Father Wulfric was on his way to Lindisfarne to ask his bishop to help pray for the safe return of the novice who’d vanished without a trace from the convent in Derthwald. Although he was in a hurry, there wasn’t another village to stop at before dark, so he had taken his usual bed at Ealfrid’s Inn and gone out to spread the word of the mystery to the fairgoers and call on them to join their prayers with his and those of the nuns of Saint Edeth.
Having done everything he could for the moment, he was wandering around the edge of the fairgrounds when he saw Lliem dancing through the grass, the sun on his red hair and his face alight with the joy of his game.
Putting together the boy’s thin, undernourished stature with his brand-new outfit and expensive toy, Wulfric had a bad feeling about what that meant.
Of the evils men did, the most abhorrent to Wulfric was the use of innocent children for an array of vile purposes unimaginable to anyone who hadn’t been hearing confessions for the past forty years.
There were other possible explanations, but Wulfric was suspicious. Furthermore, he was certain that he had never baptized this boy—and as the only priest serving every village from Girdlestone to the mountain ridge that marked the northernmost edge of the Christian Saxon lands, if he hadn’t baptized a child, no one had.
That settled it. Determined that this was one little soul he would save, Wulfric set out to take the boy into his care and—if it turned out his dark suspicions were correct—take him to grow up consecrated to God in the monastery where he had himself been dedicated by the earthly parents he no longer remembered.
Knowing from experience that outlaws’ children, whether born, bought, or stolen, were close to feral, Father Wulfric approached his quarry carefully and silently until he was near enough to catch hold of him if he should run off.
“What a nice horse you have,” he said when he was within arm’s length. “May I pet him?”
The gentle, friendly opening put Lliem at ease. Nodding proudly, he trotted over and lifted Brave Horse’s nose up to meet Wulfric’s outstretched hand.
Tucking a firm finger around the stick pony’s reins, Wulfric asked, “Who bought him for you?”
“Ethel—I mean, Codric did.”
Suddenly remembering what Annwr told him about staying with Ethelwen and speaking only to her, Lliem whispered, “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone else.”
Wulfric squatted down, looked Lliem straight in the eyes, and whispered back, “But you can talk to me—I’m Father Wulfric!”
Having had one father suddenly appear, Lliem supposed it was possible he had two, but thought it was better to make sure.
“Are you Arddwn’s father too?”
“Of course, I am! I am father to all children who love Jesus!”
Here Lliem was disappointed because he liked having one father and would have been happy to have another one, only—
“But we don’t like Jesus.” He sighed, shrugged, and would have trotted off, but Father Wulfric didn’t let go of Brave Horse’s reins.
Like a fish suddenly aware that the worm it had just bitten into had something sharp inside it, Lliem edged backward and tried to pull Brave Horse with him.
Like a skilled fisherman with a fish not yet securely hooked, Wulfric straightened up, keeping a grip on the pony’s head, “But all little children must learn to love Jesus, so if your mother and father haven’t told you about Him, I will tell you now.”
Tempted because his father told such good stories, Lliem hesitated a moment too long, and in a quick move, Wulfric dropped his hold on the pony’s rein and grasped hold of Lliem’s hand.
In the same moment that Wulfric knew he had his little fish safety caught, Lliem realized he was trapped.
Wulfric smiled. “So, now we will go back and find out who you belong to . . .”
The rest of what the well-meaning priest had to say was lost in Lliem’s terror that he was going to be taken back to Barnard. Panicked, he looked around for Arddwn or Ethelwen. What he saw was a towering oak—the twin of the tree he’d chosen to be his friend in the forest.
Instead of struggling to break free, Lliem went still. And as he did, a bird in its upper branches let out a long, piping call reminding him that he had a magic whistle, so he unclenched his hands and let Brave Horse drop to the ground.
Pleased to see the child was now at ease, Wulfric relaxed his own grip and smiled at the little boy’s transformed upward gaze, touched to see the innocent child’s free hand move spontaneously towards his breast has if guided by a divine touch to make an untutored sign of the cross.
But what Lliem was reaching for was his magic whistle and the minute he had it in his grasp, he pulled his other hand free and ran. If he’d dashed across the open field, Father Wulfric would have caught him, but instead he ran to his tree, blowing his whistle with all his might and keeping the tree’s broad trunk between him and his pursuer.
Wulfric was fast and strong for a man his age, but not quick enough to catch hold of an agile five-year-old darting first one way then the other around the tree. It was, however, just a matter of time before Lliem would eventually dodge the wrong way and be caught again.
Lliem was getting tired from blowing his whistle while he was dodging back and forth, just managing to keep the tree between them, but then, when he was almost completely out of breath, four good things happened at once:
Ethelwen appeared out of nowhere, picked him up, and carried him away.
Annwr circled around behind them, yelling “You leave that child alone!”
His father—his real, only father—rushed past to tell the pretend father to go away.
And Arddwn ran to save Brave Horse.