The Void of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood Book 3) (38 page)

Maia stared at him, her mind full of the sight and sound of clashing men, screaming in guttural tones as they slew their enemies. She closed her eyes, quelling the violent thoughts. Then she opened her eyes and stared at him with as much serenity as she could muster. “The Medium
will
deliver us.”

He looked at her with disdain. “I knew you were going to say something
trite
like that.” He grunted with ill humor.

Maia shook her head. “The Medium can be forced, it is true. But do not be deceived. That is not the true order of things. If we trust it and if we believe in it, the Medium can save us. All you do is
poison
my mind with your words. The Medium is not warning us to flee these shores. It commands that we gather together, that we summon our wills together to withstand the Naestors.”

“They will make you
watch
,” he said in a low, strangled voice. “You do not understand the violence of which these men are capable. I have trained with them, Maia. I have fought alongside these war bands, seen them destroy villages and raze cities!” His jaw quivered. “I cannot bear to watch them destroy you too. Come with me. Tonight!”

His thoughts were so powerful, his will so strong, Maia felt a trickle from the Medium nudge against her. Part of his mind opened to her in that moment. Just a flicker of insight, a flash of intention. He was not trying to deceive or trick her. He was a desperate man who had never felt love in his life until now, and the object of his secret, sacred feelings was about to be butchered and massacred in a way that would devastate him. He was trying to protect her, not just from death, but from witnessing the savage atrocity of his people. He had absolutely no doubt that Corriveaux would win.

Maia rose from the table and approached him deliberately, using her force of will to counter his. She stared into his eyes, watching his look turn pained. As if being too near her hurt him.

She reached out and took his hand between hers. His heavy, gloved, murderous hand. She watched as his neck muscles stiffened at her touch. He stared at her in confused amazement.

“I know your
heart
,” she whispered to him. “But I cannot give you what you seek. I love another.”

He frowned at the words. A cold and chilling frown. “He is a dead man. Everyone you love will be taken from you.”

“Even so,” Maia said, holding him fast. “I will not surrender. I will not abandon my people. If they are to die, if it is the Medium’s
will
that we perish, then I will perish with them. Do not ask me to go with you. I cannot forsake my people. And the Medium will not forsake those who
believe
.”

He stared at her, his eyes brimming with doubt. “You are a fool,” he whispered. “The Medium did not save you from your father.
I
did.”

“Then it
used
you to save me,” Maia replied.

When she said that, she saw something flash in his eyes. His mouth parted, but he said nothing. Turning, he stalked back out of the tent and vanished into the night.

Maia rode on her palfrey, the air hazy with dust from the exodus to Muirwood. On horseback, they passed several small wagons and carts trundling toward the land ahead. Very often she would hear her name called from a little child waving up at her. And Maia would smile and wave back, wondering how she had been recognized without any of her royal finery. Word had undoubtedly spread through the camp. The queen rode with them. No one could harm them so long as the queen was there. If only that were true.

The day was dusty and hot. Riders coming back and forth to scout for the Naestors would pass her, for she kept an easy pace, not a breakneck one. They rode toward Mendenhall, a castle where she would spend the night on the last leg of the journey before reaching Muirwood. Her prisoners had been moved to the dungeons there. It made her think of Maeg’s father, who had been the last sheriff of Mendenhall. She found herself wondering where Maeg had gone after issuing her warning. When all this was done, Maia would reward her for her loyalty. If Maeg had not come forward, Corriveaux’s plan would have undoubtedly prevailed. She would need to seek Suzenne’s counsel on how best to honor the other girl.

One of her knights came from the road ahead at a gallop and reined in when he saw her. The horse was frothing at the mouth and the knight looked grizzled and intense. “My lady, a column of soldiers is coming toward us from Mendenhall.”

Maia looked at him, confused. “All the soldiers were assigned to protect the exodus. Who is it?”

“I know not, but they wear the colors and fly the banner of Comoros.”

“Dodd’s army?” Maia wondered in surprise.

“It could be a trap,” the knight warned. “Captain Carew has gone ahead to challenge them, but we may need to flee, and quickly.”

The line of wagons and carts that strung out before and behind her was utterly defenseless. She had her household knights, but they would be insufficient against a sizeable force. Then she saw Jon Tayt’s pony coming from ahead, and he looked calm and easy in his saddle.

She tapped the flanks of her horse and hurried to meet him. “What news?” she asked worriedly.

Jon Tayt looked dumbfounded. “My lady, it appears you have another army.”

She looked at him with concern. “Who are they?”

“The young lads from Assinica,” Jon Tayt replied. “Nary a one is older than you, my lady. They have never fought before. But they are dressed in hauberks and shields. They have spears and maces . . . some have maston swords . . . and they are marching to aid Earl Caspur in his retreat. They heard he is losing men every day, so they rallied to come shore up the retreat.”

It was Maia’s turn to look surprised. She caught sight of the advancing columns through the haze of dust—ten men deep, they held spears and banners fluttering with the insignia of Comoros. She could feel the shuddering of the ground as they drew near.

“And who leads them?” Maia asked in wonder. She saw a man on horseback in their midst, the sunlight gleaming off his helm and shield.

“You will see,” Jon Tayt said with a gruff smile.

Maia led her palfrey into a canter and approached the advancing column of soldiers. Their tabards were brown with dust from the march, but the young men looked sturdy and strong. These were blacksmiths’ sons, the children of artisans, stonemasons, and musicians. As they approached, she noted the look of calm and steady dignity in their faces. Though they had never fought before, they were now marching to war in a land they called home.

To Maia’s surprise, Aldermaston Wyrich rode amidst the first ranks of the soldiers, wearing armor. A flanged mace hung from his saddle strap. He wore a gray tabard over his hauberk, reminiscent of his Aldermaston robes.

“Aldermaston Wyrich,” Maia said with a surprised greeting. “What have you done?”

He smiled warmly at her. “I intended to stay and supervise the defenders of Muirwood at the abbey, Your Majesty. But these lads insisted they could not wait to defend the walls while so many in your army were dying. They wanted to help bring the Earl of Caspur’s troops back safely. Until then, their posts are being held by the city watch of Comoros under the lord mayor’s charge. They wish to face our enemies, my lady. I could not oppose them.”

Maia glanced behind and around him. These were all very young men, as Jon Tayt had warned her, but she saw a seriousness in their eyes.

“They are mastons?” she asked.

The Aldermaston nodded approvingly. “Each one is. They fight to defend their families, the abbeys of the realm, and they will defend your crown, my queen.”

“How many are there?”

He looked at her seriously. “Just over a thousand. They do not fear death, Your Majesty. They believe the Medium will save them as it did Garen Demont at Winterrowd. They asked if I would lead them,” he said in a humble voice. He gripped his flanged mace, his look serious and imposing. “And so I have agreed. The Medium bids me to rescue the Earl of Caspur’s men and see them safely to Muirwood. I have asked Richard to stand in on my behalf.”

“Then you must go,” Maia said. She felt her throat tighten as she glanced again at the column before her. She lifted her hand in the maston sign, and the soldiers stopped and bowed their heads. “Young men of Assinica, I Gift you with courage and strength,” she said in a clear, calm voice. “I Gift you with obedience, that you may fulfill every command and charge given you. Go forth, defenders of Muirwood. The Medium will go with you, as will this blessing. Make it thus so.”

She heard a rippling murmur through the ranks as she lowered her arm. They were so young. As Aldermaston Wyrich nudged his horse and the march continued, Maia waited until the last row passed her, staring into their faces, seeing their determination. Her heart clenched with heaviness as she wondered how many of them would return. These were unseasoned, untrained young men, and though she had not heeded the kishion, his words had penetrated. The enemy was fierce.

As the dust from their marching began to settle, she could just make out the form of Mendenhall Keep in the distance. Behind it stretched the tangled woods of the Bearden Muir.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Refuge

T
hough Maia had visited Muirwood Abbey almost nightly for the past months, she rarely left the abbey grounds, so what she found outside its walls startled her. Since Whitsunday, the village of Muirwood had expanded to the size of a town. She could not believe how many houses and homes had been erected in so short a time. They were fresh and new, with timbers hewn from the mighty oaks surrounding the grounds. There were several grist mills, and she heard the constant clanking of blacksmiths’ hammers and smelled sawdust and pungent dross. Little shops teeming with crafts and art had been assembled along the main roads. There was music amidst the pounding, the trill of flutes and the melodic tones of harps and dulcimers.

There were also hundreds of tents and pavilions within the bounds of the woods, and Maia watched with fascination as the citizens of Muirwood—particularly those from Assinica—warmly greeted the refugees from Comoros. Each cluster of tents had Leerings for fire and water, and everywhere there were cakes sizzling on pans, dishes being scrubbed in tubs of water, and other chores underway.

As Maia rode her palfrey down the main street, she was greeted warmly by smiling, tranquil faces that seemed more as if they were preparing to celebrate Whitsunday than for an invasion.

“My lady,” said a woman who reached up from the street and handed her a honeyed cake. Maia thankfully accepted it and took a bite. It was stuffed with sweetened berries that made her hungry for more. Each shop was small, and they were bunched tight together with the living quarters perched above. The shingles were fresh and still smelled pleasantly of the wood that had constructed them. The streets were cobbled, which amazed her, and the stones were flat with gentle rounded edges, which reduced the noise from the clatter of wheels and hooves.

She craned her neck, marveling at the progress their cousins from Assinica had made in establishing a thriving community in the swamp. There were dikes and ditches draining away the swamp water, and she could discern large swaths of fields that had already been plowed and seeded. The woods were thinner now, but the land surrounding the abbey was still lush and thick with greenery. In the distance, she could see the tower on the Tor rising above it all, and the glint of metal-shod soldiers marching up and down the stone steps. From that vantage point she knew they would be able to see the oncoming armies well in advance.

Maia rode next to Jon Tayt as they approached the abbey walls. As soon as they entered them, it felt as if a soft blanket had been tucked around her shoulders. She tugged gently on the reins, bringing her faithful mount to a stop as she breathed in the scents of home and felt the weariness drip away from her soul. This was a bastion, a refuge, a place of peace.

“I have almost grown fond of this muddy place, by Cheshu,” Jon Tayt drawled. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his glove. “It is not Pry-Ree, mind you, but it will do in a trice. Ah, there is the Aldermaston again in his gray robes. Richard Syon looks like a content man at long last. Being here has lifted years from his gray head.”