At Durham, he worked for nearly a week, pushing the millstone for the miller. Each night he entered the tavern, drank his ale, and listened to the stories, telling different ones he’d heard all over England when asked, but he didn’t mentioned a cloaked creature or a girl with hair like moonlight.
With more patience than he’d ever had, he waited until the last day the miller had work for him. Once he’d taken advantage of a bath in the miller’s kitchen, Martin put on his clean clothes, thanked the miller’s wife for good meals, a clean bed, and freshly laundered clothes, and took off toward the tavern. It was time.
He pushed open the door, the darkness of the room contrasting greatly with the glow of the setting sun outside. Candles flickered in sconces along the wall, and the tables held thick round candles, large enough to burn for hours. The great fireplace cast a warm glow over the room, but still, with only one small window, it was dark and that made it seem a bit dingy. But still, it seemed a nice place to gather of an evening.
“Hey, it’s Martin! Come give us a song—that one about the maid who gave her life for the knight,” the tavern keeper called as Martin entered the door.
“Let me get a tankard of mead in me first! Father Henry is always good for a story. Ask him first. I’ve been working all day while he sits around here waiting for the rest of us to cease our labors.”
The banter flew back and forth between the local priest, Martin, and George the tavern keeper. The locals loved it. When it seemed as though they’d leave off their verbal sparring, someone would insert a comment designed to rouse it again.
“I think Father Henry has won again.”
“When you’re educated in the art of debate, what can you expect but to win over uneducated peasants?”
“Speak for yourself, George. I happen to have a trade, I can read, and I’ve traveled all over England.”
“Then,” another voice called from across the room, “why don’t you have the last word if you’re so clever?”
The priest’s eyes rolled exaggeratedly, but Martin shook his head. “Some things I don’t discuss with those who have no knowledge of them. A priest cannot marry, therefore he cannot comprehend the life of a man with a wife and a family. It isn’t fun to beat a man who has no chance at winning.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” the room called, laughing at the priest’s expense.
“Come on now, Martin. Surely, there is another story or two that you haven’t told us yet. I’ve never heard of someone traveling so much and hearing so many stories—not someone who wasn’t a minstrel.”
It was time. The question wasn’t whether to ask the question but when. Should he ask first and then appease with a story or smooth the way? Instinctively, it seemed, he chose the latter. Had he the talent to form his own stories, he would have woven a tale of such a creature as he sought and then asked if it seemed familiar. Next time. He needed time to plan it. Like many of his comrades, he had a talent for fleshing out a story—drawing out new details until it almost seemed new. Alas, creating one from a few facts was beyond his abilities.
He told again of the maiden who saved the knight and died as a result. Despite his eagerness to ask the question burning in his heart all week, Martin dragged every detail out of the story that he could muster. He told of the way the young girl’s arms shook with the weight of the sword, how her first thrust into the giant’s heart barely pierced its skin, and smiled as the room erupted in applause as he finished with a bit of gruesome flourish in the detail of the final plunge of sword into the fearsome beast. After a tale such as that, he was sure they’d be eager to help him find that which he sought.
“You know, I’ve heard of a creature who wanders the forests wearing a cloak at all times—a little thing with a high-pitched voice like a little girl. Does anyone know that story?”
Murmurs of a less than helpful kind filled the room until one older man in the corner turned to someone near him. “Seems like some time back, that woman came through here with a little thing wearing a cloak—remember? Scared the children to death it did. They all said it was a ghost wearing a child’s cloak—white it was.”
A few others nodded. Martin, eager to hear more, moved closer to the man. “When was this?”
“About ten years ago, wasn’t it? Seems like it was the spring before my Sarah died.”
“That it was,” a woman nearby agreed. “I remember because my little sister got so close the thing touched her. Modor was sure Mary would die of some terrible disease.”
“What happened to her?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone chased them out of town—didn’t want no ghost-child here!”
“Who was the woman with her?” He was pushing it, he knew, but Martin couldn’t help asking.
“Don’t know her name. She was a midwife though. Modor was angry that she’d brought a thing like that here. We needed another midwife.” She eyed Martin curiously. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve heard tales about her, but I never knew they were true. I just thought I’d get the northern version of the story.”
Even as he spoke, Martin was making plans to leave. They’d been seen this far north in the last decade. It wasn’t much, but it was something. One piece of the puzzle was firmly in place.
Days turned into weeks as Martin traveled across England, searching—always searching. From Durham he traveled to Finchale, Blanchland, Hexham, Lanercost, Carlisle… each town or village brought a little work, enough food to keep him going, and sometimes a longer stay when he needed new shoes or wore through his breeches. Tavern after tavern he sat and listened to the stories of dragons, unicorns, brave soldiers in battle, and knights with their fair ladies.
Occasionally, bits of a story or song sounded nearly like what he sought, but with the tradition of changing stories as they are told, no one could be sure of the origin or even if it was based on truth. It discouraged him, yet he trudged onward, determined to find the girl. Time was against him. As each week passed with more stories but no answers, she seemed to slip further from his grasp.
He’d been working on making his question into a story. As his feet slogged over muddy roads, he recited the words that he hoped would finally spark some kind of memory. Desperation spurred his feet onward as he filled in every detail he’d ever known or imagined about the girl. It had to be perfect.
At last, he entered Cockermouth one Saturday in early spring. As he spent almost the last of his money to buy lunch, Martin realized that it had been most of a year since the meeting where the little thing had flung back her hood. In his mind, he could see the fire reflected in her eyes and the terror on her face even as she screamed to frighten away the men who threatened her.
A boy raced toward him, carrying a live chicken by the neck. A rotund man, huffing and panting, waddled after him, shouting for him to stop. People in the streets paused, laughing at the scene before him. Somehow, Martin had a strong feeling that it was a common occurrence.
Why he did it, Martin didn’t know, but he stepped in front of the boy and braced himself for impact. Glancing behind him, the boy didn’t notice someone in his path until seconds before he plowed into the larger man, knocking the wind from both of them.
“Whoa, lad. Why is the man chasing you?”
“Let me go!” the boy screamed, trying to wriggle out of Martin’s grip. “Let. Me. Go!”
The pursuer lumbered up to Martin, gasping his thanks. “This young scamp has stolen his last chicken. I’m turning him over to the constable this time.”
Without another word, the man grabbed the boy’s ear and dragged the child up the street. Martin shrugged and stared at the chicken that now pecked the ground at his feet. He scooped it up and tried to follow the others. An old woman pointed to a street a dozen yards away. “Down there to the left. Peter will be along soon.”
The directions weren’t very helpful, but once Martin turned down the side street, he knew immediately where to go. Peter was a butcher—a nasty job if ever t
here was one. He’d worked for one down in Dorchester, and though it paid well— and he ate well, of course— the stench of freshly killed animals had lingered in his nostrils for weeks.
Bringing back the chicken might be an excellent way to make a little money, but was it worth it? He didn’t want to. The idea was utterly repugnant. However, he needed food, money, and information. This was a means to two-thirds of that.
“You brought it back?”
The voice behind him nearly made Martin jump. “I thought it wouldn’t do you much good to catch the culprit and still lose the animal.”
The butcher gave him a slow onceover. “Looking for work?”
“For a week or two. I’m looking for someone, but a man has to eat while he travels.”
“I’ll give you all the work you want for as long as I have it. Honest men are difficult to find around here, it seems.”
Martin took a deep breath and met the other man’s eyes. “I haven’t always been an honest man. You should know that.”
“You’re honest now and that’s what counts. Keep watch over the stall while I get this boy to the constable. He’s stolen his last animal from me.”
Martin pushed open the door of the liveliest tavern in Cockermouth. He’d spent a week going from business to business to see where he was most likely to hear a good story and better yet, be asked to tell one. After all his practice, it was time to see if anyone in this area had heard of the little cloaked girl.
The mead was terrible. Had he not had an agenda, Martin would have left the tavern and returned to one of the better establishments. Instead, he barely sipped it, waiting for the right opportunity to insert his own story. It didn’t take long.
“Hey, you there—the butcher’s assistant. What’s your name?”
“Martin.”
“Got a story for us?”
He wrapped his hands around the tankard as if enjoying the contents. His eyes fixed on the candle on his table and he began telling the story he’d worked so long and hard to improve. “Over the roads of England, a little cloaked girl wandered, singing in a high voice to ward off animals. Afraid of people, the cloaked girl hides any time she encounters them. Some say she’s a ghost, terrorizing villages and towns with her white hair and pale skin. It has even been said that her eyes glow like fire at night. One night, three outlaws came upon her and her fire. Frightened, she threw back her hood and screamed like a banshee—”
“Aw, he’s a terrible storyteller,” the man nearest him insisted. “I’ve heard my son tell of the ge-sceaft of Wynnewood better than that.”
“Ge-seaft?”
“Sure. You were telling of the cloaked creature of Wynnewood, right? The one that was formed from the mists and charms dragons? The one who saved the Lord’s daughter?”
Martin’s heart pounded in his chest. At last, someone knew of the girl—actually knew who he sought. It seemed impossibly easy after such a long search. A few others took up the discussion, telling harrowing tales of death by one glance of the uncovered eyes and the creature enchanting unicorns.
“Why I heard that she can control the dragons of Wynnewood with her eyes,” someone cried out from near the door.
Other rumors flew throughout the room. Horns, strength of ten oxen, and the ability to fly were just a few of the attributes that people claimed the child possessed. She mesmerized dragons, unicorns, and demons—in fact, people assumed she was a demon, their princess. Scynscaþa.
At last, Martin couldn’t wait any longer to ask. “Where is Wynnewood from here?”
“About ten miles maybe?” The man looked to his friends for affirmation.
“Sure—about that,” another one agreed.
“North? East? West? I know it isn’t south.”
“Northwest. Follow the road until it branches and then go west toward the sea. What do you want in Wynnewood?”
“Your ge-sceaft—I hope.”
Chapter 35
Stranger
The sound of an axe biting into logs rang through the trees as Martin rounded the bend toward Wynnewood. There a girl swung an axe, splitting wood into manageable pieces and then stacked it beside the little cottage. Her golden hair curled around her temples as if evidence of hard work.
“Hello, there. Strong girl for someone so young.”
Letty glanced up at the strange man, smiling, her natural cheerfulness and friendliness welcoming him before she spoke a word. “Good day to you. Long travel?”
“Yes.”
She hurried to the water bucket and carried a dipper over to the man. “Drink?”
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.” After drinking the water, he pointed to the neat yard and solid cottage. “You have a nice house here. I imagine not everyone in Wynnewood has such a pleasant home.”
Taking the dipper from him, Letty offered another drink, but the man declined. “This isn’t my house. This is Bertha the midwife’s house. I’m just her assistant. I’m in training,” she added proudly.
Something in what she said interested the man and that made her uncomfortable. She picked up the axe to split another log when he asked an unexpected question. “Is there a girl in this village—one who wears a cloak?”
Letty froze. She glanced over her shoulder, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you mean. Lots of people wear cloaks when it’s cold.”
“This girl wears them all the time.”
“I—I think that’d be inconvenient. Excuse me. I’d better get this wood inside and start the stew. Bertha will expect her supper on time. Good day.”
Inside the cottage, Letty took a deep breath and glanced around her as if looking for what to do next. She couldn’t go find Bertha—not without passing the man on the road and letting him see that she’d lied to him. She couldn’t go through Wyrm Forest. No, the dragons didn’t live there after all—Dove had proven that—but it was still a frightful place, particularly when the mists were slowly encroaching over all of Wynnewood. They’d be particularly thick in the forest.
Another idea occurred to her. Letty banked the fire and then hurried out the cottage, across the road, through the trees, and into one of the fields. It was a long route, but she’d reach Bertha faster than waiting for the man to reach the village and start asking about Dove there. What could he want with her anyway? She’d never have shown herself—even when she was gone. What did it all mean?
The huts along the shore where the fishermen lived were a crowded, smelly place. Letty hated having to go near it and had even suggested that when she became midwife, she wouldn’t go there. The fishermen’s wives could find someone else to catch their babies. Just the memory of it made Letty’s hand cover her cheek as if she could still feel the sting of the slap. Bertha had been furious. If anyone’s baby needed a good, healthy start in the world, it was a fisherman’s child, the woman had asserted. There was no excuse for being snobbish; their responsibility was to preserve and enhance life.
Were it not for the familiar face of old Sanders, she wouldn’t have found the correct cottage as quickly. “Good evening, Sanders. Is Bertha with your daughter?”
“Aye, she is. Always seems to be here checking before a baby, during a birthin’, or after a baby.”
“Bertha is a good midwife. Can I go in?”
“Can’t stop you.”
That was as close to “You’re welcome in our home” as Sanders ever came, so Letty nodded and knocked as she entered. “Hello? Bertha? Sanders said I could come in…”
“What do you want? You’re supposed to be doing the laundry.”
“A man—” Letty gasped, “—came to the cottage. A stranger. He asked about Dove.”
“About the girl? That doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone ask about her? Go home and do your work, girl, and quit being so ridiculous.”
“But he did. I’ve never seen him before, but he asked about a girl who wears a cloak all the time. If you’d have seen him, you’d know I’m right. What does a stranger want with Dove? I t
hought—”
“Stop thinking and go finish your chores. You’re the most exasperating child at times.”
“I’m not a child!” Letty backed away from the angry woman advancing on her. “I was just worried about Dove.” She took another step backward and added, “Not that I should be surprised that no one cares. She’s just a nobody around here.” With those words, Letty flew out the door and toward the church. If Bertha wouldn’t listen, Philip would. He was very protective of his friend.
She burst into the chapel, calling for Philip long before she stepped inside. “You’ve got to come with me, Philip. Someone’s looking for Dove—a stranger.”
“What?” Philip pushed his bench away from the table where Broðor Clarke glanced up from his book. “Who?”
“I told you, a stranger. He stopped at the cottage on the way into town and asked if a girl lived in town—one who wore a cloak all the time. I think he’s headed for the tavern.”
The look on Philip’s face sent a cold dread over Letty. He was terrified and worse, angry. Before Broðor Clarke could ask a question, Philip raced out of the room calling out behind him, “That man in the tavern on the way here—he said someone told of a girl who looked just like Dove. It has to be him.”
Letty stared at Broðor Clarke, confused, and then burst into tears. “I wish they’d never have left Wynnewood. Life was fine before they went away, and now everything is horrible. Philip was nearly killed, Bertha is crabbier than ever, and even Dove doesn’t talk to me like she used to—not that it was much.”
Broðor Clarke stared at the empty doorway, the blur of Letty’s skirt disappearing with her down the road. Confusion grew into concern and that prompted prayers. Somehow, Wynnewood’s notorious tattletale had grown into a caring young woman. When had that happened?
Martin wandered down the road toward the village, glancing over his shoulder from time to time and looking for evidence that the girl followed. He had no doubt that she was hiding something if not lying. This was the place. Now the question was whether the tavern was best or if he should go straight to the castle. Some of the stories he’d heard told of the ge-sceaft saving the lord’s daughter from kidnappers.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 67