“You’re changing the subject.” Just then, a snowball whizzed in their direction, and Broðor Clarke pulled Bertha down behind shrubs near the base of the tree and out of view.
“Get your hands off me, you preacher of myths!”
“Do you want your little charge to know that you watch her?”
“I am enjoying the sight of children playing in the snow. It isn’t one we see often enough.”
Nodding his agreement, the minister sighed. “They’ll all be men soon with responsibilities of their own. Angus is nearly fourteen. He’ll continue to work for Hugo, but he’ll be free of his apprenticeship.”
“And Philip, though he has a year left, will be left worthless at the end of his.” The midwife scowled at the thought. “Tom Fletcher should be brought before the guild.”
“Lord Morgan will not allow it.”
A wild volley of snowballs flew so fast and furiously, the sparring pair paused in their discussion to watch. From the center of the timberline, Dove threw as swiftly as she possibly could. She found it hard to keep up with the continual launching of fresh ammunition, but even from across the headland, Bertha and Dennis saw how well she did with landing most of her throws.
“Bertha, have you considered that the mystique surrounding the girl may make life harder on both of you than if you just exposed her?”
“If I thought life could be at all easier with her uncovered, do you think I wouldn’t choose ease?” Disgust nearly sent Bertha striding toward home, but Broðor Clarke caught her arm.
“I just wonder if you’ve considered it as carefully as you should. She can’t possibly be as terrifying—”
“Have you seen her eyes when she is angry, Dennis Clarke? Have you watched as she mesmerizes the dragons?” Her eyes narrowed and her finger jabbed into the minister’s cloak with each word. “Of course, you haven’t. Don’t tell me what terrifies and what doesn’t. Leave the girl alone. She’s best as she is.” The woman took a few steps and then turned, her eyes piercing into Broðor Clarke’s. “Stick to your storytelling and your guilt spreading. You don’t know what you’re meddling with.” She sighed and turned. He barely heard her next words as she strode toward the village. “You don’t want to know.”
Broðor Clarke was only partially correct when he said Philip had seen Dove. Philip only thought he saw a snowball fly from the direction of the trees, but he couldn’t be sure. Throughout the afternoon, he tried to watch and twice he thought he saw Dove’s cloak flap in the breeze, but he was never quite certain.
As darkness fell, the boys hurried toward home, tired but happy. Well, all except for Philip. Once the others were out of sight, he hurried to the trees and smiled at the sight of several abandoned snowballs. She had been helping him.
Just as he decided to try to follow her, a snowball hit him in the chest. “I knew I saw you! Come out here!”
“No!”
The chase was on. Though not as fleet-footed as when they raced through grasses instead of plowed through snow, Philip chased her through the trees, across the road, and into Wyrm Forest. As usual, they collapsed in exhaustion near the clearing.
“The first one,” Philip gasped, “that you sent at Angus’ backside was so funny. I thought he was going to explode!”
“He mocked your name for me, so I hit him. A name for a snowball. I think it’s almost equivalent to an eye for an eye, don’t you think?”
“You are fast.”
“Angus is faster,” she admitted grudgingly. “I couldn’t keep up with him.”
“Well, you’re a lot younger and a lot smaller. At his age, I think you’ll be faster and you already have more endurance.”
Mollified, Dove snickered. Did you see when I got three in a row right in Henry’s face?”
“He thought it was Angus. I don’t think he threw any more at any of us the rest of the afternoon.”
“I should feel guilty,” the girl admitted.
“But you don’t.”
“Nope. I don’t.”
Chapter 4
Blizzard
Around the outer corridors of the castle wall, Philip shuffled through the snow, dreading the discussion at hand. His confidence had slowly disappeared since leaving the stag in the forest, and now he doubted the veracity of his assertions. An unusual sight greeted him as he reached the practice range. Peter stood, his bow taut, no one watching, and sent arrow after arrow at the targets in swift succession. His arms were a whirl and the only arrow that didn’t pierce the center of the target was one that hit another arrow and bounced back onto the snow.
To Philip’s surprise, Peter whirled, bow drawn, and sent an arrow flying toward the trees. The haunting cry of a fox pierced the hushed silence of the morning. Previously, only the steady thwang of the bowstring as it sent the arrows whizzing through the air marred the quiet. Silence again.
Philip’s eyebrows rose as Peter pulled another arrow from his quiver ready to take aim once more. “Peter? Aren’t you going to check that fox? What if it isn’t dead?”
Peter dropped his arrow instinctively and turned to greet his intermittent student. “I’ll check him when I’m done. In battle, you don’t have time to stop shooting to see if you’ve done your job well or not.”
“But he could be suffering—”
A sigh escaped before Peter could prevent it. “Your parents have trained you well. I’m a battle man. I think in terms of protection, not provision. Your concern does you credit, even if it is a bit impertinent.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be; nothing more than my pride is affected. Go check the animal.”
In minutes, Philip raced back, the animal wrapped in his cloak. “I forgot a bag. You got him in the neck. He didn’t live long. I think he was senseless in seconds.”
“And your modor will scold me senseless for the ruination of your cloak.”
“Oh, it’ll be alright. I’ll wash it before Saturday.”
“You can’t wear it like that, lad. You’re crazy.” At the sight of Philip’s shiver, Peter groaned. “Come inside. I’ve one you can use, until we can get that thing cleaned.”
They hung the fox outside Peter’s cottage, while Peter dug out an old woolen cloak. “It’s a bit short for me, but it’ll be fine for you. Don’t worry about keeping it clean, but don’t go using it for a game sack either.”
Philip nodded. “I came to ask Lord Morgan if I could shoot a buck on his land if I saw one.”
“I’m telling you no. Don’t even bother Lord Morgan with it.”
“Why—” Disappointment flooded Philip’s face. He’d hoped for a chance to help his family and the fletcher’s with his hunting.
“You don’t have enough pull to kill a buck. He’d run away injured and die a miserable death.” Peter’s face softened as he spoke. “You show me that you can get a good draw, and I’ll get you your permission, but not before.”
“When can I come, then?” Regret was still etched in Philip’s features, but the dogged determination Peter was accustomed to was back.
“Can’t help you until Tuesday.”
Four days seemed an age. Philip wanted nothing more than to beg and plead like a child for just one lesson to help him know how to change his practices, but he resisted. It wouldn’t do to annoy the man offering to help him. “I’ll be here, after I finish with my lessons for the day.”
“I’ll only have about half an hour before dark for you. Don’t come until then.”
“Thank you, Peter. I’ll be here.” Dejected, Philip walked slowly toward the castle gate. Had he heard the conversation between Peter and Lord Morgan, he might not have been quite so glum.
“What’s wrong with our boy today, Peter?”
“The lad’s dreaming of shooting a buck. He wanted to get your permission, but I told him no.”
Lord Morgan nodded understandingly. “You don’t think he’s got the strength.”
“Actually, I don’t know. He’s never tried to pull a bow hard
enough. His draw might be fine, but waiting will make him cautious. He won’t release that arrow unless he’s sure he can kill the animal.”
Surprised, Lord Morgan had to ask. “He’s that good of an archer?”
“He’s that conscientious of a person. He might be wrong— but at least he won’t let his excitement override his good sense now.”
“Did he get the fox?”
“No. I did, but he brought it back to me— wrapped it in his cloak, he did. Can you imagine?”
Laughing, Lord Morgan pulled out a few pieces of paper and turned the conversation to less interesting matters. “As I promised, I’ve brought those…”
At the edge of the forest, Dove waited for Philip’s approach. His shoulders were slumped, his feet dragged through the snow as though weighted down, and he was wearing an unfamiliar cloak. Lord Morgan must have forbidden the hunt. As much as it tempted her to remind him that she’d warned him, the child decided it wasn’t necessary. The sting of missing the buck the next time would hurt badly enough without her adding salt to a gaping wound.
Once he neared closely enough to hear, she called to him. “Philip!”
It pleased her to see him step a little more quickly and watch the smile grow on his face. He was happy to see her in spite of his disappointment. She was glad she’d brought hot food. “I have tarts! I’ve been keeping them as warm as I can.”
As he neared, she stepped away from the trees and passed him a tart wrapped in wool. “What happened to your cloak? I’ve never seen you wear that.”
“It’s Peter’s. He shot a fox, and I didn’t have a sack, so I wrapped it in my cloak.”
“You would.”
“Peter wants to ensure I can get enough draw on the string before he lets me shoot a deer.”
“You can do it. You’re strong.” She touched his arm lightly. “Peter is wise to test you. He’s not the huntsman, but he is responsible for your training. If you failed to kill—”
“That’s what he said.” Philip sighed. “I get so tired of being too old to do anything fun and too young to be trusted with a man’s task. Una treats me like a child—” He stopped in the middle of his rant realizing that he sounded like a whiney child and also that she’d been waiting.
“Why were you here waiting for me?”
“It’s Liam. He’s worse. They sent for Bertha again. I thought maybe they’d let you see him.”
Without a second of hesitation, Philip whirled and ran, as much as one can over snow-covered ground, toward the castle. Twenty feet away, he called back over his shoulder, “Thank you, Dove. I’ll meet you tonight in the clearing, and I’ll bring a rope this time.”
Knowing that they were going back to watch for the unicorn again, Dove crept through the trees, crossed the river, and then slipped into the forests that ran toward the cliffs. From afar, one of the villagers saw her dark gray cloak weaving through the trees at the edge of the forest and shuddered, but she didn’t know she had an observer. As she neared the caves, she crept deeper into the forest, following the trail they’d left the previous night, and finally found the tree.
Her hand felt around the base but found no apple. The girl smiled. Yes, any animal could have happened to chance upon it, but she chose to believe a unicorn had found it. What they might fail to do with ropes and weapons, perhaps she could do with apples, turnips, and carrots.
It took until nearly suppertime for her to retrace her steps home, but Dove had little else to do with her time. She often wandered the forests, explored the caves, and eavesdropped on the villagers in the tavern or along the streets. The fishermen’s cottages had the most interesting conversations, second only to the tavern.
The pea soup had been simmering in the coals for hours. The cottage was cold without a good blaze going, so Dove moved the pot from the coals and set it on the hearth. She settled two large logs in the coals and waited for them to catch fire. Eventually, flames flickered brightly and the occasional snap of the wood sent a cheery feeling of warmth and comfort over the room. The night was growing frigid. She shivered as the winds picked up again. It would be a cold night for hunting unicorns.
The hours ticked past until Dove grabbed her cloak and two blankets, and hurried to meet Philip in the clearing. Twenty feet into the woods, Dove nearly slammed into Bertha. “Oh! I didn’t see you.”
“It’s that blasted cape. I don’t know how you see anything. Turn around.”
“I’m meeting—”
Bertha spun Dove in place and pushed her toward the cottage. “He’s not coming, child. Get home before the blizzard hits.”
Her hand felt the apple in her pocket. If she brought it, the unicorn might come back again for it later. She glanced at the sky. The clouds were still to the north; if she hurried, she might have time— perhaps. “I’ll be back in a while. I have something to do first.”
Frustrated, Bertha pushed past her. “Fine then, freeze yourself. If you come home half-dead, don’t wake me up. I’m too tired to deal with you.”
Dove unfolded the extra blanket she carried in her arms and wrapped it around herself. There was no reason to risk illness. The wind howled around her now and again, but she kept moving. Bertha had taught her always to keep moving when she was cold, and now she wished she’d brought the funny pieces of bark that Bertha always strapped to her feet when she had to go out on a cold winter’s night through the snow.
Through the trees, over the bridge, around the castle walls, and then across the green to the forest, Dove struggled through the cold and the wind hoping all the while it wasn’t all for naught. The animals had probably taken shelter by now, but maybe in the morning… “Oh, I am a foolish child,” she scolded herself. “Bertha is right. I’m likely to come home ill, and she’ll have to nurse me. Oh won’t she be angry! Well, I deserve it, I suppose. All this nonsense for a silly horse with a stick in its head.”
She scolded herself aloud until she grew close to where they’d seen the buck. The buck had probably returned and found the apple. Wouldn’t she feel silly luring it back to its death? It served her right. She’d have to help Philip drag it to the castle too. Even as she thought it, Dove realized that was impossible. There’d be no way they could drag such a massive animal. One would have to stay with it— it would be her, it always was, and Philip would go get help. What kind of gift would it be for Lord Morgan if his men had to come drag it home?
Suddenly, the wind stopped. At first, Dove was relieved. The chill almost disappeared immediately from her bones. Good, she wasn’t truly cold then. The gusts were all that made her feel so miserable. A heaviness seemed to settle around her, as she plodded the last few yards to where they’d stood flattened against the tree. Her head whipped up and she stared above her at the sky. Clouds were moving swiftly now. The moonlight would be gone before she reached home.
A new sense of urgency came over her, and she forced herself to drop the apple in the same place, before returning the way she’d come. She needed to get to the forest on the other side of the river before the moon was blocked by the clouds. The storm was coming, and once it hit, she’d have a terrible time trying to make it home. She paused in the middle of the field. The caves were closer. It was less than a mile to the caves and five or more home. She couldn’t make a fire, but she’d be out of the storm.
There were few bears left in England, but there were rumors that a few still inhabited the Sceadu Caves during winter. She’d risk disturbing them. Then again, Bertha said bears slept through winter so if she didn’t touch them, they might not notice she was there.
In a quandary, she stood in the field and looked toward the castle. The tunnels were close too. Had they closed them off again, or could she take refuge in there? The thought made her shudder. She’d rather face a bear than a castle guard. She still had nightmares of being caught with Lady Aurelia in the secret passageway and being unable to protect the lame girl from those who sought to harm her.
She whirled and trudged back through the wood
s, stopping to retrieve the apple, and continued onward until she reached the cliffs. If she was going to be trapped outdoors all night, she wanted something for her supper. The wind began to blow once more, and soon was howling around her ears. The noise, and then the darkness, disoriented her. Fear took root in her heart until at last, she forced herself to stand still, take a deep breath, and think.
There were natural stone steps on the south end of the cliffs. If she just followed the rocky wall far enough, she’d bump into them. It would be hard, but she could do it. The wind whipped Dove’s blankets around her, nearly tearing one from her shoulders, but she grabbed it and pulled it around her just in time. She shivered. She didn’t know if this was the best decision, but she did know she must hurry. Flakes began to fall, and she had little time before they swirled so thickly around her that she’d never find her way.
There— she felt the first step. As she exhaled in relief, Dove realized she’d been unconsciously holding her breath and for far too long. Quickly, she stumbled up the steps, tripping several times and tearing her breeches as she went. Twice, she felt the wind push her away from the cliff to the edge of the steps, but she clung to the rocks and roots and climbed.
The snow swirled. She couldn’t see anything in front of her, but knew the wall of stone must be coming— there it was. From that point, she had to move by memory. Bushes hid the entrance to the caves. If she avoided the branches that were sure to scratch and tear, she’d miss the entrance and stumble along until she went crazy, froze, or worse.
Each minute seemed a year, as she felt along the surface of the cliffs. Twice she thought she’d found the entrance, only to discover a boulder had fallen, leaving a dent in the cliff. She wondered, illogically at a time like that, what made rocks fall from their place in the world and what people could learn from when, where, how, and why they fell. She’d have to ask Bertha.
Just as fear had seized her completely, Dove felt another dent in the rock wall. She groped for the opening, but her hands just plunged farther into empty space. Moving the barren shrubbery branches out of her way, she crept into the crevice of the cave opening. How far to enter was another question. Did she risk stumbling over a bear?
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 22
