“You see, Aldermaston, I knew my men would find them.”
“We did not exactly find them,” said the soldier holding Lia.
“They were sneaking in the mist,” said the one holding Sowe.
“We were not sneaking,” Lia said, yanking her arm free and glowering at the man. “We wanted to see the horses. I told you we should not have gone,” she snapped at Sowe, whose complexion was paler than milk. The girl’s knees were shaking.
There were four other soldiers in the kitchen too, searching every sack, looking around every barrel, and even poking their blades into the oven flues.
“In all likelihood, it was the older girl’s suggestion to see the horses,” the Aldermaston said. “Now, let us conclude this unseemly episode as quickly as possible. Ask the girls, sheriff, if they have seen a wounded knight, squire, or any other such person on the Abbey grounds and, more specifically, inside my kitchen. Your accusation has already caused an inordinate amount of commotion at Muirwood. I would prefer we end it.”
The sheriff approached, his gait smooth and graceful despite his size. He approached Lia directly, and she met his quizzical expression with a look of defiance. The expression on his face was unexpected. He stared at her, at her face, with a strange look – a familiar look – a look that said much, but said it in a language she did not understand.
“I too would also like to end this farce as soon as possible. If you would be so kind as to leave us, Aldermaston.”
Lia swallowed. The man was demanding the Aldermaston leave?
“I will not,” the Aldermaston said, his voice turning hard. “I will not allow you to threaten anyone in this abbey.”
“Threaten her?” said the sheriff, coming even closer to Lia. “You mistake me, Aldermaston. And you injure my tender feelings. If the report I heard is true, and if you are harboring a fugitive in your kitchen, my questioning would be best posed to the girl alone where you cannot influence her answers. I am sure she would say anything to protect you.”
“This is nonsense and ingratitude,” Pasqua said, bristling. She clenched a long spoon in her hand like a weapon. “This is
my
kitchen. The doors are locked every night. I will not hear another word of this nonsense. You are tearing this place asunder before my own eyes. Your soldiers are looting my stores. Now begone, you rascals! I’ll not let you lay a hand on either of these children. Now let her go. Let her go!” Pasqua swatted at the one holding Sowe, and he hastily backed away from her. She stood between them.
“I wish to speak to the girls alone,” the sheriff said, his voice calm, his eyes earnest.
“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 near 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.”
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.