For once, it’s a useful name. I want the prior to think I’m simple, so I continue to smile at him as Nigel takes me by the hand and pulls me toward the door. I even wave and make an awkward bow and call him “sire” as we step out of the library. Though he harrumphs and rolls his eyes, he seems pleased at the title.
I start reciting the psalm about the Lord being my shepherd, loudly, so the prior can hear. Nigel shushes me and I ask why, also loudly, so Nigel must shush me again.
When we reach his cell and he closes the door behind us, we stare at each other a moment before we both cover our mouths so we can laugh, albeit quietly. I’m still laughing when Nigel shakes his head, although his tone is only half reprimanding. “You, young Badger, should be in an acting troupe.”
I grin. “It’s all thanks to Ockham’s razor!”
He looks at me quizzically.
“I gave the prior the simplest explanation. He expects I can’t read so I didn’t need to come up with any story. I wager that when he saw us, me standing on the chair, you holding on to my arm, it looked like I’d been running and jumping around like a simpleton and you were trying to catch me.”
“Simpleton is the last word to describe you.”
“True,” I say, “the correct word is addlepate.” And we laugh again.
But I feel like an addlepate when Nigel asks me to list all the items on the scroll, the quantities of each, and the amount of money attributed to every one of them.
“I have no idea,” I say.
He looks at me in disbelief. “Surely you must.”
“Nigel, I simply read it. I can’t remember it.”
“You can,” he insists. “You said ten flagons of wine, twenty shillings; eight chickens, ten shillings; two pots of honey, six shillings.”
Now I look at him in disbelief. “How do you remember all that?”
He seems surprised by my question. “It’s important information.” He sighs. “Understandably, it’s not so important to you. Maybe that’s why it didn’t stick.”
“It didn’t stick because it was a whole scroll of information. Do you think I can make a picture of all that and store it inside my head? That’s why there are scrolls!”
“But if we don’t have the scroll?” He opens his palms as if to emphasize that, in fact, we don’t have it. “That’s why it’s good to remember.” He repeats the items I read out.
Now I’m curious, because I wonder how he still remembers the list. “How do you do that?”
“Loci.”
I remember my Latin from Father Fraud, or at least, I think I do. “Places?”
“Exactly. I simply walk around the rooms in the priory, depositing the chickens in the kitchen, the wine in the horse trough, and two pots of honey poured over the prior’s head.”
We both laugh at that.
“But how did you think that up so fast?”
He shrugs. “I do it all the time. There’s a lot to learn when you join an order. Rules, history, remedies for all maladies — Brother Ignatius taught me the loci method and made me practice so much it’s now how my mind works. Also, since I can’t see well, I have to, as you say, make a picture and store it inside my head.”
“That’s amazing.”
“No, anyone can do it.”
“Ha! I’d get lost walking around this place so it wouldn’t help me remember a thing.”
He shakes his head. “You pick a place you know. Your village, any place where you can picture items at different spots and then walk that path in your mind.”
I’m picturing putting the chickens in our church but I’ve already forgotten how many there are when Nigel smacks his hand on the wall, making me jump.
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, like he is choking. “I want to stop Prior Osmund!” he hisses. “I don’t want him to get away —”
A shout from the hallway stops Nigel, and we both look to the door when we hear more shouts and running feet. Soon we’re in the hallway joining the body of monks running toward the courtyard.
“What is it?” Nigel asks.
“Herald,” someone answers, out of breath, “with news of battle!”
We run into the courtyard and see a dark-haired knight brushing his horse, a beautiful, dapple-gray courser bigger than any horse I’ve ever seen. He’s taller at the shoulders than even this knight, who himself is a tall man.
Prior Osmund is already there, talking to the knight. I notice he has lost his gold chains and his rings! “And so we’re limited in our supplies,” the prior says with a heavy sigh.
The knight looks to the monks, as if for confirmation, but most of them avert their eyes. His eyes land on mine and I hold his gaze. I cross my arms and frown. His eyes linger on me a moment more before flitting over the prior and back to his horse, whom he continues to brush. “That is indeed distressing news.”
“Do not worry, Sir Knight,” the prior says, “we’ll find sustenance for you.”
“I am well fed,” the knight says, an edge to his voice. “It’s the villagers and your monks for whom I worry.”
The prior bows his head and clasps his hands. “We are privileged to suffer in the name of Our Lord.”
The knight’s face is in shadow but I’m sure I see him roll his eyes. I can’t help smiling. I like this knight.
As we return to Nigel’s cell and the monks whisper about the possible impending attack, I ask about the knight. “Is he one of the prior’s?”
“I’ve never seen him before. He must be a free lance. He doesn’t even travel with a squire.”
“Maybe you or Brother Cuthbert could talk to him! Tell him about the prior!”
Nigel shakes his head. “This free lance may want to trade with the prior, too.”
“No, Nigel, I can tell he’s honest!”
But Nigel won’t budge. “It’s too risky for any monk to approach him.”
Too risky for monks, perhaps, but not for me.
That night, when the brothers go to chapel again — St. Jerome’s ears, it seems to be all they do at this place! — I wait outside the dining hall for the knight to finish his meal. Still, I hide behind a pillar because I don’t want any of the bad monks to see me.
As the knight walks by, I hiss, “Sir Knight!”
He stops. “A miracle,” he says quietly, “a talking pillar.”
I step out from behind the pillar. “No, sir, it is I, Adri — I mean … the Badger.”
I see him press his lips together, I think to hide a smile.
“I have important information.”
He is so tall and gaunt, but his face is kind as he looks down at me and nods. “Speak.”
“The prior is the one stealing the supplies. He sells them to knights so he can buy jewels and rich foods and wine for himself.”
The knight raises his eyebrows. “That’s quite an accusation.”
“It’s true! I read a scroll on his desk —”
The knight startles, either because he doesn’t believe I can read or he can’t believe my impudence.
I hurry on and tell him about the chickens, wine, honey, spectacles, and how the accounting lists the person who paid and the amount. “The villagers can barely survive and yet he takes more. In the name of God.”
“In the name of God,” the knight fairly spits out. “Can you get me this scroll?”
I can barely choke out the words. “You mean … steal it?”
“It’s hardly stealing, given what he’s done.”
It seems we both realize at the same time that the sound of chanting is replaced with footsteps as the monks are leaving the chapel and heading toward the cloister.
I dive behind the pillar again, just in time, as the prior calls out to the knight.
I can see the knight, who rubs his mouth, hiding his lips but not his words. “Meet me here at Lauds,” he whispers, “with the scroll,” and he walks away.
I return to Nigel’s cell, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. I close the
door behind me. “Nigel, when is Lauds?”
Nigel yawns and rubs his eyes. “The prayers just before dawn.”
“Does everyone go? Even … the prior?”
“He usually makes it to Lauds.” Nigel smiles wryly. “Matins is too early for him.”
“Will you wake me up before Lauds? I need to be on my way.”
“So early?”
I shrug. “You said yourself that I should move fast because of the fighting.”
He sighs and agrees.
I feel guilty for misleading him. I know he wants me to move quickly away from battle, and I’ll be moving toward it.
But first, I must steal a scroll.
WHEN NIGEL WAKES ME, IT’S STILL DARK. HE BEGS ME TO beware of thieves and even those who say they’re pilgrims, because their purpose is not always good. He’s still talking when the bells call the brothers to Lauds and feet hurry past in the hallway.
“I’ll be careful,” I assure him.
Nigel smiles. “I must go to chapel. It doesn’t take much for the prior to find fault with me.” He pauses at the threshold. “Godspeed, Badger, my friend.”
I go to shake his hand. “It’s actually Adrian. Just don’t tell anyone.”
Nigel smiles and bows his head. “I give you my word, Adrian.”
When he closes the cell door and I’m left in the dark alone, listening to his lone footsteps grow softer, I think of the punishments he has already suffered at the hands of the prior. I don’t want him to be blamed for what I’m about to do and be punished again.
I think for a moment then pray the good knight will wait for me as I scribe.
Dear Nigel,
I am sorry to abuse your friendship. I am not a shepherd boy but a spy. May you and God forgive me! The prior surely will not. You will know why soon enough.
I leave my pen on the parchment as a gift for Nigel. It’s no use to me where I’m going. All I need on the battlefield is my bow.
I glance through the narrow slit of a window in Nigel’s cell and I’m stopped dead. The sky is bright red. I know it’ll fade in moments to an orange hue and then pink, then dissolve altogether into the pale blue we know as the sky, but for this moment it’s red. Bloodred. The rhyme comes into my head … Red sky at night, shepherds delight, red sky at morning, shepherds take warning. I shiver, from the thought or the chill air or both.
The monks’ voices rise in chant, reminding me that I must move, and quickly.
I open Nigel’s door quietly and enter the empty corridor. With the monks’ singing masking my footsteps and the dawn glow lighting my way, it’s easier than I thought to slip up the stairs to the library. I walk softly to the prior’s assistant’s special desk … it’s empty! I look for the scroll on the floor underneath. Not there! I check every other desk with no luck. I look on the floor, in every corner. Where could it be?
Think, addlepate! I tell myself. My eyes scan the room, looking over every desk and under every stool, past the windows, past Brother Bernard’s special desk and chair, past the reliquary, past the — wait! My eyes move back to the reliquary.
In my head, I hear Nigel’s voice. No, no, you mustn’t open it!
Ockham’s razor! The reliquary is the simplest place because no one would dare open it. I run across the room, hesitating only briefly before raising the lid…. I knew it! I grab the scroll and make for the door, but then hear something — or rather, the lack of something. There is no singing anymore. Lauds is over!
I must get to the knight quickly but I hear footsteps on the stairs! I run to the windows that overlook the courtyard, step on top of one of the desks, and hoist myself to the windowsill. I position myself so that my feet will hit first when I drop to the ground. Still, it’s a long way and I catch my breath, but what disturbs me more is the sight of the knight, already on his horse, heading for the gate.
“No! Wait!”
Monks are stepping into the courtyard, looking up at me and pointing, some crying out not to jump and others, just as loudly, telling me to get down at once.
“Stop! Stop!” I scream at the knight, waving the scroll in the air, while some monks, thinking I’m yelling at them, shout at me for daring to give them orders.
Thankfully, the commotion causes the knight to turn his head and, when he sees me waving the scroll, he slows his courser, turning him to head back toward me. Suddenly, the knight stands in his stirrups, letting out such a war cry that his horse flies like lightning toward me. I’m surprised, but pleased, until I see why.
Prior Osmund is in the courtyard, heading toward me. “Stop that thief!”
I crouch on the ledge, safely out of reach, but even as I think that, the door to the library opens and Brother Bernard runs in, with several monks behind him. They’ll get me one way or another. I close my eyes, not wanting to know my fate, and cling on to the windowsill as I hold the scroll as far down as I dare so that the knight can grab it.
But the knight doesn’t grab the scroll — he grabs me! I feel myself wrenched from my perch and open my eyes to see land rushing past below me, horse hooves flying, reins flapping, and the horse’s mane in my face. Just as suddenly, the knight pulls me upright and I am propped in front of him, my legs straddling his horse, riding for the first time in my life. I scream and let loose of the scroll. The knight seems to hold me, the scroll, and the reins all at once, and my addlepated brain is wondering how he can have three hands.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, boy, but I couldn’t leave you with the prior once he saw you had the scroll. He’s not a man to be toyed with, and it’s I who put you in danger.”
Although I hear and understand him, I can’t answer because I’m too distracted by the pounding of the horse’s hooves and the world racing by, as if I’m an arrow shooting through the air. The wind rushes into my open mouth. My hair whirls about like I’m in a storm. Trees fly past. I’m mesmerized.
When I feel the knight turn in the saddle and look behind us, I grab on to the horse’s mane because the knight’s twisting threatens to unbalance me. I can feel the heat and sweat of the horse as my hand brushes the animal’s neck. I notice that he snorts and breathes heavily. When the knight turns back again he pulls gently on the reins and speaks softly to his horse, calling him “Lightning,” which I think is an apt name.
To me, the knight says, “We’re in luck! The prior does not appear to chase us.”
I should feel relieved that we’re not pursued and that the horse is no longer flying, but all I feel is wild bouncing in the saddle, much bumpier than before. I had always thought a knight to be so fortunate to glide along on a noble steed. Instead, it’s nothing like gliding. It’s sore and painful to the crotch. I wriggle around to try and save my privates. I’m more worried about them right now than the prior.
The knight laughs, but not meanly. “You’re not used to riding. We’ll slow down soon. For now, we must continue to put distance between us and Lanercost.”
I wonder what he means by “soon,” because it seems forever that we bounce along, sometimes on the road, sometimes cutting across a fallow field, sometimes uphill, which is unsettling, or downhill, which is far worse because it feels like I’ll be pitched right over Lightning’s neck. My stomach is so jostled that I am, for once, grateful that I haven’t eaten, or else I’d be puking.
Finally, we slow down until Lightning is only walking. I sigh as much as the horse.
“I am Geoffrey de Molay,” the knight says. “I currently serve my liege, the bishop of Durham. What’s your real name, boy, and who are you? Obviously not a lost shepherd.”
I decide I can trust him enough to tell him the truth. “Adrian Black, son of John the bowyer, of —”
“Ah, that would explain the bow and quiver that have been poking me for the past hour.”
“Sorry, sir.”
I look at the weaponry attached to his saddle. He has everything a knight could want — bow, shield, fine sword. But no permanent liege. “Why are you a free lance, sir?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “My great-grandfather was a Knight Templar.”
I can’t help flinching. “The Knights Templar? Weren’t they …”
“Disgraced and disbanded? Yes. That’s why I don’t give my allegiance to any one group. Perhaps the Knights Templar did turn bad, perhaps not, but being a free lance allows me to give my liege to whatever group I feel is worthy. And affords me much travel. Where’s your home, Adrian?”
“Ashcroft, near —”
“Ashcroft! You’re quite a distance from home. Why?”
“I’m looking for Hugh Stout, my friend who’s a soldier. I mean to join him in battle.” I brace myself for his laughter, but it doesn’t come.
“I see. And along the way, you’re holding priors accountable for their sins?”
“Sir, I —”
“Don’t worry. I’ve long distrusted that man and I’m grateful to you for uncovering his crime. You have done a man’s job, and a noble deed.”
I’m glad I’m seated in front of him so he can’t see me grinning. A man’s job! And a noble deed!
I stop grinning when Lightning’s head suddenly dips down and disappears, and I fear I’m going to fall off the front. I clutch on to his mane. When I look down, I see the horse is merely drinking from a small creek.
Behind me, the knight jumps off Lightning and stretches. Looking back at me, Sir Geoffrey seems surprised to see me still on the horse. “You may dismount.”
I’m not sure how, but I slide awkwardly off, my legs all wobbly.
Sir Geoffrey kneels beside his horse and drinks from the same water, albeit upstream. He turns to look at me. “Aren’t you thirsty?”
I realize then that I’m parched and stoop down to drink as well. When I’m done slaking my thirst, I turn to see that he has pulled out the scroll and is reading it.
He shakes his head, his mouth twisted as if he has eaten rotten meat. “What does he use all this money for?”
“He buys himself jewels. He took all his rings off before you saw him.”
“Not all of them. There was still one stuck tight on his right index finger.”
“Maybe his fingers have grown too fat.”