Eventually, Broðor Clarke shared the thoughts in his heart. “I hoped, m’lord, to see if he might be a good candidate to be sent south for religious training.”
“As you were?”
Dennis Clarke laughed. “You still mock me for rejecting some of the tenets of the church.”
“Not at all,” the lord of Wynnewood contradicted. “I respect you for it. Had you come home in cleric robes and tried to establish a hierarchy under the church in my fief, I would have kicked you out. I do not like the steady encroachment of the church into politics and civil duties. I do not like the pressure to conform simply because you live in an area populated by the faithful.”
“You are a radical, m’lord. The Bishop of York would brand you a heretic.”
“I think sometimes, Dennis,” the Earl of Wynnewood said softly, as though hesitant to speak freely of that which he knew was considered dissentious, “I think that perhaps the church needs a Magna Carta as well.”
“We have one, m’lord,” Broðor Clarke reminded Lord Morgan. “God provided us with the ultimate control for the church leadership and its members. Man needs to return to what is required by the Father alone in His Word.”
“You reject the Pope then, Dennis?”
Silence hung over the room, stifling all conversation for several minutes as Broðor Clarke considered his answer and prayed. “No, m’lord. I do not. However, I do believe that the Lord Jesus is all the Pope we need, and I do not recognize a single, sinless head of the church on earth.”
“You are a brave man, Dennis Clarke. Few would be willing to speak so freely.”
“It is out of trust in you and in my Lord Jesus that I can. The Bishop at York knows my ‘heretical’ thoughts, but as I can back them with Scripture and do promise not to speak so publicly, he leaves me alone— for now. We’re beneath his notice at this point.”
“And,” Lord Morgan questioned, interested, “you wish to put young Philip under the tutelage of such men as this bishop?”
“Or the monks at the abbey near Nottingham. If I can go away ready to accept all I am taught but learn to trust only the Holy Writ, prayerfully, Philip can go away prepared to learn only the Word and come home uncorrupted by extraneous doctrines.”
“I fear you have more faith than I, Dennis, but if you wish to prepare him, we can try.” Lord Morgan paused and leveled his steel-gray eyes on the minister of Wynnewood. “However,” he interjected, “I will not permit him to feel pressured. He’s getting an unusual gift, this boy of ours. Few children can choose between a trade, service at the castle, or the church, but Philip is the kind of boy who will flourish with the variety and seems perfectly suited to all. I will not allow him to feel pressured.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
The men sat, sipping their goblets of wine and thinking of a lad who was, even now, planning a trip to the clearing for another chance to see the great dragon.
Chapter 10
Wyrm Forest
A sense of déjà vu hovered in the cool night air as Dove and Philip, once more, lay head to head, diagonally across his blanket. A mockingbird sang incessantly, and the intermittent hoot or swoosh of an owl pierced the relative silence of the clearing. Occasionally, a cloud drifted over part of the moon, obscuring it from sight but never for long.
If anyone had dared risk being seen, they would have heard the gentle undulation of voices as Dove and Philip talked about their adventure, the change in the villagers, and what it all meant— especially regarding Philip’s future. The boy was troubled, and it showed in his voice. Dove heard his concern, and though she tried to reassure and encourage him, she knew it was futile. What little chance he’d had to learn to be a fletcher was gone.
“And your modor truly doesn’t mind anymore?” she questioned.
“No. I think she tried to imagine Ellie—”
“Who is Ellie?”
“My little sister,” he whispered.
“But you don’t have a sister.”
“She died almost three years ago.” Anyone could see that he didn’t want to discuss it, but Dove refused to drop the subject.
“How old was she?”
“Eight.”
“So, she’d be eleven now— just a year younger than you.” Dove pulled her hood back a little to see the stars better and then gasped. “Did she have dark curly hair and a lisp?”
Philip sighed. “Yes, Dove, she was the child who waved to you.” He swallowed hard. “And I was her cruel big brother who felt so much wiser and more mature and dragged her away every time she did.”
“You were doing as your modor taught you. Don’t feel bad. I liked that little girl— I’m glad to know her name. I wonder that I didn’t realize she was gone…”
Aching from the loss of his childhood playmate and only sister, Philip did not respond. He remembered his sister’s laughter, her teasing, and her compassion for all. She prayed nightly to the gods she knew and pitied the lord’s little lame daughter. She waved at the Ge-sceaft, hoping to spread a little joy in its life, and shared her rare treats with the peasant farmer’s children down the road from their cottage.
Most dear to Philip’s heart was how she’d listened to him. She’d shared his childish dreams of becoming a guardsman at Wynnewood Castle and had encouraged him to learn to throw a stone straight to hit any target. He’d tried to create bows and arrows, and perhaps this was why the Wards sent their son to the fletcher as an apprentice rather than accept the cooper’s offer.
“You miss her.”
Something in the way she recognized his pain and loss was soothing. “Yes.”
“How did she die?” The question was matter-of-fact, curious, but not apologetic. He appreciated that.
“The fever that winter. Almost everyone lost someone— we lost Ellie.”
Dove rolled onto her stomach and pulled her hood down close to hide her face. Philip felt the movement and copied it. The child reached for him and laid one hand on Philip’s cheek. I am sorry for your family. I don’t like death.”
Before he could reply, Dove moved her hand to cover his mouth. “Shh. Listen,” she whispered.
He shook his head free of her hand and leaned close to where her ear should be beneath the cloak. “What? I don’t hear anything. Not even the toads—”
“That’s it. Something is prowling, or—” She jumped to her feet and grabbed his hand, pulling him up after her with surprising strength. “Run,” she hissed.
They raced across the clearing to the edge of trees watching— excited. A sound, strange and eerie, similar to the waves crashing against the cliffs, came from far away, growing louder the closer it came. Seconds later, a great shadow spread over the clearing, seeming larger with each second. A final whoosh gave them a full view of the widespread wings of a massive dragon as he slowly made his descent to the cliffs along the shore.
“He’s enormous!” Philip’s voice was awe-filled.
“What was he carrying?”
“Sheep,” Philip said, ruefully.
“It was too big—”
He interrupted, feeling a little sick. “There was one in each hand— uh, claw. Those missing sheep the farmers keep complaining about must be stolen by the dragon.”
“Well…” Dove said resignedly, feeling the sting of disappointment that comes when something greatly anticipated disappears into the ocean fog.
“Well, what?”
The child turned and slipped into the trees without another word. Philip started to follow, but he’d never catch her, and he knew it. Dove was in her own little world again, and nothing would drag her back before she was ready.
“Goodnight, Dove,” he whispered as he turned toward the village, the anti-climactic feeling now washing over him as well.
Nearly a week passed before Philip managed to find his way to Dove’s wood. Between three days of rain, Thursday with Broðor Clarke, and catching up on work for Una, he was busier than ever. Una was exhausted and irritable and sent him home
for his visit long before noon on Saturday morning. To her credit, she demonstrated as much kindness about it as she could muster, trying to treat it as compensation for missing his day the previous week, but Philip knew her heart had not softened toward his little friend.
Through the village, around the bend, and to Bertha’s cottage he raced. He was eager to tell Dove about the day of discussion and learning with the minister, but once he arrived, there was no sign of Bertha or her little housemate. He stared at the hollow metal pipe hanging from a peg near the door. An oaken stick with a leather strap attached hung with it.
“Well,” he muttered under his breath “She did say to bang it.”
It didn’t take long. Within five minutes, he saw the familiar cape flutter at the edge of the wood and rose to meet her. “I brought food and stories,” he called as she crossed the yards from the trees to her cottage.
“I have something interesting to tell you as well. I’ll be ready in just a minute.”
He watched interested as she filled two bowls full of delicious smelling stew and jerked a hunk of bread from one end of a long loaf. “That smells good.”
“Rabbit. I shot it last night.”
“How?” He’d never seen Dove with a weapon.
“Sling. Grab that flask, will you?”
“You use a sling? I am horrible with a sling.” Once again, Philip felt inadequate next to Dove. The child was unnaturally adept at many things.
“Well, Bertha doesn’t have time to hunt, and people pay her with food but rarely fresh meat, and Bertha says it is important to eat fresh meat often for strength.”
“You’ll have to teach me. Will tried once, but he doesn’t have much patience. I can fish though. I have a good net my modor made me.”
“We’ll trade. You teach me to fish, and I’ll teach you to shoot.” Dove sounded like she was smiling. “I like fish, and people don’t give it to us often.”
“You have to cook it almost immediately, or it rots.”
They sat on the grass near the cottage and ate their meal. It was delicious, and Philip wondered what some of the flavors were. To his surprise, Dove named several herbs that grew wild about the countryside and when to put them in the pot. “Parsley is best added at the end, but I didn’t have time to go find some.”
“So what have you been doing in the rain?”
“A man came from the castle. He gave Bertha a paper that says Lord Morgan gave me our cottage. We don’t ever have to worry about eviction. It’s mine forever, and I can give it to whomever I want when I die.”
“Truly? You own the cottage; as in you can sell it or rent it or anything like that?”
Dove nodded excitedly. “Yes! I own to the road out of the village at the north, the tree line of Wyrm Forest at the south, the rock wall at the east, and to the edge of the village trees. The man who came said it could be a dowry.” Her laughter rang out merrily. “Isn’t that the funniest thing! Me. A dowry. As if I’d ever need such a thing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. People are starting to accept you, and I think your modor was married. Even if not, you’ll be protected. It was a good reward for you. I am honored to have served such a good lord.”
“Did he go to your house?” Dove asked curiously. “He asked for directions.”
“I don’t know. I came straight here from Tom and Una. I’ll go home later.”
Dove gathered the bowls and cloths and carried them into the cottage, before returning wearing her white cape. “It’s getting warm today. What shall we do?”
“I wanted to tell you about Broðor Clarke. He explained things and answered many of your questions yesterday.”
The children played tag, chase, and an altered version of hide and seek all the way to the clearing. Some of the villagers heard them and whispered dire predictions regarding their friendship, but Dove and Philip were too hidden by trees to notice. At the clearing, Dove conceded defeat, but insisted she had the upper hand in the woods.
She flopped to the ground, pulled her cloak away from most of her body, and turned her face to the sun holding her hood in place as she did. “Tell me about making us in the image of your god. I am eager to hear.”
As much as it chafed to do it, Philip sat, his back to hers, and told of the descriptions of God in the Bible and what Broðor Clarke said they meant. With his back to hers, Dove relaxed, and let the hood fall against Philip’s head, leaving her face open to the sun. She couldn’t sit like that for long, but through the dark rainy days, it’d been frustrating not to feel the warm light on her face.
“So then, he explained that while we don’t know what God physically looks like, although we can guess, we do know that He cares enough for us to use terms and descriptors that we understand— like eyes and hands and backside.”
“So, what does ‘created in His image’ mean then?”
“Well,” Philip began, with a bit of superiority in his voice. He liked feeling like the teacher rather than the pupil. “It was as I said. We think and reason and create and love because we are made like Him. We’re created to have a spirit just as God has the Holy Spirit.”
“Wait. Holy sounds like a god.”
“It is! The Holy Spirit is God.”
“But I thought you said He is called I Am.”
“That’s the Fæder and Jesus,” Philip explained with what he considered infinite patience. Girls could be so dense at times. “The Holy Spirit—”
“But that isn’t just one god— those are three— no four!”
“Three parts to one God.”
“But you said,” Dove argued irritably, feeling somewhat deceived by Philip’s claims to one grand god, “that there is a fæder, I Am, Geoffrey—”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus and this Holy Spirit. That is four.”
“Jesus and I Am are the same name like William and Will.”
“Oh, well, that makes all the difference,” she spat out bitterly. “So, you tempted me with one god, but there are actually three. Sounds like every other-”
“Just be quiet. You didn’t listen.” Philip felt her sit up and jerk the hood over her head. He turned around and found her facing him. It is just one God. Only one.”
“But you said—”
Philip growled in frustration. “If you’d quit interrupting me, I’ll explain. When Broðor Clarke explained to me, he used Ellie.”
“Ellie? Did he know her?”
“No. He’d just come back from the south when she died. Anyway, he said that Ellie was Ellie Ward. She was a daughter, sister, and now that she’s gone, she’s a memory. Just like God is the Fæder, Son, and Spirit combined.”
“That is confusing.”
“Is it confusing,” Philip asked impatiently, “that I have a modor who is a wife and a sister? Is it confusing that you’re a daughter, orphan, and friend all together?”
“You’re just trying to confuse me.”
He tried a different path. “Do you want to show me how to shoot?”
“No. I want you to tell me about this god of yours. So, he’s one thing with a bunch of names. We’re made ‘in his image’. What does that mean?”
“Well, He made the animals, but they don’t think or reason. They just live.”
Dove interrupted. “Then how do they know what kinds of houses to build or when danger is near? Bertha says the nature gods whisper to them to protect them.”
“God whispered when He created them and gave them a sense of self-preservation. That is all.”
“And,” Philip continued as though uninterrupted, “He gave us creativity and intelligence, which are in His image. Because of how He created us, we can imagine and devise our own gods.”
“But why would he give us that ability? It seems insulting to him to deny him for our ideas if he’s the creator, and we are the creation.”
Philip’s laughter echoed through the clearing. “Broðor Clarke would love talking with you. You ask the questions he hopes we all will, but most of t
he boys are there to rest while hearing nice stories, rather than to dig deep into the meaning of life.”
“Well, isn’t that the point of those stories— to tell us the meaning of life?”
They talked for hours. Philip, faithful to his training, retold the minister’s stories, sticking only to the facts shared and trying to keep tradition of retelling in his own style in the process. Several times, he backtracked and thought seriously for several minutes, before he corrected what might be his own interpretation rather than fact and moved along with the story. He’d planned to tell her of creation, but as they’d spoken, he changed his mind and chose to tell of Noah.
“The first thing Noah did once he was on dry land was plant a vineyard and get drunk. How was that a way to thank the gods—” Dove corrected herself. “—his god for saving him from death?”
“I didn’t say he was perfect. I said that this is what happened.”
“I like that he saved the animals. What kind of animals did he save?”
“All kinds. Every animal. Dogs, cats, sheep, goats, lions, dragons, birds…”
“It is too bad,” Dove said thoughtfully, “that your god did not know how horrible man would be. He could have saved himself all that trouble.”
“He knew.”
“Then he isn’t very smart, and I don’t know what I think of a god who isn’t intelligent.”
The words were familiar. Philip had spoken almost identical ones to Broðor Clarke at the first description of the fall of mankind and the great flood of Noah’s time. “Does,” Philip spoke echoing his beloved minister’s words, “a loving fæder show lack of intelligence when he shows love and compassion for a wayward child?”
To his surprise, she laughed. High-pitched peals of laughter shook the little body rhythmically. “I surrender. You have an answer to all my objections. Tell me more.”
“No. Show me how to shoot. I told a story and answered a question. It’s your turn.”
“This is going to be a long afternoon,” she sighed, pulling a sling from the belt around her breeches.
Philip tried not to sound too insulted but couldn’t resist a retort. “Thank you for your confidence in me.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 8