One weaver did what none of the others had done. He asked about Philip—his life, skills, and where he’d lived before coming to Oxford. Upon hearing that Philip was there as a student, the man shook his head. “What are you asking about this work? You have opportunities few young men ever hope to have.”
“I don’t want to be a cleric. There is no use for law where I live, and even medicine has certain drawbacks. I want to be useful. Active.”
“But you don’t have to go back to your village, do you? You could go to London or even stay here or go to Cambridge.”
Philip shook his head. “I want to go home.”
“Why weren’t you apprenticed? A smart young man like you should have been in demand.”
With a sigh, Philip turned to walk away, but the man caught his arm, urging him to explain. At last, Philip answered the question. “I was. I wasn’t able to become the fletcher I was supposed to be.”
Sharp eyes bored into his as Philip tried to keep his answer truthful but evasive. “I assume there is more to this tale than your personal ineptitude? You seem eager enough, willing to work. You’re obviously intelligent. I’ve seen masters who used their apprentices for cheap labor taken before the guild. They were required to make restitution for failing to fulfill their end of the contract. It’s a protection for later apprentices.”
“I believe my master has chosen not to take on any other apprentices.”
“There’s that, anyway.” The weaver shook his head. “You’d be wasted as a weaver or a tanner. With your ability to keep quiet, you should be a priest or a lawyer.”
Philip shook his head sadly and continued on his way, speaking to every tradesman, craftsman, and townsman he could. A few men hinted that they’d take him on as an unofficial apprentice, but Philip was too astute to agree to impressive-sounding promises without a contract.
Once again, he turned back in the direction of the inn—or so he thought—his errand wasted. The streets seemed to run together in a maze that confounded him. Several times he passed the same church, proving that he had lost his bearing. Just as he was sure he’d have to ask directions, an idea particularly repugnant to him for inexplicable reasons, he saw something familiar and turned down the correct street, amazed at how far he’d wandered.
You’d think after all Dove taught me about paying close attention to every branch and root, I would have thought to do as much in a strange place like this, he mused to himself as he climbed the stairs to see if Aurelia was in her rooms.
“And what of meals?” The question seemed unnecessary, but Lord Morgan asked it as a matter of course. The rooms seemed perfect. Two of them—one for sleeping and one to have friends in to visit. Several innkeepers had insisted it was the common thing among all but the poorest of students. Coming from so many different sources, he was sure it must be so.
“He’ll eat in the dining hall, of course. Every meal that we serve. He can order other things as well—for an additional charge.”
“Of course.” The terms seemed reasonable, the rooms well-equipped but not too elaborate, and there were other students living there. The temptation to accept the rooms without looking any further was acute, but Lord Morgan forced himself to appear nonchalant as he turned to leave. “I’ll bring Philip to examine the arrangement and see if it suits him. Would tomorrow be inconvenient?”
Warned that he risked losing the rooms to another patron, the Earl of Wynnewood left, chuckling in his sleeve at the idea that there’d be nothing else in all of Oxford that could possibly suit Philip’s needs. The next establishment was only one street away and while smaller, was closer to the center of town and a little less expensive. He would inspect those rooms as well.
A familiar cloak caught his eye as he neared the next place. “Dennis Clarke!”
The minister paused as though uncertain the call was for him, but when he saw Lord Morgan striding toward him, the man turned to greet him. “Have you been looking for accommodations?”
“I have. I’m going to the next just now. I think it’s that building there. Will you come with me?” Lord Morgan glanced around them curiously. “Where’s the boy?”
“Better not call him that here. It’ll frustrate him.” Amused with his own joke, Broðor Clarke hardly noticed the question. “Wait, isn’t Philip with you?
Charles Morgan shook his head. “I thought you took him to plan his courses.”
“This is not good,” the minister sighed. “I thought he was with you looking for a room.”
Standing in front of the next house, the men nodded. “It’s clean—not that a boy usually cares about that.”
Broðor Clarke grinned. “They don’t until they’re forced to live in filth. Then they notice.”
The innkeeper met them at the door, eager to show the rooms he had available, and as the others had mentioned, he recommended a double apartment of rooms. Upstairs, Lord Morgan turned to his companion and sought his opinion. “What do you think?”
“Quite a lot of space for one young man, don’t you think?”
“It seems to be the custom here. Every establishment has acted as though they assumed I wanted two adjoining rooms. See how they even have doors between them?”
“Have you spoken to any of the students staying at these places? Perhaps they could give advice on one or two rooms. You might discover that some wish they had three.”
The innkeeper fidgeted as Broðor Clarke spoke. Relief washed over him as a feminine voice called out for him, cajoling at first and then sounding a bit too much like a fishwife for the men’s taste. Lord Morgan waited until the room was empty and then said, “How often do you think the b—Philip would be subjected to that kind of display?”
“More than I’d like.”
“And yet,” Lord Morgan teased, “you claim that you would marry…”
“Do I understand you to imply that your own wife was in the habit of screeching like that over your absence?”
“I yield. Evaline would be horrified that anyone imagined she could raise her voice to speaking level, much less produce that kind of volume.” As they turned to leave the room, Lord Morgan added, “Did you have much success finding the right masters for Philip?”
“Well, I think so…” The minister seemed to hesitate. “He’s much more prepared in some areas than I thought. I wasn’t aware how much they expected in preparations, but it isn’t as extensive as I’d assumed. His Latin is above the necessary, and he is well acquainted with the Liber Abaci. His Italian is weak and his French nonexistent, but I think he can hold his own theologically.”
“That will be good for him. He expects to be so far behind. It’ll encourage him to see he isn’t as ignorant as he thinks.”
“I am concerned with one thing…”
Lord Morgan stepped closer, listening intently. “Yes…”
“I overheard a few of the students speaking. They have heard of Philip already—probably from some of the masters I interviewed. They already think of him as a pampered moneygrubber.”
“Philip has the strength of character to prove otherwise.”
Chapter 6
Adjustments
Aurelia and Lord Morgan were out discussing the merits and failings of several lodging houses, while Broðor Clarke made final arrangements for Philip’s studies. The knights—most of them anyway—had chosen to make the journey south to Portsmouth to see if they could learn news of Lord Morgan’s ships. This left Philip alone in his room—again.
He’d heard of a saddler in need of an apprentice. Surely, it was an honorable trade, and Wynnewood didn’t have one. No, most of the village didn’t have a need for saddles, but Lord Morgan must provide them for his knights at the least. Making up his mind with that thought, Philip dashed downstairs.
For several long minutes, the saddler worked in silence, ignoring Philip, but the lad was patient. At last, the man laid down his hammer and awl and allowed his eyes to meet Philip’s. “Are you in need of a saddle, boy?”
The word stung, but Philip ignored it. He was a man regardless of someone’s lack of confidence. “Not today, but I was curious about the process.”
“Plan to make your own someday?”
“Not without some excellent training. Seems like a perfect way to ruin good leather otherwise,” the young man admitted.
The saddler’s eyes narrowed as he observed Philip for a few long seconds. “You’ve been an apprentice.”
“Yes—not that it did me any good.”
Again, the saddler turned a sharp expression on Philip before he shook his head. “The man was a fool.”
“Or I was.”
“I’d wager this saddle it was the master unless they put a b—man of your size into milling or smithing.”
Philip reddened as he shook his head. “Fletching.”
“You’ve the right build for it. You’re light, but I can see you’re strong and agile.”
“Too light for saddling?” It seemed pushy, but Philip was determined to find something. Perhaps with his allowance he could pay a man to teach him a craft.
“Not especially, no.” The saddler paused as he picked up a long length of leather “string.” “That fletcher wouldn’t be Henry?”
As tempting as it was to play a joke on the man, Philip didn’t want to risk anything that would have him say no. “No. I’m not from here.”
“I thought you sounded funny—like those students from up nor—”
“I am a student, and I am from up north,” Philip admitted. “Is it so terrible that I would prefer active employment to learning languages that my village doesn’t speak?”
“How are you paying for school then?”
“The Earl of Wynnewood is sponsoring me.” It sounded less like an honor and more like charity as Philip explained it. “I think he and our minister hope I will become a priest.”
“That would be enough to make any reasonable man choose to learn a trade.” The saddler thought for several long moments, giving Philip hope that he hadn’t dared risk and then shook his head. “I have a boy I’ve agreed to apprentice, the right age too, or I’d risk angering man who lives that far away, but I don’t have enough work for two, and I’ve a family to support.”
“I didn’t expect you to take me as an apprentice,” Philip rushed to explain. “I thought I could pay for lessons—like I do with my studies. Even if I just watched for a while before you let me touch the leather. I learned to repair arrows that way.”
The man’s eyes grew stern and his voice lowered. Glancing around him, he growled, “Don’t ever make that offer again. People aren’t always honest. Do you know how tempted I was to agree—just for the money? I could let you think I was going to teach you all while collecting your money each day or each week. I could have given you verbal instructions that would mean nothing until you had a chance to use them—but if I was smart, I’d never give you that chance.”
“Why?”
“The more you invest in the ‘lessons’ the more likely you’ll keep going, hoping for a return. Never offer money freely like that, boy. At the least, you’ll be robbed. Get off with you. Go learn to torture honest people with tithes and guilt.”
One of Lord Morgan’s knights, Harold, strolled through the streets, grateful for another chance to stretch his legs after such a long ride. Several of the others had gone in search of news from the south, but he enjoyed the energy of the town. It was a much less lazy place than Wynnewood.
Something familiar caught his eye as he passed another street, and he stopped short as he saw Philip watching a saddler. What could the fool want with a saddle? He doesn’t have a horse. Hiding behind the corner of the building, Harold listened to the ensuing conversation.
The impatience that he’d sometimes felt—as if minding a child—evaporated as he heard the man address Philip as boy. The lad stiffened, but kept his tongue, listening and speaking respectfully. He watched as Philip relaxed as the man stopped mid-word and used man instead of boy. Was I so eager to be considered a man at that age? he wondered.
The saddler’s respect grew as he spoke to Philip. The next time the man addressed the lad, he didn’t hesitate at all—man. To Harold’s surprise, Philip didn’t become puffed up at it. Lord Morgan said the young man was one in a thousand; Harold thought perhaps one in ten thousand.
At the offer of money, Harold’s hand clenched at his side. If the man took advantage… It seemed as though hours crawled by in the space of seconds. It was impossible to see the man’s face, but his entire body went rigid. There it was—boy. The words were low and quieter, but their meaning was unmistakable—don’t offer money and go home.
Philip’s dejection draped over him like his strange little friend’s cloak. He turned and walked toward Harold, unaware that he was under observation. Just as he passed, Harold draped a friendly arm around his shoulder. At the startled look on the young man’s face, Harold asked, “Would you like to explain that?”
“I guess I’ll have to.”
They traveled halfway down the street, Harold certain that his young charge would find a way to dodge the subject, before Philip finally spoke. In a jumbled, tumbling mess, the words seemed to spill forth in no semblance of order. Harold heard words such as occupation, active, and useless studies, but they made little sense to him.
“Are you saying you don’t want to be here, Philip?”
“Oh, no! I do. I mean—no. Well, not that, but—”
“Come on. Let’s go outside this noisy place and try again. Lord Morgan would never want you to feel obligated to stay where you did not want to be.”
As they strolled toward the North Gate, Harold tried to reassure Philip of his worth as a guard, an assistant to Peter, or even in the stables. “There’s much a man your size can do. If you don’t care to be an academic—”
“It’s not that—really. I don’t like to admit it,” Philip blushed, making him look more like a little boy than he had in years, “but I like learning. It’s just that…”
They found a path that wandered away from the city and toward the river. Almost immediately, Philip relaxed and began to make more sense. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I was apprenticed to learn a skill—a trade. I want to be able to wake up when I’m an old man and know that my arrows helped his lordship in battle, or my stonework will stand for a thousand years in the castle, or—”
“Or your saddles were valued by the knights of Wynnewood?”
“I know it is immature and ungrateful, but yes. I could be a guard; Lord Morgan promised me that, and I probably will. My grandfæder was a guard. It just isn’t the same as being a part of a guild. I want to be skilled at something.” He turned a miserable looking face toward Harold. “Do you think Lord Morgan will understand?”
“If you explain it to him like you did me, yes.” Harold’s heart remembered the days when he had to behave and think like a man but felt like such a child. “He won’t make you stay, Philip. This is about helping you—not hurting you.”
“You’re going to make me tell him?” The despair would have been comical had it not been so genuine.
“No.” The older knight shook his head slowly. “It’s not my decision to make for you.”
“What would happen if I don’t tell him?”
“He’ll leave you here to be educated—probably for the church.”
“They know I don’t want to be a cleric.”
Harold turned and gazed at the city behind them. “Then maybe there is something you can learn that would help at the castle.”
“But about the saddler—will you tell him?”
“Do you want me to?”
Philip’s head shook before Harold could quit asking. “No!”
After weeks of effort, the amount of work left to do felt daunting. Dove wiped her forehead on her sleeve and grabbed the shovel once more. An area the size of their cottage showed evidence of her work, but only just over a foot was missing from it. She’d have to work harder and faster if she hoped to m
ake much progress before the ground became hard and frozen.
Digging was fun, relatively easy, and productive, but slow. She loved seeing pile after pile of dirt leave her hole. However, removing that dirt without creating a large mound somewhere was tedious and exhausting. She piled dirt on an old skin she’d found left behind in the woods near the Sceadu. It took a few tries, but she quickly learned exactly how much dirt she had the strength to drag away from the edge of her pool. She’d tried the garden cart one day, but that required digging the dirt back out of the cart each time. Using the old animal skin, the dirt slowly slid off the pile as she dragged it deeper into the forest. Repeatedly dragging it over the same route as previous trips ensured that the loose dirt was packed down firmly.
Birds sang overhead, but Dove was too focused on her task to pay them much attention. She ignored the rabbits, the vixen, and even the snakes and frogs that seemed to be ever-present in her new area. Never had she been so single-minded in her focus.
The shovel struck a rock, bouncing the handle back and striking her in the cheek. “It’s a good thing I’m not vain about my appearance,” she muttered to herself as she rubbed the smarting flesh.
It seemed as if the rocks slowed her progress twice as quickly as anything else. Every time she managed to gain momentum, another rock surfaced, taunting her with its appearance. Her shovel bit the dirt all around the edges of the stone, but it refused to budge. Undaunted, Dove dug at the damp earth with her gloved fingers, inching bits away from it until she thought she’d gone deep enough. Using the shovel as a lever, she slowly pried it from its resting place.
After such exhausting work, Dove could think of nothing but a cool drink of water. She leaned the shovel against the great tree and made her way around it and toward the river. Her reflection in the water brought a smile to her lips. The usual white cloak of summer was nearly black with dirt and her face was coated with it as well. A quick glance around her told her that she was alone, so Dove pulled off her gloves, tucking them in her cloak pocket, and cupped her hands to catch the cool clear water.
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 46
