As he walked toward the target to retrieve his arrows, Philip noticed when his feet adjusted to the left. Suddenly, an idea came to him. Perhaps… He raced to grab the arrows and rushed back to the practice line, calling for Dove as he did. “Don’t come this way Dove; I’m going to try shooting again. I have an idea.”
He nocked the arrow in the bowstring and waited. First, he aimed as he always did, sighting the target and adding a bit of height for the drop on the way to the target. Then, he deliberately dropped the arrow a few degrees and shifted his body to the left. He released.
The arrow whizzed through the air. To Philip, it seemed to be the slowest arrow he’d ever shot as he waited for it to strike the target. It missed the center, but Philip whooped excitedly. Nearly a foot from the black piece, the arrow still hung limply from the cloth the tip still embedded in it.
He tried again and came within inches of the dark square at the center of the target, but the third arrow pierced center. Repeatedly, the boy shot his five arrows, raced to retrieve them, and then shot again until there was nothing left of that dark piece of fabric. He tried shooting at trees but didn’t have the force to imbed the arrow into the wood. Most simply bounced off again, but his delight with hitting his mark was hardly diminished.
At first, Philip was excited about the possibilities. He’d overcome. Maybe now his chances at becoming a castle archer weren’t dreams after all. It was possible-
“You did it.”
Dove’s quiet voice startled him. He whirled, arrow knocked and ready to fly. Seeing her in his line of fire, Philip dropped the bow. “You— I could have shot you.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Philip.”
“What? I don’t know what you mean?” He knew as he spoke, he was lying. Before he could correct his statement, Dove shook her head solemnly.
“You do know what I mean. You want to do something, be something. The lessons are mentally stimulating, but you like activity and want to prove yourself. But Philip, you can’t let them make you an archer. Battle isn’t about still targets that you can practice on until you get it right. To protect and defend the castle would mean being able to adjust your sight several times in as many seconds.” She placed a sympathetic hand on his arm. “You can’t do it, Philip. Men could die. Aurelia could die. Lord Morgan could die. I know you won’t risk people’s lives like that.”
“What if I tell Peter? He might know how to—”
“Then tell him. What’s the harm? Just don’t assume that because you can adjust your sights to one target, that you’ll be able to do it at any time, at any speed, and without fail. Perhaps you can. I hope you can, for your sake, but don’t assume it.”
“How did you know,” Philip began as he placed each arrow in the small quiver Peter had sent home with him. “How did you know I wanted to be an archer?”
“You want to be anything exciting and active. You dread the idea that you’re fit for nothing but academia.”
“But how did you know?”
“I may be hidden beneath this cloak, but I have eyes. I see how you hate your aptitude for languages and stories. You’ll take Broðor Clarke’s place in this village someday, but it’ll take you years to accept that.”
“No!” Philip’s voice startled the birds in nearby branches, and the sound of wings flapping filled the air for a moment. “Anyway, my parents couldn’t afford to educate me, and the Irish priests who taught Broðor Clarke are slowly conforming to the demands of our priests. Broðor Clarke says they’ve tried to have him arrested several times, but Lord Morgan protects him.”
“You forget that Broðor Clarke can teach you all he knows. That must be how the first teachers learned. Moses taught Aaron, who taught… um…”
“Joshua. And Jesus taught his disciples, who wrote the latter portion of the Bible to teach us.” The misery in Philip’s voice tugged at Dove’s heartstrings.
“There are other things you could learn. You could become a tailor, a butcher, or a mason. Maybe you could learn to make bows…”
“But my parents have already wasted four years of my life by placing me with Tom. By the time I’m fourteen, I’ll be too old to start another trade.” Philip dropped dejectedly to the ground and hung his head in his hands.
“I didn’t think you were such a whiner. You sound like a baby whose treat was snatched by a dog. Fight for your treat, you quitter. If you want it, you’re going to have to work for it, even if it means you get a later start in life.”
Philip jumped to his feet, grabbed the bow and arrows, and stormed to the edge of the clearing. Just before he disappeared into the woods, he turned back and shouted, “What do you know about anything. It’s easy for you to hide beneath that silly cloak of yours and avoid life, but the rest of us have to live it. We don’t have the opportunity to disappear when things get unpleasant.”
Angrily, he turned once more and raced toward the fletcher’s cottage. Dove tossed the hood back from her face, threw her head back, closed her eyes, and allowed the sun’s warm rays to shine on her face. If Philip had thought to make her angry with him or ashamed of herself, he’d failed. A self-satisfied smile grew slowly over her face until she positively beamed. “I should not have enjoyed that so much,” she muttered under her breath. “I think I just had a glimpse of what it means to be a pesky little sister.”
“Show me, Philip. I don’t think I understand what you mean.” Peter listened twice to Philip’s rushed explanation of his problem with sighting the target but was still confused. How could the boy see the eye of the target but in the wrong place? It made no sense, and the fact that the Ge-sceaft had suggested the idea made him quick to disregard it, but Philip was insistent that the child was right.
“Ok, see here is where I’m aiming. To my eyes, that is the center target. I release…” Philip released the string, listened to the satisfying twang of as the arrow whizzed to the target—, and missed. “Now,” he continued eagerly, “I’ll aim again, and watch how I adjust the bow. I’ll be aiming to the left and down from what looks like the center to me about half a cubit diagonally.”
The whole thing sounded absurd; but as Philip’s arrow struck almost dead center, he hastily adjusted his opinion. “So it looks,” Peter called as he ran toward the targets, “Like you’re aiming for here…” Pointing to the place Philip had indicated on the target, Peter swept his hand to the center. “But the arrow lands here.”
“Yes.”
“And if you aim here…” The head archer went through the scenarios several times as though struggling to understand Philip’s claims. He walked back to the shooting line and glanced around him. “What if I tell you to shoot something, but not a target? Can you hit it?”
“With some practice.”
“Do you think,” Peter asked cautiously, “That you could hit on demand with practice, but not on a specific place?”
“I don’t know. I could try. Maybe Dove would call hits, and I could swing and shoot on demand.”
“Practice that.” Peter glanced toward the storeroom. “Hit the storeroom door now!”
Philip swung, fired, and missed. Badly. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s more than I can learn.”
“I think perhaps you’re expecting too much. Few men could shoot accurately so soon after learning. I just wanted to see your reflexes. You have good ones. I have high hopes that you’ll learn to compensate. I had one archer that always had to adjust because he couldn’t hold his arm properly. Badly set bone as a child, but he learned to adjust. Why can’t you adjust your eyes in the same way?”
Beaming, Philip packed his arrows back in the quiver and unstrung the bow. “I can’t wait to tell Dove she was wrong.”
“She thought you couldn’t shoot? She told you not to try?”
Philip shook his head. “Well, no… She told me not to get my hopes up though. She wasn’t sure I’d be able to learn to adjust on the draw.”
“Well I don’t know that you can either. Did she say to stop trying?”
<
br /> “No,” the boy admitted. With each question, he felt a little more chagrined. “She just wants me— well, I don’t know if she wants me to or not, but she thinks I will take Broðor Clarke’s place someday.”
“Dennis is a fine man. The good he has done for this village is priceless. There are much worse things that you could do.” Peter watched the conflicting emotions cover the boy’s face. “You don’t think you’ll be making arrows for the rest of your life?”
“I—” Philip wondered how much they knew about his situation but wasn’t willing to leave a bad impression of Tom. It’d reflect poorly on him as well. “I don’t think I have the aptitude for it. I think I’ll finish my apprenticeship unable to earn a living at it. I have,” he confessed, “considered trying to watch closer and practice on my own. Perhaps with much trial and error…”
Fed up with the constant dance around the truth of Philip’s situation, Peter threw up his hands. “Oh, quit blaming yourself for Tom’s indifference to his job!”
“But he’s not Peter,” Philip contradicted. “He’s very good and dedicated to it. Even Lord Morgan said that Tom Fletcher makes the best arrows he’s ever seen.”
“Ok, I stand corrected. Indifferent to part of his job then. He’s failing you. It infuriates me.”
“I’ve heard,” Philip tried again, afraid he’d bring the craftsman guild down on Tom’s head. That was the last thing the fletcher needed. “That many men make their apprentices do menial work for years, teaching them diligence, patience, and the value of hard work before allowing the boys to do anything of worth, so as not to waste materials. I’m sure that’s all Tom is doing.”
“Well,” Peter said as he jerked Philip’s arrows from the target, glad that it worked. After all that practice, it turned out to be weak eyes, and yet Philip was bright enough to make the adjustments. “If it was up to me, he’d be brought before the guild, but Lord Morgan has forbidden it. I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“Yes, Peter. I appreciate it.”
Chapter 15
An Apology
Feeling sheepish, Philip stood at the cottage and willed himself to rap on the door. He’d spent the day learning more Latin, more scripture, and the rudiments of mathematics, but now was the time to apologize. Apologies weren’t easy for him. Philip was a good lad. Strong, bright, amiable— he loved people, activity, and like most in that part of the country, a good story. Of course, he had his weaknesses and pride accompanied by its common companion, anger, often took root into his heart. He struggled constantly to overcome what he knew was his weakness, but sometimes—if he was honest with himself— oft times, he failed. He was determined not to fail today.
No one answered his knock. He waited, pounded once more, and waited again. Seconds passed. Minutes. He knew she wasn’t home, but somehow felt that if he just knocked long enough; she’d come out and make it unnecessary to explain. She’d forgive him even without him asking. He knew it— he just knew it.
“Come on Dove, please come out here. I need to talk to you. I’m sorry. I was frustrated, and I said things that I don’t truly believe. My modor says we say things we don’t mean to people that we trust the most. We hope they won’t take them to heart, but we say them to make ourselves feel better. She says it doesn’t work, but we think it does, so we keep doing it. She’s right, and I’m sorry.”
The only reply was the twitter of birds, the branches rubbing against each other in the trees, and the bubbling of the water over the rocks in the nearby creek when he listened closely enough. Disappointed, he stepped back and turned away from the cottage, his shoulders slumped. She’d never forgive him, and he deserved it.
Just as he rounded the corner of the cottage, he heard the door open. “Boy, get back here.”
Philip dragged himself back to face Bertha. This wouldn’t be pleasant. “Yes?”
“What have you done to Dove? She has hardly been home for days. She’s gone when I wake up whatever the time. If you’ve hurt her—”
“I did, but not like you mean. I got angry with her and said some things to hurt her. I have to find her.”
“Well, you did a fine job. She’s gone.”
“As in,” Philip swallowed hard. “She left?”
“No. She comes back sometimes because there’s always wood, water, and bread for me, but I haven’t seen her in three days.”
“I’ll find her, Bertha.” He turned to leave but her hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Philip, don’t make life any worse for that child than it already is. She has a miserable enough existence without you pretending to be her friend and then abandoning her when she is no longer convenient.”
“Why—” For a moment, he almost took back his question. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Curiosity overrode his hesitation. “Why does her life have to be so miserable? She’s a kind girl; she’s brave and intelligent. Why keep her hidden like that? It’s cruel.”
“It’s the kindest thing anyone could do for her. Do you think I like treating her like an animal in a cage? Do you think I haven’t weighed the consequences of keeping her covered, with the mystique it causes?”
“Why save her then?” Philip’s retort was rude, and he knew it. “Why not just let her be killed by the villagers who drove her modor to her death? Wouldn’t it have been kinder?”
“The gods ordained that she should live. My job is to help people live, not help them die. I didn’t do it because I wanted to, but because I owe the gods life and allegiance to preserve it.”
He looked at her curiously. “You know she’s no demon. You know she’s just another person. Why let the superstitions of foolish people fester and grow like this? Even Dove thinks you aren’t quite sure of her.”
“I keep it that way. It’s best for her to doubt. It keeps her safe.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “What is it? What is so terrible about her?”
“I won’t tell you, and if she’s smart, she won’t either.” A hard look came to Bertha’s eyes making Philip shudder inwardly. “Don’t press, lad. Don’t press.”
He turned away, shoulder squared and resolute again. “I won’t give up on her. I think it’s terrible how you’ve made her so insecure and ashamed of whatever it is that she is.” Philip tossed the last barb over his shoulder as he pushed through the trees and strode to the clearing. He’d sit there, reciting his lessons until suppertime if need be.
Dove sat in the highest branches of the beech tree closest to Bertha’s cottage, listening to the exchange between Philip and Bertha. For a moment, she held her breath. Would Bertha tell? If she just told, maybe things would change. Maybe it would be different now…
There it was. Her fledgling hope fizzled and died. “It’s best for her to doubt. It keeps her safe.”
Bertha knew best. The wise old midwife wouldn’t live a life of suspicion and mockery if it wasn’t necessary. All temptation to drop the cloak in Philip’s presence was gone. He was her only friend and she couldn’t risk losing that. Bertha would die someday, and without Philip to talk to, she’d be thoroughly alone.
Even as the thoughts ran through her mind, Dove knew they were unusual. Children her age didn’t think like this, and she knew it. In a world of families, friends, and religious connections, she was alone. Extremely alone. She couldn’t afford to risk the only friendship she had. She knew that Lord Morgan and his daughter would protect her, even care for her should the need arise, but she did not hold grandiose ideas of a true friendship with them such as she shared with Philip.
As he disappeared between the trees into the clearing, Dove scrambled down from her perch and jumped to the ground, making almost no sound. She followed at a distance, watching—waiting. To an outsider, it would look as though she was punishing him for losing his temper, but Dove was an observer. The more she observed people, especially when they were out of sorts, the more she learned how to predict their reactions.
For over an hour, she watched as he sat writing his lessons on
his leg with his finger. Sometimes he recited things aloud as though trying to force them to stay in his memory; other times, his lips moved quickly as he ran through his Latin words and his memorized prayers. She knew he was aware of her presence when his prayers became audible to her. They went from the formulated petitions of praise and thanksgiving to an extemporaneous prayer of forgiveness and understanding from Dove. This brought her out of hiding.
“Can you do that?”
“I thought you were going to stand in those trees forever.” He turned and smiled at her. “Can I do what?”
“How long did you know I was there?” She passed him a chunk of bread and piece of cheese from pockets inside her cloak.
“Not too long. Several times, I thought you were, but then realized it was a rabbit or a fox. The birds got quiet this time, but just for a minute. I couldn’t decide if it was you then or not. I guess it was.”
“I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
“I’m not as daft as that,” Philip mumbled around his bread.
“I was harsh with you…”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s daft then. I didn’t like to hear what you said, but it was true. It wouldn’t be a kindness to let me build false hopes.”
They focused their attention on their food for some time until Dove repeated her question. “Can you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make prayers of your own about anything you want to?”
The eagerness in her voice told him her eyes must be shining. For a brief moment, he had the crazy temptation to rip the ever-present hood from her head and see the curiosity in her eyes for himself. What color were they? Did she know? Would she answer? Forcing his thoughts away from her deformity—whatever it was—he answered the question. “Broðor Clarke teaches us to pray from our hearts but to also use the Lord’s Prayer, the Psalms, and the prayers of the Bible as our model.”
“What is the Lord’s Prayer? Why is it so important? What are Psalms? What prayers are in the Bible?”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 12