The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  At the door, Jerome’s weak voice called him back again. “I pray you find the boy. I’ve not been very patient with him—jealous, I expect. He’s a good lad.”

  “That he is. He’s going to be a fine man.”

  Without another word, Lord Morgan shut the door behind him and forced himself downstairs. The innkeeper, apologetic and effusive, refused payment and promised to take excellent care of the remnants of the Wynnewood party, but Lord Morgan shook his head. “We’ll be moving him. He needs to eat, but he’s nervous.”

  Apologetic, the man tried to change his mind, but Lord Morgan stood firm. “Someone will be along to carry Jerome into town. Good day.”

  It took more strength than any of the men wanted to admit to climb up into their saddles and ride away from town. They were weak, weary, and a little disheartened with having to leave Jerome and Harold behind.

  Ten minutes down the trail, the clouds that had seemed to hint of rain in the next day or two darkened, the wind picked up and pushed more gray clouds their way. Less than an hour outside of Stafford, rain—steady and cold—poured down on them.

  In the wee hours, ten days after the party had left for Oxford, the steady beat of rain on the roof woke Dennis Clarke from a troubled sleep. Wynnewood had enjoyed the dry spell. Broðor Clarke had spent many hours in prayer, begging the Lord for favorable weather both for the villagers and for the travelers. He couldn’t help but include Dove in those prayers, although he had little hope that prayers could help the child now.

  Instinctively he began praying that the rain would hold for the travelers—that they were far enough south that they could hope to arrive before the rain reached them and that the rain had not traveled north from their direction. A glance out the window saw a shadow moving past his cottage, and his heart leapt with hope until he realized the shadow was too large to be Dove. He watched the figure make its way toward the fishermen’s cottages and smiled. Another baby—it was Bertha. He’d seen Wilmetta waddle home from the baker’s the previous afternoon, and the way the woman had clutched at her abdomen every dozen or so steps had made him nervous.

  Without dry wood in the house, he’d be cold inside a few hours, so the minister hurried outside and carried in enough wood to last a few days. He laid two logs in front of the fire and put his last dry log on, stirring up a good blaze. It occurred to him that he’d been blessed by Philip’s diligence in ways he’d never given much notice. His water bucket had been filled, his wood box replenished, and even the emptying of his slop bucket had often been done by Philip as he passed on some errand or another.

  An hour later, the cottage was quite warm and Broðor Clarke had nearly prayed himself to sleep when a knock jerked him into full consciousness again. He flung the covers from him, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders before hurrying to the door, immediately praying for the Lord’s mercies. Knocks before daybreak usually meant bad news.

  Isaac West stood there, rain soaking him as he shivered. “Broðor Clarke. The midwife said you’re to come to Wilmetta. She won’t live long and she’s calling for you.”

  Before Dennis could answer, the young man raced down the street, obviously anxious to get out of the rain. He hurried into his shoes, pulled on a fresh tunic, and wrapped his mantle around him. With a prayer on his lips and a heavy heart, he stepped out into the rain and hurried toward the row of cottages at the end of the center street in Wynnewood. A dim light flickered in the tiny window of Wilmetta’s cottage, and the door opened the moment his knuckles rapped softly on the door. “Come in, myth monger. She’s calling for you,” Bertha spat.

  So it was true. Wilmetta would die. Bertha always took her irascibility to a stronger level when she couldn’t save a life. Before he could ask, the faint cry of a newborn startled him. “The baby survived?” That didn’t happen often. If Bertha couldn’t save the mother, she usually lost the baby as well.

  “Don’t know how. I’ve done everything I can for Wilmetta, but I can’t stop the bleeding. She’s almost gone. Hurry.”

  He sat holding one of the young woman’s hands, stroking her hair away from her face, and whispering the shepherd’s psalm. His voice choked as he reached the sad words, “yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

  One glance at Bertha showed her hands covering her face. Anyone who didn’t know her as well as Broðor Clarke did would assume she wept, but she didn’t. From the rigidity of her shoulders, the balled fists that hid her eyes, and the occasional shake of her head, he knew she restrained her wrath at him and his God only to give Wilmetta a peaceful passing.

  “Broðor Clarke?” Wilmetta’s voice was a ragged whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you tell David— so sorry. I couldn’t—” she swallowed the water he offered. “The baby—”

  “Your baby will be fine. We’ll take good care of it until he returns. The men should be home any day as it is— especially with the good weather we’ve had until now.” He saw Wilmetta’s face grow paler and shook his head when she tried to speak again. “Shh. Rest. Rest in the arms of Jesus. The Everlasting Arms. Sleep.”

  She slept. Her last breath exhaled in one weak whoosh, and Broðor Clarke gently closed her eyes. “She is gone.”

  “What good is her death? She was terrified and you speak of fearing no evil. Death is evil, you fool!”

  Bertha wouldn’t cry—not when he could see anyway. Nothing he said or did would comfort her, and that was not a familiar experience for him. People usually found him sympathetic, encouraging, and a shoulder to lean on during difficult times, but not Bertha. She blamed him, the Lord, and everything and everyone else she could when death took another life from her hands.

  “Bertha…”

  “Don’t. What good is your god? What good were all those silly words? That baby,” she glanced at the infant that lay sleeping next to its dead mother, “that little boy has no mother. How can that be good? How can you say your god was with her and comforts her when you know that her husband is coming home to an empty home and a child who needs him—if we can keep the child alive?”

  He didn’t defend himself when her hands pounded his arms and chest at random intervals as she bustled around the room. Wynnewood’s minister took these rare occasions when she was willing to discuss anything related to his faith and prayed for the words that would pierce the armor that she wore to protect her from his “myths.”

  “I can say that because those who have endured so much worse have reminded us that ‘the Lord gives and He takes away. Blessed be—‘”

  “Stop! There is no blessing in death. Death is my enemy. I fight it every day. I refuse to listen to you talk about it as if it were nothing.”

  “Bertha…”

  “Just take your stories home. I don’t want them.”

  “The baby…”

  “I’ll take him home. Perhaps Letty’s mother can nurse him for a while. I’ll ask.”

  As he opened the door, Broðor Clarke had a thought and shut it again. “Philip—did you know how much he loved his sister?”

  “Another absolutely wasted life. That child should have lived, but the fool Biggs—”

  “He lost what was most precious to him when Ellie left us.”

  “What’s your point, Dennis?”

  He stifled a smirk. If she thought she’d insult him by using his Christian name rather than the title of “Broðor,” she was sadly mistaken. “Philip has personally suffered the snatch of death, and likely will feel it again when he returns to find Dove gone.”

  “Then we’ll see just how much comfort your myths are to him,” Bertha sneered.

  The minister crossed the room to stand before the hurting woman he longed so much to see yield to the Lord. He waited, seconds passing without any hope for her to relent, until at last she looked up at him. “What?”

  Dennis Clarke tried to use his eyes to comfort where his words could not. “The lad will not deny the Lord God. He will remain faithful to I AM. His h
eart will hurt for the loss of a friend, and ache that his friend may never have developed faith in Jesus, but he will be comforted to know the Lord loves her more than he ever could.” The man swallowed hard.

  “You have no heart if you can speak of loss so glibly. He’s a strong boy—a man in so many ways—but he will deny his faith. It has failed him. You’ll see.”

  Broðor Clarke turned to leave again, shoulders squared as if facing a hard task instead of leaving one. “He won’t. Our pain isn’t in the loss—it’s just a temporary separation when the one who goes before us belongs to the Lord—our pain comes when death creates a permanent one. When we know we’ll never see the ones we love again; and yet, even then the Lord comforts us.”

  “Be comforted in your myths if you like. You’ve ruined this village with them. I loved this place as untouched as it was by the superstitious nonsense of the church, but you’ve ruined it.”

  “Good day, Bertha. Bring the infant to me any time you need sleep. I know babies. I can help.”

  With that, Broðor Clarke opened the door and stepped out into the rain again. He strode to the house of Peter the carpenter, told of the need for a casket, and walked home, Bertha’s last words echoing in his mind. “Lord, is it not strange that she would choose old superstitions that she rejected rather than embrace Your Word? How long will she reject You?” He sighed as he opened the door to his cottage. “How long?”

  Chapter 21

  Progress

  A sneeze broke the steady drone of rain on the roof of the hovel where Philip shivered through the days. It hadn’t been horribly uncomfortable at first, but when the rain began, everything became damp and miserable. A cold settled into Philip’s chest, causing wracking coughs that shook his body and made his head feel as if it would explode.

  His captors feared catching the illness, so they came less often and gave him nervous glances. It bothered him greatly. Philip knew that their interest in him ended the moment they thought he became a liability.

  Until he’d arrived at Oxford and become more acquainted with news from around the country, he’d considered the attempted kidnapping of Aurelia to be something highly unusual and irregular. When pressed, he hadn’t been able to resist mentioning the part he’d played in foiling the attempt and was surprised to learn that many people tried to abduct those of high rank for various purposes and that most of them did fail.

  “People become desperate and do crazy things when they need money,” Master Adrian had insisted.

  Based upon what he’d overheard, Philip thought he had less than a week before his captors changed their plans. There had been some argument as to which alternate plan would prevail. One man, James, seemed to be the ringleader. The others didn’t like what he had to say, but they eventually acquiesced. James wanted to sell him if the ransom didn’t arrive in time. “Might as well get something for him,” he’d insisted.

  Where they planned to take him to sell him, Philip wasn’t sure, but it would have to be England unless they found a boat… Philip swallowed hard at that thought. Once sold, the chances of escape were slim, and he knew it. Even if he did manage, he’d never find his way back home. He had to escape now, but how?

  Another fit of coughing sent more fevered chills over him. That was another strike against keeping him alive. No one would buy a sick boy for any kind of work. Without a buyer, they wouldn’t bother to keep him alive. That thought unnerved him. He shuddered.

  As much as he tried to reason out a plan, his brain refused to cooperate. He was cold, muddleheaded from his fever, and the rain that had often been such a comforting sound in Wynnewood seemed to antagonize him in the tiny shed.

  “I tell you, Gipp should have been back by now. They’ve caught ‘im! We have to leave.”

  “Gipp said three weeks, so we wait three weeks,” James insisted. “Just how sick is he?”

  “He’s coughing pretty bad.”

  “He’s seen us all anyway. Bring him inside. Let’s get some broth in him and maybe onions for his chest.” The other man argued for a moment, but James yelled, “Just do it! I’m getting inside before I catch my death as well.”

  Hugo, a scrawny man with beady black eyes and terrible teeth dragged Philip out of the hovel and into the house. A roaring blaze radiated heat all over the room, making Philip warmer simply by stepping into it. “Th-thank you.”

  “We’re not doing this for you. Just get warm and dry. I’ll make a poultice. My modor was a fine herbal woman. She could cure anything.”

  Philip didn’t like thinking about his own mother. His father would arrive any day now, and it was likely that she’d have to tell them about his abduction. That rankled. He’d tried for the past three years to show his maturity, but this would just make him look like the child he no longer was. As it was, Dove was going to tease him until he was fifty—if he lived that long.

  That thought made him smile. If he lived that long, he and Dove would be like Broðor Clarke and Bertha—always sparring in some manner. Oh, they tried to hide it, but Dove missed little and she’d pointed it out several times. Several times, Philip had been tempted to ask if Broðor Clarke had been friends with Bertha at some point, but he’d never gathered the courage. It seemed such a silly thing now. Why not ask? The minister wouldn’t have minded.

  As his tunic dried, his shivers lessened. The fever still caused his teeth to rattle, but the broth that Hugo brought him helped warm him a little as well. Philip watched curiously as the man chopped onions, fried them in a pan, added a bit of flour and oil, and folded them in a piece of fabric. “C’mere, you. Let’s get this tied on you.”

  With the onion poultice strapped to his chest, Philip curled up on the floor in front of the hearth and fell asleep. For the first time in nearly two weeks, he slept soundly, only stirring when a fit of coughing shook him awake for a moment. He slept so deeply that he didn’t hear the men talking when Gipp stepped inside with news that Lord Morgan was on his way to Oxford to pay the ransom.

  “I thought you were going to try to get the money there,” Hugo protested.

  “He wouldn’t do it. The man I sent in said that Lord Morgan thought we’d just take off with the money and not return to the rest of you.”

  “Smart man.” James sounded impressed.

  “He is that. He’s mad too. I followed them until they got to Strafford. They didn’t ride on the next morning as usual, but I did. I thought I could beat them back here.”

  “Well, if he’s coming,” James insisted, “we’ve got to get that young man well. No lord is going to pay a good ransom for a corpse.”

  After two days of eating little and drinking much, not to mention the mental comfort in knowing his food came from a different kitchen, Jerome began to feel better. In fact, he was feeling a bit restless. When Harold left to visit the horses and ensure their proper care, Jerome pulled on his clothes and slipped outside.

  Stafford was a busy place, full of people, animals, and commerce. Goods exchanged hands, usually without benefit of money. Chickens were exchanged for flour and cobblers fixed shoes in exchange for tools. A tavern beckoned him. A fresh glass of ale accompanied by a local storyteller sounded like the perfect way to pass the time.

  Sometime during his second glass, Jerome saw a man come into the tavern. Something about the man seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place what. Despite the temptation to engage, Jerome dropped his head and wrapped his hands around his tankard, trying to appear standoffish. Maybe if he could observe for a minute, he’d know where he’d seen the newcomer. It didn’t take long. The moment the man spoke, Jerome knew who he was.

  “H-have you seen a man come in here? H-he’s about my height. S-southern accent? H-hook nose?”

  “I see all kinds in here. Can’t say I haven’t, but I wouldn’t know when.”

  “I-it would have been in the last week. C-can you try? H-his name is Gipp. G-gipp Doggett. H-he’s going to Oxford.” The man sounded desperate.

  “Yeah, we’ve had a couple o
f men come through to Oxford recently. One might have had a hook nose, but I didn’t hear a name.”

  “W-when?”

  “Maybe three days ago? Four? No more than four, because I was home sick for two days before that.” The tavern keeper held up a tankard. “So, do you want a drink or not?”

  Jerome stood and slid a coin across the counter, keeping his back to the man. “Thanks.”

  He wanted to run through the town, but he also knew he was still too weak to do it. Instead, he forced himself to keep to a steady stride. He wove easily in and out of crowds, nodded greetings to friendly hawkers, and finally reached the stables—spent.

  “Jerome, what are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be resting.” Harold eyed him closer. “You’re sweating again. Get back inside—”

  “I went for a walk,” Jerome gasped, hating how winded he sounded from a simple walk. “Found a tavern and waited for someone to start telling stories.”

  “Well, you obviously weren’t ready for that kind of exertion. I guess the room must get tiresome, but—”

  “No, really. I was fine. I felt great. I just sat there, drank my ale, and watched as people came and went. Then a man came in. Remember the one who brought the news of Philip?”

  “The stutterer?”

  “That’s the one! He came in looking for a man with a hooked nose and with a southern accent—said the man’s name was Gipp Doggett and he’d be on his way to Oxford.”

  “Gipp Doggett?” Harold crossed his arms across his chest like he always did when he was thinking. “And the man specifically said Oxford?”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you recognize him again?”

  Jerome nodded without hesitation. “Definitely.”

  Harold’s eyes slid toward the horses. “Do you think you could ride?”

  “After a short rest, yes. I need some water. I tried to walk here, but I practically ran.”