The third night after leaving Liverpool was bitterly cold. Even with both cloaks and the thick woolen blanket she used to hold her things, Dove found it impossible to stay warm even while walking. Near midnight, she was forced to stop and build a fire. This was dangerous and she knew it, but her teeth chattered so loudly that they hurt, and her fingers ached with the cold.
It took time to find enough wood to sustain fire for long. She stumbled through the darkness to find fallen branches and twigs. She kept birch bark for tinder and a little kindling in her pack at all times. After ensuring there were no houses nearby, Dove went to work. She cleared dried leaves beneath a hawthorn tree, and dug a shallow pit. With a few rocks around the outside to help protect against sparks, she laid the wood in the pit, carefully arranged her kindling, and then began to strike her flint to ignite the tinder. It took little time to get a blaze going, but it made her nervous. A fire practically begged for someone to come investigate.
An hour passed comfortably. Her hands were no longer numb with cold, her teeth didn’t chatter, and the shivers that had wracked her body until she was exhausted from them had gone. In their place, a cozy warmth spread around her and made Dove drowsy. Several times, she found herself dozing off, but each time, her head snapped up quickly. She couldn’t sleep. She needed to stay awake until almost daybreak and then find a place to rest.
The warmth of the blaze, the flames that danced for her, and the comforting crackle of the wood eventually lulled her to sleep. It was not the restful kind of sleep that she needed. No, she sat with her head resting on her knees, her back bent, and her body rigid—unaware that danger grew closer with every passing minute.
A sound—unmistakable but unidentifiable—pierced her consciousness. Dove’s hand reached for her sling and wrapped her cloak and blanket more tightly around her as she stood. Voices. Terrified, she tried to kick dirt into her fire, but it was too late. Three men rose up from the hill behind the tree and stopped, staring at the little cloaked figure.
“What have we here? A boy out on a lark? What do you have there, boy?”
Panicked, she backed away from the fire, her hand swinging the sling. They were almost too close to risk it. She started to run, but checked herself. If they were too close to knock out with a stone, they’d be able to catch her. Hands shaking, she backed away slowly and tried to disguise her voice to sound like the boy they expected.
“Go away.”
“Aw, he’s not very friendly, is he Martin?”
“Might have to teach the lad some manners.”
The one called Martin looked at her curiously, and took another step forward— almost menacingly. Dove made up her mind. She had one chance to get away. As untimely as the thought was, her mind immediately thought it would be a good test to see if it might work to help Philip. So, with every ounce of courage she possessed, she stepped forward, closing the gap between the men, and reached up to pull back her hood.
“I said,” she growled, trying to sound as fierce and ugly as she could, “go away!”
With that, Dove flung back her hood and met the eyes of the three men. She knew the flames were reflected in her own eyes. Her hair alone, as wild and unkempt as it looked, was terrifying in itself. A flicker of fear in the eyes of one of the men was all the encouragement she needed. With a prayer in her heart that she didn’t realize she uttered, she threw back her head and screamed as loudly as she could before rushing toward them again.
The one man, Martin, hesitated, but his companions fled. He didn’t move toward her, but she saw something in his face that terrified her more than any response anyone had ever made to her—interest. Unsure what else to do, she kicked as much dirt into the fire as she could, wrapped her blanket and cloak around her, trying to keep the things she’d stowed in her pockets from falling, and ran.
“Wait!” The man took a step forward, but she was already yards away and nothing would have induced her to stop. Her heart raced as she stumbled and then flew over the ground.
What made a man step toward her when she was so exposed? She knew the flames added to the terror of her own features. She knew that this combined with her wild hair made her look like the Scynscaþa that the Mæte had called her. In her terror, she’d been unable to identify what had so unnerved her, but once she was a mile or two away, she knew. Recognition. He’d seen someone like her before and was not afraid. Nothing had ever petrified her more.
Daybreak had never been more welcome for Dove. She’d hardly traveled twelve miles throughout the night. It was nearly wasted, and she knew it, but it was time to sleep. Finding a safe place seemed impossible now. How could she rest comfortably, knowing that those men were out there? Of course, they weren’t likely to come near her again. Dove couldn’t resist a slight smile at the sight of two grown men fleeing like little girls running from a boy with a snake.
The rumbling in her stomach warned her that she needed to find more food. Dove’s hand wrapped around the last apple in her pocket. As much as she wanted to eat it, she knew it was foolish to risk it. She was hungry, but she’d need the sustenance once she was ready to start out again at night. A small stream provided enough water to make her feel full, and a dense thicket was exactly what she thought she needed. She dug out a small area, crawled inside, and curled up into the dip she’d hollowed out of the earth. With her blanket and cloaks giving her a soft pallet, and her summer cloak wrapped around her, Dove was not too cool or too warm—much more comfortable than the previous night.
Doves cooed, rabbits hopped before scampering away again, and dogs from nearby farms roamed in search of those rabbits, but Dove slept through it all. Her dreams were odd things that made no sense the next morning. She dreamed of three men who roamed the countryside, trying to find Philip and sell him to the Mæte. Each time they got close to her friend, she’d jump out of a hiding place, throw back her hood, and sing the songs she sang to the dragons, and the men would fall asleep.
As the night descended, hunger forced her awake, and Dove decided to try to find food once more before she ate her apple. She crawled from her place in the thicket and brushed the dirt from her blanket and shook out her hair. It had been days since she’d allowed herself to bathe in a stream, but she needed it again. She could feel the grit and grime of travel between her toes and under her fingers. Her hair felt itchy and miserable. She’d make it another night, maybe, but she couldn’t risk getting sick, and Bertha said disease lingered in unwashed bodies.
Just a mile away, she found an empty farm. Why no one was there, she couldn’t imagine, but the house was eerily silent. Nervous, she crept indoors, glancing around her, expecting at any moment for someone to jump out and grab her arm. Inside, apples, pears, and turnips hung in baskets from the ceiling. She filled her pockets and then smelled stew simmering in a cauldron over the fireplace. As crazy as it was to risk it, she filled a bowl and ate hungrily.
Bertha’s training didn’t allow her to leave an unwashed bowl. She hurried to clean it, took three pennies from her dwindling stash, and laid them in plain sight on the table. Just as her hand reached for the door latch, voices reached her from the yard. Panicked, she glanced around the room for some place to hide. Instinctively, she moved toward the darker corners near the beds and curled in a ball behind a curtain that separated the spaces. With her pack on her back, she hoped it looked like a bundle of nothingness if someone looked closely enough.
Her heart froze as she heard the voices of the men who stumbled through the door. Instinctively, she began praying, begging Philip’s God for help and protection. She’d frightened two of the men; one had frightened her. If they saw her again, she felt sure they’d kill her.
“Look, there’s stew on. I’m famished!”
From her corner, Dove listened as they filled bowls and nearly inhaled the food. At first, she wondered if the men lived there, but when they started rifling through the food and filling a bag full, she knew they were just thieves. “Why d’you suppose someone just left three
pennies sitting on the table like that?” one asked.
“Don’t know, but take ‘em. I found a few more coins in that box on the shelf.” The second voice came from near the fireplace where he rifled through something. “Got me a knife over here. Martin, check over by the beds. Maybe there’ll be something else of value in there.
Beads of perspiration formed on Dove’s forehead and upper lip. Nervous and afraid, she tried to hold as still as possible as the curtain parted and the man who hadn’t run in fear began a thorough search and then stopped short. An irritated voice came closer. “What’d you find, Martin? Hurry.”
“Nothing, James. I just thought I heard something.”
“Well hurry up then.”
Martin made more noise than ever, whispering just above Dove’s head, “I’ll not give you away. Travel the north side of the road.”
With those words, Martin grabbed a hatchet from the wall and carried it to the other side of the curtain. “All I found was a hatchet. Think it would bring anything?”
“Bring it along. Can’t hurt,” James agreed. “Let’s get out of here before someone comes back.”
As the door shut behind them, Dove exhaled loudly, or so it seemed to her ears. Why had the man helped her? Why wasn’t he afraid? She trembled slightly, but forced herself to pull out three more pennies and leave them on the table. She had no intention of paying for whatever the thieves had stolen—until she remembered the hatchet. Dove was certain that Martin had only taken it to appease the other men. She didn’t know how much a hatchet would cost, but she added a few more pennies to the little pile. She could justify that.
As she slunk away, keeping north of the road, Dove grew thankful for all of the pennies Jakys had given her. She’d paid too much for things, but her conscience wouldn’t let her take the full amount from people who might need it before they could replace it. Money was a wonderful thing when you found it hard to come by, but you couldn’t chew a coin like you could a loaf of bread. Pennies didn’t fill your belly like eggs or apples.
She also couldn’t get Martin out of her mind. Why had the man protected her, and why wasn’t he afraid? Sure, the firelight wasn’t very bright, but he’d seen—he’d recognized her for what she was. He wasn’t the only one—Lord Morgan knew. Even Broðor Clarke seemed to know. Bertha wasn’t afraid, but the Mæte had nearly killed her.
Alongside the road, about twenty yards north of it, she tramped, listening for the men, occasionally hearing Martin’s laughter off in the distance. They weren’t walking quite as quickly as she was, but their longer strides and the torch they carried made the trek along the road easier, but it also gave her something to follow. Her cloak helped keep her movements stealthy and it almost seemed as if Martin was trying to make a lot of noise.
It didn’t take long to discover where the family from the farmhouse had been. A large festival was winding down as they reached the next town. People spilled onto the road, sending the men away from sight. It was difficult to hide from so many people, but once she’d traveled five miles on the other side of the town, she felt confident again. For a while, trees grew very close to the road, almost as they did near Wynnewood, and Dove chanced a walk along the road. She hadn’t seen the three men in hours, and it was easy enough to jump behind a tree and climb it quickly. On the road, she made very quick time, walking faster than she had since she’d started for Oxford just eleven days earlier.
According to Jakys, she had just four or five more days’ journey at the most. She could do it. She had to—no matter how much she wanted to turn around and run home. Her throat tightened and her heart ached as dawn crept over the morning sky and sent Dove looking for yet another place to sleep.
As she lay down to sleep in a partially dugout abandoned haymow, her exhaustion, fear, and loneliness encroached on her until she felt truly despairing. Tears splashed down her cheeks and deep sobs overtook her. Her shoulders shook, her throat ached, and her heart squeezed as she gave full vent to her grief.
Dove planned her approach into Oxford. It had worked with two of the men. Surely it would work with kidnappers. Her last thought before she drifted off into another strange world of dreams was to question why someone like her would have such experience with kidnapping. It seemed a bit preposterous.
Chapter 20
Delays
Lord Morgan’s bones ached from the long ride. As swiftly as he tried to go, the horses could not be ridden hard without being refreshed. They were strong, powerful battle animals, and he wasn’t ready to give up the fine steeds he had for the horses in the stables along their route. He made discreet inquiries to see if anyone had seen Dove, but no one had seen a child wandering anywhere. While Dove followed the sea to Liverpool, the Mersey River across England, and then down to Oxford, Lord Morgan took the most direct route, taking the roads that left northern England and led to places such as Oxford, Cambridge, London, and south to Portsmouth.
The knights showed all proper respectful deference, but he sensed their desire to charge onward and slay the dragon, otherwise known as kidnappers. They trained for battle—to fight for the crown. Going on a hunt for a common boy held for ransom was beneath their station and training, but still, it was active employment and held a sense of danger and the unknown that drills and improvised tournaments never could.
Lord Morgan’s knights did more than protect Wynnewood and the castle from siege. They were ready to be called by King Henry of Winchester at any time, and over the years, some had gone with other knights from all over England and France to fight in the Crusades. Contrary to stereotype, not all knights loved a joust or a swordfight. They didn’t all ache to go on quests to prove themselves. Lord Morgan’s knights were all as different and varied as the nobles, villagers, and farmers. Some knights loved travel, others not so much. There were natural scholars, those who loved riding, and others who hated both. However, there was one thing that they all had in common—loyalty to Lord Morgan.
Philip had been something of a pet of most of the knights, his bravery and loyalty something they admired. He’d orchestrated the capture of the elusive unicorn, and yet he hadn’t grown vain or arrogant. They’d missed him around the castle over the past year. Of course, there were a few who were annoyed by him, and those men found themselves left behind to protect the castle in the absence of the Earl.
It was a dry time in England, making travel much easier than usual. Each morning they searched the skies for signs of rain, but it didn’t come. This should have gotten them to Oxford at a reasonably swift pace, but they couldn’t ride at much more than a walk without exhausting the animals.
The town of Strafford was a market town, very important in the area. The men were tired, sore, and ready for a good meal and a good night’s rest. There were three inns available to them, but since one didn’t have enough room for all nine men, they chose to seek another. The second inn was directly in the middle of town, and several of the knights suggested that they might not sleep well if the town was noisy late. After a moment’s thought, Charles Morgan agreed. “We’ll also have the advantage of being on the other side of the town when we ride on tomorrow.”
Dinner smelled delicious. Long tables in a dining hall were soon laden with roasted goose, vegetables, and large tankards of refreshing ale. Having worked up excellent appetites on their thirty-mile ride that day, the men attacked their meal with gusto, laughing and joking about some of the sights they’d seen. Lost in his own thoughts and exhausted from the ride, the Earl of Wynnewood hardly joined their banter, preferring to relax and enjoy his meal.
Several of the knights strolled through the town after they ate, but Charles Morgan wanted nothing more than a long night’s rest. He waved those who hesitated to leave him off to join their comrades and climbed the stairs to his room. The moment his boots were off and his surcoat draped over a chair, he crawled into bed and fell sound asleep.
Lord Morgan woke in the middle of the night, vomiting violently and shaking. Two others were equal
ly sick, and within hours, the entire inn succumbed to the illness, which they attributed to bad meat. After long, miserable hours of purging, the men all lay collapsed on their pallets and beds, exhausted. They sipped water, often expelling it as swiftly as they drank, and tried to rest.
One younger knight, Jerome, had been ill before they left Wynnewood and could not rally. Despite the ministrations of a physician, the man was too weak to rise with the others on the third day. Lord Morgan, unwilling to leave the man alone but anxious to hurry to Philip’s aid, conferred with his men.
“We cannot stay any longer. I know we’ll likely not be able to go far, but we must try. Is anyone willing to volunteer to stay, or should we draw straws?”
The knights exchanged glances, none wanting to stay in the inn where they’d been so miserable, until Lord Morgan suggested moving Jerome to new lodgings. “I do think it would be best if we found another inn. I’m not sure he’ll be ready to trust the cook here, and he needs nourishment.”
Upon hearing those words, the oldest of the knights stepped forward. “I’ll stay.”
Lord Morgan was not comfortable with that idea. Edward was an expert horseman and an excellent conversationalist. He’d be able to get anyone to open up about whatever they’d seen. “I—”
Another man, Harold, stepped forward. “I’ll stay, m’lord. I’ve had training in healing, and I’m not as hardy as some of the others. Do we go home when he’s well or wait for your return?”
Lord Morgan thought for a moment, and then decided. “Stay until we return. It is possible that we’ll need you for something. Being closer would help.”
The men gathered their things and tried to hurry to their horses, but all were still somewhat weak from their ordeal. Jerome looked pitiful lying on his bed, his face gaunt and gray. “Harold will take good care of you. Rest and try to eat. I’ll send men to carry you to another inn.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 56
