The Blight of Muirwood (24 page)

As she did, the strength of the Medium flooded through her and into the Aldermaston’s hand. She could not breathe for it burned. Light dazzled her eyes, appearing all around them. It gave her a feeling of warmth and safety.

“Astrid Page, I gift you with life. Live until your work is completed. By Idumea’s hand, may it be so.”

There was a shudder on the bed. Lia glanced down at the boy and his eyes fluttered open. The Aldermaston lowered his hand, his face like gray chalk with the effort. He seemed about to collapse. Lia had never felt such strength and energy in her life. She felt she could run all the way up the Tor and back without pausing for breath. She stared down at Astrid, at his awakening eyes and the recognition in them.

“I…I was dead,” he whispered hoarsely. “I saw you both, crowding around the bed. Just a moment ago. Then there was a light and I felt my breath coming again.” He sat up and Lia started, for the wound was in his back.

She looked at his ripped shirt and it was gone – healed.

Her eyes met the Aldermaston’s over the nest of hair.

“It is time, Lia,” he murmured. “You must face the maston test.”

She stared at him, shocked. “But I do not…know how to read.”

“You must face it still.”

News about the kishion’s attack in the Aldermaston’s manor was hushed and it was forbidden to speak of it. Word began to spread that an untamed fire had happened in the chamber where Ellowyn and Marciana slept and that Lia’s quick-thinking had prevented it from being a disaster. Astrid recuperated slowly, but he was ever obedient to the Aldermaston’s orders. Only a few knew the truth of the attack, including the Earl of Dieyre, who had looked at Lia the next day with guarded respect. The storm blew over the Abbey and the days that followed were humid and bright.

She did not speak to Colvin over the days that followed. He neither sought her out nor avoided her. His expression was taciturn as always, and he seemed to brood over the impending arrival of Whitsunday. When Lia asked Marciana about the visit with Dieyre, she was vague in her reply and said that Dieyre had attempted to persuade them to an alliance with the Queen Dowager, who he affirmed would be victorious in the contest for power chafing the realm.

Duerden had not tried to find her after she had rebuffed him at the kitchen. She thought perhaps he was biding his time until the festival.

On Whitsunday morning, Lia found herself trudging towards the Abbey kitchen to break her fast before sleeping. There had been no disturbances to Ellowyn or Marciana since the kishion attack, and she found herself dozing in the stillness. As she entered the kitchen, she recognized the familiar trove of delights that Pasqua had been slaving over for days. She bustled back and forth, pinching loaves, ladling syrupy treacle, and hollering for the girls who were up in the loft, staring out the window.

“It is the same every year,” Pasqua bellowed. She glanced at Lia with a grunt of disgust, massaging her shoulder. “This is your second year dancing. It is still the same maypole, still the same streamers. Good morrow, Lia. I have a bowl of porridge and some cheese over by the bread oven. You must be starving.”

Lia smiled wearily and fetched the bowl, seeing a generous dollop of treacle to sweeten it. It was delicious and warm and melted on her tongue. “Thank you, Pasqua.”

“It was by and by that you lived here,” Pasqua said, patting a loaf and shaping it. Flour dusted her hands. “A year that has gone by so quickly. Do you miss it, Lia? Miss being in the kitchen?”

Lia did not have to lie and nodded with enthusiasm. “There is a smell to this kitchen, especially this time of year. A hundred little smells – of cinnamon, of cardamom, of garlic and onions and sage and pumpkins. This is my home, Pasqua. I will always cherish it.”

That earned her a smile as well as a fierce hug that nearly took her breath away. Then she looked at Lia closely, her eyes filled with concern. “So he did not want you?” Pasqua asked softly so the other girls wouldn’t hear it.

Lia raised her eyebrows and tilted her head curiously.

“You know who I mean,” Pasqua said, stroking her arm and giving her a look full of tenderness with a wince of regret. “It is not that cheeky little Duerden I am speaking of. He is a cute boy, but Colvin is a man. I would have sworn on the stars of Idumea that he cared for you.”

Lia wanted to wince, but she kept her expression calm. “As a sister. Nothing more. Edmon was wrong.”

Pasqua rolled her eyes. “How freely he talks, it is no wonder then. The lad has only half his brains with him at best when he is around Sowe. She is a pretty girl. He would be a fool to pass her by.”

Lia wondered who was being the bigger fool, but she said nothing and finished the porridge before joining Sowe and Brynn in the loft.

“Has anyone toppled the old man off the pole yet?” asked Lia mischievously.

Brynn answered first. “No, but they have tried. This is my first year to dance. They better not knock him down.”

Sowe touched the glass gently. “There are more people out this year than normal. They must be very excited. You look tired.”

“I feel it,” Lia replied, drawing near, hovering above both of the sitting girls, and stared out the panes into the village. Sowe’s hair was freshly combed and she smelled of purple mint. Over the year, she had blossomed even more. Lia could see it now, see how her shyness and soft-spoken demeanor gave her an alluring quality. The other wretcheds of the Abbey adored her, except the laundry girls.

Amidst the crowds swarming the village green, there appeared horses with poles fixed with standards bearing the Queen Dowager’s emblem. Lia stiffened at the sight for they were pushing through the crowd towards the main gates of the Abbey.

“Look at all the horses,” Brynn murmured in awe, but Lia was already moving. Her sleeplessness was gone as her heart began pounding in fear. Snatching her bow sleeve and quiver, she hurried out the kitchen and sprinted towards the gate.

* * *

Pareigis sat astride her foam-white stallion. She wore the familiar black velvet gown as well as a black headdress and gauzy veil that shielded her face from the warm midsummer sun. The late season storm had turned the entire landscape green, and the starkness of the contrast between the Queen Dowager and her mount was striking. She was surrounded by knights, also astride, their hands resting menacingly on sword hilts or the domes of studded maces. Lia approached the gates just behind the Aldermaston, in his wake but close to him to keep an eye. Positioned at the gates ahead of them were much of the Abbey helpers and teachers, as well as Colvin, Edmon, and the Earl of Dieyre. Lia was the only girl in the company.

When they advanced within earshot, the Queen Dowager stiffened in her saddle. “Your gatekeeper forbids me entrance, Aldermaston! I, who was your honored guest but a few days ago. I told you my coming was to be expected, yet I am forbidden to enter!” Her voice rang with fury.

The Aldermaston stopped near the gate, his face masking the pain she had noticed earlier. Anger brooded in his eyes. “You may celebrate Whitsunday in any quarter of the realm you desire, Queen Dowager. But you have violated the oath of hospitality and so are refused admittance to the grounds. There are many fine inns within the village to choose from.”

“Open the gates,” Pareigis ordered, and Lia felt a surge from the Medium at her words.

The Aldermaston stared at her curiously, his eyebrows arching. He kept his focus on her, but Lia searched the faces of the soldiers surrounding her. One of them stood out in the baleful sunlight, for his eyes glowed silver. It was Scarseth, wearing the Queen Dowager’s livery. His hand clutched the fabric near his heart, and she knew he was fondling the kystrel. Lia felt the Medium quicken within her.

“I forbid it,” the Aldermaston replied.

The white stallion pranced and twirled and the Queen Dowager adjusted her view of them from her haughty pose. “Open the gates, Aldermaston. I have just returned from the killing fields of Winterrowd. Do you wish me to accuse you so publicly?”

It was a taunt, one spoken with malice intended. Lia stiffened her hold on the bow stave.

“As this was your intent all along, why ruin it? Say what you must and be done with it.”

Lia could see the Queen Dowager’s teeth. She rose higher in the saddle, her back stiff and straight. With a black glove, she pointed directly at the Aldermaston. “I accuse you of high treason by the name of Gideon Penman, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey. For you did willfully and unlawfully bring about the death of my lord husband, the late king of Comoros. I charge that you did aid and abet fugitives of the king’s justice, even the earls of Forshee and Norris-York. That you sent your own sworn man, Jon Hunter, to bring them safely through this Hundred to plot my husband’s death at Winterrowd. That your sworn man, Jon Hunter, did fell the king with this bloodied arrow!” Her voice had built to a fevered pitch and she thrust the arrow into the air within the sight of everyone assembled.

“Therefore I arrest you, Gideon Penman, for the murder of my lord husband. You will stand trial for your crimes and be punished in the manner befitting a traitor. I charge the Earl of Forshee with high treason. I grant amnesty to the newly made Earl of Norris-York, for he was not a party to the plot. Now in the name of the young king, I command you to open the gates!”

The surge of the Medium was so strong it rocked Lia back on her heels. The Aldermaston bowed his head, as if bracing himself against an unseen storm beating cruelly upon him. The strain of it showed, but he lifted his head again. She saw his legs begin to the tremble and stepped forward to hold him up, but he glanced at her in warning, his eyes blazing.

Turning, he faced the Queen Dowager. “You have no authority to condemn me,” he stated simply. “Surely you know that.”

“In Dahomey, traitors are dealt with regardless of their rank,” she spat.

“But we are not in Dahomey, nor do we converse in Dahomeyjan.”

“Some of yours can speak it well enough,” the Queen Dowager sneered.

“As do many in this country. But you overlook that as an Aldermaston, I can only be brought to trial by the High Seer of Avinion. You have no legal custody over me or this Abbey. I have the charter grants engraved and sealed within the cloister library. The king has no jurisdiction here and neither do you. You come here and flaunt your supposed authority in the hope of cowing me into submission. I refuse to accommodate you. I will answer to the High Seer only.”

Her face was beautiful but twisted with fury. “A formality I have not overlooked, Aldermaston. Even as we speak, I have riders brooking to Avinion.”

“The term is
breaking
, your highness. Your Dahomeyjan tongue gets tangled at times. I do not fear the evidence you will undoubtedly conjure to support your accusation. My man Jon Hunter was murdered in the Bearden Muir by the sheriff of Mendenhall, and I can summon his bones to prove it. You helped dig his grave, did you not, my lord Earl of Forshee?”

Colvin was as stern as a boulder. “With my own hands, Aldermaston. He was my guide through the Bearden Muir. He was killed by the sheriff, as the Aldermaston says. He was dead prior to the battle.”

“You were seen!” Pareigis shrieked. “Following the battle, you were seen with the hunter! I have twelve witnesses who will vouchsafe it.”

“Then produce your witnesses,” Colvin snapped. “There were many looters after the battle who came to strip the corpses. For the right coin, they would say anything you wished. I demand to face my accusers. I am not a traitor but a member of the king’s Privy Council. Your accusation is absurd.”

“You are not an Aldermaston,” Pareigis said, seething. “You are an Earl of the realm. You must face a trial of your peers, as you say. So I arrest you…”

“He is within the protection of Muirwood Abbey,” the Aldermaston said, interrupting her. “These grounds safeguard him, as they do any with the rank of maston. You cannot arrest him here. It is contrary to the laws of the realm. I will not grant you audience any longer. Be gone.” He turned and started to hobble away, his face grave and wincing with pain.

“Do not turn your back on me!” she commanded. “This is your final warning. Open the gates at once! I cannot hold my men back forever.”

The Aldermaston paused and looked back at her, as if she were nothing but a buzzing fly. “I am not concerned for my safety or the safety of this Abbey, Pareigis. You mock what you do not even comprehend.”

“No Aldermaston,” she replied in a low voice. “It is you who does not understand. These bars will not protect you from me. And those who mistakenly trust that you will shield them will cower and wail in fear when they discover it is but an empty promise. Even walls of stone can burn.”

* * *

“Like fragile ice, anger passes away in time. Therefore, the greatest remedy for anger is delay.”

- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey

* * *