The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  Lord Morgan was a visionary man. Unlike his hard, unchanging father and grandfather before him, Charles Morgan had wonderful ideas for improving the lands of his estate, the lives of his people, and his own comforts. The freshwater moat was just one of his many modernizations.

  Christianity was not as popular in this tiny region, having somehow escaped the interest of the Church. In the rest of England, the Church tightly controlled their own lands, dictated both who could be clergy, and where the churches would be established. Lord Morgan, the Earl of Wynnewood, had refused the offer of a bishop, friar, or abbot. He sent several men interested in the church to Ireland almost as soon as the title and lands were his to manage, and ten years later, Dennis Clarke returned, unwilling to be ordained in the traditional way, but full of love for his “Lord Jesus”, and eager to teach the villagers of Him. Despite many letters of protest from nearby bishops, Lord Morgan supplied “Broðor Clarke” with a small chapel and even attended some of the Sunday services. There were rumors of a castle chapel in the new buildings, but Lord Morgan refused to acknowledge or deny the veracity of them.

  The local apprentices, if they chose, could spend one hour every Thursday afternoon with Broðor Clarke learning the Bible stories he told each week. Unlike the sermons on Sunday morning, full of long readings from the Holy Book Broðor Clarke loved so dearly, the Bible stories were told casually. Most of the boys chose to attend; after all, it was at least an hour break once a week from the often-tedious task of keeping their masters pleased.

  Philip was one of the few boys who attended out of a deep love of the Bible alone. He listened to every word, repeating it in his mind after every lesson until he knew each fact perfectly. This was unusual in Wynnewood. Stories weren’t meant to be memorized as facts and then recounted without change or embellishment. It was rude to copy someone’s story word-for-word. Just as writers are offended by overt plagiarism, storytellers of that region were insulted when someone didn’t alter the tale they heard and make it personal.

  Broðor Clarke required that the boys keep their recounting of his Bible stories, factual. They could rearrange the order of telling and make the style their own, but every word must be exactly true to the tale he’d told. Some of the villagers secretly mocked him for it, but because Lord Morgan supported Broðor Clarke in his demands for accuracy, no one dared to show much resistance.

  Sunday free from work was another of Lord Morgan’s innovations. His father, the late Galbert Morgan, had driven his people hard. In those days, they worked every day except on festival days; but now, due to the influence of Broðor Clarke, the villagers were free every Sunday, and the castle servants rotated so that they seldom worked two Sundays in a row.

  Life was hard at times, however. From sunrise until twilight, the villagers- men, women, and most of the children, kept busy at their tasks. At the age of eight, boys were often apprenticed to local craftsmen. This saved their families much expense, for the master was responsible for room, board, and clothing six out of seven days a week. On Saturday night, when they finished with their work and their masters excused them, the boys raced through the village, calling greetings to one another as they hurried home until sundown the next night.

  Philip Ward was apprenticed to the local fletcher. The work was tedious, and Tom Fletcher, being an excessive perfectionist, rarely gave Philip a chance to learn the craft his parents had chosen for him. He’d complained at first. After all, he was supposed to learn to make arrows for Lord Morgan’s archers, but instead he spent his days fetching water, splitting wood for fires, and scrubbing Una Fletcher’s pots. An apprentice was often cheap labor for the artisans and craftsmen of the villages and towns, and since Philip’s parents were at the mercy of the sea for their living, they generally existed in a feast or famine fashion.

  “Philip, I want you to take all the arrows in the storehouse to the castle this morning. Use the cart, and don’t let them spill all over the road.”

  “Where do I take them?”

  “The archers’ practice field— at the southeast corner of the castle grounds. Tell the guard at the gate who sent you, and he’ll direct you. Be back by supper. Oh, and Una likely needs more wood before you go.”

  Philip watched for a moment as the man nocked a new arrow, and then asked, “What is that for?”

  After four years apprenticing for a fletcher, he should have known the need for a notched end to rest against the bowstring, but Philip knew little to nothing of the skill he was supposed to learn. Tom Fletcher waved him away impatiently. “You’ll get to that in good time. Go get Una her wood, and hurry to the castle with those arrows. They need them sorely.”

  The Fletchers, being common people with predictable routines, left little to surprise him, so Philip already had a good supply of wood for Una’s wood box. He filled it swiftly and raced to the storehouse near the corner of the cottage. Running an errand to the castle by himself was a new task and one that felt at least a little related to his apprenticeship.

  The handcart was large and bulky, but Philip was a strong boy and eager to do well at whatever task his master gave him. He loaded box upon box of Tom Fletcher’s perfectly straight arrows into the cart and tied them down with rope. Then, ready to start up the hill toward the castle, he moved to the front of the cart, looped the ropes around his shoulders, and grabbed the arms of the cart securely.

  Through the village streets, he called to Angus at the smithy and Aubrey at the mill near the river. He watched as undersized Liam struggled with a load of grain. The sun was nearly overhead, proving to his satisfaction that he’d have plenty of time to help Liam with his load. “Wait up, Liam; let me grab a corner for you.”

  The little boy, son of a baker at the castle, dropped his load gratefully. “You’d think I’d grow someday, wouldn’t you?”

  “Do you have to carry it back?”

  Liam nodded miserably. “If I had a cart, it’d be easier, but Fæder thinks I’m just lazy.”

  “I’ll wait for you, and we can put it on my cart until we get to the top of the hill.”

  “Thanks just the same,” Liam sighed. “If I do it that quickly, Fæder will expect it again next time, and you know I can’t do it.”

  “Then you rest at the hawthorn tree near the gate until it’s been long enough and then carry it in. There is no sense in wasting muscles when you don’t have to. Come on.”

  The miller weighed the grain and then sent Aubrey for a freshly milled bag. “This was for the tavern, but they won’t need it for a while yet. You take it, and I’ll give him yours.”

  Philip smiled at the good-hearted man. He had no doubt that Hugh Miller overheard their conversation and chose to help. “Thank you, Miller, but won’t you get in trouble with the tavern?”

  The burly man laughed. “Now why would you think that? John is the most generous man around—with another man’s coin. Why shouldn’t I be with his?”

  The boys walked along the road out of the village, talking and laughing about an argument that had broken out between the tavern keeper and the butcher the previous day. They crossed the bridge over the Ciele River and trudged up the hill, Liam chattering about rising dough, floured hands, and a new kind of pastry his father had perfected. Philip, who didn’t like to be rude but was tired, grunted an answer from time to time. Two knights on large horses rode by, nodding as they passed and sending the boys dreaming of exciting escapades as one of Lord Morgan’s most trusted men. Large carts of stones pulled by strong horses passed them regularly, and occasionally, the drivers shouted insults at them.

  At the blooming hawthorn tree, Liam pulled the large bag of flour from the cart and waved at his friend. “I’ll see you Thursday then?”

  “See if you can stay, and I’ll share my supper with you,” Philip suggested as he forced the cart forward again.

  At the gate, he asked the guard for directions to the head archer’s cottage. The gruff man jerked a thumb to his right. “Take that corridor around the outside, and
you’ll see them drilling. Ask for Peter.” He waited until the boy had almost rounded the corner and then called after him, “Stay out of the line of fire.”

  Philip flashed a quick smile but continued to the range. His love of a good joke almost immediately squashed the temptation to be offended. He spied the head archer from a long distance. The short little man called orders, and a volley of arrows arched high into the sky before piercing their targets. Again, he shouted orders, and the men readied. One boy, not much older than Philip, was scolded for holding his bow incorrectly and sent to fetch water for the rest of the men.

  “Why do adults always remove you from your task when you make a mistake? Can’t they see you need more practice at it rather than less?” he muttered under his breath.

  “That is a good question, and what do you need more practice doing, lad?”

  Philip turned slowly, wondering whether the master would tell tales to fletcher Tom about his impertinence. “Just anything—” Philip stopped short. “I’m sorry, I— please forgive me, Lord Morgan.”

  “And for what should I forgive you? Caring enough about a job to want to learn it well?” The lord pointed at the handcart. “What have you here?”

  “More arrows for head archer Peter, my lord.”

  “So that must make you the fletcher’s apprentice.” The lord’s eyes twinkled. “Tell me, what is your favorite part of arrow making?”

  This was precisely the sort of question Philip dreaded. “Well, I think maybe the deliveries.”

  Lord Morgan’s laughter echoed around them, causing Peter to glance their way. Seeing the Earl of Wynnewood standing and watching, he strode swiftly across the green. “My lord, what can I do for you?”

  “You can answer a question. Your young man there— the one with the water. Why was he removed from practice?”

  “He held his bow incorrectly, my lord.”

  “And carrying water to the other men will help his technique?”

  Philip’s face flamed at the interchange. He was mortified that a passing thought had caused such an awkward moment for Peter. Then, to his great relief, he remembered that Peter didn’t know he was the instigator of this line of questioning.

  “Well, it will make him appreciate his position more, and next time, he’ll take care to hold his bow properly.”

  “Wouldn’t it,” Lord Morgan asked patiently, “lead to frustration? Is less time with a bow more or less likely to make a man a good shot?”

  Peter nodded. “You do have a point, m’lord. I’ll consider that. It wouldn’t do to change him now; else he’ll think I’m growing soft.”

  “This is true.” Turning to Philip, Lord Morgan introduced the boy to the head archer. “Peter, this lad is Tom Fletcher’s apprentice….” The Earl of Wynnewood paused waiting for a name.

  “Philip, m’lord.”

  “Philip. He has brought you a delivery. I’ll leave you to your business, but Philip,” he continued speaking directly to the nervous boy, “I’ll be over there in the arbor. Come see me directly after you are finished with your delivery.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Peter showed the boy where the boxes of arrows should be stowed and turned to leave. Philip, anxious to have the answer to his earlier question, stopped him hesitantly. “Peter, if you please, can you tell me why the end of the arrow has to be notched?”

  “Surely Tom—”

  “I’m sorry, Peter, I shouldn’t have bothered you,” Philip answered hastily. Tom Fletcher wasn’t an unkind man, but if anyone hinted he wasn’t doing his duty, even the mildest of men could become unpleasant.

  The head archer watched the fletcher’s apprentice unload several boxes and then turned to leave. “Philip, the end is nocked as a place for the string to rest. Without it, the arrow would slide off the string. Do you see?”

  “Yes, that makes perfect sense. Thank you.”

  Peter took a few steps and turned. “If you have time after your interview with Lord Morgan, you may come to see me, and I’ll give you a brief lesson in shooting. Perhaps you may make better arrows if you are familiar with their use.”

  “That would be nice. I will. Thank you again, Peter.” The excitement Philip felt grew as the man spoke. A lesson in archery! This was something Philip had never imagined. Even Tom Fletcher rarely took out his bow except to test his arrows and hunt the occasional rabbit.

  He found Lord Morgan precisely where the man had promised. On a low bench beneath a climbing vine of flowers, the castle lord relaxed in the afternoon sun. “M’lord?”

  “Young Philip, is it?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  Charles Morgan sat up and gestured for the lad to sit. “I never got an answer to my question.” Philip’s confused face brought forth chuckles rumbling from the man’s chest. “The one about your favorite part of arrow-making. Delivering arrows, lad, is not the same as making them. What part do you like best about making them?”

  For several seconds, Philip thought about the processes he’d watched. Straightening the arrows seemed tedious to him. He was sure he wouldn’t like that part. The feathers were interesting, but he knew he couldn’t describe how the process was accomplished if he were asked, so Philip settled for nocking. “I think nocking. It is quick and—” Philip stopped abruptly. He didn’t know what else to say about it.

  “And what?”

  “And that’s all, m’lord. Fletching is much more tedious, and I’m not allowed to do that yet, m’lord.”

  “Well, how can you learn if you never try?” Lord Morgan’s voice was sympathetic.

  “I am sure fletcher Tom knows best when I should try.”

  “Who is your father, Philip?”

  “John Ward, m’lord. He’s a seaman. My grandfæder, Tom Ward, was a guard here at the castle.”

  “I see. That is excellent.” Lord Morgan glanced at the sun and then back at Philip. “I suppose you should go now. It was an interesting discussion I had with you today.”

  “Thank you, m’lord. Peter the head archer said he would show me how to use the bow if I had time. He said it might make learning the trade easier.”

  “That seems wise.” Lord Morgan paused and then asked the question he’d originally intended. “Tell me, Philip, did you want to become a fletcher?”

  The boy shrugged. “It’s a living. My brother apprenticed with the blacksmith, but he’s at sea now. I may not be fit to be a good fletcher, but for now, it’s one less mouth at the table, m’lord.”

  “That is true. Work hard, lad. Learning anything is always worthwhile— even mundane tasks that don’t seem related to your trade.”

  Philip nearly ran to the practice fields and sought the head archer. Within minutes, he was holding the bow, drawing back the string, and watching as his arrow flopped unceremoniously to the ground a mere foot from where he stood. Miserably, the boy picked it up and nocked it into the string, prepared to try again, but now, Peter patiently helped him steady the bow, hold the arrow and told him when to release. This time, the arrow flew at a slight arc for a few feet, before dropping flat onto the ground.

  For twenty minutes, Philip chased his arrow, raced back to the bow, and tried again, answering Peter’s questions as he did. What was his day at the fletcher’s like? What kind of wood did the fletcher use to make his arrows? How did he attach the feathers? What kind of feathers did they use? Miserably, Philip answered each question with an, “I don’t know. Tom just tells me what to do, and I do it.”

  As the boy wandered back to his cart, looping the ropes over his shoulders once more, Lord Morgan met Peter at the edge of the shooting range. “How did he do?”

  “Extremely well for never having held a bow before.”

  “How is it that a fletcher’s apprentice has no experience with the bow?” A tinge of anger edged the lord’s voice.

  “I was wondering how a fletcher’s apprentice could know so little about making an arrow. That boy doesn’t know the most basic things about it. Either he’s a sim
pleton—”

  “I can assure you, he isn’t.”

  “A liar—”

  Lord Morgan interrupted again, “I’d stake the life of my best horse that he is honest.”

  “Or the fletcher Tom does not let the boy work on arrows.”

  Lord Morgan frowned. “I was hoping you had a reasonable explanation.”

  Chapter 3

  The Nicor Cliffs

  The Cliffs of Sceadu, the Wyrm Forest, the caves beneath the Nicor Cliffs near The Point, and the church graveyard were places that none of the villagers ever visited. Local superstition ran high and unchecked, even after the strong rebukes of their minister, Dennis Clarke. Dragons lived in the forest, sea monsters patrolled the shores looking for sailors to devour, and pirates used the caves in the Nicor Cliffs for their hideouts. Sorcerers were believed to hide in various places, particularly in the uninhabited wilderness surrounding the Cliffs of Sceadu, but the villagers were unwilling to say too much about them. They might conjure up some horrible fate for such a talebearer!

  As with most tales, there was little truth mixed in with the legends. Dragons couldn’t live in the Wyrm Forest, despite its name! Their fire-breathing tendencies would have burned it down long ago. Pirates rarely came near populated areas like their village, especially with such a well-fortified castle as Wynnewood Castle; and of course, with a faithful minister like Dennis Clarke, only the Holiest of Spirits inhabited the graveyard.

  With the seas as stormy as they’d been recently, Philip Ward was sure no pirates would come near the Nicor caves, and he’d always wanted to explore them. While his friends were occupied in their various tasks and Tom Fletcher was ill at home, he’d slipped away toward The Point. It was probably the only time he’d ever get to explore and maybe find pirate gold. He could buy out his apprenticeship, purchase a ship for his father, and provide his mother with beautiful dresses such as the ladies at the castle wore.

  As he created grandiose daydreams in his mind, Philip tramped along the edge of the cliffs heedless of his movements and sought the opening to the caves. The cloaked Creature watched as the boy scrambled down the cliffs and disappeared at the entrance of the caves. This would end badly.