The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

“How old is this inn?”


“Since Muirwood was built. When the royalty visit and send their children to learn, there is not room on the grounds for everyone. The Pilgrim is the closest, so we prosper from their visits. I have even served the king’s cousins before.”

In her mind Lia thought, You are serving another of his cousins today as well.

“How long has your family been in the village?” They walked up the final flight to the top floor and then started down the hall. Her stomach twisted tighter with each step. What would Colvin do when he saw her. Accuse her? Gasp with shock? She had to remedy that.

“I was born here,” Bryn said. “We all were – here in the village. Sometimes I wish I was born a wretched and could live in the abbey. It is comforting being so near to its walls…its protection. But I wish we were not living on this side.”

“You cannot wish you were a wretched,” Lia said darkly. “No one would wish that.”

“My brother almost was. Brant is not my real brother. Well, he is now. But he was not born to my parents. But the Aldermaston made him so. He is my brother, and now his blood is the same as ours. People think we are twins, but we are not. How big is your family?”

Lia bit her lip. “I cannot say. Is that the door? Be ready.”

Bryn opened it for her.

She did not recognize any of the sheriff’s men and thanked the Medium for the mercy.

“Brickolm, that was a meal. I cannot finish this helping, do you want it?”

“I will take it.”

“You are always hungry.”

“And why? Because they do not feed us well on the saddle. Our hunger is shameful. Shameful.”

Lia glanced at the three soldiers and quickly assumed the manners of Sowe. She did not meet any of their gazes. She slouched her shoulders. She summoned up all her fatigue and wore it like a cloak.

One of the sheriff’s men, a heavyset man with a scraggy beard and very little hair, approached them and looked at the items on the tray, one by one. He paused at one item. “And what is this? Smells like fat.”

“Goose grease,” Lia mumbled. “A salve.” She swallowed and looked down at her shoes, trembling.

“Goose grease?”

“Shame it were not Gooseberry Fool, eh?” chortled one of the others. “Now there is a fine dish if you can get it. I swear, Moise, if you keep yawning, I am going to kick you. Stop it!”

“I cannot…h.h.help it,” the other said, yawning mid-word. “I cannot half keep my eyes open today.”

“If we were outside, it would be far easier.” The sheriff’s man went to the window and ducked his head out. “Sweet Idumea, the entire village is out there.” He came back in and shook his head. “If Almaguer forces the gate, they might riot. I swear, I think they just might.”

“Then they are fools,” spat another, scratching his throat with a meaty hand. He spit on the floor. “Fools if they do, with the king’s army so near. Go on lass, do your work. Do not just stand there like a stump. Clean up the little braggart and mend his ails so we can kill him properly, a traitor’s death. Stop listening in on your betters.”

That spurred Lia forward, the tray rattling with pretended nervousness as she walked cautiously over to the corner. On the far side was the tall four-post bed, draped with velvet curtains, stuffed and stuffed with feathers and crowded with pillows and blankets. It looked twice the size of Pasqua’s bed, luxurious for a king, and Lia felt the very real desire to drop the tray and pounce up on it herself. Every night of her life she had slept in the loft or on a mat on the kitchen tiles. Near the foot of that spacious bed, Colvin sat on the floor defiantly. His shackled wrists rested atop his knees, his filthy, matted hair hanging in lumps down his brow, his back against the wall. Blood stained the shirt, leaking from the cut on his eyebrow which had reopened as well as his nose and lip. As she set the tray down by his feet, he looked up at her face. His eyes widened with shock.

“Say nothing,” she whispered as she bent over the supplies, opening the lid with the broth.

Glancing back at the soldiers, she saw one yawning so wide it looked like his jaw would break.

“I said stop yawning, you dolt! It makes me…y..y..yawn too. Bridges and ruts! Now you have me doing it! I swear, the next man who yawns gets a fist.”