As usual, Dove’s questions weren’t easily answered. He recited the Lord’s Prayer for her, or as much of it as he could remember. He knew the gist of several of the verses, but Broðor Clarke’ admonitions to keeping the accuracy of stories and memorizing his scripture passages perfectly kept him from allowing himself to recite those he wasn’t certain to keep accurate. “… for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever, amen.”
“What kingdom? What is ‘amen’?”
“Well, the kingdom of heaven I think. I don’t know for sure, but I’ll ask Broðor Clarke. Amen is the end of any prayer and in other places in scripture. It means that what is said is truth.”
“How do you know that’s what it means?” Dove never understood how some things Philip answered with surety and confidence, while others he had to ask Broðor Clarke to explain.
“That was one of the first questions I asked in our Thursday classes.” He smiled at her, and for a moment, thought he saw the outline of a face. Unaware that he did it, he leaned closer to see if he truly had seen her.
Dove jumped back, pulling her hood down farther over her head. “I see.”
“Dove, what color are your eyes? Have you ever seen them?”
“Are we back to that again,” she snapped impatiently. “I should think you might have more interesting things to discuss than what color my eyes are, or if I have an extra one or two.”
For a moment, he was taken aback. Surely, she didn’t have extra eyes! Then again, how was he to know? “I’m sorry.” Philip forced himself to mean what he said. “I asked without thinking. I thought I saw the outline of your face, and the next thing I knew, I’d asked.”
“Well don’t. So, what did Peter tell you?”
This was something he could discuss safely. “He wants me to try to practice learning to hit targets. He said for you to call out a target, and I have to go for that one until I can hit accurately.”
“He thinks you can do it?” The eagerness in her voice soothed his pride more than anything else she could have said or done. Philip needed that assurance that she wanted this for him almost as much as he did.
“He says other men have had to compensate in similar ways and learned to become good archers.”
“Oh, we must start today!”
“I didn’t bring my bow. Today I needed to apologize. I am truly sorry.”
Beneath her hood, Dove watched him closely. He seemed so penitent, and yet, she’d spoken just as frankly as he had. “Should I apologize for what I said?”
“What do you mean?”
“I called you a child— a whiner. I said you were being immature. Should I apologize for that?” Her tone wasn’t belligerent. Instead, she sounded genuinely curious.
“Of course not. I was being excessively sensitive.”
“Then why should you apologize for speaking truth? I do hide beneath my cloak. I can hide from people who try to hurt me. I don’t have to live by the rules you do.”
“Because I was trying to hurt you. I was being cruel to make me feel better.” Philip chuckled weakly. “It didn’t work; it never does. I just felt worse.”
“I think there is something wrong with my soul as well as my body. I rather liked teasing you. It felt almost sisterly. I—”
“It was. It reminded me of Ellie. She would have said something almost exactly like you did, I’m sure.”
He was sounding morbid. She recognized the tone and decided to stop it early. “So, shall I hide from you, or should we go find oysters?”
“Let’s find oysters or better yet, I’ll show you how to fish. You’ve hidden from me enough today.” As they walked through the woods, Philip remembered something Peter had told him. “Lord Morgan wants us to come help Aurelia with her Latin soon.”
“Amo, amas, amat?”
“Laudo, laudem, laudor, lauder.”
“Oh!” Dove clapped her gloved hands eagerly. “I’ve never heard those. What do they mean?”
Philip couldn’t help but feel a little proud of his growing vocabulary. “Laudo—I praise.”
“Laudo—I praise,” Dove echoed solemnly. “Laudo Deo?”
“I think it’s laudo Deus, but that doesn’t sound right either. I’ll have to ask.”
“You are so clever. I don’t know how you keep it all orderly in your mind. I get the words jumbled. Even when I know what they should mean, by the time they reach my tongue, they make no sense.”
“My fæder would say,” Philip retorted teasingly, “That this isn’t because of a lack of cleverness. He would say it is proof that you are a girl.”
“How is that?”
“Girls never make sense.”
He was nearly caught. Dove dove for him and missed his tunic, barely brushing it with her fingertips. They tore across the field, down the main street of the village, around the cliffs and onto the beach. Shorter legs and the need to keep her cloak in place hampered Dove, but no matter how much stronger Philip was, he didn’t have her endurance. She chased him up the beach, to the jetty, and scrambled up behind him.
At the top, he hurried across the rocks as quickly as his feet would let him, without them slipping and throwing him down the other side. Dove, much quicker and more accustomed to the climb, caught him just a few feet from the cliff. He turned to surrender just as the wind caught her hood. In less than a second, several scenarios flashed in his mind. She wouldn’t expect him to turn around and look the other way— not that quickly, anyway. He could stand his ground and see the horrors for himself. Then he remembered Bertha’s words, the way Dove shrank from his seeing her just a short while before, and the ugly taunting of villagers who were afraid of the unknown. What would they do to her if they knew? The image of a dark-haired woman floating in a pool of water while an angry mob mocked her from a bridge above stopped his thoughts. He whirled around just as the wind whipped the hood from her head, exposing her.
Dove stared at the back of Philip’s head as she jerked the hood back over her own hair and face. Her hand reached for his and squeezed it gratefully. “You’re a good friend, Philip Ward. Thank you.”
“You’re just saying that because you caught me. If I’d have beaten you, you’d be telling me what a thoughtless oaf I am.” His words sounded mocking, but she understood what he didn’t say. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter 16
The Scholar
“Write it again. This time, be careful to keep your proportions correct.”
Philip nodded his acquiescence as he accepted his tablet, picked up the stylus, and rewrote the line Broðor Clarke had given him. Pressing it firmly into the wax on his tablet, he wrote Dictum sapiente sat est. “It is strange how the same thought uses more words in one language than another. ‘A word to the wise is sufficient’. Seven words versus four. But, last week’s was the other way around. There were more words in the Latin phrase than in English.”
“Things do not translate letter for letter. Languages develop differently.”
Philip tried to pay attention as Broðor Clarke gave him a lesson in the formation of languages and their evolution over time, but he was more concerned with forming his letters correctly. He’d spent the better part of the morning learning his phrase, practicing writing, and dreading his mathematics lesson. As much as he complained about his Latin and Bible lessons, he truly did enjoy them. Mathematics was another story.
The book mocked him. Broðor Clarke had requested Leonardo of Pisa’s Liber Abaci for Philip’s education, and now it sat on the table, taunting him with impending lessons of multiplication, division, and fractions. He’d learned the basics of Roman Numerals, but Arabic mathematics sounded beyond his interest much less his abilities. Just the words Indian, Arabic, square roots, and binomials, which Philip suspected Broðor Clarke tossed around to fluster him, well, flustered him.
John Ward spent a morning watching the lessons, and then left without a word. That evening, he’d encouraged Philip to learn everything possible from Broðor Clar
ke. “You have the aptitude to be a scholar. Even if you became nothing but a peasant farmer, that knowledge will help you and your children,” he’d admonished.
So, with those words echoing in his mind, Philip finished writing the line on his tablet and passed it to Broðor Clarke. Here the frustration always started. Dennis Clarke, once engrossed in reading, found it difficult to tear his eyes away to check the progress of his pupil. Philip sometimes sat for a quarter of an hour before Broðor Clarke realized that Philip waited for further instruction. Frustration this time was mixed between dread that Broðor Clarke would review the tablet quickly and the tedium that came if he didn’t.
“Sorry, lad, the Psalms transport me sometimes. Let us see how you’ve done this time.”
Apparently, the work was satisfactory, because the minister pushed a new tablet toward Philip and opened the new book to the opening line and told him to read. Philip took a deep breath, prayed for understanding, and read aloud. “‘These are the nine figures of the Indians: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and this sign 0, which in Arabic is called zephirum, any number can be written, as will be demonstrated.’” He paused and reread the sentence under his breath once more. “I don’t understand. I can write any number without using any of those characters. You taught me that already. Why learn new characters for the same thing?”
Patiently, Broðor Clarke wrote out a seven-digit number and showed Philip how to add it to another seven-digit number. He then showed the same thing with Roman Numerals, but the process was tedious. “Do you see why these numbers are superior to learning calculation than Roman numerals?”
“I see,” Philip teased, trying to hide his disappointment, “That I have enough to keep me learning for many years. I think you like having a pupil so first you teach me Latin and English, and now you say you will add Italian. You teach me to write all numerals the Roman way and now bring in Indian and Arabic numbers to ensure a perpetual pupil.”
“In truth, I am simply preparing you for life in the modern world. Things change rapidly, and we in Wynnewood are both ahead of and behind the times. I am trying to fit your education to the task of preparing you for anything.” Broðor Clarke smiled as he spoke assuring Philip that his words were not meant as a rebuke to his ungrateful student.
“Well,” Philip conceded amiably. “I must say, few of the lads have this kind of opportunity. I do appreciate it, even when I don’t like how it plagues my brains.”
“Continue reading…”
Having his father and brother home for the month was a wonderful and discouraging thing. The summer months were best for sea voyages, but damage to the Blithe required they stay until the repairs were finished. This meant their family income was lower than expected and concerned them all. Will’s income helped, but John Ward insisted that some of it be saved for Will’s future.
Fortunately, Hugh Armstrong, the blacksmith, had more work than he and Angus could handle alone, giving Will the opportunity to earn extra money for himself and the family. As Philip walked to his lessons, he’d wave at Will, smiling proudly at the sight of his brother swinging his huge hammer and pounding the fittings ordered to help repair the Blithe. On Saturday, after the work was finished for the week, Will walked home with Philip and the lads talked about everything from Will’s adventures at sea to Philip’s in the castle.
“So she heard them talking, but you didn’t? Don’t you find that a little unnerving?”
“She just noticed the forest got quiet—then she heard them talking. It took me a minute to adjust to listening so carefully, but once I did, I could hear.” Try as he might, Philip couldn’t keep the defensive tone out of his voice.
“Take the wind out of your sails. I’m not attacking your friend. You are touchy about her though.” Will watched his brother closely. “Are you sure she hasn’t charmed you somehow?”
“Well,” spat Philip irritably. “I wouldn’t know, would I? After all, I could be a mindless puppet in her evil hands doing her bidding saving the daughter of the Earl of Wynnewood, learning the Bible so that I can answer all her questions about the God of all, and of course, the vile help, she gave in learning to shoot a bow and arrow. It’s truly heinous how she controls me to do her diabolical plans.”
“I surrender! We’ve all avoided her for years; you can’t expect me to pretend not to be concerned when suddenly you sing her praises.”
Indignant, Philip shoved his brother. “I do not sing her praises. I am just weary of people thinking ill of her because they don’t understand her. If Lord Morgan trusts her, why shouldn’t we?”
“So Lord Morgan cannot make a mistake about someone’s character— especially considering that someone has helped foil a plot to kidnap his daughter? Wouldn’t that make any man predisposed to like even the most dangerous people?”
“I see why she doesn’t want to meet anyone. I keep trying to get her to talk to you or Modor, but she refuses. I see why.” He kicked the dirt with his toe in utter frustration. “She’s just a little girl, Will. She’s so intelligent— it’s amazing. She likes to play practical jokes, but she has lived too long with the midwife. Bertha’s disdain for men and her lack of confidence in men’s intelligence has rubbed off on her. It’s funny.”
They reached the Ward cottage as he finished. Before Philip could open the door, Will grabbed his arm. “She’s not Ellie, Philip. You talk about her as though you’ve found a replacement for Ellie, but you haven’t. Our little sister is gone, and latching onto the Ge-sceaft isn’t going to make up for it.”
Angry, Philip felt the overwhelming temptation to flatten his older brother’s nose. Instead, he turned on his heel and fled back up the street, through the center of the village, and into Wyrm Forest, never stopping until he reached the clearing. There, as though waiting for him, Dove sat in the center of the grass, her back to him and eating her supper. “I didn’t bring you anything to eat, Philip. Go get your own from the cottage.”
“Bertha—”
“Is attending the tavern keeper’s wife.”
“Alice Brewer is with child?”
“She is delivering today.”
“How did no one know,” he asked, aware as he did that he now knew what to call a rhetorical question, and that Dove would answer anyway.
“With her size, who could be sure if she was or wasn’t?”
“I’ll be back then.”
“Bring me another turnip. I am hungrier than I thought.”
In the cottage, he found a pot of baked turnips in the coals by the fire. He took a large helping of the stew and added turnips to a bowl. He’d learned early that Dove loved baked turnips with butter and remembered to scoop a pat from the bowl on the table. As he handed them to her, he sank to the ground.
“You sound tired, Philip. Were your lessons difficult today?”
“Broðor Clarke started me on the mathematics book. It starts off with ten new numbers to learn.”
“I thought the minister taught you the numbers.” She traced the Roman numerals in the air as she spoke. “You said that this is how to write the number nine.”
Philip sighed. “It is. That is the Roman numeral for nine. The Arabic—or is it Indian? I don’t remember. The other number for nine looks like this.”
Dove wrinkled her forehead. “That is a ‘p’. I know it is. How do you keep a ‘p’ and a ‘9’ separate?”
Painstakingly, Philip drew the numbers on his leg from zero through nine. As he correctly drew the nine this time, Dove nodded eagerly. “You had it backwards last time. This makes more sense.”
“I think you should learn my mathematics lessons for me so that I may spend my academic time reading or writing. I don’t like numbers.”
“Oh, but they are so fascinating. With just—how many were there again?”
“Were there what?”
Impatiently, she brushed the breadcrumbs from her lap and took the bowl of turnips from him. Quickly, she mashed them together and took a bite. “Oh, this is good
. There were how many numbers in the new book?”
“Ten.”
“And the Romans did everything they had with just six. I think the Romans were more efficient. They did more with fewer numbers.”
Philip laughed. “Leave it to you to reduce it to a simple matter of intelligence. Broðor Clarke assures me that the ten numbers of this book make learning mathematics much easier.”
“I will see when you teach me. What else did you learn today?”
“Dictum sapiente sat est.”
“Dictum. Word. Sapiente—is that from sapiens? Wise? A word is wise?” Her delight with trying to translate was almost visible.
“Excellent. A word to the wise is sufficient.”
“Which word is sufficient?”
“Sat—it is a form of satis.”
She sat up straighter and Philip could almost see the excitement in her eyes even through the cloak. For a moment, he didn’t hear what she said. He could think of nothing, but what he thought he’d seen. Were those her eyes? Did the sun show the black outline of them through the hood, or were they truly that dark? Perhaps that was why others feared people like she and her mother. Such large dark eyes might be terrifying to the superstitious. Was that all there was to her horror?
“Well, is it?”
“Is what?” His face flushed deep with embarrassment. She’d caught him.
“Is it where our word satisfied came? I hear so many of our words in Latin.” She paused. “And I truly doubt that you have discovered my secret through my hood. Bertha would never allow me out without something guaranteed to protect me.”
“What if someone just jerked it off you? It isn’t that much protection, Dove.”
“No one would dare come close enough to try.”
Philip’s flush of embarrassment shifted to anger. “I am close enough. I could jerk it back at any time.”
“But you won’t.”
He sighed as he flopped back on the grass. “You’re right. I won’t, but I could; and if I could, anyone could.”
“But you don’t fear me, Philip. The only people that make me nervous at all are Lord Morgan and Broðor Clarke, but I don’t think they would. They seem to respect Bertha’s decision.” She stared at him for several long minutes. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 13
