Lord Morgan nodded. “It sounds like they planned to kill her.”
“Yes, m’lord. That’s what Jakys thought. He saved us both, really. There was an actual battle in there. I saw two of the Mæte struck down by their own people, fighting to protect Dove. One of the men who abducted her was in on it to protect her. He helped keep her hidden when she tried to escape.”
In careful detail, Philip described their flight through the mountain, onto the other side, and how Dove had collapsed in exhaustion on the road back to Wynnewood. “She just refused to move, my lord. I don’t know what was wrong or why. I managed to get her to the other side of the tree, but since then…” He looked up into the kind eyes of Charles Morgan and pleaded, “You won’t tell anyone about the Mæte, will you? They’re like Dove. People fear and persecute them. They just want to be left alone.”
“No, Philip. I won’t tell anyone, and as much as I’d love to bring those who tried to harm Dove to justice, I imagine they have their ways of handling things without my help. I don’t think these people are under my jurisdiction.”
Relief visibly washed over Philip’s features. “Oh, thank you!” He gave the man a sad smile and added. “I truly wanted to bring you a unicorn. You’ve been so good to me. I really hoped—”
“Perhaps you will yet. I am not so old that I cannot wait longer.”
“I don’t think Dove will ever want to go near those cliffs again. Nerienda warned us never to come back.”
“But,” Lord Morgan asked, “did they not think the horn would help their princess? Why wouldn’t they want you to try again?”
“They don’t trust the others. They’re afraid for Dove’s life.”
“And Dove hasn’t been herself since?”
“No.”
The lord of Wynnewood sat thoughtfully for some time before he nodded to himself. “Philip, go get our friend. Tell her that I would like to see her.”
The boy winced. “I’m not sure she’ll come, m’lord.”
“Tell her I insist.”
Chapter 27
Confidences
Lord Morgan noticed the change in Dove from the moment she stepped into the great hall. He’d expected her to be irritated, even angry. The apathy that exuded from her told him all he needed to know. Dove was suffering from an acute case of self-loathing and a milder one of melancholy brought on by the loathing.
“Dove, come sit with me.”
The light, sprightly step he was so accustomed to was gone. Instead, Dove dragged her feet across the stones as if led to her death. Once at his side, she attempted a curtsey, but it was more of a shrug that traveled from her shoulders to her knees.
He took one of the little gloved hands in his and rubbed a piece of dirt from one finger with his thumb. “Did you know, little one, that I can tell you what these hands look like when not covered by the gloves?”
“Philip saw when my cloak burned, didn’t he?” Her voice was nearly expressionless.
“I don’t think so. When he told me of that, he described it as if he flung his own cloak over you with his head turned.”
“Oh.” She turned her head toward Lord Morgan. “Then how do you think you know what I am— that’s what you meant by that, wasn’t it?”
“Actually, it was something Philip said, but he didn’t know it.”
“What did he say?” The slightest trace of Dove’s familiar inquisitiveness found its way into her tone.
“He described what happened when you were dancing and the response by the Mæte.”
“He shouldn’t have told you that,” Dove said sadly. “He promised.”
“A promise is a very solemn thing,” Lord Morgan agreed. “However, as Philip so wisely put it, people are more important, even than promises. He’s worried about you, little one.”
“He shouldn’t be. I nearly got him and Letty killed. He should be grateful that his god didn’t let it happen.”
“Do you believe that, Dove? Do you believe that the Lord I AM protected all of you from harm?”
“Do you?”
Amused by the forthrightness of a child who was unfamiliar with deference to authority, Lord Morgan squeezed her hand. “I do. I believe, with all my heart, that Jesus protected you all from harm.”
“Two Mæte were hurt, one the brother of the woman who helped me escape, because of me.”
“No, Dove— not because of you. They were hurt because they did not trust their leaders. They allowed the same fear that makes them hide from us to seek to harm a child.”
She shook her head. “The unicorns will not come to rest in their feamne’s laps, and it did not come to mine. Whatever you think I am, if it isn’t something evil, you are wrong.”
“It isn’t evil, Dove, and I am sure I am right.” He leaned closer and whispered something into Dove’s ear.
Dove jumped from the bench where they sat and backed away from Lord Morgan slowly. “How did you know that! Did Broðor Clarke tell you?”
“I told you, little one, the reaction of the Mæte told me. I have wondered a few times. I saw a glimpse of your hand the night you came to warn us about the kidnappers, but it was so brief, I couldn’t be sure.”
“You see then, why I must stay covered. Why what the Mæte said is true—”
“It is not true, Dove. Do not believe such superstitious lies. I have heard of others like you. People are always unnerved by the unfamiliar. I have heard that there are people—” Lord Morgan pulled her closer and whispered again into her ear, trying to ensure that no one in the castle could overhear and spread stories about Dove to the village.
“No!” Her hood slipped back slightly, but she jerked it forward again.
“Now that I know, Dove, you need not be quite so diligent—”
“No, I must. I cannot be careless. It could cause so much harm to Bertha or Philip— even Letty could be harmed now. I can’t do it to them, my lord.”
Those two little words, “my lord,” told Lord Morgan that the Dove they knew was returning. “That is probably true. If we lived nearer to London or Oxford, it might not be so important, but here superstitions still live in the hearts of the people. I wouldn’t want to see you harmed due to ignorance.”
He waited for her to settle next to him again and then said, “Dove, you forgot something very important.”
“What is that, my lord?”
“Letty could not entice the unicorns to her side either. It is likely that the legend is false. As lovely a story as it makes, it isn’t realistic to expect such a powerful and majestic creature to walk up to a young girl and lay its head in her lap in absolute surrender.”
“I just thought that Letty didn’t have enough time, or that the mists…” Dove didn’t finish her thought. Her shoulders shook and she began weeping.
“Oh, what is it, Dove?”
Between sobs, she choked out the fears that had held her spellbound for so long. “Lord Morgan, I was so scared. They were going to kill me and probably Philip if they caught him. I didn’t know if Letty was home safe or not, and they were turning on Jakys.”
Just as he did in the wee hours of the morning when Aurelia had a terrible dream, Lord Morgan pulled the child onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and rocked her until her sobs dissolved into a peaceful slumber. Lifting her, he carried Dove up the stairs to Aurelia’s bedchamber and laid her on the bed. “Let her sleep, dear heart. She’s been carrying a very heavy burden. I think she’ll be glad of a friend when she wakes.”
As Lord Morgan turned to leave the room, Aurelia asked, “Will she ever trust us?”
“I don’t know, Aurelia. I don’t know.” He glanced at the sleeping child and smiled. “I do think that there is hope for it now, though. I think there is hope.”
“Philip…” They sat around the hearth in Dove’s cottage, Philip repairing arrows, Dove sorting herbs from the bunches that dried hanging from the rafters. It was Sunday, and Bertha was nursing Alys Baker at the castle.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me the story of Esther again.” She sighed. “You know, if I was any other girl, I would name my daughter Esther. I think it is a beautiful name, and I love who she was.”
“You may not be normal,” the teasing tone in Philip’s voice earned him a gentle kick, “but I don’t see why that would stop you from naming a daughter Esther.”
“Silly. I won’t have a daughter.”
“Your modor did,” he protested. He hated it when Dove spoke so confidently about a solitary life.
“And look what it did for her! I’d rather be alone. However, if I ever find a child and care for it—” She giggled. That giggle seemed to erase those awful days when Dove hadn’t been herself. “Because that is so likely, you know. And, if it is a girl, I won’t wait for her to name herself. I will name her Esther.”
“You could name yourself Esther. You still don’t have a proper name.”
With a decided shake of her head, one that sent her hood flopping quite emphatically, Dove urged him to tell the story. “I’m not ready for a name. Dove suits me just fine. Tell me about Esther— the whole story, not just the bit about her being willing to die to save her people. You said there was more to it.”
One of the first stories Philip had told Dove was about the Jewish maiden who had risked her life, gone before the king, and pleaded for the lives of her people. The famous line, “And if I perish, I perish,” had resonated with Dove in a way that none of Philip’s other stories had. He’d promised, many times, to tell her the entire story, but somehow never had. “Well, Esther is a unique book of the Bible. It never mention’s God’s name. I think Broðor Clarke said that Song of Solomon doesn’t either, but I am not sure.”
“Your Bible has a whole story that doesn’t mention I AM at all?”
“A book. The Bible is a book of books. Many books all contained in one book. Esther is one of those books.”
Dove stopped sorting her herbs, rested her chin in her palm, her elbow propped on the table, and stared at Philip. “An entire book in your god’s book of books that doesn’t mention Him. Your god also doesn’t give enough details sometimes, yet he won’t let people embellish his stories. This doesn’t fit the behavior of an all-powerful god.”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?” He hoped she’d say not. While Philip loved the part of the story where Haman is upstaged by Mordecai, most of the story did not interest him. Her silence prompted him to continue. “So, there was a king, Xerxes, who ruled over a great number of provinces. I don’t remember how many, but it was over a hundred. He was very wealthy and had a fine palace where he invited all the nobles to come.”
Dove’s mind transported her to another century and another place as she heard about the hangings of linen and purple, and golden goblets for every person— each one unique. She closed her eyes and imagined the food, the music, and wondered if children were present. “Why were the ladies in another place? Didn’t they need to serve the food or—”
“They had servants to do that. I don’t know why they were in another room, but it might just be the custom of that place. Anyway, after a week of feasting, the Bible says that the king was ‘merry with wine.’”
“What does that mean? Was he drunk?”
“I don’t know. It just says merry. That might mean drunk, or it just might be the ‘gladdens the heart’ thing that Broðor Clarke mentioned once.”
Frowning, Dove shook her head. “I don’t like to see drunken people. They do foolish things, and sometimes they’re cruel.”
“I think that’s why being a drunk is a sin. People who let the drink consume them aren’t able to control themselves.” He continued to tell the story, but Dove interrupted him again.
“I didn’t know it was a sin to be drunk! I see people who attend the chapel services stumbling home from the tavern. Why are they allowed to do that?”
Frustrated, Philip whacked Dove lightly with an arrow and said, “Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Of course, I do! I just want to understand it too.”
“Well, maybe you’ll understand more, if you listen instead of interrupt.”
A fit of giggles erupted as Dove turned and saw the exasperation on Philip’s face. “I think you are repeating what your minister has said to you. I think you ask a lot of questions and interrupt him and now, you are seeing how frustrating it is.”
“Well, I—” Philip shrugged. “So, maybe I do. But if you want to hear the story—”
“Well, then tell it!” Philip managed to tell about calling for Queen Vashti and her refusal to join the king and his nobles, before Dove spoke again. “Why would she do that? I can’t imagine a wife refusing to be introduced to her husband’s friends. That’s very odd.”
“I don’t know. Broðor Clarke says there is much speculation, but scripture only tells us that he summoned her, and she refused to come.
“It sounds like he was proud of his wife,” Dove mused as she cleared away one herb, wiped the table, and pulled down another bunch to fill another of Bertha’s leather pouches.
“Well, Xerxes didn’t know what to do, so he asked his advisors…”
Dove found the story immensely exciting. From the collection of all the unmarried women in the land, to Mordecai’s refusal to bow to Haman, she sat, transfixed, her fingers crushing herbs as she listened to the events unfold. Just as Philip told of Xerxes’ dream, Bertha pushed open the door, pushed it shut, and hung her cloak on the peg. “Oh, you’re here.”
Without a word, Dove filled a bowl of vegetable stew and passed it to her. “So what happened with the dream, Philip?”
“I doubt Bertha wants to hear about it.”
“One of your mythical stories, Philip?” The older woman accepted a tankard of water and guzzled it thirstily. “Oh, go ahead and finish it,” she sighed. “It’s obvious the girl wants to hear it.”
The cottage had never felt so warm and cozy as that late winter’s evening as the fire crackled, the scent of herbs hung in the air, and the flicker of candlelight cast exciting shadows across the walls as Philip gestured while telling the story of one of history’s most famous queens. Bertha shifted on her bed any time there was a lull in the tale, and Dove sat, her elbow resting on the table and her hand supporting her head, lost in thought. Occasionally, a derisive snort followed something Philip said, but Dove’s obvious amusement told him that Bertha was not offended.
“Your Esther was an intelligent woman.”
Bertha’s comment surprised him because it sounded so much like something Dove would say. As much as the midwife disassociated herself with her charge, her patterns of speech and other portions of her personality were reflected in Dove— much as a daughter often reflects her mother’s personality. He tucked those thoughts away to ponder later, and continued the story as if Bertha hadn’t spoken.
As he finished, Bertha rolled over, faced the wall, and said, “I see why she likes to hear your stories, Philip. You are a good storyteller, and that was an exciting one. Usually women are treated like idiots in stories. Your Esther was brave and cunning.”
He waited for some other response, but none came. Instead, just a minute or two later, a soft snore broke the silence in the room. Philip winked at Dove and murmured, “Well, at least she didn’t snore while I was telling it, right?”
Chapter 28
Primroses
Across the headland, near the point, Dove danced in the sun, her cloak spinning away from her in arcs that would have been delightful had anyone been looking. The warmer temperatures, combined with the salt air, lured her out of the cottage, away from her clearing, and out to the Nicor Cliffs and the primroses. Just a year before, she’d picked the tiny yellow flowers, obscured by the mists and observed by village boys who feared her more than any of them would admit.
After weeks of despair at her failure, and believing that she was truly as horrifying as the Mæte feared, she’d slowly crawled from the shell that shrouded her for so long. Philip, busy with
his studies, taking care of the Fletchers’ cottage, and spending as much time as possible with his father before John Ward left on their spring voyage, had little time to spend with any of his friends or on his archery practice. So, for a time, Dove’s life was very much as it had been the previous year. Yes, Letty occupied her home much of the time, and there was less work to do, but she still wandered through the forests and across the sward that separated the point from Wynne Holt. She ran from village children who pelted her with rocks whenever Philip and Broðor Clarke weren’t watching, but after a year with a friend on her side, it didn’t hold the same sting.
With fists full of primroses, she skipped back through the trees of Wynne Holt, across the road to the castle, and deep into Wyrm Forest, until she burst into the clearing. As always, she glanced around her to be sure she wasn’t followed, and then threw back her hood, basking in the sunshine. The bright spring rays felt heavenly as they sank deeply into her skin to warm her bones. It seemed as though she could never get enough of the sun on her face, but she knew prudence was necessary.
Her hood slipped back over her head as she turned toward the cottage. Letty was working with herbs again and might forget to watch over the rabbit stew. Fresh meat was something that Bertha took very seriously. Ruining it by burning would get Letty’s ears boxed. Well, that and Dove loved a well-cooked rabbit stew herself.
The pungent fragrance of laurel assaulted her senses as she entered the cottage. She loved the scent of the glossy leaves. “Did you put any leaves in the stew?”
“No, should I? Modor doesn’t…”
“Bertha says it is good for digestion. Put a few leaves in the pot.”
“I need to stir it again, anyway,” Letty admitted. “I’ve been stirring after every bag is full so it won’t burn. Bertha threatened to beat me if I ruined her rabbit.” The girl gave Dove a surreptitious glance. “I think she means it too.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 40