The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

“Yes, yes, the tourneys. Nothing like bumping a man onto his hindquarters. And I most gravely apologize for knocking you onto yours just now. My, look at that wound. That is a nasty cut.” He looked into Lia’s eyes and she felt a sudden jolt of warmth. “Rode his piddling mare right into an oak branch. Too many trees here, lass. Too dark and the storm made it worse! Praise the Medium we are both still alive. Let me grab another cloth and we can wring out that one. Wait here.”


Lia knelt by the limp body, her stomach buzzing, and pressed the wound harder. She looked over her shoulder and watched the knight slice a shank from the spitted hog and stuff it into a leather bag at his waist. It was followed by three buttered rolls and a whole cherry tart.

“Those are for the Aldermaston’s dinner tomorrow!” she whispered in a panic, knowing exactly who Pasqua would blame. “The hog is not even done cooking yet!”

“There we are, a cloth!” He snatched one of the fine linen napkins and hurried over, licking his fingers. He held out the napkin to exchange with hers.

“That is one of the Aldermaston’s napkins!”

“Is a lad’s life held so cheaply here? We must stop the bleeding. Here, put your hand on this and hold it tight. The linen will sop the blood better.” He grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand against the bleeding.

“That is not the way to do it,” she said. “Here, let me fetch some things. I can cure him.” Lia ran to the benches and grabbed some clean dishrags and a kettle of warm water from the fire-peg, and a sprig of blue woad. She watched as the knight grabbed two more tarts, veins of grapes, and a small tub of treacle and stuffed them into his leather knapsack.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmmm? Victuals, lass. I will leave a little pouch with coins on the mantle.” He pointed to the fire.

“Pasqua will be furious,” Lia muttered under her breath, arranging the healing provisions near the young man’s head. She steeped the cloth with some hot water and wiped blood from his face. He did not flinch or start, but his eyes darted beneath his eyelids. His body started to tremble. She grabbed his hand.

“He is too cold. Where is his cloak?” She poured more hot water and wrung out the cloth, bathing his face a second time before wadding it up and pressing it against the cut on his eyebrow. If Sowe were awake, she could have helped pestle the woad. But Lia was left to do it all herself.

The knight’s shadow smothered her from behind. She turned her head and looked up at him.

He nodded. “Woad? Ah, you studied under a healer as well as a cook? It is a useful plant. You are a good lass. Make him well. I will be back for him in three days. Keep him hidden, if you can.”

Panic. Pure and sudden panic.

“What? You are not going to…not leaving him…”

“I must throw the sheriff of Mendenhall’s men off our trail, lass. Dangerous for mastons in this part of the country. Especially this Hundred.” He walked quickly to the door and the rain puddling on the entryway. “Keep him safe. If Almaguer comes, do your best to hide him. His life is in your hands. I am trusting you in this.”

“No! He cannot stay here. I am only a helper. I cannot…”

“You do what you can, lass. You do your best. I am trusting you.” And he ducked his head into the rain, clenched the hilt of his maston sword, and disappeared into the storm.



“It is the tradition at abbeys throughout the lands to bestow on a wretched a surname until they are adopted into a proper Family. Thus if a wretched girl named Binne were trained in the laundry, she would be called Binne Lavender. Or a boy given to serve in the forge could be called Gilbert Smith. Thus it is not uncommon to find any number of individuals with the same surname of Tailor, Cook, or Shepherd. In time, and through the mercy of the Medium, they may be adopted into a proper Family, and by the Medium’s power, it is as if they were born in that Family originally. Their blood changes and the stigma of their birth is washed clean.”





- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey



*





CHAPTER THREE:


Blue Woad





Sowe could sleep through thunder, snoring, bumping, shaking, rattling pans, and on occasion, screaming. Even worse, she fell asleep moments after lying down. This made her a horrible companion, especially if Lia had something important to tell her, like the time that Getmin had shoved Lia’s pitcher into the well because it was in his way and how she had managed to dye a noticeable swath of his hair and cheek blue in revenge. Woad was a useful plant, after all, and not just for curing wounds.

“Sowe, wake up! Wake up!” Lia shook her – hard.

Sowe moaned, mumbled something that sounded like alderwort, and rolled over.

“Sowe! Wake up. Wake up. I need your help.” This was accompanied with a lot more shaking. Harder shaking. Then a pinch.

“Lia – I hate you.”

Even though the words hurt Lia’s feelings, it sounded more like she was saying, “I was having a very good dream and you just woke me up from it.” She forgave her instantly.

“Someone is hurt and we must hide him. Sowe – look. There is a knight on the floor. Well, not exactly a knight, but the other one was a knight-maston. He is hurt. Look.”