by Jeff Wheeler
“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.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
Chalkwell
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.
She looked at him, at the conflicted, angry expression. “You have nothing to say?”
“What would you like me to say?” he answered tightly.
Angrily, she thought about shoving the tray into his stomach. “You could start with something resembling gratitude. That you realize I did not betray you deliberately. I was tricked by one of the sheriff's men. I wanted to make it right…”
“Do not justify yourself. I know you did not betray me. But we are far from being safe or free. Did the Aldermaston send you?”
“No.”
“Then do you have a way out?”
“Your horse is being saddled.”
“But then where? Is there shelter other than the abbey for me?”
“I have the orb.”
“What?”
“I said I have the orb.”
“It is useless to me. I cannot work it.”
“I know,” she answered, wondering why he was being thick-headed. “But I can. I am coming with you.”
He halted, grabbed her arm, stopping her as well, sloshing broth onto the tray. “What?”
She looked at him fiercely in return. “I stole the orb. Do you think I will ever be welcome at the abbey again? I am coming with you.”
“You would go with me to the battle field? And then what will you do?” He shook his head, muttering darkly. “This sheriff will hunt us. He wants you. You. I do not know why, but he is determined to have you. He hardly seemed to care that he arrested me. It is you he wants. A wretched. He kept asking about you. He is arguing with the Aldermaston to turn you over to him.”
Lia’s stomach, which was just beginning to untwist as they left the room, coiled again. “Why would he…?”
“Several reasons I can think of and I have had nothing to do but think since I was arrested. You should be hiding. And yet here you are, in the lion’s maw. When you came into the room, I swear…” He shut his eyes, looking more furious than ever.
“I came to help you!” she scolded. “I promised you I would. I keep my promises. If the king is coming to kill you, I will not let that happen, not if I can stop it.” She tugged her arm free, but he let her go. “We are wasting words. When we get away, then we can talk it over.” Her feelings were hurt – she had hoped he would offer to protect her, to offer her sanctuary in his earldom. He had not.
“Agreed.”
At the end of the hall there were steps descending. As they started down, the sound of others coming up met them. Men’s voices. One of them, Lia recognized.
“A mob, I tell you. By Idumea’s hand, the fools. Better ride out while we still can. Who cares about the girl when we have the other prize.”
“You tell Almaguer I will stay behind and find the wretched. I know this abbey. She cannot hide from me for long.”
“Tell the sheriff yourself, Scarseth. Let us fetch the stripling and ride back to Shefton and meet the king. I do not think it matters which village the boy dies in.”
Lia froze in the stairwell. She recognized the thief’s voice. Now she knew his name. She was so sure – so sure she would have enough time to get him out of the Pilgrim. Three sets of boots came up the stairs, were almost at the top. There were three sleeping men in the room at the end of the hall. Three men down below but coming quickly up. There was no more time to think. It was time to act, but she had no ideas and Colvin had no sword. Helplessly, frantically, she froze as their heads appeared from the stairs below.
“I am telling you, if the mob riots, we will not make it out of town unscathed. The Aldermaston has all the power here. These villagers count on him, not Mendenhall. I told Almaguer not to confront him over the girl.”
“Well, you are wasting breath with me. There are twenty of us with swords and hauberks, and if we leave a river of blood, then it is the Medium’s fault. No one challenges Almaguer’s authority in this Hundred. Aldermaston or no.”
Lia saw their faces. It was over. She had done her best but it had only made things worse. Now both she and Colvin would be captured by the sheriff’s…
It happened so quickly, she nearly shrieked with surprise. Colvin yanked the tray from her hands and threw it at the sheriff’s men below. Warm broth and water splashed, the crockery shattered, and the tray itself struck like a catapult stone, toppling one of them back into another in the narrow stairwell. Colvin leapt down the full flight of stairs, and Lia clutched the rail and watched.
Curses, shrieks, grunts, crunches. The sheriff’s men fought back, fought for their lives. There was no room or time to draw swords – the stairwell was all a tumble of arms and legs, of fists and chins and red-specked spittle. The force of Colvin’s attack toppled the two men and Scarseth. Blood gushed from one man’s nose, and Lia thought she saw a tooth fly from his mouth and rattle and drop down the stairwell like a pebble.
“Brickolm! Brickolm!” the other screamed, but Colvin grabbed his arm, pulling him closer, and silenced his cries by encircling his neck and throat with his arm. With a twirl, the man went head first into the wall and dropped like a sack.
Scarseth, dripping with broth and looking horrorstruck, scrambled down the steps. Lia started after him, but Colvin was already there, jumping and grappling him as he wriggled to free himself and both tumbled down the stairs.
The thief cried out in pain, then, “I swear it, I can help you! Do not kill me! I can help you!”
Scarseth raised his hands up, palms open, trembling like a shiver in winter, his eyes wild and fearful, blood dripping from his lip. “Almaguer is coming back now. A dozen men. You will not get free if you waste time on me. Please, for the love of Idumea, you are Demont’s sworn man. I know you are. Not even he murdered. Please, for the love of Idumea, spare me!”
Lia reached them both, staring into the thief’s blazing eyes. He looked up at her, recognized her, then closed his eyes shut as if he knew he was going to die.
“This belongs to my family,” Colvin said with revulsion and fury mingling in his expression. His eyes blazed with hatred. He drew the maston sword from Scarseth’s scabbard, the blade that Lia had admired. She stood there, helpless again, seeing the flesh at the thief’s throat constrict as he swallowed
The tip of the blade aimed at that point. Lia blinked quickly, quivering, believing she would see a man die in front of her. Colvin’s eyes burned with passion. Part of her hungered to see it happen. Part of her knew she would never forget it if she watched.
“You betrayed me to die,” Colvin said huskily. “But in this thing only, you do not lie. I am Demont’s man. And I cannot end a man’s life who lacks the spleen to fight me.”
“I saved your life,” Scarseth whispered hoarsely, his eyes opening again. “I could have left you to bleed to death by that tree. I carried you to Muirwood in a rainstorm. I carried you. She will tell you. I did save your life.”
He coughed with contempt. “Your greed saved me, not you. Your cowardice saves you now.” He paused, raising the sword, staring down at the shivering man. Their eyes locked. Then kneeling down, Colvin clutched Scarseth’s throat with his free hand, sword poised above, ready to fall. “You are a liar. You will always be a liar. But you will betray her again.”
“I swear I will not!” he squeaked, his voice choking.
“By the Medium, I take your power of speech. You will not utter another word.”
Lia felt it, as if a gust of wind suddenly swept up the stairwell. She had sensed it that night long ago when a great storm had raged and the Aldermaston calmed it. The Medium was there.
Colvin released Scarseth’s throat, and the thief’s own fingers replaced them. His ey
es bulged. His lips moved but no sound came out. Tears ran down his cheeks. Grabbing the man’s belt, Colvin hoisted him up off the floor, then severed the belt in the middle, spilling him back to the floor. He grabbed the scabbard, tugged it free, then motioned for Lia to follow him.
They escaped out the rear of the Pilgrim Inn on a horse held by a grinning boy named Brant.
They did not make it far. The sheriff and his men rounded the corner.
“The girl!” Almaguer shouted.
Colvin stamped the flanks. “Hold onto me. Tightly! Squeeze as hard as you can. No, even harder! Lock your fingers together or you will bounce off! Quickly now – before we start to gallop!”
At first Lia thought the horse was already galloping, but when it started, the entire feel of the animal changed. The sensation in her stomach went from nausea and fearfulness to glee. Her wild hair whipped behind her, the cowl of her cloak bouncing against her back.
Behind them, against the rush of the wind in her ears, she could hear the sheriff’s men shouting. But running men, thronged by villagers, could not catch the surging rush of a galloping stallion. The motion jarred Lia and she feared she might tumble off the back of it.
“I am slipping!” she shouted.
One of Colvin’s arms tightened against hers, pressing her arm painfully, but it steadied her.
“Use your legs. Squeeze them against the flanks. Press against me tightly!”
A voice in the crowd shouted out her name. She turned to look, but the movement nearly made her lose her balance the other way.
“Stop twisting like that!” Colvin threatened. “Press against me!” He kicked the stallion again and it felt as if they had left the rutted street completely – that they were now flying.
Lia wondered who had called her name. She pressed her cheek against the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt and held on until her muscles ached. So many times in her life she had mixed dough, churned butter, used her arms and fingers as her tools. They did not fail her. Her grip was hard, and she managed to cling to him despite the bouncing, the speed, and the rush of wind. They rode down Chalkwell Street, along the Abbey’s eastern walls. The tall spire of Muirwood rose sharply into the sky, but it was getting smaller with each hoof-beat.