The Wretched of Muirwood

by Jeff Wheeler

  “You will not,” Pasqua said. “Ask what you will, but you will in my presence.”

  “Your cook has spirit, Aldermaston,” the sheriff said.

  “You will find that spirit throughout the abbey,” he replied. “Lia, child, if a wounded soldier were hiding in this kitchen, would you know of it?”

  “Yes, Aldermaston,” she replied, looking at him, not the sheriff. “There are only two doors to get in, and little room to hide as you can see, and we…”

  “Lock both doors at night, yes,” he said. “Your men have seen for themselves that there is no one hiding in either kitchen. Nor has any soldier or maston or fugitive sought sanctuary inside the abbey itself. There are laws governing that, as you well know. As I told you before, Almaguer, I would like to conclude this rude interruption. The learners and helpers will gossip for months, if not years, over this incident. Not a single productive thing has happened in the abbey since you arrived. It was an enthralling display of horsemanship, weapon-mastery, and an unmitigated show of contempt for my authority here. Which, I feel impressed to remind you of once again, you have no authority here.”

  “I am sheriff at Mendenhall,” the man replied angrily. “I am the king’s man in this Hundred.”

  “A sheriff has authority over every place where the king’s tax is collected. Muirwood Abbey does not owe the king’s tax. It never has, not since its founding. I offer you my hospitality and the hospitality of our blacksmiths, our cider, our stores, even the hospitality of my own personal cook. If you wish to be invited to celebrate Whitsunday here this season or any season in the future, then accept my hospitality as a welcome guest. Otherwise, I will report your conduct to the king and tell him you defied my authority with no proof and nothing beyond an idle report of what? A drunkard? Have I made myself clear on this point? To be sure, I will say it again. Come enjoy the rest of this day with us as our welcomed guests, or you will never step foot on the abbey grounds again.”

  Lia watched the Aldermaston with amazement. A little smile crept to her mouth at his words. When she glanced at the sheriff she saw that he was not looking at all at the Aldermaston. He had not taken his eyes from her.

  Summoning a smile to wash away the anger brooding in his eyes, the sheriff said, “I accept your gracious hospitality, Aldermaston.” He followed the Aldermaston a few steps, and then stopped, turning back and staring at Lia again. “When was she left on the abbey steps – nearly fourteen years ago?”

  The Aldermaston’s eyes blazed with anger. His lips pressed together and his hands clenched at his sides. Lia’s mouth went dry as a hunger – a deep hunger – roared inside of her.

  “It must have been fourteen years ago,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the Aldermaston’s fury. Stroking his beard, he said softly to Lia, “I think I knew your father.”

  The Aldermaston’s words were cold and short. “You have said more than enough, sheriff.”

  * * *

  The day was a blur of activity. Both kitchens worked furiously to feed the sudden influx of mouths and beasts, but Pasqua’s kitchen bore the brunt of it. The three worked slavishly, kneading dough, preparing sauces, cutting meat. Wronen Butcher carved up a cow and had the pieces delivered to each kitchen. Additional help from the larger kitchen joined the fray, though they sent the younger ones to help scrub the pots and clean the wooden spoons.

  “Was there truly a knight hiding here?” one asked.

  “Did the Aldermaston use the Medium on the sheriff?” another said.

  And it was usually after such a question that Pasqua would roar a new order and fill the kitchen with her hostility and insistence that no boy was or ever had hidden there. Lia watched to be sure the old cook wasn’t adding salt instead of sugar to the countless sweet dishes they were preparing. That she had to prepare her best meals for soldiers who had spoiled her kitchen and run roughshod over the grounds brought out Pasqua’s most colorful language.

  Lia worked feverishly, but she also felt feverish. The sheriff’s words haunted her. I think I knew your father.

  Pasqua had told her to forget it as soon as the king’s men had left the kitchen. The man was a sheriff, she had said, and they would use any trick or torture to get someone to confess a wrongdoing. Sowe, on the other hand, had seemed almost jealous. Her feelings were hurt because Lia had again blamed her for something she had not done – sneaking out to see the horses. Finding a man who may have known Lia’s father was the fulfillment of every wretched’s secret dreams, so jealousy was a natural response to it.

  As Lia tasted some broth, she thought about the sheriff. As she climbed into the loft for a pumpkin to cook, she thought about the armiger. One cannot be a wretched without pondering deeply the reason for being abandoned, but Lia was not the kind of person who felt sorry for herself very often or resented knowledge she had not earned.

  As a helper in the Abbey kitchen, it was one of her duties to serve the guests who stayed with the Aldermaston. The hall was nearly full with the sheriff and his retinue, along with all the learners and the teachers. It was a boisterous occasion, full of laughter and jesting. The learners were giddy with the change in routine. The teachers seemed cautious and reserved, surreptitiously looking at the Aldermaston who sat at the head of the hall, brooding.

  She ladled stew into a learner’s bowl, but a voice sounded on her other side.

  “Hello, Lia.”

  It was Duerden. She almost had not seen him, since he sat so low in the chair. She turned and ladled soup into his dish.

  “What have the king’s men been talking about?” she asked him in a whisper.

  “A silly thing. War. The king has summoned an army. A waste of taxes. Such a waste.” He took a sip from his cup of cider.

  “Where?” she asked, pausing by his chair, her eyes darting from face to face. Almaguer was talking to a teacher at the other end of the table. He had not seen her enter.

  “Where what, Lia?”

  “Where is the army gathering? Where are they going?”

  “I am not sure gathering is the right word to use. Assembling or mustering are good alternatives.”

  She wanted to sigh. “Where is the army mustering?” she asked patiently.

  “They claim that rebels are gathering at Winterrowd, wherever that is. There may be a battle soon. A whole army — how expensive. What if the rumors are not true? Such an expense.”

  Lia swallowed. Winterrowd. She had never heard of it before, but that was not surprising since she had never left the abbey in her life. Every time visitors came, so did news from the outside and everyone gossiped about it for days. The learners were always the first to hear, and then scraps began to be tossed down to the helpers. She liked Duerden because he treated her like Family.

  “Do any of the learners have to go fight for the king?” she asked, giving him another helping of soup.

  He took a slice of bread from beneath a linen wrap in the basket in front of him. He bit into it, thinking as he chewed. “I think only Reuven is old enough. This is very good bread.”

  Lia crossed to the other side of his chair and served the next learner, a girl named Aloia who had a jeweled choker and stared at her with anger for not having served the soup yet.

  Lia bent down and whispered near Duerden’s ear, “Tomorrow, tell me everything you hear about the war. Meet me by the duck pond after studies.”

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  She gave him a pleading look. “Please, Duerden. I will dance with you on Whitsunday if you do.”

  His complexion went pink and she hurried to the next learner and kept ladling soup. Glancing up, she saw the sheriff still talking to the teacher – except this time, he was staring at her. She did not know if he had spied her talking to Duerden.

  When the crock was empty, she left the hall through the rear doors and started back to the kitchen to refill it.

  “Lia,” the Aldermaston called from behind.

  It was just the two of them, alone in the corridor ne
ar his chamber. She stared at him, cradling the crock in her arms. “Yes?”

  “Stay in the kitchen the rest of the evening.”

  She bit her lip and said nothing for a moment. “What did I do wrong?”

  “The sheriff has taken an interest in you.”

  She looked at him coldly. “He said he knew my father.”

  The Aldermaston’s face was composed, but his eyes started to churn with anger. “What would it matter if he did know?”

  “What would it matter?” Lia said, clenching the crock tighter. “How can you ask that?”

  He took a step closer. His voice was so low, she barely heard it. “You think that knowing would make your life easier? You forget, child, that I have dwelled at Muirwood a very long time. I have witnessed many wretcheds grow up and leave. Some come back to ply the skills they learn here. Some, only a few, have ever found the knowledge they sought. Not one of them was ever grateful that they did. Not one. They wished that they never knew. Do not be tempted by the sheriff’s words. They were intended to harm you, whether or not you wish it so.”

  Lia trembled, but tried to calm it. “So he was lying then?”

  “It makes little difference whether he was or not. My instructions are clear. I want you to stay in the kitchen tonight. They leave at dawn. And that is the end of our conversation.”

  CHAPTER TEN:

  Garen Demont

  The dream started gently with a kiss on her cheek causing a flush of warmth inside her. Then it turned dark, all surging quickness and it was as if she were drowning in fear and shame and she awoke with a start, trembling with terror. She blinked, too frightened to breathe, and tried to calm herself. Feelings from dreams always lingered with her. Nothing could banish them quickly. There was an inky, oily feeling in the air, a murmur like a harsh whisper. The corner kitchen fire, with the Leering, was burning bright and hot, flooded with flames instead of winking with embers in the dark as it should have been that late at night. Lia sat up and scooted to the edge of the loft to get a better look. The sheriff knelt by the flames, staring into them, a hand on his chest. When he turned to look up at her, his eyes were glowing bright silver in the dark.

  He cupped something in his hand that was threaded through a gold necklace. The shape was tarnished and circular, like interweaving leaves or flower petals, or the coil of a snail’s shell. He tucked it back into his shirt, the firelight revealing a tattoo mark on his chest, which was blocked as he fastened his collar.

  “There you are,” he said, rising to his full height. The glow in his eyes began to dim as he approached.

  “You are not…” She could barely talk, and swallowed to clear her voice. “…Allowed. To be here. The Aldermaston forbids it.”

  “You have your grandmother’s famed beauty. The slope of you nose, your cheeks. It must be hers. The sons were handsome, to be sure. Your father was indeed a handsome man. Did he ever know about you, I wonder?”

  Lia could not stop trembling. Breathing was an effort. “I do not believe you.”

  He stopped at the bottom of the loft ladder. “So young. So very young.” And he gave her a look, a look that made her stomach sick, her head swim, and that made the floor feel like it was spinning.

  “Go,” she whispered. She wanted to scream, but there was something terrible in his dimly glowing eyes. Something warped and black, the color of shadows behind the gleaming silver.

  “I was there when your grandfather and uncle died. I fought in that battle. That glorious battle when so many accursed men of your Family fell. I would never have dreamed it possible that one of them would leave a wretched behind. So sanctimonious! So full of pride and their own worth. You must be one of them. Your face…your sweet face. It is staring at me past the brink of death. Child, you are special.”

  He put a hand on the ladder and started up.

  “Do you wish to know the name? Are you not curious why you were abandoned? The shame of it! Oh, the glorious shame they must have felt.” Each step of his boots shook the ladder, doubling her fear. “How they must have choked on it, a cup of gall spilling over.”

  “Go,” Lia whispered huskily again, her voice too dry to speak loud – or scream. Sowe was asleep near her, her back facing them. A spasm of fear went through Lia’s heart as his face crested the loft floor.

  “I can tell you all. I know where your father died. I know when he died. The blood of your Family is still on my sword. The moans have never rubbed clean. But I will tell you of them. Of their traitorous hearts. Of their punishment even after death. Your grandfather. Your uncle. Their heads spitted on spikes. How we played with their corpses. Oh, child, how we avenged you!”

  His gloved hands gripped the top of the ladder poles, his breath reeked of something fetid. His presence smothered her, like a bell jar encasing a candle and withering the flame. It was the Medium, and it was awful. She saw the thin gleaming chain around his throat.

  Like a kitten struggling to survive in a raging river, she clawed at it. Her fingers tightened around the chain, and then she yanked as hard as she could. The medallion slipped loose from his shirt front and the sight of it nearly made her vomit. The chain snapped.

  “Little…!”

  With the chain still in her fist, Lia shoved him hard, his weight sending the ladder backwards. He was quick, so cruel and quick, and grabbed a fistful of her curly hair as the ladder tottered backwards. He dragged both of them down, and she fell, landed atop the ladder – on him – and he flinched with pain and grunted as they slammed on the floor.

  Lia was breathless, stunned, but the gloom had left. The feelings were gone. She clawed her nails into his face, then yanked her hair free. He shoved the ladder off, and she ran for the door. Already he was struggling to his feet, wasting no words on curses or threats. She raised the crossbar, yanked hard on the door, and fled into the night, only to run into one of his soldiers outside.

  In a fury, she tried to rake his face with her nails, and only after he caught her wrist did his familiar leathery smell, his scruffy beard, his tangled hair come together in her mind in recognition. It was Jon Hunter, gladius in his hand.

  She had never felt more grateful to him than at that moment. The door opened again as the sheriff followed her out. Lia cringed, but Jon thrust her behind him. Looking up, she saw the Aldermaston closing the distance with a glowing orb in his hand. She recognized having seen the orb in his chambers, but had never witnessed it glow with the Medium’s power.

  The sheriff’s eyes blazed. Blood dripped from a scratch-mark on his forehead, and he seethed silently, his hands opening and clenching. Jon’s blade was up, the point aiming at the intruder’s heart. His expression said, draw your blade man, and I will run you through, sheriff or not.

  When the Aldermaston reached them, Lia felt another surge of relief and started to cry. He bent over her, taking her chin and forcing her face up. He looked ferocious and concerned. “Did he hurt you, Lia?”

  Unable to speak, she shook her head no.

  His gaze lingered on her face for several moments as the storm of fury built even further across his countenance. He was known for his fierce temper. The rage mounted like a storm. Patting her cheek, he raised to his full height and faced the sheriff.

  “Almaguer, you violated my hospitality. How dare you.”

  The light from the orb in his hand made the sheriff wince as it flashed brighter. “I was seeking answers from her, Aldermaston. Nothing more. That is my duty to our king.”

  “My duty is to protect the inhabitants of Muirwood Abbey. I cannot tolerate anyone polluting the protection these grounds provide. They shield every pilgrim soul from any kingdom. The king will learn how you have abrogated your duties. You will be sharply punished.”

  “You may tell him yourself when he arrives!” the sheriff said with a snarl. “It will not be long. The traitors are festering nearby. You can smell it in the air like a kill rotting in the sun. Anyone who has supported them in any fashion will feel the fullness of the
king’s wrath. Even you, Aldermaston. Even this ancient place.”

  “We have survived many wars and many storms and many such threats. I care only for the proper instruction of the learners here and to preserve this place from the peevish intrigues you waggle at me. Be gone, Almaguer. Be gone at once! Your men with you. Either you or I will die before any unfortunate reunion between us must occur. I revoke your welcome. Jon, escort the sheriff to the gates. I warn you, sheriff, that he has been well trained. Defy him at your peril. Prestwich will evict the rest of your men. Then lock the gates.”

  “Yes, Aldermaston,” Jon said, never lowering his blade until the Aldermaston motioned him to.

  As Lia watched the sheriff go, he looked back at her one final time. But his eyes were no longer glowing. She could see him looking at the thin thread of chain clutched in her hand.

  * * *

  There was a loose tile in the kitchen floor where Lia hid all her treasures. So, she hid the sheriff’s medallion and chain there during one of Pasqua’s garderobe visits the next morning. Thankfully for her, she learned, Jon had prowled around the kitchen all through the night and had seen the sheriff intrude. He had rushed to warn the Aldermaston and arrived back at the moment of Lia’s escape. She was so grateful for his timely rescue that she kissed his bearded cheek, which embarrassed him crimson and made Pasqua gasp and rush for a broom to shoo him out, but his exit was hasty.

  Sowe, on the other hand, needled Lia constantly about confessing their crime to the Aldermaston before something even more dreadful happened. Lia managed to convince her, after much persuading, that it would only do more harm than good. The Aldermaston could faithfully deny knowing a wounded stranger was being tended at the abbey. It would be best to tell him later after the armiger was gone.

  When the afternoon meal was over, Lia was surprised to learn that people were gossiping about the king’s men who had departed in the middle of the night without a word. There was no mention of the attack against Lia in the kitchen. The sheriff Almaguer, it was said, had commanded his men to mount up and ride, which could only mean that their hunt for the wounded soldier continued.