“But what about Donald?” I ask.
“I’ll do whatever I can for him before we leave. I’ll make the poultices and send them with him. But I must get you both home. And I must get to Grandmother fast. Maybe there’s something I can do to save her.”
I understand now that Hugh is not speaking from rage but rather from love — of his grandmother, Bess, and even me. But I can’t leave Donald behind. When I look at Bess, I think she’s reading my mind. Her worried eyes flicker to Donald, who is still unconscious, and back to me. And I know I must tell them my plan.
“Hugh,” I say, “you’re right. You have to get back to Grandmother and you have to get Bess home. But I have to get Donald back to his family.”
Hugh shakes his head, as if unsure he heard me right. “You can’t —”
“We can’t just leave him here. It’s not safe.”
Hugh’s face still looks pained, or maybe confused.
I try to explain it to him. “Look, you said yourself that you wanted to kill every last Scot you saw.”
“But I wouldn’t really have —”
“And,” I continue, “you’re a healer. If a healer could feel that way, what about soldiers who’ve seen so many killed? Couldn’t they justify killing someone who seems almost dead anyway, but large enough to be a threat again if he recovers?” I shake my head. “He’s in danger.”
“But you will be, too!” Bess says.
“She’s right —” Hugh begins, but I cut him off.
“You know he can’t make the journey by himself. It must be sixty, seventy miles or more.”
“Exactly,” Hugh says.
“You should go with them, Hugh,” Bess says. “I can go home myself.”
“No!” Hugh cries. “I will not allow it!”
“I came here myself, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” says Hugh, softer now. “And I have much respect for that.” He takes her hand gently. “But there has been more battle since, and many vile, horrible acts — on both sides.” He takes a deep breath. “When men are angry, their behavior suffers. I will not have you out in that — alone.”
“That’s why I must take Donald and you must take Bess,” I say, as if the argument is now closed.
Hugh starts to argue but I capture his eyes with mine. “Listen. I don’t want to be like Ailwin. Maybe I couldn’t do anything to save my mother or baby sister, but I can help save Donald and bring Colyne his father back.” I know that point will hit its mark. I can see the objection melt from Hugh’s face and I know he’s reminded of Adam. He nods once, and when Bess starts to protest he puts an arm around her. It calms her and we all look toward Donald, as if we’re in prayer for a moment for those we’ve lost and those we hope to save. As for me, I’m thinking of Sir Geoffrey. I’ve already let one good man die. I’ll not let that happen to another one.
Bess makes us a thin soup of berries and onions that she collected nearby. We eat the rest of the bread from Hugh’s father, with much less gusto. She convinces Hugh to eat some, saying he won’t have the energy to guide her home otherwise. It works, although I know it’s Bess who’s going to be doing the guiding. And I’m not worried about them, either. Bess can handle it.
Hugh looks at Donald and then at me. “You’ll have to travel at night.”
I don’t relish that thought. The moon will be waning now, and leading a stumbling Donald in the dark won’t be easy. Nor will hiding him all day while I, too, must sleep. But how else can I do it?
Bess must be thinking the same thing. “I wish there was a way to hide him….”
“In plain sight,” I finish. “I know. Me too.”
“What about a disguise?” Bess asks.
Hugh shakes his head. “He has such a thick accent. As soon as he speaks he’ll give himself away.”
“He’s too sick to speak, maybe,” Bess says.
Hugh shakes his head. “He even looks Scottish, and dangerous, and much like a soldier.”
“I wish there were some magic spell,” I say, thinking out loud, “that I could use to keep people away so they couldn’t sneak up on us unawares, like when I’m asleep. Some way to scare them … Ockham’s razor!” I yell. “I’ve got it!” It helps to think things out loud.
Bess and Hugh are both staring at me. “What?”
“Donald will be a leper.”
Bess’s grin is quick to come. “That’s brilliant!” She jumps to her feet. “And I can make him look like a leper. I’ve practiced on Jane!”
Hugh and I both stare at her now.
“I mean,” she explains, “she’s been getting those blemishes on her face and I’ve made several creams to help hide them. The first ones I tried were lumpy and made her look even worse, but all that practicing has made me an expert on altering faces!”
“Excellent!” I say as she runs off to gather the mud and other things she needs.
Hugh is still worried. “Are you going to be a leper, too?”
“No, I’ll just be guiding him.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question.
Again, I think of what would seem the most obvious to anyone who happened upon us. Me, a boy, leading a leper to Scotland. Even if Donald doesn’t speak and they don’t guess he’s a Scot, why would I be taking a disease-ridden man to Scotland? I smile slowly as I remember the story Nigel told me, of corpse warfare, those armies that catapulted diseased corpses into castles so the inhabitants would die. That will be my story, and I tell Hugh.
“But why would you be leading him?”
“Because he wouldn’t necessarily go himself, would he? Especially not if he’s Scottish; he wouldn’t want to infect his own people.”
“Who will you say came up with this idea?”
I think about that for a moment. What would Nigel say? I know what the prior would say — he’d probably be the one to come up with such an idea. Aha!
“I’ll say the prior has sent me. He was so angry with the Scots stealing his wagonloads of goods — even though that’s a complete lie — that it’ll be a believable reason.”
Hugh twists his mouth, uncertain.
I roll my eyes. “Priests have fought in battles since the Crusades, so it’s not as if it’s unusual for a prior to be involved like this. And there’s something fitting about using his own lie against him.”
“But why would you, a boy, be taking him?”
“He can be a postulant,” Bess announces as she walks back into camp with her supplies. “I can cut his cloak into a monk’s robe and make him look like a young man who wants to join the priory.”
“Yes! And this could be my test to see if I’m really willing to give myself to God.”
“A death sentence?” Hugh asks.
“It’s not a death sentence,” I tell him. “Monks are always taking care of lepers. My story will be that I’m going to tell the first Scottish monks I find that this leper needs caring for. On the way, I’ll say that I’m getting him to touch as many Scots as possible, or at least their water supply. If the disease spreads among border villages, it’s God’s will. Plus,” I add, “I know to stay five paces away.”
“But how …” Hugh begins, then answers his own question. “I’ll get some rope. We’ll put knots to measure each foot. One end we can tie around Donald’s waist, and you can hold on to the other.”
“And we’ll need a length of rope for Adrian’s robe, too,” Bess adds. “Where will you find all that rope?”
Hugh’s face turns grim. “I know where I can get some.”
I think I know what he means. The battlefield. He has to go back there again. But at least this time it’s for saving a life rather than killing.
“HOLD STILL,” BESS ORDERS.
“It hurts!” I snap.
“I’m almost done.”
“I know! You’ve plucked me bald!”
Hugh walks back into camp with the rope and his haggard face lights up. At me. I don’t mind, though, because it’s good to see some life in his ey
es.
“I’ve never seen your hair so short,” Hugh says.
“She cut most of it off and now she’s plucking the rest of it!”
“Just the tonsure on top,” Bess retorts. “You need a bald spot so it looks official. And your hair has to be very short — you know that.”
I can still grumble about it, though.
“Adrian,” she says, with some hesitation, “is it all right … do you mind … if …”
“What?” I ask.
“If I make your hair and skin darker? Some people — well, you know how they react to the sight of your pale skin and hair, and they might think you’re —”
“I know, I know. Yes, that’s fine. Go ahead and darken it.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’d be mad at her for telling the truth, and I’m happy to have a disguise in case I run into Sir Reginald or anyone who might think I come from the devil. I can’t wear my badger eyes anymore because Sir Reginald might recognize that, so maybe my darkened skin will cut the glare.
By the time Bess finishes my monk’s robe, I truly do feel like a postulant. She laments the fact that I don’t have sandals and Hugh offers to make some out of the leftover bits of rope, but I refuse. It’s cold now and it’ll only get colder as I head north. I’ve learned the importance of comfortable boots. I’m not giving them up for ropes.
Donald finally wakes up and is upset with our plan, at first refusing to cooperate.
“Fine,” I tell him, “then I’ll just squat next to you here like a sitting duck.”
That gets him moving. Bess is a master at making his face up to look like a leper. She also puts mixtures on his hands and feet that look like vile growths. I can’t help but cringe every time I glance at him. She even adds pustules around his eyes because she comes up with the idea that he’s going blind, which is another reason he needs me as a guide. She really is quite brilliant, this cousin.
While Bess works, Hugh gathers herbs and puts together measured parcels and poultices, telling me what’s what, how to prepare them, and what to give Donald when. I try desperately to use Nigel’s loci method to remember his instructions. I can’t write it down because I have only one piece of parchment left and I need that for the document that will hopefully save Donald and me.
Hugh sits down next to me. “I feel like I got you into this. It doesn’t feel right having you take care of him, guiding him all the way back to —”
“But I want to,” I tell him. “And it feels right to me. Now go help Bess.”
He sighs and does as I say. It feels good to be in charge for a change.
It’s late in the day when we’re ready. Hugh says there’s enough light to get started, at least. I know he’s eager to get home to Grandmother. Also, he says Donald can’t walk very much this first day. We can put a little distance behind us and then stop for a good night’s rest.
It’s not easy saying good-bye. Donald hugs Bess and Hugh as best he can, thanking them over and over. I don’t even mind that Bess hugs and kisses me. She doesn’t seem to want to go. I wouldn’t want to go back to Good Aunt, either. I do feel a pang of homesickness that I won’t see Father for quite a while. Father!
“Hugh, will you give Father a message for me?”
“Of course,” Hugh says, giving me a hug good-bye.
“Tell him … I understand now what Mother meant about being a bowyer.” I answer Hugh’s confused look. “He’ll know what I mean.”
As I watch them walk off together, I know they’ll be fine on their journey.
Before Donald and I go, I mix some ashes from the fire with water to make ink, sharpen a crow’s feather into a crude pen, and write a letter on the back of my last piece of parchment as if I’m the prior, not the Badger this time — large, flowery, important-looking letters. And I draw a quick, rough sketch of the Mary Magdalene carving above the door of Lanercost Priory.
Please give food and assistance to this boy, who is doing a service for God and country as he leads this leper to the land of the Scots. It is but meek retribution for all that the pagans have stolen from me and for all the lives we have lost.
Osmund, Prior of Lanercost
WE DON’T MAKE IT FAR THAT FIRST AFTERNOON, PERHAPS a mile, before Donald collapses, so I decide to make camp. He sleeps fitfully while I keep watch, thinking about where the battles might be and what route we should take to avoid them. I find myself falling asleep and jerking awake all night.
As dawn breaks, Donald groans. I change the poultice on his arm like Hugh showed me, although I squint my eyes almost all the way shut so I don’t have to see, and still I almost gag. It smells putrid and is oozing green.
Throughout the day, Donald gasps for breath and looks so sickly even under Bess’s masterful face painting, that for the first time I wonder if he’s even strong enough to make it back home. I think about what he has done, the reason for his injuries — saving an English boy, helping Hugh — and I know that I’ll at least give him a Christian burial, even if some would call him a pagan. But I pray it doesn’t come to that.
I keep encouraging him to press on. I want to get us out of the English Middle March, Sir Reginald’s territory, although I know it covers a huge swath of the country. The sooner we’re in the Scottish Middle March, the better.
I cannot believe I just thought that it would be better to be in Scotland! I almost laugh except that Donald is starting to moan in pain again. He trips. I help him to his feet, but he slumps back down, coughing and shivering. It’s so cold and damp today. Although we haven’t made much progress, we have to stop.
“Here,” I say, giving him my cloak as a blanket even though he protests. I also cover up his legs and feet with dead leaves. I start a fire to keep him warm and rummage through the pouch of herbs Bess collected for me, desperately trying to remember Hugh’s instructions.
There’s a stream not far off so I’m able to get water and boil up some herbs and make Donald drink the tea. His eyes keep trying to roll back in his head. I am feeling weak and light-headed myself, and I remember that we’ve had very little food. I must keep us strong or we have no hope of making this long journey. I tell Donald he can rest for now. The woods are quiet.
Even drinking the warm tea myself doesn’t stop the chill, and I have to go a long way before I find any food. Still, it feels good to be doing what I do best, using my bow, and I catch two squirrels. We can have one each.
With Donald in mind, I try to find more herbs that might help him, though I’m bad at identifying them. If I can tell them at all it’s by smell, especially garlic, which is supposed to help wounds, so I sniff practically everything I find until I’m sneezing and coughing and my nose clogs up and I realize I’d better stop. I can’t smell anymore, anyway.
I’m heading back to camp in between coughing fits when I spot a band of English soldiers on the road ahead. They’re foot soldiers, most with only padded cloth for armor, but they all have bows, maybe even made by Father. St. Jerome’s bones! My brain is as clogged as my nose because I’m just now realizing something — our camp is little more than a mile away and the soldiers are heading straight for it! What if they find Donald? I’m not there to tell them to stay back, that he’s a leper. And if they get up close, will they be fooled by Bess’s makeup? Or will they see his red hair and shoot first?
“Stop!” I cry “Stop!” and run after them, flailing my arms and screaming. I hope Donald has heard them and at least put out the fire. I continue to scream, and cough, and wheeze, and curse — until I remember I’m a postulant, so I stop the cursing.
They stop and turn, one of them calling back to me, “Calm down, boy! What’s all the ruckus?”
As they come toward me I have a moment to catch my breath and think. Ockham’s razor! Why would I be screaming at soldiers to stop? Because I don’t want them to find Donald, of course, because he’s the enemy. The enemy! That’s it!
“Sir!” I say, still out of breath and my heart poundi
ng, more from fear, I think, than running. “Scottish soldiers!” I point behind me. “I saw them!”
The leader squints into the distance. “How far?”
“Way in the distance,” I say, because I want these soldiers to go far away. “But they’re not very fast,” I add, along with several sneezes, “so you can probably catch them.”
Now the leader squints at me. “Are you sure they were Scots?”
“Oh, yes, they spoke funny,” and I imitate Donald’s accent.
“I thought they were far away,” one of the other men says. “How could you have heard them?” He turns to the man next to him. “I don’t trust this … creature. Look how pale his eyes are. He’s not normal.”
“Whist,” the other man says, “he’s some kind of priest or postulant.”
“Nay, he’s too young for that. He’s probably playing at being a monk.”
The rumblings among the men about my not being “normal” are spreading. I try to stay calm and think fast.
“Which is it, boy?” the leader asks. “Are they far away or close by?”
“They’re far away now, but I was hiding in the bushes when they passed so I heard them.”
“What did they look like?” the leader asks.
All I can see in my mind is Donald and I don’t want to describe him. I close my eyes, trying to picture the battle scene I saw with Sir Geoffrey, and then it hits me. “I don’t know, sir.” I hang my head. “I had my eyes closed because I was so scared.”
Some of the men laugh.
“Like a kitten,” a man says. “If they can’t see you, they think you can’t see them.”
“Sorry,” I say meekly. I don’t even mind the coughing fit that follows because it makes me appear such a weakling.
“We thought we saw a fire that way,” a soldier says, pointing in the direction of our camp. “Did you see any soldiers back there?”
I shake my head fast. “It’s a leper!”
Some men groan, others cross themselves.
One man pushes his way to the front of the group. A priest. “I will go pray with him.”