Her hood hung down her back, but her feet still propelled her away from the cottage, but now in a straight path toward the sea. The timberline separating the forests from the sea loomed ahead of her, and she collapsed at the base of a tree, gasping for air. The view across the sward to the cliffs looked just like the one near the point at the Nicor Cliffs.
Habit forced her to pull her hood back over her head, and then her hands enjoyed the warmth of the bread through her cloak. “I AM? If Philip wasn’t in danger, if Jakys and Waleron weren’t certain I could help him, this wouldn’t be worth it. I’m used to people looking at me in fear or suspicion. I’m not used to people seeing me as a thief.” She hung her head, the scent of the bread taunting her. “There was more, and they had enough for another meal later. I did pay for it.”
Talking to Philip’s god had become quite a habit with her. There was comfort in having someone listening, even if that someone was just imaginary. As much as she was inclined to believe that, Dove couldn’t help but suspect that maybe Philip, Lord Morgan, and their minister were all correct. Philip’s logical arguments made as much sense to her as the stories did.
Her gloved hand picked up a pinecone and turned it over with her fingers. Everything was made and is still made after its kind. Philip’s voice echoed in her memory. If that book that Broðor Clarke read from when he taught the boys really said that, and it really was written so many thousands of years ago, then at least that much was true. People gave birth to people. Chickens laid eggs that hatched chickens. Sheep did not give birth to cows or vice versa. These things were simple common sense, but some of Bertha’s stories told of great sea monsters giving birth to grown men and vomiting them onto the shore to conquer rebellious lands.
That thought made her pause. It was almost like Philip’s story of the prophet who didn’t want to go to that evil place—Jonah—it was like Jonah. The people were evil, and Philip’s god decided to destroy the whole city, but Jonah didn’t want to go. She remembered the disgust she’d felt when the man tried to run away from I AM. That was just ridiculous. Any god who could destroy an entire city like that would be able to stop one little man from hiding. But the stories were so similar. She wondered if maybe Broðor Clarke was retelling the old tales with I AM as the great god rather than the sea gods or one of Bertha’s other gods.
Disappointment washed over her. It was the first time that Dove truly felt she wanted to believe in Philip’s god. Perhaps it was the other way around. If the stories in Broðor Clarke’s Bible were so very old, maybe they had just been retold for so long that they weren’t quite the same anymore. People valued a tale that twisted and changed over time. If a minister wasn’t as diligent as Broðor Clarke and didn’t ensure that his people always recount the tales exactly as he told them…
Her stomach growled. Putting aside all thoughts of stories and the gods, Dove unwrapped the loaf from her winter cloak and tore a piece from it. The inside was still warm and soft. The woman was a good baker. She knew how to make a loaf of bread. According to Bertha, some of the villagers’ wives were terrible bakers. In some homes, Bertha refused to eat the bread because she knew she couldn’t digest it.
Thoughts of Bertha brought back dreams of home, and the similarity of the place she was in caused her to pull back her hood to expose a little of her face. The weight of the responsibility on Dove’s shoulders grew heavier as she sat munching her bread and allowing the evening sun to shine on her. With the salty air, the scent of damp pine, and the mists that rolled in from the sea, she could almost imagine that she was home again.
After a hearty meal of bread and a little cheese leftover from the previous day’s “purchase,” Dove pulled a few pieces of bread from the loaf, stuffed them in her pockets, and then put the rest in her pack. She strapped the pack back on her back, grabbed the walking stick, and began her nightly tramp through the woods, along the sea, and possibly into Liverpool.
She didn’t know how far it was to her first destination, but Jakys had suggested it might take a full week to get there. Of course, walking along the sea that far made her journey longer, but she was strong, a fast walker, and had the stamina that a journey such as this required. Tomorrow would be seven days. Seven long, exhausting days—would it all be for nothing? Would Lord Morgan hear of it and ride his horse as swiftly as possible to Philip’s rescue? Would he send a knight?
It was hard to imagine that such a generous man would not, but what if he was waylaid on the trip? What if this was all some kind of trick to call Lord Morgan from Wynnewood so that he might be kidnapped himself? That thought sent chills through her as Dove paused to consider. For a moment, she was so certain that her fears were accurate that she nearly turned back. Memories of his well-trained knights reassured her. Lord Morgan was safe as long as he took his knights, and of course, he would do that.
Her hand felt for the map in her deepest pocket. Jakys wouldn’t have given her a map to Philip’s location had he not been kidnapped. Doubts began to gnaw at her again as she started walking. If the Mæte wanted something, something that Dove would find objectionable, they could have lied— no. Waleron’s concern, the look in Jakys eyes as he told her to be careful and to rescue Philip—it was all genuine.
Dove stumbled, her hands flying out to catch her as she fell, but they hit nothing. Her chest slammed into the ground, knocking the wind from her. She struggled to regain normal breathing as she crawled backwards from the edge of a cliff. She had to be more careful. Her hands felt around for her walking stick, but even as she groped, she realized that it was gone. She must find another one, but Dove didn’t think she’d find one as good.
The darkness, the thickness of the mists, and no stick to feel her way in the night brought a new level of fear to Dove’s heart. She’d been afraid of the dragon, afraid for Philip, and even afraid of harm at the hands of the villagers, but never had she been afraid of being alone. She was now. Terror slammed into her chest and with it, took her breath away once more. She gasped for air, crying, wailing, begging I AM for help without realizing she’d done so.
All alone along England’s rocky coast, covered in a thick blanket of fog, Dove curled into a ball, whimpered for help, and then sobbed out her fears until she fell fast asleep.
Chapter 18
Discouraged
Broðor Clarke sat across from Lord Morgan in silent prayer as the two men waited for preparations for the journey south to be completed. As much as the idea of setting off for Oxford immediately was appealing to both men, they each knew that such foolishness was an excellent way to ruin animals and a poor way to treat faithful servants and knights.
Aurelia was beside herself with worry for her friends, causing Lord Morgan to regret telling her of the situations. It had seemed best to let her know how she could pray and why Dove wouldn’t arrive as bidden. Yes, logic sometimes seemed the best course, but at others, especially when dealing with his daughter, Lord Morgan found that remembering the effect on emotions was vital. As it was, the girl slept under the influence of a few herbs that Malcolm Biggs had administered to calm the girl’s hysterics.
Those hysterics were eating at Charles Morgann’s conscience. His daughter wasn’t prone to excess in any area of her life. Oh yes, at times she felt the limitations of her infirmity keenly, but she rarely complained and never flew into fits of self-pity or despair.
“I do believe I envy you, Lord Morgan.”
“For?”
“I feel the overwhelming desire to follow you to Oxford. The closer it comes to time for you to go, the deeper my unease grows. He’s intelligent, brave, and I know he’s now a man, but he seems such a boy to me.”
“You could come, Dennis. I know—”
“That someone should be here to help if Dove needs anything. I’m the only person the villagers might possibly listen to aside from you. I can’t leave here until I know she’s safe or…” He didn’t seem to want to finish his thought.
Since the subject had been broached, Lord
Morgan asked the question that both of them had avoided. “What do you think are the chances that she will return home safe?”
“It’s been a week. Good weather, no reason for her to be gone… I just—”
The Earl of Wynnewood drained the last of the ale from his tankard. “That’s what I thought. This is going to break Aurelia’s heart. I don’t know how to tell her.”
“Maybe…” Dennis Clarke’s voice dropped into the low, earnest, gentle tones he used when encouraging his congregation to put their whole faith in the one true God—I AM. “Time will tell her what would be hard to hear spoken.”
A sound in the corridor outside the great hall brought Lord Morgan to his feet. “They are ready. Pray, Broðor Clarke. I beg of you to pray.”
“I will, but your prayers are just as effectual, Lord Morgan. Mine are no more special than yours. You pray too.”
The eyes of the two men met from across the room. Neither held much hope for Dove, but for Philip… “We’ll do everything in our power. You’ll tell his mother?”
“If necessary, I will. I’ll wait three weeks, and if there’s no news…”
Broðor Clarke heard whispers of Philip’s abduction three days later. Though he’d hoped to wait until he had news of the young man’s release, he knew it was his duty to tell Magge Ward of her son’s troubles. With a heavy heart, he strolled through the village and down toward the fisherman’s cottages along the shore. Children played in the streets, chasing each other with happy squeals in the afternoon glow.
One look in the dear minister’s eyes, and Philip’s mother knew that the rumors she’d heard were true. Her lips trembled, her hands shook, and tears filled her eyes. “It’s true?”
“I’m sorry, Magge. I was waiting for word that they’d found him before I came. I didn’t expect that people would find out so quickly.”
“He’s just a seaman’s son. Why—”
“He’s a seaman’s son under the patronage of the Earl of Wynnewood. Someone saw him as worth the risk.”
She stepped backward, beckoning Broðor Clark into the house. “Come sit. I just made cakes. Una brought me a basket—” Her head ducked. “She does that sometimes. I think she feels the loss of Philip.”
“Has Tom found another apprentice yet?”
Magge was known for her discretion, and she didn’t fail even when provoked with a reminder of how Tom Fletcher had failed her son. He hadn’t filled the terms of the contract, and had they been so inclined, the Wards could have brought Tom Fletcher before Lord Morgan for breach of contract. John had been ready, but Philip had protested.
“I think Tom has decided to put off apprentices for a while.”
“Well spoken, Magge. I will say,” Broðor Clarke added, “I appreciate that Una and Tom haven’t forgotten you; it’s the least that they could do, considering…”
Magge handed Broðor Clarke a small tankard of ale and a little cake. “Can I ask—” She swallowed. “I—I overheard some men talking down by the shore. They said that finding Philip alive…”
“Don’t borrow trouble, Magge. After all, the point is to get money. If they want the money, they’ll have to produce him. Lord Morgan will do everything he can.”
“But if they’re afraid of getting caught—they’d be hanged. What if—”
“And that is where prayer comforts us. No one loves Philip more than our Lord.”
The distraught woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “That is exactly what terrifies me. The Lord loved Ellie so much that He took her from us… I can’t lose Philip too.” Grabbing little Adam as he dashed past, the woman buried her face in the little boy’s hair. “Adam and Will would be all I have left—unless Will has children, I suppose.”
Though he tried, Broðor Clarke saw that he couldn’t comfort Magge Ward, so he prayed with her and after a romp with Adam, left the cottage, shutting the door behind him. Dejection threatened, but years of practice in turning over his cares to the Lord came to his rescue. He wandered up the road that left Wynnewood and headed for Bertha’s cottage. Perhaps the woman had news of Dove. Even if she didn’t, sparring with the midwife always brightened a gray day.
Letty was scrubbing and hanging clothes and linens when he arrived. He grabbed one side of the sheet and helped the girl twist the water from the fabric, laughing as she told about a dog that had been chased from the yard by a vulture. “I would have loved to see that.”
The girl’s face drooped. “So would Dove.” With a quaver in her voice, Letty asked, “Why haven’t they found her? What could have happened? Do you think the M—” Her mouth clamped shut.
“I think that Dove had good reason to do whatever made her leave. What I don’t know is why she hasn’t returned.”
“It’s been so long…”
He nodded. As much as Broðor Clarke wanted to assure Letty that Dove was likely alive and doing well, he couldn’t lie. It had been over a week since the child vanished from Wynnewood—almost as if the mists had rolled in and swept her away again. “And yet, I continue to hope.”
“It’ll be terrible for Philip when he returns. He lost Ellie. To lose another—almost like a sister—would be hard for anyone, but it is almost like Philip discovered her.”
“Because Bertha just happened to wake up and find her living in the cottage one morning—is that it?” The midwife’s voice interrupted them.
“Good evening, Bertha. Any births to announce?” Broðor Clarke couldn’t help the twitch around the corner of his lips.
“Not today. I’m afraid you won’t be able to perform any magic spells on any babies this week.”
“No spells, Bertha Newcombe. We certainly wouldn’t want that. Just the nice cleansing that comes with the Lord’s baptism.”
“Foist it on an unsuspecting child, don’t you? Load them up with all your rites and rituals when they can’t protest and then spend their childhoods telling them how they are trapped by those things. It’s shameful!”
“It is beautiful to see parents raising up children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord,” Broðor Clarke countered.
Letty watched, fascinated as the two adults bantered in the old familiar way. She knew instinctively that Dove would be amused at the way the faithful minister returned barb for barb, and yet he was gentle and kindly about it. Only Broðor Clarke could intimate that you were a fool, damned without the salvation of the Lord, and make it sound like a compliment.
“At least I have the wits to only believe that which I see.”
“While I,” the minister added, hardly bothering to stifle his chuckle, “choose to believe and worship the One who created that which you see.” Before she could counter he added, “So, as you see, we are not so very different at the core. We both respect intelligent creation and beauty in the world. I simply give credit where it is due. Who would ever praise a garment for its existence when the tailor is nearby?”
“Because a seamstress could not be responsible for something worthy of praise, I assume?” Bertha’s scorn seemed almost palpable.
“Ok, I can concede that. Who would ever praise a garment for its existence when the seamstress is nearby?”
“So you admit your god could be feminine?”
“Not unless fathers and sons are now women. Our Lord does call Himself the Son, and refers to His Father. He did not tell us to pray, ‘Our Mother who art in heaven.’”
“Just like a man too, isn’t it? Take credit for everything. Did not your Jesus have a mother? It seems I’ve heard the boy tell stories of her.”
“That He did, but—”
“But I suppose she is of little consequence.” Bertha’s hands were now on her hips, eyes flashing.
Broðor Clarke winked at Letty and shook his head. “The scriptures say that she found favor with the Lord. I would say that means she was of great consequence. What Father would choose just any woman to be the mother of the greatest man who ever lived—of God in the flesh among us?”
To their surprise, Bertha whir
led and stormed into the cottage, slamming the door behind her. Letty’s eyes sought those of the stunned man with her and shook her head. “She hates men so much. I don’t understand it. I guess that is why she hasn’t married.”
“I think it is likely that she has known only unkindness from men. That would make it hard for any person to trust a Heavenly Father. We will keep praying for her; won’t we, Letty?”
They finished the laundry in silence. Letty had dozens of questions she wanted to ask the minister, but the sad look on the man’s face made it impossible to try. Though he tried to focus on his task, Broðor Clarke found his prayers shifting from a little cloaked girl to a strong, stout, middle-aged woman.
To the surprise of both man and girl, just a short while later, Bertha’s voice called out the front door, “The stew is getting cold. You both better come eat it before it’s inedible.”
Chapter 19
Outlaws
Fatigue had become Dove’s constant companion. Ever since she’d crept around the outskirts of Liverpool and headed across the fields and along the Mersey River, she’d known that her stride was shorter, and she was taking much longer to travel. Though she knew it was illogical, Dove blamed the lack of the salt air for her lethargy, but the truth was that she was simply tired and afraid. She hadn’t slept well since leaving Wynnewood; her meals were irregular and unbalanced, and her feet ached miserably. Had her fear for Philip not been greater than her discomfort and fear for herself, she’d have holed up near a village somewhere and rested until she felt well enough to return home.
It had been surprisingly easy to avoid most people. Staying off the road, listening carefully for the sounds of men and women working in fields or near villages ensured that she didn’t suddenly come upon someone and frighten them. As the days were unseasonably cool, she didn’t worry about people questioning her cloak, and her talent for dodging those who would chase her away kept her from persistent pursuit.
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