CHAPTER ONE
Cemetery Rings
Lia lived in the Aldermaston’s kitchen at Muirwood Abbey. More than anything else in the world, she craved learning how to read. But she had no family to afford such a privilege, no one willing to teach her the secrets, and no hope of it ever happening because she was a wretched.
Nine years before, someone had abandoned her at the Abbey gate and that should have put an end to her ambitions. Only it did not. One cannot live in a sweet-scented kitchen without hungering after pumpkin loaves, spicy apple soup, and tarts with glaze. And one could not live at Muirwood Abbey without longing to learn the wisest of crafts—reading and engraving.
Thunder boomed above Muirwood Abbey, and water drenched the already muddy grounds. Lia’s companion, Sowe, slept next to her in the loft, but the thunder and the sharp stabs of lightning did not wake her, nor did the voices murmuring from the kitchen below as the Aldermaston spoke to Pasqua. It was difficult waking Sowe under any circumstances, for she dearly loved her sleep.
Running drips dampened their blankets and plopped in pots on the kitchen tiles below. Rain had its own way of bringing out smells—in wet clothes, wet cheeses, and wet sackcloth. Even the wooden planks and the eaves had a damp, musty smell.
The Aldermaston’s gray cassock and over-robe were soaked and dripping, his thick, dark eyebrows knotted with worry and impatience. Lia watched him secretly from the shadows of the loft.
“Let me pour you some cider,” Pasqua said to him as she fidgeted among the pots, sieves, and ladles. “A fresh batch was pressed and boiled less than a fortnight ago. It will refresh you. Now where did that chatteling put the mugs? Here we are. Well now, it seems someone has drunk from it again. I mark these things, you know. It was probably Lia. She is always snitching.”
“Your gift of observation is keen,” said the Aldermaston, who seemed hurried to speak. “I am not at all thirsty. If you…”
“It is no trouble at all. In truth, it is good for your humors. Now why did they stack those eggs that way? I ought to crack one over the both of their heads, I should. But that would be wasteful.”
“Please, Pasqua, some bread. If you could rouse the girls and start the bread now. Stoke the fires. You may be baking all night.”
“Are we expecting guests, Aldermaston? In this storm? I doubt if a skilled horseman could ford the moors now, even with the bridges. I have seen many storms blow in like this. Hang and cure me if any guests should brave the storm tonight.”
“Not guests, Pasqua. The rivers may flood. I will rouse the other help, maybe even the learners. If it floods…”
“You think it might flood?”
“I believe that is what I just said.”
“It rained four days and four nights nigh on twelve years ago. The Abbey did not flood then.”
“I believe it may tonight, Pasqua. We are on higher ground. They will look to us for help.”
Lia poked Sowe to rouse her, but she mumbled something and turned the other way, swatting at her own ear. She was still completely asleep.
The Aldermaston’s voice was rough, as if he was always trying to keep himself from coughing, and it throbbed with impatience. “If it floods, there will be danger for the village. Not only our crops chance being ruined. Bread. Make five hundred loaves. We should be prepared...”
“Five hundred loaves?”
“That is what I instructed. I am grateful you heard me correctly.”
“From our stores? But…what a dreadful waste if it does not flood.”
“In this matter, I am not seeking advice. I am impressed that we should prepare for flooding this evening. It is heavy on me now. As heavy as the cauldron in the nook. I keep waiting for it. For the footsteps. For the alarm. Something will happen this night. I dread news of it.”
“Have some cider then,” Pasqua said, her voice trembling with worry. “It will calm your nerves. Do you really think it will flood tonight?”
Straightening his crooked back, the Aldermaston roared, “Do you not understand me? Loaves! Five hundred at least. Must I rouse your help myself? Must I knead the dough with my own hands? Bake, Pasqua! I did not come here to trifle with you or convince you.”
Lia thought his voice more frightening than the thunder—the feeling of it, the heat of his anger. It made her sink deep inside herself. Her heart pained for Pasqua. She knew how it felt to be yelled at like that.
Sowe sat up immediately, clutching her blanket to her mouth. Her eyes were wild with fear.
Another blast of thunder sounded, its force shaking the walls.
In the calm of silence that followed, Pasqua replied, “There is no use yelling, Aldermaston, I can hear you very well. You may think me deaf, by the tone of your voice. Loaves you shall have then. Grouchy old niffler, coming into my kitchen to yell at me. A fine way to treat your cook.”
At that moment, the kitchen opened with a gusty wind and a man slogged in, spraying mud from his boots with every step. His hair was dripping, his beard dripping, his nose dripping. Grime covered him from head to foot. He clenched something in his hand against his chest.
“And who do you think you are to come in like that, Jon Hunter!” Pasqua said, rounding on him. “Kicking mud like that! Tell me that a wretched is found half-drowned at the Abbey gate, or I will beat you with my broom for barging into my kitchen. Filthy as a cur, look at you.”
Jon Hunter looked like a wild thing, a mess of soaked, sodden cloak, tangled hair with twigs and bits of leaves, and a gladius blade belted to his waist. “Aldermaston,” he said in a breathless voice. He mopped his beard and pitched his voice lower. “The graveyard. It flooded. Landslide.”
There was quiet, then more blinding lightning followed by billows of thunder. The Aldermaston said nothing. He only waited.
Jon Hunter seemed to be struggling to find his voice again. Lia peeked further from the ladder steps, her long curly hair tickling the sides of her face. Sowe tried to pull her back, to get her out of the light, but Lia pushed her away.
Jon Hunter pressed his forehead against his arm, staring down at the floor. “The lower slope gave way, spilling part of the cemetery downhill. Gravemarkers are strewn about and many…” He stopped, choking on the words, “Many ossuaries were burst. They were…my lord…they were…they were all empty, save for muddy linens…and…and… wedding bands made of gold.”
Jon put his hand on the cutting table. His other still clenched something. “As I searched the ruins and collected the bands, the part of the hill I was on collapsed. I thought…I thought I was going to die. I fell. I cannot say how far, not in all the dark, but I fell on stone. A shelf of rock, I thought. It knocked the wind out of me. But when the lightning flashed again, I realized it was…in the air. Do you understand me? Hanging in the air. A giant block of chiseled stone. But there was nothing below it. Nothing holding it up. I was trapped and shouted for help. But then the lightning flashed anew, and I saw the hillside above and the roots of a withered oak exposed. There is nothing but a tangle of oaks in that part of the grounds. So I leapt and climbed and came.”
The Aldermaston said nothing, chewing on the moment as if it were some bitter-tasting thing. His eyes closed. His shoulders drooped. “Who else is about tonight? Who may have seen it?”
“Only I,” Jon Hunter said, holding out his hand, his mud-caked hand. There were several smeared rings in his filthy palm. “Aldermaston, why were there no bones in the ossuaries? Why leave the rings? I do not understand what I beheld tonight.”
The Aldermaston took the rings, looking at them in the flickering lamplight. Then his fingers tightened around the gold bands and fury kindled his cheeks.
“There is much labor to fulfill before dawn. The cemetery grounds are forbidden now. Be certain that no one trespasses. Take two mules and a cart and gather the grave markers and ossuaries and move them to where I shall tell you. I will help. I do not want learners to discover what you did. The entire Abbey is forbidden from that ground. Have I spoken clearly? Can there be any doubt as to my orders?”
“None, Aldermaston. The storm is raging still. I will work alone. Do not risk your health to the elements. Tell me what must be done and I will do it.”
“The rains have plagued us quite enough. They will cease. Now.” He held up his hand, as if to calm a thrashing stallion in front of him.
Either by the words or the gesture or both, the rain ceased, and only the water sluicing through the gutters and the plop and drip from a thousand shingles and countless shuddering oak branches could be heard. A tingle in the air sizzled, and Lia’s heart went hot with a blushing giddiness. All her life she had heard whispers of the power of the Medium. That it was strong enough to master storms, to tame fire or sea, or restore that which was lost. Even to bring the dead back alive again.
Now she knew it was real. Empty ossuaries could mean only one thing. The dead bones had been restored to the flesh of their masters, the bodies reborn and new. When the revived ones had left Muirwood was a mystery. Lia was eager to explore the forbidden grounds—to see the floating stone, to search for rings in the mud herself.
And at precisely that moment, the moment when she realized the Medium was real, with her heart full of thoughts too dazzling to bottle up, she saw the Aldermaston turn, gaze up the ladder, and meet her eyes.
For the brief blink of a moment, she knew what he was thinking. How a young girl just past her ninth nameday could understand a world-wise and world-weary Aldermaston did not matter. This was the moment he had been dreading that evening. Not the washed out grave markers, the empty stone ossuaries, or the rings and linens left behind. It was knowing that she, a wretched of Muirwood, knew what had happened. That it was a moment that would change her forever.
His recognition of her intrusion was shared then by Pasqua and Jon Hunter.
“I ought to blister your backside, you rude little child!” Pasqua said, striding over to the loft ladder as Lia scrambled down it. “Listening in like that. Like you were nothing but a teeny mouse, all anxious for bits of cheese. A rat is more like it. Snooping and sneaking.” Pasqua grabbed her scrawny arm.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Lia said, gazing at the Aldermaston fiercely, ignoring Pasqua and Jon Hunter. She tried to tug her arm away, but the grip was iron. “Not if you let me be taught to read. I want to be a learner.”
Pasqua slapped her for that, a stinging blow. “You evil little thing! Are you threatening the Aldermaston? He could turn you out to the village. Hunger, my little crow, real hunger. You have never known that feeling. Ungrateful, selfish…”
“Let her go, Pasqua, you are not helping,” the Aldermaston said, his eyes shining with inner fury. His gaze burned into Lia’s eyes. “While I am Aldermaston over Muirwood, you will not be taught to read. You greatly misunderstand your position here.” His eyes narrowed. “Five hundred loaves. Tonight. The food will help offer distraction.” He turned to leave, but stopped and gave her one last look. It was a sharp, threatening look. “They would not believe such a story even if you told them.” He left the kitchen, the vanished storm no longer blowing his stock of pale white hair.
Jon Hunter plucked a twig out of his hair and gave Lia another look—one that promised a thrashing if she ever said a word to anyone—then followed the Aldermaston out. Lia did not care about a thrashing. She knew what those felt like too.
Pasqua kept her and Sowe up all night, and by dawn their shoulders and fingers throbbed from the endless kneading, patting, and shaping of loaves. But Lia was not too exhausted, the next morning, to resist stealing one of the gold cemetery rings from a box in the Aldermaston’s chambers. After tying it to a stout length of string, she wore it around her neck and hid it beneath her clothes.
She never took it off.
CHAPTER TWO
Knight-Maston
Four years passed. The Aldermaston was true to his word, and Lia was true to hers. She never told anyone about the floating stone, or the alcove she and Sowe had discovered in the hillside, or the cemetery rings. The storm raging outside reminded her of the previous one from years ago. Instead of sleeping in the loft with Sowe, she tried to get comfortable on the floor near the oven where it was warmer.
Thunder rocked the Abbey grounds, and even the thick stone wall thrummed with it. The rain dripped from several loose shingles on the roof, and the plunk-plunking on the mats kept her awake. She was not certain what would be worse, grabbing a few pots to catch the water and listening to the deep blooping sound or cramming her blanket harder against her ears to muffle it.
In the darkness, something heavy lurched against the double doors, and for a moment Lia remembered Jon Hunter bursting in, bearing the news of the landslide. She sat up fast enough to graze her head against the planks of the trestle table nearby. The sound was loud, like when Getmin or Ribbs shoved a barrel full of beans into place. She heard a few low whispers and curses just outside the door, which meant it was likely a pair of learners. Sometimes they snuck out of their rooms at night to wander the grounds, but few were courageous enough to brave the Aldermaston’s personal kitchen. On quiet, bare feet, she padded over and grabbed a skillet from the hook pegs, a wide, flat one made of iron. A heavy wallop on the head was usually all it took to stop a learner.
“Here we are,” a man’s voice whispered. “Easy there, lad. Let me look at you. Bleeding still. Let me see if the kitchen is open.”
The handle rattled and shook.
“Locked. Won’t be able to cross the river again if I stay here much longer...let me see if I can open it.” A dagger came through the crack and struggled against the crossbar, making Lia skip back with shock. Learners did not carry daggers!
“There we go…oh piddle, the crossbar is too heavy. Sorry, lad. Looks like you will be bleeding to death here. How the Abbey help will love a corpse on the porch instead of a wretched. But what is there to do? Well, I suppose I could knock.”
Lia clenched her hands around the skillet handle, wondering if she should open the doors. A firm pounding startled her. “For the love of life, is anyone there? I have a wounded man with me. Is anyone there?”
She bit her lip, wondering if she should sneak out the rear doors and waken Pasqua. The old woman snored so loudly, it would take more than distant pounding to wake her from her dreams, though sometimes she snored herself awake. Something thumped outside, and she thought she heard the chinking sound of spurs. What kind of man wore spurs? Few soldiers could afford horses. But knight-mastons could. At least she thought they could, knight-mastons and the nobles.
Thoughts of the Aldermaston did not make the choice any easier. She knew she could just as easily be scolded for deciding either way. What were you thinking, Lia, letting two rough men into the kitchen in the dead of night? What were you thinking, Lia, letting a man bleed to death on the porch of Muirwood?
Looking at it that way, she supposed there was really only one choice to make. How could she let a man die, especially if he was a maston? Would not the king be greatly angered if one of his knights died? Especially considering the king was renowned for his cruelty. Yet why would two of the king’s men be wandering about Muirwood anyway? The gates were always locked during the night, so they must have approached the grounds from the rear instead of the village. Why? Would they treat someone kindly who helped? Perhaps a few coins? Or even greater generosity?
That decided her.
Lia set the pan on a table, lifted the crossbar, and pulled open the door—and fell over when a man stumbled inside.
“Sweet mother of Idumea!” the man gasped, flailing and sidestepping to keep from squashing her. He was dripping wet, smelled like the hog pens, and his face looked more scratchy than a porcupine. A body collapsed with a thump just outside, and she saw glistening red streaking down his face.
“You scared me, lass! Fans or fires, that is horrible to do to someone.” He regained his balance, all quickness and grace, and grabbed her hand and arm to help her stand. After wiping his mouth, which caused a rasping sound, he turned and hoisted the other fellow under the arms and dragged him the rest of the way inside. As he pulled, she saw the sword belted at his waist. It was a fine sword, the pommel glinting in the dim light of the oven fires. It bore the insignia on the pommel—an eight-pointed star, formed of two off-set squares.
“You are a knight-maston!” Lia whispered.
His head jerked and he looked her in the face. “How did you know?”
“The sword, it is…well you see, I have heard that they…”
“A clever lass. Quick as a wisp. Help me drag him over to that mat. Grab his legs.”
She did and helped move the wounded man in out of the rain. They set him down on the rush-matting. The wounded man was younger than she first thought, pale and clean-shaven, with dripping, dark hair.
She crouched down and studied him. “I can help,” she said. “Bring me that lamp. The one over there.” She was anxious to flaunt her apothecary skills, earned when a rush of fevers struck the Abbey two winters ago. He obeyed and produced it.
The injured one was no older than seventeen or eighteen—a man for certain, but one young enough to still have the blemishes of youth on his face. His hair was cropped short around his neck. His build somewhat resembled that of Getmin, the blacksmith’s help who loved to torment her.
“Is this your squire?” she asked. “We should have carried him closer to the fire. He is bone cold. I can start the fire quickly.”
“Squire? Well, he is…he is a good lad. Not my squire though. His father was a good man. How old are you lass? Sixteen?”
“I am thirteen. At least I think so. I am a wretched.”
“I would not have believed you thirteen. You look tall enough to have danced beneath a maypole already.”
“I am hoping to this year, if the Aldermaston lets me. I am near enough to fourteen and think he should.” The blood flowed from a cut on the young man’s eyebrow. She stanched it firmly with a cloth. It might take a while to make it stop as the cut was deep. She glanced up at the loft, half-expecting to see Sowe cowering there, but there was no one. Part of her was glad that Sowe was asleep.
“I always try to make it to Muirwood for Whitsunday. A most profitable day it is.”
“You mean the tourneys or the trading?”
“Yes, yes, the tourneys. Nothing like bumping a man onto his hindquarters. And I most gravely apologize for knocking you onto yours just now. My, look at that wound. That is a nasty cut.” He looked into Lia’s eyes, and she felt a sudden jolt of warmth. “Rode his piddling mare right into an oak branch. Too many trees here, lass. Too dark and the storm made it worse! Praise the Medium, we are both still alive. Let me grab another cloth, and we can wring out that one. Wait here.”
Lia knelt by the limp body, her stomach buzzing, and pressed the wound harder. She looked over her shoulder and watched the knight slice a shank from the spitted hog and stuff it into a leather bag at his waist. It was followed by three buttered rolls and a whole cherry tart.
“Those are for the Aldermaston’s dinner tomorrow!” she whispered in a panic, knowing exactly who Pasqua would blame. “The hog is not even done cooking yet!”
“There we are, a cloth!” He snatched one of the fine linen napkins and hurried over, licking his fingers. He held out the napkin to exchange with hers.
“That is one of the Aldermaston’s napkins!”
“Is a lad’s life held so cheaply here? We must stop the bleeding. Here, put your hand on this and hold it tight. The linen will sop the blood better.” He grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand against the bleeding.
“That is not the way to do it,” she said. “Here, let me fetch some things. I can cure him.” Lia ran to the benches and grabbed some clean dishrags, a kettle of warm water from the fire-peg, and a sprig of blue woad. She watched as the knight grabbed two more tarts, veins of grapes, and a small tub of treacle and stuffed them into his leather knapsack.
“What are you doing?”
“Hmmm? Victuals, lass. I will leave a little pouch with coins on the mantle.” He pointed to the fire.
“Pasqua will be furious,” Lia muttered under her breath, arranging the healing provisions near the young man’s head. She steeped the cloth with some hot water and wiped blood from his face. He did not flinch or start, but his eyes darted beneath his eyelids. His body started to tremble. She grabbed his hand.
“He is too cold. Where is his cloak?” She poured more hot water and wrung out the cloth, bathing his face a second time before wadding it up and pressing it against the cut on his eyebrow. If Sowe were awake, she could have helped pestle the woad. But Lia was left to do it all herself.
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