“You saw me, Philip. I saw the look of horror in your eyes.”
Philip shook his head. “Amazement—that you were there—certainly, but not horror. I think you were littler than I imagined and your hair is all wild. I know that. I just can’t remember any more.”
Resolved, she tucked his blankets in more firmly. “Good. Sleep, Philip. We still have to get you inside the city without someone blaming me for your abduction.”
Chapter 26
Dovely
Horses at full gallop, pounded the road behind Lord Morgan’s retinue. “Two riders behind us, Lord Morgan— gaining fast.”
“Can you see them?”
“No, but I suppose I will be able to once they round that curve. We just moved out of sight.”
“Turn, dismount, and draw your swords,” the frustrated leader called.
Charles Morgan’s frustration mounted with every thundering hoof beat. He didn’t have time to deal with outlaws. With just a couple of hours left on their journey, he wanted to go, not fight someone for a few coins or a horse. Why would two men think they could overpower a lord and his knights?
“Here they come,” William called.
The knights stood at the ready, swords drawn, and in an arc blocking the road. The two riders barreled around the corner and then reigned in their horses, one rearing in fear. Edwin dropped his sword. “It’s Jerome and Harold!”
The two exhausted knights swung down from their horses, patting the animals’ heaving sides, and praising the speed with which they’d traveled. “We made it! These are the best horses yet.”
“What are you doing here? We thought we were going to be waylaid by outlaws.”
Jerome stepped forward. “I was in a tavern in Strafford and overheard the man that brought news of Philip’s capture—you know the one with the stutter. He was looking for a man named Gipp Doggett. He said the man had a southern accent and a hooked nose and was heading to Oxford. We thought you should know.”
This was excellent news indeed! “So you rode here at full gallop?”
“Of course not!” Harold protested. “We alternated between a trot and a canter and changed horses at every town. When we saw you ahead, we kicked up speed. We’ll reverse it on the way home and try to get our horses back, but if not…”
“Philip is worth the loss of good horseflesh. I’ll reimburse you.”
The men had been stepping along at a slightly faster walk, but they slowed to allow Harold and Jerome to lead their horses behind them. As they walked, they listened to funny stories that had occurred along the route and told a few of their own. The entire group was relieved when they reached the next village and managed to change the horses for fresh ones.
“Let’s go!”
Unfortunately, Jerome had grown accustomed to swifter travel. Mile after mile, he shifted in the saddle, anxious to arrive. Harold smirked behind his beard. “I think Jerome has developed a taste for speed. He seems fidgety.”
The other men laughed, teasing Jerome as they rode onward, watching eagerly themselves for the sight of the city walls. At last, just a few hours before sundown, they spied the city. With just a little more than a mile to go, the men urged their horses into a trot.
The town bustled with commerce. Lord Morgan led his men to where he’d found lodgings for Philip and went to speak to the proprietor. “Wakeley, is it? I’ve come to help my protégé. Have you heard anything of him these past weeks?”
The man look confused. “He was gone for a couple of weeks, yes, but he came home two days ago, ill. He’s in his room with the physician’s assistant.”
“Physician’s assistant? Do you know this man?”
“Oh, yes. Joseph is one of the best in the town,” the proprietor assured him.
“And the assistant? What do you know of him?”
An odd look entered Wakeley’s eyes. “I’ve never seen him before. Short boy—quiet. I’m thinking he’s an apprentice.”
“You don’t seem to like him.” A fleeting thought entered Lord Morgan’s mind, but he shoved it out again. Impossible!
“He’s just so queer. Always skulking around the room in that gray cloak. He won’t take it off, and Philip gets agitated if anyone even hints that he should.”
Impossible or not, it seemed as if Lord Morgan’s suspicions were correct. He waved for his men to find shelter for their horses and hurried up the stairs. Despite the knowledge that Dove must be there, Charles Morgan’s eyes lit up in surprise when he saw Dove peek through a crack in the door. “Dove!”
The door flung open and a gray bundle flew at him, burying her head in his chest. “Oh, you’re here and so soon! I was so scared.”
“How did you get here, child?”
Dove tried to extract herself from the lord’s arms, but found herself nearly trapped in them. From the other side of the room, Philip called out, his voice sounding quite odd and thick, “Isn’t she dovely? I couldn’t believe it when she showed up and rescued me. She’s a rescuer—a tiny little rescuer—a dovely girl.”
The child’s hood rose to Lord Morgan’s face and a giggle escaped. “He keeps saying the silliest things. Joseph, the hælan, said the herbs and medicines are doing it.” She giggled again. “Last night he acted so strangely, I thought he was drunk!”
“Well, I’d agree with him that you are a ‘dovely’ girl, but yes, I see what you mean.”
Lord Morgan reluctantly released Dove and crossed the room to Philip’s side. A hand on the boy’s forehead and temples seemed to show only a slight fever, but the occasional coughs were worrisome. Cool air blew into the room from the window, making him wonder if it was a bad idea. “Does the physician recommend the open window?”
“No, m’lord,” Dove whispered. “Bertha would insist, so when Joseph comes, I close the window. He thinks this room is just abnormally cool.”
“Are you warm enough, Philip?” Though he knew the child had learned much from the midwife, he didn’t like the idea of risking Philip’s health on the advice of an young girl.
“Fine and toasty. When the window is shut, it’s stifling in here. Dove keeps the room just dovely. It’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it?”
“I think,” he murmured to Dove, “we should find out what herbs and medicines he’s giving Philip. The boy does sound quite drunk.”
“At least he’s a funny drunk.” Dove giggled. “He was singing last night between coughs. I couldn’t make him stop. He sang the song that the minstrels sang about the night Lady Aurelia was supposed to be kidnapped, but he got it all mixed up. It was so funny!”
“Funny, funny, funny. All she thinks of is funny. She’s a smart one, that Dovely. She scared David with a flick of her hood. Yessir, just a flick of her hood and the guy dropped dead.”
Philip’s words alarmed Lord Morgan. He turned to Dove to see how she reacted, but nothing changed in the child’s stance. Until his acquaintance with Dove, Charles Morgan had not realized how much he relied on people’s eyes and expressions to judge what they were thinking.
“Is that right? You showed yourself to someone?”
“It’s the only thing I could think of.”
“And the man just dropped? He’s surely not dead—fainted perhaps?”
The little hood shook. “No, he’s not dead—I don’t think. I frightened him, and he backed away. He tripped and hit his head on the table. There was a lot of blood, but there always is from a head wound, isn’t there? I didn’t stay and nurse him; I had to remove Philip.”
A new thought occurred to Lord Morgan. “How did you know he was here?”
“Um…” Her hands fidgeted as she tried to think of a truthful answer that wouldn’t betray her little friends. “Someone heard of Philip’s abduction and came to tell me. I left right away.”
“We couldn’t have been far behind. How did we not overtake you?”
The child settled herself on a low stool next to Philip’s bed and began helping him drink a glass of medicine-laced water. “I think
you must have taken the road, and I followed the sea to Liverpool.”
“You must have walked all day every day—”
“Night, m’lord. I walked at night.”
“How did you see?” The idea was unfathomable, and yet, it was just the sort of faithful thing the girl would do. Dove was nothing if not loyal and true to her only friend.
“I used a stick mostly. It was silly, but I tended to walk off the road so no one would see me. Sometimes when I knew nothing was around I used a torch, but that wasn’t often. The moon helped, though.”
“Wynnewood thinks you are dead,” Lord Morgan reproved gently.
“I couldn’t wait. I had to go immediately if I hoped to be successful.”
“Why did you not come to me?
The little hood ducked as she whispered, “I didn’t think. I was told to go, and I went.”
As he listened to her describe her journey and what they’d done for Philip since she’d dragged the boy from the cottage, Lord Morgan watched her. To his surprise, she hovered near him as if unwilling to be too far away from a source of strength. It seemed out of character, but nonetheless, she didn’t shrink from him when he squeezed her arm or hugged her after describing something particularly frightening.
She’s just a child. We forget that. She’s so old for her years that we don’t realize how frightening life is for her. People fear her—how terrifying that must be at times. She doesn’t have the love and affection of a mother or father. How does a child live without that?
The questions filled his mind as he watched her care for Philip. To his surprise, he realized that her hands were bare, the small, slim, white fingers working almost effortlessly and with a grace that elegant ladies worked hard to achieve and often without success. “Dove, why are your hands exposed?”
Instantly, she withdrew them into her cloak. “I— I can’t feel his fever through the gloves.”
“I wasn’t reproving you, child. I was just surprised.”
“Dovely hands,” Philip murmured stupidly.
Lord Morgan stood again and crossed the room, grabbing the bottle of medicine. “Is this what you’re giving him?”
“Yes.”
One sniff and Lord Morgan’s head jerked back from the bottle. “And the physician said that this is what he needed?”
“He assured me it was essential. I’ve smelled similar things from Bertha, so I didn’t question it. You seem uncertain.”
“He’s had too much. Maybe a small amount a few times a day, but the boy is drunk—or nearly so.”
“Drunk! I’m not drunk! I’m getting well! How could I be drunk. I feel just d—”
“Dovely, I know,” the man agreed. “However, I think you should drink ale instead. This is too strong and you aren’t used to it.”
“Oh, ale sounds delicious. That stuff does taste nasty. I like ale.” Philip rambled on for several minutes about his favorite foods, drinks, and a snowball fight he had in his dream. “I got him right in the backside. Right in the backside, it was.”
Lord Morgan pulled Dove aside and murmured, “I’m going to go tell the men what I’ve found and get him some ale. Try to get some food—porridge would be good—into him.”
“He’s been talking funny ever since I found him. He can’t even remember what I look like—keeps saying I was an angel. It’s funny.”
“Well, it could be fever delirium. Either way, let’s stop the medicine for a bit and see if it helps.” He stepped out the door and then returned immediately. “By the way, Dove. Thank you. You may have saved his life, but even if not, you certainly made my job of finding him easier. He is very blessed to have such a loyal friend.”
Dove watched the door close behind him, sank to the floor, her back leaning against the wall next to the door, and wept. Weeks of long nights of walking as quickly as her legs would travel left her sore and exhausted. Her shoes were worthless. She’d “appropriated” rags from most houses and tied them over the shoes to help protect them from wear, but it only helped a little. Her feet had sores on several places, and she limped after standing for too long.
However, aside from the physical aches and the weariness, she was emotionally spent. Nights of wandering through strange forests, stumbling along lonely roads, and meeting up with the trio of outlaws—twice—took a toll on her that she hadn’t anticipated. Simply speaking, she was weary—emotionally, physically, and if she’d admit it to herself, spiritually. For two weeks, she’d had no one but Philip’s God to talk to and to trust. It was unfamiliar territory.
Now that Lord Morgan had arrived, the weight of the responsibility for finding Philip, for taking care of him, and for keeping free of the kidnappers was gone. Her tears were more than just pent up exhaustion and pain; they were also tears of relief. He would help her find new shoes and decent food. The Earl of Wynnewood was a powerful man. He’d bring Philip’s captors to justice, and perhaps he’d loan her a horse for the journey back to Wynnewood.
Life could go back to normal. Dove’s heart felt soothed with that thought—normal. There’d be no more late night prayers to a god she wasn’t sure she wanted to trust. She wouldn’t feel the desperate need to create songs of the stories about I AM and His people. She could put Philip’s God back where He belonged—in the corner of her mind reserved for good stories and fun legends.
For just a moment, that idea sounded more wonderful than anything. She ached for that feeling of normalcy where myths of Jesus walking on water were fanciful tales to amuse her on a lazy summer afternoon. Just as she was sure life would be comfortable again, the thought of no more prayers hit her heart and nearly left her breathless. Her quiet weeping erupted into deep, sobs that made no sense to her. That lack of understanding grew into a fear she couldn’t comprehend.
Dove didn’t hear the door open. She didn’t hear the alarm in the voice of the man who gathered her up from the floor, holding her in his arms in a way that fathers have since God created fathers. The broken little girl didn’t even hear her friend’s cry of alarm as she woke him from his brief nap. However, she did hear the gentle murmur of a kind man who promised her that he was there for her; he would protect her. He loved her. And in the quiet that followed the last strangled sob, Dove wondered if the words had been whispered into her ear by Lord Morgan or into her heart by the Great I AM.
Chapter 27
Reluctant Confession
Joseph, the physician, ranted at Dove when he discovered Philip sitting up in bed chatting animatedly with her and the bottle of medicine not empty as he’d expected. The girl sat, head bowed, silently accepting the verbal beating without a murmur. Philip tried to intervene, but trying to shout over Joseph sent him into fits of coughing.
“Get that hood off, you insolent little—” The enraged little man lunged for Dove, but she dashed out of reach, and Philip flung himself at the man, his weakened body ineffective.
“Stop! Leave her alone.”
“Her? Who?” The physician frowned and glared at Dove. “Come here.”
The gray hood shook and she backed toward the door. As she retreated, Joseph advanced, growing angrier with each step. “Stop! What is the matter with you? I will not put up with this. You were told—”
The door opened and Lord Morgan stepped into the room. His hand immediately reached for Dove, pulling her behind him protectively. “Who are you and what are you doing in this room?
“Get out of my way. That little—”
Lord Morgan’s voice dropped low and stern. “Get out. I don’t know who you are, but get out.”
“It’s Joseph, Lord Morgan—the hælan.” Dove couldn’t resist the emphasis on the lord’s name.
“That little—who?”
Without a word, Lord Morgan opened the door and gestured for Joseph to leave. When the man hesitated, he grabbed the physician’s sleeve, jerking him out the door. “Your services are no longer required. I’ll have the innkeeper send you payment.”
“But—”
The doo
r slammed in Joseph’s face. Dove’s eyes grew wide as Lord Morgan hunkered down on his heels, his face nearly close enough to see into her cloak. “Are you all right, Dove?”
“Yes. He frightened me, but he did not harm me.”
The man’s eyes traveled to where Philip sipped some water at the end of a coughing fit. “Are you not feeling better?”
“I was until he came in.” There was no doubt who the he Philip spoke of was. “Dove told me I was a little intoxicated last night.”
“Or delirious. It could have been the fever,” Dove insisted. “But you did talk foolishly.”
“Has she told you your new pet name for her?”
Philip’s head whipped to see what Dove would do and found her examining a crack in the floor with her toe. “No, what is it?”
“You kept referring to her as—”
“Lord Morgan, please!” Dove pleaded. “He never would have if he wasn’t sick.”
“What is it? I’m curious now.”
The girl sank onto a bench in the corner, drooping. Lord Morgan glanced at the interested eyes of his protégé and back at the upset girl in the corner. He moved to her side and sank onto his knee. “Philip wants to know, but if it bothers you…”
“It’ll bother him.”
“People always say foolish things when they’re sick. My father gets high fevers that make him silly. It’s ok, Dove,” Philip assured her.
“It’s his decision. He should know that he won’t like it, though.” The stubbornness in Dove’s tone seemed to say more than the words.
“I want to know.”
“Dove? Do you want to tell him?” The teasing was gone from Lord Morgan’s voice, and in its place resignation held. The fun was gone.
“No.”
“Oh, come now, just tell me. I can’t imagine I said anything terribly cruel.” Sounding a little panicked, Philip added, “Did I?”
Dove’s head shot up instantly. “No!” More quietly, she added, “No.”
“You kept calling her Dovely. It was funny more because of when and how you said it rather than that you said it.”
The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series Page 61
