The Ciphers of Muirwood (13 page)

Later that evening, she found a bucket on the table in her bedchamber. A red cloth was stuffed in it. It was so strange and curious, she unthinkingly reached inside and lifted the rag. Only then did she realize it was soaked in blood. The earl’s head was nestled beneath it.

It took all her strength of will not to scream.

It is said the greatest remedy for anger is delay. For mastons who cannot restrain their anger will wish undone what their temper and irritation prompted them to do.

—Richard Syon, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Winterrowd

T
he earth in her mother’s garden was hard and thick like frozen clay, and Maia worked her muscles hard to get the harrower to break it up. Suzenne knelt beside her, fingers stained with dirt, her gown covered with an apron just as Maia’s was. The breath came out of their mouths in a mist as they continued to work in the bone-aching cold. Maia wiped her itchy cheek on the back of her hand and looked up as Thewliss clomped up with an armful of small black buckets.

“These will grow in winter?” Suzenne asked him, gazing at the sheet of snow covering everything in the garden.

“Um-hum,” Thewliss grunted, still shy to speak. He nodded in satisfaction at their razing of the flower beds and proceeded to pull tufts of roots and stubs from the buckets.

“What are those plants?” Maia asked, watching as he gently detached the roots. She had visited Thewliss in her mother’s garden several times. Each time she tried to coax him out further.

“Cyclamens and winter heath,” he said shortly. His nose was bright and pink and his snowy drooping mustache fluttered as he spoke. “They are pretty.”

“Did my mother like them?” Maia asked, feeling a stab of pain in her heart. The interment of her mother’s body was happening at that very moment in another part of the grounds. Her bones would lie at rest in an ossuary and be buried in the cemetery.

“She did,” Thewliss replied softly. His eyes were shy and reserved, yet full of compassion. “She liked . . . to help plant things too. You remind me of her.” A timid smile flickered across his face.

Maia felt tears well in her eyes, and she reached over and gripped his dirty hand in her own. Sensing her mood, Suzenne reached out and touched her shoulder.

“What else do you plant in winter?” Suzenne asked the old gardener.

“Quite a few things,” Thewliss said, easing his hand away and deftly planting the roots in the freshly churned earth. “Leeks, garlic, onions, asparagus . . .” He sniffed and brushed his nose on his sleeve. “Asparagus . . . I already said that one . . . cabbage. Parsnips too. Those are good. Sometimes peas. Winter lettuce.” He sniffed again. “You can always plant something.” Then he fell quiet as they worked together to plant the flowers.

After finishing, Maia thanked him for allowing them to help. He turned pink with embarrassment, as he always did when thanked or given a compliment. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes blinking, looking like he wanted to say something but could not find the words.

Maia was about to leave, feeling overwhelmed by the heaviness of her loss. She needed a good cry, she decided, and it would be better to go away and do it secretly, but something in Thewliss’s eyes forbade her to leave.

“Do you miss my mother too?” she asked him.

His eyes were red-rimmed. He took off his cap and crushed it in his hands, his snowy hair spilling about his head. He nodded vigorously.

Maia sighed and put her hand on his shoulder. “You are a good man, Thewliss. You built her a wonderful garden. I am sure it helped her bear the loneliness. Thank you.”

A tear trickled down his cheek. He looked down at his muddy boots, shifting uncomfortably. Then he pulled off his dirty gloves and stuffed them in his belt, reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a linen napkin. At first she thought he was going to blow his nose on it, but he handled it as delicately as he had the fragile roots. He slowly unfolded it and she saw it was an embroidered kerchief. He handed it to Maia.

“What is this?” she asked, taking it. Each corner was decorated with a design of little flowers and vines. It was beautifully wrought, intricate and lovely. Maia stared at the tiny flowers. “Did my mother . . . ?”

Thewliss nodded. “Never dared wipe my nose on it,” he mumbled. He stared her in the eyes. “You can have it.”

Maia held it like a relic, her amazement too great for words. Her mother had fashioned this small gift of affection and appreciation for the aging gardener. It was his only reminder of her mother. The way he had handled it showed it was his greatest treasure.

“I cannot take this,” Maia said huskily. “It is yours. She gave me something that I have treasured. Her tome. That is treasure enough. This was made for you, for a tender gardener.” She folded it reverently and then put it back in his hand. She wanted to kiss his snowy brow, an instinctual act, but she caught herself, realizing that to do so would be as grievous as murder.

She could never, ever kiss anyone again. Something about this simple moment—the innocent impulse that might have led to disaster—brought the harsh reality of her situation home to her. Her grandmother’s words echoed through her head:
Your kiss would be fatal to your husband or even your children.

She took Suzenne’s arm, and together they left Thewliss in the Queen’s Garden and started off across the grounds together, their shoes crunching in the fresh snow. Maia’s feet were cold, and she longed to be in the shelter of their room.

“Thewliss was chatty today,” Suzenne said, her tone teasing.

Maia sniffed and nodded, trying to let her friend cheer her, trying not to drown in her thoughts. The regret in her heart was as heavy as a cold iron anvil. She could never be rid of it permanently; she could only move it from corner to corner.

“I cannot imagine how you are feeling,” Suzenne said, squeezing her middle. “Today was going to be hard, no matter what.”

“I know,” Maia said. “That is why I thought about helping Thewliss in the garden. The work was helpful, but it stirs memories. The knave sheriff of Mendenhall gets to attend my mother’s funeral and I cannot. Some things are just not fair, are they?”

“Indeed not. Do you want to go warm ourselves by the Leering in our room? Maybe we can help someone else so you can keep your mind off it? Look, there is Celia.”

Maia was impressed by how much Suzenne had changed in so short a time. She had stopped wearing her jewelry and fancy gowns so much, choosing instead to favor high-quality garments of the plainer variety. She had offered many times to let Maia wear her gowns, but Maia felt it was important to maintain her disguise as a wretched.

“She is crying,” Suzenne said, her voice concerned.

When Maia looked closer, she saw Celia kneeling by the laundry trough, her face buried in her hands, and her shoulders were shaking.

“Celia, what is wrong?” Maia asked, wondering if Maeg had been rude to her again. She looked up when she heard their voices and almost ran to them.

The girl was trembling with emotion. “Oh, Maia, Suzenne! My heart is breaking.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Maia gave her a fierce hug, trying to calm her.

“I just read the sheriff’s latest messages from the Crown.” She swallowed, hiccupping. “I must tell the Aldermaston and his wife, but they are overseeing the interment ceremony.” She tried drying her eyes on her sleeve. “Poor Dodd! Poor Dodd!” She broke down weeping again.

“Celia, what is it? What has happened?” Suzenne implored with new urgency, squeezing the other girl’s arm. “Tell us!”

Celia sniffled, trying to master herself. “I thought . . .
hic
. . . that during the ceremony would be a good time. No one was around. I read the messages.” She sniffled. “Suzenne, the Prices have been executed. All of the men. The father first of all. Dodd is the only son left, and he is the youngest. I thought . . . I truly thought the Medium would prevent this from happening.” Her shoulders shook again as fresh tears spilled out. “Why would the Medium let them die?”

Maia’s pain at losing her mother was overshadowed at that moment by the gravity of Dodd’s loss. The ache of it made her gasp and her mind spun with tortured rage. Her
father
had done it. Her
father
had executed so many innocent men, guilty of no crime but the so-called treason of refusing to abandon their consciences at his command. How could a maston do such a thing? This was murder. There was nothing else to call it.

Suzenne was weeping as well, covering her mouth with her hand as she always did when she was upset. Her eyes radiated absolute misery.

“We must tell Dodd,” Suzenne gasped. “Maia, we must tell him before the sheriff does!”

“We cannot,” Maia argued in despair. “How will we say we learned of it? We cannot betray the secret.”

Suzenne shook her head. “This is too painful. He must know! Celia, you must tell the Aldermaston straightaway. He must know at once!”

“I will wait for him in his study,” Celia said, nodding and hurrying away.

Maia and Suzenne clung to each other as they walked aimlessly through the snow, both too upset to decide where to go or what to do. Maia stared up at Muirwood Abbey—still hidden beneath a shell of scaffolding—her heart burning in her chest. How could the Medium have forsaken them? What did it want them to do? She had learned to listen for its frail whispers, but at the moment she was too upset. One of the lessons the Aldermaston had taught her again and again was that anger masked the feelings of the Medium.

The silence of the wintry grounds was disturbed by the sound of an axe splitting wood. She tugged on Suzenne’s arm and started for Jon Tayt’s lodge, wanting to tell him the news so he would keep his eye on Dodd. The two had become friends, and Maia knew that Dodd had taken a liking to the hunter and valued his counsel.

“I am heartsick,” Suzenne said, shaking her head. “When a dog goes mad, one puts it down. But what do you do to a king?” She stared at Maia desperately. “We have enemies aplenty, kingdoms that want to invade our realm and rob our wealth. If we do not stand united, Comoros will fall like ancient Pry-Ree. Oh Maia, do you think the Blight will come now?”

“I do not know,” Maia said, feeling a devastating conflict churn within her. Her father was the king. If he were to fall, then Lady Deorwynn and her brood would rule.

Rebellion.

The thought twisted in her mind, dangling in front of her like sharp daggers. In the long-ago past, a wayward king who murdered mastons had been defeated on a field called Winterrowd. Was there a Garen Demont they could call upon now—a leader of men who had been banished to another realm? No, there was not. But there was her husband, the King of Dahomey. And he was festering in a dungeon in Naess, betrayed by his own wife.

They rounded the end of the lodge as another piece of oak shattered into kindling. She expected to see Jon Tayt swinging the cleaving axe, but the hunter was nowhere to be seen. It was Dodd,
his tunic cast aside, his padded shirt open at the collar, exposing the
glint of his chaen. He had a look of murderous rage on his face as he
kicked away the scraps of wood and hefted another thick round on
the block. He grabbed the axe again, his arm and neck muscles bulg
ing as he swept it over and around, splitting the log in a jagged line.

They both knew at once that Dodd already knew, and Suzenne gasped at the sight of him. His mouth was tightened in an animal snarl, his teeth exposed and clenched together. Hate blazed on his face. Trickles of sweat trailed down his cheeks as he stepped back
and swung the axe again, a loud crack echoing in the small clearing.

One of the standing pieces of wood tottered and he kicked it off, then stuck the axe blade into the stump and went for another round of wood.

“I see you have heard too,” he snarled, grunting as he lifted the heavy round. He twisted the axe free and stepped back. His face scrunched with fury as he swung the blade down again, the wood splitting into pieces, the loud thunder of it echoing.

“My brothers are all dead,” Dodd said, moving another piece into view. “My father is dead. My mother is a widow. And I . . . I am the greatest coward-maston who ever walked Comoros.” Another crack of thunder as pieces of wood clattered about.

“No, Dodd,” Maia said. “You are not a coward.”

He stared at her, eyes lit with wild rage, gripping the axe as if choking it. “Do not coddle me, Maia. I can bear the truth. I am a coward and a fool. If I were a man, I would have Jon Tayt use this axe against me and then send my head to the king’s table, just as my father’s head was delivered to the false queen’s. I
hate
your father, Maia. I
hate
him more than I have hated anything other than my own self.” His cheeks quivered. “I should have left Muirwood. Why did I stay here so long!” He flung the axe aside and it landed in the snow with a hiss.

Maia knew there was nothing she could say to calm or comfort him. In this moment, in his red streak of rage, he probably saw her as being complicit in her father’s crimes.

“You are not a coward, Dodleah Price,” Suzenne said angrily. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she marched up to him. “You never wanted to be a soldier. Your older brothers did. Your ambition was to be an Aldermaston someday. And I admired you for it. You came to Muirwood because you wanted to study under the best Aldermaston of the realm. The kindest, most thoughtful man in the whole world. You can feel the Medium’s whispers better than anyone I have ever known.
I
am the coward, Dodd! I abandoned you because my parents were worried the king would despise us if I were to marry you.” She started sobbing, but she struggled through her tears to speak her words. “You are the kindest, wisest, most patient man I have ever known. And I left you, abandoned you—disappointed you when you needed me most.” She swallowed. “I am the coward, Dodd. But I have found my courage at last. Forgive me for deserting you. I will not desert you now. Dodd, I
love
you!”