Chapter 11
Arrows, Latin, & Games
Lord Morgan stood at a window in the castle tower, watching the shapeless mass grow larger on the road, until it formed into the figure of a boy as it reached the gate at the keep. He observed the respectful deference in the boy’s stance as he spoke to the guard. There was a slight lilt in the boy’s steps as he followed the inner wall corridor to the back of the castle where the archers were just finishing their practice.
As Philip stood waiting for a chance to speak to Peter, he watched the men as they drew their bows, aimed, and sent the arrows flying at the targets. Immersed in his thoughts and the occasional change in stance, he didn’t notice the sounds of approaching footsteps and jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. He whirled and then grinned at the smiling face of Lord Morgan.
“Intrigued by the archers, Philip?”
“They’re amazing. I barely got mine to fly the day Peter showed me how to shoot, but he sent a message that I could try again if I liked, and Tom said I should come. He said any good fletcher should know how to shoot.”
“And are you a good fletcher, Philip?”
“No…” he hesitated scrambling for something truthful to say. “I want to be though, and my modor always says desiring something badly enough is half the work of doing it.”
“Do you want to be a fletcher that badly?” Lord Morgan sounded doubtful.
“Well…” Philip hedged. “It’s more that I want to do a good job at whatever I am supposed to do, and I couldn’t make an arrow to save my life.”
“Well, you might have to someday, so I think you’re wise.”
“My lord, I wanted to thank you—”
Lord Morgan waved his hand dismissing him. “It is time you learned something about the world, Philip. Thank-you gifts do not require a thank you in return.”
“That was more than just a simple token of gratitude. I’ll always have a piece of property, and the offer to buy out my apprenticeship…”
“Have your parents decided whether to accept?”
“Fæder is still out at sea, but Modor says that as soon as he gets home they’ll talk about it.”
“Is he on the Juliet?” Lord Morgan knew his ships, where they were, and what cargoes they transported, but he rarely knew the names of the crew— just the captain’s.
“The Blithe. They’ll be home soon.”
The lord’s hand pointed at Peter as he strode across the green. “He’s coming for you. I should let you go, but I had one more question.”
Turning his full attention to the man before him, Philip waited, eager to answer anything Lord Morgan might ask. “Yes, m’lord?”
“I was talking with Broðor Clarke, and he mentioned wanting to teach you Latin. Would you be interested in that?”
Philip wasn’t sure. Education was a foreign concept to him— intriguing, but foreign. “I hadn’t— I mean—”
“If you were interested, I was hoping you’d be willing to help Aurelia with her lessons. Broðor Clarke teaches her. Evaline, my wife, thinks it is inappropriate, but the child can do so little as it is. I indulge her, but—”
“I’ll learn if it’ll help her.”
“But not for yourself,” the lord of the castle finished laughing. “Peter! Your pupil is eager to learn archery but is not quite as excited about Latin.”
“Singular taste. I don’t know what is wrong with him. Arrows over languages,” Peter laughed.
Flushing, Philip followed Peter to the range and, to his great dismay, discovered that, unlike his previous “lesson,” this one was serious. Eager to perfect his archery skills, the lad found descriptions of draw, sight, and release tedious at best. His mind struggled to keep the technical discussion clear, while his fingers itched to grab a bow and start shooting.
Peter, while understanding of the boy’s eagerness, knew the best methods to train and didn’t allow sympathy to override sound judgment. “You have strong muscles, but they’re not disciplined. You have to train your arms to hold still while pulling the string. Right now, they’re bouncing all over the place.”
Seconds passed, minutes. Every moment produced more strain, more effort, and less success. Philip struggled to keep his disappointment in check. As many boys do, he’d imagined an awestruck instructor praising his incredible skills to the skies. He’d already practiced keeping his responses humble and appreciative. It didn’t look like he’d need that practice.
“Let me guess; you imagined yourself a sort of prodigy who could shoot through the eye of a rabbit from a thousand yards, or some such nonsense.”
Philip had the grace to blush. “Well, not that arrogant, but I did hope I might be good at it. I’ve never been particularly good at anything.”
Though he’d tried to keep his opinion of Tom Fletcher’s training to himself, Peter now lost all patience. “Well, you might have amazing skill as a fletcher if you were given half a chance. Tom’s a good man but a lousy instructor. You can’t have been taught anything and know so little. How long have you been with Tom?”
“Four years.”
“What can you tell me about making arrows? Anything you know.”
Philip thought hard about everything he’d observed and heard, until he answered tentatively. “I know that practice arrows are made of willow, and hunting arrows of ash or birch. For battle, I think he uses beech, but I’m not sure.”
“Excellent. Anything else?”
Frantically trying to think of something, anything he could remember, Philip overlooked the obvious answer. “Well obviously, you use feathers for fletching….”
“And how does the arrow stay on the string?”
“Oh.” The word dropped as unceremoniously as Philip’s repeated attempts at shooting the arrows. “Yes. I forgot that was part of the process. You nock the end of the arrow in order for it to fit snugly against the string and not go sliding around. Nocking doesn’t take Tom long, but he is very particular about it.”
“It’s shameful how little you know,” Peter grumbled under his breath. “Draw the bow, and aim for the target in the middle.”
Philip had high hopes that all the instruction he’d been given would make a great difference, and while he did manage to shoot the bow with more force and speed behind the arrow, it finally dropped into the ground several feet beyond the target. “I aimed for it, Peter. I did try.”
“Again.”
For nearly an hour, the only word that Philip heard from the head archer’s lips was “again.” Repeatedly, the word punctuated the nearly silent conversation as Peter adjusted Philip’s stance, his draw, and position of the arrow. “I think we’re done, boy. You’ve done well for your first lesson.”
“But—”
“I’ve been out here for hours. I’m exhausted. Go get us some ale from the kitchen, and I’ll show you a thing or two about caring for a bow and your arrows.”
The next two hours proved delightful. Peter, feeling tired and lazy after a hard morning under the sun, talked about battles, hunts, and some of the great archers he’d known. Of everyone Peter mentioned, Philip liked best a man named Robin, who fought against the tyranny of Prince John in the Sherwood Forest of Nottinghamshire. Peter didn’t know if the stories were truth or legend, but they thrilled and inspired Philip.
“Imagine someone so devoted to justice that—”
“Justice! The man’s a criminal. Why is one treachery justified because of another’s unlawfulness? He gives to the poor. That would be admirable had he not used thievery to accomplish it. A thief is still a thief, regardless of how he disposes of his ill-gotten gains.”
Philip found it difficult to argue with Peter, but something in the telling of the tale seemed to imply that Robin didn’t simply redistribute wealth, but that he removed stolen goods from those who took them and returned them, when possible, to those who had been deprived of them. “Peter, do the stories say that Robin steals from all rich men, or only from those who might have stolen their wealth by
excessive taxation or unreasonable rents?”
Laughter bounced against the stone walls of Peter’s cottage as the man wheezed and roared. Philip didn’t understand what he’d said that could possibly be so amusing. It seemed like a perfectly logical question to him, but the head archer looked ready to split in two from hilarity.
“You truly want to believe the best of people, don’t you?”
“Shouldn’t you always assume the best? Look at Dove. The whole village is waiting for her to cast evil spells over us, when she’s just a lonely child brave enough to try to save Lady Aurelia.”
The man waved his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing, Philip. I just made the observation.”
“My modor always says if you go looking for the worst in people, you’re sure to find it, but if you look for the best, it might take more work, but you’ll be less disappointed.”
“You have a wise modor,” Peter agreed quietly. “Just don’t let your inclination to see the good blind you to dangerous faults that can harm you and others.”
To Philip’s utter disgust, he had an aptitude for learning. At twelve, he was an active boy, eager to hunt and explore— even to play games with the other boys as they had time— but learning letters and foreign words made no sense to him. What possible use could he have of knowing Latin, unless he planned to be a clergyman or work with law-making? No boy of his position— or lack of position— in society could hope for such a thing.
However, since he had to undertake the study, at least he found it easy. By the end of the first lesson, he’d learned the alphabet and the age-old amo, amas, amat. He was, on the other hand, eager to share his new knowledge with Dove. She would be delighted with the shapes of the letters and the sounds of the words. Broðor Clarke cautioned him that he’d likely forget some of what he’d learned by their next lesson, but Philip was determined to remember every letter and word he’d been taught.
Three days later, at the Fletcher’s cottage, he spent his afternoon writing each letter in the dirt, struggling not to forget even one, and knowing he’d already failed. The great yearning to succeed at something, practically anything, overwhelmed him at times, but he plodded on with his work. The water, wood, garden, everything was kept in perfect running order, thanks to Philip’s diligence, but the work was unsatisfying. He felt like a girl doing house chores. It embarrassed him when he allowed himself to think about it.
Other boys his age were becoming men as they learned to do things like serve as the castle cook, make swords and armor, mill grain, or even drill with the castle guard. Philip, on the other hand, did the kind of work his little sister would have done had she lived. He loved the new freedom he’d had since his escapade at the castle, but it wasn’t always satisfying.
Thursday brought a welcome change. As much as he loved the stories Broðor Clarke told, he also enjoyed the occasional days that the minister didn’t join them. It meant an afternoon with the boys. They wandered over the countryside, chasing each other or rabbits, and “hunting” the elusive imaginary unicorns of Wynnewood. As they stood around their usual tree, the boys slowly grinned, shuffling their feet in anticipation. Broðor Clarke wasn’t coming.
“So, does anyone want to explore the caves?” Aubrey didn’t sound enthusiastic, but he acted brave.
Philip shook his head decisively. “That’s where the dragon lives. I’m not going there.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense,” Angus retorted. “We could find the pirate treasure.”
“I’ve been in the cave, I’ve seen the dragon, and I’m not risking it again. Go if you wish, but you’d better hope Dove is around to—” Philip stopped mid-sentence. Of all the things he could have said, talking about Dove was the most foolish. Now they’d have questions and the answers would make them even more suspicious of Dove.
“Dove? Who is that?” taunted Angus, as he took a few steps down the road that left town.
“The thing— he’s talking about the Ge-sceaft!” Liam’s voice was full of shock and dismay. “My fæder says he doesn’t believe that it truly saved the lord’s daughter.”
“She did,” Philip insisted. “I was just talking while watching for the dragon, when she heard the men walking through the trees.”
“It’s unnatural— that kind of hearing.” Angus’ voice sounded suspicious.
“She’s just accustomed to people sneaking up on her and trying to hurt her, so she’s cautious.”
“Why do you make excuses for her? She’s just a creature—”
Philip’s hand balled into a fist and plowed into Angus’ face before he knew what he’d done. “She’s just a terrified, rejected little girl who wants a little compassion. You wouldn’t treat your little sister so meanly. You’d pound any of us who tried.”
“But,” Angus protested as he stood and lunged at Philip. “My little sister doesn’t walk around hiding who she is.”
“That’s because she’s pretty and normal-looking. People don’t assume—” Philip gasped as the air rushed from his body when he hit the ground. “—that there is something evil about her, based only on how she looks.”
“How does she look?”
Angus straddled Philip pinning the boy’s arms to the ground with his knees. He slammed his fist into Philip’s nose before Philip could flip over and force Angus off his back. “Why does it matter? She’s nine years old. Nine. Her modor drowned herself because of how people treated them. Don’t you have any compassion?” Angus lunged again, but Philip dodged him. “You all were so quick to congratulate me on my part in helping Lady Aurelia, but compared to Dove, I did nothing. Nothing.”
Liam’s quavering voice broke through the argument. “I think she was awfully brave. If they had seen her, and if she does look frightful, they might have killed her.”
“You think,” spat Angus derisively. “You don’t know how to think.”
Philip and Aubrey took off toward the shore without a second glance at Angus. Liam hesitated. Angus had always been one of his heroes, but now the smaller boy felt betrayed. With an injured air, he shuffled after the other boys, finally gathering the courage to run to catch up to them. A few more followed, but several of the larger boys stood around awkwardly, as though waiting for orders.
“Oh, get off with you. Can’t you think for yourselves? You’re a bunch of idiots. I’m better off with the creature-lover.”
Angus stalked away, following the direction the other boys had taken but at a bit of a distance. Still nursing his pride, he had to find a plausible excuse for accepting Dove. At the least, he needed to appear non-hostile to her. He could manage that.
The boys were engaged in shore races by the time Angus arrived. He kicked the sand and looked out of place until Philip nodded at him. “You want to race?”
“Maybe.” Angus wasn’t going to cave too easily. He had a reputation to maintain. “I was just thinking.”
“Didn’t know you did that. Impressive. What were you thinking about, Angus?” The insult of the words was softened by the grin on Philip’s face.
“You said something about not going near the caves without th— Dove. Why not?”
“She saved me from the dragon. I thought it was going to kill me, but she just pushed me out of the way and sang it back into its lair.” He hoped omitting facts wasn’t the kind of falsehood that Broðor Clarke and his mother would condemn. His wish to protect Dove was only slightly stronger than his eagerness to be truthful and honorable.
“Saved you how? I know,” Angus agreed impatiently, “she pushed you away and sang, but how did that work?”
Now it was easier to stick to absolute truth. “I don’t know. I think maybe she’s tamed it somewhat.”
“Charmed is more like it,” Angus muttered under his breath. “Are you sure you weren’t seeing things?”
“Leave Philip alone. If Lord Morgan trusts him, I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”
“Thanks, Aubrey. I wondered that as well.” Philip glared at Angus again.
He’d been ready to ignore and forgive the insult, but now he was done showing forbearance. Angus was trying to be difficult, and Philip had grown utterly tired of it.
“I think Lord Morgan feels sorry for him.” As much as he wanted to concede, Angus had more pride than was good for him, and he fought the temptation to throw another insult after it.
“I’m sure he does,” Liam added unhelpfully. As much as he meant to be encouraging, his words brought added pity from Aubrey, Tom, and Liam. “I mean, who doesn’t? Tom Fletcher’s a pathetic master—”
“That’s enough,” Philip growled. “You’re not going to insult the man who keeps me fed and clothed. Whatever his weaknesses, he’s a good man, treats me well, and unlike some masters,” Philip eyed Aubrey and Angus as he added, “Tom doesn’t expect more of a lad than adults require of each other.”
The boys all looked at each other, taking in Philip’s meaning. He’d said more without words than if he’d spoken, and suddenly, they could see the advantage of having a master who didn’t care if you spent the day doing your own thing. It might not prepare you for your future, but it sure made life fun in the meantime.
“What are they doing?”
“Who?” Philip looked around him but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“In that boat near the point, watch, it’ll bob up in a minute. There are men in it, and every once in a while it shows on this side— there! What are they doing?”
Angus became enraged. “There is no dragon! You just told us that to keep us away and give you time to find the pirate treasure for yourself.”
Philip’s face was white. He hadn’t heard Angus’s accusation. “Those men— they’ll die! We have to warn them.” Without waiting to see if anyone followed, Philip pounded across the wet sand as quickly as he could.
The other boys watched for a minute until they saw Philip crawling up the cliff at the point and then immediately, duck down again. “What—” confused, Aubrey didn’t finish.
“I don’t know, but we’d better go see if he needs help.” Suddenly, the notion of rescuing the hero of Wynnewood village sounded terribly rewarding. Maybe then, people would quit bragging on everything that Philip did.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 9
