The Wretched of Muirwood (2 page)

Now she knew it was real. Empty ossuaries could mean only one thing. The dead bones had been restored to the flesh of their masters, the bodies reborn and new.
When
the revived ones had left Muirwood was a mystery. Lia was eager to explore the forbidden grounds – to see the floating stone, to search for rings in the mud herself.

And at precisely that moment, the moment when she realized the Medium was real, her heart full of thoughts too dazzling to bottle up, she saw the Aldermaston turn, gaze up the ladder, and their eyes met.

For the brief blink of a thought, she knew what he was thinking. How a young girl just past her ninth nameday could understand a world-wise and world-weary Aldermaston did not matter. This was the moment he had been dreading that evening. Not the washed out gravemarkers, the empty stone ossuaries, or the rings and linens left behind. It was knowing that
she
, a wretched of Muirwood, knew what had happened. That it was a moment to change her forever.

His recognition of her intrusion was shared then by Pasqua and Jon Hunter.

“I ought to blister your backside, you rude little child!” Pasqua said, striding over to the loft ladder as Lia scrambled down it. “Listening in like that. Like you were nothing but a teeny mouse, all anxious for bits of cheese. A rat is more like it. Snooping and sneaking.” Pasqua grabbed her scrawny arm, not gently.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Lia said, gazing at the Aldermaston fiercely, ignoring Pasqua and Jon Hunter. She tried to tug her arm away, but the grip was iron. “Not if you let me be taught to read. I want to be a learner.”

Pasqua slapped her for that, a stinging blow. “You evil little thing! Are you threatening the Aldermaston? He could turn you out to the village. Hunger, my little crow, real hunger. You have never known that feeling. Ungrateful, selfish…”

“Let her go, Pasqua, you are not helping,” the Aldermaston said, his eyes shining with inner fury. His gaze burned into Lia’s eyes. “While I am Aldermaston over Muirwood, you will not be taught to read. You greatly misunderstand your position here.” The eyes narrowed. “Five hundred loaves. Tonight. The food will help offer distraction.” He turned to leave, but stopped and gave her one last look. A sharp, threatening look. “They would not believe such a story even if you told them.” He left the kitchen, the vanished storm no longer blowing his stock of pale white hair.

Jon Hunter plucked a twig out of his hair and gave Lia another look – one that promised a thrashing if she ever said a word to anyone – then followed the Aldermaston out. Lia did not care about a thrashing. She knew what those felt like too.

Pasqua kept her and Sowe up all night, and by dawn their shoulders and fingers throbbed from the endless kneading, patting, and shaping of loaves. But Lia was not too exhausted, the next morning, to resist stealing one of the gold cemetery rings from a box in the Aldermaston’s chambers. After tying it to a stout length of string, she wore it around her neck and hid it beneath her clothes.

She never took it off.

Four years passed. The Aldermaston was true to his word and Lia was true to hers. She never told anyone about the floating stone, or the alcove she and Sowe had discovered in the hillside, or the cemetery rings. The storm raging outside reminded her of the previous one from years ago. Instead of sleeping in the loft with Sowe, she tried to get comfortable on the floor near the oven where it was warmer.

Thunder rocked the Abbey grounds, and even the thick stone wall thrummed with it. The rain dripped from several loose shingles in the roof, and the plunk plunking on the mats kept her awake. She was not certain what would be worse, grabbing a few pots to catch the water and listening to the deep blooping sound or cramming her blanket harder against her ears to muffle it.

In the darkness, something heavy lurched against the double doors, and for a moment Lia remembered Jon Hunter bursting in, bearing the news of the landslide. She sat up fast enough to graze her head against the planks of the trestle table nearby. The sound was loud, like when Getmin or Ribbs shoved a barrel full of beans into place. She heard a few low whispers and curses just outside the door, which meant it was likely a pair of learners. Sometimes they snuck out of their rooms at night to wander the grounds, but few were courageous enough to brave the Aldermaston’s personal kitchen. On quiet bare feet, she padded over and grabbed a skillet from the hook pegs, a wide flat one made of iron. A heavy wallop on the head was usually all it took to scare away a learner.

“Here we are,” a man’s voice whispered. “Easy there, lad. Let me look at you. Bleeding still. Let me see if the kitchen is open.”

The handle rattled and shook.

“Locked. Won’t be able to cross the river again if I stay here much longer…let me see if I can open it.” A dagger came through the crack and struggled against the crossbar, making Lia skip back and away with shock. Learners did not carry daggers!

“There we go…oh piddle, the crossbar is too heavy. Sorry, lad. Looks like you will be bleeding to death here. How the abbey help will love a corpse on the porch instead of a wretched. But what is there to do? Well, I suppose I could knock.”

Lia clenched her hands around the skillet handle, wondering if she should open the doors. A firm pounding startled her. “For the love of life, is anyone there? I have a wounded man with me. Is anyone there?”

She bit her lip, wondering if she should sneak out the rear doors and waken Pasqua. The old woman snored so loud, it would take more than distant pounding to wake her from her dreams, though sometimes she snored herself awake. Something thumped outside and she thought she heard the chinking sound of spurs. What kind of man wore spurs? Few soldiers could afford horses. But knight-mastons could. At least she thought they did. Knight-mastons and the nobles.

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.”