“That wasn’t very bright.”
“Do you think,” Jerome asked, ignoring the jab from the older man, “we should find the man and insist he tell us everything?”
The elder knight didn’t eve hesitate. “No. If we follow, we find. We may have to split up so that one of us can hurry ahead to inform Lord Morgan, but if we try to confront him now, he’ll likely refuse to speak.”
“So, we follow…” Jerome echoed.
A satisfied expression settled over Harold’s face. “We follow—and we catch these criminals. They’ll be at the gallows inside a fortnight.” He nodded affably at his younger comrade. “You did well, Jerome.”
As he built the fire in the chapel, Broðor Clarke sang the familiar chants that stirred his soul. They were all in Latin, a familiar language to him but not to the villagers. Local mothers felt a swell of pride when their small children sang the songs they heard from the little pulpit each week, their semi-monotonic melodies occasionally interrupted by a rise or fall in tone before returning to one or two closely related notes. It sounded educated to them, but to Broðor Clarke, it felt unnatural. He often wished he had a talent for music. When he sat in the corner of the tavern and heard the minstrels and the troubadours, he sometimes wished he could combine their musical storytelling abilities with the psalms and Bible stories.
“Dove could do it, Lord. If she were here, she could do it. Philip has often said she make any conversation lyrical.”
Bertha’s prediction pricked his heart. Deep down, he had an unshakeable faith that Philip would never deny his Lord, but at times, particularly when things looked so bleak, he had trouble remembering that the Lord who was powerful enough to save man from their sins also knew what He was doing when disaster struck. Dove being gone—indefinitely it seemed—was most certainly a disaster.
To ease his mind, Broðor Clarke tried to imagine what song he’d choose first if he had a chance to speak to Dove. He’d only truly conversed once with the girl; she always ran from him. The impossibility of one thing seemed to spawn another, but the minister didn’t mind. He finally settled on the faith of Noah. One righteous man—in a world full of people, God found just one righteous man. He liked the way it naturally segued into the church. It could be a marvelous teaching tool if a song was written in a tune that people knew. People loved music. They’d learn faster and the words would strike deeper into their hearts and much more quickly if sung in their own language and to tunes that they enjoyed.
The first boy burst through the door. “Good afternoon, Liam. You seem in a hurry.”
“I thought you might have news of Philip, Broðor Clarke—or Dove.”
“Neither, I’m afraid.”
Liam nodded and grabbed the broom from the corner. As he swept, he glanced curiously at the minister, but didn’t ask the questions that clearly plagued him. Just as Broðor Clarke decided to open the conversation, the boy finally took a deep breath and asked in one long, breathless word, “Why-doesn’t-God-speak-to-you-like-He-did-to-Moses-and-tell-us-about-Philip?”
The question was a valid one, but the minister was disappointed to hear it. He’d hoped that the boys would see God as the Great Communicator—the loving Father who speaks to His children, teaching and loving them through His words. If Liam were any indication, he’d managed to make the Lord seem like a mystical being that operated more like a genie in a magical lamp.
He smiled at Liam, trying to hide his frustration. “And when did the great I AM tell Moses where to find a missing child? When did I AM reveal a wish rather than His will?”
“You mean...” Liam sounded confused. “Oh. You’re saying that what seems important to us may not be the Lord’s will because He sees all and knows the future.”
“You’re a bright young man, Liam. That’s exactly what I’m saying. I don’t know why this has happened to Philip or where Dove has gone, but if the Lord wants both of them to return home, we can trust that He can make it happen.”
Chapter 22
End in Sight
Dawn approached; the hint of light that hovered near the horizon taunted her with its arrival. She’d hoped to reach Oxford before daybreak, but the moon, hidden by clouds and intermittent showers, had made the road muddy and she’d spent most of her time slogging through puddles. Twice the rain had fallen so hard that she’d crawled under a bridge to wait out the storm.
To keep herself going, even when she was so tired and wet that she wanted to quit, Dove sang. Unaware that four hundred miles away, Broðor Clarke dreamed of having his people sing songs of praise and the stories of the Bible, she sang of those very things. Her songs were of Esther, Jonah, and even Peter as he cut off the ear of Malchus. Her high sweet voice that once sounded eerie amid the mists of Wynnewood sang of Jesus’ prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane.
Had she known that each word, each memory, each word of the Lord that she sang impressed itself into her heart, she might have resisted the tug of those now familiar stories. One song became almost her constant companion—comforting her when nothing else could. She sang of Miriam watching over Moses in the Nile and then rejoicing as they reached the other side of the Red Sea and watched the destruction of Pharaoh’s army.
Her stomach rumbled as she neared the village of Somerton. Travel made eating difficult. It was hard work to stumble over roads and along fields next to them. The harder her journey, the more food she needed, but she was often too exhausted to put forth the effort to find any. Her conscience also made it difficult to take the food she truly needed. No amount of self-admonishment could convince her that her pennies made taking what wasn’t hers an acceptable thing to do.
Knowing the light would overtake the sky soon, Dove scrambled over a low wall and hurried toward a group of trees to think. She felt safer among the trees, even though few people wandered the roads in the dark. Unlike the forests of Wynnewood, she didn’t know instinctively where tree roots or branches were. When it rained, the trees acted as ineffective umbrellas—better than nothing, although she still tended to become soaked. However, sometimes she needed the speed that she could only find on the open road. Philip would laugh to see her trip so often after all her teasing when they’d met. Her forehead was bruised and scraped from so many whacks against low hanging branches.
Farms on the outskirts of the little town meant food. She had to find something and soon. Although the rain had finally stopped, her blanket and cloak wouldn’t dry for hours. She really needed a new blanket. The temptation to trade hers for a dry one at some house was huge, but Bertha’s opinions on disease lurking in bedding squelched it. Even Bertha didn’t know if her ideas were mere superstition or fact, but it was true that they got sick much less often than the rest of the villagers did.
She followed the little grove of trees, watching to see where the road went and looking for some kind of house. “Well, I AM, I’m very tempted to ask for meat. I need meat, I think—or eggs. If I could find a way to boil an egg…” Her prayer dissolved into new plans for finding food.
The morning was cool and the threat of rain hovered in the sky. Even as the sun rose, the light it brought was pale and gray. It seemed more like nightfall than sunrise. Dove’s mind whirled in a dozen directions. She could go into town and buy from a baker. No one would question a cloak on a child on a chilly morning when rain threatened. She could act shy and mention her father. It would be hard to start a fire to cook anything, but maybe she could find cheese and some fruit. It seemed likely— dangerous, but likely.
Dove had one serious concern, however. Exhaustion. She was truly more tired than she’d ever been in her life. If someone questioned—insisted even—and wanted to see her, she’d have to run. Did she have the strength to get away with the pack on her back and the extra weight of the sodden blanket?
One final idea clinched her decision. She could ask the distance to Oxford. It was risky; oh, how it was risky, but Dove couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. It could be only a few miles, or it could be fifty. S
he just didn’t know. She’d do it. If there were only a few miles left, she’d continue onward after her breakfast.
“Bread, please.” Dove tried to lower her voice a little, hoping to sound a little older.
“What’dya say? Can’t hear you.”
“Bread, please,” she repeated, louder.
“You’re not from around here. Where are you from?”
Without thinking, she answered, “Oxford.” Realizing she’d switched destination with home, Dove started to correct herself, and then clamped her mouth shut. “How much for the bread?”
“Two pennies.”
Dove started to pass the coins to the baker, but a hand clamped over hers, startling her. “One. He’s lying to you.”
Shaking, she dropped the coins in the baker’s hands and grabbed the proffered loaf. “Thank you anyway. Good day.”
The moment the hand had touched her, she’d planned to run from the town and be satisfied with the loaf, but a cheese monger rolled a cart into the street only a few yards ahead of her. Fighting back tears, she forced herself to stop and purchase a small wedge. Another cart, just at the edge of town, offered apples and a few vegetables. Dove bought enough to fill her pockets, asked the distance to Oxford, and then hurried from the town, beaming.
“There are only twenty miles left,” she murmured to herself. “I could make it before nightfall if I hurry.”
A large barn adjacent to an abbey was all Dove needed to see. Barns weren’t plentiful on her journey, but when she came across them, she found that they were dry places, much more comfortable than being outside, and often she could dry her clothes. She dashed over a wall and across a field, praying no one saw her. That was the worst part of any attempt to hide during the day. Anyone looking could see anything. Unlike Wynnewood, the southern areas weren’t smothered in trees.
After a few glances around her to be sure no one noticed her arrival, she dragged open the door and crept inside. As dreary and dark as the day was, the inside of the barn was much darker. Two small, narrow windows at each end of the barn let in the only light the massive structure provided. She allowed her eyes to adjust, and then went looking for a safe place to hide.
A ladder gave her the hideaway she sought. Though her muscles protested, she climbed up to a loft high above the rest of the barn where light and air came through the windows. There were bags of grain stored up there, and just a little straw. It would be less comfortable than she’d hoped, but Dove decided that some straw was better than the wet ground.
First, she laid out her blanket over the bags of grain. Her cloaks followed, the white one placed directly in the path of the window in case sunlight had half a chance to shine on it. She opened her pack and carefully laid out everything she owned around her. One tunic was hardly damp at all, so Dove stripped her clothes, laying them out to dry too, and pulled on the tunic. It was much more comfortable than the damp things she’d been enduring.
Once everything was spread out to dry, Dove examined her food, trying to decide how much she could eat. With only twenty miles to Oxford, she would only need two more meals until she could find Philip. He could buy her more food. She counted her pennies. There were only twenty-three left. That was a lot of money, but not the way she’d been spending it. She had a long journey home, and couldn’t expect to make it without more. She hoped that Philip would have money he could spare. With more pennies, she’d get home just fine.
Hunger overrode prudence. Dove ate the cheese and two carrots. Still hungry, she tore off a chunk of bread and drank an entire flask of water. She’d need more before she could continue her journey, but there was a well in Somerton. If necessary, she’d walk back there and fill it, assuming she couldn’t find one at the abbey. That seemed unlikely.
That familiar sleepy contentedness that comes after a filling meal washed over her just as the sun broke through the clouds. She turned every piece of clothing and her blanket over to the other side, laid down on a small pile of straw in the sunlight, and fell asleep.
Despite her best intentions, Dove awoke many hours later, darkness surrounding her. The barn was pitch black and no moon shone to give any light. Her hands felt for her clothing and thankfully, it was all mostly dry. The woolen blanket was still damp, but her cloaks were fine. She layered all of her clothes on, barely pulling her breeches over the other pair, and then folded the blanket into the pack. Her hands fumbled to find her flint, the coins, and the knife. It took what seemed like an enormous amount of time, but at last, she found the empty flask and hooked the strings over her neck.
Dove was halfway down the ladder when she remembered her walking stick. Though tempted to leave it, she knew it was a bad decision. That stick had saved her from running into rock walls, stumbling over large roots or falling into holes and twisting an ankle. She needed it. Back up the ladder she climbed, amazed at how much energy she had after such a good sleep.
She usually sought food, rested until closer to midnight, and then walked until the wee hours of the morning when she’d start a new hunt for food, but this last night on the road was different. She had the food, and if she walked quickly, she might be able to release Philip while his abductors were asleep. That seemed to be the best option—assuming it would work.
Near a kitchen garden at one corner of the abbey, Dove found a well. She filled her flask, drank thirstily, and then filled it again. She washed her hands and face, and replaced her gloves. Within minutes, she walked along the stone wall that separated abbey lands from the road. A low wall wasn’t as comforting as trees were, but if she heard someone, she could always jump over it and hide.
The chances of actually seeing anyone wandering the countryside in the dark were so slim, Dove should have felt silly for even thinking of it, but she didn’t. A lifetime of fears overrode her common sense at times like that. So she created her escape plans as she walked, comforting herself that she hadn’t expected to meet anyone, and the three men had shown up seemingly out of nowhere. Bertha would be proud of her forethought.
The thought of Bertha sent an odd pang to her heart. She didn’t have deep affection for the woman—certainly not the kind she imagined people felt for their mothers, but even so, the woman had been the only mother-like person in her life, and she did feel somewhat guilty for leaving so abruptly. Did Bertha think she was dead? Would the midwife’s life be easier now that her little charge was gone? Dove instinctively knew it would.
Yes, Dove felt a certain sort of gratitude to the woman who had saved her life and kept her fed, clothed, and housed for so many years. Bertha had taught her how to keep house, hunt, cook, and the rudiments of healing. With as many stories as she’d heard, Dove was certain that she could assist a woman in a normal delivery. However, Dove also had a certain matter-of-fact acceptance of Bertha’s “sacrifice.” After all, it was a midwife’s job to preserve life. Bertha had said as much over the years. She’d simply done what her calling required of her.
As usual, stumbling over the road was awkward, and twice she fell, but after two weeks of using her walking stick to feel her way along the road, she made good time regardless. She drank half her flask in the first two hours, and then paused to refill it in another town.
Owls swooped overhead, hunting their prey. Sheep bleated in fields, and dogs howled over odd sounds in the night. The occasional rustling of creatures in the grass would have terrified a child unaccustomed to late night rambles in the forests, but for Dove, they were a challenge. Was that a fox or a rabbit? Was the whoosh overhead that of an owl, or were there dragons here as well?
As she passed the church at Woolvercote, Dove nearly screeched to see a cloaked woman nearly running through the street. “Get home, boy,” the woman called without a glance back to see if she’d been obeyed, “I’ll tell your mother you were out again.”
Another half mile down the road, and Dove understood. It was a midwife. The shrieks coming from a ramshackle hut near the edge of the town told Dove everything she needed to know and much
more than she wanted. As she hurried along the final stretch to Oxford, Dove smiled to herself. Some poor child was going to get in trouble for doing something he hadn’t done. If Dove knew anything about children, she knew that he’d not been caught more often than he had, so the punishment he got would be earned, albeit a bit delayed.
She needed light. To read the map once she arrived, she’d need light to see. It seemed to her that the easiest thing to do was find the North Gate and then follow the map from there. If she ensured a specific point of reference, surely she couldn’t misread the crudely scrawled directions.
At last, she arrived. In the distance, she saw the tiny flicker of the gatekeeper’s torch, and grew excited. If she could get close enough to that torch, she could read the map and find Philip. Although she was a bit discouraged, Dove forced herself to stay back and wait. Perhaps if she observed the guards for a while, she’d find a way to get close to the torches.
Chapter 23
Bad to Worse
Several days after Lord Morgan left for Oxford, Jakys watched as his daughter played with her dolls in the corner of their sitting room. His face looked stern and grim, but the child, absorbed in an imaginary world of her own making, didn’t notice. He was thinking of Dove. She shouldn’t be making that journey alone, he thought to himself. She’s too young.
Young or not, the girl was gone. Several of the young men had tried to sneak around Wynnewood for news of the girl, but it had been useless. Either the village hadn’t noticed her absence, or they were afraid that mentioning it would hasten her return. Jakys was furious at the thought.
“I should have gone with her,” he muttered aloud, unaware that he’d spoken.
“What, Fæder?” Durilda smiled at him from the corner, but the sight of his tense features concerned her. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 58
