The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 3)

As she opened her eyes, Lia noticed the surroundings had changed. The construction was beautiful but different. This Abbey was bigger than Muirwood, more impressive in its design and craftsmanship. Glancing around as she walked, she noticed the lush furnishings, the ribboned ironwork, the white tassels and gauzy curtains. Walking deliberately, she approached the Rood Screen, separating the chambers and promptly met several cassocked mastons, wearing white with golden trim.

“Where do you hail from?” one of them asked her, his face curious. “How old are you, child? You cannot be eighteen years, if that.”

“I am Lia from Muirwood,” she replied. “This is Augustin?”

“Muirwood.” There was something in the way he said it, the sudden wrinkle in his forehead that alarmed her. “The Aldermaston will wish to speak with you.”

“Have there been others?” she asked, watching their three faces for signs of a reaction. They all looked uneasy, wary, and a little disgusted by her sudden appearance.

“Knight-mastons,” another answered gravely. “Come, child. The Aldermaston will speak with you.”

“I am on urgent business,” Lia answered, approaching them cautiously.

“We will not delay you long,” replied the third.

Lia felt a shiver of apprehension. She followed the three mastons to the exterior door where there were several porters on duty holding lanterns. There was a strange smell in the air, the odor of incense. The floor tiles had been scrubbed and waxed until they shone like glass.

“Bring her to the Aldermaston straightaway,” one of the mastons said. “She is from Muirwood.”

The porter nodded and started down the path away from the huge Abbey. Lia followed, suspicious, but the porter did not deviate from his path and brought her immediately to a large and spacious manor, festooned with flags surrounded with gardens sculpted into the maston symbol of two offset squares. Every shrub had been painstakingly cut and molded, creating intricate shapes and hedgerows. The air carried the strong scent of a fishpond, through she could not see it through the blackness. Even at night, there were gardeners at work, pruning and tending and cleaning the grounds. Some glanced up at her as she passed, but most focused on their duties. The porter escorted her to the doors of the manor house, which were guarded by servants holding long polished black staves. The doors were opened for them as they ascended the steps and Lia entered the voluminous main corridor.

Her boots thudded against the polished tiles and she was struck with the splendour of the place, especially in contrast to the manor house in Muirwood. There were vases full of fresh flowers, mirrors and bowls and sculptures of polished stone. There were rows of small pillars with spherical orbs the size of pumpkins polished to a shine as decoration, for she could discern no other purpose for them. Tall velvet curtains flanked the walls and hung from silver rods. She inhaled through her nose and discovered the faint scent of incense again, permeating the air though she did not see any braziers.

“This way, lass,” said the porter as she nearly stumbled into him when he stopped.

“The grounds are impressive,” Lia said.

“Augustin is the only Abbey in this Hundred,” he replied. “Ahead, if you please.” He knocked on the door firmly.

The door opened and a venerable maston appeared, wearing a silvery cassock with black threading.

“Tell the Aldermaston he has another maston visiting from Muirwood,” the porter said.

Lia noticed the inflection in his voice and was surprised when the aged maston nodded and motioned for Lia to enter.

“Your name, child?”

“I am Lia.”

“So young to be a maston,” he observed. His brow furrowed as he examined her unkempt appearance. She felt awkward being in such a pristine place.

“Who is it now?” complained a voice thick with a northern accent. He rose from a stuffed couch, a goblet in his hand which he set down on a marble pillar. He was very young for an Aldermaston, probably not even fifty. His hair was shorn very close to his scalp and it was dark with occasional slivers of gray. He was healthy, athletic, and approached with a swagger, his mouth twisting into a scowl at the look of her.

“Look at you, as filthy as a beggar. You are a maston, are you? You hail from Muirwood?”

“I do,” Lia replied, nodding respectfully but bristling at the Aldermaston’s tone.

“How old are you?” he demanded.

“I am nearly sixteen.”

“Sixteen? And you passed the maston test, did you? What is your Family name? Would I know it?” He raised the goblet and took another sip of the drink, which smelled strongly of apples. It was probably cider.