The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  Never had she been so eager to get home. Her sore, tired feet flew through the trees, across the river, and then across the clearing. Her eyes scanned the yard as she burst through the trees and saw Letty scrubbing another burned pot.

  “Have I not taught you to use sand, Letty?”

  Letty’s eyes grew wide as the hooded creature, the ge-sceaft of Wynnewood, entered the yard as though she hadn’t been gone for a month. “Dove? We—” Then, before Dove knew what happened, Letty flew across the grass and wrapped her arms around the smaller girl.

  Dove stood frozen, awkwardly waiting for the hug to end, still unused to responding to impulsive shows of affection. Just as she opened her mouth to tease the girl about being clingy, Letty stepped back and erupted in shocking fury. “Where have you been? Do you know how worried we were? I looked everywhere for you—all of your favorite places. I even tried to find the Mæte to see if they knew—” Something in Dove’s posture must have answered the question for her. “They did know, didn’t they?”

  “Shh. We can’t talk about it so openly, but yes. They heard about Philip—”

  “You must be joking. You decided to go all the way to Oxford, didn’t you? How did you expect to do him—” Again the odd glance at Dove. “You found him? You? How—”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s safe now and back at his studies.”

  “Lord Morgan isn’t even back yet. How could you travel so quickly?”

  Dove took the pot from where Letty had left it and hopped over the little stone wall that separated the cottage yard from the trees. “I’ll be back in a while. Let me clean this for you first, and then we can go into the clearing and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Promise?”

  She shrugged out of her pack and dropped it into the yard. “Will you put that on the floor by my bed? I’ll clean it out later.”

  With a wave, Dove flitted through the trees, making her way to the edge of the village, and skirting the houses and streets, hardly noticed by the villagers. That seemed odd. Why had she not caught the attention of those who liked to chase her? They’d scarcely raised their eyes as she dashed here and there.

  At the shore, several fishermen raised their eyes from their nets and then shook their heads before going back to work. One frowned and called, “It’s not funny anymore, lad. Get to your work and stop playing games.” It all seemed so curious.

  The sand felt wonderful on her sore feet, soothing them as she tramped through it to the water. However, as she knelt in the sand some hundreds of yards away, she noticed a change. The men drew closer together as if consulting, and one pointed to her. Still, she added fistfuls of sand to the pot and rubbed them into the metal, swirling the water and rinsing until all the charred remnants of a ruined meal were gone.

  As she passed the fishermen again on her way home, they seemed more normal somehow. They ducked their eyes, scowled, or threatened her with sticks. In a strange way, it was a good feeling. She was home.

  That good feeling lasted until she jumped the wall once more and carried the pot into the cottage. “I’m back. Remember to keep the pot on the edge of the coals—”

  “You!”

  Dove raised her eyes to see Bertha’s furious face looming over her as she turned. “Wha—”

  She choked back her words as Bertha jerked the hood from her head to see if it truly was the little ge-sceaft of Wynnewood. A stinging slap sent the girl reeling into the stone hearth, her eyes exploding with pain at the force of the blow.

  “Where have you been! Do you not know the trouble you have caused me? I’ve had that horrible myth monger at my door every week, his eyes accusing me of the worst crimes. The village has finally relaxed, happy that their tormenter is gone, and in you walk as if you hadn’t been gone an hour!”

  “Bertha Newcombe!” The voice at the door stunned both the midwife and her charge. As the terrified girl jerked her hood back over her head, the minister continued, “Dove, I’m happy to see you returned safe, but right now I want you to leave the cottage. Bertha and I have something to discuss.”

  Bertha’s hand grabbed her arm and held fast. “Mind your own business, Dennis Clarke.”

  Never had either Bertha or Dove ever realized how large and imposing a man the minister of Wynnewood was. He stepped into the cottage, ducking beneath the low door, and grabbed Bertha’s wrist. “Let go, Bertha. Now,” he growled as if barely containing his fury. As Dove stepped back, the man gave her a brief hug and whispered, “I am glad you are safe. Go!”

  “Watch out!”

  Dove’s cry came just in time. The freshly cleaned pot, swung by Bertha’s strong arms, nearly cracked open Broðor Clarke’s head, but at her warning, he ducked and then turned, jerking it from Bertha. “Go, Dove.”

  Eager to avoid being sideswiped by the heavy thing, Dove stepped outside the door, listening on the other side. She wasn’t disappointed. Bertha’s furious voice required no straining to hear clearly. “Who do you think you are? Get out of my house.”

  “I believe this is Dove’s house, Bertha. Even still, I won’t leave until I am certain there’ll be no more abuse of that ch—girl.”

  “What business is it of yours? I’m warning you, I’ll take this to Lord Morgan. He doesn’t tolerate interference in families.”

  “Since when are you a family? You’ve made it quite clear to that girl and everyone in this village that she’s a duty and nothing more. Regardless, Charles Morgan will not stand by and watch you manhandle the girl. He’s quite fond of her.”

  “Sometimes I understand this village’s superstitions regarding the little chit. It does seem as if she either repels or enchants people.”

  Second after long second, Dove waited to hear the minister’s reply. She knew how he hated the superstitious nonsense surrounding her. At last, he spoke again, barely suppressed anger punctuating each word. “She’s just a girl, nearly a young woman. What kind of welcome home was it to have her exposed and humiliated like that?”

  “Again, it’s none of your business! What mother wouldn’t scold, or even beat a child, for disappearing for well over a month without a word?”

  Something changed in Broðor Clarke’s tone as he replied. “I arrived just as she entered the cottage. You didn’t ask where she’d been, didn’t let her answer you. You slapped first and then asked. You were angry that she returned, not that she’d left. She’s a person, Bertha. She needs concern, understanding, affection, and love just like everyone else does.”

  As the minister spoke of love and affection, his voice grew thick—as if he was hurting as well. Dove wanted to run into the room and tell the man that she had those things now. She had friendship with Philip and the Morgans at the castle. She had affection from them even, and from the Lord of All—from I AM—she had all the love she needed. She knew that now. Without I AM, Bertha couldn’t hope to be understanding in the way Broðor Clarke wanted. However, despite the desire to defend the bitter, angry midwife, Dove couldn’t bring herself to move.

  “Bertha, you have a calling to save life—I admire and understand that—but you also are blind to the real life of the girl you saved so long ago. Your duty to her didn’t end with preserving life. You wouldn’t want someone to treat your own child so meanly.” The words were quieter, almost impossible to hear as he continued, “But Bertha, you are above this ugliness. You have such a loving heart toward everyone else. Extend just a little of that to a poor motherless girl who could be a comfort to you in your old age—if you’d let her.”

  “Who says I want comfort from that freakish thing?”

  “I don’t understand your cruelty. She’s not freakish. She’s exactly as the Lord chose her to be. That alone makes her beautiful.”

  “Maybe to your strange god, but—”

  “Aah, Bertha. Should not the opinion of the God who made her decide her worth?”

  The midwife didn’t answer for several frustrating seconds. “This is where we will never agree, Dennis Clarke. I do not bel
ieve your god is anything more than a figment of your imagination. If he were real, I might agree, but he is not.”

  “What can I say or do to show you the truth of Jesus?” The pleading in Broðor Clarke’s voice made Dove curious again. Was he always so desperate to teach the villagers about Jesus, or did only such stubborn ones as Bertha see this side of him?

  “You can’t. You’re wasting your time, and you know it.”

  “Fine.” The steel had returned to the minister’s tone. “I’ll drop it for now, but you will not lay another hand on that girl. If for no other reason than all the work she saves you, you will treat her decently if not kindly. If I hear—and I will, I assure you—of any mistreatment at all, I’ll appeal directly to Lord Morgan. You may not respect my position in this village, but you cannot ignore him.”

  Without waiting for reply, the man stormed from the house, beckoning Dove to follow him, but the girl shook her head and hurried into the cottage. As he watched the door close behind her, Broðor Clarke heard her say, “Did Letty not make something for your supper, Bertha? I’ll make some potatoes and onions. Maybe I could go get a fish while the potatoes bake.”

  Chapter 32

  A Tale of Dove

  The journey home was quite different from the trip to Oxford. Where he’d traveled with a large entourage accompanying Lord Morgan, he now walked alone or rode on farm wagons. His favorite times were when he reached a village in the late afternoon or early evening. Rather than be left behind to tend the horses or entertain Aurelia, on his way home Philip spent each evening in the local tavern, eating his dinner and listening to the stories of the locals and the minstrels.

  His third night outside of Oxford, Philip was dropped half a mile from Ibstock. Hungry and long past thirsty, Philip hurried into town, grateful to have been able to leave his pack off for the past twelve miles. He hurried along the road, smiling at two boys chasing a dog with a chicken in its mouth. It felt so long ago that he had been such a boy, racing through the village of Wynnewood on some errand or game.

  The tavern was full for an early evening, but Philip didn’t mind. Those were the best nights—when the people were there and almost drunk with good company rather than drink. The storytellers told their tales more freely, and the minstrels usually made up silly verses to add to their repertoires. An audience made the entertainment that much more entertaining.

  The tavern keeper’s wife was young, not much older than Philip himself. She teased and flattered him as he seated himself. He’d heard horrible stories of innkeepers hiring men to rob and beat the guests. With swollen eyes, it was hard to identify an attacker. Philip had made precautions. He kept the bulk of his money hidden on high beams or behind furniture, and kept enough coins to appear to be all in a pouch on his person. At each stop, he always hesitated as if the requested amount was too much before sighing and agreeing to the price.

  From the corner of the room, Philip watched the pretty young woman exchange glances with her husband. Perhaps he should just move along rather than risk a beating. He felt strong again, but how much could his body take? Even as he thought it, Philip knew it was foolish. He’d never make it stumbling over a dark road until he reached the next town. He could end up taking a fork to the east and then what would he do?

  A new idea hatched in his mind as he ate the plate of excellent stew. Prepared to give up his money and save his face from further battery, he ate, drank, and listened to a new man who started telling a tale.

  “I met a man while I was down south of Oxford who told of a cloaked creature…” Philip’s ears perked up as he listened to the story. “This creature while small, hides itself in a dark gray cloak and blends with the people, but one night, he came upon it suddenly, and its hood was back. White as moonlight, it was, with wild snowy hair, even though it was young—almost childlike. It had fiery red eyes that flickered like candle flames. He said it took one look at him and screamed—such a terrifying horrible screech that seemed to call the demons. Scared him, it did. Rushing at him and then vanished into the mists from which it was born.”

  “Born from the mists?” Philip couldn’t resist asking, although he knew his voice sounded scoffing.

  “Aye. They say the mists were so thick one night that from them, this ge-sceaft was born and now walks among us, tormenting us.”

  “Tormenting how?”

  The man leaned closer, eager to send shivers up and down Philip’s spine. A storyteller loves nothing more than an intrigued audience. “They say that the eyes are those of a sorceress who charms dragons and sends people mad with one glance.” At Philip’s exaggerated horror, the man continued. “I’ve heard of entire flocks of sheep falling dead at the sound of its voice.”

  Lost in thought, Philip didn’t notice that a new tale began—one of dragons marauding villages, hauling off their maidens to be slaves in the dragons’ lairs. How could Dove’s story—for it must be about Dove—have made it so far south? Was he with the three men who met Dove on the road from Liverpool? Could he be the one—Martin—who had not run in fear? What did that man know about Dove that made him so willing to help her?

  Before his mind could riddle out the question, a musician began playing. Some men danced, and the tavern keeper’s wife found it hard to do her work without swaying and spinning to the music. Now was a good time to yawn a few times and go to bed.

  He felt rather clever as he yawned, feigned interest in the music, swaying a bit to a slower tune, and then yawned again. Once Philip was certain that the innkeeper’s wife had seen him tired, he slipped two fingers into his pocket and tugged on the pouch string. His plan set in motion, he stood, allowing the table to catch the top of his pouch and knock it from his pocket, but Philip pretended not to notice.

  On the second floor, Philip went into his room, removed his shoes, washed his face and hands, and then removed his breeches. Then, as if panicked, he threw his clothes and shoes back on and thundered down the steps. A quick survey of the room told him he’d do better to tell the husband and let the wife overhear him.

  Speaking a little louder than necessary, Philip brushed through the dancers and shook the man’s sleeve. “Have you seen my pouch? For my money—it’s gone. I know I had it when I paid you, but when I got upstairs…”

  There it was—just what Philip had hoped to see. The innkeeper sent a glance toward his wife, and from the corner of Philip’s eye, he observed the wife hurrying to where he’d been seated. Certain that they were roped into his plan, Philip added the final touch. “I must find it. I don’t have much money as it is, and I’ve still got a good way to go before I get home. I’ll be sleeping out in fields and begging food if I don’t find that!”

  “We’ll look for it. You probably dropped it on your way to the table. It’ll probably turn up when everyone is gone. Shall we keep it for you until morning, or would you like me to bring it up to your room?”

  “I’ll get it in the morning. I’m going to look around the room first, though. Just in case. I need that money.”

  The balance between sounding desperate to find his “only” money and not sounding like a bad actor was so delicate that Philip feared crushing it. Would the man believe him? Would it work? It had to work.

  “Suit yourself. I don’t see how you expect to find anything with all those feet stomping around.”

  The utter confidence in the man’s tone told Philip that his wife had likely already retrieved the pouch. He stumbled between people, apologizing profusely, and then made a great show of searching all around the benches and table. He asked everyone around him if they’d seen it and started making noises about pickpockets.

  When enough time had passed—as much as anyone would spend looking for their money—Philip shuffled dejectedly from the room and climbed the stairs. There, that should do it. If they tried to search him now, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. All they’d find was a pack of three books, a change of clothes, and an apple that was probably a little too mushy to be any good—and he’
d probably find a couple of black eyes and a cracked rib.

  Weary, Philip turned toward Wynnewood off the main road that led north. As familiar landmarks passed, the scent of the salt in the air grew stronger until he felt as if around the next bend, he’d see the village stretch out below him. Of course, it was a ridiculous thought. The trees kept the village hidden until well past Bertha’s—now Dove’s—cottage. He knew it was a fanciful thought, but the closer he came to home, the less he cared.

  For days, he’d struggled within himself. Would it be wrong to go straight home to see his mother? What about Broðor Clarke—should he go there first and explain? Or, would it be best to walk straight to the castle and confess to Lord Morgan why he’d returned home so soon after they’d left Oxford? If what he’d heard was true, he was only a few days behind the Wynnewood party.

  He passed the tree where Dove had collapsed after their escape from the Mæte. Just remembering that horrible time made his heart ache for home. Dove had been so strange—so melancholy. Only Broðor Clarke had known what to say to assure Philip that his friend would return to her old self. Broðor Clarke…

  With longer and sprightlier strides, Philip hurried toward town. He’d talk to Broðor Clarke first. Maybe the minister would go with him to speak to Lord Morgan. It would be better to get his explanations out of the way before he went home. If he did that, he wouldn’t have to leave again once he arrived home.

  Philip saw the smoke from the cottage long before he reached the yard where Letty chopped wood, stacking it carefully as she went. Bertha’s tidy ways were becoming second nature to the girl. Somehow, Philip knew that there was more to it than a spotless home. Keeping things clean probably made births safer for mothers or something. It seemed reasonable.