His throat swelled at the thought of his friends and family. They’d all be married by the time he returned—likely with children. Guilt flooded his heart as the next thought burst into his mind. All except for Dove. Dove would have time for him. No one would marry her. He’d have one friend left to talk with and walk with in the old way. Maybe by then she’d belong to I AM. Just maybe.
“I want you to translate this passage. It’s a little beyond your skills, but I have two others to correct, so I thought I’d give you a chance to stretch your mind and ease mine a bit.”
Philip glanced up and smiled at Master Adrian. “You flatter me.”
“You will make many mistakes, but I think you’re up to the challenge.” The middle-aged tutor passed him the Bible, opened to the passage at hand, and returned to his own bench to listen as Philip read the passage, translating from Latin to English as he did.
The words were simple enough, but placing them in proper order, in correct tense—those things gave Philip trouble at times. He would have done much better had he not become engrossed in what he read. The passage was one he’d never heard Broðor Clarke read. Because his goal was to interest the boys of the village in the Bible itself, he’d kept his readings to the stories of the Book of Books. This was a letter from the Apostle Paul and he warned of doctrines that were demonic.
“Does this mean what it seems?”
“What do you think it means?” Master Adrian rarely answered a question directly. He usually asked questions until Philip was able to answer it himself.
“Well, it seems to imply that it is wrong to forbid people to eat certain foods or not to marry.”
“That is exactly what it says…”
Philip stifled the urge to become impatient. From his instructor’s tone, he knew that Master Adrian expected more from him. Unwilling to share his true question, he focused on the question of meat. “Then why do the Jews forbid the eating of pork still?”
“Do the Jews accept Jesus as their Messiah?”
“No.”
“Then,” the tutor questioned again, “why would they accept anything Jesus’ followers said?”
“True…” Philip felt forced to agree, but he hesitated to ask the real question. For a moment, he pretended to go back to his reading and then stopped. “But then why does the church forbid nuns and priests to marry if it is a ‘demonic doctrine?’”
“Does it?”
Ready to throw the book out the narrow window, Philip sighed. “Well, they cannot, can they?”
Master Adrian’s voice echoed through the room. “You’ll become a Socrates yet! No, you are correct. Nuns and priests cannot marry, but not because the church forbids it. Why can they not marry?”
The answer seemed an obvious one, but Philip took some time before he could answer. “I would guess that the priests and nuns would say that they volunteered to take a vow of celibacy—not that it was forced upon them.”
“Exactly.”
Several verses later, Philip stopped. “But I overheard your lesson with Aldred and Edward. They read that a shepherd must be a man with a wife and children.”
More questions followed, each deeper than the last until Philip felt quite confused. Frustrated, he turned his attention back to the book and began the translation process again. Broðor Clarke would have answered, his mind argued within him. He would have shown me from the Bible what is true and what is tradition. If they conflicted, he’d admit it. Here I don’t know if I’m just a dunce or if the masters are avoiding my questions. I don’t know anything but what they want me to know.
He glanced at the student next to him—a tall, thin, weak fellow from Essex. Henry of Chelmsford was the son of a noble and had expressed his opinions of students with benefactors such as Lord Morgan freely. The University was intended to educate those worthy of such an education—common village boys didn’t fit that image.
Asking Henry would do no good. On the other side of the table, John worked on his Latin translation as if unaffected by the discussion around him. Philip caught the man’s eyes and the decided but slight shake of his head. The message was clear. “Don’t ask any more questions.”
The usual temptation to compare Oxford to Wynnewood with the town coming up short was just as great as usual, but the memory of his discussion with William de Brailes still reverberated in his mind. He could be thankful that he was able to be challenged this way—to know exactly what the Bible taught and how to defend it.
A sigh escaped. It’s not the consolation that it should be, he thought to himself.
The forest creaked with bare branches that rubbed against each other in the wind. Strange moaning and crackling noises gave it an eerie sound, but Dove loved it. There was something beautifully wild about the forest in late autumn and winter. Once the first snow fell, the ground would be blanketed in white and the branches would glisten with snow and ice.
Philip wouldn’t be there to explore it with her. The thought sent a new wave of melancholy over her, but Dove didn’t care about that anymore. She’d resigned herself to a lonely life again. A glance at the sun told her nightfall was coming. It wouldn’t be daylight much longer. She raced along the edge of the river, hating being so thoroughly exposed, and hurried over the bridge, dodging stones and ugly accusations.
However, once in Wynne Holt, she felt safe again. Oh, there was still the odd chance that she’d meet someone, but people didn’t listen carefully as they crashed through the underbrush. That gave her a large advantage—one she used frequently.
Out of breath, she reached the edge of the Point, her hands on her knees as she gasped for air. As her breathing resumed a more normal rhythm, she sank to the ground, her feet almost close enough to the edge to point over it, and pulled her hood back to allow the last rays of the sun to shine on her.
Philip would say that I should let the Son shine on me—that only I AM’s light can truly warm me and make me happy. If that were only true.
The problem was that she didn’t believe it. No matter how hard she tried—how much she desired it—Dove couldn’t accept the wonderful stories that Philip told. They were just that—stories—nothing more.
Chapter 10
Troubles
Winter
Oxford students were split between two main groups, the Australes and the Borales. Being from the north, Philip was part of the Borales. Unfortunately, being part of a group from a certain part of the country did not immediately endear the other students toward him.
As he strolled into a tavern near his lodging house, Philip’s heart dropped into his stomach. There at the table he preferred sat four young men from the Australes who delighted in making his life miserable. The temptation to flee was strong, but one of the fellows saw him before he could turn.
“Look, it’s the beggar from the north!”
“I hear his benefactor was glad to get the stink from the area.”
As usual, Philip refused to allow himself to show any reaction. And, as usual, he also struggled with miserable feelings of rejection. He was used to being accepted—well-liked even. In Wynnewood, only Angus had ever been unkind, and he was unkind to everyone. Just then, Philip would have enjoyed hearing Angus’ taunting and threats. Then again, after the adventure with the “pirate caves,” the lad hadn’t been such a bully anymore.
He nodded, having learned long before that the other students would be even more vicious if he didn’t at least acknowledge their presence. Unfortunately, that only increased their taunting. “Oh, he nods. At least he knows what a pathetic thing he is.”
The tavern keeper brought Philip a plate of mutton and vegetables. “Mead or ale?”
“Mead, thank you.”
“Don’t let it bother you, Philip. They’re not worth your concern.”
When the man returned with the tankard, Philip thanked him. “I just don’t know what I did to make them so hostile.”
“You’re a threat.”
Philip glanced around the man as he made
a pretense of scrubbing something off Philip’s table. “A threat to what?”
“Their supposition of superiority. If a village boy from some obscure area up north,” the man said north the way most people say dung, “can handle the rigors of academia, then how can they still feel as though they’re better than others?”
With those words, the man hurried to serve a new group of students. It made some sense to Philip, but he wasn’t sure what good it would do him. They’d still hate him, annoy him, and generally do everything they could to make his life miserable. It seemed to be their greatest talent. That thought amused him. At least there was that.
A shove from behind sent Philip’s plate flying across the table onto the floor. “Look, the peasant prefers to eat off the floor.”
Philip was still unwilling to engage. His brother’s words returned to him as he tried to scoop the mess back onto the plate. Bullies give up if you ignore them. If you have to, stand up to them. Most don’t know how act when someone isn’t afraid of them.
A foot on his back sent him sprawling. “Now that’s where a fellow like him belongs—groveling on the floor.”
“Get off him,” the tavern keeper demanded. “You can’t just come in here and attack my customers. I’ll call the constable if you don’t leave him alone.”
It was an empty threat and the young men knew it. However, they backed away, tossing more insults at Philip as they did. He picked himself off the floor, dusted off his robes, and at the insistence of the tavern keeper, sat back down at the table. As he waited for a replacement plate of food, he wondered how long would he live there before they simply ignored him?
“I heard his father is a fisherman. Can you imagine the stink in their house every night?”
“If you can call it a house. People like him live in hovels that our servants would refuse to enter.”
Philip’s knuckles grew white as he clenched his fingers together. As each insult flew and pierced his heart, he worked to steady his breathing and ignore the barbs. The tavern keeper placed another heaping plate of food in front of him and promised to return with more mead.
One by one, the boys grew tired of their sport and filed toward the door, each mocking him further as they left. “I heard the Earl of Wynnewood sent him down here to rid the village of a troublemaker.”
“Nah, Charles Morgan is a fool. He’s hardly a noble. Why I’ve heard it said that his father was little better than an animal the way he drove his people.”
Philip smirked at the irony of these men treating another student so meanly while condemning another noble for doing something similar. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for them. Unfortunately, the feeling was brief.
“Didn’t you hear? Charles Morgan doesn’t have a son. He’s probably using the only thing he could find as a substitute. His daughter is a worthless cripple after all—”
The young man didn’t have a chance to finish. With a guttural roar that he didn’t know he possessed, Philip flew across the room, his fist smashing into the speaker’s face. “Don’t ever speak about Lady Morgan like that again.”
As a cheer rose from some of the others in the room, the other young men started toward him, but Philip jumped up and advanced as if ready to take on the lot of them. Just as they might have jumped him, the tavern keeper shouted angrily, “Get out of here. The constable is on his way. Go and don’t come back.”
The man Philip hit had a gushing nose that refused to be stopped. Grabbing it, he pushed his way past his friends and out the door. The other three followed, each calling threats and insults as they did. Philip sighed.
“I am sorry—”
“Don’t be. That was the most satisfying thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
Discouraged, Philip pulled a few coins from his pouch and pressed them into the man’s hand. “Thank you for trying. I’d better go.”
“Out the side door, then. They might be waiting for you out front.”
As the tavern keeper roused his other patrons into singing a loud song, Philip slipped through the side door. He winced as the door creaked, but no faces appeared on the side of the building. At the corner of the tavern, he peeked and saw the four men waiting outside the front, the one still holding his nose and complaining.
A horse stopped in front, blocking their view of him. Philip dashed to its side, hurried around another, and then strolled leisurely up the street. Once safe and alone again, he relived the satisfying crack of Richard Melton’s nose as his fist slammed into it. For just a moment he felt ashamed, but the man’s words, “just a worthless cripple,” mocked his guilt.
Philip smiled. He’d defended a lady’s honor—in a manner of speaking. He’d defended his benefactor. They would never know it, of course, but he could know—maybe even Dove. She’d understand why it was so important to him.
He climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door behind him. It took only minutes to undress, wash his hands, face, and feet, and crawl under the covers. To his surprise, for the first time since he’d come to Oxford, Philip looked forward to the next morning.
The snow fell hard in Wynnewood for a week straight. Babies decided this was a perfect time to be born, and three arrived at night, within days of each other. Exhausted from her long nights with laboring mothers, Bertha didn’t notice the absence of Dove until the first day without snow.
“Letty, when was the last time you saw the girl?”
“She was here before the snow, and there has been food missing at times, but I haven’t seen her.”
Bertha swept snow from the inside of the cottage as she opened the door. “Did you chop all the wood or did she?”
“I didn’t chop much of it at all.”
A new thought occurred to the midwife. “Wait, didn’t you sleep here on Thursday?”
“Yes. You said the drifts weren’t safe.”
“Did she come home that night?”
Letty shook her head. “Not that I saw. Maybe she’s at the castle.”
“I doubt it.”
“She stayed gone all that time last winter, and it was much colder then. We have more snow now, but it isn’t as bitterly cold.”
The girl’s words were true. The blizzard the previous year had been horrible. It was impossible for the girl to have survived that, and yet she did. Perhaps she was concerned for nothing.
“How much food would you say is missing? What have you noticed?”
“Well, sometimes the stew pot seems as if there isn’t as much in it. There were a couple of roasted potatoes gone. Porridge some mornings. I don’t know how she does it though. I’m here most of the time.”
“I imagine she comes in when you bring me things or run other errands,” Bertha mused aloud.
“Why did she go? I wasn’t mean to her; I promise. I thought she liked me—a little.”
“The girl doesn’t like people. She just doesn’t dislike you like she does most others.”
Bertha stifled a snicker as she saw Letty screw up her courage and say, “She likes Philip. No matter what anyone says, she’s a true friend to him and he to her.”
“Possibly.”
Bertha stood near the door undecided. While it wasn’t as cold as it had been, it was cold. She could find the girl. After all, she’d taught the child—young woman—everything she knew. However, it wasn’t wise to go traipsing across the countryside in search of a forlorn creature like hers. She had new babies to watch over—mothers who needed her services.
A new thought occurred to her. “I’ll be in the village if you need me. Just call for me. I’ll hear you.”
“Where are you goin’?”
“Are you deaf, girl? I said the village.”
Another smile formed on her lips as the door closed and she heard, “I meant where in the village, which you knew, of course.”
The roads were nearly impassable. Bertha grabbed two sheets of birch bark from the side of the cottage, and tied them to the bottom of her feet with leather lacings. With a long sti
ck to test the ground ahead of her, Bertha followed the tree line into the village, panting heavily by the time she arrived. Snow was up to the knees in some places, making Bertha grateful for the wind that seemed to come in each night and blow away some of the snow.
At the chapel, she glanced up at the chimney, saw no smoke, and moved on to the minister’s cottage. It galled to think of having to ask Dennis Clarke’s help, but her pride wouldn’t let her resist any longer. The girl was playing with her life and it was Bertha’s responsibility to preserve life.
“Bertha?” Broðor Clarke’s face frowned as he saw the midwife standing at the door.
“Are you going to make me stand out here and freeze?”
“Oh, sorry. Come in. I was so startled to see you.”
“I know that I am a frightful thing, Dennis, but you do not have to remind me of it.”
“That’s absurd,” Broðor Clarke said, shutting the door behind her. “Have a seat. Would you like some hot cider?”
Bertha moved near the fire as she nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
“That must annoy you to say to me.”
Since his back was turned to her, Bertha permitted herself a smile. “I suppose it does. Then again, so does my errand.”
“So, this is not a social visit? You haven’t come to confess Jesus Christ as your Lord?”
“Lord Morgan is enough lord for me. Two would be too confusing. Who do you obey when they disagree?”
“The Lord of All, of course. Are you sure you do not know the scriptures? After all, Jesus himself said that you cannot serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other or the reverse.”
“Then that,” Bertha insisted, “is proof enough that I should not consider adding another one into my life. Much too confusing.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 49