The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  “I’ve never heard anything about it. What do they think you look like?” She giggled just as any little girl would. Philip couldn’t decide if it sounded out of place because she never seemed like a child, or if it was because he didn’t think such unflattering opinions should be funny to her.

  “They think that I’m a demon child. I am blue and an old descendent of the druids and the Picts.”

  “What! Blue! They think you’re blue?”

  “Well, whoever was talking about me for a few nights when that minstrel was here did. The minstrel was actually singing about it.” Another giggle escaped as she sang a bar of the song. “England’s oldest blue-bloods, hide in Lord Morgan’s land…”

  “Blue blood. That’s just ridiculous!” Impatiently, Philip waved his hands. “I’ll meet you in the clearing sometime after Tom and Una go to sleep.”

  With a wave, he wove through the trees trying to retrace their earlier steps and failing miserably. The snow fell thickly, recovering his steps almost as quickly as he made them. “She told me to learn the trees instead of the ground,” he muttered to himself after backtracking twice. “I can’t believe I have to listen to a child, and worse, that she is right.”

  Chapter 2

  A First Attempt

  Moonlight shone on the snow, making it glisten like diamonds as Philip and Dove made their way across the fields behind Wynnewood Castle. With blankets wrapped around them as they moved through the trees, Dove and Philip kept reasonably warm. Dove had lined their shoes with fur and coated the outside with tar to waterproof them. That night, she wrapped their feet in wool for extra warmth. An occasional blast of wind sent shivers down their spines, but otherwise they were quite comfortable.

  “So, what do we do?”

  Philip had been dreading that question. He did not know what to do, where to begin, and if there was even the slightest hope that they’d succeed. “I don’t know— we watch? Wait?”

  “For what? The unicorns are all dancing among the trees just waiting for us to find them. Then what?”

  For the first time, Philip saw the futility of their plans. What did they do if they saw it? He’d brought no rope, no food— nothing to entice the creature and keep it captive. “I wish I’d bought some food for it. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I brought an apple.”

  They waited for half an hour before either of them spoke again. After a while, Dove whispered a question. “Why did I AM save Noah and his family? If He is the God, He must have known the people would become wicked again. He must have known that people like Lady Aurelia would be born lame, and her modor be so ill. He must have known I’d be me, and people would be afraid of me. So why do it? Why give people a second chance?”

  Philip didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t something he’d covered in his lessons with the minister, and the story didn’t say specifically why the Lord chose to save the one righteous man and his family when He knew future men would fail Him again. “I don’t know.”

  Seconds passed— minutes. Just as Dove started to ask another question, Philip said, “I know that scripture tells us that God is our Fæder. Why do fæders give their children second chances when they know their children will fail them?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had a fæder. Do they do that?”

  Those words stung. His mother would cry to hear words like that out of a girl so young. Yet as much compassion as she had for Dove, Magge Ward would be reluctant to comfort the child. “Yes. Jesus told the story—a parable it’s called—of a man who had two sons.”

  Dove waited. At last, exasperated, she nudged his knee with her foot. “You haven’t told me this story. What about the sons? What does this have to do with second chances?”

  “Well, the oldest son was like most older sons. He did everything he was supposed to do. He worked hard, obeyed his fæder, and—” Philip paused. “I want to put how I feel about the story into it, but how I feel isn’t what Jesus said.” The boy’s struggle, evident in his voice, was acute.

  “Tell me your thoughts, but make sure you tell me what are yours and what are Jesus’. Will that work?”

  Philip sighed and tried again. “The boys that I know who are oldest sons never do anything wrong— or if they do, they still seem to be doing right even if they are not. Maybe it’s because they are so confident.” He took a deep breath. “Second or younger sons get frustrated with older brothers sometimes. It’s just that older brothers tend to be bossy, and it gets irritating to be told what to do all the time. First, you have your modor and fæder giving you orders, then your master when you’re apprenticed, and then along comes big brother, bossing you too.”

  “You’re not speaking from experience, are you?” Sarcasm was Dove’s forte. She could drop a facetious line as though she’d simply blinked.

  “Don’t get me wrong; I love Will. He’s a good brother.” Philip shifted uncomfortably against the tree as he leaned against it. “I tell Will things I’ve never and would never tell anyone. He’s become a good substitute for Ellie, but…”

  “But sometimes older brothers leave a difficult trail to follow?”

  “Exactly. That is why I think the second brother in Jesus’ parable did what he did.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “He asked to leave— to take his inheritance and go off on his own to live his own life.”

  “Why didn’t the older brother do that? You would think—”

  Philip interrupted rudely. “Because older brothers don’t do things like that. It wouldn’t be right. Duty. There is duty owed to parents, especially if you have an inheritance to consider. He stayed home with his fæder, doing all the right things, because it’s in their blood to do that.”

  “What about the miller’s oldest son? Um, what was his name? He ran away with that group of outlaws—”

  “Godwyn. It’s a generalization. Most of the boys you can think of that are oldest sons are more like the prodigal son’s brother instead of the prodigal.”

  “So, what happened?” Her impatience escalated.

  “His fæder gave him his inheritance, and he left. He went to another country and spent it all. I don’t remember if it was my impression that it was living wildly, or if Jesus actually said that. I’ll have to ask Broðor Clarke. I haven’t studied it thoroughly.”

  “He spent it all? Was it a large sum?”

  With an eagerness that comes with the best part of a story, Philip continued his. “I think so. Anyway, eventually, his friends, who were willing to help him spend the money, all abandoned him when he had no more, and he ended up feeding pigs.”

  “An honorable profession. Pig farmers are always well fed.”

  “Not for a Jew. They don’t eat pigs. Pigs are forbidden. They’re not supposed to have anything to do with pork.”

  “You’ll have to explain that later.” Dove dismissed the discussion of unclean animals.

  “Well, while feeding the pigs, he realized his fæder’s servants lived better than he did, so he decided to go home and beg his fæder to install him as a servant to the family.”

  “Oh!” The awe in Dove’s voice was a familiar sound. All of the village boys had felt the same way when they’d heard that part of the story.

  “When the fæder saw him coming, he ran to greet his son, called for his servants to make a feast and dress his son in a fine robe and a ring.”

  “Oh, that poor boy.”

  “What do you mean? He was welcomed home as though nothing had happened!”

  Dove sighed. “He must have been so miserable and ashamed! For his fæder not to scold him and make him feel like he was punished for his wrong— that is just so hard to take when you know you deserve punishment.”

  Considering Dove’s unique perspective on most things, Philip realized he shouldn’t be surprised. “The brother was furious.”

  “I can imagine. You do all the right things, and your brother does everything wrong, and your fæder treats him like he’s royalty
or something.”

  “That is close to what the brother said. But, the fæder said that the brother enjoyed everything the fæder ever had and should be glad that the lost brother was found— that someone who seemed dead to them was now alive.” Philip swallowed. “I think the older brother just wanted public recognition for all he’d done. He said, ‘You never killed a calf and gave me a party with my friends.’”

  “It’s understandable. So, the fæder gave the son a second chance even though he’d wasted his fæder’s money? Jesus said this was good?”

  “That is the point of the story— that God wants us to come home to Him even with all of our mistakes behind us. He will welcome us and show us love and compassion, despite our foolish lives.”

  “And,” Dove added, still somewhat confused, but with understanding dawning, “That is why God saved Noah and his family? Because He loves the people He created so much, that even though they ruin their lives and defy Him, He still loves them?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is no wonder that Bertha doesn’t believe in your god. He is too fantastic to be believed.”

  Philip had hoped for this moment almost since he’d known her. “Dove, is a god worth worshiping if He is not too fantastic for our human minds to believe? Without faith, do we need a God? With faith, do we not need One powerful enough to deserve that faith?”

  “I’ll have to think about that. It sounds like sense, but anything does when one is sleepy and mesmerized by moonlight.”

  A movement nearby hushed their conversation. Underbrush, several yards away from them, rustled. Dove grabbed the edge of Philip’s cloak and pointed. He nudged her with his shoulder in acknowledgement, and they both watched wide-eyed, as the movement came closer. At any moment, they expected a majestic unicorn to burst through the trees and wait patiently for them to catch him.

  “We should have brought a rope. How do we possibly—”

  “Hush!” She hissed at him through the hood of her cloak. “It’ll hear you.”

  The noise grew closer until they thought they’d burst with excitement. The moon tossed a shadow onto the ground of a massive creature. They couldn’t see his head or his hind legs. Excitement welled in Dove until she thought she’d burst. She grabbed Philip’s arm and squeezed. Her grip, quite strong for such a little girl, almost hurt.

  At last, when they were both wound so tightly that they felt their nerves would snap, the animal stepped into full moonlight. A duet of disappointed exhales seemed obscenely loud to their ears, but the buck didn’t notice. Philip wished for his bow, but Dove started to move to shoo the animal from their hiding spot. “Wait,” he whispered under his breath. “We can bring a bow next time.”

  The buck took another step, heard something behind him, and bolted toward them. They felt the air whoosh by them, as the animal bounded through the trees to places unknown. Philip’s voice was full of regret. “Oh, he was magnificent! I so wish I had been more prepared. If I had brought my bow, we’d have venison tomorrow!”

  “You’d shoot Lord Morgan’s deer?”

  Undaunted by her reproof, and frustrated by her reminder that shooting the lord’s animals on his land was a crime, Philip continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Of course, Lord Morgan would get the major part of the animal, but if we shoot it, he’ll share. He always does when someone brings him an animal killed on his land.”

  “Always?” Dove sounded skeptical.

  “Well, he has a castle full of people to feed…”

  “And he likes to do his own hunting.”

  Philip grew irritated. “He keeps a huntsman, you know. He doesn’t do all the castle hunting.”

  Dove’s laughter rang through the trees as she turned toward home. “And I think, before we come out again, you’ll ask Lord Morgan or Peter the head archer if you may shoot a deer, as long as you provide the castle with the meat.”

  As they trudged through the snow and back to the clearing, arguing the wisdom of shooting winter venison, a large shadow played against the snow behind them. A long tail swished with each step until the moon cast a large shadow of a single horn across the gleaming whiteness of the snow. Two white puffs of smoky-looking air clouded the animal’s nostrils for a moment. Its eyes seemed to glisten with mischief as it snorted. It took another step forward, then another. Near the base of a tree, it sniffed the snow and then bit into an apple buried just below the surface.

  Chapter 3

  Ambushed

  From the timberline of Wynne Holt, Dove watched the snowball fight escalate into a full-blown war. Philip was fast, and Aubrey dodged well, but Angus amazed her. The boy molded balls, threw them hard and fast, dodged incoming projectiles, and never quit moving. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see who was winning or even if there could be a winner. Then she heard Angus shout.

  “So, Philip, where is the Ge—”

  “She has a name, Angus.”

  “Well then, fine. Where is Dove? What a stupid name. Where did she get that?”

  Before Philip could answer, a large snowball planted itself in Angus’ face. The other boys snickered, but none would admit or deny throwing it. Angus never thought to look toward the trees where Dove stood unseen, her arms crossed, and the smug look on her face hidden by her hood. As he fired off ball after ball, trying to attack all the other boys at once, she created her own arsenal at her feet. Then she waited.

  Each time Angus came within range, she threw another snowball, most hitting him square in the face. Darting between the trees, she managed to hide her location and give the illusion of different boys being responsible for the most recent assault on his dignity. Occasionally, she tossed one at his backside, “Just to help him turn the other cheek,” she muttered, as another ball whacked him squarely in the posterior.

  From time to time, the boys would collapse in exhaustion, making Dove think they were done with their game. Disappointment hovered, but each time, one of the boys would form a new ball, and lob it at one of the others. The fight began anew. Once, when it took too long for her patience, she lobbed her own ball and struck Philip in the head. It worked. Philip immediately formed a new one and pelted Angus with it.

  From the other side of the sward, behind the tree where Broðor Clarke had listened to the dare that began the unusual friendship between Philip and Dove, Bertha watched the scene before her, stifling chuckles after each hit. Dove rarely missed. In fact, the child was such a good aim that the midwife wondered if she’d done this often. Did Dove hide near children’s games and engage in them when the others weren’t watching?

  “She’s a clever one that Dove.”

  Bertha jumped. “Listen, you spinner of fairytales—”

  “I do not create my stories, I only retell them.”

  “So you say,” she muttered. Bertha glared at the minister behind her.

  “Look, she’s going to throw again.” Broðor Clarke wrapped his mantle around him tighter, hoping to keep the wind from flapping it and drawing the boys’ attention.

  “I was just wondering how often she’s done this before. I can see it, you know. It’s precisely the kind of thing the girl would do.”

  “You avoid calling her Dove. Why is that?”

  “It isn’t her name.”

  Broðor Clarke tried not to roll his eyes, but failed. Just as they sought heavenly patience, Bertha glanced at him. Her scowl sent his patience flying as fast as one of Angus’ snowballs. “It’s the closest thing she has to one. The one person who made herself responsible for the child refused to give the girl a name!”

  “I know my duty and my place, you sanctimonious man. My calling lies in life— the preservation of it.”

  “Interesting. So does mine.”

  “Yours lies in convincing people of a life that doesn’t exist.” Before he could contradict her, Bertha continued. “I saved her from certain death. I keep her sheltered and fed. I’m preparing her to be able to sustain herself after I’m gone. That is the limit of my responsibility to my
calling. I am not her modor. I will not assume the privileges and responsibilities of one.”

  Just then, Dove sent five snowballs flying in different directions. Four hit their mark. The one that landed at Philip’s feet sent his face searching the trees of Wynne Holt. “Look, he has found her.”

  Bertha chuckled. “They’ll work together now. They do that well. You’d never know, to watch them, that they weren’t brother and sister.”

  “I think,” Broðor Clarke said quietly, “Dove has helped remove some of the sting of losing Ellie.”

  A shadow seemed to fall over Bertha’s face. “I’m convinced I could have saved that girl. Magge Ward was following Biggs’ foolhardy ideas. That child died of starvation and dehydration.”

  “You can’t take loss personally, Bertha Newcombe. Even if she’d followed your advice, the child could have been frail from a prior illness or just had a weak constitution.”

  “We lost too many.”

  This side of Bertha was one that few but Dove ever saw. Understanding flooded the minister’s heart. “And you believe that if Dove were not in your care, the villagers might have listened to you instead of Biggs?”

  “We both know they would have. Death is a natural end of life. I try to prevent it, but I welcome it when it comes naturally. When foolishness and ignorance brings it on prematurely…” Wisely, Broðor Clarke pretended not to hear the sniffle that Bertha couldn’t quite hide. A derisive tone flooded the woman’s voice as she added. “Of course, you will tell me that no one dies until the precise moment your God allows. I have heard your fanciful tales.”

  “Yet, you do not believe.” A deep sadness clouded the minister’s face.

  “You are unwise to show your weakness to me, Dennis Clarke. I am not afraid to use it against you.”

  “And I am not afraid to show that it pains me to see a neighbor refuse to accept the gift that my Lord offers her.”

  Now Bertha’s eyes rolled heavenward, but not in petition from the great I AM. “I assume your ‘lord,’ as you put it, is not our Lord Morgan? How does the Earl of Wynnewood feel about your lack of respect for his office?”