A scream from the kitchen reached their ears, waking Aurelia with its shrillness. “What was that?” the child whispered in terror. “Should you go see?”
“I don’t know. A messenger came in minutes ago with food, water, and instructions not to leave here for any reason.”
“Would you mind getting me some water? I’m so thirsty.”
It felt good to stretch her legs as she walked down the steps. Near the door, she could hear sounds of scuffling, metal striking stone, and the grunts of people fighting. Her mind spun wildly with the mental images of a full-blown battle in the kitchen. She grabbed a jug and scrambled back up the stairs to where Aurelia waited. “They’re fighting in there. I can hear them.”
“Can we go down there and listen?”
“I think our whispers are less likely to be heard up here. If one of us sneezed or coughed down there…”
“Can you go listen for a little while? You could move in time if you had to, couldn’t you?” Aurelia was aware that she was the most likely to make noise. Dove could move swiftly enough to hide a sound, while she was dependent on others for the simplest movements.
Several times over the next hour or two, Dove descended the steps, listening for any sounds at all, but aside from hearing running feet once, the kitchen was silent. It was as though the castle had been abandoned— as though they had been abandoned. Eventually, Aurelia spoke the words that had troubled Dove’s heart since the messenger left. “What if Father is defeated? How will we ever get out of here?”
“I don’t know, little mistress. I just don’t know.”
The disorientation drove Philip slightly mad. He’d seen the light beam in the upper cell as they’d passed the first floor, and knew the sun was full up with no more clouds in the sky. Now, plunged back into darkness, he had no idea how much time had passed. It seemed an eternity. The silence of the room, the darkness— they left him feeling utterly alone in the world. Did Dove feel this way? Instinctively, he knew she didn’t. She had Lady Aurelia with her. How could she feel alone?
After an indeterminable space of time, he heard the door of the cell next to him clanging open and then slamming shut. Who was in there and to whom were they loyal? He risked pounding on the door demanding to speak to Lord Morgan or Peter the head archer. A kick to the door and a few harsh oaths were the only replies.
His mind went through every story he’d ever heard Broðor Clarke tell. Honing each of them as perfectly as he could, he focused on sticking to the absolute truth in as interesting a way as he could manage. From Adam and Eve, to the Fall, and finally to Cain and Abel, he worked at remembering every detail he could to share the full truth from the Bible. By the time he reached the story of Noah, his brain was exhausted, his mouth dry from murmuring to himself, he permitted himself a drink.
Overcome by thirst again, his water skin was half-empty before he remembered to stop and save some for later. His lack of self-control disgusted him. What use would he ever be if he couldn’t manage a simple water ration? Discouragement overwhelmed him and he sank to the floor, no longer caring about the wetness, and hung his head on his knees.
Now he remembered why he’d retraced his steps to Dove’s cottage. He’d intended to ask her to bring the blanket she often brought to the clearing. Una had been angry when she discovered his missing and forbade him to take it again. Shivering in the cold cell in the deepest part of the castle, Philip wished for the thick woolen blanket Dove provided for their dragon watching sprees.
If despair could be pictured, it would look like Philip Ward of Wynnewood village in the northwestern region of thirteenth-century England. The raw anguish on his countenance, the utter dejection of his posture, and the deep sighs all spoke of abject misery. No one was listening, so it is uncertain if tears splashed onto the floor or if sobs echoed through the room; Philip would never tell. However, if anyone looked into the heart of the lad, they’d have seen tears, heard sobs, and felt the loneliness and insecurity that consumed him as the sound of yet another cell door opening, and the cry of a man echoed through the chamber until the door slammed shut once more.
All day, the cries of the prisoners, as they were tossed into tower cells, interrupted the general monotony and misery of the day. Once, someone had opened his cell door, but when the torchlight shone on his face, it shut again. He heard the sounds of men occasionally being shoved into cells with other men, but other than that once, his door never opened again. He prayed, oh how he prayed, that someone would be sent to his cell, and he’d get news of what was happening.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself, “I might be used as a fighting dummy if they put someone with a fighting disposition in with me…” Even so, it felt as if it might be worth it to have an idea of who was winning and why. Just hearing the prisoner’s voice should answer some questions.
Bread was tossed at him after many hours in the cell. He tried to ration it better this time, and managed to eat only a third of it. It must be nearing nightfall again if they were feeding the prisoners. What did it all mean? Would he have to sleep there on the cold dank floor? Had Lord Morgan and Wynnewood lost to Lady de Clare and the invaders from the northwest?
Chapter 24
Rescued
The creak of the cell door woke Philip. He was disoriented, shivering, and now had a dreadful fever. A familiar voice called for a torch as large hands lifted him and flung him quickly over a broad shoulder. Words like “well done” and “all over” swam through his mind trying to make sense, but Philip was so ill that he failed to comprehend anything beyond a general feeling of rescue.
Broðor Clarke staggered under the weight as he carried Philip, up the stairs, across the courtyard littered with the debris from hand-to-hand combat, and into the great hall of the castle. The sight of little Minerva carrying plates of bread gave him an idea. “You, girl. Yes, you. I need you to run to the midwife’s cottage and tell her to come at once. Tell her that the boy Philip is ill with fever and needs attention.”
“But Broðor Clarke—”
“Don’t argue. Go!”
As he waited for the girl to race across the fields, over the hill, and through the forest to the midwife’s cottage, Broðor Clarke called for dry blankets and undressed Philip, wrapping him in the coverings. The boy’s teeth chattered so hard it sounded as though they’d break. Unsure what to do, Broðor Clarke added another blanket, and then another. Eventually, he asked John where the room was that Philip had slept in the night of the kidnapping and had the boy carried there. Under the fur blankets, Philip fell asleep once more.
The midwife arrived nearly an hour later. She felt his head, looked in his mouth, pushed his eyelids up and studied his eyes, and then smelled his breath. It all seemed ridiculous to Dennis Clarke, but he knew nothing of treating illnesses. She turned to him, exasperated, and placing her hands on her hips, Bertha hissed, “And what am I supposed to do? He’s not with child, he’s not in travail, how should I know how to cure him?”
“You’re a wise woman, Bertha Newcombe. Regardless of your disdain for me and for the church, you must help this boy. What would you give one of your modors for fever?”
She glanced back at Philip and watched his fitful sleep for several seconds before opening her large drawstring bag. Pulling a pouch from it, she spied a young woman walking past the door and called to her. “Bring me boiling water. I need it hot!”
The girl’s startled eyes searched Broðor Clarke’ face. He nodded. “Do as she says and thank you.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t mutter one of your prayers or incantations or whatever it is you do in your chapel. Surely, your mighty and wondrous god could snap his fingers and heal the boy!”
“And yet surely, He could snap His fingers and feed me, but He still expects me to find my food, prepare it, and eat it without His divine assistance.”
“I’ll destroy your logic another time. Why did you remove the boy’s clothes?”
“They were soaking wet. Lady de Cl
are’s military men threw him in the lower cells of the tower when things got ugly. One of them, Donal, told us where to find Philip.”
“How’d he get caught? Foolish boy. What was he doing in the castle when Lord Morgan wasn’t around to protect him anyway?”
“He got himself caught deliberately as a diversion to help Dove.”
“Why would he do something so ridiculous? What did the child need in the castle?”
“She was sent, by Lord Morgan, to hide Lady Aurelia. He’d planned to do it himself, but she was less likely to be seen. A man his size throws a large shadow, but Dove hides in the shadows well in her little gray cloak.”
“She usually wears white in summer.” Her words were inconsequential, but Bertha spoke anyway. “How did she know the lord was home? I saw him leave for Scarborough myself.”
“It was a ruse to bring the situation to a crisis.”
Disgust filled the midwife’s face. Hands on her hips once more, she faced Broðor Clarke with fury in her eyes and the sharpest tongue she possessed. “And this great and mighty lord of ours used a lad still in his apprenticeship and a child of nine to perform such dangerous tasks? What kind of cowardly nonsense is this? What right has he to put children in danger?”
“Dove and Philip were in far less danger than the castle and village children who were ready to fight alongside their parents against the invaders. Several were injured and only one killed by a mishandled sword. Lord Morgan ensured their safety before he allowed his men to swarm the castle.”
They were interrupted by Editha with a small bucket of hot water. “Your water, Bertha. Where do you want it?”
“I should have asked for a bowl. I have to have something…”
The young woman disappeared and reappeared in minutes. Two bowls, one small and one large were placed on a table that she dragged to the bedside. “I’m needed downstairs, if that’ll be all.” She glanced at Philip. “My brother said he’s the talk of the knights. They all said he did his job as well as any of them.”
Bertha ignored the praise as she poured chamomile leaves into a bowl of hot water, picked up the bowl, and swirled the contents. Jerking her head toward Philip, she said, “Sit him up and support him from the back.”
“But he’ll wake up! Surely, the sleep…”
“You’re the one who insisted I do something, now help me do it. Sit him up!”
Broðor Clarke’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he climbed on the bed behind Philip and laid the boy’s back against his chest. “You are making me extremely thankful that I’ve never taken a wife.”
“Your religion doesn’t allow it. Praise be to your god for saving some of your women from a lifetime of misery.”
“Some in my religion do not allow it. My faith allows what I have not chosen for myself; and as I said, at this point, I think I have made a wise choice.”
She nodded in self-satisfaction as the steam billowed around Philip’s face. She draped part of the blanket over Philip’s head forcing all the steam to stay where he could breathe it. Dennis Clarke watched with interest. “What does breathing that— what is that stuff you put in there?”
“Chamomile. It’s a good fever reducer if there isn’t infection.”
“Just breathing it?”
She lifted the blanket to ensure it was still steamy. Philip slept as though half-dead. “Well, I don’t know if the breathing it helps or the drinking does, but one of them works, and I’m not willing to risk one in favor of the other.”
“A woman who can admit she doesn’t know something. Will wonders never cease?”
“A man who can’t stop talking. No, they will not cease.” A tiny smile around the corner of Bertha’s mouth belied her sharp retort.
Once the tea cooled and no more steam rose, Bertha produced a spoon, washed it in the leftover water, and spoon-fed Philip all the tea she could get in him. Despite her brusqueness and apparent lack of concern, her training and experience took over, and the gentle side of Bertha— that one usually saved for laboring mothers— surfaced. Broðor Clarke now watched her curiously. Was this tender side her true nature or a façade of professional courtesy? He doubted that anyone would ever know.
“You can lay him down now. He’s not swallowing anymore.”
Broðor Clarke gently laid Philip back on the pillows and straightened his tunic as he stood. “I’ll watch him. Should I give him more if he wakes?” The man glanced at the pouch on the table curiously.
“I’ll stay. You go spread your nonsense to anyone it’ll soothe. Faith, no matter how ridiculous, is a great healer.”
“I’ll teach you to respect my Lord Jesus and understand His greatness yet, Bertha Newcombe.”
“I give you consent to preach to my corpse. Now off with you!”
To her surprise, Dennis Clarke left the room without further protest. “That woman could scare a lesser man,” he muttered just outside the door.
“I heard that! You’re not half the man you think you are.” Had Broðor Clarke seen the self-satisfied smirk on Bertha’s face, he’d have been a little less chagrined at having been overheard.
Exciting sounds drifted from the kitchen, hours after the messenger had brought the food and water. Dove, accustomed to spending time alone and in dark places, had a slightly more accurate grasp on the passage of time than did Lady Aurelia. The girls spent most of that time adjusting Aurelia’s position to give her the greatest comfort, and during that time, Dove learned that Aurelia prayed. Immediately, she’d encouraged the girl to pray as the messenger requested.
It was now obvious that the bulk of the fighting was over. Dove knew it must be nearing daylight, if not already past, and yet no one had come for them. Aurelia’s bravery had evaporated, and now she whimpered as frequently as Dove would allow. Tears splashed on their hands, and occasionally Dove would shove the girl’s face into her shoulder when a sob threatened to escape.
The food was half-gone, the water nearly all gone. It hadn’t occurred to the girls to ration anything until it was far too late to do any good. This thought had sent a new wave of panic over Lady Aurelia, but Dove hushed her immediately.
The bookshelf swung open and light drifted down to the steps where the girls sat huddled on a stone stair. Lord Morgan took the steps two at a time and reached eagerly for his daughter. “I imagine your legs are getting tired, little Dove?”
“Is everything all right?” Dove’s face was nearly visible. In her eagerness to for news, she was uncharacteristically careless.
Charles Morgan gently tugged the hood farther over her face, realizing that if he were shorter, their eyes might have met. “All is well. We’ve incarcerated the invaders and Broðor Clarke is on his way to free Philip. One of the men who fought against us told us where to find him.”
“And injuries?”
Lord Morgan laughed and held his hand out to help Dove stand. “You are a midwife’s companion. We have few injuries, thankfully. Our stealthy approach worked well.”
Once Lady Aurelia was comfortably ensconced in her own bed, Dove slipped away and sped through the corridors down to the great room to find Philip. No one knew where to find Philip or Broðor Clarke, but eventually, a young woman led the way back up the stairs and into Philip’s room. There she found Bertha seated in a corner, eyes closed, arms crossed over her oversized chest, resting. Philip lay asleep in the bed, terribly ill. Had Dove seen him earlier, she would have realized he was already improving, but since she had not, she sank onto a bench next to the bed, sat, and waited.
It was over. They didn’t yet know what prompted the attempted siege, or what would happen to the men who fought for Lady de Clare, but at least for now, everything was right again with their world. Lord Morgan and his daughter were safe, Philip was already recuperating, the dark bruises around his eyes and the swollen nose making him look much worse than he truly was— and then there was Dove. The child of the forest, the Ge-sceaft whom everyone avoided and many feared, was the heroine of the day. As the
knights told of Philip’s unusual bravery and cleverness, the villagers talked of Dove and her service to Lord Morgan, once again, in protecting his daughter.
Epilogue
“They told Lady de Clare, they’d spare Bramburg Castle if she would help them infiltrate ours. They wanted to assume the title and the land. I don’t know how they thought they’d get away with it, but they did.”
“So, they did look at the plans Peter left out for them?”
Laughing, Lord Morgan told of how difficult it had been to make their scheme work. “The Commander finally had to pass the plans to Peter right under the guards’ noses and practically announce their purpose. They were good warriors, but not exceptionally bright.”
Broðor Clarke nodded thoughtfully. It was much as he’d imagined. “What did you decide to do for Lady de Clare?”
“I sent her home. She has her own knights and soldiers to fight for her. She chose the easy way out of protecting her people, and she endangered mine in the process. It’s understandable, especially for a woman—”
“Don’t let Bertha overhear you say that! Lord or not, I believe she’d tear your tongue out and eat it raw.”
“She seems to have gotten under your skin, Broðor Clarke.”
“And how. I’ve never been so irritated by another human in my life.”
Lord Morgan’s upper lip twitched. “So I see.” He glanced across the garden where his daughter laughed with Dove and Philip over something. “Did you hear Philip complain that life was too mundane now that all the ‘excitement’ was over?”
“He may be the new mascot of your knights, m’lord, but I must say, he’s still a boy in more ways than he’ll ever understand. I think they’ll both become a little bored without something adventurous to do. Perhaps we should suggest they hunt the mythical unicorns of Wynnewood.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 19
