As she strolled back to her work site, she pulled on her gloves once more, ready to work again. Her muscles protested; her mind and body warred against one another, but her mind won. With each fresh shovelful of dirt, her muscles seemed to relax as they warmed up again. Dove started to sing, her high clear voice ringing through the trees, but abruptly the song ended with a strangled cry.
As Dove enjoyed the beauty of one of God’s “natural cathedrals,” Philip stood in the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, listening to the Mass and wondering how people worshipping the same God could have such differing experiences. The chants, the vestments, even the architecture were foreign to him; illogically, he hated them all simply for their difference.
His eyes slid sideways, curious to see Broðor Clarke’s reaction to all that seemed so stilted and formal. Alas, it was impossible to read the minister’s face. He was stiff, but many things could account for that. Just as Philip was certain that Broðor Clarke was just as miserable as he was, he remembered that the minister had studied with the Irish priests. This was probably all very familiar to someone like him.
The church was very different from the little chapel in Wynnewood. Where Wynnewood was just a large open room with a fireplace and altar, this church was large and imposing. The walls were decorated with icons—many of which he understood, but some made no sense to him. The congregants all stood in the nave, some sitting, some kneeling, but most standing. A partial wall and screen divided the room from the sanctuary where the priest stood to celebrate the Mass.
Above all, the Latin bothered him most. How would people learn of I AM if they did not understand what was taught? His eyes roamed around the room, trying to see who understood the words spoken. With so many academics there, it seemed as if many, if not most, did. A wave of pride washed over him as he mentally translated a significant portion of what the priest said. He had been a good scholar, and it now was of benefit.
Broðor Clarke was somber as they strolled from the building, but since most of the other parishioners seemed equally subdued, Philip imagined that it was the custom. It seemed as if a reflective spirit was expected rather than the joyful talkative manner of the villagers at home. Discouraged, he followed the Morgan party back to their lodgings and excused himself to his room.
A knock appeared at the door minutes later. At his call, Broðor Clarke stepped into the room. “Are you well, Philip?”
“I’ve just been thinking.”
“And how did you like today’s Mass.”
Suddenly, criticizing the church didn’t seem like an appropriate thing—particularly from an undereducated and young person such as he. Instead, he latched onto the one positive thing he’d enjoyed that morning. “I appreciated my lessons more than I ever have. I felt sorry for those who did not know what was said.”
“And are you that confident in your translation abilities?” The minister sank to a bench and draped his cloak over the end.
“Not at all,” Philip assured him. “I doubt I got more than every other word at times, but—”
“You didn’t find that dangerous? How can you know if what the priest taught was correct if you do not know all he said? How do you learn the Bible if you cannot sufficiently translate it. Will you recognize error?”
The questions were fired at him, one after another, until Broðor Clarke shook his head and stood. “I’m sorry, Philip. I shouldn’t take out my frustration on you. Be careful. Until you are fluent in Latin—confident in your translation abilities—do not assume anything you hear is truth. It may be when it leaves the priest’s lips, but by the time it reaches your ears…” The minister grabbed his cloak and opened the door again. “And how much worse would it be if your translation was correct but the words were not truth? How would you know which it was?”
The door closed behind Philip’s mentor, and the young man’s heart sank. Broðor Clarke’s words were true. How many things had he already heard that he wanted to question? He had arrogantly assumed he’d found mistakes in what the priest taught when it was likely his own ignorance and ineptitude.
That thought teased a tiny smile from one corner of Philip’s mouth. Dove would say that. She would tell me I am arrogant, ignorant, and inept. He sighed and then the smile grew wider. Then she’d tell me to learn more so that I was less ignorant and less inept. I can hear her now. “Let’s hope that would also make you a little less arrogant.”
Chapter 7
Alone
“It’s not around the midwife’s cottage much anymore.”
Matill’ Wood shook her head as she shifted the baby on her hip. “My Letty says she doesn’t even sleep there now.”
“The children,” Una Fletcher continued, “say that they don’t hear it singing anymore. That’s almost eerier than the strange songs she always sang.”
“But she’s still here.” Matill’s eyes slid sideways, watching her daughter. “I don’t think she’s gone.”
“That’s too much to hope for, I suppose.” Una stuck her knuckle in baby Adam’s mouth to give his little sore gums something to gnaw on.
Letty, home for her Sunday visit, stiffened but kept her tongue. Angus noticed and rose. “Come, Letty. Let’s go see if anyone’s at the Point yet. Maybe we can lead races for the children.”
“It bothers her, doesn’t it?” Una frowned at the angry glances Letty threw back at them.
“That the creature is gone? I think so.”
“Why? She was never friendly to it before. Don’t you worry about it bewitching her?”
Matill’ shook her head. “Letty says it’s nice to her—helps when she makes a mistake.”
“If she were bewitched, she’d say something like that.”
“Do you think Philip was bewitched? Lord Morgan? Broðor Clarke?”
“I—” Una sighed. “I don’t know about Lord Morgan or Broðor Clarke, but sometimes I did think maybe she’d bewitched Philip. Tom says it’s just Philip’s way. He’s always been kind to everyone—even when Angus tried to bully him, Philip was still friendly.”
“Angus has changed too. I think that childish need to prove himself is gone. Working for Hugh brought out an ugly side of him that I didn’t know he possessed, but that seems gone now.”
“Well, Angus is bright enough to stay out of the thing’s path. For all his intelligence, Philip chose an odd sort of friend.”
“I think that’s the problem,” Matill’ suggested. “I think the ge-sceaft misses Philip.”
“Misses her control over him is more like it.”
“I know you don’t like it,” Letty’s mother began cautiously, “but don’t you think it’s possible that it didn’t harm Philip in any way? The minister and the earl both did not seem to think he was touched by it.”
“Well, surely it can’t keep control over someone that isn’t there. Perhaps we’ll hear if there was a change in Philip when he got to Oxford. It might have spared Philip, but I don’t trust it. I keep begging Tom to move us from here, but he says Lord Morgan needs a good fletcher—the siege three years ago proved it.”
“Where would you go?”
“Cockermouth.” The answer didn’t take a second to come. “Tom’s arrows are in great demand there.”
“Cockermouth doesn’t have fletchers?”
The skepticism in Matill’s voice seemed to anger her friend. Una stood, pulling her knuckle from the baby’s mouth as she did, and the baby wailed in frustration. With a disdainful glance at Matill’ Wood, Una tried soothing baby Adam as she said, “Several—and the people still flock to buy Tom’s anytime he arrives in town. He’s the best of the best.”
The moment Una’s back was turned, Matill’ muttered, “Except at being an honest master. He can make an arrow, but he can’t teach anyone else to. He’d rather break a contract than have his mark be less than perfect.”
The fletcher’s wife froze mid-step, and then continued walking, her shoulders slumped. For a moment, Matill’ felt ashamed of her verbal barb, but rememberin
g that Tom’s failure was what had sent Philip so far away from his family and friends, she shook off the shame. Her words were true, and Una needed to know exactly what the village thought of their fletcher.
Her head whipped toward the tree line where it seemed as if she’d seen something. Scanning the trees, she looked for anything out of place—an animal, a child, the ge-sceaft. Matill’s ears strained to hear a twig crunch or wings flapping as a bird took flight, but still silence was the only reply.
The mists slowly rolled in from the sea, thicker than usual. The children should come in from the Point. Her heart pounded at the idea of any of the children getting turned about in the thickness of the fog and tumbling off the cliff, but just as she began striding down the road, she heard Letty and Angus herding the younger ones back into the village, singing of the ships that sail to faraway places.
Symon Wood watched his wife for a moment and then went to stand beside her. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Something is very right. Our daughter has a good place with the midwife and is becoming so responsible. Our son is a man already. Look how they brought in the children from the Point when the mists came in.”
“John’s waiting for direction. I just thought I’d see what was wrong. Whenever Una comes, you are usually upset by the time she leaves.”
“I think,” Matill’ murmured as she thought about her husband’s words, “I have outgrown her influence. She’s a good woman, but she’s very suspicious. It makes for a very unhappy life, I think.”
Before Symon could reply, a child stumbled in the road and fell. Angus scooped the boy up, settling the child on his shoulders and jogged toward the fishermen’s cottages. The jostling turned tears to giggles as the procession passed the Wood home. “We’ll be home soon, Modor.”
As the group continued up the road, Matill’ sighed. Her children were indeed grown. “Blessed be the Lord for His mercies,” she whispered to the baby as she returned to her house.
Shivering under her blanket, Dove considered making a fire. After five more minutes and the onset of chattering teeth, she capitulated and crawled from her pallet in what would be the swimming hole. She worked quickly, dragging dry fallen twigs and a few branches to the center of her pool. The earth was damp—too damp to make a good fire. Frustrated, she went in search of the last stones she’d thrown from the hole as she worked.
It took some time to make a fire pit safe enough to start a blaze, but at last, she was ready—and had no flint. Warm now from her exertions, Dove almost rolled herself back in her blanket and tried to sleep, but she knew the cold would return—worse than ever since it was later. There was nothing to do but return to the cottage for flints and maybe a little tinder.
Trudging through the trees in the middle of the night was an excellent way to wake up, but not so helpful for providing sleep. She crept into the cabin, glanced at Bertha’s empty bed, and then went to work filling her pockets with tinder, flints, bread, cheese, apples, and turnips. A caldron of stew sat nestled in the coals, tantalizing her with the scent. She had time for hot food. After killing the rabbit now simmering in the pot, it seemed silly not to enjoy the subsequent meal.
Within the hour, she was back working on the small fire. From the castle walls, a guard saw the flicker of fire in the trees, but it never grew any larger. Two other guards were wakened and sent to investigate. Fire was a terrible danger to a castle that still had some wooden sections.
Voices woke Dove as they splashed through the river nearby. She hesitated—terrified. Who was coming and why? The crackle of the fire near her answered the question. Fire. She hadn’t considered that they could see it from the castle. The voices grew closer, terrifying her.
She only had seconds to think. Grabbing her blanket, she threw dirt over the fire and dashed into the trees, watching to see what the men would do. They came, large men in dripping tunics, inspecting the site.
“See that hole? What is that all about?”
“Too big for an animal,” the second man mused. “Unless maybe the dragon…”
“They’ve said that the dragons have lived in here for centuries.” The first man seemed skeptical, but latched onto the idea anyway.
“Think the fire could be from the dragon?”
The two shadows shifted into a shaft of moonlight as they tried to inspect the hole more closely. Dove’s heart sank. They’d see the fire pit and know it wasn’t the dragon. One guard turned away quickly, but just as her hopes soared again, they crashed at the words of the other. “This is still warm; feel it. There’s rocks under that dirt. Someone covered it—probably just as we arrived.”
She now had no choice. They’d come looking to see who was there, return to find more evidence of a vagabond endangering the forest, or even refuse to leave. Gathering her courage, she draped the blanket over a tree branch, pulled her hood further over her head, and spread the cloak wide.
The men startled as the familiar, terrifying high-pitched voice came floating through the trees directly toward them. The flapping of the fabric of her cloak made ominous sounds in the night air, and her shadow flitted about them, always at a distance, but growing increasingly closer—much too close for any villager’s comfort.
As if called forth by her song, the mists rolled in from the sea at just the right moment. She couldn’t have wished for anything more opportune if she’d asked Philip’s god for it. Terrified, the men stumbled through the underbrush, one falling into the pit. Twice, Dove halted her singing when they grew too close, and once she was forced to flatten herself against a tree, holding her breath so that they couldn’t sense her presence.
At last the men found the bank of the river and half waded, half swam across. However, not until they reached the other side did Dove relax and return to her place in the “dragon’s hole.” The idea made her giggle in spite of her exhaustion and loneliness. With the fog blanketing everything, she relit her fire, warming her hands before lying down to sleep.
Though Dove no longer felt the cold air nipping at her, the crackle of the new fire did make her curious. Was it cold in Oxford too? Had autumn descended early there as it seemed to have in Wynnewood? It had been many weeks since the horses and carts had rolled out of Wynnewood toward the south. Had they found him a good place to live? Good masters? Were they already on their way to Scarborough, or were they still there with Philip as he adjusted to life in a large town? Her eyes drooped and Dove fell asleep imagining Philip conversing freely in Latin with another student, oblivious to the friends and family missing him at home.
Dove awakened just after dawn. Thirsty, she strolled to the stream, stretching after a good but cool night’s sleep. After digging her apple from the inner pocket of her cloak, Dove rinsed it in the cold water of the Ciele and bit into the crisp flesh.
Her eyes scanned the surrounding trees, the field that separated the river from the castle, and the road that led from the higher castle grounds down into the village of Wynnewood. As early as it was, no one traveled the road, but it seemed as if there were extra guards walking the castle walls and the surrounding fields. Dove twice convinced herself that she imagined them watching her, but at last, was forced to admit that she must be correct. To test her idea, she crept back into the forest and shimmied up a tree. Within the half hour, four men swam the river and crawled up into the Wyrm Forest.
“It came this way.”
A younger man glanced around nervously. “I don’t want to be in here.”
“Then let’s find what the men found last night and get out of here.”
“That thing is in here; I know it. They say it can burn you with its eyes.”
“Lord Morgan has spent enough time with it to prove that if it can, it doesn’t always,” a third man said, sounding less confident than his words should have.
Again, the younger man protested. “But he’s the Earl of Wynnewood. We’re just guards!”
“In training.” The older men exchanged amused glances. “What about Philip? He
managed to survive the deadly glare.”
“Everyone knows he’s been bewitched by it—it’s a sorceress after all.”
On and on they argued, the youngest growing more adamant and refusing to go any farther. At the pool, they speculated as to the purpose. “It’s too close to the water for a house.”
“Rain would pool in it all dug out like that.”
With a terror-filled voice, the young man once more backed away, adamant that the calf-deep hole was part of an evil ritual designed to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting village. “The Ge-sceaft waited until they took away its puppet, and now it’s angry. I’m leaving. I don’t care what you do to me, but I won’t be at its mercy!”
From her perch in the tree not five yards away, Dove stifled a giggle. The young man was not much older than Philip, but his superstitious ideas were so childish they were funny. An idea formed in her mind, and the moment the men crossed the river again, she flew through the forest, into the clearing, alongside the cottage, and into the trees on the other side of the road. Down into the village she crept, dodging behind houses and animal pens until she reached the tavern. There, under the only window, she crawled behind barrels to listen as she often did.
The rumors flew fast and freely. “The creature” was invoking ancient rituals that would destroy the prosperity of the village in the absence of the earl. Some insisted that she’d worked her evil against the entire caravan south, and none would return. The ideas were so ridiculous that Dove found it nearly impossible not to laugh. Her stifled chuckles and giggles were so odd-sounding that a small boy tried to crawl in with her to root out the piglet he was sure hid there.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 47