by Jeff Wheeler
“Did he lose his temper?” Lia asked, eager to hear the story. This is dangerous, she thought. Marciana can tell me stories of his childhood!
“He was all of twelve years old, but he acted like he was one and twenty. He warned those shepherd boys. He always warns first. You like hearing stories about him? Good! There are many he would not want me to tell you. And you must tell me your stories, Lia. I want to hear them. I want to know you better. I am jealous of Sowe that she knows so much about you, but she is too loyal to you to share anything interesting. From what Pasqua has said, you were a very naughty child. But you and I are alike, I think. I hope we can be friends?”
“Lia! It is almost gone!” Pasqua said. “Hurry over lasses, or you will miss it.”
“Here I am, stealing all your attention when you are probably starving. Come over and eat. We have the Aldermaston’s permission to be with you.”
Lia joined the others and Edmon approached gallantly with a spoon for her. “It must be excruciating torture for you to live in a kitchen like this with such an excellent cook. And she has taught you all her secrets, has she?”
“It has been a year, but I have not forgotten them all yet,” Lia said, tasting the Fool and enjoying it. It was always a favorite of hers. “You should try her sambocade too, Edmon. That will make you drool on yourself.”
“Posh, lass. Do not be making any promises to him for me,” Pasqua said. “When Whitsunday comes, he will get his chance to taste it all. If he can stop dancing, that is.”
Edmon rubbed his hands together. “I must be a fool, but I have always enjoyed ring dances like the maypole one they do here. It never took much coaxing to get me to try it. And with such lovely partners as all of you make, it would have to be a tempting display of desserts to draw me away.” He bowed his head dramatically to each of them, smiling like a blazing candle. “I hope you will all save a dance for me. You included, Pasqua.”
“Me? Dance on Whitsunday?” Pasqua chided, beaming at the handsome young man. “When pigs fly, lad. When pigs fly. But I will save you some sambocade for the kind words.”
His gallantry reminded Lia of what Astrid warned her of earlier. “I would like to see the look on Getman’s face when you ask Sowe,” Lia said softly after another spoonful.
Sowe’s eyebrows crinkled and she looked at Lia curiously.
“Who is Getman?” Edmon asked.
“He is the blacksmith helper,” Bryn said. “Strong as an ox, but he is rude and jealous. Everyone is afraid of him except for Lia and Sowe. Lia hates him…well, maybe that is too strong, but she cannot abide his company, and everyone knows he dotes on Sowe.”
“He does?” Edmon asked, appraising Sowe again. “And you consider him as well-mannered as a surgeon’s leech?”
Sowe grinned and they all laughed.
“He is that obnoxious then?” Edmon said. “Well, if dancing with you will spite him, I will gladly risk his enmity. Even if he is as strong as an ox. Probably reeks like one as well.”
Lia liked Edmon immensely. He had a boyish charm that was disarming. “It will definitely thwart his plans. You see, Astrid told me today that Getman promised he would thrash anyone who dances with Sowe except for him.”
Edmon glowered. “Did he now? Well, that is no surprise considering Sowe’s great beauty,” another bow to her, “But surely only a knave would deprive his fellows like this. Where can I find the great boor? I think Colvin and I will have to kill him. Or at least cut off an arm or a leg. Could he still work as a blacksmith with a stump, do you think?” He performed the impression of a man with a gimp and had everyone roaring with laughter. Except for Colvin, who constrained his expression to a smirk and said nothing. When Ellowyn noticed that he was not laughing, she stopped too.
“I for one, will not be intimidated,” Edmon declared, gazing at Sowe. “Let him bluster, but he will not deprive me of the opportunity of dancing with you on Whitsunday. Unless you would rather I not dance with you.” His eyes grew more serious, more focused, as if willing her to say the words.
A little smile came on Sowe’s mouth. “I would like that,” she said, then looked down at the bowl, her cheeks flushing.
“I have witnesses then to your consent. You will vouch for me, Ciana? Ellowyn? Lia? Bryn? What a selfish oaf, claiming you for his own.”
“Pasqua,” Marciana said. “Lia needs to eat something. Where was that plate you were saving for her?”
“I had forgotten, child. It is over by the oven. No, the other corner. Edmon, stop torturing the poor girl with flattery and fetch a sack of flour from the loft as I asked you when you arrived. Be quick lad, it is getting late and I must escort you back to the manor house soon.”
Marciana tugged on Lia’s arm and led her to the oven. “You must be starving but I do not want to waste a moment with you. There is your meal.” As they approached the oven, Lia saw the Leering near it and felt a prickle from the Medium. The eyes glowed red, giving off heat into the oven. She had not done it and glanced at Marciana.
“Not as impressive as what you can do,” she whispered, seeing Lia’s look.
Lia took the bread, looking over her shoulder at Sowe and then at Colvin who was talking softly to Ellowyn. “Colvin taught me so very much,” she answered, memories flooding her. “You are lucky to have him as a brother.”
“Instead of Edmon?” Marciana asked wryly. She gave Lia a knowing look. “Who is handsome and gallant, but…how can I say this tactfully…he is also very shallow. His moods flit from this to that so quickly. Colvin is steady. That is what I admire in him. Poor girl, he already has Sowe dazzled. Warn her when we are gone. He means well, but he craves attention. He is uncomfortable unless everyone is laughing at something he has said, or unless the pretty girls are blushing and dizzy with giddiness. He knows he is handsome, poor devil. Warn Sowe about him, Lia.”
“Warn her?” Lia said, grabbing some fruit from the plate. “He would never do anything dishonorable would he?”
“He is not dangerous or vicious,” Marciana said, rolling her eyes. “No more than any man is. He would never dishonor her. How can I put this? As Colvin has always told me, we are slow to believe that which if believed would hurt our feelings. He would never deliberately try and make her love him and then scorn her. But he may do it inadvertently. Warn her of that. He pretends more than he feels. Having spent a year with him, I have grown weary of his little gallantries. Sowe will probably be as well after she is gorged on them as I have. Look at how she reacted a few moments ago. Whether they give or refuse, it delights a woman just the same to have been asked. She was delighted. You could see it on her face as well as I could.”
Lia looked at Marciana probingly. “You observe people.”
Marciana offered a twisted smile. “I ignore most people. But there are some I pay close attention to. Having been born in a Family under such circumstances as I was, you cannot blame me. My mother died giving me my life. Ellowyn and I have that in common. My father never married again, he loved her so much. That is the kind of love I want. The kind I want for my brother. So you see, my gift of observation, if I have any, is only about those who toy and flirt and scheme and envy and stumble in a thousand ways to fall in love. And in the last two nights of being here, I have seen all the subtle clues that exist in Sowe. Warn her, Lia. He is a knight-maston and an earl. But he is also a man with a heart and is easily distracted by beauty. And she is a beauty.”
Marciana gazed at Sowe for a moment, then turned back to Lia who took another bite from the bread. She nearly choked on it when Marciana said, “So who is this boy you care about – the one you had promised to dance with last Whitsunday! When you were lost in the swamp, Colvin told me you regretted that you would miss the maypole dance because of this boy. What is his name? Is he a learner? Do you still like him?”
CHAPTER EIGHT:
Jealous
The only people Lia had ever truly been jealous of during her life were those who came to Muirwood to learn how to read and
engrave. The embodiment of that jealousy became Ellowyn Demont. She was like an uncertain dancer at the maypole, watching and imitating everyone else, but always a skip and a twirl too late – one so preoccupied with getting the moves right that the shuffling steps could not be referred to as dancing. Lia’s thoughts were cruel and she recognized that. The problem was she could not help herself. The deeper problem lay in the fact that she was jealous of Ellowyn for another reason as well. The nub of it – Colvin’s constant attention to her.
When he was wounded and hid in the kitchen, they had argued about Lia’s outspokenness and her ability to keep secrets. Colvin had praised Sowe’s shyness and reserve as qualities worth admiring. She remembered the conversation vividly. Ellowyn was that kind of girl. The deference Colvin paid to the Demont girl was obvious, tender, and – truthfully – infuriatingly sensitive. Every time she watched them together, it made her ill. The feeling was so strong that sometimes she wondered if she needed valerianum tea to calm her stomach. She understood the emotion. It was jealousy and it tormented her.
For example, after a visitor arrived from nearby Wells Abbey, Lia was commanded by the Aldermaston to speak to Ailsa Cook about a meal. She spied Colvin and Ellowyn together near the laundry, deep in conversation. Colvin looked animated, his hands gesturing. Ellowyn was completely engrossed, taking in his every word as if they were honey. The feeling in Lia’s chest was so powerful, so painful, she went another way, afraid she would be noticed, that the Medium would betray her thoughts to him. How humiliating that would be!
The evenings in the kitchen were especially difficult, and she found herself coming back later and later. The talking and laughing were enjoyable. But it was as if her private domain had been intruded upon, that the kitchen was no longer her refuge but theirs. Every night, Marciana wheedled more information from her. Every night she did everything she could not to stare at Colvin too much, to keep Marciana from suspecting that something was wrong. Sowe and Bryn had grown closer over the year, making Lia feel as if her place was usurped. The depth and intensity of her feelings were so strong she began worrying that the Medium would stop working for her altogether.
A week passed since Martin had left. She missed him and his surly advice, his bluff manners. He was always practical, always one to force an issue, never hide from it. He would cut to the quick. What was tormenting her? What was it that truly bothered her? She pondered the question, seeing Martin’s scrunched up eyebrows, the angry jut of his jaw. Was it that Colvin was treating Ellowyn with respect when he had treated her so angrily? Did she fear he was forming an attachment to the girl? Was that it? That they would marry? The nagging thoughts were subtle – quick to dodge her attempts at confining them so easily. It was not knowing Colvin’s thoughts that bothered her. Was she seeing too much in his deference to Ellowyn? Was his politeness no more than that? In the Cider Orchard, she had assumed he felt contempt for the girl. But his manners belied any trace of it. How she wished the Medium would let her see into his mind again!
“Lia, wait up!”
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she had not seen Duerden’s approach from the duck pond. He hefted his tome in one hand and arranged the flap of his leather bag so he could stuff it inside. He had grown in a year, but still barely came up to her nose.
“Hello, Duerden,” she said, slowing her pace so he could join her.
“I was…hoping I would find you about today,” he said, bringing the bag strap around his shoulder. “I can see you are in a hurry. I will walk with you. I do not want to keep you from your duties.”
That was thoughtful. She liked that about him. “I was on my way to Martin’s lodge. Are you finished with your studies for the day?”
“I am. Do you mind the company?”
“No.” As they started walking towards the western grounds, Lia noticed him fidgeting. “What did you learn from the Hodoeporicon today? You are still engraving it?”
He nodded excitedly. “I am hoping to finish engraving before Whitsunday. I have been burning through dozens of candles at night to work. The other learners think I am daft, but I would really like half of it scribed before I finish this year.”
“Any sage bits of wisdom from it?” she asked playfully, bumping into him to knock him off balance. He staggered a bit, grinned, and kept up with her.
“Several. From today – you will like this one. ‘A burden which is done well becomes light.’ Another good one – ‘he who is not prepared today will be less so tomorrow.’ Every learner should be forced to memorize that one. Rather obvious.” He started fidgeting again. She could tell he had been rehearsing. “My favorite from today was this one – ‘What is allowed us is disagreeable, what is denied us causes intense desire.’”
The truth of that statement burned in her mouth. It was so true. Her craving to read was only made more desperate by the Aldermaston’s refusal to let her. Would she find as much pleasure in it, were it suddenly given? She hoped so. “Why Duerden, have you been practicing that one all day?”
“I just… I thought you would like it, Lia,” he said, stammering. Sweat glistened on his forehead. The day was cool. She wondered if he had shared it with any of the other girls. “Have you heard the Queen Dowager is coming to Muirwood? What do you make of it?”
Lia kept her eyes on the trees ahead, keeping the pace steady. “I know she is coming but I do not know much about her really. Actually, I do not know anything about her. I imagine she is very old?”
“No, she is young,” Duerden replied. “She is eighteen, I think.”
Lia stopped, staring at him. “Reome’s age?”
“The old king’s first wife died when we were children – I was eight, I think. I remember when it happened. Three years after her death, he married the Pearl of Dahomey of the royal house of Mondragon. Pareigis is how you say her name in Dahomeyjan. Most call her the Queen Dowager. That means the young king is only slightly younger than his step-mother. She will surely marry again, as they had no children together.”
“That is disgusting,” Lia replied, cringing at the thought. She started walking again and he followed. “How old was the old king when he married her?”
Duerden looked puzzled and thought quickly. “Nearly sixty, I think. She was fifteen when they were married – our age. Yes, he was an old man when he was murdered.”
The accusation stung her conscience. It always made her angry when he doubted the truth of what happened at Winterrowd. “He was not murdered, Duerden. He died during a battle.”
“That is not what I heard,” he replied skeptically, ducking beneath an oak branch as they crossed the row of trees. “I am not certain there even was a battle at Winterrowd.”
It was just at that moment, crossing the border of oaks, that she saw Colvin. Beyond the screen of trees on the other side of the duck pond was the hunter’s lodge. Just to the west of it grew a field of purple mint used by the lavenders for scenting clothes and the apothecaries for remedies. She saw him crouching amidst the flowers, with a stem broken off in his hand. As they had not concealed their approach, he lifted his head and rose when he recognized her. He started towards them, and her heart hammered with surprise. There was no sign of Ellowyn.
“That is Colvin Price,” Duerden muttered in awe. “He is the Earl of…”
Lia interrupted, “He is the Aldermaston’s guest, and he was at Winterrowd. I think I will ask him if there was really a battle, or if...”
“That is impertinent, Lia. He is a stern man, does not suffer fools…”
Colvin twirled the stem in his hand and crossed the maze of purple flowers to reach them.
“I am going to ask him,” Lia whispered.
“Lia, do not!” Duerden whispered back.
“Good day, Lia,” Colvin said. He looked at Duerden and an expression clouded his face for just an instant. She did not understand what it meant, but she noticed it. “I do not believe we have been introduced,” he said to Duerden. “I am Colvin Price. I bid you good
day.”
Duerden stared at him as if some thunder had exploded in his ears and he could not hear a word.
Colvin waited for an awkward moment, patient.
“This is Duerden Fesit,” Lia said, tugging at his hand. “From Fath Court Hundred.” His palm was sweaty and cold. “He is the friend I told you of.”
Colvin was composed. Duerden looked as white as an eggshell.
“We were just talking,” Lia went on, patting Duerden’s hand in sympathy. “About all the rumors involving Winterrowd. You were there, were you not, Lord Colvin? At the battle?”
The look he gave her had the sheen of amusement. “Yes.”
“Well, Duerden was just telling me that some are saying there was not a battle. That Garen Demont could not possibly have defeated the king’s army, not losing a single man, without some treachery. It is said that the old king was murdered. Have you heard these rumors?”
Suddenly Duerden’s mouth was working again. “I was not saying that…what I meant is…that is what some are saying, not what I myself believe. I trust implicitly in the power of the Medium, but for the sake of reason and argument, I cannot vouch for what I did not myself witness, since I was here, as you know…learning.” He took a gulp of air. “I apologize for bothering you, Lord Price. It will not…happen…again.” His complexion went from white to green.
Colvin’s tone was measured, but his eyes flashed with annoyance. “If I were in your position, I would feel the same. The story is truly incredible. But as Lia said, I was there. I witnessed it. We were outnumbered, surrounded, and had to fight for our own survival. I was one of many knights who earned a collar that day. There was a battle and the Medium was with us. And it is true – not a single man of our company died, though each of us bears the scars of our wounding. Those of us who were there are…uncomfortable…speaking of it. It was a singular moment in my life. Hence the whispers and the rumors.”
Duerden’s mouth quavered. “I pray I did not offend you,” he mumbled.
