The Wretched of Muirwood Read online

  Thoughts of the Aldermaston did not make the choice any easier. She knew she could just as easily be scolded for deciding either way. What were you thinking, Lia, letting in two rough men into the kitchen in the dead of night? What were you thinking, Lia, letting a man bleed to death on the porch of Muirwood?

  Looking at it that way, she supposed there was really only one choice to make. How could she let a man die, especially if he was a maston? Would not the king be greatly angered if one of his knights died? Especially a king renowned for his cruelty. Yet why would two of the king’s men be wandering about Muirwood anyway? The gates were always locked during the night so they must have approached the grounds from the rear instead of the village. Why? Would they treat someone kindly who helped? Perhaps a few coins? Or even greater generosity?

  That decided her.

  Lia set the pan on a table, lifted the crossbar, and pulled open the door – and fell over when a body collapsed inside.

  “Sweet mother of Idumea!” the man gasped, flailing and sidestepping to keep from squashing her. He was dripping wet, smelled like the hog pens, and his face was more scratchy than a porcupine. Another body collapsed with a thump next to them and she saw glistening red streaking down his face.

  “You scared me, lass! Fans or fires, that is horrible to do to someone.” He regained his balance, all quickness and grace and grabbed her hand and arm to help her stand. After wiping his mouth, which caused a rasping sound, he turned and hoisted the other fellow under the arms and dragged him inside. As he pulled, she saw the sword belted at his waist. It was a fine sword, the pommel glinting in the dim light of the oven fires. It bore the insignia on the pommel – an eight-pointed star, formed of two off-set squares.

  “You are a knight-maston!” Lia whispered.

  His head jerked and he looked her in the face. “How did you know?”

  “The sword, it is…well you see, I have heard that they…”

  “A clever lass. Quick as a wisp. Help me drag him in. Grab his legs.”

  She did and helped move the wounded man in out of the rain. They set him down on the rush-matting. The wounded man was younger than she first thought, pale and clean-shaven, with dripping dark hair.

  She crouched down and studied him. “I can help,” she said. “Bring me that lamp. The one over there.” She was anxious to flaunt her apothecary skills, earned when a rush of fevers struck the abbey two winters ago. He obeyed and produced it.

  The injured one was no older than seventeen or eighteen – a man for certain, but one young enough to have the blemishes of youth on his face. His build somewhat resembled Getmin, the blacksmith help who loved to torment her. His hair was dark and cropped short around his neck.

  “Is this your squire?” she asked. “We should have carried him closer to the fire. He is bone cold. I can start the fire quickly.”

  “Squire? Well, he is…he is a good lad. Not my squire though. His father was a good man. How old are you lass? Sixteen?”

  “I am thirteen. At least I think so. I am a wretched.”

  “I would not have believed you thirteen. You look tall enough to have danced beneath a maypole already.”

  “I am hoping to this year, if the Aldermaston lets me. I am near enough to fourteen and think he should.” The blood flowed from a cut on the young man’s eyebrow. She stanched it firmly with a cloth. It might take a while to make it stop as the cut was deep. She glanced up at the loft, half-expecting to see Sowe cowering there, but no. Part of her was glad that Sowe was asleep.

  “I always try to make it to Muirwood for Whitsunday. A most profitable day it is.”

  “You mean the tourneys or the trading?”

  “Yes, yes, the tourneys. Nothing like bumping a man onto his hindquarters. And I most gravely apologize for knocking you onto yours just now. My, look at that wound. That is a nasty cut.” He looked into Lia’s eyes and she felt a sudden jolt of warmth. “Rode his piddling mare right into an oak branch. Too many trees here, lass. Too dark and the storm made it worse! Praise the Medium we are both still alive. Let me grab another cloth and we can wring out that one. Wait here.”

  Lia knelt by the limp body, her stomach buzzing, and pressed the wound harder. She looked over her shoulder and watched the knight slice a shank from the spitted hog and stuff it into a leather bag at his waist. It was followed by three buttered rolls and a whole cherry tart.

  “Those are for the Aldermaston’s dinner tomorrow!” she whispered in a panic, knowing exactly who Pasqua would blame. “The hog is not even done cooking yet!”

  “There we are, a cloth!” He snatched one of the fine linen napkins and hurried over, licking his fingers. He held out the napkin to exchange with hers.

  “That is one of the Aldermaston’s napkins!”

  “Is a lad’s life held so cheaply here? We must stop the bleeding. Here, put your hand on this and hold it tight. The linen will sop the blood better.” He grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand against the bleeding.

  “That is not the way to do it,” she said. “Here, let me fetch some things. I can cure him.” Lia ran to the benches and grabbed some clean dishrags and a kettle of warm water from the fire-peg, and a sprig of blue woad. She watched as the knight grabbed two more tarts, veins of grapes, and a small tub of treacle and stuffed them into his leather knapsack.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hmmm? Victuals, lass. I will leave a little pouch with coins on the mantle.” He pointed to the fire.

  “Pasqua will be furious,” Lia muttered under her breath, arranging the healing provisions near the young man’s head. She steeped the cloth with some hot water and wiped blood from his face. He did not flinch or start, but his eyes darted beneath his eyelids. His body started to tremble. She grabbed his hand.

  “He is too cold. Where is his cloak?” She poured more hot water and wrung out the cloth, bathing his face a second time before wadding it up and pressing it against the cut on his eyebrow. If Sowe were awake, she could have helped pestle the woad. But Lia was left to do it all herself.

  The knight’s shadow smothered her from behind. She turned her head and looked up at him.

  He nodded. “Woad? Ah, you studied under a healer as well as a cook? It is a useful plant. You are a good lass. Make him well. I will be back for him in three days. Keep him hidden, if you can.”

  Panic. Pure and sudden panic.

  “What? You are not going to…not leaving him…”

  “I must throw the sheriff of Mendenhall’s men off our trail, lass. Dangerous for mastons in this part of the country. Especially this Hundred.” He walked quickly to the door and the rain puddling on the entryway. “Keep him safe. If Almaguer comes, do your best to hide him. His life is in your hands. I am trusting you in this.”

  “No! He cannot stay here. I am only a helper. I cannot…”

  “You do what you can, lass. You do your best. I am trusting you.” And he ducked his head into the rain, clenched the hilt of his maston sword, and disappeared into the storm.

  * * *

  “It is the tradition at abbeys throughout the lands to bestow on a wretched a surname until they are adopted into a proper Family. Thus if a wretched girl named Binne were trained in the laundry, she would be called Binne Lavender. Or a boy given to serve in the forge could be called Gilbert Smith. Thus it is not uncommon to find any number of individuals with the same surname of Tailor, Cook, or Shepherd. In time, and through the mercy of the Medium, they may be adopted into a proper Family, and by the Medium’s power, it is as if they were born in that Family originally. Their blood changes and the stigma of their birth is washed clean.”

  - Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE:

  Blue Woad

  Sowe could sleep through thunder, snoring, bumping, shaking, rattling pans, and on occasion, screaming. Even worse, she fell asleep moments after lying down. This made her a horrible companion, especially if Lia had something important to t
ell her, like the time that Getmin had shoved Lia’s pitcher into the well because it was in his way and how she had managed to dye a noticeable swath of his hair and cheek blue in revenge. Woad was a useful plant, after all, and not just for curing wounds.

  “Sowe, wake up! Wake up!” Lia shook her – hard.

  Sowe moaned, mumbled something that sounded like alderwort, and rolled over.

  “Sowe! Wake up. Wake up. I need your help.” This was accompanied with a lot more shaking. Harder shaking. Then a pinch.

  “Lia – I hate you.”

  Even though the words hurt Lia’s feelings, it sounded more like she was saying, “I was having a very good dream and you just woke me up from it.” She forgave her instantly.

  “Someone is hurt and we must hide him. Sowe – look. There is a knight on the floor. Well, not exactly a knight, but the other one was a knight-maston. He is hurt. Look.”

  “I am so tired, Lia. Just tell me in the morning.”

  “No! There is no waiting for the morning. We must hide him. The sheriff of Mendenhall is looking for him. The rain is mad right now, so there is no place outside to hide him. Help me lift him up here. Pasqua cannot make it up the ladder, so it would be perfect hiding him up here.”

  Sowe strained her neck a little, shifting her dark hair. Sowe’s hair was straight and dark while Lia’s was curly and gold. They were opposites in many other ways as well. Her eyes were still closed and her expression was pouty. “There is not a knight sleeping on the floor.”

  “There is. Look if you do not believe me.”

  “This is just another one of your silly games. Lia – I am so tired. Why do you have to do this? Tomorrow is going to be awful enough already. There is so much work.”

  “You do not believe me. Look, Sowe. Just look.”

  Sowe sighed and shunted her way to the ladder edge on her elbows. “I like you sleeping on the floor these last few nights. Even though it is colder without…you…oh my goodness! Who is that?”

  “I already told you. Help me get him up the ladder.”

  “Up the ladder? Him? Up in the loft with us? No, I do not think that is a good idea at all. Where did he come from? Who is he?” Her eyes were wide open now.

  “I do not think I even know. But he is a squire. The knight-maston that brought him here said he struck his head against a tree branch. He had a cut in his eyebrow, but I closed it up with some woad. See? My fingers are blue. I tried lifting him, but I cannot bear his weight alone.”

  “Then we should tell Pasqua.”

  Lia shook her head no. “She will only summon the Aldermaston straightaway. The knight said his life was in danger if he was caught. He promised to return for him in three days with a reward. By morning, he will probably waken. We can learn more of him then. Do you want his life on your conscience?” She was more worried about losing a possible reward than she was about the squire’s danger.

  Sowe wrung her hands, looking down at the body and then at Lia. “But we sleep up here, Lia. We cannot…you know…we cannot let him sleep up here too.”

  There was stirring below and a cough.

  “He is awake!” Sowe said with a squeak.

  Lia rushed to the ladder and hurried down as the squire struggled to his feet. He swayed, back-stepped, and collided with a trestle table. Gingerly, he touched his wound and the bandage covering it.

  “You have been hurt,” Lia said, coming into the lamplight. “By a tree branch.”

  His reaction to her voice made her stop. He stiffened with panic, then glared at her with undisguised loathing as if he could not believe his misfortune. He slammed his hand on the table to steady himself.

  Lia bit her lip. “You are safe, sir.”

  The squire trembled as if his knees would fail him. As he surveyed the kitchen, the lamplight played over the grooves and angle of his face. The dried blood had been bathed away, but his hair was matted and unkempt.

  “Where am I? Is this the abbey?”

  “Muirwood, sir.”

  The squire nodded, then another look clouded his face, and he doubled over fiercely. Lia went to help him, but he was merely being sick. All over himself and all over her. His knees did collapse then and he fell to the floor, vomiting violently again. It was a noisy affair and the smell of it made Lia turn her face away, nearly gagging herself.

  Sowe descended the ladder, her expression a mixture of fear and wincing.

  “Get him something to drink,” Lia said, crouching down next to him. Sweat ran down his face and his body convulsed and trembled. She dabbed some spittle and flecks from his chin with a rag. “You have chills.”

  “Muirwood,” he whispered, clenching his eyes shut and rocking back and forth. His face was white. He wiped his mouth on his arm sleeve and glared at her for the second time, a look that seared with distrust. “Who have you told?”

  “What?”

  “Who have you told I am here? You both are wretcheds, are you not? Who have you told?”

  Lia felt a flush of anger rise to her cheeks. Your friend was warmer, she thought. “I am a wretched. It is not as if I can help that. I saved your life tonight, sir. Why would I risk it again by telling the Aldermaston you are here? Your friend said he would come for you in three days. So we will hide you until then.”

  “What friend?”

  “The man who brought you here. The knight-maston.”

  The young squire blinked, regarding her coolly. “What was his name?”

  “He did not give me one.”

  “Of course,” he said. “And neither shall I. You may have surmised – guessed – but if not, let me tell you that I am a man of no small wealth. My presence at Muirwood…it must not be noticed. Can you…can you hide me then? Even from the Aldermaston? If I evade capture, I will amply reward you.”

  Sowe approached, quavering and trembling, with a flagon. She handed it to him tentatively and he took it from her hand, gulping fast and hard. His breath was horrible.

  After finishing the drink, he wiped his mouth, still bent double. His body shook with spasms of pain or cold. “I will say it again,” he whispered. “No one can know I am here.”

  “It will be difficult keeping this secret,” Lia said, looking into his eyes. “Pasqua notices everything. So do the other helpers. If you want me to…”

  “I understand your meaning perfectly,” he said, his mouth twisting with a cruel look. “And I promise you, again, that your reward will be sufficiently bold.”

  “You misunderstood me, sir…I…”

  “I understand you very well. You are a wretched and risk a good deal sheltering me. Eviction from the abbey, from your trade, from those who have raised you…despite how they have pitied you. You desire more than what you have been born to, and you can only get it with sufficient coin. I can appreciate that, and my promise is not hollow. You help me to seek a reward. I will gladly pay it. Do we understand one another? Do not pretend compassion for me. Do not claim you are doing this for anything other than very selfish reasons. As I said, I can understand that. Let us be honest in this at least.”

  The look he gave her challenged her to defy his conclusion. But he was right. She did want – no, she expected a reward. They both knew it.

  “We do, sir.” She rose and reached for his elbow to help him rise as well.

  “Do not touch me,” he said, grunting, and stood by his own power. He trembled like a newborn colt and wiped his mouth again. “Where…where can I hide?” He looked around the kitchen.

  “Can you climb to the loft on your own?” Lia asked, cocking her head, feeling a bit impertinent. “Or would you rather retch on me again?”

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  Pasqua’s Kitchen

  The abbey kitchen was near the manor house where the Aldermaston slept. Like all of the buildings on the grounds, it was worked of large blocks of heavy, sculpted stone. It was a spacious square building dimpled with half-columns protruding from the walls and a steepled roof. The interior was not square because of f
our ovens, one in each corner and the flues inset into the stone so the smoke could escape. Two of the ovens were tall enough that Lia or Sowe could stand within and sweep away the ashes. The other two were smaller for baking.

  Two sets of wide double-doors serviced the kitchen, one set facing the abbey itself, the other directly opposite in the rear, but it was seldom used. The wood and iron doors had windows in their upper portions, but only someone very tall like the Aldermaston would have been able to look in, not someone short like Pasqua or many of the learners. Enormous windows were also inset high into the stone walls to allow sunlight to brighten the space. The roof was held up by eight giant stays that rose high above the loft, and sloped steeply to the cupola. There was no way down from that point except a direct drop to the stone-paved kitchen floor below.

  The shape of the kitchen made it possible for the ovens to heat the room, which made it a comfortable place for the two girls to live. Lia and Sowe slept in a loft constructed of wooden beams and rails, a sturdy floor, and a ladder connected it to the ground below. Stores of spices – nutmeg, cinnamon, mullyt, cardamom – along with sacks of milled grain, sheaves of oats, pumpkins, and small vats of treacle crowded most of the space. The heavier barrels and sacks were stored beneath them on the floor.

  The beautiful abbey rose up beyond the Aldermaston’s residence and could be seen from the upper windows if Lia was sitting in the loft. The abbey was enormous. To the east of the kitchen, past a row of scraggy oak trees, was the famous Cider Orchard where the apples came from that were renowned for making a favorite drink in the kingdom. Past the orchard, the fish pond. Directly to the north of the abbey kitchen, across a small park, lay the learner kitchen and those who cooked and provided for the learners and the rest of the abbey help, but not for the Aldermaston and his guests.

  Pasqua slept on a bed – a luxury – in a small room in the rear of the Aldermaston’s manor house, but it was scarcely two dozen steps away from the kitchen where she arrived, before dawn, ready to stoke the small fires, punch the dough, and proceed to command the girls around for the rest of the day until weak embers were all that was left in the eyes of the grand ovens.