by Jeff Wheeler
As Pasqua butted the kitchen door open, gray hair-ends dripping from the rain, she scowled when she found Lia working alone at a grain mill, looking very sleepy.
“Sowe! Get down here, lazy child. There is work to be done and I don’t fancy having to…” She stopped, for she noticed at once that things were wrong. Lia could see the perplexed look on her face as she tried to interpret the changes as Jon Hunter would a new set of animal tracks in the woods.
The rush-matting on the floor by the door was fresh, not stamped and askew. She tapped the rushes with her shoe. A sour smell clung to the air – a smell of sickness. She smelled the air, used to its normal scents. Something in the air felt…wrong. Pasqua looked around quickly, gazing from the cauldrons, to the spitted meat, to Lia.
“Sowe is ill,” Lia said and then yawned. She turned back to the grain mill, filling her apron with seeds. “She climbed down last night to tell me her stomach was ailing, only she retched over us both. I changed the rushes already.”
“Has she a fever?”
“No,” Lia said, carrying the seeds to a small pot of boiling water and emptying them in, then brushing her hands. She pinched some salt and added it. “Can we get help today from the other kitchen? I did not sleep well. My dress smells terrible and I should like to clean it so it can dry today.”
Lia observed her discreetly. Pasqua still felt something lingering in the air. It was obvious in her confused stance, her wary attitude. She shut the kitchen door, listening to the sounds Lia made as she worked. The only light came from the fires, hissing and spitting across the small logs, and from the lamp next to Lia. Shadows wreathed the loft where Sowe slept.
Then she noticed the table. Lia knew that she would sooner or later.
“Did she eat the cherry tarts, is that why she is ill?” Anger boomed and shook through her voice. “Sick are we now, Sowe? So sick we cannot help with our chores? A tempting feast was laid before your eyes. And you thought yourself worthy to eat the Aldermaston’s food?”
Lia turned around, her eyes crinkling with worry. “I did not see her eat them,” she whispered.
“I have half a mind to take a switch to you both,” Pasqua said, hiking up her meaty sleeves. She grumbled to herself, although in reality she was complaining loudly. “Ungrateful wretcheds, both of you. As if you do not eat well enough. Pasqua sees the snitches. Pasqua sees the pinches of dough. Ought to pinch your skinny bottoms, I ought to.”
Lia tried to interrupt her tirade. “Ailsa Cook came begging for a shank off the hog to season a soup for the learners’ second meal.”
“Did you give it to her? Or must I? Looking answers my own question. And there you let her cut it herself, did you now? She took a good portion of the meat too.”
Lia shrugged.
“No doubt you were hopeful she would let a helper come and aid your chores. That is the truth of the matter. Well, Lia, you can both suffer for the misdeeds.”
“I did not eat any of the tarts.”
“But you knew they were gone. Cheeky girl. You could have told me when I came, but you were hiding it for her. Shame on you both. You wipe that sleep from your eyes, lass. You will be working a double share today. Sowe will get her own when she feels better, I promise you that.”
There was a heavy creak from the loft. For a moment, Pasqua clutched her heart and looked with panicked eyes. Lia could see her mind going through spasms of fear, a fear that she could not exactly fathom. Even Lia recognized that little Sowe was not heavy enough to make a creak like that.
Looking crossly at the loft, Lia grabbed a bowl and marched over to the ladder. “Not again.”
Pasqua stared up into the shadows, her face a mask of alarm. Soon daylight would come and dispel the darkness. “Boil some nettle,” she directed. “That can cure an upset stomach. Or mint. Some mint in a tea. That would help settle her. If she has trouble sleeping, we will give her some valerianum.”
Lia climbed up the ladder and disappeared into the loft, where she got ready to scold her friend for making too much noise. So far, her plan was unfolding surprisingly well.
* * *
“I hate this,” Sowe whimpered. “Now it is my fault? I did not eat those tarts. Why did you blame me?”
“What else was I to say? Pasqua suspects everything.”
“She suspects you because you always try to trick her.”
“You could at least compliment me that my plan is working.”
“Yes, Lia, you have done a perfect job making me seem a glutton. I cannot thank you enough.”
“If you can do better, by all means try. I have to do your work and mine today. You get to sleep up here all day.”
“I cannot sleep.”
“What?”
“I cannot sleep,” she said, even more softly, cringing.
“Why not?”
Sowe pitched her voice even lower. “Because he is up here.”
Lia rubbed her eyes. “That is ridiculous. You cannot even see him behind the sacks.”
“I hear him breathing.”
“You do not.”
“I can!”
“You are such a child. And since when has my breathing ever kept you awake? He is not going to do anything to you. He will hold still until Pasqua leaves for the night. He cannot make a sound.”
“He is noisy when he breathes!”
Lia rolled her eyes. “If you get a chance, tell him I will clean his shirt at the same time I clean my dress. I will need your dress too.”
“I am not changing dresses up here!” Sowe whispered indignantly.
“Then I will clean your clean one,” Lia said, exasperated. “I need to clean two dresses. I think it best while the morning meal is delivered to the learners. There will not be as many people washing then. Besides, it is still raining. If I wait longer, I will not be able to do it until later, and it may not dry by tonight. Tell him to be ready when Pasqua leaves to use the garderobe.”
“I do not want to talk to him.”
Lia gave her a hard look – one that said, you are acting like you are six!
“I am afraid!”
Pasqua’s voice thundered from across the kitchen. “Lia! The pottage is boiling! Stop pinching her and climb down. Leave the bowl up there with her, silly girl! There is enough to do to fill the entire season before Whitsunday. Come down, girl. Let her alone.”
Sowe grabbed Lia’s hands, her eyes helpless. “Do not leave me here alone. You could be sick too.”
Lia snatched her hands away. “If I am sick too, then other help will be sent here. Now moan.”
“Moan?”
“Moan!”
Sowe let our a half-gurgling whimper.
“That was pathetic,” Lia grumbled as she hurried down the ladder.
* * *
“Those who cannot read the tomes of the ancients are typically confused by the meaning of ‘Medium’ because of its multiple definitions. With their lack of education, this is understandable. In the simplest terms, I seek to teach them thus – that the term ‘Medium’ was chosen precisely because it conveys multiple meanings. It is the means that connects two opposite sides, allowing a maston, for example, to bring fire from the core of the earth to the surface. It is the intervening substance through which any power, or the potentiality of power, is transmitted. It is also a means of communication. Engravings in stone or precious ore are a manifestation of the Medium for those who can read them, for its power can be conducted through the chisels and etchings and interpreted through the eyes of the reader. The Medium has power over all things, both living and dead, and can be the means of communicating between them. It is also the means by which the dead are revived. Even if their bones are dust and blown by the wind, the Medium could find the specks and restore them to life. It happened at the oldest abbey in the realm, Muirwood they say, though only a few ever knew of it.”
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE:
Reome Laven
der
Lia usually had a small bit of time for washing just after the morning meal was finished and the dough punched and set for rising for the dinner bread. The learners of Muirwood would be at their studies in the cloisters, and with the storm still menacing the grounds, very few would be outdoors. Pasqua slipped out to use the garderobe at the manor – something she did about ten times a day, since there were only chamber pots in the kitchen and she loathed using them. Lia had waited for the moment, and after the door shut, she scurried up the ladder.
Sowe was asleep, despite her complaints, but there was no shirt. She searched for a moment, then stepped over the sleeping girl and climbed on a barrel. “I am going to the laundry. Let me have your shirt.”
“No.”
It was bright now, and sunlight streamed in from the window in the nook of the loft. Motes speckled the air. His face had color again, his skin was tanned and dark, his chin stubbly instead of smooth. The bandage at his eyebrow was seeped with blood – she would need to change it later.
“Ugh, you smell horrible. Here is some cheese.” She handed it to him.
He took the cheese and started into it. “Bread?”
“The dough is rising. Now give me your shirt. Look at those stains. I am going to wash my dress now.”
“It is not needed. I will not be staying here long.”
“Three days is long enough with smelly clothes, and I will not steal you a shirt. That would be something I could not explain.” She held out her hand and wrinkled her nose. “I can smell you from here.”
He hesitated.
“Quickly! Pasqua will not be gone for long.” She wiggled her fingers at him.
He grit his teeth with anger. “Very well. Turn around.”
For a moment, she thought he was utterly insane. That he, a knight – a squire, or whatever – was too timid around…around her? But then she noticed something she had not observed. A silver gleam beneath the collar.
“You wear a chaen shirt! You are a maston yourself?”
He closed his eyes, his face looking as if he’d bitten through lemonwort, peel and all. He trembled with anger, but he mastered it. Opening his eyes, he looked at her with disgust. “You are a wretched. How do you know these things?”
His reaction was silly considering their location. “Sir…this is Muirwood Abbey. We receive visits from mastons each fortnight. We have our own silversmith to make the shirts, for those learners who achieve it. Otherwise they are handed down…”
“From father to son. This was my father’s.”
“If you wear it, then he must be dead or very old.”
He scowled at her again. “Do not mock the dead.”
“Why not? Do you fear hurting their feelings? Can I have your shirt now? I will not tell anyone you are a maston, if that is what troubles you.”
He untied the lacings on the front and pulled it over his head then thrust it at her. The chaen shirt beneath was beautiful and more exquisite than ones crafted at Muirwood. The shimmering links extended to his forearms and draped down his neck. The border was treated with the symbol she had seen on the sword – interlocking square-stars along the fringe.
“Stop looking at me,” he said gruffly. “Wash the stains and bring it back.” He nestled back into the shadows, below the window where the light blinded her and folded his arms gruffly. The chaen shirt did not jangle as he moved. It was quiet, like the whisper of silk. Mastons who wore them had proven skills at hearing the whispers through the Medium, and had passed the tests of knowledge required to enter the inner sanctuary of the abbey.
Lia folded the shirt as she backed away, then turned back and looked at him. “Since you are a maston…you know you can claim sanctuary in the abbey. No one could force you to leave, not even the king himself. It is the oldest privilege of the abbey. You know that, do you not?”
Silence was her reply.
She turned and went to the ladder, wondering if she should add some woad to the wash and turn the shirt a different color out of spite. As she descended, she heard his voice, barely more than a mutter. But she did not make out the words.
Taking Sowe’s extra dress from the chest beneath the loft, along with her own soiled one – the vomit-stink was as bad as the squire’s – she dropped them all into a wicker basket. After fetching her blue cloak from a peg and raising the hood to cover the mass of untidy hair, she hoisted the basket and headed into the rain.
Lia left the stone path leading to the manor. The lawns were squishy and wet, the air was chill, the rain steady. She joined another paved path that would take her around towards the Cider Orchard, and she was a little muddy by the time she reached it. In the past, she dreaded going to the laundry. But today, everything felt alive with excitement. A squire hiding in the Aldermaston’s kitchen! The king’s sheriff on his way! Clouds loomed over the grounds, painting even the flowers with somberness, but they could not quell her mood. She walked with bold strides, trying to reach the laundry before getting soaked. Inwardly, she was pleased with herself. Pasqua was wary, but that was normal. She knew the woman was incapable of climbing the loft ladder. Three days was not long at all. Feeding the squire would be easy as well. She wondered what she could expect from him for the food and shelter.
As she followed her path, she caught sight of the cloister in the haze of rain. The cloister was where the learners were locked away doing their lessons. It was offset from the Abbey walls, not a towering structure, just a series of four covered walkways that opened into a garden square in the middle. The doors in and out were always locked, and helpers were never permitted to enter because of the costly metals used in their craft. When the hours of study and engraving were complete, the learners were allowed out to wander the grounds, tease the helpers, and generally make life difficult for everyone. Only in the cloister could a boy or girl learn the secrets of reading and engraving tomes. The secrets were fiercely guarded. Lia stared at the building. It was the only thing in her life that made her truly jealous. To have her own tome, to choose which ancient passages to engrave, to listen to whispers from the past by reading their words.
The laundry of Muirwood was a small wooden structure protected from the rain by wooden shingles attached to a sloping roof held up by six sturdy posts. There were no walls, but the roof was broad enough to provide shelter, for it rained often at the abbey, and it overhung the little spillway where the water drained away towards the wetlands. At first Lia thought that no one else was there, but she heard humming and discovered, to her disappointment, that Reome was there.
Reome was seventeen and worked as a lavender. She was the kind of girl that Lia always distrusted because of the way she gossiped. She had a certain cruelty to her – a way she talked to others that showed how little she cared about their feelings. One moment she would praise a girl for a pretty embroidery, the next she would mock how her hair was braided.
Lia had witnessed this behavior first hand on many occasions, though had rarely been the victim of it except the occasional jeer that she was taller than the other girls her age or that her hair was neither brown nor raven but pale as flax and too crinkled and wild – both attributes Lia could do nothing about. The best way to handle a person like Reome was to ignore their taunts and their praise – to desire neither. Lia arrived at the shelter of the laundry and set the basket down, then shook the droplets of water from her hood and let her cloak hang on a post hook to dry while she worked.
Reome scrubbed a soaked gown on the ribbed stone edge near the water, then dunked it again. Her hands were wrinkled and sudsy. She twisted the garment, wringing out the water as she would a hen’s neck, loosened it, then twisted again. She had strong hands. Lia had seen her pinch a girl once, leaving a bruise and making the girl weep.
“Hello,” Lia said, announcing herself to the other girl.
She received no answer, which did not surprise her.
Lia knelt at the other end, across from Reome, and drew the stained dress from the basket and dunked it
into the water. Because of the rains, the stone trough was nearly full. During the summers, a Leering was used to summon water for the duty. A teacher might summon its power, or the Aldermaston himself. She had seen it done on occasion followed by gasps from the other helpers who watched. She looked at the Leering, its cold stone eyes flat and lifeless, no glow of light emanating from it visibly. But even kneeling a few paces from it, Lia could feel the power sleeping within the stone. She would not wake it – not in front of Reome.
Lia pulled a cake of soap from a wooden tub and smacked it against the fabric. She churned the garment with her hands, scrubbing it against each other, then knelt down and scrubbed it against the stone. She worked quietly, ignoring Reome, wishing the other girl was gone already.
For some reason, the boys of the abbey did not notice the same cruelty in Reome. It bothered Lia that so many would offer to carry a basket for her. They would leap over a well hole if they thought it would earn them a fickle smile. Since last summer, she had taken to wearing a leather choker around her neck with a polished river stone dangling from it. No doubt she was mimicking, as only a wretched could, one of the learners who sometimes wore chokers fashioned of silver and glittering with a gem. One by one, the other lavenders were wearing them. Then the other kitchen help – not Lia and Sowe, of course – began fashioning them. The boys cured leather or searched for stones in the river. It was silly how desperate some of the girls were to have one, or the boys to assist.
After a short while, Lia heard Reome folding the wet clothes and stack them in her own basket. Rain pattered on the water in the trough and tapped on the shingles overhead. The air smelled like soap and purple mint. She continued to scrub her dress, wringing and rinsing it. Reome started to leave, then stopped.
