The Wretched of Muirwood (17 page)

- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

* * *

By the time Bryn returned, Lia’s heart and anger had scarcely calmed down. More than anything, she wanted to go to the common room, seize the thief by his hair, and claw his face with her nails, or bash a pot against his head. Or maybe crush his fingers with a mallet. The commotion of the inn did not stop, but no one else ventured into the kitchen but the family. Most of the patrons, it was said, had gathered around the abbey gates to watch the confrontation between the Aldermaston and the sheriff. Lia chafed her hands, wondering how long it would last. All eyes were fixed on that scene. It was the perfect moment to rescue Colvin. In her mind, she wished the Aldermaston would refuse entrance even longer. The delay benefited her, if only he realized it.

Bryn was too excited to sit. She brushed back her hair as she talked quickly to the others. “The squire…you know, the prisoner…he has a cross look. His scowl is truly frightening. He does not seem frightened, only angry.”

“You have described him well,” Lia said. “Where do they have him? Tell me of the room.”

“In a corner, on the floor, like a dog. I am so sad for him. They have him chained at the wrists, they do. His face is bloodied…”

“Did they ask for a healer?” Lia asked, pleading.

“Yes, he said we should fetch one. One of them said they ought to clean him up so when the king comes, he will be recognized. They were grateful for the food and the cider. I have seen hungry men before, but they were more like wolves.”

The chains would be difficult. Then an idea struck Lia, and she turned to the good woman. “A tub of fat. Grease. Anything slippery. That will help with the chains.” Brant was still gone, saddling up the horse, at the rear of the Pilgrim.

“Take me to him,” Lia said, her stomach twisting into knots. What if one of the sheriff’s men recognized her? She had to worry about that. It would ruin everything. She would have to pretend to be someone else, someone they would never care to notice.

The good woman shook her head. “Valarianum does not work that quickly. Give them time to eat the meal first. Do not be hasty.”

Lia bit her lip, then shook her head. “I must. If the sheriff returns, we have lost our chance.”

Her expression darkened. “You should not have been sent,” she muttered. “This is wrong.” She rose. “You will not go up there. Silar – do not let her go. She is a child.”

Lia turned to the good man, who gawked at her and then at his wife. “But what am I to do about it? If the Aldermaston sent her…”

“It is wrong to send a child to do this sort of work.” She looked at Lia fiercely. “Sending up a tray of food will not arouse suspicion. But you are a girl still. Those soldiers are men. I will not let you do this. I will go instead.”

The father gawked again. “You cannot go, let alone mount the steps. Now that is enough foolishness. If the Aldermaston sent her to save the young man’s life, then we save him.”

“It is wrong. He should not have sent a child.”

“It is not our choice that he did. What you are asking me to do is defy the Aldermaston.”

The good woman closed her eyes, shaking her head. “It is wrong.”

Lia rose to her feet. “No one has sent me against my will. Please believe that. The young man’s life is at stake. The king will not show him mercy.”

“If the king finds out that we helped…?” the good woman whispered.

Her husband took her shoulders. “The Aldermaston will protect us, as he always has. Have confidence in him. He would not have sent her if it was not the right way.”

“She is only a child, Silar. And so is our Bryn. This is wrong!”

Standing tall, the good man confronted his wife. “Should the Aldermaston ask me to wear a noose, I would do it.” His voice trembled with emotion. “For him, I would. He took us in when no one else would. Can you forget that? We were wretcheds. Now we are Family.” He shook his head. “Your heart is fearful for our children. For this child. But I tell you, the Aldermaston will shield us as he always has.” He turned to Lia, tears in his eyes. “Go now, child. You show your courage this day. The Aldermaston will shield you as well.”

Lia stared at him, wondering and amazed at the depth of his feelings towards the Aldermaston. While Bryn was upstairs, Lia and the good woman had prepared a tray for healing – woad, broth, linen, warm water. She crossed to the table where the tray was and carefully lifted it. Glancing back at the family, she nodded to them, and then followed Bryn out into the hall.

“Mother is like that,” Bryn whispered with a mischievous grin. “She worries overmuch. This way. There are the stairs. The common room is over there. Watch that floor board, it can trip you.”

Lia was grateful for the warning and followed her up the steep steps that rose into the higher levels of the inn. She was careful not to jostle the tray and spill any of the contents.

“How old is this inn?”

“Since Muirwood was built. When the royalty visit and send their children to learn, there is not room on the grounds for everyone. The Pilgrim is the closest, so we prosper from their visits. I have even served the king’s cousins before.”

In her mind Lia thought,
You are serving another of his cousins today as well.

“How long has your family been in the village?” They walked up the final flight to the top floor and then started down the hall. Her stomach twisted tighter with each step. What would Colvin do when he saw her. Accuse her? Gasp with shock? She had to remedy that.

“I was born here,” Bryn said. “We all were – here in the village. Sometimes I wish I was born a wretched and could live in the abbey. It is comforting being so near to its walls…its protection. But I wish we were not living on
this
side.”

“You cannot wish you were a wretched,” Lia said darkly. “No one would wish that.”

“My brother almost was. Brant is not my real brother. Well, he is now. But he was not born to my parents. But the Aldermaston made him so. He is my brother, and now his blood is the same as ours. People think we are twins, but we are not. How big is your family?”

Lia bit her lip. “I cannot say. Is that the door? Be ready.”

Bryn opened it for her.

She did not recognize any of the sheriff’s men and thanked the Medium for the mercy.

“Brickolm, that was a meal. I cannot finish this helping, do you want it?”

“I will take it.”

“You are always hungry.”

“And why? Because they do not feed us well on the saddle. Our hunger is shameful. Shameful.”

Lia glanced at the three soldiers and quickly assumed the manners of Sowe. She did not meet any of their gazes. She slouched her shoulders. She summoned up all her fatigue and wore it like a cloak.

One of the sheriff’s men, a heavyset man with a scraggy beard and very little hair, approached them and looked at the items on the tray, one by one. He paused at one item. “And what is this? Smells like fat.”

“Goose grease,” Lia mumbled. “A salve.” She swallowed and looked down at her shoes, trembling.

“Goose grease?”

“Shame it were not Gooseberry Fool, eh?” chortled one of the others. “Now there is a fine dish if you can get it. I swear, Moise, if you keep yawning, I am going to kick you. Stop it!”

“I cannot…h.h.help it,” the other said, yawning mid-word. “I cannot half keep my eyes open today.”

“If we were outside, it would be far easier.” The sheriff’s man went to the window and ducked his head out. “Sweet Idumea, the entire village is out there.” He came back in and shook his head. “If Almaguer forces the gate, they might riot. I swear, I think they just might.”

“Then they are fools,” spat another, scratching his throat with a meaty hand. He spit on the floor. “Fools if they do, with the king’s army so near. Go on lass, do your work. Do not just stand there like a stump. Clean up the little braggart and mend his ails so we can kill him properly, a traitor’s death. Stop listening in on your betters.”

That spurred Lia forward, the tray rattling with pretended nervousness as she walked cautiously over to the corner. On the far side was the tall four-post bed, draped with velvet curtains, stuffed and stuffed with feathers and crowded with pillows and blankets. It looked twice the size of Pasqua’s bed, luxurious for a king, and Lia felt the very real desire to drop the tray and pounce up on it herself. Every night of her life she had slept in the loft or on a mat on the kitchen tiles. Near the foot of that spacious bed, Colvin sat on the floor defiantly. His shackled wrists rested atop his knees, his filthy, matted hair hanging in lumps down his brow, his back against the wall. Blood stained the shirt, leaking from the cut on his eyebrow which had reopened as well as his nose and lip. As she set the tray down by his feet, he looked up at her face. His eyes widened with shock.

“Say nothing,” she whispered as she bent over the supplies, opening the lid with the broth.

Glancing back at the soldiers, she saw one yawning so wide it looked like his jaw would break.

“I said stop yawning, you dolt! It makes me…y..y..yawn too. Bridges and ruts! Now you have me doing it! I swear, the next man who yawns gets a fist.”

Lia dipped a linen in the broth and pressed it against Colvin’s brow. He said nothing, but his lips and jaw trembled and clenched, as if he were about to speak or shout or rave and only iron determination prevented it. She pressed the linen against his injury and then wrung it out, dipping it again, then squeezed it against his brow until the juices trickled down his face.

What was he thinking at that moment? Were his eyes accusing her of betraying him? Were they warning her to run? Gratitude was certainly not the look. While she held the linen to his head with one hand, her other opened the tub of grease and she scooped some of it up and began smoothing it on his wrists. He winced and stiffened, and she saw the blood there as well. He had been working to slip free of the iron cuffs and the chain had worn his skin raw in the works. Liberally, she applied more of the grease to his wrists and hands.

Behind her, Bryn gathered the tray with scraps of uneaten food, and collected the empty goblets of cider. One of the soldiers was already sleeping at the table.

“Brickolm? Are you daft lad? Brickolm! Look at the fool, asleep on the table!”

Lia looked back, could barely stop a smile from betraying her joy, then turned and scooped up more grease. Colvin nodded slowly and began twisting his wrists, twisting and pulling and straining against the cuffs. His frown was fearsome. His muscles tightened, his fingers pressing together to shorten the gap as much as possible. Then with a fluid slip, one hand came free of the cuff.

Lia mopped the blood from his face with a clean linen, remembering the night on the kitchen floor when she had bathed his face of sweat and blood.

“It is bad enough that we have to stay behind, but it tortures me to see a bed just sitting there. Have you ever slept in a real bed like that, Moise? A real bed, not one stuffed with straw and rats, but a
real
one.”

“Not like that one. I am sure it costs a pretty crown for a room like this. Brickolm, get up, you fool. If Almaguer catches you napping…do you hear me? Oh, the daft, daft fool.”

“Maid. Fetch us more food. I need something…I need to eat something…to stay awake. Fetch it, I tell you!” He waved his hand at Bryn and she nodded with the tray and left. The door thumped softly behind her, but the smell of the feast lingered in the air like candle smoke.

Colvin strained with the other wrist, twisting it, sliding it, pulling it against the iron cuff. He bit his lip, his neck muscles bulging. Blood dripped from his hand to the floor. Then it came loose.

Lia peeked back at the sheriff’s men. Another sat in the chair, head back, mouth open – eyes closed. One left.

She took the crushed woad petals and dabbed the mixture into his wound again. The pink and scabby flesh looked painful and sore. She hoped the woad would work on it a second time.

The third man ventured to the window and gazed outside. He rubbed his eyes, swearing under his breath. He fought against the powerful force compelling him to sleep. Lia stared at him, willing the valerianum to work faster. He lurched away from the window, planting his hand on the table to steady himself. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his eyelids fluttering, his face going slack. He looked across the room at her, but there was no recognition as he fought a weary battle to stay awake. A battle he was losing.

Lay down
, she told him in her mind.

And he did.

Colvin flinched with pain as she wiped the grease and blood from his wrists with a rag. Lia hefted the tray, whispering, “Follow me out.”

Noise from outside the Pilgrim grew louder, but the sheriff’s men did not awaken. Lia crossed to the door and opened it softly. Still they slept. Outside in the hall, they started towards the stairs.