The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

“Letty!”

  “Philip? What—” The girl flew across the yard, flinging the ax behind her.

  “Did Dove make it home safely?”

  “Yes, she got here about a week ago. I—”

  “And Lord Morgan?”

  Exasperated, Letty threw up her hands. “It’s good to see you too, Philip. Yes, the weather has been nice. There are two new babies at the castle, and—”

  “Sorry. I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’m glad to see you, Letty. I know Dove probably felt better about leaving knowing you were here to help Bertha.”

  Mollified, Letty nodded. “Lord Morgan got home three days ago.” Her cheeks flushed and her head ducked as Letty asked, “Is it true? Did Dove really save you from the kidnappers? How did she do it?”

  “It’s true. She threw back her hood and screamed. Scared the man, he stumbled and hit his head. Then somehow, she dragged me from the cottage—I was sick.”

  “She showed herself!” Letty’s eyes grew wide, surprised. “I didn’t think anything would—”

  “I think Bertha’s concern with preserving life overrode her own self-preservation.” He pointed down the road. “I have to go, but if you see Dove, will you tell her I’m back and I’ll meet her in the clearing tonight?”

  “If I see her. She’s been avoiding the cottage as much as possible. She comes when she knows Bertha is gone.”

  As much as he wanted to ask, Philip was eager to get to Wynnewood and get his confession out of the way. He nodded, thanked Letty, and walked away, waving. “I’ll talk to you in a day or two.”

  Chapter 33

  Philip Returns

  Each step closer to the little cottage beside the church seemed harder than the last. Cheerful villagers waved, children swarmed asking questions, but Philip pointed to where Broðor Clarke lived and said he had to go there first, promising he’d tell everyone about his journey soon. A small swarm of children followed him to the door of the cottage, but the moment he knocked, they scattered like leaves in the wind.

  The minister opened the door looking weary, but when he saw Philip standing there, his eyes brightened. “Philip! What are—”

  “Can I come in? I’ve come home, and—”

  “Yes, yes, come in, lad! I was never more surprised.” Dennis Clarke led Philip into his cottage and dragged a bench from beneath the table. “Have a seat. Lord Morgan said he’d left you healthy again and ready for your studies. What brings you back?”

  It took several long minutes for Philip to gather the courage to explain his concerns. “There was a session in which the master was talking about Elijah and the ravens. He had all kinds of explanations for what the story really meant. Elijah represented Christians and the ravens were priests who feed their people, Elijah, through the sacraments. The river Cherith was really baptism and where he hid himself was the church. There was more, I can’t remember all the symbolism, but in the end, the lesson was that that the Church is the resting-place of the soul, and provides everything the soul needs.”

  “Take a breath, Philip. What is this? The lesson was not God’s provision for His servant?”

  Sadly, Philip shook his head. “No, Broðor Clarke, I asked him after class to be sure. Master Adrian said that everything in the Bible had deeper meaning than the simple story it seemed. It is all a metaphor or a picture of a more mystical meaning. I didn’t recognize any of the stories you taught us once everything had been defined by the symbolism.”

  “You could have found another master. It wasn’t necessary to leave, Philip.”

  The young man’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t just run away from the first things I didn’t like. When he verified what he’d taught, I went to the priest and spoke to him. I explained how you’d taught us to stick strictly to the scriptures.” He swallowed hard, fighting back the inexplicable and embarrassing urge to cry. “He called you a heretic and insisted that I not listen to your nonsense— that it was wrong to take the Word of God so literally.”

  “Oh, I had hoped the things I’d heard weren’t true. They seemed too fantastical to be believed.”

  “I’m scared for you, Broðor Clarke,” Philip confessed. “He seemed to want to have you brought up before the church courts and have you tried for heresy. He was so angry. I didn’t tell him where I was from or my name; I did tell him your name before I knew he would object, though. If he asked the right questions…”

  “Lord Morgan would protect me. I might have to go live in the castle for a while, but he would protect me. He values the truth.”

  “I was afraid that Lord Morgan would feel obligated to follow the church,” he confessed. Philip raised his eyes to meet the kind ones of their minister and sighed. “When I left here, I was so certain that I did not want to be a minister. I wanted a home and a family. I wanted to live a normal life. I don’t like to be alone, but when that priest asked me if I was going to study theology and said that the church needed devout men like me…”

  “Yes?” Broðor Clarke urged gently.

  “I know I have much to learn and am a very prideful person, but I think that priest was right. I think the church does need more devout men like you and me and Lord Morgan. I think the church needs fewer devout men who will twist scripture into something unrecognizable. Even with my faults, I can preach the Word of I AM exactly as He left it.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m sorry we didn’t prepare you for this. I’d heard stories, but they all seemed so unbelievable. I assumed they were exaggerated for interest; you know how the storytellers are.”

  Philip took several deep breaths and then forced himself to say the words that would probably change his life forever. “I hoped you would teach me yourself—like the Irish priests taught you. I will study, learn everything I can, and I will take over when you are ready to move to the castle to be their chaplain.”

  “Why do you sound so downcast? Is being a minister so terrible? You can still practice your archery, you know. You won’t be a guard at the castle gates, but you can be a guard for the truth. You won’t wield a steel sword, but you can fight fallacy with the Sword of Truth.”

  “I just—”

  As if he remembered something, Broðor Clarke nodded. “Ah yes, you wanted a home and family. Tell me, Philip, why do you think you cannot have one?”

  “Priests cannot—”

  “But you will not be a priest. You will be a minister—like me.”

  The dejection on Philip’s face seemed to grow into despair. “Exactly—like you.” Broðor Clarke laughed heartily, and Philip’s eyes widened with alarm. “I don’t mean that you’re a bad thing! I’m sorry; I didn’t say that correctly.”

  “You mean, I suppose, that I am not married and do not have children. I know how important a family has been to you.”

  “Not just me. All the lads want families. We may talk about exciting adventures that take us away from here, but we all expect to have similar lives to our parents. It’s a good life here in Wynnewood and—”

  “And what, Philip?”

  “And I like children. I always have.” He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand. “I’m sorry. Aurelia once said that you have lots of children—all the children of the village—but it doesn’t seem the same to me.”

  “It isn’t, Philip. I’m sure of it.”

  “Did you ever have that longing?” Desperation entered the boy’s voice, and he despised himself for it.

  “Yes.”

  “How long—” he choked on the words but forced himself to continue. “How long before it went away?”

  “It didn’t, Philip. Every time a baby is born and I pray over the mother and child, I pray that the stab to my heart will heal as well. Whenever a father comes to me about a wayward son, I want to shake him and tell him to thank God that he has a son to go astray—never to give up hope—trust that the prodigal will return and be ready.”

  “I don’t think I can stand it. I don’t know how to give that much up. I think I would be forced to l
eave.”

  Broðor Clarke pulled his bench a little closer to Philip’s and gazed into the lad’s eyes. “Philip, you don’t have to give it up. Marry and have children. Be an example to the town of how to train up children in the way they should go. You can do for this town what I never can.”

  “I can marry? Because I’m not a priest, it is allowed? Why have you not married? If you could—”

  “Philip, Christians have a duty—a command—only to marry other Christians.”

  “There are Christian ladies in the village. What about Bea? She’s a widow with two small children. She would be a good wife for any man. She’s kind and pretty—”

  “Would she be a good wife to a man who would always have to fight not to think of another?”

  The minister’s words seemed odd. Why would he think of someone else? It seemed as if he was expecting the worst. Was it possible that Broðor Clarke was confessing to fickleness of heart? That didn’t seem to fit his character.

  As their eyes met, understanding dawned. “I feel foolish. I couldn’t imagine why you’d expect to be fickle.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “Who—”

  “That isn’t important, lad. The important part is that you can marry, and you will. You will be a very happy man when the time comes.”

  “Assuming I’m wise enough to marry a good woman like my mother.”

  “I have no doubt,” the minister added with a twinkle in his eye, “that you will be very happy with your choice. She’s a good girl, Philip.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who will be your wife.”

  “You speak as if you know who that is. How could you know—”

  Broðor ‘Clarke shook his head. “You’re young to be thinking of it now. Just remember when the time comes that I told you this.”

  “‘I told you so’ before the fact, is it?”

  “Something like that. Now, shall we go explain the new plan to Lord Morgan?”

  Leaves rustled in the trees surrounding the clearing, and the occasional whoosh of an owl’s wings soared overhead. Philip lay on the ground, his hands behind his head, and one ankle resting on his knee. It felt as though he’d never left.

  Of course, that was ridiculous. His time in the south had changed him—dramatically. He felt as though he left as one person and returned as two. Broðor Clarke had laughed when he heard that, but the man had admitted he’d felt something similar when he went away to be taught by the Irish priests. “It seemed as if people expected me to be very different when I returned, but I was still me,” he’d said. Philip understood that idea.

  He sensed it before he heard anything. It took several seconds before he realized that much if not all of the night sounds were silent. “I know you’re there, Dove.”

  “You’ve gotten lazy.”

  Philip sat up abruptly at the sound of Dove’s voice just feet away from him. “I have not! I—”

  There it was—that familiar stance that showed disapproval and a bit of amusement. “You cannot admit when you’re beaten, can you?”

  “I suppose I can’t.”

  “The village is all abuzz with speculation as to why you’ve returned. I’ve heard stories that range from failure in your studies to an arranged marriage to a baron’s daughter.”

  “Both are ridiculous.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I assumed that Broðor Clarke’s explanation is correct. Are you really home for good to study with him?”

  “Most things, yes. Latin, mathematics, and Bible for sure. I’ll continue with French with Lord Morgan. Who knew he and Aurelia were fluent? He intimated that his knowledge was weak.”

  Her silence was a little unnerving, but Philip sensed his little friend had something to work out in her own mind. “You won’t have time to play as you once did,” she said at last. “You’ll be busy with your lessons and helping your modor?”

  “Broðor Clarke says my lessons will end an hour before supper, and of course, there will be no lessons on Sunday. I’ll have less time than I did, but I will have some. If I am careful to help Modor before I leave to study, I should have the evening to myself.”

  “That’ll give me more time to work on my pool.” She settled herself behind him, leaning against his back for support in the old way, and allowed her hood to slip down over her shoulders. “Were they really changing the Bible stories?”

  He nodded, forgetting that she couldn’t see him. “You wouldn’t recognize them.”

  “You were wise to come home, Philip.”

  “I didn’t want to admit it to Broðor Clarke, but I had to. They valued cleverness. I know I would have gotten caught up in searching for exciting and mystical new ways to embellish the scriptures and make me look clever. It wasn’t a temptation when I left, but had I stayed…”

  “‘The heart is deceitful above all else,’” she whispered.

  “Exactly.” Eager to change the subject, Philip asked another question. “I wonder if you’d like to learn French as well.”

  “What would I do with French? No one around here speaks it.”

  “But,” Philip countered, “You are competitive, are you not? Come learn with me and prove yourself the better scholar.”

  “That won’t take an effort.” Dove retorted. “I’ll accept that challenge and win it.”

  Their laughter filled the little clearing much in the way it had before Philip left for Oxford. Two voices, one low and cracking with odd changes and one as high pitched as it seemed it could be, chattered into the wee hours. As the sun broke over the eastern sky, Dove stood and glanced around her. When Philip had stood and walked home, she did not know, but it was nice to know that her friend was home again.

  “To think, Lord I AM, it’ll be a little like it was before he left now, won’t it? Studying with Aurelia. I’m proud of him for leaving. He did the right thing. But why,” she added in a whisper, “could I not tell him how I believe now? That seems so silly.”

  Chapter 34

  The Seeker

  Winter

  The tavern door opened, and a man entered. Covered in dust, with shoes caked in dried mud, he looked weary and travel worn. His broad shoulders drooped as if carrying the burdens of a lifetime, but he carried only a small pack in his hand.

  “Good evening, friend. Can I get you some ale?” Like most tavern keepers, the man at the tap seemed eager to serve anyone who came in the door.

  “Have y’got mead?”

  “That I do. I’ll bring it right over. Would you like something to eat?”

  The man, taller than most with pale red hair nodded. “I’d like that, thanks.”

  A bench was shoved against the wall in the corner of the room, and the traveler sat on it, leaning himself against the wall for support. Bone weary, he kicked off his shoes to allow his feet to cool, pushing the shoes beneath the bench. It had been such a long day.

  A long day, Martin thought to himself, it has been a long few months. Every day a new village, and in every village, a new tavern or smithy where he could ask the same question he asked at every new place. He’d nearly lost hope, but he’d never give up. Never.

  The tavern keeper handed him a tankard of mead and a plate of bread and cheese. “Here you go. Tough traveling, was it?”

  “Yes… will it be busy in here tonight?”

  “Sorry. It’s busy here almost every night.”

  Martin nodded. “Good. Know anyone who can use a day laborer?”

  “Maybe the farm down the road. Tyne has been shorthanded since we had that sickness last spring. We lost a dozen people or more.”

  All through the afternoon and into the evening, the stranger watched and listened. The tavern keeper’s wife kept a sharp, suspicious eye on him, but at last carried their boy upstairs as if she’d decided he was harmless. A few of the locals asked him questions, trying to draw him out, but Martin waited until the stories began to flow along with the ale.

  “Hey, you there,” one half-intox
icated young man shouted, “tell us a story. We could all use a good one”

  Martin nodded and leaned back against the wall, rubbing his palms on his tunic as if preparing for some distasteful task. “I do; I have one. Wandering the roads of England is a cloaked girl. She has a high voice that sings to ward off animals that might want to attack. She fears people—hides from them. People often misunderstand her and if they see her, some are frightened.” A man made a snort of disgust, but Martin forced himself to ignore it and continue. “She has hair, almost as white as an old woman’s and eyes that nearly glow red in firelight. Her skin, unless flushed with anger or exertion, is also white, and looks ghostly to those unfamiliar with it.”

  The room waited. Martin waited. Seconds passed as expectations were left unfulfilled. At last, one of the men closest to Martin said, “So what happened with the freakish looking creature?”

  “People drove her from her home. I’m looking for her.”

  A woman frowned. “You mean it’s not a story?”

  “Well, it sort of is—after all, she is wandering around out there.”

  “Well, I’d better not see her; that’s all I’ve got to say,” a scrawny young man added. “I’m not putting up with anything from some wandering ghost. That’s what a knife is for.”

  “I’d kill a man for that. I want her found and I want her alive.”

  Another man gazed at Martin curiously. “The girl steal something from you?”

  Martin began to shake his head and then nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Town after town, village after village, farmhouse after farmhouse passed, but Martin hadn’t found the little creature. In the south, it had been easier. He’d describe her and people would apologize, shake their heads, and suggest some other place to go. Once he reached the middle of England, he’d discovered people were less and less likely to be willing to help. They were more closed-mouthed and suspicious of strangers the farther north he traveled.

  A fletcher by trade, he’d abandoned it years ago, but in trying to keep himself fed, he found that people in different places needed arrows made and repaired and he could earn a few coins fletching in the evening. Sometimes, he even worked on arrows while sitting in a tavern and listening to the stories that he always hoped might include the girl.