“They help wounds and stop infection.” She gives a shy smile. “I learned that from Hugh.”
I still stare at her.
“Donald needs them,” she says pointedly.
“But I can’t tell one herb from another! Wait … you can come with me and look for the herbs while I find food. We’ll put out the fire, cover Donald with leaves, and he’ll be all right.” She looks doubtful, so I add, “We won’t be gone long.”
At the last minute, I remember Donald’s whistle and pull it out of his bag. “Bess, if you see soldiers or any trouble at all, blow the whistle and I’ll come running.”
Except for the lingering smell of smoke, no one would know there’s a camp here. Donald is well hidden under the mound of leaves, and yet there’s still an opening where he can breathe. Bess hesitates, clutching the whistle, but I pull her along after me.
“He’ll be fine,” I say, as much to encourage myself as her.
BESS DOES NOT STRAY TOO FAR FROM ME AND I KEEP AN eye out for that warden and Big Sword, or any soldiers, for that matter. I’m so hungry I’d like to get us a deer or a pheasant or two. I grin, thinking of how Sir Reginald would feel if he knew that a “Scottish” lad was poaching from his land.
I circle the area looking for Hugh, as well. My stomach is rumbling louder now. I’m still hoping to find pheasant and am irritated that I can only find acorns. I wish the stupid bird that tweets over and over would stop, because I feel like it’s mocking me for not finding a pheasant. And then I realize something worse — it’s not a bird, it’s the whistle! Bess is in trouble!
I run in the direction the sound was, although now it has stopped. Before I reach Bess, I hear voices. Men’s voices. I curse myself.
I crouch behind some bushes and peer through them. One man has Bess by both arms. There are three men in all. We’re outnumbered.
I’m grabbed from behind and let out a scream.
“Well, well, what have we here?” a man’s voice says in my ear, and I realize there are four. “I caught another one, boss!” He drags me next to Bess. I steal a look at her and I see as much defiance and annoyance in her eyes as fear. I think the annoyance is probably for me as she glares at the whistle in her captor’s belt.
The man who has me throws me on the ground and puts a boot on my ear. Although my face is turned toward Bess, I can only see her leggings, and I’m thankful that she’s dressed like a boy.
“Apart from a whistle, what can you boys give us?” a voice says, approaching.
Robbers. And I’m stuck. All I can do is stare at the shoes of the man who steps in front of my face. I can’t even lift my head to look at him. I just see the red-brown color of his shoes — St. Jerome’s boots! That’s the leather of Tom the cobbler. Could this be his son, the robber Pippin?
“Let us go, Pippin!” I squeak.
“Who are you?” the voice says as he looks down at me. Or, I imagine he looks down on me because I still can’t see anything but his boots.
“William of Ashcroft,” I lie.
“And how do you know my name?”
“I bought these boots” — I try in vain to turn my feet to show him my boots — “from your father. Your dear mother wishes you to return home!”
Pippin laughs. “My dear mother is a cow!”
“But she loves you.”
“Ha! Now I know you lie!”
“No, she cries for you.”
“She cries about me, is what you mean.”
“No, sir, she regrets all the vile things she has said and done. She said” — and I use her own language to make my lie as believable as possible, and even imitate her voice — “ ‘I would ask the devil himself to rip my own heart out, it is so black with the vile actions I myself have taken against my son.’ ”
There is silence for a moment before Pippin’s voice, quieter now, says, “Let him up.”
I steal a glance at Bess as I’m pulled to my feet. She seems all right. If anything, the man holding her has loosened his grip because she’s no longer struggling and he’s watching Pippin with his eyes wide and mouth slightly open.
“What else did she say?” Pippin asks.
“That it’s her fault you live out on the street and steal, that she has driven you to a life of crime, that no mother should ever have done to her son what she has done to you.”
“Go on.”
“She wishes to see you to ask her forgiveness.”
“Pah,” he says, his mood changing, as he steps away from me. “Little chance of that.”
I see I’m losing him and have to act fast. “Before she dies.”
“Dies?” He turns to face me. “Dies of what?”
“She didn’t say, but she didn’t look well. Your father insisted that she sit on his stool because she’s so thin and frail.”
“Thin?” His jaw drops. “My mother? Thin?”
I have his interest back again and I dare not lose it. “Yes, but she refused, saying she didn’t deserve to sit because of what a horrible mother she has been.”
“And?”
“And …” What else could I say? Think, Adrian! Ockham’s razor! He’s a robber. It’s money he’s after. “If you’ll have your henchmen let us go, I can get to the coins your mother gave me to give you.”
“What?”
“Yes. She tells everyone who comes to her shop about you and how wicked she was. If it’s a boy or a man who might be traveling the roads” — I don’t say, Who might be robbed by her vile son — “she gives him a few coins to show her earnest intent.” I don’t have any money and I know Pippin won’t be pleased with Sir Geoffrey’s medal, even less so with the Roman coin from the latrine at the fort, but I go on with my story. “She gives every boy who promises to walk the roads a few coins to offer you and implore you to come home. She can’t give much to any one of us, of course, because there are so many people to whom she has given coins, in hopes that her son will return.”
“Why didn’t you say that earlier?” His voice is calmer but still wary.
“Why?” Why indeed? “Because I wanted to make sure you were really Pippin of Penrith and not just a common robber.” I let that sink in because flattery often works on those who are most impressed with themselves. “If you’ll let me get the coins in my purse —”
“Let go of one of his arms!” Pippin commands my captor.
My shaky hand ensures that the medal and Roman coin make a satisfying clink. The man holding Bess hears this, as he lets go of her to walk toward me and the purse. I notice Bess silently step backward several steps, away from the men, as all their eyes are on my purse. The man who holds me grabs it out of my hand.
“Hey!” yells Pippin. “That’s mine!” And he lunges toward my captor, who, God be praised, turns away from me as soon as the other men reach for him. I dash away, fast as I can possibly run, seeing Bess already well ahead of me but looking back nervously.
“Run!” I scream, and we must look like rabbits escaping a hungry hunter, as we flee for several minutes, at which point we collapse under the overhang of a riverbank, panting.
“They’re not following,” I say, peeking over the edge of the embankment.
She nods. “They probably know that’s all we have.” Turning to look at me, she says, “How did you know it was Tom the cobbler’s son from Penrith?”
“By his boot leather. I was just at their stall at the market last month.”
“And you saw his ailing mother, who said those things about him?”
“Oh, no. I made it all up.”
Her mouth drops open. “But he believed you.”
I grin back at her. “His mother said he was a dolt and she also said” — I imitate his mother’s voice — “ ‘I’d ask the devil himself to rip his heart out.’ ”
Her eyes widen as a grin spreads across her face, and we laugh until we have to stop to get our breath.
“You’re no addlepate, Adrian. You’re brilliant. And brave.”
It’s hard not to smile until I remember s
omething. “Except I didn’t answer your whistle until it was too late. And now we’ve lost Donald’s whistle.”
She grins again as she pulls it out of her tunic. “I took it out of that robber’s belt as he was walking toward you and your purse.”
“You’re brilliant and brave!” I say.
“I think our family is clever,” she says pensively. “We may not be rich, but we’re resourceful.”
As we walk back to camp, I can’t help feeling bad about losing the medal from Sir Geoffrey. I tell Bess about him. How noble he was. How he called me noble. And how he died. “I hate that his medal now belongs to that stupid dolt and thief, Pippin.”
Bess agrees. “I suppose, though,” she says, “as protection money, it saved you — saved us — like Sir Geoffrey would’ve wanted.”
“I still wish I had the medal.”
“I know,” she says, “but you’ll never forget him, even without a medal. And,” she adds, kicking some leaves on the path, “you’re lucky. Just as Sir Geoffrey said, you’re like a knight. You can scribe and shoot. I only know a precious few letters and I don’t know archery at all. I wish I could learn how to shoot.”
“Really? But you’re just —”
“A girl?” Her face turns sour. “Do you think that just because I’m not a noblewoman I don’t have the strength to draw back a bow? Or the skill to hit a target?” She storms off ahead of me.
As I follow her back to camp, I think about her strength with the plow, her bravery in the face of robbers, her intelligence about herbs, her skill with Bessie, even her correct assessment of what a town like Carlisle is like, and I realize she could be a fierce archer given half a chance.
THE HERBS BESS FOUND SEEM TO HELP DONALD. AT LEAST he is awake now. I wish I’d been able to find some food, though, because pine-needle tea and Donald’s oaten cakes do little to satisfy my hunger.
Since it’s dark, I’m now on guard for soldiers or thieves like Pippin. I suppose I’m lucky that my bow is so small, otherwise Pippin’s men might’ve taken it. People assume it’s a child’s toy. They have no idea what I can do with it.
The moon is full so it’s easy to see anyone who might approach. I tell Bess and Donald to sleep but they’re both too anxious about Hugh. Finally, I see someone approach from the west and I can tell it’s Hugh by his walk.
I’m about to shout but Bess beats me to it, racing toward him. Hugh stops in mid-stride, dropping everything he’s carrying, and embraces her. Such a passionate kiss I have never seen, or heard, and hope never to witness again. I turn away but notice that Donald doesn’t. He smiles as if it’s the most beautiful sight ever.
When they finally stop and walk into camp, Hugh turns from lovesick to almost angry. “You shouldn’t have come! It’s not safe for a woman alone in these woods.” He looks Bess over carefully and grows even more agitated. “Where’s your cloak? Why are you dressed like a boy?”
She looks at the ground.
Hugh narrows his eyes. “What happened?”
“A soldier — I got away from him.”
Hugh is angrier than I have ever seen him. “Did he hurt —”
“No. I got away quickly.”
“The barbarian!” Hugh says, his jaw clenched.
“Aye,” says Donald, equally foul-looking. “I would kill him myself if I had a chance. I’m a husband and father, and there’s no place for that business in war or anywhere else. My apologies, lassie. I am ashamed of my countrymen.”
She looks at Donald and shakes her head. “Don’t be,” she says quietly. “The soldier was English.”
She tells us the story of getting captured and how she escaped. “I told him I needed to relieve myself, and not just water but dysentery.”
I can’t help but make a face, and Bess laughs. “Yes, that’s exactly what the man did, so he agreed to let me hang my cloak on a branch to hide myself and turned and walked away a little so as not to catch the foulness. Meanwhile, I threw my hood down the path behind, made a ruckus as if I were running away, and then hid in the hollow tree. He ran down the hill, swearing, saw my hood, and kept running.”
“You’re a wise lassie,” Donald says.
Bess smiles but shakes her head slightly. “He almost fooled me, because he came back up the path saying, ‘There you are. I see you. Come on out if you know what’s good for you.’ I was so stuck in the tree I couldn’t move my legs, which was a good thing because it gave me a chance to realize it was a trick. He couldn’t see me. He just figured I was hiding. Eventually, I heard him swear and take my cloak and, once it was dark, I finally felt safe enough to unfold myself from that tree.”
“Where did you get those boys’ clothes?” I ask.
Bess cringes. “I took them from someone’s washing line. I feel awful about that! But I did leave them my kirtle. It was dirty but still in fine shape.”
“I’m sure that boy will be very happy,” I say, laughing.
Hugh takes her in his arms. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”
Bess smiles at him. “I told you I could take care of myself.”
“I still wish you hadn’t come.”
She gives him a sour look.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her, “that’s what he said to me, too. He’ll come around.”
Hugh is smiling. “I almost forgot. I found Father!”
We all cheer. Hugh dashes to pick up the bundles he dropped while hugging Bess. He holds up two sacks with a grin. “Food, from Father and the other men.”
Soon we are sitting, eating bread and cheese and even some kind of fish I’ve never had before, but it all tastes more delicious than even plum pudding at Christmas.
Hugh tells us his father is fine, as is Uncle — who managed to hurt his arm enough that he couldn’t battle so had to head back to Ashcroft. I’m sure he did it on purpose but I don’t say so out of respect to Bess.
“But,” Hugh adds, standing up and starting to pace, “he doesn’t want me to go to battle. He sent me back here so Adrian and I could go back to Ashcroft.” He stops, his feet now firmly planted. “But I’m going to join him tomorrow.”
Donald chokes and Bess lets out a cry, but I’m happy because I know it’s what Hugh wants.
Hugh hesitates, looking at me. “Listen, Adrian? Could you take Bess home?”
Before I can protest, Bess grabs Hugh’s arm. “But what about Donald?”
We all look at the ground, including Donald.
“Your father is right, laddie. You’ve seen he’s safe. Now it’s time to take the lassie home.”
Hugh shakes his head. “I also came to fight beside him and that’s what I’m going to do.”
Bess tries to argue but she knows it’s not going to work, even when she tells us the other reason she came looking for Hugh. “Grandmother is very ill and the only one to take care of her is my mother.”
“St. Jerome’s bones!” I say, before I can stop myself. With Good Aunt’s help, Grandmother will surely die.
Hugh stalks away from camp a few paces, grabbing on to a birch branch as if to crush it.
Bess goes to him, putting her arm around his waist, and he does the same to her. They talk softly for a while, before Bess pats his back and walks him back to the fire. Donald lets out a groan and Bess shoots Hugh a worried look. He nods, as if they’ve spoken — it’s like they’re married already — and grabs his pouch, mixing up herbs with such ferocity and noise, it’s as if he wishes Grandmother could hear him.
It’s Bess who finally convinces Hugh that she and I need to stay one more day, to get Donald to the point where he can be safely left alone. I’m thinking it will take a lot longer for Donald to be well, but she’s right to ask Hugh for only one day at a time.
But first, Hugh looks at me. “Father said that you need to be very careful, Adrian. A boy who … has your appearance is not safe outside of his own village. Too many people may think ill of you.”
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “I keep myself covered up and I?
??ve had no problems.”
“Still,” says Hugh, “the people in our own village know you to be the bowyer’s son. No one in the rest of England is aware of that.”
So the only reason I’m worth saving is because I’m a bowyer’s son? I know Hugh and his father are well-meaning, but it makes me feel … useless.
Even when Donald tells Hugh how I saved him from Sir Reginald, and Hugh looks at me with admiration and respect, there’s still worry in his eyes.
Bess lays a hand on Hugh’s arm and says quietly, “Adrian can take care of himself. He’s very clever.”
Despite her kind words, Bess knows how un-clever I am. I left the fire going when I abandoned camp, I didn’t hear her whistle for help, and I even thought her to be mean for many years until she had to point out that it is, in fact, me who is the mean one. And it’s worse than that. I always thought I’d be an archer, at least, if I can’t be a bowyer. After what I’ve seen of battle, I never want to go back. Now I have no calling. Where does that leave me?
I KEEP WATCH OVER CAMP. DONALD IS OUT COLD, HAVING exhausted himself arguing with us about leaving him and getting home to safety. Bess falls asleep next to Hugh and I watch him gently pin the St. Aldegundis medal to her tunic where she can’t easily see it, but he’ll know it’s there protecting her.
Quietly, he stands up and motions me to the trees at the edge of our camp. I step over the sleeping Donald and follow him.
“Adrian,” he says, but he’s looking at Bess. “If anything happens … If I don’t come back —”
“Of course you’re coming back!”
“But if I’m … injured —”
“You won’t be,” I say, “you’ll be fine.”
“Still, I want you to look after Bess.”
“She doesn’t really need —”
“Adrian!” His voice is sharp and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it.
“Yes, of course I will. Don’t worry.”
He nods, thanking me, and goes to lie down next to Bess, holding her.
I try to think of some encouraging words to tell him but I know he’s right. He’s risking his life. It’s possible that he may never return.