“What kind of gift?” Otto asks.
I remember my dice and I pull them out of my pouch. Their eyes are so wide and impressed that I decide Father won’t mind if I’m generous. “You can keep them,” I say.
Daniel grins. “Really?”
I nod. “I’ll show you how to play after we eat.”
“We know how,” David says, “we’ve just never had any of our very own. It must be nice to be rich.”
I’m about to say I’m not rich but, compared to them, I suppose I am.
Otto is the last to finish and is in such bliss by the end of the meal that he even closes his eyes. “Thank you for the food, Henry.”
“It’s not I, but the monk we should thank,” Henry says.
Otto licks the honey from his fingers and puts his hands together. “Thank you, Father Monk,” he whispers, and scampers off to join the other boys, who are exploring the cathedral.
I chuckle. “He was praying to a monk?”
“He’s only seven,” Henry explains, and then, as if to himself, “the same age I was when I took to the streets.” He looks longingly toward the front of the church. “I’d like to thank that monk, too.”
“You’re not much of a thief! You didn’t even steal the food. It was given to you. And you want to say thank you.”
Henry smiles at me wryly and shrugs, but looks toward the altar again.
I can tell he still wants to give his thanks. I sigh. “All right. I’ll scribe a note.” It’s the least I can do, given how generous the monk has been.
Henry sits up straight. “You can scribe?”
“It’s not that hard.” What’s hard is focusing my eyes in this dim light, especially at the end of a long day.
I take a piece of parchment and my goose feather from my bag, and use soot from the altar candles mixed with my spit as ink. I write my thanks in both Latin and English, and I scribe large letters so I can see them better: Gratias, Thanks. Henry is much impressed and calls the other boys over. They gather around me, watching.
“How do you do that?” David asks.
“Can you show me?” says Daniel.
“What use is it?” Ned asks, and everyone looks at him. “I mean, it’s not as if we’ll ever be scribes.”
“Still,” Henry says, “everyone should know how to write his own name, Ned.” He looks at me. “Will you show us?”
They’re all looking at me now, even Ned. And so, underneath the Thanks, I sign all of our names, except mine. I decide to use a disguise, because what if Father discovers I came to Carlisle and sends for word through the clergy? This is what I write, and I read each boy’s name out loud, except mine:
“Oy,” says Ned, “why is my name so short and yours gets two parts?”
“Because he’s twice as important as you,” David says with a laugh.
“And he’s traveling in secret,” Henry adds.
I stare at him. How does he know? I never actually said that. He smiles back at me, I think with respect.
“Which is me, again?” Otto asks anxiously, leaning over the parchment, as if he fears he will forget within moments.
I point to his name and explain it so he can remember. “It’s a circle, two crosses, and a circle. If you fold it in the middle, it’s exactly the same on both sides.”
He grins. “I’ll remember it now.”
Henry grabs my arm. “Adrian, could you scribe Kings for us?”
“Why?” Ned asks.
“We could leave each other messages, like where is a safe place to sleep or a good place to ask for food.”
Ned looks pained. “But I’ll never remember another whole word!”
“How about just the K?” I draw it for them, even a simple version of a K. “See? It’s a tree with an arrow’s tip stuck into it.”
They all agree that they can remember that.
David takes the note and he and the other boys practice writing their names with their fingers — on the floor, the walls, the pews — everywhere, as if they’re claiming it all for themselves.
“Don’t forget to deliver the note,” I tell them. We decided it should go with the milk pitcher and empty pot of honey by the side door where the food was.
“Are you really leaving tomorrow?” Henry asks.
“I must. I have to find Hugh and help in the battle.” It makes me feel important, saying it out loud.
“You always have a place in Carlisle,” Henry says somberly.
“The far-right alcove pew?”
He punches me playfully and we both laugh.
Suddenly, I have a thought. “Henry! Give me your knife!”
His face falls but he pulls it out slowly, takes a long look at it, and hands it over to me. “It’s yours.”
“No, it’s yours, and I’m going to make sure it stays that way.”
With my own knife I carve the letters into the wooden handle of his: H-E-N-R-Y. He watches me silently the entire time, while the other boys talk and even begin to play dice. I look up from my work long enough to remind them that this is a house of God and not a place for dice. After that, they settle, talking awhile until, one by one, their voices hush into the whispers of the cathedral and they are asleep.
When I finish carving, I hand Henry his knife.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
I want to tell him that I know. He’s quick and gallant and clever. He’s a leader, though he’s so young. Even I can see that. He reminds me of the knight who came to our village looking for the bowyer with his fine clothes and fine manners. Henry may not have the fine clothes and fine manners, but he carries himself like a knight. Maybe leaders are born that way, and there are leaders in every class, not just among nobles and knights. I think Henry would be brave and true even without a knife.
But I’m suddenly tired, too tired to say all that, so I simply bid him good night and have dreams of being chased by Simon and the Hoods while I defend the younger boys with my bow, except that the arrows are knives and all of them have carved on them: A-D-R-I-A-N.
* * *
The next morning, I wake before anyone else. Streams of painted light splash the stone like colored water. It’s as magical as the first time I saw it. I gawk at the colors on the floor and at the even brighter colors in the window.
When Otto talks in his sleep, I look at him and the boys around him. It’ll be sad to leave. This is the first time I’ve had a whole group of friends, not just Hugh. And friends who look up to me, I think. I’ll miss them, especially Henry, who I wager would be just as brave on the road as he is in the city.
I have an idea and go back to add a message to our note. However, when I get to the side door, the note is gone. In its place is a huge loaf of bread, a large hunk of cheese, and — God be praised — a whole bowl of sweet apples!
I hear footsteps approach from behind me and I freeze.
“I thought you’d gone.” It’s Henry.
I turn and smile. “Not without saying good-bye. Look” — I show him — “more food.”
He grins. “We’ll eat like kings!”
He takes the bread and cheese, heading back to the others, and I pick up the bowl of apples. Underneath it, I see a blank piece of parchment and three pennies. I give the money to Henry and tell the boys to go to the Black Bear for food.
After eating, I scribe a message, glad that the other boys can’t read, telling them I’m giving thanks, which is true.
Thank you. May God bless you and these boys — they are good. Please help them. Use a K to mark safe places for them to rest or find food. With sincere thanks.
I’M FEELING LONELY AS I HEAD EAST FROM CARLISLE. I’M looking for my oldest and best friend, but I’ve left all my new friends behind. It was so tempting to stay with them, especially when Otto clung on to me, crying, “Don’t go!” I promised him I’d return.
I try not to think about that, and think about battles instead, practicing archery in the woods, which lifts my spirits, although I fin
d no food. It’s hard to keep one’s spirits up on an empty stomach, and by sundown I’m feeling wretched. For the hundredth time I look in the bag of herbs Grandmother gave me, wondering if any of them are fit to eat. I’m almost ready to eat the remedy for colic because I’m feeling as colicky as a baby.
It’s when I’m praying to God for salvation, at least for my stomach, that I breach the rise of a hill and see something through the trees, outlined against the setting sun, as if surrounded by a heavenly light. A priory! A place of God and monks — and food! I fairly run down the hill, thanking God all the while for sending me this salvation.
But I stop short when I see an apparition moving in the trees. It’s a gray ghost or ghoul! And it’s headless! I jump behind an oak and freeze. No wonder there were no animals about all day! Now I’m petrified. Stuck. I can’t run away!
“What is that?” the ghost says.
Maybe because it’s the way Father Fraud always refers to me I think that the gray shape may be a priest, not a ghoul. I peek from behind the tree.
Still, when the figure pulls off its hood, I breathe in sharply, squeezing my eyes so I can barely see, fearing that he may reveal a skull or the jagged teeth of a redcap.
“Don’t be afraid,” the voice says. “I’m Nigel.”
Nigel? That’s hardly a name for a redcap. I open my eyes all the way and see it’s a man, now that he’s standing up. He’s thin and stooped over but not much older than Hugh. He squints at me, his eyes like a turtle’s. And he has a tonsure. He’s a monk!
“Do you need help?”
I nod.
“A place to rest?” Nigel asks.
I nod again.
“Come. Follow me.” He turns and heads toward the priory.
I see now that he carries a basket of mushrooms. He must’ve been stooped over collecting them. That’s why he looked like a headless ghoul.
“What is this place?” I ask, walking after him.
“Lanercost. Have you not heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“Where are you from? What’s your name?”
“People call me the Badger,” I say, but I don’t tell him where I’m from.
His eyebrows rise. “The Badger? Ah. You need say no more. I ran away myself, desperate to become a priest. Is that what you desire?”
I shake my head, maybe a little too forcefully because he begins to laugh. “Never mind. You look like you could use some food.”
I nod my head just as vigorously and he laughs again. “Let’s go to the kitchen!”
I quickly decide that I like Brother Nigel. He’s not mean, like Father Fraud, nor does he smell as much. As we walk toward the priory, I ask him what he has heard about the battle.
“The Scots are heading to Liddesdale. We are due south, right in their path. They could be here in a day or two. It’s not safe for you to stay here long. They may attack the priory.”
“Pagan Scots!” I cry, as we walk through the stone arch of the gatehouse. “Even a priory?”
As if in agreement, I hear a man shouting from the courtyard and horses whinnying. “Those pagans! They have stolen the entire cartload!”
A man dressed in white with gold chains around his neck shakes his fist at two knights on horseback.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“That,” Nigel sighs, “is our prior.”
“The head of the priory?”
He nods, bowing his head and crossing himself in front of the large stone cross that sits to the left of the church. I follow suit but am distracted by the prior hurling random curses at King David and all the Scots and wonder how such a man ever became a monk to begin with. I’m also struck by the carving of a female saint high above the door.
“That’s Mary Magdalene,” Nigel says reverently, bowing his head at the same time the prior hurls curses worse than I’ve ever heard. Nigel explains in a whisper. “Since the Scots might attack, the prior had his knights escort another cartload of valuables to a safe place. Apparently, it’s now stolen.”
The knights trot off, leaving the prior moaning about all the stolen riches.
“My lord,” Nigel says, bowing as he approaches the prior, “I have found a young shepherd boy, lost, and I ask your leave for him to stay until we can find his family.”
The fat prior looks down his hooked nose at me, and after muttering something about a devil child, he asks, “How does a shepherd boy manage to get himself lost?”
In truth, I didn’t even know I was a shepherd boy until Nigel said so. “I — I —”
“I don’t care,” the prior says, waving his hand. “He’s your responsibility. I have other things to worry about. Brother Nigel, did you record all the items in the cartload that has now been stolen?”
Nigel’s face turns pale. “But, my lord prior, you told me that Brother Bernard was taking inventory, so —”
“I said no such thing!” the prior shouts. “This is why you will never make a good scribe, Brother Nigel! You can’t be relied upon for even the simplest of tasks. It’s not the first time you’ve forgotten to record provisions — not to mention destroying provisions, like breaking pitchers of wine! You’re worse than useless!”
Nigel keeps his head bowed but I see his jaw clench, just as mine does.
The prior continues to rail, and I feel so bad for Nigel I want to tell the prior to shut up. He waves his arms around wildly, like the players at the market fair last summer who put on a dramatic production. He’s dressed like the players, too, with his fine cloth, gold chains, and rings on his hands. Gold rings with gemstones! On every finger!
Finally, Nigel is dismissed, and I follow him in silence. I don’t know what to say, and I feel especially bad for him now because the prior has sentenced him to many onerous tasks and three days’ fasting for his supposed transgression. For some reason, I feel like the prior is lying.
Nigel leads me through a cloister and to a large basin to wash my hands. I follow him to the kitchen, which is dark but smells warm and delicious. There’s a veritable bounty of herbs hanging from the rafters that would stun and delight both Grandmother and Hugh. I look around at the shelves laden with loaves of bread, jugs of ale, pots of honey, and items wrapped in cloth, probably cheese and meat. So much food it’s enough to make one want to join the priory!
“This is Brother Cuthbert,” Nigel says, leading me over to an elderly, stooped-over monk.
The wizened monk smiles at us and pats Nigel’s arm. “It’s mutton stew today, Nigel, your favorite.”
Nigel’s head drops. “I’m sentenced to fast for three days.”
“Oh, dear,” says Brother Cuthbert, losing his smile. “Our esteemed prior has found some fault with you. Again.”
“I think he’s lying,” I say, and both brothers look at me, their eyes wide.
“Whist!” Nigel says. “Don’t say such things lest you want a punishment worse than mine!”
But Brother Cuthbert smiles at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“I must clean the privies now,” Nigel says. “I’ll be back to take you to the dormitory soon.” He leaves by a small door at the back of the kitchen.
Brother Cuthbert opens his mouth to say something but several monks walk in, and once he glances at them, he quickly turns to the fire and stirs his pot. Instinctively, I pull my hood up to cover my white hair. The other monks talk among themselves, practically pushing Brother Cuthbert out of the way as they fill their bowls with stew and sit at the far end of the table, ignoring me.
Brother Cuthbert gives me a large bowl of stew and a huge hunk of bread. When he turns back to the fire and I see that the other monks aren’t watching, I put the hunk of bread in my tunic to give to Nigel later. Brother Cuthbert turns back to me and sees the empty spot on the table where the bread was. He looks over at the small door Nigel went through, smiles, and puts another large piece of bread by my bowl.
When the small door finally opens again, I start to get up because I’m finished eating and expect to s
ee Nigel. Instead, it’s a little boy who steps tentatively inside.
“What is it, boy?” one of the seated monks calls out.
“Please, Brother, may I have some food for my family?”
“Maybe if you villagers gave tithes we would have enough to —”
“But we have! We always —”
“Don’t interrupt your superiors!” another monk chastises.
The boy stops, but his face is set and stern.
“Run along, boy,” the first monk says. “Our prior says we have none to spare.”
I cringe at the lie because surely the boy can see all the food in this kitchen, and I wonder how a monk can send a starving child away.
The boy shuts the door behind him overly loud and I slump on the bench.
Brother Cuthbert must feel as I do, for he shakes his head as he stirs the pot.
When Nigel appears and takes me to the dormitory in the darkness, he’s rubbing his eyes. He seems so tired I don’t want to pester him with questions, but I want to know more about this prior. We climb the stone steps of a large building into a long hallway with many doors. They’re all individual cells, Nigel tells me, one for each monk. When he opens the door to his, I pull out the hunk of bread.
He squints at it. I think his eyes are not very good because it takes him a moment to realize what it is, and then he looks almost frightened, quickly closing the door behind us. “We’re not supposed to have food in our cells,” he whispers. “It brings the rats.”
“Then you’d better eat it fast,” I say, “lest a large white rat come.” I’m thinking, of course, of the prior.
Nigel raises his eyebrows at me but can’t help smiling. He makes the sign of the cross, says a quick blessing, and eats so ravenously that I resolve to save more of my food for him tomorrow.
Nigel insists on giving me his pallet while he sleeps on the stone floor. He claims he has done it before and it doesn’t bother him. Other than his pallet, there is not much in the room. I see a cross on the wall, a small stool and table, and on the table a board with lots of carved figures on it.