by Jeff Wheeler
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
The Cruciger Orb
Fog shrouded the abbey grounds with fleecy wisps and dew. Lia and Sowe wore their cloaks and hugged themselves for warmth as they crossed the Cider Orchard towards the waymarker near the rock cleft. In one hand, Lia clutched the metal orb and used it to point the way in the mist. She kept in her mind the image of the armiger, his brow mottled with a scab, his cheeks and chin scruffy with whiskers. Sowe said nothing as she carried the linen bundle with the foodstuffs. Ahead, in the gloom, they spied the burning eyes of the Leering.
Colvin must have heard them approach, for he appeared out of the gloom, his hair damp with dewdrops. He met them in their approach, his face eager, intense, worried. His arms were folded tightly, as if he were very cold.
“What is that?” he asked Lia, staring at the sphere as the spindles pointed directly at him. He looked at it, his eyes widening with recognition. “I cannot believe it. Where did you get that? From the Aldermaston?”
“Yes,” Lia answered. “You know what it is?”
“I do – but I have never handled one before. They are rare.” He examined it, squinting in the darkness. “I cannot see it well. Bring it to the waymarker.” They did and the eyes suddenly shone more brightly, revealing the surface of the beautiful implement. “I cannot believe it. A Cruciger orb. But then I should not be surprised. Muirwood is the oldest abbey in the realm. May I?”
Lia extended it to him and the spindles spun around once and then stopped.
He held it in his hand and stared at it. Nothing happened.
“You think about where you want to go…” Lia suggested.
“I know that,” he snapped. “It is precisely what I am trying to do.” His brow furrowed. Nothing.
Lia wanted to laugh. A soon-to-be earl from a Family could not work it. But she could. The fiery feeling of triumph blazed inside her. “Like this,” she offered and took it from him. “Show me the way to Winterrowd.” The spindles spun, the inner circle whirring deftly, and the way was made clear – westbound though slightly north. Writing appeared on the lower half of the orb. “What does the writing mean?”
She brought it closer to the light emanating from the waymarker’s eyes, and he squinted again. He stopped, swallowed, and shook his head. “I cannot read it. I do not know this language. It is an older text…an ancient text. It may even be Idumean. I have never seen this style of script before.”
Lia was deeply disappointed. “I thought all mastons knew how to read and scribe. I want to know what it says.”
He shook his head, looking at the curving, elliptical markings. “I cannot make it out without knowing the language. I do not know all languages. I certainly do not know Idumean. I am not even sure my own Aldermaston knows it. Let me hold it again.” He held out his hand.
As she gave it to him the second time, the spindles behaved the same way, returning to their idle state and refused him. The writing vanished as well, as the groove etchings filled in. He paused, he scowled, he waited – nothing happened. “What is wrong with me?” he grumbled.
“Thankfully, this is not the only news we brought,” Lia said. “I should have said it first. The knight-maston who brought you to Muirwood came back. He knocked on the kitchen doors not long ago looking for you.”
He straightened, his expression shocked. “I am all amazement. Did he?”
Lia nodded, giving him a smile. “He eluded the sheriff’s men.”
“Where is he now? At the kitchen?”
“He said he would wait for you in the village. At the Pilgrim inn – it is the biggest one in town, on the main way not far from the abbey walls. He will be watching for you and will take you to Demont.”
Sowe held out the bundle. “We bundled some food for you,” she said in a voice so small a mouse might have whispered it.
Colvin accepted it and smoothed the top of the linen. “There is no doubt you will both earn a scolding for helping me. Were it possible, I would forbid Pasqua to scold either of you ever again. I heard enough of it hiding in the loft. I pity you.” He let out a pent-up breath. “My gratitude though exceeds my words. Think of what reward you desire. If it is within my power, I will grant it. You are both so very young, but before long, you will have repaid your debt to Muirwood. I will and shall honor my debt to you.”
Sowe blushed furiously and looked at her feet. Lia was not so shy.
“I know what I would ask for,” she said, squeezing the orb tightly.
“What is it?”
Lia could not help a blushing smile. “Sowe already knows what I want. Beyond any gift or treasure, I desire to learn to read.” She swallowed, building her courage, nurturing hope like sparks from drowsy ashes. “When I saw you…reading from the tomes…I was so jealous. I am always jealous of that craft. The Aldermaston refuses to let me learn. He has said…he has said more than once, that as long as he is the Aldermaston of Muirwood, he will not let me. Please, sir – I want it more than anything else.”
He studied her, his eyes deep with shadows, his face dispassionate. It was a heavy expression, as if he were weighing in his mind how much it would cost – and whether her service to him truly deserved such a princely sum. She held her breath. She held back her fears. She hoped in her heart, she yearned with her being, she stared at his face, wishing to scald him with her need.
He was silent. It was not an easy answer to give. Had he tossed out an answer with less than a thought, she would have doubted the sincerity of it. He was brooding over his answer – brooding over the request. It was not given lightly. Silence fell on the woods. Then for a moment, it seemed as if the world stood still and held its breath with her.
“You shall have it,” he whispered. “Even if I must teach you myself.”
Sowe gasped at the immensity of the promise.
It was the best day, the best moment, the best instant in Lia’s life. She would remember it all the rest of her days. Lia wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, but she knew from her previous demonstrations of friendliness that he would shun it and detest her. The surge and storm of gratitude in her heart brought tears to her eyes, but she willed them not to fall. She must not cry in front of him. She must not show how much she was indebted to his kindness. He could have asked anything from her, and she would have done it, without flinching.
Barely able to get the words out, she whispered, “Thank you, sir. I thank you.”
He stood motionless and hard, like a waymarker himself. His mouth was terse, his expression grave. Then he dropped his hand to his belt and hooked his thumb there. He looked at Sowe and said somberly, “Leave us a moment.”
Sowe, nervous, backed down the road towards the Cider Orchard.
Lia drew closer, worried now that he had changed his mind.
“I pray I have not made a vain promise. I did not make it lightly, nor seek to cheapen it with excuses.” He stared down at his boots, then met her gaze. “As you know, I go to war. Should I fall…” he paused, choking for a moment, “Seek my steward. His name is Theobald. Tell him of the promise I made to you. If I do not live to fulfill it in person, he will do so on my behalf. Does that satisfy you?”
Shocked, Lia swallowed and nodded. Then she saw it, she saw through the façade and into his soul. It had happened to her before on a stormy night when she was nine. That night she had read the Aldermaston’s soul. Today, she saw a stiff lip, a scowl, a rigid demeanor. And she recognized it for what it truly was. Colvin was afraid. He feared what would happen to him at Winterrowd as much as his honor compelled him on that road. They were tangled feelings. Since he had left on his journey, he had been worrying about his death and its effect on his sister, his uncle, and those who loved him. Now he was beholden to yet another creature – a lowly wretched. The thought of disappointing them all was almost too much for him to bear.
The insight came in a moment, a blink. At that moment, sh
e knew him better than anyone else did. He was afraid of dying at Winterrowd, his blood-spattered body twisted and bent, crumpled with others older and more war-wise than himself. Of his sister and how she would worry and grieve, for he had not told her what he was going to do. Yet despite the guilty fear of what would happen if they failed to depose the ruthless king, he forced every footstep on the path leading to the fate that terrified him. In that moment of clarity, in that breach into his soul, she learned a little of the true meaning of courage.
In that moment, as she blinked back fresh tears, she knew that who she danced with at the Whitsun Fair would be the least of her worries. She would worry about him, Colvin, since even his own sister could not.
“Your horse is penned up at Jon Hunter’s lodge,” she said thickly, struggling to speak through a clenched throat. “We will take you there.”
She did not know any other way to say goodbye at such a moment.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
Thievery
Sowe waited for her in the mist, shivering. Sometimes it took hours before the sun chased the morning fog away. As they began their long walk back to the kitchen, in the distance, they heard the thudding of hooves.
“Was Jon away?” Sowe asked nervously.
“He is always gone before the sun rises. I swear the man never sleeps in that filthy hovel. He is more likely than not bedding down in a bush each night. At least he cared for the horse. It looked rested and brushed and there were oats for it still.”
“So are we going to tell the Aldermaston now?”
“Before we put the orb back in his chamber? You are daft, Sowe, truly. I am glad we did not need it.”
“So when will we tell him? Tonight?”
“Quit worrying, Sowe. Now that he is gone, you should feel more easy. Why worry the Aldermaston about it at all?”
“I should not, but I do worry. I am nervous about what will happen. We should tell him, Lia.”
“And make him angry? He does not know – he did not find out. We did it, Sowe. Why not be happy about that?”
“Happy? I have been sick to my stomach for days. If I had a bucket, I could retch in it right now.”
“Retch in the flowerbeds instead, thank you kindly. Just do not retch on me. I cannot help it if you are always nervous about everything.”
Sowe was silent after that and they both walked, their shoes sodden from the dewy grass and they approached the kitchen from the rear. They could hear the pots clanging like bells, and Lia could tell Pasqua was furious. She had a way of making the whole kitchen mime her moods.
Lia pulled open the door and gusts of warm, yeasty air engulfed them. Pasqua was laboring over a huge bowl, and she turned with iron in her eyes.
“Here they arrive at last, all damp and tired. I ought to take a switch to both of your skinny legs as I promised last night. Leaving the kitchen together! Letting some pack of hungry-eyed learners sneak in here and steal from the Aldermaston’s stores. I have a mind to make you churn butter all day long so that your arms are sore for a week. Cheeky little waifs. Off you were, flitting about in the morning when you were supposed to be at your chores, and now someone has come in and made off with things they would be ashamed to confess.”
Lia rolled her eyes and shut the door. Sowe took their cloaks and hung them from two pegs to dry out. Lia hid the Cruciger orb behind a barrel beneath the loft.
“Were we gone that long?” Lia said with a yawn. “It did not feel like it. Did it feel like it to you, Sowe? On a misty morning like this, it is hard to tell how late it is.”
Pasqua jammed a wooden spoon into the huge bowl and gave it furiously circular strokes. “Have you been gone long? Gone long? Why if that is not a sooty lie…look over there at the Aldermaston’s breakfast, which I made myself, and now it is nearly cold to the touch. Look at your hems, deep in mud. You will be at the laundry scrubbing them clean, for I will not have you tracking in filth. I am sorely vexed with both of you, especially about the gingerbread we made yesterday that is gone. Whitsunday will soon be here, and I have a mind to insist that the Aldermaston forbid to let you dance around the maypole.”
Lia stopped. “What about the gingerbread?” she asked, confused, for they had not snitched even a crumb of it.
Pasqua’s eyes were nearly bulging and she thumped the spoon as she thundered, “Have you not been listening to what I told you? Someone has been in the kitchen while you were gone, stealing up scraps and taking this and that. It is shameful, it really is. Here, at Muirwood, that someone can feel justified in stealing what others labored to make. I am only glad there is none of any Gooseberry Fool done, or it would be missing too.”
Lia tied on her apron, her mind dancing with thoughts, her stomach starting to wrestle with queasiness. She looked around the kitchen, and it did have a different feel. There were the stools, the brooms, the pans, the sieves, the sacks, the smells – but an underlying sense of wrongness as well. Fluttering memories darted here and there, and she snatched at them. Stolen things. Missing victuals. When the knight-maston brought Colvin that first evening, he had freely taken victuals for the road. Without asking, he had sliced off a piece of meat. He had swiped a tub of treacle. In fact, as she thought back on it, his actions had been deliberately subtle. He made excuses when she noticed, but it was as if he was trying to steal them without her knowing it. Why would a knight-maston steal?
She cinched the knot of the apron behind her, her thoughts spinning so fast that they blurred Pasqua’s words into gibberish.
Why would a knight-maston steal? Would not a knight-maston, a true one, ask for victuals? Be grateful for what he was given instead of sneaking it? But the knight had not entered the kitchen – Lia had not let him in. Was someone else to blame? A learner, perhaps? Getman stealing the gingerbread to get her into trouble?
Other thoughts. Other possibilities. Maybe the knight had entered after she and Sowe had left. Without someone to stay behind, there was no way to secure the crossbar over the door.
“Why are you standing there paler than milk? Get to work, girls! There are messes plenty to tidy. Sowe – take the Aldermaston his meal. Lia – fetch the broom and sweep up that spill over there. Now, girls, before I fetch a hazel switch in earnest!”
Lia walked, dreamlike, to the broom, trying to put the pieces together in her head. She clutched it and walked over to the corner and began sweeping. Had the knight-maston entered the kitchen after they left to get Colvin and stolen the food? Was that all he had stolen? A sick feeling washed over her. She swept and stepped over to the corner beneath the loft where the loose stone was where she hid her treasures. When Pasqua’s back was turned, she pried at the edge with her fingers until it budged. Lifting it, she stared into the hole.
Gone. Every coin she had ever saved. The bag of treasure the knight had brought her. And even worse, the sheriff’s medallion. They were gone. She reached into the hole, confirming the emptiness with her own fingers.
The thought sent a spear of disbelief through her. Pain and shock linked arms. It was the worst feeling of her life. Worse than fear or sorrow or the dread of impending punishment. It hurt with a frenzy when she realized what she had done. She had sent Colvin to the Pilgrim into a trap.
* * *
The man that brought Colvin to the Abbey kitchen was not a knight or a maston. He was, in fact, a wretched himself – a wretched who had also been raised at Muirwood but fled before his obligation to serve was fulfilled. He knew the abbey grounds as well as Lia and could walk in the mist without getting turned around or lost. That was a key reason why his services were so valuable to the sheriff of Mendenhall. Lia would not have remembered him, for she was very young when he abandoned his debt and the abbey. But others would have recognized his expression, the tilt of his head, the way he smoothed people’s feelings with clever words. Or his inability to resist thieving. With a little bit of skill and flexibility, he could climb part of the rounded stone bulwarks near the doorway on either side of the kitchen d
oors, and from that vantage point, see inside the kitchen from the glass panels embedded into the door. From that vantage, he had watched where Lia kept her treasures. Not only did it cost him nothing to win back the sheriff’s amulet, but he had also laid claim to the rest of her coins. It panged what little shreds of conscience he had left, but in the larger context, he was doing her a favor. A harsh lesson would teach her the rest of her life not to trust the strangers of the world. Lessons he had learned in a thousand cruel ways.
He glanced down at the twisting vines and leaves that made up the shape of the amulet. There was something about it that attracted him. It was unique. It was a secret worth a great deal to the right people, he was sure. Did he really want to tell Almaguer he had found it after he lost it to the girl? After all, the girl could have given it to the Aldermaston – or even better – was wearing it herself. Had he not noticed a bit of twine around her neck? Was there another path he could take, a way to turn the situation around yet again and earn even more profit? The nameless squire had carried embarrassingly few coins, though his knight-maston sword would fetch a good price in the local market, especially if it was sold while he was put to death in the village square for treason. Some fool would play handsomely for it in the frenzy of passion that accompanied executions. Was there a way to get more coin from the lad prior to his punishment? Perhaps an offer to deliver words to a loved one after the sheriff seized him? The sound of clinking coins stoked his imagination. There had to be a way. And since the lad had never seen his face, he would not know who he was dealing so treacherously with him.
