The Wretched of Muirwood Page 5

  “What you are saying,” she said in a near-whisper, “is that I do not really need the Leering to make fire.”

  “No, no. That is a twisted understanding. For you see, you have no control over that. It is the tragedy of your state. Your ability to use the Medium is an inheritance. It is a result of who your parents were, not you. Who your grandparents were, not you. Who your ancestors were back to the original fathers. Not you.”

  Lia glanced over at Sowe, who stared at them, her hands idle on the mortar and pestle. She lowered her gaze and started crushing the seeds again. “So even if I did become a learner, it does not mean that it would be easy to practice it. Someone born from a weak lineage would not…”

  “…Be able to warm a cup of water,” he replied. “No matter how hard they studied. As a wretched, you will never know your full potential until you know your parentage. Learners spend a great deal of time learning who their forbearers are to understand how their gifts have mingled and been passed along to them.”

  Lia wanted to ask what it meant that she was able to do something that some learners could not, when a heavy knock sounded at the kitchen door, startling them.

  The wounded young man started for the ladder to the loft, but Lia caught his wrist. “There are windows. You will be seen. There, behind the changing screen!”

  He rushed to the wooden screen beneath the loft. She could see part of his boots in the gap beneath the screen and cursed herself. Another heavy knock sounded and she crossed the kitchen to the door.

  “What will we do?” Sowe whispered fearfully.

  Lia silenced her with a glare, then had an idea. “Take the kettle to the screen and rinse your hair. Tell him to hide in the tub.”

  “I am not going to bathe…”

  The look Lia gave her must have been more frightening than a grim-visaged Leering, for Sowe snatched the kettle and rushed to the screen without a word. Lia watched the boots disappear and heard him settle into the small wooden tub they used for bathing.

  She raised the crossbar and pulled the door open a bit, grateful that the glass was so smudged with soot. Light from the lamps spilled out on Jon Hunter’s bearded face. His clothes were filthy, his shirt loose from the leather girdle, the collar open to a forest of gnarled hair.

  “Oats, Lia,” he said and started to push past her, but she held the door and put herself in the gap.

  “Sowe is washing her hair. Go to Ailsa’s kitchen for oats if you are hungry.”

  He sighed. “Lia, I am not walking to the other kitchen when I am here.”

  “Why not? Is she trying to kiss you or something? Or just being stingy with the honey ladle?”

  Jon sighed, his eyes flashing. “You have been lingering around Reome too much. The oats are not for me.”

  “Who are they for?”

  “I am not supposed to tell anyone. Another reason I came here.”

  “Very well. And you know Pasqua’s rules about letting anyone into the kitchen but the Aldermaston after she is gone.” She rested her head against the door and raised her eyebrows.

  His voice was soft. “Does the Aldermaston know you stole one of the rings from the old cemetery?” he whispered, nodding down to the front of her dress.

  Lia nearly lost her composure. She had forgotten to tuck it back inside her dress and now he had seen it. She said as calmly as she could, “The Aldermaston knows everything that happens at Muirwood. Surely you know that. Why do you need the oats? You know I can keep secrets, Jon Hunter. You know that very well.”

  He sighed. “I will tell you, but remember it is a secret.” She nodded eagerly. “I found a horse in the woods today.”

  “Really? Can I see it?”

  He smirked. “If you do not tell anyone, Lia.”

  “Even Pasqua?”

  “Of course not her, though you know the Aldermaston trusts her.”

  “I will fetch your oats then.” She held the door a moment and then shouted, “Sowe, don’t come out yet. It is Jon.”

  She quickly ascended the ladder and carried down a sack of oats. After shoving it into Jon’s hands, she was about the close the door when he stopped it with his boot.

  “Whose shirt is drying by the fire?”

  For a moment, Lia’s mind emptied of all ideas. Jon was trained as a hunter, and his watchful eyes noticed everything, first the ring and next the shirt. She stood for a moment, guilty, her ideas gone to the winds. Her mouth went dry. What could she say? What could she tell him?

  “It is my secret,” Lia said, blushing uncontrollably, and then she had the next idea. “I cannot share it, but you could ask Reome since she knows.”

  Jon gave her a confused look and withdrew into the night.

  After she shut the door, she pressed her forehead against it. Hiding a man for three days would be more difficult than she thought.

  * * *

  “The first commonly accepted reference to the term ‘Aldermaston’ was engraved in the Third Tome of Soliven, one of the more tedious texts that learners struggle to translate their first year. The passage can be read thus: ‘And he that is the Aldermaston among the brothers and sisters of the Family, upon whose head the anointing oil was poured, and is consecrated to put on the garments of chaen, shall not reveal his wisdom, nor rend his clothes; neither shall he go in to any dead body; neither shall he go out of the Abbey grounds, nor profane the Abbey grounds; for the crown of the anointing oil is upon him.’ The record goes on to speak about what wife he may take and what blemishes may disqualify him from the anointing.

  “This is the accepted origin of the term ‘Aldermaston’ by most learners, and many hold mastons themselves to these high standards, excluding knights, armigers, or squires who fight in the service of their king, properly sanctioned, and thus visit death upon the bodies of their foes.

  “I am told there exists another translation of the Tome of Soliven, which mentions and describes the first use of the term ‘Aldermaston’ in a different manner. It tells of King Zedakah, back in the day of the first Family. As a young boy, he was strong enough in the Medium to stop, as Soliven wrote it, the mouths of lions and quench the violence of fire. He instructed the ancestors of the first Family in the order of Aldermaston, telling them that they should have power, through the Medium and by their lineage, to break mountains, to divide the seas, to dry up waters, to turn them out of their course; to defy the armies of nations, to divide the earth, to stand in the midst of the sun; to do all things according to the will of the Medium, and at its command, subdue principalities and all powers.

  “I should think learners would prefer this account, if only the original could be found.”

  - Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  The King’s Men

  Lia and Sowe both slept in the loft that night. The young man who would not tell them his name insisted on sleeping on rush-matting on the hard kitchen tiles. After complaining that he had dozed for much of the day and was not tired, he paced and skulked through the dark kitchen as if it were a prison. Lia watched him from the loft. After Sowe fell asleep, which never took long, he took up a broom and practiced with it like a sword, swinging the pole around in a series of studied moves, that would have been graceful except for the time he stumbled against a bucket or when the makeshift blade clacked against a table during a down strike. He muttered to himself often. Lia watched for as long as she could keep her eyes open, then fell asleep out of pure exhaustion.

  She awoke before dawn and discovered him sitting by the small oven, his face reflecting the hue of the fire, rubbing his mouth as he stared into the flames. His clean shirt covered the chaen, fitting him well at the shoulders. He glanced up at her as she started down the ladder, then looked back at the oven fires.

  “Did you sleep?” Lia asked him, noticing the bandage over his eyebrow was missing, the scar red and swollen.

  “Does it matter? I can do nothing but sleep during the day.”

&nb
sp; She determined he was in a sour mood again, and thought it best to prepare him something to eat before Pasqua arrived. Hunger made the calmest men cranky. After tying on an apron and fetching some oats, she started a pot boiling and gathered some spices to flavor it. The water bubbled quickly and she added the oats. Then she cut into a loaf that had survived the day before and lathered some butter and honey on it then set it by the oven to warm and melt the butter. He took it, without thanking her, and started to eat.

  His sullen expression threatened to wilt her courage, which made her angry and determined. “The horse that Jon Hunter found must be yours,” she said, handing him the steaming bowl she’d prepared and a wooden spoon.

  “I am sure it is,” he said sourly, taking it.

  “I could help you get it back.” She scooped some milled flour onto a mat and then cracked an egg into it. “He must be keeping it in the pens behind his lodge. It is on the other side of the grounds, but not far and if the horse knows you, it probably would not make much noise.”

  “I am not afraid of your hunter.”

  “He has a bow and a gladius and you have nothing.”

  “What, a half-sword? And who trained him to use it?” He grunted with a chuckle and turned to look at her scathingly. “Do you ever stop talking?”

  She wanted to strike the bowl of porridge out of his hand. Instead, she frowned with fury and kneaded the dough. “I have plenty of faults but would rather have mine than yours.”

  “It is not a fault to enjoy a respite from constant conversation. A respite is...”

  “I know what respite means,” she said, slamming the wad of dough and looking back at him fiercely. “Do you understand where you are? This is the Aldermaston’s kitchen. He has eaten many meals in here. I see him every day and serve him his food. Do you think he changes the way he speaks to suit us? No! I have heard him use words that you may struggle with. When I do not understand something, I ask. He answers me for the most part – and when he will not, there are learners who do. I know what respite means.”

  “I have insulted you.”

  “You are very astute, Sir Armiger.”

  “Perhaps you will afford me now a moment to think quietly.”

  She was incensed. “You have had it quiet all night! What do you need to think so quietly about still, if I may ask?”

  He turned back to his bowl and ate more of the steaming porridge, poking it angrily with his spoon. “I may not stop you from asking, it appears, even when I insult you. I am trying to determine your age.”

  It had flattered her that the knight-maston thought she was tall enough to be sixteen. “The man who dragged you to my doorstep was more polite than you. If you desire to know, then ask!”

  He looked baffled. “It would not be proper to do so.”

  “Is it more proper to insult me instead? Why do you care how old I am?”

  As Lia continued to punch the dough, adding the proper ingredients, she spied movement at the top of the loft and saw Sowe rubbing her eyes. That their argument was loud enough to have awakened her was surprising. Quietly, Sowe climbed down the ladder and disappeared behind the changing screen.

  His eyebrows were knotted with anger and he looked at her as if she were a fool – as if his every action should be obvious. “It is inconvenient knowing that my fate and my life is in the hands of a wretched who cannot keep quiet. Your friend is quiet. I find her courtesy and deference admirable. You talk too much for someone who says she keeps secrets.”

  Lia wanted to laugh and she did, under her breath. “Sowe is quiet because she is shy, especially around boys. She hardly says two words when the Aldermaston comes.”

  “I would say that is a proper token of respect.”

  “Then you fear that I will spill your secret? That I might stumble and it will come blurting out of my mouth? Is that it?”

  His eyes were earnest, and something in his mouth was defiant. “I do not fear it, but yes.”

  Her fingers were thick with dough, and she scraped them clean on her apron. She scooped up the bud of dough and began shaping it. Part of her crinkly hair dropped in her face, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

  “I am not like the girls that gossip in the laundry,” she said. “Maybe that is what you are used to.”

  “It has been my experience that females in general cannot keep secrets. My life depends on your ability to keep mine.”

  “But I am not like that. You may believe me or not, but I have kept a secret of this abbey for years. A secret that the Aldermaston has forbidden anyone to know. You could trust me with your name, and I would tell no one. Not even the Aldermaston.”

  His mouth tightened. Was he starting to believe her, or did he still doubt?

  “I cannot trust anyone like that,” he said softly. “Except my sister.”

  Lia shrugged. “At least you have a sister. You had better climb up to the loft. Pasqua will be here soon.”

  He nodded, scooping the last of the porridge with his spoon and took the bread and honey with him. Pausing at the ladder, he looked at her.

  “The shirt – thank you for troubling yourself to wash it.”

  “It was no trouble.” She turned back to the dough and set it in a bowl, sprinkling flour on it. “I am thirteen. My nameday is a fortnight from now so I will soon be fourteen. So you do not have to wonder any more. Hopefully, if all goes well, your knight-maston friend will come for you tomorrow. ” And then you will leave us, she thought with satisfaction. He truly was insufferable.

  “I hope so,” he said and climbed the ladder, disappearing into the tangle of vats, pumpkins, sacks, and jars.

  “As do I,” she whispered as she walked to the main door and raised the crossbar. Pasqua arrived shortly after.

  * * *

  Dawn was cold, bringing a soupy fog to the grounds. With Sowe working again, the chores were nearly done when the pear tart was finished baking. Pasqua asked Lia to carry it to the Aldermaston while it was still hot. Donning her cloak, she set off the short distance to the manor, tortured by the aroma from the tart. It smelled fragrantly of cinnamon and nutmeg, and she broke off a little crumb around the edge to taste it. She entered the manor from the rear, scuffing her shoes on the rush-matting to keep from tracking mud across the tiles and went to the Aldermaston’s study. Normally it was quiet there, but it was abuzz with commotion.

  Lia knocked on the door and opened it, spying the Aldermaston in conference with his elderly steward, Prestwich, who was bald except for a fringe of snowy white hair, and Jon Hunter, who was explaining something to them both.

  “I was thorough. No markings on the bridle or on the saddle or saddle bags. No coat of arms, no signet. No maston symbols either, but that is not surprising considering the murders. The saddle was of such quality as you would expect from a knight…or squire.”

  The Aldermaston leaned back in his chair, motioning Lia to enter and directing her to the serving table. With his other hand, he gave a little motion which meant that Jon Hunter should stop talking. He was very good at that, Lia noticed. The Aldermaston’s hands were gnarled with hard work, the skin purple with veins, but there was still strength in those hands, and a feeling of authority.

  “Thank you, Lia. Come here, child.”

  She obeyed, trying not to look at Jon, or else she might start giggling. She was tempted to get him in trouble by saying she already knew about the horse and they could go on talking.

  He squinted at her, then rubbed an earlobe that had several gray hairs poking from it. “I have a message for you to give to Pasqua. Please pay attention.”

  Lia stood still, listening.

  “We are expecting guests. Emissaries from the king arrived in the village last night. They stayed at the Swan, not the Pilgrim. Pasqua will care about a detail like that, so do not leave it out. I have been told that they will come to the abbey. I received no warning about this visit, so apologize to her that she was not given time to prepare.”

  Lia’s
heart fluttered. Her stomach went sour. She remembered the knight’s warning. If Almaguer comes, do your best to hide him.

  As innocently as she could, she asked, “How many shall we cook for, my lord?”

  “Tell Pasqua that the retinue is at least twenty men.”

  “What does retinue mean?” she asked.

  “They are those who owe a noble lord their allegiance. They do his bidding and travel with him. There will be many mouths to feed. I know that Whitsunday is approaching, and she will be loathe to relinquish her stores. If you must, send her to me to discuss it. They should be given our hospitality.”

  The sound of footsteps came running down the hall, and the page opened it. His name was Astrid, and he delivered messages for the Aldermaston throughout the grounds. He was ten.

  “Riders from the village, Aldermaston!” he gasped “We told them you would greet them in person in due time, but they…they would not wait. My lord, they are riding their mounts on the grounds instead of walking them! One of them asked me… he demanded to know where the kitchen was.”

  The Aldermaston surged to his feet, his face livid with anger. “Take me now.”

  Lia experienced a sudden bristling rush of panic. Her ears burned hot, her stomach twisting like one of Reome’s wet garments. Her knees became shaky. She nearly dragged the hot pan off the serving table accidentally. It could only mean one thing.

  The possibility was now real.

  The king’s men had come to search the abbey. What if they were already at the kitchen doors? What if she was too late?