Screams of terror followed as the child raced homeward, screaming for his mother. “The Ge-sceaft touched me, Modor! Will I die?”
She had to move. She couldn’t stay and listen now. The villagers would come throw rocks again if she did. After peeking around the barrels to be certain it was safe, Dove scrambled from her hiding place and dashed between trees and houses to the forest, the child’s words still ringing in her ears. How strange, she thought as she lay back on the grass, her hood flung back so the sun could shine on her face. How strange that this boy would assume he’d die if I touched him, when the woman in Philip’s story about I AM cared only that she touched him to live.
The sun felt extra warm on her skin. Dove sat up abruptly, pulling the hood into place. Had she fallen asleep? Already the heat seemed to leave her, much to her relief. Burned skin was very bad. She couldn’t risk that. A glance around her soothed her spirit. The trees were all in their familiar places. Philip had once told her that if she listened—listened to the trees rustling their leaves in the wind or the cry of the animals nearby—she’d hear the truth of I AM in her heart. However, despite hours and days of careful attention in his absence, no matter how hard she listened, no proof of Philip’s god burrowed its way into her soul.
Chapter 8
Ministers
Autumn
One afternoon early in autumn, after working diligently for hours to master his French lesson, Philip gathered his things, shut them in his room, and hurried down the stairs of his lodging house. He wandered through the streets of Oxford, avoiding the shopkeepers where possible. The stench of the tannery vats pierced his nostrils and pushed him onward. He needed out of the city and into the fresh air.
Once outside the city walls, he stood looking out over the countryside. It wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Wynnewood, but the air was sweet, the grasses green, and the press of the town behind him. “Lord, I hate it here,” he confessed under his breath as he strolled toward a nearby tree. His lungs missed the salt air. His ears ached for the cry of a seagull or the wistful sound of Dove singing in the mists. He longed to hold a bow and shoot at targets. Even carrying wood and water for Una sounded better than enduring five more seconds of trying to infuse yet another language into his mind.
It wasn’t his first escape from the crowded streets of Oxford, but it was the first time he hadn’t had to fight back tears. He was a man now—a student. He had responsibilities to the minister and the Earl of Wynnewood as well as his family. He couldn’t allow himself to give in to weakness no matter how deep the pain.
He laughed as a rabbit stopped, stared at him, and then dashed through the grasses and disappeared into its hole. The curiosity combined with fear was so like Dove that he’d nearly felt at home for just that moment. His voice sounded loud and out of place apart from the bustle of the town. It was strange to think of it and even stranger to live it.
Thoughts of Dove were common. He missed their conversations, telling her the stories that he hoped would finally yield her heart to the Lord of All. Sometimes he wished he had accepted Lord Morgan’s offer to find her and apologize—say goodbye once more, but her farewell in the clearing the previous evening had been her last.
He often thought of the other lads. While he filled his mind with words until his body screamed for activity, his friends were all making lives for themselves. Angus would someday be the village blacksmith. He was strong, hardworking, and skillful already at repairing armor. When the castle blacksmith had more to do than time, he sent some of the pieces to Angus.
Philip frowned at the thought of Liam kneading bread in the hot kitchen of the castle. Liam was reminder enough of what a tremendous opportunity his education truly was. Not every boy had a great patron like Charles Morgan of Wynnewood. He shook his head. He was a man now. Thinking of himself as a boy only made things worse when he became lonely.
Frustrated, Philip kicked a stone. If Tom Fletcher had been even half a decent master, he could be working for the castle even now. Lord Morgan would have hired him to make and repair all the castle arrows if he could have done it. What was he supposed to do with an education, anyway? He didn’t want to be a tutor, and he certainly did not want to be a priest. “Lord, we talked about this. I want to stay in Wynnewood, get married, have children, get old, and die in Wynnewood just like my family has done for ages and like all my friends will do. Is that so bad? I don’t want to be a cleric or an academic. I like learning—” he blushed as he realized his words were almost a lie. “Well, sometimes I do. I am grateful that I have this chance, but what’s the point?”
He could go to sea. It would be hard, but he could do it. His father encouraged him to do anything but go to sea, but Philip thought that life away from his family for half the year would be better than no family at all. He’d spoken with several of the townsmen in Oxford—tanners, coopers, cobblers, and even the bailiff—but none seemed to think he was a good fit for their trade. His only other thought was a hælan. Biggs could train him. It wouldn’t be as exciting as an archer or as productive as a fletcher, but it would be meaningful. Even a guard, as boring as that job seemed sometimes, had purpose and merit.
The moment those thoughts came to him, Philip flushed, ashamed. Broðor Clarke had merit. Teaching people about I AM wasn’t a wasted life. Wasn’t his life the Lord’s to do with as He pleased? Weren’t his desires supposed to be laid at Jesus’ feet?
Philip shook his head. “I want to be willing to offer my life as a sacrifice even if it means I gain nothing that I’ve hoped to have, but I’m not. Sorry, Lord. I’m not. I’m not even willing to say I am open to having my heart changed.” Dejected, he turned back toward town. “I think Lord Morgan wasted his time and money on me. I’m too selfish.”
Never had Wynnewood seemed so beautiful to Dennis Clarke. As he neared Bertha’s cottage, he watched the swirls of smoke from the chimney and listened for the sound of Dove working, singing, or Letty snapping clothes before she laid them over the stone wall to dry. Instead, the birds sang, the squirrels scurried to gather nuts for their nests, and a pile of freshly chopped wood littered the ground outside the door.
One sound, however, prompted a smirk on the man’s face. Just as he neared the corner of the yard, Bertha burst through the door, muttering about not having enough wood, Letty being a lazy chit, and Dove having probably been eaten by wild animals. Those last words wiped the grin from his face.
“Afternoon, Bertha Newcombe. What is wrong at the midwife’s cottage today?”
“You’re back.”
“You thought I wouldn’t return?”
If he hadn’t seen Bertha’s eyes, he might have believed the venom in her tongue. “That would imply I thought of you at all. I didn’t. If I had, however, it would have been a hope rather than a thought.”
“How could I leave such a perfect place? I have everything I want here—a good home, friends, the patronage of a good noble, and you. Where else would I find someone to keep me as humble and free from conceit as you do?”
She tossed him a scathing look that seemed to say, “If that were only true.” Broðor Clarke dropped his pack and jumped the low wall—much more lithely than anyone would have expected—and he knew it. He gathered the pieces of wood that Bertha seemed so intent on gleaning and carried them into the little house, stacking them against the wall.
“I should thank you,” the woman muttered from the door.
“Why would you do something so utterly out of character?”
“Why indeed. I won’t. Did I see you drop a pack?”
He nodded, willing his stomach to rumble. It didn’t. “Why?”
“Just walked in from Oxford today then.”
“Yes. It took a lot of effort, but I managed it in just under four hours.”
“From Cockermouth maybe,” the woman spat, scooping stew into a bowl and nearly slamming it on the table. She shoved a spoon into it and gestured for him to sit. “Eat. If you don’t, you’ll likely drop from hunger on my door
step and then what’ll I do? I’m too old to try to drag your carcass down that road.”
“You make yourself sound like an ancient woman.” He frowned as she began arranging the wood in order to make room for more. “Why so much wood in the house?” The minister gulped down a few bites of food, discovering that he was hungrier than he’d expected.
“It’s going to get cold tonight—very cold. Winter is coming much too soon.”
“And you know this how?”
Much too harshly, Bertha slammed a plate of bread down on the table. “I don’t have butter.”
Something bothered the woman—much more than she was ready or willing to admit. He grabbed her arm, stopping her before she could turn away again, and asked, “What is wrong, Bertha? You are bothered about something.”
At first, she didn’t answer, just wrenched her arm from his grasp and went to bring in more wood. When she heard the bench creak as he rose to help her, the woman’s voice called back, “Sit there and finish that or I’ll dump it on you.”
She would, too, Broðor Clarke thought to himself. “Ah, it’s good to be home where people are so pleasant and eager to please.”
“You can leave now.”
Broðor Clarke used his bread to sop up the last of his stew’s gravy, stood, and relieved Bertha of her load of sticks. “You sit now and tell me what is bothering you.” Before she could protest, he continued. “And don’t argue with me. I know something is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong, you pompous fool. I’m angry with that ungrateful little chit—”
“She’s not a child anymore. She’s a young lady.”
“When you mope around the forests like a baby deprived of its plaything, you deserve to be called a child and treated like one.”
He poured some mead and set it before her, pushing her gently into the chair. “How long has she been gone this time?”
When Bertha didn’t reply, Broðor Clarke went outside and filled his arms with more wood. Already the air was cooler, hours before the sun should set. The midwife, as usual, was correct regarding anything related to nature. It was almost uncanny. Had he not been taught better, the superstitions he’d grown up with would have reared their ugly heads to torment him.
Even after he stacked the pile as high as he could without it falling into the room, Bertha did not speak. The minister prayed for wisdom, understanding, and above all, patience. He sat beside her, staring at his hands as he waited for the words he needed to come to him. “You pretend—”
“I pretend nothing. I am as I am, nothing more or less.”
“Ok, then I’ll restate it, but you cannot convince me I am wrong. You believe that you do not care about Dove. You are firmly convinced that duty drives any concern you exhibit. I don’t know why you believe these things, but you do.”
“If it pleases you to think so, then so be it. I know better.”
Anger welled up in Broðor Clarke’s heart, but he stamped it down again. He didn’t have time to break down another wall that she’d throw up if she knew she’d affected him. “You are the most stubborn woman alive. Listen. What happened to Dove?”
“She’s gone.”
“I surmised as much. Why? What happened?”
“The boy, I suppose.”
“He’s a man now, Bertha. He’d be annoyed never to be allowed to mature in people’s eyes.”
The woman tore a crumb of bread into bits. “Dennis, I’ll consider him a man when he has a full growth of beard on his face.”
Laughter filled the little cottage. “I see. That explains much.”
“What?”
Broðor Clarke winked at the woman and stroked his smooth chin. “You still think me a child! No wonder you have no respect for me.” He sensed her stiffening again and continued hastily. “So what about Philip has upset our girl?”
“I imagine the fact that he’s gone. He ruined her. She was accustomed to a solitary life, but now someone important has been stripped from her. She hurts. Had she never made a friend, she couldn’t suffer the loss that comes when the friend leaves or dies.”
Wisely, the minister ignored her words and focused on Dove. “Where does she go? How long is she gone? Are you sure she is well?”
“She’s in the forest. I occasionally see her—”
“Hear her too, I imagine.”
“She does not sing anymore. I cannot decide if that is a relief or a loss.”
Something in Bertha’s tone when she said relief bothered him. “Why a relief?”
“She’d taken to singing your myths. That boy—” She rolled her eyes and spat, “Man, if you must, has indoctrinated her with your ridiculous tales.”
Those words both encouraged and frightened the man. Why should she start singing of I AM and then stop? Was she truly so affected? “And she doesn’t sing anymore? How do you know she’s alive?”
“She comes, does some work when no one is around the place, and takes food.” The midwife sighed and added grudgingly, “She also brings it—rabbit, fish, dove.”
“I’ll find her and talk to her.”
“You don’t know the girl well if you think she’ll let you anywhere close.”
“I can try,” Broðor Clarke said as he stood. “Let me know if you see her. Just stick your head in the door and tell me. I won’t keep you unless you want to stay. She’ll adjust.”
At the door, he turned again. “You’re wrong, you know. It is hard to lose someone close to you, but it is harder not to have anyone to lose.” Then, as if unable to resist himself, he added, “I’ll be sure not to shave my face in the future.”
Chapter 9
Difficult Lessons
Winter was closing in fast on the heels of autumn. The days grew colder and colder, but Philip hardly noticed. His days were long and full of lessons, reading, and trying to keep up with the expectations on him. Six months had passed since the morning he left Wynnewood. It seemed like six years.
Frustrated, he shoved his book across the table and stood, stretching his legs. He had to get some air—even if it wasn’t exactly fresh. The hustle and bustle of the town pressed on him from the moment he stepped out the door, but it was less stifling than the last time. Every day he acclimated more but never enough. Despite the advantages of town, he was a village boy through and through.
Down Catte Street he strolled, trying to avoid the carts that obstructed his path at regular intervals. A sound from behind distracted him, causing Philip to bump into a man “Pardon me! I—”
The man was about Philip’s height, pot-bellied, and bald on the top of his head with little tufts of hair encircling it like a crown. “Watch your step there!”
“Are you—”
“I’m fine,” the man assured him. “I was just startled. Had to get out of the house.”
Philip grinned. “I had to leave my rooms too. For as cold as it is, I felt stifled.”
“First year?”
“Yes. You aren’t an academic… are you?” Philip’s eyes took in the man’s garb and the man’s head again. His tonsure marked him as some kind of cleric.
“Not the kind you speak of, no. I’m an illustrator—William is my name. William de Brailes.”
The name didn’t mean anything to him, but Philip recognized the man’s tone. He was someone of import. “Well, again, I am sorry.”
The man stared at him for a few seconds and then beckoned him to follow. “I’m going for a walk. Join me. What is your name?”
“Philip.”
“And where are you going, Philip?”
They wove through the streets, laughing at children, dodging runners, and pausing as William bought them both apples. “You don’t like Oxford, do you lad?”
“Not particularly. The air is foul, there are people everywhere, and most of them hate me simply because of my robes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Up north—near the border—Wynnewood.”
William jumped out of the way of a galloping horse, fro
wning as it passed. “Crazy fools. Does your father have plans for your education?”
Philip shook his head. “I think he’d be happy with me being a castle guard, but Lord Morgan and Broðor Clarke want me to go into the church. They don’t say it, but that’s what they want.”
“And you don’t like the church?”
He shrugged. The man was a stranger, and Philip didn’t feel like explaining himself to just anyone. “I don’t know. I’d like to learn it, but I’d rather learn at home from Broðor Clarke.” He flushed. “That sounds so ungrateful. I don’t mean to. I’ve been gone half a year already. My little brother will be apprenticed out and done with his time before I even get home. My friends will be married…”
“You make good arguments. I would have expected you to say that the work was hard, your allowance too small—something more selfish. Students often are.”
“So what do you illustrate?” Philip asked, hoping to change the subject.
“The Bible, prayer book, book of hours…”
“You might have illustrated books I’ve seen at the University!”
“I should think so, yes.”
They’d reached the gate, and though Philip wanted to follow the man out into the countryside, he knew there was work waiting for him. “I’m pleased to have met you. I’m sorry for running into you.”
“That happens in town. It’s one of the downsides of town living.” Philip began to agree, but William said one more thing. “Lad, I want to remind you of something. When you leave here, you will miss parts of this town. You’ll miss the variety of entertainment, the people, and the various foods. You’ll miss the architecture, the energy, and the opportunities to learn things that you otherwise couldn’t. One man can’t teach you everything.”
“That’s true, I suppose. Home, though…”
“I’m not trying to downplay your love of your home, Philip, but I am trying to say that when you leave, you will miss this place too. Make your time here worth missing if you have to be here anyway.”
With those words, the man turned and blended into the crowd that flowed through the gate. Philip stood—hesitating. What the man said made sense. He had to be there. He could mentally resist all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything. Since he had to stay, why not learn to find the things he liked and appreciated about it? The stories he’d have to tell Dove, Angus, Liam, Letty—
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 48
