The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  “You know it isn’t, Philip. It’s just not possible.”

  “I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Regardless, I didn’t look. I just wish you didn’t hide—”

  “I know.” She sighed and turned her head toward him.

  Something in her tone struck his heart. He was being selfish. He, the minister of Wynnewood—the man chosen by Broðor Clarke to teach the villagers how to live the Word in their lives—was learning lessons from the village outcast. Again. “I won’t do it, Dove. I’m sorry.”

  “Philip—”

  “Forgive me, Dove. I need to go. I’m ashamed of myself. Maybe you’d like to have lunch in the clearing? I’ll bring the sweet rolls Liam’s father sent me.”

  A shuffling sound followed as he walked toward the trees. She was putting on her cloak already. So it would have to be. He wished that he had the character to be able to set his disappointment aside and stay, but he didn’t trust himself. For some reason, today his heart persisted in overcoming his will. He wouldn’t do that to her—never again.

  “Philip?”

  Instinctively, he turned, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment before he dropped them. She hadn’t replaced her cloak after all. “I didn’t realize—”

  Her footsteps brought her closer until he saw the white of her cloak. Philip began to raise his head when the cloak was thrust toward him. “Why don’t you stay and hold that for me?”

  “Wha—”

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it is rude to talk to someone without looking at them?” She tried to joke, but the words sounded strangled.

  With a prayer in his heart and determined to give her an encouraging smile, Philip raised his head.

  Shock flooded his face, but Philip was unaware of it. His eyes took in the young woman before him, staring in a most rude, uncouth, and for Dove, frightening way. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, but she met him, gaze for gaze, for several long seconds. At last, unable to bear the apparent horror on his face, Dove dropped her head and turned whispering, “I knew—”

  Philip snapped out of his reverie. “Dove—”

  “I told you it was a bad idea. I knew you couldn’t—that you would try—that—”

  “Shh, no listen. I know I stared. I want to apologize, but I can’t. I’m not sorry.” He waited, unspeaking until her eyes rose to meet his, questioning. “That might not be true. I am sorry that you have lived with such a lie all your life. I am sorry that you don’t see what I do. I am sorry that I’ve known you for so long and never been able to tell you how beautiful you are.”

  Scornfully, she blurted, “Oh really, Philip—”

  “I am quite serious. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful in my life.” He swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. “Your father always describes how beautiful your mother was, and he says you look just like her.”

  At first, he wasn’t sure what to think when fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Unsure, he hugged her and whispered, “What’s wrong, dear heart? What did I say—do?”

  She couldn’t answer. In fact, years later each time he asked, the same raw emotions would overwhelm her, stifling her answer. Instead, she buried her face in his chest and clutched at his tunic for support. Something about that was just fine with him.

  “Why do people make such a to-do about your eyes? They’re pale, to be sure—beautiful, really—but they aren’t fearsome.”

  “Remember, I told you long ago. When I’m angry,” she choked out, “they grow darker; Bertha used to say they were a reddish purple. In firelight, they are red and the flames reflect well in them. They say my eyes look like two flames burning.”

  “That, I want to see.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his once more. Knowing that this might be his only chance to show her what he had carried in his heart nearly since he’d known her, Philip whispered, “Do you know how I always wanted a wife and family?”

  “Yes.”

  He started to ask the question he most feared the answer to and then grinned. “That was the yes, wasn’t it?”

  Dove’s impish grin, the one he’d heard in her voice so many times, teased him. “Yes.”

  If you enjoyed the adventures in Wynnewood, perhaps you might like to follow Everard, a tale of a prince with debilitating shyness who goes on a series of impossible quests to earn the right to propose to a girl he doesn’t want to marry.

  Everard

  Chapter One

  Once upon a long, long time ago, in a land impossibly far away, soldiers fought the last battle of an extremely long war. Some say the war had lasted for a thousand years, but I am of the opinion that the stories are a bit exaggerated—probably poetic license designed to impress an audience. Storytellers always like to make things sound so much more interesting than simple facts ever could. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that the war had only lasted seven or eight hundred years!

  As you can imagine, such a long, drawn-out war had been hard on both sides of the issue—what that issue was no one could remember—but at last, a clear victor arose. As Congolia sent forth riders bearing white flags of surrender and their generals followed, their swords left behind them, the leaders of Havilund sent their banner bearers to raise the flags of Havilund on the hill where the Battle of Wycleave was now a memory destined for history books. It was a glorious time of rejoicing for both sides. The two kingdoms had suffered great losses over the centuries, and now they had a chance to go home, take wives, and rebuild their lives.

  One soldier, a young man of great valor and honor, was especially keen to return to his father with news of the battles he’d fought and the end of the Terrible War. His name was Everard of Havilund. He’d been brave—seemingly fearless in the face of danger—and loyal even when it made no sense to follow the orders given to him. There were rumors that some of the generals had deliberately thrust the dark-haired young man into life-threatening situations, but Everard, if such rumors were true, never complained or even acted as though he noticed.

  With so many years of desolation in the kingdoms, many traditions had been set aside in favor of their noble cause, but now things like festivals, faires, and even royal balls would be reestablished in the land of Havilund. Of course, Congolia would have a proper period of mourning for their losses, but even that kingdom looked forward to the bright days and calm nights to come.

  Everard was one of the first soldiers sent home. His warhorse was a hearty animal—suited for long days in battle rather than extended journeys, but now Atlas trotted homeward at a steady but leisurely pace. Over hills, across streams, and even swimming across a river, man and beast traveled toward the Heath of Havilah—home. (I felt as though the scene required a hint of alliteration. It suits, does it not?) He rode, often nearly asleep in his saddle, stopping only to sleep and give his horse a good rest for the next day.

  It was a very long way from the hill of Wycleave to his destination, and Everard was anxious to make good time. He left without any companion and with little food, but with a purse large enough to get him home as long as he was not waylaid by brigands. There hadn’t been enough spare men in Havilund over the past few centuries to worry about such outlaws, but Everard wasn’t foolish enough to think it couldn’t happen. Armies always had deserters, and deserters did have to eat.

  During his first three days of travel, Everard saw no one. After three years of ever-present companions in the army, it was a nice change to be able to hear nothing but the call of the birds, the clop of Atlas’s hooves, and the occasional buzz of a fly that tried to torment them both in the evening. However, on the fourth day, he knew he’d likely reach the first villages of Havilund.

  Because of this, our hero did something quite unexpected. He knew he had been one of the first to leave, and considering he had seen no other soldiers on their way home, he assumed he was at least half a day’s journey ahead of the rest of his comrades. This meant that the villages he entered wouldn’t know that the
Terrible War had finally ended. Everard couldn’t wait to meet someone and tell him the wonderful news. That alone was highly out of character for Everard. I’ll have to explain why later. However, that was not what stunned him that day.

  It was late in the afternoon on the fourth day of his journey. Everard and Atlas had traveled much farther and faster that day than usual, and they were both tired. However, being the kind of man who treats man and beast alike with simple kindness and courtesy, Everard walked beside his horse when the animal seemed to grow weary.

  The exhaustion evaporated from his face when, after cresting a hill, he saw a small cottage off to one side of the road. Where there was a cottage, a village was sure to follow. Cows munched solemnly in a fenced pasture, their large eyes barely taking the trouble to follow him as he urged Atlas to move just a bit quicker. The house seemed empty—there were no signs of life anywhere as he approached, but as he passed a modest-sized barn, Everard sighed with relief. A clothesline showed snowy white garments swaying in the breeze. Clean clothes did not just appear without people to wash and wear them.

  Atlas’s hooves must have alerted someone in the house, because the door flung open, and a young woman raced outside. The moment she saw him, she stumbled to a stop, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. “Oh!”

  Everard took a deep breath and tried to sound friendly as he said, “Good evening, I wonder if you will give my horse some water and tell me how far the nearest village or town is.”

  The girl’s eyes seemed incapable of leaving his uniform. “Certainly. There’s a trough next to the barn. Would he like some hay?”

  Everard hesitated. “Well, that would depend on how far it is to lodging. We’ve made do for three nights, and I would be grateful for an inn…”

  “Just a few miles down the road.” The girl stepped forward to take Atlas’s bridle. “The well is there if you’d like to wash.”

  He knew she watched him. It was hard to miss it. Her eyes seemed riveted to the insignia on the front and back of his tunic. At last, just as he was ready to ask if his presence offended her, the young woman stepped forward and tentatively touched his sleeve. “Are you a soldier in Havilund’s army? Is there news from the front?”

  Understanding dawned as he read the tension and hope in her eyes. “You have someone there—a sweetheart or brother perhaps?”

  “My brother—” She glanced back at the neat but small little cottage. “Papa hasn’t been the same since he went away. If we only had news…”

  The anticipation in her face and the jittery way her hands picked at her skirt added to her obvious nervousness. Everard beamed as he leaned down just a little to meet her eyes. “What is your name?”

  “Roana, why?”

  “And your brother? What is his name?”

  The girl gave him a strange look, and for a moment, he was sure she would not answer. At last, she whispered, as if almost afraid it would bring bad luck, “Jorin.”

  “Well Roana, Jorin will be home soon. The war is over! We are the victors! Havilund and Congolia are at peace.”

  With each word, Roana’s green eyes grew wider and wider until they flooded with happy tears. “Truly?” Everard nodded, ready to tell her when to expect her brother, when the girl flung her arms around him in careless excitement. “I cannot believe—”

  Why he did it, he never knew. It was highly out of character, very embarrassing, and not at all proper behavior for anyone, much less a soldier of the Havilund Crown, but Everard did. Yes, he did. His head shook as he watched the girl fly from him and lock herself in the house, clearly sharing the exciting news with someone—most likely “Papa.”

  He dragged his horse’s head from the trough, and led the animal from the yard, still berating himself for such careless foolishness. His father would have much to say about this—wait. I did not tell you what he did, did I? Ah, well, you see, some things are quite embarrassing, even for a storyteller, and this is one. I won’t describe it; I can barely force my fingers to write such a bold, brash, ungentlemanly thing. So, I’ll just tell you his enormous misdeed and then we’ll move along. Will that do? It’ll have to do. Everard kissed her.

  Drat. I do have to give a little more information than that. As it stands, it could have been any kind of kiss. Nice brotherly ones on the tip of a child’s nose, passionate ones that belong only to those who have vowed to love one another until death, and a dozen other kinds in between. I would not have you think that our usually gallant Everard was so uncouth as to bestow a passionate kiss on a strange girl. It wasn’t the brotherly peck on the nose that he immediately wished it had been, but neither was it quite as intimate as one might expect from a sweetheart—and that’s all you’ll get from me about it.

  As you can imagine, he gave himself quite a scolding all the way to town, each clop of Atlas’s hooves punctuating his internal verbal assault as if another kick to his shin. What if her father chased him and attacked him? Honor would not let him defend himself when he was clearly in the wrong, but he had responsibilities at home. He couldn’t allow himself to be killed, but neither would he injure a man for protecting his daughter’s virtue. It was all so very annoying and complicated.

  “Lord,” he prayed, for Everard was a praying sort of young man, “You stopped me from charging that Congolian captain the day my sword hilt broke. You caused Atlas to throw a shoe just before that battle when the second wave had no survivors—I was supposed to be in that wave. Could you not have kept my wits about me today?”

  As he neared the village, he hesitated. Should he ride along the outskirts and bypass it all together? Was he foolish to risk an evening in a place where Roana’s father could find him and challenge him? He wasn’t naïve. If he went into the village, he’d have to tell them the news. If he told them the news, they’d most certainly make revelry. If there was revelry, he’d be forced to attend—and the father and daughter were likely to come too. And even if they didn’t, he’d have to attend! I know I said that already, but this was something quite horrifying to Everard.

  Then again, they surely had fathers, husbands, sons, and other brothers gone from the area. Those people should know that there would be no more casualties. If their loved ones survived that last battle at Wycleave, they would be home soon. Just thinking about it made up Everard’s mind. He would go, sleep well for the first time in years, and he would take the consequences of his impulsive foolishness like a man.

  A young lad, probably expecting to leave for service in just a year or two, stepped out from behind an anvil at a smithy. “Ho, there. Are you a soldier in our King’s army?”

  “I am. I have news.”

  “If it is a list of casualties, please save it until morning.”

  Everard shook his head. “It is the best news we’ve had in a thousand years. The war is over.”

  The boy’s jaw dropped. The hammer in his hand dropped. His eyelids dropped for just a moment, and then he lifted them slowly. “There won’t be another call for more soldiers?”

  After seeing boys lie about their age to try to be accepted for duty, Everard was sure the boy was disappointed. A big strapping lad like him would feel invincible and ache for his turn to make a mark in the world. The young man’s voice trembled. “I won’t have to go. Thank the Lord, I won’t have to go.”

  Curiously, Everard watched the emotions flit over the lad’s face. “What’s your name?”

  “Sevrin. I should go—wait. Do you want to announce it? We have so many men gone—”

  “Go ahead, boy.”

  Sevrin’s feet flew down the road before the last word passed Everard’s lips. Something in the triumph of the lad’s voice told him there was more to why he didn’t want to be a soldier than simple cowardice. Perhaps he’d have a chance to find that out during the course of the evening.

  People flooded out of houses, yards, and various businesses as Sevrin’s voice called out, “The Terrible War is over. Our men are coming home!”

  Chautona Hav
ig’s Books

  The Annals of Wynnewood

  Shadows & Secrets

  Cloaked in Secrets

  Beneath the Cloak

  * * *

  Not-So-Fairy Tales

  Princess Paisley

  Everard

  * * *

  Legends of the Vengeance

  The First Adventure