“Let’s just get this job done and get out of here,” another man complained.
“We were hired to teach him a lesson before we disposed of him.”
Philip’s stomach churned. “I don’t know why I’m here,” he stammered, his mind racing in many directions, “but I—” A kick to the gut cut him off short. The moment he could breathe, Philip said, “I have money. Quite a lot of it. You can have it if you let me go.”
One of the men allowed Philip’s money pouch to swing from one of his fingers. “This money?”
He swallowed hard and nodded. “There is more. I don’t keep it all together.”
“Hey Gipp, did you find more?”
The suspicious tone in the man’s voice heartened Philip. If they began squabbling amongst themselves, maybe they’d forget about him long enough to leave. The man, Gipp, shook his head. “I didn’t expect him to be quite that resourceful. Send James back. Tear the place apart if you have to.”
“You don’t have to tear it apart. I’ll—”
Another blow felt like an explosion inside his head. Philip stumbled and then crumpled to the ground. Panic rose up within him. “I—” He didn’t want to say it. The one thing that might save him galled him to speak. However, as another of the men advanced, the muscles in his forearms twitching, Philip’s reticence vanished. “I enjoy the benevolence of Lord Charles Morgan, Earl of Wynnewood. He will pay a ransom for my safe return.”
“I doubt he’ll consider you worth anything by the time we’re done with you,” one of the men growled as he unsheathed a knife.
“I—” Terror filled Philip’s heart. They’d torture him before he died. Why, he didn’t know, but they would. “There is no reason not to get the most money you can for me, is there? Lord Morgan will pay. He owes his daughter’s life to me. Have you not heard the stories?” The words burst forth from him in a desperate jumble.
The tip of the knife pierced Philip’s chin as the man spoke to him, threatening him with malevolent glee. “But that’s all they are, aren’t they? Stories.”
“Why else would a man like him send someone like me to the University?”
Gipp frowned. “Back down, David. He has a point. We can have him write a note and I’ll take it up north. We can just as easily kill him after a ransom has been paid as before.”
“With the kind of money a ransom would give, why kill him at all? Take the money and leave. Who cares about teaching the other students a lesson? They can rob the tradesmen all they like. We take the money and run.”
Philip had a strong preference for the fourth man’s suggestion but thought it best to keep his opinion to himself. His heart sank further as Gipp said, “Hob won’t like it. He wants this fellow’s carcass strung up outside the lodging house.”
“Who cares what Hob wants?”
I certainly don’t, Philip thought to himself. So, Hob did this. Why? He couldn’t risk asking, but he did hope they’d keep talking.
“Do you want the students to get away with breaking property and not paying the bills? Those men think they’re above the law.”
“This is about that bench? He wants me killed because I wouldn’t lie and say students broke a bench that knights broke? Killed?”
Philip’s question earned him another kick and a box to his ear. Gipp stared at him as he tried to shake the darkness that threatened to overtake him. “What knights? He said you lied to protect fellow students.”
“Why should I protect the people who torment me every day?” Philip couldn’t understand Hob’s reasoning. “Hob always seemed friendly toward me. I can’t believe he would hire my death!”
Gipp laughed, the other men snickering as well. “You can’t believe that Mad Hob wants any student dead? Are you really that much of a fool?”
“Mad Hob?”
The one they called David nodded. “He’s a strange one. Always making a pet of someone until they cross him. Many of his ‘friends’ go missing either by escape or worse. Who knows which?”
“Stop the chattering and let’s decide. Do we kill him, hang him at the lodging house and get to Portsmouth, or do we hide him until we can extract a ransom?”
Gipp’s voice turned greedy as he offered the option of the ransom. All Philip could do was pray that they took it. The men squabbled amongst themselves for several minutes as Philip faded in and out of consciousness, but at last, David hurried from the cottage in search of paper, quill, and ink.
Cold and angry, Bertha allowed the cottage door to slam shut as she hurried indoors just before daybreak. Of all the foolish, inconsiderate things for someone to do, calling her out unneeded in the middle of the night was just about the worst. Her eyes glanced at Dove’s pallet out of habit, and then she shivered out of her clothes and into dry ones. The cottage felt cooler than usual, so Bertha added a couple of logs to the fire and laid her skirt out to dry.
Once under the covers, the woman lay as still as she could, waiting for warmth to radiate around her. The glow of the blaze sent odd shadows across the walls. Bertha hated those shadows. Her old pagan superstitions sometimes overrode her good judgment—particularly when suffering from prankster-induced sleep deprivation.
She frowned. The covers on Dove’s pallet didn’t seem to resemble any human shape she’d ever seen. Was the child growing humpbacked too? Another malady was the last thing she wanted to endure. Curious, she grabbed her shawl from the peg near her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders as she crept to Dove’s bed to see why the child looked so oddly shaped.
The empty bed infuriated her. She jerked the covers back to air out the linens and huffed her way back to her own bed. Where had the chit gone this time and at this hour of the night? They’d caught the ridiculous unicorn. The mists were too thick now to see the dragon, and it was much too dark to enjoy a leisurely stroll through the trees. She seemed to have gotten over her need for solitude. She’d slept at home every night for weeks.
If the boy had been home, Bertha would have assumed some strange new adventure. Philip Ward seemed to thrive on excitement. At fifteen—or was he sixteen now?—it was time to settle down and become a responsible man, but he’d still rambled through the woods playing her silly little games as if he had a lifetime to show some semblance of maturity.
It had occurred to Bertha that this friendship might be the best thing for her. Young boys grew into young men and those men eventually married. With a little careful manipulation, she could easily make him think it was his duty to marry the girl and protect her from the villagers.
She drifted to sleep with those thoughts in her mind, and was still dreaming of a life alone when the fire grew brighter and warmer, waking her up. “Letty?”
“I’m just getting started. Were you out late last night? Was it Phoebe?”
“Pranksters.” She glanced at the empty bed across the room. “Was the girl gone when you got here?”
Letty’s eyes slid toward where Dove usually slept. By the confusion on the young woman’s face, Bertha knew that Letty hadn’t noticed anyone missing at all. Shaking her head, Letty stepped closer. “She’s gone and so is her blanket.” The girl’s forehead furrowed. “I was sure she had two pairs of breeches and tunics hanging on those pegs—winter cloak is gone too.”
Bertha had intended to roll over and go back to sleep, but Letty’s observations were astounding on two levels. First, she’d noticed something missing, and then the fact that anything was missing at all was quite unusual. After a quick glance over the cottage, Bertha found several things that were gone.
“Her sling shot is gone too. Maybe she’s hunting, but the extra clothes don’t make sense. It’s still quite warm yet.”
“You’ll have to ask her when she comes back.” Letty stared at the sack of oats. “Do I make enough porridge for her or not?”
“No. It’ll just go to waste.”
As Letty went to carry out the slop bucket, she froze. “It’s almost empty.”
“She probably emptied it before she
left.”
Bertha’s surly tone worked. Letty quit asking questions and making suggestions and went back to work. All seemed to go back to normal until she tried to cut the bread. “Um, Bertha?”
The midwife, almost back to sleep now, nearly screamed with frustration. “What is it now?”
“The knife is gone.”
Three days later, Bertha trudged up the hill to the castle. As much as she hated to do it, a messenger had arrived saying that Aurelia wanted Dove’s company, and the woman felt obligated to explain the girl’s absence. She ignored the grumbles of the guard, strolled through the walled corridor around the perimeter of the castle, and knocked on the kitchen door.
Tobias Baker flung open the door, ready to send Dove away from his kitchens, and started at the sight of Bertha there. “Is someone sick?”
“I don’t know, Tobias, have you been making sour bread again?”
“Ha, ha. You’re such a wit. What do you need?” He shooed her inside and shut the door.
“To stand by your oven for a minute. It’s unseasonably cold out there this morning. Someone can go tell Lord Morgan that I have news for him.”
“Listen to you all high and mighty. Don’t request, just let him know that you deign to speak to him.”
“He’ll want me to talk to him. Tell him I have news of Dove.”
The baker’s eyes flew to little Minerva who scrubbed pots in the corner. The child dried her hands and slipped out the door, nearly unnoticed. Bertha nodded appreciatively. “You have fine help here, Tobias. If that girl was a little older, I might have tried to steal her from you.”
The repartee between baker and midwife continued until Minerva returned and beckoned for Bertha to follow. “Lord Morgan is anxious to see you.”
Just as they reached the great hall, Minerva curtseyed. “You’re to go in and wait. He’ll be there in a moment. I think he’s received some distressing news.”
Before Bertha could reach the large fireplace, Lord Morgan strode into the room, fire in his eyes and his face resolute. “Bertha Newcombe. I was hoping you had Dove with you.”
“That’s why I came. The messenger said Lady Aurelia wanted her, but the girl is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Three nights ago, someone pounded on my door and said I was wanted here at the castle. When I returned, Dove and most of her things were gone.” At the alarm on Charles Morgan’s face, Bertha had the grace to temper her words slightly. “She hasn’t yet returned, m’lord.”
The Earl of Wynnewood’s face went pale. He sat down suddenly and called for some wine. “Some for the woman too, John.”
Lord Morgan’s personal servant, John, brought two goblets of wine and passed one to each of them. “Anything else m’lord?”
“Would you like some cheese and bread, Bertha?”
“I’m not hungry, but thank you.” She was growing impatient and knew it probably showed in her tone.
“This is quite distressing, Bertha. I just received news about Philip Ward.”
“I thought he was at Oxford, sir.”
“He is—or was. I’ve just received a ransom note.”
Her shock was too great to hide. Why would anyone kidnap the son of no one? “And the note came to you and not his father?”
“Clearly, they assume that if I’ll educate the boy, I’ll pay for his release as well.”
“And will you?” Bertha asked curiously. Immediately she realized how inappropriate her question was. “I’m sorry. I’m a little stunned.”
“It’s no matter. Of course, I’ll pay the ransom if I must, but I’ll have to travel south immediately.”
An idea, one so fantastical that Bertha nearly pushed it out of her mind as quickly as it came, grew as Lord Morgan spoke. “Is it possible that Dove somehow heard of this scheme and tried to go south to help him?”
“I’d believe she would do it, but I don’t believe it’s possible that she heard anything. The man came alone. He wouldn’t have anyone to talk to, so how could she overhear?”
“Then she has disappeared too. The first time she was gone for days, I knew she went out in a storm. I wasn’t concerned for her. She was likely dead.” Bertha saw the lord’s eyes narrow at her coldness, but she continued. “Then when the boy left, she disappeared for months without showing herself at home. This time is different. She disappeared without reason, into the night, and with her spare clothes, her slingshot, and my knife. She was probably going hunting. I fear she could be hurt.”
“Why are you concerned with the possibility of injury but you weren’t concerned with the likelihood of death?”
“Lord Morgan, my duty is in preserving life. If she’s hurt, it’s my duty to try to help her. Once she was dead, and who expected her to live through such a blizzard?—my responsibility toward her had ended.”
As she spoke, Lord Morgan nodded. “I see.” He rubbed the beard thoughtfully. “I’ll send out what knights I don’t need to ride with me. We were planning a trip to the south anyway—Kent—away from the snow that will be here all too soon…”
Though he didn’t say it, Bertha knew exactly what he planned for that trip. It was time for the Earl of Wynnewood to take a wife—produce a viable heir. Aurelia couldn’t possibly manage the title with her affliction even if she did live long enough.
The woman nodded and stood to leave. “I suppose it is a good thing that the girl is gone. If she knew Philip was in trouble, she’d go down there herself, but as you said, she couldn’t possibly have known that—not three days before you learned it.” At the door, she remembered her earlier thoughts of Philip and Dove and turned back once more. “M’lord, please bring him home. He’s good for her.”
“I think Philip would say that Dove is good for him.”
Chapter 17
Lonely Trek
Finding a safe place to sleep unnoticed was more difficult than Dove had imagined. Each night when the sun went down and the world slowly grew cooler, she rose, rolled her pack into her blanket and cloaks, strapped it on, and continued her journey south. Finding her way to Liverpool was as simple as walking along the edge of the sea, but from there, things would be harder. She’d have to follow the river as much as possible, but people lived near rivers for a reason and she had to find a way to avoid people.
Twice she’d found caves to sleep in, but one had the unmistakable stench of dragon around it, and Dove was too sensible to risk her life for a dry bed. As she walked, often using the stout stick she’d found to help pull her over a rough patch, she wondered about Bertha and Lord Morgan. Had a ransom note arrived? And of course, she worried about Philip. Her scruples about praying for Philip were gone. After months of feeling awkward about praying to a god she didn’t know if she believed existed, Dove had decided it couldn’t hurt. If I AM was the god that Philip claimed he was, then he’d understand her concern. If he wasn’t, well, Dove didn’t really care what he thought of her prayers. Furthermore, if he didn’t exist, her concerns were wasted anyway.
The one thing she prayed for most was that they wouldn’t move Philip. If he wasn’t where she expected to find him, she didn’t know what she’d do. If he was, she had several plans in mind.
Her favorite idea was simply to watch to see how many there were, wait for them to leave, and help Philip escape—simple but effective. Her second plan was to lure them out in some way. She thought of fire, cries of knights, anything, but all ideas along that vein were risky. There was one idea—almost foolproof—that she knew she’d do if she must, but Dove dreaded it.
As she trudged over the rocky terrain, listening to the waves crash against the rocks below, Dove shivered. It would save Philip; she knew it. It would also be the likely death of their friendship. If the men were ready with arrows, it could cost her her life, but Dove didn’t think that was likely. Anyone they expected, they’d meet with knives or swords. That was something else to pray about, but then, if she did, she’d be praying for herself. That felt uncomfortable.
&nbs
p; Occasionally, she heard wolves howl as they hunted in the night. Lord Morgan had been vigilant in his attempts to eradicate the vermin from his lands, but the further she got from Wynnewood, the more she saw and heard evidence of them. There were rocks in all of her inner pockets and she kept her sling handy as she tramped over the ground on her way to Liverpool.
The pennies that the Mæte provided were heavy, but because there were so many, it was easy to leave one at every place she took food. People would have balked at the “prices” she paid—three eggs for a penny—but Dove had no way to barter or carry more. Each meal was a penny and that was just how it would have to be.
One afternoon, the scent of baking bread nearly drove her crazy. She hid behind a tree, wondering if there was enough bread to take a little and not leave a family without their dinner. The problem was how to get the house emptied long enough to dash inside and take a piece. She pulled one of the pennies from her pocket. She kept some in her shoes, some in her pack, and a few in her pockets. Dove was determined not to risk losing them. Forcing someone to “sell” their food bothered her greatly. Stealing would almost kill her.
At last, she devised a plan. Ready to run away from her hiding place, she screamed as loudly as she could and then ran. A woman and a little boy dashed from the cottage, the woman dragging him straight toward where Dove had been standing. They crashed through the bushes, while she crept into the house, glancing around the room for supplies. A large bag of flour still sat on the table and three loaves were cooling. She wrapped one in her gray cloak, and laid the penny down. Feeling terribly guilty, although it was an enormous price, she put a second penny next to it and hurried out the door.
When she’d taken her second step from the door, the woman rounded the corner of her house and screamed at the sight of a stranger leaving her cottage. “What are you doing?”
Dove ran. Her feet flew across the ground as if blown by the wind. She glanced behind her and saw the woman pursuing her, swifter than she would have expected. “I’m sorry!” she called back and then darted into the trees, weaving back and forth until she no longer heard the crash of feet behind her.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 54