The Annals of Wynnewood Complete Series

by Chautona Havig

  “Lord Morgan is right, Dove. This man will not stop just because you disappear for a while. Who knows how long he’s been searching?”

  Despite their arguments, Dove shifted uncomfortably. She clearly wanted to run. A new idea occurred to Lord Morgan just as he was sure she would refuse to go home. “I can offer a compromise. You will go home. If at any time you feel unsafe, you get to the tunnels and let yourself into the castle. I will give you a key to the door and instruct the guards to leave you alone. You can go to Aurelia’s rooms and sleep there until I have dealt with the man.”

  She seemed disinclined to accept the offer, but Philip held out the winning argument. “Will you truly defy the Earl of Wynnewood? He has given you a home, ensured your protection from the villagers. He shows you friendship at every turn, and yet you do not trust him.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t trust you!” the girl protested. “I don’t trust this man. It makes me mad with fear to think of what he might do to me.”

  “I know that, dear one,” Lord Morgan began, “but even if I did not care to bother with your protection for my own sake, my daughter would likely have me smothered in my sleep if I did not assure you that you will be protected.”

  “That’s right!” Aurelia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I am pleased that my father has the appropriate respect for me.”

  A snicker escaped from deep within Dove’s hood. “I will go home, Lord Morgan, but I do not promise not to run. I will try to come to you as you have suggested, but I live on instinct. Sometimes I act before I think. That may take me into—” she checked herself “other places.”

  “I can agree to that. You should leave now. I imagine this man will present himself to me soon. Even if not, I will have him brought here. I’d rather you be far away before he comes.”

  As Philip and Dove strolled across the meadows to the narrowest point of the Ciele, Aurelia watched from a high window in the castle. At the sound of her father’s voice behind her, she asked, “Do you think Dove is overreacting to this news?”

  “I think before her journey south, it might not have been such a fearsome thing for her. That trip changed her. She is both more confident and more jittery than ever.”

  Martin stood in the great hall, just inside the door where John had left him. Minutes passed and then an hour, but still he stood as bidden. Servants eyed him suspiciously as they passed by, but no one spoke. At last, Lord Morgan strode into the room and seated himself by the fire. By all accounts, the Earl of Wynnewood was a gracious and generous man—friendly even. This man seemed angry and aloof.

  “John, I will see him now.”

  To Martin’s surprise, the servant, John, was at his elbow. They strolled across the wide room, and as they stood before the earl, John asked his name. “Martin Bowman, m’lord.”

  “Bowman. Are you an archer? An artillator?”

  “I can shoot, yes, but my training is as a fletcher. My father was an artillator.”

  He stood, nervous, as the man before him pondered his words. Lord Morgan seemed imposing, almost harsh in his manner of speech. Martin was quite unnerved after such glowing reports of how affable and kind their lord was.

  “I understand you are making inquiries about one of the villagers. Why?”

  Martin fidgeted as he tried to explain himself. “I—that is—well, I think I saw her last summer. I was with two other men—”

  “Outlaws?”

  His head dropped in shame. “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “We were trying to evade capture. We didn’t usually travel at night, but we’d nearly been caught stealing a chicken. It was cold, dark, and we saw the light of a fire near a tree just over a rise.” Martin continued to describe how they’d seen the fire from a short distance and decided to investigate. “She was just there, backing away. The others thought she was a boy. When we didn’t leave, she threw back her hood to scare us. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “And what,” demanded Lord Morgan,” could you not believe?”

  “It was her—Rosa.”

  “Who is Rosa?” The earl sounded confused.

  “My daughter.”

  Lord Morgan’s laughter rang out freely. “You don’t expect me to believe that you recognize a child you couldn’t have seen for ten years.” He paused, mentally calculating. “Yes, she’s been here ten years now I believe.”

  “I can. She is the image of her mother. Even in the low firelight, I saw her face and then when my friends ran, and I realized why, I was sure. She is pale too, like my Margaret.”

  The other man stood and paced in front of the fire as he asked more questions in rapid succession. “Where were you when your wife killed herself? Why did you not take your daughter with you? Have you any proof that this girl is your child? Where have you been all of these years?”

  “When Rosa was just a little thing—nearly four—I went south for work. We’d been happy in a little village in Essex but then Margaret began to develop terrible sores. People had been a little suspicious of her, but Margaret was kind and helpful, and in spite of her unusual appearance, she was beautiful. People always trust a pretty face over a plain one.”

  Lord Morgan nodded. “That is, unfortunately, quite true.”

  “Well, when the sores appeared, the villagers became uneasy around her. I knew that I needed to find work somewhere—set up a business and make me indispensible to the community. Then, I could bring my wife and child to live with me again. We thought it’d be just a few months.”

  “It was longer?”

  “It has been ten years since I’ve seen my wife or child. It was much longer. I found a baron in Lincolnshire who needed arrows and was willing to hire me immediately. Once I had produced a thousand arrows, I was free to return to Essex to bring home my family. I took the position and was well paid, but when I returned to Essex, the villagers told me my wife and child were dead.”

  “Dead? They said Do—your daughter was dead?”

  Martin nodded. “I was devastated. One young boy told me that it wasn’t true—that a woman had taken Rosa away with her—but I didn’t believe him. I never believed him until the night a girl with skin white as chalk and hair paler than a primrose threw back her hood.”

  “You’ve told that tale too often,” the earl accused. “You’ve made it into a legend almost.”

  Though he flushed at the accusation, Martin nodded. “It is true. I used everything in my power to find her.” He stepped forward, earnestly pleading with his eyes. “Lord Morgan, I became a man I am ashamed of the day I learned that my wife and daughter were dead. I wandered England, took what I needed to survive, and didn’t much care what happened to me. If I was caught and hanged, that really might have been a relief. When she fled from me at Oxford, I left my companions and began a search for her. I’ve not stolen since then. I’ve worked hard to make my way, staying longer than I liked in places so that I could at least hold my head up again.”

  “Is there no mark on her, nothing to prove what you say?”

  “As a child, she had my nose. I didn’t notice that night, but I suspect she still does. I think I would have noticed if she didn’t. Apart from that, she is the very image of her mother. Perhaps the woman who brought her here could tell you if she looks like the woman who killed herself in Essex.”

  Lord Morgan was silent for a long while. As he waited, Martin shifted his feet, eager to ask another question, but unwilling to irritate the man who held the power to prevent his search from continuing. At last, he could not take it any longer. “My lord, does she truly sing? The one they call the ge-sceaft,” he nearly spat at the term. “Margaret had the most beautiful voice—high and clear. I loved to hear her sing. She’d make up a song about making dinner if that was what she was doing.”

  “Dove sings.”

  A lump rose in his throat at those words. “Dove,” he choked. “Is that what the midwife called her?”

  Several seconds passed before Lord Morgan answered. “Dov
e is a nickname given to her by the young man she was with in Oxford.”

  “What was she doing in Oxford?”

  “She heard of his abduction and went to try to rescue him.”

  Martin was astounded. “That is what she was doing alone so far south? She was walking all that way to try to rescue a man?” His eyes narrowed. “Is she fond of this man? Do they plan to marry?”

  “They’re both young yet, don’t you think? How old is Dove? The midwife assumed around three when she found the child. We’ve all assumed she was in her thirteenth year.”

  “Fourteen last month,” Martin corrected and then stopped himself. “Wait, does that mean you believe me?”

  “I think I believe you, yes. Particularly if Bertha confirms that Dove looks like her mother and agrees that she has your nose.”

  “And Ros—I mean Dove—has no plans for marriage to this man?”

  “The man is Philip Ward and is only sixteen. He is under the instruction of our minister for the next few years. There’ll be no talk of marriage for either of them for some years.”

  He knew it was too soon to ask, but Martin couldn’t contain himself. “Can I see her?”

  “That I cannot allow. Until she is willing to meet you of her own accord, you must not bother her. Stay away from Bertha’s cottage and out of the Wyrm Forest.”

  A throat cleared behind them. Martin turned to see a young man standing there. “Philip? You have something to say?” Lord Morgan’s voice made him jump, but Martin forced himself to meet the young man’s gaze.

  “I do. He needs to stay away from the Point near sundown. I know Dove sometimes likes to go out there for a little sun in the evening.”

  “I will. You are Philip? The one she was with in Oxford?”

  The young man nodded and then glanced past him to exchange glances with Lord Morgan. “May I?”

  “Certainly, Philip,” the earl agreed.

  “She is terrified of you. If you want her to trust you, show respect for the fact that her life has been hard and people unkind. Do not try to force her to accept you or she will run.” He stepped closer looking much more menacing than a young man should be able to appear. “I will defend my friend, Martin Bowman.”

  Chapter 38

  The Good News

  The village buzzed with excitement over the news of the visitor and his summons to Wynnewood Castle. Usually, Bertha ignored the gossip of the area, but when rumors began that Lord Morgan believed the man to be the ge-sceaft’s father, she grew ill at the idea. To be sure, she had saved Dove’s life as a child, and a man might be grateful for that. However, if he talked to the girl and heard of Bertha’s harshness and coldness…

  Remorse flooded her heart. She could have been kinder. Why shouldn’t she be? She’d taken on the duty of the child’s protector; why not protect the girl’s spirit as well? Instead, she’d barely tolerated Dove’s existence.

  “Bertha, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” She winced inwardly at the edge to her tone. Old habits die hard.

  “There is a man in town who claims to be the ge-sceaft’s father. Do you think he’s a sorcerer?”

  “Of course not, you fool. Do you think I’d live with the child of a sorcerer?”

  “Everyone in town,” the woman protested, “knows you do. We’ve known it for years. How else are you so successful with your births?”

  She’d heard it before, and it rankled every time. “Skill and wisdom couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it. It must be some mystical thing that makes a woman get up in the middle of the night and sit with a screaming, blubbering idiot when she could just have her personal sorceress drag that baby out of the woman’s body with a toss of her head.”

  “You are out of temper today,” the woman complained. “I just asked if you’d heard.”

  “I have now anyway, haven’t I?”

  The woman turned to flounce away, but the sight of Martin Bowman walking toward them was too much for her. “Look, there he is.”

  Something about the man was familiar. Had she ever seen him? She didn’t think so. A child raced past, causing the man’s head to turn, and Bertha drew in her breath sharply. It had to be Dove’s father. It seemed impossible not to be. The profile was nearly identical—the nose. That was Dove’s nose without a doubt.

  When Bertha didn’t respond, the woman strode away from her, straight to Martin’s side. To her dismay, the man listened and then looked across the street directly into her eyes. He nodded, and then his long legs crossed the distance in seconds.

  “Bertha Newcombe?”

  “Yes.” The word sounded choked and she knew it.

  “I am—”

  “I know who you claim to be.” Why she was so fractious, Bertha didn’t know.

  “Do you doubt my name or my reason for being here?”

  “Neither. I simply have no proof of either.”

  “Lord Morgan warned me that you might be a bit resistant to talk to me.”

  “Not at all. Let’s have a large formal dinner and hire musicians and guests so that we can—”

  “Are you always this pleasant?”

  Something in the man’s tone warned her that she’d gone too far. If Lord Morgan believed the man, he could easily have Bertha removed from the cottage, allowing the man to move in with his daughter. It was a logical conclusion, but then where would Bertha live? The idea horrified her. Ten years of making the cottage healthful and comfortable. No Dove to provide fresh meat or ensure Letty properly aired the room or the beds.

  “When concerned for my charge, yes.”

  “So you are concerned for Ros—Dove.”

  “What were you going to call her?”

  The man studied her for a moment and then answered, “Rosa. We hoped she’d get my coloring to save her the heartache her mother sometimes suffered.”

  “By giving her a name that doesn’t fit before she is even born. What if she had been a boy?”

  “There were no blanca boys in Margaret’s family. Only girls. It usually skipped a generation, but not with Rosa, or Dove. My sister is very pale, not nearly as pale as Margaret was, of course, but we thought maybe it meant something.”

  “Traits do run in families. Fathers and sons look alike and have similar mannerisms—even if they never see each other. Daughters look like sisters or grandmothers even if they look nothing like mothers. The gods give us ways to know that a child is truly ours if we look and listen.”

  She hadn’t noticed, but a crowd had gathered. Bertha wanted to send them all away, but knew she couldn’t make them go. Instead, she glanced at the sun, studying it for a moment, and then moved past him. “I have things to do and a woman ready to give birth any day.”

  “Bertha Newcombe.” Martin’s voice held an edge of authority—something she hadn’t expected.

  She didn’t even turn her head. As she continued walking away she asked, “What?”

  “Thank you for protecting my daughter. I have a chance to know her again thanks to you. I owe you her life.”

  She paused, her feet stirring up the dust as she did. “You owe me nothing. Preserving life is my calling. I did my duty.”

  “Thank you just the same.”

  Unsure what else to do, Bertha continued walking again and called back, “Then you are welcome.”

  Water tumbled over the rocks at the end of the inlet and splashed into the pool. The way Dove had designed the two-foot waterfall was almost ingenious. He’d been sitting on the log that faced the pool for the better part of an hour, but still there was no sign of Dove.

  He slid to the ground, using the log as a pillow, and closed his eyes. There it was— a rustle that didn’t fit the trees. “I hear you.”

  “You did well. That was much earlier than usual.”

  “I met the man.” It seemed best to come straight to the subject.

  “I know. I heard the rider from the castle call you to the interview.” She sat beside him, her gloved hands folded in her lap.


  “He’s your father, Dove.”

  Several seconds passed as she digested the news. “I’d heard rumors, but I thought it was just the silly villagers as usual.”

  “He says you look just like your mother—that was how he recognized you. He also said that you used to have his nose.”

  “And you believe him.”

  He nodded. “I do. Even more important, Lord Morgan does. Well, he says he will believe if Bertha confirms the nose or that you look like your mother did.”

  “It’s not possible. I don’t know what this man is trying to do, but it isn’t possible. My mother had no husband. We were alone. Bertha made sure of it.”

  “People lie, Dove. The man says that they all told him you’d both died—all but a boy who said a midwife had taken you away with her, but he didn’t believe her until the day you threw back your hood.” Philip chuckled. “You know, he likes to say that—and often. I think he’s proud of how you handled yourself.”

  “And he says I once had his nose.”

  She sounded as if ready to yield. The idea was exciting to Philip. Dove having family who wanted her—loved her enough to traipse all over England to find her—that would be an enormous improvement in her life. “Yep.”

  Slowly, she pulled the gloves from her hands. Instinctively, he averted his eyes, but Dove held her hands out in front of her. “Look at my hands, Philip. What do you see?”

  He hated the tremor in her voice. She was afraid again—afraid that he would reject her if he saw her. At one time, he might have steeled himself to ensure he didn’t react negatively, but since that day in the cottage, he didn’t fear his reaction. He’d seen her. No, he didn’t remember, but there was no fear attached to the hazy memory he did have.

  “I see five fingers on each hand. The fingers are long and I suspect there are callouses on them.”

  She pulled back the sleeves of her tunic. “And here?”

  Philip swallowed, understanding beginning to dawn. In all the times he’d caught glimpses of her hands or even the tip of her nose, he’d attributed her paleness to the light of the moon or the lack of light. She was truly that white. Blanca, the people would call her if they knew. No wonder the Mæte had cried “Scynscaþa!”