Outside the king’s caverns, Dove noticed a change in Jakys. He seemed hesitant— tense. She paused for a moment and then asked, “Are you sure you can trust Grifon?”
A growl of protest came from Grifon, but Jakys stood straighter and relaxed. “You’re right, Dove. I do trust him.”
“She didn’t say you did, she asked,” Grifon grumbled, offended.
“She asked to remind me. She’s a girl. They never come right out and say things. They hint— allude. It’s part of their mystique.”
Laughing, Dove shook her head, making her hood flop awkwardly. “Bertha says that we ask instead of remind so that we are not accused of nagging. Apparently, women are known for it.”
Before any of the men could respond, the heavy curtain that blocked them from the antechamber parted and a beautiful young woman gestured for them to enter. Dove had never seen such a lovely woman. Standing no taller than Dove’s shoulders with dark hair, pale smooth skin, and lively green eyes, she looked like a princess. Even as the thought entered Dove’s mind, she sighed. Of course, she looked like a princess. She was probably the king’s daughter or granddaughter.
“Grandfæder would like to speak to the Scynscaþa. You may wait in here.” She gestured for Dove to follow. As Dove stepped toward her, the young woman shuddered and shrank back in fear.
A few steps down the short tunnel to the king’s chambers, Dove whispered, “I will not harm you. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I’m just a little girl.”
Just outside the king’s chamber, the woman paused. “I know. I really do know. Grandfæder says he knows your kind. I—” Taking a deep breath, the woman tried again. “I am not of a brave spirit. Even Baldric’s leg unnerves me.”
“Merewyn? Where is Dove of Wynnewood?” Waleron’s voice called out from the chamber. “I hear you talking; bring her to me.”
Dove squeezed the hand of the woman, Merewyn, and strode through the entryway to answer his call. “I am here, your—”
“Waleron. We agreed, remember?”
“Yes. I am here, Waleron.”
“Come closer. We must talk.”
Merewyn stood nearby but could not hear what her grandfather had to say to the strange girl whom all her people saw as a demon. She remembered the legends about the Ge-sceaft and thanked the gods of her ancestors that the Creature did not have horns or a tail such as were described around the fire on storytelling nights. According to the legends that the traders told, the Creature was as old as time but drew youth from the spirits of the devil himself. Her grandfather scoffed at the notion, and as kind as Dove had seemed, Merewyn was ashamed that she’d ever believed such horrible lies about a mere child.
Although he knew of his granddaughter’s weakness of spirit, Waleron held a deep affection for her. Only this special bond kept him from sending her away when she became foolish about things like Dove. Yes, her appearance was a little terrifying, but he thought that perhaps it was only because it was so unfamiliar. He pointed to Merewyn and nodded at the doorway. “You must leave, now my dear.”
“But—”
A look silenced her and the young woman turned, disappearing behind the curtain. Again Waleron pointed, but this time he gestured to Dove’s hood. “I have seen you already. Pull back your hood. I do not like to converse with cloth.”
“I do not remain uncovered— even in my own cottage sometimes.”
“But as a guest in my home, you must show me the courtesy of removing your mask.”
Rolling her eyes, Dove pulled the cloak back over her head and allowed it to pool around her shoulders. “It is not much of a mask.” Curiously, she added, “Why were you not alarmed when I exposed myself to your people?”
“Jakys told me of you. I knew who and what you were almost from the moment you arrived.”
“What I am,” she mused with interest. “There is a name for me?”
“There is, but I will not speak of it. If your midwife has not told you, I will not.”
“Am I not too dangerous to have in your home?”
Waleron’s laughter echoed in the room around them. Dove’s eyes darted around her once she was able to see it. The cavern was furnished elegantly and comfortably. His chair, opulent enough to be considered a throne, would barely have seated her comfortably. Again, the archways were carved with that same diamond pattern, but here a trio of primroses arced over the center of the doorway. Instinctively, Dove knew that Philip would have considered it a tribute to his god. “It represents the Trinity,” he’d say.
Rich woven tapestries covered the walls of Waleron’s room. At first, Dove had wondered at all the heavy coverings that covered the walls within the tunnels and common room, but as she felt the warmth and coziness around her, she realized they served a functional purpose as well as being visually pleasing. They helped muffle the sounds of life in the caverns and helped ward off the natural cold that comes from living in a mountain.
The room was both spacious and confining. It took her several minutes of observation to realize that it was because of her height and size compared to that of the little people around her. Absently, she wondered if Philip would have been comfortable in it and then let that thought drift from her mind as her eyes rested on a row of books on a carved ledge. “You own books?” Dove knew that only the wealthy could afford things like books. According to Philip, even Broðor Clarke only had a few books purchased for him by Lord Morgan.
“They are our books. You could not read them even if you could read. They are written in the language of the Mæte.”
“I can read a little Latin. Philip has shown me.”
“Philip is the lad that helped protect the lord’s daughter, is he not?”
Dove nodded, pride shining in the eyes that, despite his words, unnerved Waleron. “He is.”
“I misunderstood. He was described as a village lad— an apprentice. I did not know he was noble.”
“His fæder is a seaman, and his grandfæder a guardsman at Wynnewood Castle. Philip is not noble.” Even as she spoke, Dove smiled inwardly. All the times she’d considered it silly to share family genealogy during introductions were now mocking her. She’d spoken Philip’s name and shares his family history within minutes of her arrival in the king’s chambers.
“The traders tell me it is unusual for a common lad to be educated. They say sometimes a lord will send a favorite boy south for educating at the university at Oxford.”
“I have never heard of it. Philip has never mentioned that place. What is a university?”
Waleron shook his head. “That is no matter. Ask the boy yourself.”
“So you will let me leave?” She had thought she must find a way to escape, but now Dove had new hope.
“Foolish girl. We are not slaveholders or prison guards. However, we do need something from you.”
“I have little, but what I have I can share.”
Waleron shook his head emphatically and pointed a long white finger at her. “It is not what you have that we want. It is what you will obtain.”
“I—”
“Jakys has told me of your intentions regarding the unicorns.” He looked at her closely. “Have you seen them?”
“Not yet.”
Unsatisfied with her response, Waleron folded his hands into a tent, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “You must watch the snow. I have been told they leave their print in the snow.”
“Well, if the drifts are as Jakys described,” Dove interjected, “I don’t think we’ll see the print clearly enough. Why do you ask?”
“I want you to capture a unicorn. Several would be best, but I must have at least one.”
“If we capture one, it will be the property of Lord Charles Morgan of Wynnewood.” The haughty tone in Dove’s voice made her sound almost regal. Her eyes flashed, making the king of the Mæte shrink from her unconsciously.
“The lord may have the animal. We want only the horn.”
Horror filled Dove’s face. “If you removed the h
orn, it would make the animal just another horse.”
“Horns grow. We would not take the entire thing, but we would take half— or maybe just the tip. This is why we want you to capture more than one unicorn.”
“What would you use the horns for? Why remove them?”
“It is said that the horns of the unicorn have healing powers. We want those horns.” The kind gentleness of the king’s eyes disappeared and in their place, a resolute conviction emerged. “I must have those horns.”
Chapter 12
A Desperate Search
“I thought I was dying,” Liam admitted weakly. “I could almost feel life leaving me.”
“Well, you’re not dying now, are you?” Philip didn’t quite know how to respond to his friend. After all, the boy had always been fearful of nearly everything and now spoke of dying as if it were a cough or a sneeze.
“Bertha says you saved my life.”
Now Philip was embarrassed. “I would say that Bertha saved your life. I just followed her orders.”
“She says she didn’t give you any orders. You knew what to do, and you did it— even though it was against the orders of the Hælan.”
Philip’s hands smoothed the feathers on the fletch of the arrow he held. While sitting with his friend, he spent his time repairing the arrows that Peter provided for him. “Well, what the Hælan said to do wasn’t helping.” He lowered his voice. “I think it was killing you.”
“I was so cold and hungry.”
“You were kept without proper heat and nourishment! Of course, you were cold and hungry, but Jesus fed and warmed you.”
Liam stared at his friend with confusion on his face. “You fed me and warmed me, not Jesus.”
“But remember Broðor Clarke’s story about that? He said that if you do it for someone it is like Jesus does it for you.”
Shaking his head, Liam said, “No, the minister said that if you do it for someone it is like you’re doing it for Jesus.” Seeing the flushed embarrassment on Philip’s face, the invalid hastened to add, “But, I think Broðor Clarke’s stories all show that I AM does use people to do His work.”
“Don’t, Liam, don’t. It isn’t right to try to make Scripture say that which it doesn’t. I got the story backwards. That is a very serious offense.” The words galled as he spoke them, but Philip forced himself to admit his error. He’d study harder in the future. The feeling of being corrected by someone he thought didn’t even listen to the stories told each Thursday was a miserable one.
“I think Scripture says as much with its examples as it does in actual words. It never says, ‘You may not spit on your minister’s cloak,’ but the principle of respect for your elders is there. If you can’t hear an accusation against an elder or bishop without witnesses, why can you spit on them just because it doesn’t specifically say not to?”
Philip laughed. “Since when does the baker’s son listen to the stories of the minister? I thought you spent your lesson time in clouds of daydreams.”
“I like the lessons. I like how logical they are. If you don’t work, you can’t eat. If you serve your family, they will be thankful and praise you publicly. If adversity comes, it isn’t necessarily because you’re a bad man. All mothers-in-law are not evil.”
This was a side of Liam that Philip had never seen. The undersized boy usually appeared somewhat dim-witted when together with the other lads, but now Philip saw something else beneath the golden curls and the scrawny limbs. Liam’s timidity had left an unjust impression of his intellect. “You know, I could teach you how to read the stories for yourself. At least, I think I could. I’m teaching Dove.”
“Where is she?”
Bertha and Philip had chosen not to tell Liam about Dove’s disappearance. As fearful as the boy had always been about her, he was tenderhearted, and the idea that Philip’s friend had died would have been hard on him. However, Philip was not comfortable hiding truth from him either. “She hasn’t been around lately.”
“Oh, ho! She is a regular girl after all. We should have believed you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s in a snit over something, isn’t she? She’s playing the ‘if you don’t follow my way, I’ll just stop speaking to you,’ game, isn’t she?”
Silently, Philip shook his head. “No, she hasn’t been around, because she is missing. She went out into the forest the night of the big blizzard and never came home.”
“Oh.” Liam’s eyes grew wide, and then he scowled. “What are you doing here, then? Go find her! She could be cold and hungry too! Why aren’t you out looking for her?”
“Lord Morgan sent a few knights—”
“What do the knights know about how to find the Ge-sceaft? She’s elusive. She’s unique. You can’t just expect them to know how she thinks. You’re the only one who can do that, and you’re sitting in here playing around with those arrows as if they’re your knitting needles— like a girl!”
“Well, if that’s the thanks I get,” began Philip only partially in jest.
“Thank you. There, I said it. Now, will you go find the girl?” After a glance at Philip’s astounded face, Liam added, “I’m not speaking to you again until you do, so you might as well go.”
“I think that illness went to your head,” Philip muttered, but Liam closed his eyes and refused to respond.
Several minutes later, Philip stood, put his arrows back in the quiver, closed the box of tools and supplies, and put them all in the corner. He muttered a farewell, and scowled as Liam continued to refuse to acknowledge him. Irritated, he jerked the door open and strode down the corridor to the kitchens.
Liam, hearing the door close behind his friend smiled to himself and whispered, “It did go to my head. After you’ve almost died, there’s not much left to be afraid of anymore.”
As he pushed his way through the mud, Philip pondered over his afternoon with Liam. His friend had changed; there was no doubt about it. What that change meant was a question he didn’t know how to define. How long would Liam’s new strength of mind and heart override twelve years of weak-willed behavior and deep-seated fears? The possibility that it would last seemed impossible. Then again, Philip had always thought his friend was something of a simpleton, but Liam had now demonstrated an active mind and a logical one.
Through the Heolstor Forest and up to the face of the Cliffs of Sceadu, Philip prayed for Dove’s safety— Liam almost forgotten. The natural stone steps were slippery with ice, mud, and remnants of snow, but he forced himself up them, stumbling and scraping his arms and chin. There were caves up there— caves where Philip prayed he’d find the small girl.
Just before he’d left, Philip returned to the great hall for the extra cloak promised him and overheard Lord Morgan talking. “The child is so small. I don’t see how she has enough meat on her bones to keep her alive this long without food and in the cold,” Lord Morgan fretted.
“He has to look for her, though. He’ll never be easy until he knows— either way,” Broðor Clarke insisted.
The Earl of Wynnewood couldn’t help the contradictory tone of his voice as he discussed Philip with the minister. “That is true, but I do worry about the effect on him if he does find her, and it is too late.”
Now as Philip clung to the rocks of the cliffs, Philip wondered if Lord Morgan’s concerns hadn’t been valid. He dreaded reaching the first cave. He hoped he would not need to search a second, and then he prayed that if she were not in it, he would find a second. They spoke of the caves as if there were more than one. He prayed she would be in one of the others if she wasn’t in the first.
Hope flickered in his heart as he saw the opening clearly. The scraggly bushes that tried to grow along the ledge were cleared away from the opening of the cave, making him wonder if it was kept clear by animals that lived in the cliffs or if maybe… He glanced around the outside of the ledge for footprints but saw nothing.
Creeping into the low opening, Philip whispered as loudly as he
dared, “Dove, are you in here?”
Silence was his only answer. Up here, he couldn’t hear the cry of the seagulls, the crash of the waves, or the clang of chapel bell, swaying in the wind. These cliffs were very different from those of Nicor near the ocean. Mists were rolling in from the sea. He could see them, but it would take a while for them to reach Heolstor Forest. He hoped to be out of there with Dove by his side before they reached the cave.
The oddest sensation washed over him, but Philip couldn’t identify it. Something was terribly wrong, and with each step, he felt the danger more keenly than the last. A sound reached him, and he managed to stifle a whimper. Mortified, he stood straighter and paused. What about this cave was so unusual? Why was he so bothered? The eerie feeling that began as he advanced into the cave sent shivers up his spine. The deeper he advanced, the stronger the sense of unease until he knew he’d gone far enough and retraced his steps.
Near the opening to the cliff, Philip stopped in his tracks. There, just a few feet from the opening, a small piece of cloth, like a kitchen cloth, lay on the floor of the cave. It was a little dirty but much too clean to have lain there long. Excited, he picked it up and turned around to look behind him, but saw only inky blackness. It was cooler there at the entrance.
As he pulled his gloves back on, Philip pondered what it all meant. Something about the cave was very odd. Someone had been in it recently, and forgotten their cloth. He sniffed it and fancied he smelled bread and possibly… Philip removed his glove again and touched the cloth. There. It felt sticky… like… He hesitated and then touched the tip of his tongue to his fingertip. Honey.
His mind spun wildly. Dove often carried bread slices with honey between them. Bertha was convinced that honey was excellent for the health and insisted that her charge eat a little every few days. Could she have had one of those stacked slices with her when she went out into the storm? It hardly seemed likely. He’d never seen her keep it in her pockets for long. Dove loved her sweet bread. He imagined her munching on it as she left the cottage, not leaving it in her pocket for the trip home.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 28
