The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 1)
“I should think learners would prefer this account, if only the original could be found.”
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
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CHAPTER SEVEN:
The King’s Men
Lia and Sowe both slept in the loft that night. The young man who would not tell them his name insisted on sleeping on rush-matting on the hard kitchen tiles. After complaining that he had dozed for much of the day and was not tired, he paced and skulked through the dark kitchen as if it were a prison. Lia watched him from the loft. After Sowe fell asleep, which never took long, he took up a broom and practiced with it like a sword, swinging the pole around in a series of studied moves, that would have been graceful except for the time he stumbled against a bucket or when the makeshift blade clacked against a table during a down strike. He muttered to himself often. Lia watched for as long as she could keep her eyes open, then fell asleep out of pure exhaustion.
She awoke before dawn and discovered him sitting by the small oven, his face reflecting the hue of the fire, rubbing his mouth as he stared into the flames. His clean shirt covered the chaen, fitting him well at the shoulders. He glanced up at her as she started down the ladder, then looked back at the oven fires.
“Did you sleep?” Lia asked him, noticing the bandage over his eyebrow was missing, the scar red and swollen.
“Does it matter? I can do nothing but sleep during the day.”
She determined he was in a sour mood again, and thought it best to prepare him something to eat before Pasqua arrived. Hunger made the calmest men cranky. After tying on an apron and fetching some oats, she started a pot boiling and gathered some spices to flavor it. The water bubbled quickly and she added the oats. Then she cut into a loaf that had survived the day before and lathered some butter and honey on it then set it by the oven to warm and melt the butter. He took it, without thanking her, and started to eat.
His sullen expression threatened to wilt her courage, which made her angry and determined. “The horse that Jon Hunter found must be yours,” she said, handing him the steaming bowl she’d prepared and a wooden spoon.
“I am sure it is,” he said sourly, taking it.
“I could help you get it back.” She scooped some milled flour onto a mat and then cracked an egg into it. “He must be keeping it in the pens behind his lodge. It is on the other side of the grounds, but not far and if the horse knows you, it probably would not make much noise.”
“I am not afraid of your hunter.”
“He has a bow and a gladius and you have nothing.”
“What, a half-sword? And who trained him to use it?” He grunted with a chuckle and turned to look at her scathingly. “Do you ever stop talking?”
She wanted to strike the bowl of porridge out of his hand. Instead, she frowned with fury and kneaded the dough. “I have plenty of faults but would rather have mine than yours.”
“It is not a fault to enjoy a respite from constant conversation. A respite is...”
“I know what respite means,” she said, slamming the wad of dough and looking back at him fiercely. “Do you understand where you are? This is the Aldermaston’s kitchen. He has eaten many meals in here. I see him every day and serve him his food. Do you think he changes the way he speaks to suit us? No! I have heard him use words that you may struggle with. When I do not understand something, I ask. He answers me for the most part – and when he will not, there are learners who do. I know what respite means.”
“I have insulted you.”
“You are very astute, Sir Armiger.”
“Perhaps you will afford me now a moment to think quietly.”
She was incensed. “You have had it quiet all night! What do you need to think so quietly about still, if I may ask?”
He turned back to his bowl and ate more of the steaming porridge, poking it angrily with his spoon. “I may not stop you from asking, it appears, even when I insult you. I am trying to determine your age.”
It had flattered her that the knight-maston thought she was tall enough to be sixteen. “The man who dragged you to my doorstep was more polite than you. If you desire to know, then ask!”
He looked baffled. “It would not be proper to do so.”
“Is it more proper to insult me instead? Why do you care how old I am?”
As Lia continued to punch the dough, adding the proper ingredients, she spied movement at the top of the loft and saw Sowe rubbing her eyes. That their argument was loud enough to have awakened her was surprising. Quietly, Sowe climbed down the ladder and disappeared behind the changing screen.