He woke some time later and realized that he had fallen asleep while weighing his options. Philip forced himself up off the pallet. It was time to go home—back to the rooms Lord Morgan provided for him—and get back to work.
“What are you doing?” Hob stared at him in horror as he emerged from the storeroom.
“I need to get back to work. I am getting behind in my studies.” Hob looked ready to protest, but Philip continued. “I’ll send someone over with money to pay you for your trouble and for the hælan. Will you be sure to pay him for me?”
“Yes, but—”
“When I can walk without pain, I’ll be back. I do enjoy your mutton.” Philip tried to push the side door open and gasped at the pain.
“I don’t think you should leave yet,” Hob insisted as he pushed open the door.
“Lord Morgan didn’t pay for me to come and lay abed. He brought me here to be educated. I need to get back to the business of learning.”
Philip’s confidence rode high for the next week. His lessons went well, and his face and chest alternated between blue, purple, red, green, and finally yellow. Though still tender, his ribs no longer felt as though they pierced his lungs with each breath. As if to compensate for his body’s broken and bruised state, he flew through lessons as though it was review work.
Spring was in full bloom. Trees budded and blossomed. Green appeared everywhere—even inside the stone walls of the city. After months of being cooped up indoors, he was anxious for a ramble across the countryside. At last he could resist no longer. He closed his books, put away his papers, and removed the scholar’s robes that identified him. He tried to put on the clothes that he’d worn to Oxford the previous year, but the legs and arms were much too short, and his tunic was snug.
“Who knew you could grow in such a place?” he muttered as he pulled on his regular clothing. It too was a bit small. He’d have to have new things made soon.
People jostled him as he hurried through the gates, each jar more painful than the last. However, he eventually found himself able to stroll across green grasses and fill his lungs with clean air again. There weren’t as many trees as there were in the forests of Wynnewood, but he thought the countryside beautiful with the stone walls separating properties and trees clustering along the river. Sheep grazed in pastures, lambs gamboling nearby. That reminded him of home and the lost animals that everyone attributed to Dove.
Did Sir Dragon still bring fresh meat to his lady? Did she roast them with her breath with a little rosemary, or did she eat them in one gulp?
His gaze turned south. Down there, somewhere, was the sea. His father often spoke of the town of Portsmouth and the trading Lord Morgan’s captain did there. In fact, his father could be sailing there even now.
North of him, caravans rolled toward Oxford, laden with wares from the countryside. Wagons, piled high with hay or straw seemed most prevalent. The local animals would be happy for fresh bedding and fodder. From there, the hustle and bustle of commerce in the city was exciting to watch. Perhaps he’d grow used to it over time and learn to love it even when in the center of it all.
Unbidden, his eyes slid southward. An ache formed around his heart as he imagined his father sailing past Wales, around the bottom of England, and into Portsmouth harbor. He’d have a week—maybe two—there. In his mind, he could imagine the town. As often as his father described it, Philip was sure he could have walked through it without hesitating.
Suddenly, the desire to run away to Portsmouth was nearly overwhelming. He could get rides most of the way to spare his lungs. It was warm enough now that he wouldn’t freeze at night if he slept out in the open. His father would understand—as would Lord Morgan. Broðor Clarke could teach him all he needed to know. He could even promise to become the minister. Or, he could prove to his father that being a seafaring man would be a good decision for him.
Feeling reckless but excited, Philip turned back toward the city. He’d pay his bills, pack his things, and head out first thing in the morning. There’d be no more worry over persecution by the others or not passing muster in his studies.
As eager as he was to get started, he hardly noticed the pain as he half-ran back to his lodgings. The stairs were hard to climb, but he burst into his room, ready to sort his belongings and decide what to take. The room was occupied.
“Felix?”
“Philip! I’ve been wondering when you’d get home! You look out of breath—are you—”
“I’m fine. What brings you here? Is Lord Morgan with you? W—”
“One question at a time, lad! Lord Morgan sent me on errand to London and then Portsmouth. He and Lady Aurelia have letters for you.”
Letters. Philip swallowed hard. Even as he’d been planning his escape, I AM had provided exactly the kind of encouragement he needed. In his eagerness to take the packet from Felix, Philip knocked it from the man’s fingers. He bent to retrieve it, wincing.
“What’s wrong, Philip? You are truly in pain.”
“Just—”
Felix bent closer and reached to tilt his face to see it better, but Philip flinched, jerking back instinctively. “You’ve been injured. Come over to the window. Let me—” The sight of yellow around Philip’s eyes and mouth and the ginger way the young man moved brought shock to Felix’s face. “Who did this to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me! Lord Morgan—”
“Oh, don’t tell him,” Philip pleaded, hating how much like a small child he sounded. “It’s fine now, really.”
“Were you at fault?”
“No.”
Felix eyed him, looking for some sign of dishonesty, Philip assumed, and then nodded. “You have to tell me, Philip. If you don’t, I’ll drag your father back here and let him beat it out of you. I want to know what happened.”
Having no choice made it easier on Philip to explain himself. He told about the general dislike for him as Lord Morgan’s protégé, about the mockery and teasing, and finally about the day he’d broken Richard Melton’s nose for speaking ill of Lady Aurelia. “I ignored the lies about my family, the lies about me, but when he called her a worthless cripple…”
“You did well, lad. Lord Morgan will be proud.”
“Oh, please don’t tell him!” Again, Philip begged, too desperate to extricate a promise of silence from Felix to care about his pride. “I don’t want any more trouble or Lord Morgan to take action. You know he would if he knew. Please. They’ll grow tired of their sport and leave me alone.”
Felix hesitated, and then patted Philip on the back. “It’ll be ok. You read your letters. I’ll go get something to eat.” With a reassuring smile, he left the room, his feet clattering down the stairs noisily.
Something in the man’s voice made him nervous, but Philip shook it off and opened the packet of letters. Torn between the larger one from Aurelia and the duty owed Lord Morgan, he hesitated. It only took a second to decide. He unfolded Lord Morgan’s letter and read it carefully.
Greetings, Philip!
I pray that this letter finds you well and enjoying your studies. Broðor Clarke prays for you every Sunday. Aurelia and I pray as well.
Work on the castle is progressing nicely. The chapel, you will be pleased to know, has commenced. They have enclosed all towers and the keep completely in stone. Several more of the older places have begun to be reinforced with stone as well. By the time the works are finished, this will be the most well-fortified castle in northern England.
Aurelia has hatched a scheme to send news from all your friends. Enclosed are messages from them as well. Inspired by her idea, I went to visit your mother and asked her to send her love as well. She says to tell you that Will is marrying on the summer solstice. Your little brother, his name escapes me at the moment, is growing rapidly and now does many chores around the house to help her. Your father is on the Nicor headed to Portsmouth and then Spain.
Her garden is already green with sprouting plants
, but there were holes near the bottom of the walls of the cottage where the snow ate away the daub and rotted some of the wattle. I have some of my men there now making repairs. From all accounts, your young brother enjoys “helping” where he can.
Broðor Clarke says you will be starting studying French this year. Je suis sûr que vous parlerez bientôt du français très bien. If nothing else, you’ll soon speak it well enough to prove me a poor scholar of the language.
It is probably poor writing form, but I will tell you how I have missed you. When I think of you growing up in the village and never knowing you, it astounds me how important you have become to my family. Evaline loved you for what we said of you, Aurelia misses her study partner, and I miss hearing your unique perspective on life. Study well, but do not endear your heart to Oxford. As much as I want you to feel at home while you are there, I would not like to think of you staying indefinitely. The years will pass much faster than you can imagine.
Charles Morgan, Earl of Wynnewood
Philip fought back tears as he read the letter. Men didn’t cry over missing home. Hastily, he fumbled with Aurelia’s letter, unfolding the pages and scanning them quickly before sinking onto his bed to re-read them, savoring each word. Aurelia’s writing style suited her. It was friendly, but elegant. Most of the entries were one line or two of well wishes and assurances that he was missed, but when Aurelia enjoyed the visit of one of the contributors, she wrote long paragraphs, interjecting her own impressions and opinions into them. Certain passages burned themselves into his memory as he re-read them time and again.
Liam sits beside me, asking questions much more rapidly than I can write them. He is curious about the languages you are learning, if translating is more difficult than you expected, and if there are other students from our area of the country. He seems fascinated with astronomy and mathematics and wishes to know which you’ve studied and if you have a preference.
It sounded just like Liam— the Liam he had grown to know in the months before he’d left Wynnewood. Words from Letty made him shake his head. There was much about herbs and helping a mother after birth, but nothing that would interest him—just that which made up her world.
We have seen very little of Dove. She spends most of her time alone in the forest now—much as she did before she knew you. She wishes me to tell you that I AM does not speak to her heart through the trees, but she does miss the stories of Him. She also says that the pool is completed, but she has not yet dug the final few feet to break into the river to fill it. She expects to finish this week and take her first swim. I think she would say, if she was not quite so unwilling to sound too melancholy without you, that she wishes you could swim with her there. I suppose she wouldn’t do that though—she’ll likely have to remove her cloak, won’t she? I should also tell you that she has grown. I imagine that she is taller than I would be if I stood. She also seems, if you can believe it possible, even more graceful than ever. I note a maturity in her voice that wasn’t there before. It is a little deeper, but still clear and high for a woman. Yes, I do believe we can call her a woman soon. After all, she is probably in her thirteenth year.
Thirteen. That would be true. She was twelve when he’d left for Oxford—he was now sixteen, so it fit. How hard to imagine Dove as anything but the waif of Wynnewood. His eye spied another entry, one that made him laugh.
Angus sits near me, trying not to look as if he will shatter the bench if he moves. I have never seen someone so large who was not fat. He won, with four other men, the Christmas rope game. There were five men against thirty it seemed. Angus tells me there weren’t quite that many. I think there were more. He works all day for the blacksmith, but Father is considering putting him to work on the hinges and latches in the castle. He has developed a fine hand for that sort of ironwork. Angus asks me to remind you that he will keep watch over that which must be watched. I think he suspects that I know what he means. Should I tell him? I don’t think I will. It is much more interesting to keep him guessing. I have a terrible feeling that I am becoming quite an obnoxious young lady.
At last he finished reading each letter—twice—and folded them carefully. His former plans were all but forgotten. His friends were proud of him and his benefactor had much faith in him. He needed to be a success and not quit when things were difficult.
“That’s your problem, Philip Ward; everything has always come so easy for you. Why, even archery was reasonably easy once you knew the problem. This may be work, but it is worthy work. Make them proud of you,” he whispered under his breath. He stashed the letters in a safe place and pulled out his books once more. There would be an examination tomorrow. It was time to quit dilly-dallying.
Chapter 13
Lost and Found
Dove watched as every horse from the castle—it seemed, anyway—raced about the countryside, the dogs barking and baying as they pushed on ahead of the riders, seeking, searching. She grew even more curious as she observed them riding across the meadow and into the Heolstor, the sounds growing more and more muffled with each passing second. They were deep within the woods looking for something.
Curiosity drove her to seek the path they were most likely to take when they left the forest. She wandered, trying to look for something amiss until she heard the sounds of the horses returning. Quickly she climbed a tree, tearing her cloak on its branches, and waited for them to ride past.
It was a long wait. The riders seemed to be canvassing every inch of the forest, zigzagging in and out between the trees. At last, they came to a halt, just ten feet away from her.
“I don’t see a hint of it anywhere. The dogs didn’t seem to find anything either.”
Dove recognized the voice; it was Lord Morgan’s head groom. Before anyone else could speak, a horse galloped up quickly and called, “I think it’s back near the lair. I saw hooves.”
“If there are more than one, of course, there’d be hooves there!”
“Hooves with shoes?”
It was hard to differentiate between voices as the men argued about where to go next, but she learned what she needed to know. Goldhord was missing; somehow, he’d escaped.
She waited until the men rode back toward the bridge and then scrambled down from the tree. Her light cloak billowed out behind her as she raced across the fields, waded through the swollen river, and hurried through the Wyrm forest.
“What—”
Dove ignored Letty and her dozens of questions as she burst into the house, and filled her pockets with apples. She grabbed a hunk of cheese, spread honey on bread, and stopped at the door where Letty stood, hands on hips. “Out of my way.”
“No. You put on your other cloak. That one is torn. I’ll fix it.”
A snicker escaped as Dove pushed past. “I’ll leave it on the peg tonight, but we both know that I will not change right now.”
“I’ll step outside. You can bar the door. That’s exactly the kind of tear that will get bigger just from the weight of those apples. Go!”
To Dove’s surprise, she obeyed Letty’s orders. She stepped inside the house, shed the cloak, and transferred the fruit. Once she unbarred the door, Dove left. She felt Letty’s eyes following her into the forest, but she didn’t look back.
The trek back took longer, but she ate her bread and considered what to do. Goldhord knew her. Would he follow her to the castle without the laurel to subdue him? It was worth the attempt; if he refused to come, she could try again the next day.
Near the unicorn’s lair, Dove began her plan. She placed an apple about ten feet away from her and then one in her lap. She then waited.
The afternoon dragged into evening. Other than the occasional twitter of birds, or the rustling of a hare in the underbrush, the forest was eerily silent. She considered singing, but instead, she waited.
There was no moon, which made the forest even darker than usual. Something in the air told her it was time. After months of silence, Dove sang. Her voice echoed through the trees as she san
g of a unicorn that had lost its way and the ge-sceaft that brought it home again.
A rustle in the bushes startled her, but she kept singing. Without the moon as her light, she didn’t see the animal appear, but the crunch of teeth into an apple told her that the animal was near. She didn’t move—not a muscle twitched—but she sang. The unicorn’s lips tickled her hand as it nibbled the apple, but still she sang.
At last, the moment arrived. The animal knelt and laid its large head in her lap. “Shh, boy. What is wrong? Why have you left Lord Morgan’s stables? How did you get away?”
On and on, she talked to him, smoothing his mane and her fingers tracing the length of the horn. They must still be harvesting the tip for the Mæte. How did they bring it to the little people? She shook herself. It wasn’t the time for useless questions.
“Come, Goldhord. Take me home.”
She had no rope, but she followed the animal through the forest. At the edge of the Heolstor, Dove fed him another apple before they began the descent toward the castle. Occasionally she stumbled in the darkness, but Dove continued, leading the horse to one of the side gates where a guard slept through the noise of Goldhord’s hooves on stone.
At the stables, she led him to his stall, whispering encouragement as he balked. She smelled laurel and patted the walls until she found it, throwing it outside. “Come inside. It’s safe now. I have more apples.”
The unicorn whinnied and turned around as if to leave. Dove started to cajole him again, but a shadow darkened the stable door. “You’ve caught my pet, have you? Well done, Dove.”
“Lord Morgan?”
“I wondered if you’d discover he was missing and find him. He likes you.”
Goldhord allowed Lord Morgan to lead him back to his stall and stepped inside willingly. Dove passed him another apple as she smoothed his muzzle. “Good boy.”
“I haven’t seen you since your visit with Aurelia. We miss you. She says you aren’t practicing your embroidery.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 51
