldegundis. Good Aunt says my mother’s prayers to her saved me from death, as she’s the saint who protects from childhood diseases, as well as wounds and sudden death.
“It’s Hugh who needs protecting. And you.” Before I can say anything else, she pins it on my tunic, behind the pouch on my belt so no one can see it.
“God be with you, Adrian. I’m proud to call you my cousin.”
She gazes at me with the blue-green eyes of my mother. As she leaves, her head down, and arms wrapped around herself, I wonder how I always thought her so hateful.
That night, I wake when it’s still dark and Father is snoring. I’m fitful and anxious and can’t sleep. Looking outside, I believe I can see a faint light in the east just beginning to turn the black night into dark blue.
Last night I told Father I’d get an early start in the morning for the manor, that it was important to Grandmother since she was already late with the recipes and remedies. He was so distracted that he agreed. He doesn’t suspect anything. At least, I don’t think he does. Just in case, I decide to leave immediately, lest on awakening he realize the real meaning behind my leaving.
Quietly, I pull on my new boots and Mother’s cloak, for there’s a fierce chill at this hour. I decide to take my dice — I hear of men playing dice between battles. Mine are a nice set that Father gave me for my birthday last year. I wonder what he was going to give me this year? My birthday is four days from now. Good Aunt says the gifts Father gives me have helped make me the spoiled brat I am. Well, even she will see what a hero I am now.
I dare not even look at Father as I pass him, fearing my guilt might wake him. Outside, I find the pouch of food from Bess and even a small clay bowl I can use for boiling water or cooking food. I bless my cousin for the bread, eel, and large chunk of rabbit for which Good Aunt will surely punish her. I collect my bow and quiver of arrows, which I left behind our house last night.
I am away.
THE ROAD IS NOT AS FAMILIAR BY NIGHT AS IT IS BY DAY. And it’s dark. At first, I’m in good spirits because I’m on a man’s journey. I have herbs, a salve from Grandmother, and the recipes that prove I’m going to the manor, lest I be stopped. I have a bag of food from Bess and my bow and arrows, which I can say are for my own protection now that there is a war on. Above all, I have my pride to keep me strong.
The road is also much louder than it is by day. Dead leaves crack under my feet as if I’m breaking branches with every step. The acorns crash from the trees like heavy stones the unholy trinity throw at me. Even the wind blowing against my cheeks seethes and howls as it rushes through the leaves of the trees. I want to yell at it to stop but I must stay silent lest there are spies, robbers, or pagans on this path.
I try to take my mind off the road and contemplate how far the woods go; they seem so immense. Do they stretch all the way north, through Scotland, and beyond? To the end of the earth? Are there dragons there, as some people say? I slink past the gnarled tree branches that look like freakish arms reaching out to clutch me. I wish I really were a badger so I could scuttle out of sight. At the very least, I wish I had a dog or a goose or even that horrible Bes
I’m relieved when I come to a clearing. I can see the henge in the distance to my left, the circle of stones from people a long time ago. And I wonder about ghosts or, worse, redcaps with their sharp teeth. Redcaps are said to hurl boulders at people, so why couldn’t they pick up one of the standing stones and toss it at me? The only defense is to say Bible passages out loud because that makes their teeth break. I wish I had memorized the psalms better from our Psalter. They’re even in English instead of Latin, so it’s not that hard. I hope that speaking words, loudly, that are close enough to the psalms will keep any redcaps away.
I walk quickly past the henge and soon am passing the copse of oaks on the hillock, the sun just beginning to peek from behind them. The glint reminds me of the night my mother brought me here when I was very young. It was a Midsummer’s Eve, before my sister was even born. Mother had birthed a baby boy who died, and I can still feel her sadness and how strongly she clutched my hand. We sat in the field and watched the flying lights illuminate the trees. They look like bugs but we all know them to be the souls of babies who never had a chance to be baptized before they died. Now they must fly around at night, glowing for all eternity.
I wish I could see my baby brother’s soul now, but it’s too late in the year for that. And too close to daylight. Instead, I walk on and find myself entering woods again and sinking into darkness.
When I finally see the old Norman tower of the manor I realize I’m even more thirsty than hungry, though I’m hungry enough to eat a bear. I run down the hill and around to the back of the house, jumping over the dried-up moat that used to be there for safety years ago. Now there’s no moat or wall, but the house itself is a stone fortress.