The Badger Knight, Page 2

  “Hello, Adrian,” Hugh says, offering me his hand. His blue eyes and tanned face smile down at me and his blond hair reflects the sun as if he is some kind of saint.

  I’m pulled out of the stinking manure with a squelch. Hugh’s scrunched-up nose must mirror my own, as I would give anything for two sprigs of lavender to shove up my nostrils right now.

  “If you want to get that close to the earth you should be a farmer like me.” He winks.

  I smile back and steal a glance around me for the whereabouts of the unholy trinity, though I see Bryce running away and I know I’m safe with Hugh. He’s practically full-grown, bigger than many of the men in our village, and stronger than Bessie the ox. And he’s my only friend.

  “You’d better wash before Good Aunt sees you,” Hugh says.

  My relief at being saved from death wanes as I realize I’m back on earth, which means avoiding Good Aunt like a scared pup and whining to Father like a sick child.

  “Someday I’ll be a Goliath,” I mutter.

  “Goliath? Don’t you remember the Bible story?” Hugh smiles. “You’re the young David. Smaller, but wiser.”

  “I don’t give an ox’s ass about smaller and wiser! Give me a bow and a quiver of arrows and I’ll show you a man’s strength!”

  But my shouting starts my coughing again, and my lungs are weak from Bryce’s heavy boot. I bend over, wheezing, hating myself for doing so.

  Hugh quickly opens his bag, pulling out an onion. Drawing his knife, he cuts several pieces, holding them under my nose until my eyes water and the phlegm runs out.

  “Blow!” he commands.

  I do as he says, for I know he’s right. Soon I’m breathing again as the onion vapors clear my head.

  “You’re better now, Adam?”

  I nod, even though he called me his dead brother’s name. He never knows he does it, nor do I ever tell him. Always, when I have a fit of coughing, he’s reminded of Adam.

  Hugh pulls me to my feet, but the bells of the church peal out so frantically we both stop dead. We sniff the air but there’s neither smoke nor fire, nor is it Sunday.

  Voices shout and feet hurry past. Quickly, we join villagers who’ve left their tasks and run for the church to hear whatever the urgent news may be.

  “YOU MUST PREPARE FOR BATTLE!” IT’S THE GENTLEMAN in scarlet I met on the road. “The savage Scots are planning to invade again! Soon they will come across the border into our country!”

  Hugh and I stand in the crowd at the church, some of the men around us grumbling about who will take care of their fields and families. I don’t know why they complain because all I can think is, Battle? A battle I might see with my own eyes? A battle where, someday, I can use my alarmingly good archery skills and take out the enemy? I can finally prove my worth!

  The fine gentleman has a commanding voice and uses it well. “We need every able-bodied man to join the battle against the pagans!”

  Father will need to provide bows and arrows for the entire village, and all the villages around us…. He may need my assistance! This could mean my apprenticeship! I open my mouth to tell Hugh, but our priest speaks and I pay attention out of habit, fearing the punishment of his psalm book thwacking my head even though he’s far away.

  “My good folk, I must take my leave to give comfort at the manor because our dear lady is distraught that her husband and firstborn son are going to battle. I will stay at the manor to teach the noble children since some of you,” he says, turning his pig eyes in my direction, “don’t know the greatness of learning that is given to you for a mere pittance.” He spits the word pittance out of his mouth, so disgusted is he with his low wages, according to Good Aunt, and, it seems, so disgusted is he with me and my wandering mind.

  I think he’s as useless as a pig stuck in muck. On that — and that alone — I agree with Good Aunt. She calls him “Father Fraud” because he’s not even a real priest, but a layman who took the position after our real priest was taken with leprosy and went to the leper’s hospital in Cambridge. And although he pretends to be a teacher, I can read and make my letters better than he can.

  But now I don’t have to worry about school! I’m practically dancing with gladness as Father Fraud dismisses us because I’d rather be piercing a tree with arrows than scratching a tablet with letters any day. I give a sly smile to Hugh, who knows what I’m thinking even though he doesn’t have to go to school. He doesn’t smile back, however. His skin is drawn tight against his face as he sucks his lips in and squeezes his eyes half shut. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want Father going into battle alone and I don’t think he’ll let me go with him.”

  “Why? You’re almost grown. And you can shoot a bow as well as any man.”

  Hugh sighs. “He’ll say I’m too young, or that I’m the only one to tend to the fields while he’s gone, or that I have to take care of my grandmother —”

  I laugh out loud at that last reason. “Grandmother? She’s the healer who takes care of everyone else!”

  “I know, but Father says she’s getting old. And it’s true that she’s weakening.”

  I think about that for a moment. Hugh’s grandmother is like my own, now that I don’t have one anymore. Indeed, she insists I call her Grandmother. I suppose she’s old but that’s no excuse to keep Hugh out of battle.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Hugh says. “He won’t let me go.”

  “Why would he be so foolish?”

  He turns to look at me, his flaxen hair falling about his shoulders like mine, only mine is so much paler. Now his usually placid face is pinched and his brow furrowed like the fields. “He has lost one son already, he says. He will not lose the other.”

  I say nothing for a moment because it’s what my own father says, having lost a wife and a daughter. We’re all that our fathers have left.

  “But,” says Hugh quietly, “I don’t want to lose him, either.”

  I can tell from the way Hugh’s jaw is set that he’s determined to change his father’s mind, and his feet are already heading him in the direction of his father’s field.

  “I’ll go with you,” I say, following Hugh, “and tell him that I used to be a better archer than you but that you’re now better than I am.”

  Hugh looks down at me, and smiles. “In truth, we’re about the same.”

  I bite my tongue. In truth, I’m still better. He has merely had some lucky shots lately. But I don’t say that. “I’ll tell him that Father will give you the best bow.”

  “He can’t. The yew bows can only go to the men.”

  “But you look like a man, and you’ll be fifteen in a couple of months,” I say, my head barely bobbing to his chin as I walk next to him, even if I put a spring in my step.

  “Still, better not to use that argument with Father. It’ll only sound desperate.”

  As it turns out, it doesn’t matter, because no argument we try convinces Hugh’s father. I leave Hugh at his field, working alongside his father. Usually, they are laughing and talking, but now they are silent.

  I walk off, listening to the chatter on the road about going to battle. While I feel bad for Hugh, I’m excited about my prospects of apprenticeship. I practically run back to our shop, hoping I can speak to Father alone, without Peter the journeyman around, who will only make fun of me.

  WHEN I ENTER THE WORKSHOP, I SMILE BECAUSE THERE’S no sign of Peter, who most likely took off at the peal of the bells. He’s second only to Uncle when it comes to loving ale.

  Father looks up from the piece of yew he’s honing into a bow, examining me closely, as if he knows that my question is of great import.

  “Father, I —”

  “Adrian. Where are the goose feathers?”

  I forgot all about them! “Uh … the bells … at the church …”

  “Aye, but that was some time ago.” Father’s voice sounds deflated, as if a full bellows has just lost all of its air.

  “See what I mean?” Good
Aunt’s voice crows from behind me.

  I gasp so quickly I choke, coughing and even — St. Jerome’s bones! — starting to wheeze. Water comes out of my eyes and my nose fills up.

  “Time for cupping!” Good Aunt barks, grabbing me by the back of my neck like a kitten and dragging me into our room behind the shop.

  “I’m fine,” I try to protest, but my voice is weak and raspy.

  “Sit!” she commands. “Tunic off!” She turns to the doorway to the shop. “A fire, John! And make it large!”

  Father moves slowly, whether in quiet support of me or because he doesn’t like the smoke of a big fire inside, I don’t know. Either way, he succumbs to Good Aunt as everyone does and, if she wants a roaring fire, that’s what she’ll get.

  Cowering under my aunt’s dominance is not the picture I had in mind. I look desperately at Father as he mounds the twigs and pieces of wood and starts a blaze, but he avoids my eyes.

  Good Aunt pulls the cloth bundle of glass cups out of her bag and they jiggle against one another as if laughing at me. I shudder because I know what’s coming. Gleefully, she puts the glass cups on the edge of the fire, licking her lips even as the flames lick the rims of the small glass bowls. I close my eyes.

  Good Aunt tries to cure my phlegmatic condition only because she wants me to be useful in her fields. My cousins are girls and, while they’re nearly as strong as her precious ox, Bessie, she wants to keep them soft and pretty to find them husbands and get rid of them, especially Jane, who is fair of face, although that’s the only fair thing about her. Inside, she’s much the same as Good Aunt, if not worse. The younger one, who’s a year older than me, is quieter but looks exactly like Good Aunt, so must be as bad. I avoid them both. Uncle is the best of the lot and he’s no prize. She has henpecked him so much that his head is but a nub and he spends most of his time running around like a chicken with his head cut off. Usually with a tankard of ale.

  Good Aunt is humming softly now, in her trance. Sometimes I think she remembers my mother, whom she loved, although it’s hard imagining Good Aunt caring for anyone, but if I sit very still and quietly, as now, she puts my mother’s cloak gently over my shoulders and feels for the spots where she thinks my chest is fullest of phlegm by rubbing my back, softly and kindly, the way my mother did. And for a moment I’m taken back in a trance myself, and I feel my mother’s hands, her warmth, and her love.

  As soon as the first cough comes out of me, however, it’s over, because Good Aunt remembers it’s me, not her dear younger sister, and she yanks the cloak off and whacks my back with a force that a wench would reserve for her ox, except that she loves Bessie too much so she takes it out on me. After that, she pulls the searing-hot glass cups out of the fire and presses them to my back.

  “Ow!” I yelp and scream, barely able to contain my curses, and struggle to get away from the burning glass, but I can’t escape the clawlike grip she has on my arm.

  “You are a chicken, nephew!” Good Aunt says over my screams.

  It’s at times like this that I understand why Uncle runs to the tavern for ale.

  When Good Aunt is finally done I’m left alone to lick my wounds. But not for long, because my younger cousin appears with the daily pot of runny pottage and puts it on the fire. I don’t even look at her. I’m certain she’s laughing at me. She puts a piece of bread near me, as if I’m a leper who can’t be approached too closely lest I infect her. To show her who’s master, I bat it away. She stands there a moment, saying nothing, then takes her leave.

  Good Aunt remains in Father’s shop, lecturing him on how best to care for me, which basically amounts to letting me work in her fields so I can “gain strength” and “breathe fresh air.” Fresh air? Behind Bessie’s big backside?

  “He’s young and needs to grow a little larger,” Father says quietly. “I will not have him malformed before his bones have even grown.”

  “Well,” Good Aunt says in a huff, “he’s not so young and, as I’ve said before, his bones will grow little more. He’s small and puny and will be so forever.”

  I grit my teeth so hard I am sure they’ll break.

  “Besides, he can at least reap the grain. Surely that’s not too much for his precious bones.”

  “Hasn’t he done that for many years?” Father asks.

  “He has helped, yes, but not done the task without me.”

  “Most farmers have more than one person in the field with them. I’m not sure that is a sign of Adrian’s weakness. Besides, I wish him to have schooling, too.”

  “Hmph! What good is it that he can read and scribe? Who would employ such an odd-looking child, weak-eyed and sickly, whom they fear is possessed?”

  Father jumps to his feet but she stands her ground, holding a hand up. “I’m only repeating what others say, John. You know that.” She shakes her head. “You must prepare him better for the world. You coddle him. And you spoil him! He speaks whatever is on his mind and gives you no respect!”

  Father looks away. He has heard much the same from the priest. I believe I have a permanent dent in my head from where Father Fraud has hit me with the psalm book for every “insolent remark” I make. Still, Good Aunt has no room to talk because what’s she doing right now but speaking her mind and giving Father no respect?

  “Indeed,” she continues, “even my sister would’ve demanded more of him.”

  I look through the doorway into the shop as Father flashes her a grim look and maybe even Good Aunt knows she has gone too far.

  Her voice turns whiny. “I simply need help, having only two girls and a husband who is … often taken with illness.”

  I think she means ale-ness. Besides, while I’ve never seen my older cousin in the fields, I’ve seen the younger one there, usually when Uncle has gone to the alehouse, so I know she’s capable of working.

  “I understand,” says Father, “but I need his help, too.”

  She waves a hand. “Any child can collect goose feathers!”

  “Not true,” says Father, an edge creeping into his voice that makes me smile, “and since you don’t know the arts of bowery or fletchery, I’ll not have you lecture me on that.”

  “I won’t try,” she says, her voice as stiff as her body, “I’ll only point out that cooks are highly valued and I do provide that service for you.”

  Father glares at her. “And I pay you well, don’t I?”

  They stare at each other, like two soldiers, waiting for their knight to tell them when next to strike.

  St. Jerome’s bones! I swear she brings us the food her own family won’t eat because it’s such pig slop. I think she stretches the bread with sawdust and the broth with Bessie’s piss, and likely thinks her blessed ox’s piss is a gift too good for either one of us, since she blames us both for the death of her sister. She claims that Father drove Mother too hard, weakening her so that she died from her illness. My role in Mother’s death was being weak with fever so Mother kept me wrapped in her own cloak in front of the fire. Also, she fed me broth, which, Good Aunt insists on reminding me, was at the expense of herself and even my baby sister because without milk from Mother’s breast, little Abby was in a weakened state and ready to succumb to the fever. I barely remember those days that Good Aunt is so happy to remind me of, and what does she think a sick five-year-old could do?

  And yet, I do blame myself. My mother gave her life for me and what have I amounted to? Little more than the small, weak, shivering boy I was then. The thought angers me. My mother didn’t die for me to be Good Aunt’s serf; I will be Father’s apprentice.

  I stand up in the doorway between the two rooms and they both turn to me. Good Aunt is in full battle form. I know I’ll only raise her ire if I’m too direct. “Is there no one else to help Uncle?”

  “Well,” she snaps, “Bess, of course.”

  “Other than an ox, I mean.”

  Good Aunt bristles. “I was not speaking of Bessie! I was speaking of your cousin, Bess.” She turns to Father. “
See? He doesn’t even understand the difference between the two.”

  I look at Father pleadingly. Surely he doesn’t believe her. It’s not my fault that she named her younger daughter after her beloved ox.

  Father gives me a placating nod, knowing that sometimes Good Aunt goes too far.

  She sniffs. “Bess is strong and good with her hands.”

  Now that she has opened the gate, I may as well walk in. “What about Jane?”

  Her face darkens and sours into an overripe plum. “Jane? Jane?”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have walked through the gate, open or not. Father rubs his temples. If his head is not already aching, it will be soon.

  Good Aunt’s eyes are fiery. “Jane, who is the fairest in the village, most likely in all the king’s lands? You would have her work in the fields? Have you no judgment?” She bellows on, sounding like a cow suffering a painful birthing.

  Jane may be fair of face, but not fair of temper. Still, all the boys in the village, except Hugh, trail after her and were actually drooling when she was crowned May Queen this May Day past and the one before that, and every May Day as far back as I can remember. Yet she delights in tripping or slapping any boy who approaches — after coyly inviting him to approach. It’s a stupid game and yet most boys continue to play. Why, I don’t know. Myself, I can’t even stand calling her my cousin.

  I notice Father rubbing his head harder and Good Aunt’s hands flying around as wildly as her words.

  “I’m sorry, Good Aunt,” I say. “Truly, I would no more want to see Jane in the field than I would want to see you.” By which, I mean I’d like to see them both slogging away.

  Her prune-ish face makes an attempt at a smile, I believe. I think she doesn’t hear the insult. From Father’s smirk, half hidden behind his fist, I believe he does. When I give him a quick wink, he loses his smile, however.