The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 1)

“Did the Aldermaston use the Medium on the sheriff?” another said.

And it was usually after such a question that Pasqua would roar a new order and fill the kitchen with her hostility and insistence that no boy was or ever had hidden there. Lia watched to be sure the old cook wasn’t adding salt instead of sugar to the countless sweet dishes they were preparing. That she had to prepare her best meals for soldiers who had spoiled her kitchen and run roughshod over the grounds brought out Pasqua’s most colorful language.

Lia worked feverishly, but she also felt feverish. The sheriff’s words haunted her. I think I knew your father.

Pasqua had told her to forget it as soon as the king’s men had left the kitchen. The man was a sheriff, she had said, and they would use any trick or torture to get someone to confess a wrongdoing. Sowe, on the other hand, had seemed almost jealous. Her feelings were hurt because Lia had again blamed her for something she had not done – sneaking out to see the horses. Finding a man who may have known Lia’s father was the fulfillment of every wretched’s secret dreams, so jealousy was a natural response to it.

As Lia tasted some broth, she thought about the sheriff. As she climbed into the loft for a pumpkin to cook, she thought about the armiger. One cannot be a wretched without pondering deeply the reason for being abandoned, but Lia was not the kind of person who felt sorry for herself very often or resented knowledge she had not earned.

As a helper in the Abbey kitchen, it was one of her duties to serve the guests who stayed with the Aldermaston. The hall was nearly full with the sheriff and his retinue, along with all the learners and the teachers. It was a boisterous occasion, full of laughter and jesting. The learners were giddy with the change in routine. The teachers seemed cautious and reserved, surreptitiously looking at the Aldermaston who sat at the head of the hall, brooding.

She ladled stew into a learner’s bowl, but a voice sounded on her other side.

“Hello, Lia.”

It was Duerden. She almost had not seen him, since he sat so low in the chair. She turned and ladled soup into his dish.

“What have the king’s men been talking about?” she asked him in a whisper.

“A silly thing. War. The king has summoned an army. A waste of taxes. Such a waste.” He took a sip from his cup of cider.

“Where?” she asked, pausing by his chair, her eyes darting from face to face. Almaguer was talking to a teacher at the other end of the table. He had not seen her enter.

“Where what, Lia?”

“Where is the army gathering? Where are they going?”

“I am not sure gathering is the right word to use. Assembling or mustering are good alternatives.”

She wanted to sigh. “Where is the army mustering?” she asked patiently.

“They claim that rebels are gathering at Winterrowd, wherever that is. There may be a battle soon. A whole army — how expensive. What if the rumors are not true? Such an expense.”

Lia swallowed. Winterrowd. She had never heard of it before, but that was not surprising since she had never left the abbey in her life. Every time visitors came, so did news from the outside and everyone gossiped about it for days. The learners were always the first to hear, and then scraps began to be tossed down to the helpers. She liked Duerden because he treated her like Family.

“Do any of the learners have to go fight for the king?” she asked, giving him another helping of soup.

He took a slice of bread from beneath a linen wrap in the basket in front of him. He bit into it, thinking as he chewed. “I think only Reuven is old enough. This is very good bread.”

Lia crossed to the other side of his chair and served the next learner, a girl named Aloia who had a jeweled choker and stared at her with anger for not having served the soup yet.

Lia bent down and whispered near Duerden’s ear, “Tomorrow, tell me everything you hear about the war. Meet me by the duck pond after studies.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

She gave him a pleading look. “Please, Duerden. I will dance with you on Whitsunday if you do.”

His complexion went pink and she hurried to the next learner and kept ladling soup. Glancing up, she saw the sheriff still talking to the teacher – except this time, he was staring at her. She did not know if he had spied her talking to Duerden.

When the crock was empty, she left the hall through the rear doors and started back to the kitchen to refill it.

“Lia,” the Aldermaston called from behind.

It was just the two of them, alone in the corridor near his chamber. She stared at him, cradling the crock in her arms. “Yes?”