“Be off!” the man shouts, turning back to the oven.
The woman grabs some scraps from the table and hands them out to me, just in time, before the man grabs her arm. “Stop, you fool! He’ll keep coming back now!”
“Go,” she whispers, and as I run off I hear her yelling at the man, “Your fat belly could use a pie or two less today so stop your whining!” She reminds me of Cook at the manor, rough of voice but soft of heart.
When I find a place I can stand without getting trampled, I look at my breakfast. It’s two pies with mostly burnt crusts and little meat, but they’re a feast for my eyes and belly.
I wander the city all day, looking for soldiers, any soldiers. I follow some, but they seem in no hurry to get anywhere. Perhaps the battles haven’t begun. They go to buy supplies, sometimes meet women in the street and go off with them, and almost always end up at a tavern. So many taverns! I could spend days visiting them all looking for Hugh.
I ask a baker when the battle will start, but he simply looks annoyed, telling me to stop being a pest and do something useful.
“I’ll be useful as soon as I find the battle,” I tell him. “Then I’ll fight!” I’m hoping he’ll respect my bravery and duty and give me some bread.
Instead, he throws me out of his shop.
After that I look for friendlier faces. An old man on the street smiles at me, so I ask him, “Where’s the battle?”
He waves his arms in wide circles. “It’s everywhere,” he says, in a breathy, spooky voice, “all around us, all the time.”
I back away.
When I see groups of soldiers going into the Rising Sun tavern, laughing and joking, I ask the beautiful woman at the tavern door, “Why aren’t the soldiers fighting? Why are they all coming here?”
She tweaks my nose and grins. “You, my lad, are too young to know!”
It seems that people speak in riddles here. I’ll have to approach the soldiers directly and risk being identified as John the bowyer’s son.
I work up my nerve and ask a knight on horseback where the battle is. He asks me why I want to know. When I tell him that I’m going to join the fight, he throws his head back and laughs so hard spittle comes out of his mouth. He rides off still laughing, never answering.
I wait outside of the Stag’s Horn tavern until two soldiers come out, their voices slurred from mead. I ask them where I can find the battle.
The big, burly one belches and focuses on me, or tries to. His eyes look so bleary, like Uncle’s on a feast day, that they appear to be crossed. I imagine he sees two or four of me. I think I’m right because he demands to know if “we” are spies and who “we” are planning to tell once “we” get such information out of him. He even makes to smack me, but his friend grabs his hands and leads him down the street, laughing.
I’m worn out and hungry. I’m tempted to spend a groat on food, even though I want to save all my money for Hugh. Toward evening, I approach the Dog and Badger tavern, which must be a good sign for me — the badger! And it smells like Cook’s wonderful stew. I’m debating whether to go inside to eat, hoping to find a kindly soldier who might tell me where the battle is without laughing at me.
Suddenly, I hear a loud voice in my ear. “Get in line, freak, we were here first!”
I turn to look at a tall boy with mean eyes who grabs my arm and flings me into the street. Other boys laugh.
“Gardyloo!” I hear from the buildings above me. Again, someone grabs my arm and shoves me, this time back against the building instead of into the street. St. Jerome’s bones! Is this some city sport?
I pull away from the boy who holds me firm. I am about to fight when I realize that a bucketful of slop lands exactly where I’d been standing.
“Didn’t you hear the ‘gardyloo’?” The boy lets go of my arm. He’s not the tall, mean-eyed one. This boy looks to be about eleven, taller than me but with a young face.
“What does that mean?” But I’m already figuring it out by the smell. It’s the water people have passed, and worse. I wrinkle my nose. “Why do they throw it in the street?”
“I wager they don’t want to keep it themselves,” the boy says.
“But it could fall on people’s heads.”
“That’s why they warn you! ‘Gardyloo!’ ”
“Oh.” I pinch my nose because although nothing landed on me, it still smells.
“It’s worse on the other side of town,” the boy says. “Those with much money eat rich food, which truly stinks.”
I think about how smelly Father Fraud is on a good day, but when he eats at the manor his farts are so stinky I can barely sit upright while he yells at me to pay attention. Like I do when Father Fraud’s back is turned, I put my fist to my mouth and make a fart sound.
The boy laughs and so do I. He holds his hand out to me to shake. His thin arms and legs stick out from his tunic and leggings. “I’m Henry.”
I clasp his hand. “I’m Adrian.”
“Where are you from?”
“Ashcroft. It’s south of Penrith.”
“Penrith,” he says, pushing his long brown hair behind his ears. “I’ve heard of that. What are you doing here?”
“Preparing to fight the Scots.”
He looks puzzled.
It feels so good to have someone who is the least bit friendly that I pull the bow out from under my cloak.
His eyes grow wide. “Do you know how to use that?”
“Of course. I’m joining the soldiers to defend Carlisle.”
Again he looks puzzled, shaking his head. “There’ll be no battle here.”
“Why not?”
“The city has paid protection money so the Scots will leave us alone.”
I groan. “Then I won’t find him here.”
“Who?”
“My friend. I’m looking for him, to join him in battle. Do you know where the battle will be?”
Henry shrugs and points at the tavern, and the boy who threw me into the street. “Often there are soldiers here. Maybe one of them can tell you.”
I walk toward the tavern and notice that Henry walks with me. I’m grateful because I feel like a fish out of water in this city.
A large gentleman in a red cloak heads inside and I’m right behind him, until that tall, mean-eyed boy hones in and deftly takes the money pouch from the gentleman’s wide belt. The man whirls around, but not before the boy drops it. The boy looks at me, smirks, and is gone in little more than a moment. He reminds me of Bryce, the thief! I pick up the purse for the gentleman, and at the same moment someone has my arm in a vise grip. It’s the gentleman, who is not at all happy.
“Here,” I say, trying to give him his purse, but I can’t extend my arm to him because he’s gripping it so hard.
“Yes, thief, now that I catch you, you’re willing to return it,” he says, his face dark.
“I’m not —” He twists my arm so hard I can’t help but cry out. “You’re hurting me, sir!”
He pulls the purse out of my hand but will not loosen his grip on my arm. “Bailiff!” he shouts. “Arrest this boy! Throw him in the stocks! I’ve had enough of these hooligans!”
“But it wasn’t me! It was —” I look around for the tall boy, but he’s gone. So, I realize, is Henry.
“Bailiff!” the gentleman cries again, and I struggle to get away but it’s no use.
Men spill out of the tavern, and the men and women on the street gather around, some of them adding to the hue and cry, shouting, “Bailiff!”
Even if I were able to break free of the gentleman’s grip, the crowd encircles me, leaving me no way out.
THROUGH THE THICK OF THE CROWD, HENRY AND several other boys appear. A tiny boy tugs at the gentleman’s red cloak, saying, “Father, Father!”
“What?” the man cries.
Henry stomps hard on the gentleman’s foot, and two other boys grab an arm each.
“Ow!” the man bellows.
“Father!” the little boy wh
ines again.
“Who are you?” The gentleman loosens his grip and Henry pulls me away, yelling, “Boys!” as he runs behind the gentleman, squirreling his way through the crowd so swiftly that while some shout at us, no one is quick enough to grab us. Once past the crowd, he breaks into a sprint. I can barely keep up.
As we run through streets, I notice the other boys are flanking us.
“Where’s Otto?” Henry asks one of them.
“Back there,” a redheaded boy says, out of breath.
Henry pushes me toward the boy. “Take him to our nook!”
Henry disappears like a shadow.
It’s hard to keep up with the other three, but eventually they collapse in a dark corner of the city wall where there’s a small patch of dirt between the wall and a large tree. We sit, panting, leaning against the wall, partially hidden by the great oak.
“What’s your name?” one of the dark-haired boys asks.
I can’t speak yet, fearing the wheezing will start if I don’t give myself time to catch my breath. So I simply stare at my boots, trying to calm myself, and thinking, once again, how good it is that I don’t have the stupid long-toed shoes anymore. It seems so long ago that I bought them.
A boy taps my foot and I look up. It’s one of the dark-haired boys. “I’m David,” he says, “and this is my brother, Daniel.” He nods toward the slightly smaller dark-haired boy. Now that I have a chance to look at them, I see that their faces are similar in their roundness and thick eyebrows.
“That,” David says, pointing at the redheaded boy, “is Nervous Ned.” He and Daniel laugh.
The skinny redhaired boy scowls at them, then at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?” I reach up and realize my hood has fallen off in my mad dash.
“Are you some kind of evil omen?”
“I just have pale skin, that’s all.”
“And white hair,” he adds.
“So?” David says with a snort. “Yours is red.”
“Oy, there they are!” Daniel cries.
Henry and the small boy who called the gentleman “Father” sit down heavily, leaning against the wall next to us. I stare at the little freckle-faced boy for a moment and then realize that this must be Otto. He’s not the gentleman’s son. He was a part of the ruse to free me from the gentleman.
“Thank you,” I tell Henry. “And you,” I say, smiling at the little boy, who grins back.
Henry has already caught his breath and, grinning, pulls several large meat pies out of his tunic.
David’s eyes grow wide. “Where’d you get those?”
“I grabbed them off the back of a peddler’s cart.”
Since there are six of us, we split the three pies in two. David and Daniel share one, the boy they call Nervous Ned shares with me, and Henry shares with Otto, although he gives Otto most of the pie, eating only a small portion himself.
The pie smells heavenly, and I close my eyes to savor each bite. I believe it’s pig meat. It’s delicious and the fat fills up the holes in my belly like the clay that fills the gaps in our wattle-and-daub house. I cringe when I think of home and Father. What would he say if he saw me with this street gang? Any other time, if a boy gave me half of a stolen meat pie, I would gag. But I myself have stolen food — from a cathedral, no less! I suspect these boys are only doing what they must to survive.
Nervous Ned crouches on his heels. “The night watchman will be out soon and grab us if we don’t get under cover.”
Henry sighs and stands up. “Come on, then. We’ve got to go to the warehouse.”
Otto and I are the only ones who don’t rise. Henry holds his hand down for Otto to grab and, although the little boy looks unhappy, he clutches on to Henry and pulls himself up.
Henry looks at me. “Where are you staying?”
I shrug, and before I can give more of an answer, Henry answers his own question. “With us.”
Ned’s eyes open wide and he looks at David and Daniel, who raise their eyebrows.
“Follow me,” Henry says, still holding Otto’s hand.
Ned follows but also looks back at me. “Simon won’t like this.” He gets closer to Henry and whispers, although I can hear him. “What are you going to say?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“But —”
“I’m tired of trying to please Simon!” Henry snaps.
Ned’s face tells me he’s not satisfied with the answer, but David and Daniel nod, as if understanding Henry.
“Who is Simon?” I ask.
“A nasty weasel!” Otto says so suddenly and loudly that we all laugh, except Ned, who looks around as if this Simon might hear.
We wander down dark streets to the edge of town, to what looks like an abandoned building. A large rat scurries over my foot and I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The boys head for the large wooden door and I hesitate.
“It’s a warehouse,” Henry explains. “It’s a good place to sleep and, as long as we’re out before the church bells ring prime, no one will catch us.”
I take a deep breath and follow them. Inside, there are voices and laughter, but when we enter the sound stops abruptly. Otto clutches Henry’s hand with both his little fists, and I can feel that our whole group is uneasy, not just Otto and me.
When my eyes adjust to the darkness, my heart fairly bursts from its pounding. Standing in the middle of a semicircle of older boys is the tall, mean-eyed one who tried to steal the gentleman’s purse!
“What is this thing?” he demands, looking at me and then spitting at the floor.
I curse myself for automatically taking my hood off. It’s second nature when I walk inside, but Simon is shooting arrows at me out of his eyes.
“He’s Adrian,” Henry says, his voice far weaker than it was outside. “He’s from a village near Penrith, and — and he needs a place to stay … Simon.”
Simon takes his eyes off me long enough to mock Henry, making his voice high and whiny. “And — and he needs a place to stay.”
I see Henry clench his jaw and watch his eyes narrow and I realize, with some gladness, that Simon has only strengthened Henry’s resolve.
Simon grins at me, an ugly leer of brown, stained teeth. “We are the Hoods, named after Robin Hood. We steal from the rich and give to the poor” — his leer widens — “the poor being us.”
The boys around him chuckle. Henry’s shoulders slump and he stares at the ground.
Simon’s voice grows serious. “We don’t give alms to farm boys — or freaks.” He glares at me and then at Henry. “What does he bring to the Hoods?”
Henry looks at me, hopeful.
“I — I’m a master archer,” I stammer.
“A master archer?” Simon bursts out laughing, and as soon as he does, the other boys do, too, except for Henry and his friends. “There’s not much call for archery in the city, even if you are a mas-ter,” he says mockingly.
I try to think of some other skill I have and come up empty. The name of Ailwin flashes in my head.
Simon circles me, his arms folded, like he is viewing a pig and deciding whether the runt will be allowed in his pen or not.
“Do you have money, farm-boy freak?” Simon asks.
“No,” I lie, hoping he can’t tell.
Henry speaks up. “Today at the Dog and Badger … it’s because of him that you were able to run away. He saved you.”
Simon stops, his eyes narrow, and he turns slowly to face Henry. There’s an urgent whispering that dies down to silence as everyone watches, frozen.
“I mean,” says Henry, lifting his chin either in defiance or to be able to look Simon in the eye, “I think it’s fair to let him stay the night since he acted as decoy.”
Simon’s eyes flit almost imperceptibly around the warehouse to gauge the boys’ reactions. There’s the handful of stoic boys I know who stand by Henry. There’s a much larger group of older boys who flank Simon. Some of them look defiant and t
ough, like their leader, but several of them look at the ground. I think I see in Simon’s eyes a momentary flash of fear or anger, I don’t know which, before an ugly smile grows on his face. “So there’s something farm-boy freak can do…. He can be a decoy.”
A couple of the older boys chuckle and Henry’s shoulders relax.
“Fine,” says Simon. “You may stay the night.”
The two groups, younger and older, naturally divide. I follow Henry to the draftier side of the warehouse, where boards are missing.
“Thanks,” I whisper to him.
He shrugs and gives me an old sack, like the other boys have. He wedges himself in the corner and I sit down next to him. The cold air pushes through the slats and the place smells mostly of dung. Although Father and I live below our means, I have never spent a night in such an abode. I start to feel sad when I think of Father, so I make myself focus on what’s happening now.
“I don’t think Simon likes me,” I whisper to Henry.
“You’d best stay on his good side,” Henry says, “if you can.”
“I won’t be around for long, anyway. I have to find Hugh.”
Henry nods. “I think I have an idea how to find Hugh. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to —”
“Tomorrow,” Simon’s voice says from above us — and we both startle, “you and farm-boy freak have a job to do, so there’ll be no time for anything else.”
Henry nods once, though he doesn’t look at Simon.
“You’ll bring back six — no, eight — pounds of herring, to show your worth.”
I hear several gasps.
“Eight pounds?” a little voice cries.
“Is there an echo in here?” Simon sneers, turning on his heels and striding toward Otto.
Henry jumps to his feet. “Simon! If you want eight pounds, then eight pounds you’ll get.”
Simon stops and pivots, a horrible leer stretching across his face. “Good boy,” he says to Henry, as if Henry is a dog. Simon’s eyes dart to me and linger, as he sneers.
I believe Simon has snake eyes, although I don’t actually know what snake eyes look like because whenever I see a snake I run the other way. Still, I imagine his are just what a snake’s eyes are like. I want so much to stick my foot out and trip him as he walks past me, but I know that will only make things worse for all of us.