The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  At the sight of the village church, the options became irksome. If anyone knew the happenings around a village, it would be the priest. Why, people told those religious men everything.

  Still uncertain, Martin found the tavern and went to see if the keeper had a spare room to rent. Tiny out-of-the-way villages didn’t often have inns, but even a place like Wynnewood might have a room he could use until he knew if he was staying or not. His resolve strengthened. He was staying. The girl was here.

  John Brewer showed him to a small chamber off the main room. “I mostly use it for storage, but whenever someone wants a room, I move the stuff into the kitchen. We can work around the barrels for a short while.”

  “How much?”

  The bartering began. Martin didn’t have much money and suspected that the brewer had work for him—including moving those heavy barrels. After nearly half an hour of good-natured bickering, the men came to an agreement. Food and shelter for Martin; help around the tavern and the rest of his coins for John.

  Of course, it didn’t give him much time to relax or even to start making inquiries about the girl. To have some place to sleep, he’d have to begin his work now. That was discouraging. He’d waited so long and now, just as the child was in his grasp, he had to ignore her. Why was survival such a necessary part of life?

  The tavern was nearly empty—too early in the day for people to come in and enjoy a tankard with their friends. Martin started to lift the first barrel and then thought better of it. Instead, he laid it on its side, rolled it from the little room to the kitchen, and stood it in the corner. One after another, he repeated the process until six barrels crowded the kitchen.

  As he worked, he joked with John, integrating himself into life at the tavern. Just before he finished, Martin tossed out the comment that he hoped would open up looser tongues than that of the midwife’s apprentice. “When I was in Cockermouth, the stories of your village ge-sceaft were the favorites of an evening. I imagine your stories of her are even better.”

  “Stories. Who wants to talk about the creature we all hope to avoid. She was gone for over a month. We thought we were rid of her, but she returned after all. Again, the children are terrorized whenever that obnoxious cloak appears.”

  “Oh, so it’s real. A girl? That’s what the story said.” It wasn’t true. The story hadn’t given a gender to the creature—just the terror associated with it. This was perfect news.

  “Oh, she’s real. The midwife says she’s harmless, and Lord Morgan protects her somewhat, but…” John Brewer’s voice trailed off ominously.

  That was all Martin needed to hear. The question now was whether he would go first to the midwife who had saved the girl or to the Earl of Wynnewood who protected her. The priest didn’t sound like someone who could help this time.

  “Then again,” John added, breaking into Martin’s thoughts, “Philip Ward is great friends with her. He says she’s just a little girl who looks a little different than most, but I don’t know if he’s actually seen her.”

  “He’s probably right.” It was all Martin could do to keep his opinions to himself. Ignorant peasants.

  It took some time to extricate himself from John’s many stories about the so-called creature. Poisoned oysters indeed. They’d probably not bothered to wash the things properly; that was more like it. Insanity—the village seemed populated with people afflicted with it. Creature, poison, demon—what would they come up with next?

  “Does this village have a fletcher?” That should be a safe change of conversation.

  “Yep. He’s a good one. I recommend him highly.”

  Frustrated, Martin nodded. “I suppose he has a good assistant.”

  “Nope. His apprentice spent six years fetching and carrying like some old woman. It was shameful, but the Wards didn’t bring him up before the guild. Lord Morgan’s doing, I suspect.”

  “Lord Morgan is the lord of the castle then? They mentioned him in Cockermouth.”

  “That he is. Good man, our lord. Not like his fæder and grandfæder. He treats us right.”

  Martin grew curious. “Why would the Earl of Wynnewood care about a village boy?”

  “It’s like I told you; the earl isn’t like most others. He takes care of his people. Philip is a good lad—smart.”

  “The same Philip who is friends with the girl?”

  “The ge-sceaft?” John poured himself a tankard of mead and took a swig. At Martin’s nod, he smiled. “You’re like him. You don’t like calling her ‘the creature.’ Why is that?”

  “It seems cruel to call a child names. What good does it do?” Before the tavern keeper could answer, Martin answered his own question. “Nothing. It might cause terrible harm, though. I’ve known normal people who were stoned, hung, or even driven mad to suicide by the cruelty of people who don’t understand a little difference.”

  “’Tain’t just a little difference. They say she has horns and a tail.”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  John took another swig of his drink. “No I haven’t, and I don’t want to. Freakish thing that one is.”

  “Then how can you know she’s anything but a normal child?”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “Why should you care? You’re a stranger to these parts, aren’t you?”

  “I am, but as I said,” Martin repeated and then stopped. “I’m just curious.”

  Chapter 36

  Panic

  Dove wasn’t in the clearing. Philip spun in circles, debating whether it was worth the few minutes to dash to the cottage to see if she’d mentioned hunting or working in the forest. She could be at the castle. Why, just yesterday, Aurelia had told him, in French no less, that Dove finally had learned to remove her gloves for their embroidery sessions.

  His mind made up, Philip sprinted toward the cottage. If the shovel was missing, it might mean Dove decided to work on the pool. She was constantly transplanting new flowers and plants to enhance the beauty of it. The shovel was not on the pegs at the side of the house. She was planting.

  Trying to ignore the rising panic that came with each new mental question about the stranger, Philip walked quickly across the clearing, turning east toward the part of Wyrm Forest where Dove had dug her pool. Who was this man and what did he want with Dove? Was she in danger? It seemed impossible that she was not. Should he go to Lord Morgan first? Half way to the part of the forest where the river flowed deepest, Philip paused. Perhaps he should go first to the castle.

  As quickly as he thought it, he dropped that idea. Broðor Clarke would be there long before Philip could make it up that hill. He’d see Dove first. Besides, she might go home and hearing it from Letty would be disastrous. Memories of a terrified girl cringing behind him as Dove advanced told him he should be the one to tell her. Dove wouldn’t hurt him; would she?

  As he neared the chosen spot for Dove’s project, Philip realized that he hadn’t even noticed her high voice singing through the trees. He’d been home long enough that such things were familiar—comforting. How he had survived a year in Oxford without the scent of the salt air, the taste of it on his tongue, or the sound of Dove’s songs floating on the mists that rolled in from the sea?

  This was where he belonged. This village. These people. He’d be a good minister. They’d call him Broðor Philip or Broðor Ward, and he’d teach them to trust the Bible, to protect it from being adulterated. He’d put on Broðor Clarke’s mantle until he was too old and weak to wear it and then perhaps another village boy would be ready to take it on—maybe even his own son.

  He was amazed at Dove’s progress. Ferns grew beneath the great tree, and violets were clustered at the base of the ferns. It was beautiful.

  “Dove?”

  “I wondered when you’d speak.”

  “So why didn’t you say something?”

  The hood turned toward him, and in one of those rare times that the light hit it just right, he was sure he could see the tip of her n
ose, pure white in the sunlight. Instinctively, his head ducked.

  “Thank you, Philip. It means more to me than ever.”

  “What does?”

  The girl turned back to her flower bed and stomped the dirt down more as she talked. “That you try to respect my covering. Now that you’ve seen me—”

  “Which I don’t remember.”

  “—you could just keep looking. It would likely fill in your memory. I’m thankful, though. I wonder how long we’d be friends if you did.”

  The anger that had welled up in his heart at the news of the stranger returned even stronger. “You don’t trust me!”

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  Her words stunned him. He stammered at first and then spat, “I’ve been your friend when I didn’t understand, when it nearly cost me my own friends, and when it put my life in danger, but you can’t trust me to stick by you because you look a little different than some people do. It’s unjust, Dove.”

  “It is what it is. What brought you here? Your footsteps weren’t those of someone looking for a way to pass time.”

  “You can tell more about someone by their footsteps than most people can by what they actually say.” The words were meant to be a compliment, but even to Philip’s ears, they sounded peevish.

  “What have I done now, Philip?” The sigh in her voice indicated weariness from more than the hard work of the day.

  “Nothing—sorry. I didn’t mean it how it sounded. I was trying to pay you a compliment, but…”

  The hood turned again, and once more, the tip of a nose showed. She was getting careless. “What’s wrong, Philip? You’re not yourself.”

  He wandered to the base of the enormous tree that overhung the pool and sank to the ground beneath it. “You always know what I am thinking, don’t you?”

  “Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

  There it was—the impish teasing that characterized his little—Philip glanced at Dove once more—not so little friend. He hated to frighten her. “Remember when I told you about the stories in that tavern? Remember how I said that the man said a man was wandering through the south asking about a girl that sounded just like you?”

  “Yes…”

  “I think that man is here. Letty says a man wandered past the cottage a while ago asking about a girl who always wears a cloak. She was terrified.”

  “Letty is afraid of her own shadow. It’s probably one of those minstrels who tries to find all he can about something before he writes his song.”

  “I don’t think so, Dove. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  Dove sat next to him, tossing the shovel aside as she settled against the rough trunk of the tree. “What could he want with me?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems so—”

  She stood. Gathering her flask, shovel, and a bucket for what use he couldn’t imagine, Dove began walking back through the forest. He watched as she seemed to float through the trees and over the ground until she was nearly out of sight. He’d have to run to catch up if he didn’t hurry.

  “Where are you going?” Philip asked the question when he was still ten or fifteen feet behind her. The sound of an animal in the underbrush made him miss the answer. He started to ask again, when her words sank into his mind. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You can’t do that. What will Bertha say?”

  The hood turned and glanced over Dove’s shoulder. There it was again—that white-tipped nose. Why was Dove being so careless? She’d never—He stopped mid- thought. The cloak barely covered her knees. It was too small.

  “Dove, you need a new cloak.”

  “This one has plenty of wear in it.”

  “I’m sure it does, but look how short it is. I keep seeing your nose. You aren’t hiding yourself well in it. I thought you were growing careless, but—”

  The hood jerked forward and Philip smiled. The back no longer drooped as it had when he’d first seen her swing up over the edge of the Nicor Cliffs. The impatient flick of her fingers told him that she felt it. “Bertha won’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “She’ll have to spend money on the cloth. The weaver hasn’t had a baby in seven years.

  “True, but she hasn’t paid rent in over three years thanks to you. A little fabric for a cloak or two should be nothing.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” It was clear that Dove hadn’t intended for him to hear her, but Philip did.

  Not willing to get into that subject, Philip returned to the previous topic. “I still think you’re asking for a tongue-lashing if you think taking off to the Mæte is a good idea.”

  “Jakys will hide me until this man leaves. You can tell Bertha that I’m safe.”

  “No.”

  Dove spun to look at him, her hood sliding back in that odd way it seemed to do now. She jerked it in place and stood with hands on her hips. “What. Did. You. Say?”

  “I said no. First, we go to Lord Morgan and tell him. Then if you still want to go, I’ll tell Bertha that you heard about him and fled, but that I’ll be meeting you at night sometimes.”

  “And if I don’t go to Lord Morgan?”

  “Then you can deal with Bertha when you get back.”

  Her hands flew up in the air in a gesture of impatience and disgust. “So you’d leave me at the mercy of the woman who attacked me when I returned home after a long journey to try to rescue a friend.”

  “I would.” As hard as it was to say it, Philip was determined to have Lord Morgan’s influence over Dove if at all possible. He remembered the last time she’d been a guest of the Mæte—and how it had nearly cost them their lives. Yes, she was under Waleron’s protection, but for how long?

  She turned, carrying her things back to the site of the pool, and hung them in a tree. Without a word, she strode to the edge of the river and walked downstream until she reached the narrowest, shallowest part. Dove didn’t even hesitate—she plunged into the water, the current trying to sweep her with it, but the girl was stronger than she seemed.

  Her voice called back to him from halfway across the river. “This was your idea. If you want to tell Lord Morgan, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll leave and you will tell Bertha that I have gone to hide. I’ll have done my part.”

  Grinning, Philip stepped into the river, working his way across as his father had taught him years before when he was just a young boy. Adam would learn in just a couple of years. The child was headstrong—like Will, Philip’s mother said—and autocratic. For a moment, he pictured Dove as a five-year-old, standing at the edge of the Wyrm and glaring at Bertha screaming, “I get hare!”

  When he caught up with her, she snorted. “You find something too amusing for me not to be curious.”

  “I was just picturing you as a child, informing Bertha that you would have rabbit stew for dinner if you had to kill the creature yourself.”

  To his astonishment, she ducked her head. “I didn’t know anyone ever saw that. Did you see the beating she gave me after she caught me?”

  Fury flooded Philip’s heart. “I didn’t see any of it,” he snapped. “I just had a mental picture of you wanting something and being determined to get it whether she’d help or not.” He wrung out the bottom of his tunic as they began the climb toward the castle. “Sometimes I hate her.”

  “Philip, no. I was saucy—impertinent. I deserved it.”

  “You were just a child.”

  “Would your fæder allow Adam to speak so to him?”

  “He wouldn’t beat—” Philip stopped and considered. “Not excessively anyway. He will teach and—”

  “Bertha and your fæder could give the same gift and Bertha’s would be a curse in your mind. They could each scold for the same thing and your fæder’s would be justified while Bertha’s would be excessive. She’s not evil, Philip. She’s wise and committed to life. I owe her mine.”
/>   “You owe Jesus more, but you will not give it.” The words spilled from his lips before he could check them.

  “It would seem so, wouldn’t it?”

  His brow furrowed. Something in her words sounded strange, as if she meant more than she said, but he could not imagine what. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—” Dove hesitated and then shook her head. “It isn’t important right now.”

  “I AM is—”

  “I meant what I was going to say isn’t. I need to get away, quickly. I don’t have time to discuss I AM. Let’s hurry.”

  Chapter 37

  Martin’s Tale

  Charles Morgan listened to the story of the stranger asking about Dove with great interest. As Philip spoke animatedly about the stories he’d heard on the way home, Lord Morgan watched Dove. She was even more skittish than she’d been in Oxford.

  “Dove? What do you think of all this?”

  “I just want to hide until he goes away.”

  “I suppose you plan to hide where you were the winter you were gone for that week?”

  Aurelia’s head snapped to see what her father meant, but Dove answered before she could ask. “Yes.”

  “I don’t think you should go. You should go home. If this man has been wandering England all this time, he’s not going to leave until he is satisfied. I will find and talk to him. I will make sure that he does not approach you without your consent.”

  “How can—”

  “Lord Morgan is the Earl of Wynnewood. People will not cross him, Dove!”

  She didn’t answer. The cloak didn’t even twitch. Lord Morgan and his daughter exchanged glances and then Aurelia asked, “What is it, Dove? Don’t you think Father will protect you?”

  “I think,” Dove began carefully, “that you cannot understand.”