Smiling, Broðor Clarke stroked his chin. “I’ll be sure to air mine daily from now on. I wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of Bertha Newcombe.”
“Dennis Clarke!” She sounded appalled at the idea that she could produce such wrath. “You imply that you have never before seen my wrath. I must remedy that—after I speak with the agent. I do not want someone else to convince him to let them have it.”
As the woman hurried down the road and over the bridge, Dennis Clarke chuckled and returned to his own cottage. The sight of his rumpled bed brought a fresh smile to his lips. He turned back the covers and opened the door to allow the morning air to flow through the cottage.
“Things are changing in Wynnewood, Lord. Things are definitely changing.”
The man was there, talking with Philip, when Dove stepped from the trees. The sward that separated the timberline from the Point seemed both a mile wide and much too short at the same time. He saw her and moved a little closer, but Dove stepped back to allow the trees to hide her.
Philip’s voice called to her in the same way he had when she first heard it. “Wait! Dove, please wait!” He ran through the grasses to her side, much faster than he’d been when younger. He held out his hand. “Come. You know I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She took his hand, but resisted as he tried to pull her with him. “I don’t know, Philip. I—”
“Imagine how he feels, Dove. His family was stripped from him. He can see you. You’re within his grasp, but you won’t come. It’s killing him.”
“He was a criminal.” Her protest sounded weak even to her own ears.
“He stopped thieving the moment he saw us at Oxford. He lost all desire to be a decent person when he lost you.”
“You’ll stay? You promise?”
“I promise, Dove.”
She followed him, one step behind, ready to bolt if… If what? She asked herself. If he spoke to her? Of course, he would. If he reached for her? It would be natural if he was her father. If he asked to see her? That was reasonable, wasn’t it? Her stomach clenched. It may be reasonable, but it didn’t feel reasonable.
“Ro—Dove?”
“What were you going to call me?”
“Rosa. Your mother named you Rosa before you were even born. She hoped—”
“I’m sorry.”
The man stared at her, trying to see into her hood, but she shrank at his scrutiny. “Sorry? Why are you sorry?”
“That I did not fit the name.”
“I wasn’t. It was her desire, not mine. I wanted a daughter who looked just like her and a son who looked just like me. I never had the chance to have the son, and I thought my daughter was dead.”
The man stepped closer, but she stepped back again. Despite the pain in his face and the hope in his eyes, she resisted him. Philip was right. She did have his nose.
Screwing up her courage, she stepped forward, offering her gloved hand. Martin, her father, glanced at Philip first before taking it and squeezing it. “Can we walk?” His eyes slid toward the cliff. “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable if we went toward the trees or up the road near your cottage—somewhere not quite so close to a cliff.”
She turned to Philip for encouragement. “You’ll stay close?”
“I can if you like. I’ll just give you a little time to get ahead of me—for privacy.”
At first, they didn’t speak. Martin held her hand in the same comforting way that Philip did sometimes. She slid her eyes often to see what his face might reveal, but she didn’t speak. The man seemed quite comfortable just being there with her, and the more that she thought of it, the more sense it made. After ten years apart from anyone, just knowing they were alive would be a great comfort.
“Tell me about my modor.”
Without hesitating, the man began telling of a beautiful girl who lived in his village. She’d grown up there and people accepted her, although as she grew older, they were a bit unnerved by her. “Her beauty helped. People forgive in beautiful people what they will not in the ugly.”
“This is true. I have often thought that.” She shook her head, the cloak hood flopping with the motion. “I usually have thought of it in the opposite manner. That which people admire in the average person is unforgiveable in a freak.”
“From what I have heard, people have been unkind to you. Your cloak adds mystery to you and frightens them.”
“Yes, but it also protects my skin. Bertha is sure that is why I have never had any sores.”
“Margaret didn’t develop sores until her twentieth year.”
“Then it may have been for nothing,” Dove agreed sadly.
“I don’t think so. The sores were worse in summer. I think that rolling back her sleeves and working without a hat made them worse anyway. By the time we figured it out, it was too late. They seemed permanent.”
“She wasn’t as beautiful then, I suppose.”
“No, and the villagers began to fear her. I thought we’d move to a town where no one had known her as the beautiful Margaret. I thought it would help, but…”
A sense of loyalty, one she couldn’t quite understand, blossomed in Dove’s heart. “It is not your fault that you tried to protect your family.”
“You still look like her.”
“I don’t think I do. Philip says I have your nose, and I do. I can see it, but I am not beautiful. You saw me. I frightened those men away.”
“It was your eyes. Your face was hers. I almost lost my mind when I realized who you must be.”
“And you hid me from the others in that farmhouse.”
Martin nodded. If they had not been there, I would have tried to detain you—convince you of who I was, who you were. I just couldn’t with them there. They might have killed both of us.”
“Philip says you searched all of England looking for me.”
“Yes. Almost a year, but I found you.”
Dove hesitated. It was such a personal thing, but at last she spoke. Fæder?”
A sob choked the man as he answered, “Yes?”
“I am glad you found me.”
“Philip! Are you here?” Dove crashed through the underbrush with an abandon very unusual for her.
“I could hear you coming for a mile.”
“I was trying to find you.” She glanced around the pool. “What are you doing here?”
He shook his head. “What did you want?”
“Bertha has moved out of my cottage!”
“She has? Why?”
“I went to see her,” the girl gasped as she collapsed on her log, “and she wouldn’t see me. She told me to go home and leave her alone. Letty followed me though. She says that Bertha expected me to turn her out, so she spoke to Lord Morgan’s agent about the fletcher’s cottage.”
Philip’s heart sank. He’d heard about Una and Tom, but didn’t know what to think of it. “If I had only learned enough, I could make Lord Morgan’s arrows for him. I’m only good for repairing them.”
“Fæder says he will teach you if you want to learn. He says that you are intelligent and quick.” She nearly bubbled with excitement. “Is not I AM good to bring us a new fletcher before the old one leaves?”
“He is, Dove.”
She started to speak, but hesitated. “I wondered…”
“You wondered what?”
“Would I be foolish to offer Fæder a place in my cottage? I don’t know him, not really, but he seems—”
“I don’t think you would be foolish, but we’ll ask Lord Morgan’s advice.” Philip pulled two bundles from behind the tree and handed one to her.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Dove untied the string and opened the cloth that covered a pair of breeches and a tunic. As she raised her hood to him, Philip was sure her eyes were questioning. “What—”
His answer was to untie his revealing a larger pair of breeches, with a patch on the knee, and another tunic. She would recognize the patch. “He said yes
.”
“Who said yes? Why did you bring us clothes? Where are we going? Wha—”
“Broðor Clarke. He said that believers are all priests. That I can baptize you.”
Astonished, Philip watched as she flung her cloak from her, jerked off her boots, and dove into the water. Her head came up, facing away from him, her hands splashing as she bobbed up and down in the cold pool. “Come on then! How does it work? We both go down into the water. Philip said so. Then what?”
Philip pulled his own shoes from his feet and eased himself over the side of the pool. “This is really cold, Dove.”
“Refreshing, isn’t it?” Her voice caught. “I suppose that is appropriate. Refreshing, clean water for baptism.”
Epilogue for Sensible Readers
The sun slowly set over the ocean, its fiery beams stretching for miles. Waves crashed up against the rocks, sending salt spray into the air. Philip glanced beside him at Dove and smiled at her. “Martin asked me to work with him.”
“I know.”
“I told him no. I’m ready for the church. I might even be Wynnewood’s first married minister.”
“I am glad you listened to Broðor Clarke.” Dove’s voice held an air of satisfaction to it. “When will you be finished?”
“Broðor Clarke says at least four years. I’ll be twenty—maybe twenty-one.”
They sat and watched as the sun sank lower in the sky, neither saying anything, both happy just to be there. At last, Dove spoke. “I never expected to be so happy—to have family. You never expected to be a minister with a family.”
“‘God sets the solitary in families.’ You were alone even with Bertha, but now you have the Lord’s family and your natural family. I have a family that I left and returned to again. I expected to be solitary without a family, but God seems to have given me that opportunity.”
Before Dove could respond, a rumble near the caves sent both young people scrambling to their feet. Slowly, they backed away, eyes wide at the burst of fire from the cliff. “Philip…”
A terrible roar erupted seconds before the dragon burst through the cave, diving down toward the water and then up again, soaring over the ocean, circling, her wings flapping powerfully. Another roar—it sounded triumphant—filled the evening air.
“Why has she left her egg? Is it—”
The dragon swooped down to the water, its great claws grabbing an enormous fish before flying back toward the cliff. “Down in the grass,” Philip hissed. “Keep your head down.”
They dropped to the ground, flattening themselves and watching in awe as the dragon gave one more terrifying roar as she landed at the tops of the cliff—exactly where Dove had escaped her wrath just four years earlier. She climbed down and returned to her lair, carrying the fish in her ugly mouth.
Philip stood cautiously. “She’s gone back—already. Why—” He grinned as he pulled Dove up beside him. “The egg has hatched! She was calling to her mate!”
“Should we be out here if he might be coming?” Dove’s question came as she backed away toward the timberline. “I don’t really care to be his present to his wife.”
Once more, Philip and Dove raced across the sward, into the timberline, over the road, and into Wyrm Forest to escape the wrath of a dragon. The great thundering sweeps of Sir Dragon’s wings pounded overhead as he flew over Wynnewood and to the cliffs. Another father reunited with his family—at last.
Epilogue for Connoisseurs of Mush
Five years later…
Weeks had passed since Philip had last spent time with Dove. It seemed like months. Ever since he’d taken over the duties of the chapel, Philip’s time seemed to belong to everyone but himself. However, he’d awakened that morning to a sunny day, no pressing needs, confidence in his Sunday lesson, and a little excited at the prospect of seeking out his friend again.
Broðor Clarke’s words teased him anew as he pulled on his socks and boots. Dove needs you now more than ever. Don’t let your duties to the village crowd out the duties you have toward your friends.
He was right. Philip grabbed a chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese, filled a flask with mead, and strolled out of his cottage door. In the early hours of the morning, the tradesmen were beginning their days, but the villagers were still home eating their breakfasts and getting their day started. It was the perfect time to leave.
He waved at Aubrey as he passed the mill and set off for the clearing. If she wasn’t there, and he didn’t expect that she would be, he’d move onto the pool. She’d said many times that she felt closest to the Lord there. Particularly since her baptism.
As he approached, her voice reached him, tugging at his heart as it always did. It was still the clear high voice that characterized her, but now it had a fullness—a richness. It was hard to imagine that his waif-like little friend with a child’s voice was now a woman. Then again, was he not a man?
Philip smiled to himself. At fifteen, he’d been so eager for others to recognize his maturity. He had wanted his adult status recognized at every opportunity. Now that so many more years had passed, he felt more like a child than he had when he was one.
He paused as he stepped between the trees near the pool, his heart jumping into his throat. Dove’s cloak hung from a peg driven into the great oak tree within reach. She sat on the same moss-covered log that she’d used as her bench ever since she’d rolled it there while he was off in Oxford. Her long, nearly white hair hung down her back in damp curls, soaking the tunic and breeches beneath it.
Still, he hesitated. Surely, she’d heard him. Why had she not covered? Not since the day of her baptism had he seen any part of her except the rare times her hands were left exposed. If he spoke, she would grab the cloak. Perhaps her own singing had kept her from hearing him. He hadn’t tried to be quiet. Perhaps if he crept up behind her and stopped her. After years of respecting her privacy, should they not stop this foolishness? Even at her baptism, he’d tried not to look out of respect.
His conscience wouldn’t allow him the stealth-like approach his heart desired. Just a few feet separated them when her hand shot out for her cloak. “Don’t.” He swallowed hard. In all the years since their last quarrel over it, Philip had never presumed upon their friendship, but now he felt compelled.
“What?”
“Don’t put it on, Dove. Please.” He took a step.
Her hand stayed frozen in mid-air, but she questioned him again. “Why?”
“Almost nine years I’ve been your friend. For five of those years, I’ve tried to remember your face from the one time I saw it clearly. Jacob only had to wait seven years for Rachel.”
“Fourteen. Laban was a cheat.”
“Are you a cheat?” Inching his way closer, Philip prayed that she wouldn’t bolt.
“It’s hardly parallel, Philip. I never promised to show myself.” Dove’s voice held that slight impish lilt that reassured him that she was not angry.
“Now that I am your minister as well as your friend, can you not trust me?” He took two more steps forward, nearly holding his breath to see if she’d bring the cloak closer.
“You truly don’t understand, do you?”
Resignation. He hadn’t expected resignation in her tone. “Understand what? Obviously I don’t.”
“Do you know what they say happens if I look in your eyes?” At his silence, she shook her head and continued. “Philip, I’ve always wanted you to be able to truthfully state that you’d never seen my eyes—never gazed into them.”
Understanding dawned. “The possession. You’re trying to protect me from the charge of possession.” If he took another large step forward, he could touch her shoulder. Would she stiffen? Run? Shroud herself in white again? Risking it all, he reached.
Dove didn’t move. She didn’t stiffen. A sigh escaped, shoulders slumped. It seemed as if he’d won, but at what cost? Maybe it was enough—for now. His heart battled with his reason until Philip thought he had a perfectly accurate picture of the old m
an warring with the new. Unsure how to respond, Philip whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?” The words sounded wrung from her by force.
“Trusting me.”
“I’ve always trusted you, Philip. I don’t trust the villagers, but you…” Her head dropped lower, hair falling over her shoulders, creating a curtain around her head.
“May I sit?”
Her laughter rang out among the trees, bouncing off the boulders she’d placed around the edge of the pool over the years. “How formal you sound!”
Feeling silly, Philip took her mirth as a “yes” and sat next to her on the log, his arms leaning on his knees, staring in the opposite direction. “I won’t look at you until you say I may.”
“You shouldn’t look at me ever.”
“I disagree.” His emotions nearly drove him wild. It seemed as if they were carrying on a completely different conversation than the words indicated—one he had only allowed himself to dream of in the wee hours of sleepless nights.
“Philip…”
He took a deep, steadying breath and reached for her hand, covering it completely with his own. “Just tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“If your hair was brown, your eyes green, and your skin the color of peaches, would you wish me away as you do now?”
“I don’t wish you away, Philip. I just think it best—for you, I mean.” Was that a catch in her voice?
He wanted to look at the hand he held, but it seemed as if it would be breaking his word. His other hand, as if an individual entity with its own will apart from Philip’s, reached for a lock of her hair, allowing it to slide between his fingers before he dropped it again. “Why have I always imagined your hair coarse and wiry?”
“Why have you ever imagined it at all?”
“You know the answer to that, Dove. I think you’ve known much longer than I have, even. Broðor Clarke did.”
Dove choked out her answer in a whisper that sounded nearly like a gasp. “I have.”
“And is it so distasteful to you?” His throat felt as if someone’s hands were choking him.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 71