The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

The Whitsun Fair – the event every wretched in the abbey longed for out of the year. The time when the gates were opened and the villagers and abbey mingled. Visitors from all over the country descended on Muirwood to buy kegs of cider, to trade leather for silk, or to taste the famous dishes that could only be found there. And then when the sun had set, the torches and lanterns would bring a second dawn as the young men and women gathered around the maypole, clasped hands, and danced, weaving colorful sashes down the length of it.

Lia lifted her head, her heart nearly breaking with sorrow. “Colvin, this Whitsunday was to be my first in the dancing circle. My very first. There was a learner…a first-year…I promised…” She blinked away fresh tears. “I promised him I would dance with him. I have broken that promise now, and I will never get that chance again to dance around the maypole.”

Colvin said nothing after that, but his eyes were downcast with sympathy. There really was nothing he could say.



The crunch of a twig woke her, woke them both. The moon was beyond the horizon. It was dark, and Lia shivered, her body huddled up as tight as a walnut. The horse nickered from the far side of the hill, but the cracking sound had come much closer.

Colvin’s voice was a pale whisper. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” she answered, her heart bulging in her throat.

“Lay still.” In the darkness, she heard the faint sound of Colvin’s sword dragging clear its scabbard.

Her heart beat frantically. The sherrif’s men had found them. Or was is Almaguer alone, as in her dream? Was the dream a shadow of what would happen? Was it a vision? The helplessness of not being able to awaken made her want to run, to flee from the presence sneaking up on them.

She heard the soft hiss of wild grass, of boots coming down delicately on spongy mud, but not quite able to conceal the noise. The sound was close. She trembled, for her back was to it. She could not see. Her ears strained for clues as to how far back. Only one set of boots. Good – that gave Colvin a fighting chance. Suddenly, she was grateful he had practiced earlier, readying his swordsmanship to face this threat.

Part of her back itched, as if its shadow were tickling her. She could hear breathing in the stillness, the huff of breath of someone who climbed a hill. It reminded her of the smoke shapes and she shivered even more. What was she supposed to do? Lay there? What would Colvin do? Her stomach twisted with fear. What if Colvin were killed?

Somewhere far off, a night owl hooted. That was the moment that Colvin struck. She heard him first, but he charged, his body leaping over hers. She rolled the other way and sat up, watching him attack. The blade whistled down, met steel with a spray of sparks, two blades clashing like lightning strokes. A counter strike, then another block, followed by several more, each one ringing into the night with jarring sound. The slick, cracking hiss of the blades frightened her. Then the attack stopped, and both were circling each other, swords raised to guarding positions. Their bodies were shadows in the dark.

The pause lasted a moment, then Colvin lunged in, high, low, high – blade arcing in dizzying circles. The defender parried, high, low, high, stepped in and grabbed Colvin’s arm. Their bodies slammed into each other, wrestling for control, then separated. Colvin hobbled slightly, as if the attacker had stomped on his foot. Again they circled each other in defensive position, breathing heavily.

Lia was helpless. What could she do to turn the battle in Colvin’s favor? Nothing would protect her from the cruel edge of the blade. She had no defense, other than distance by keeping away from him.

Colvin lunged the third time – and tripped. It may have been a wet stone, the mud and grass, or maybe the injured foot. Lia gasped as she watched him go down, slamming his elbow then fighting to regain his feet. The adversary’s short blade pressed up against his exposed neck. It was a short blade, and she recognized it. She recognized the scabbard attached high on his girdle.

“Yield,” he said. “I have not come all this way to kill you. Lia – are you near?”

The voice. The gait. The gladius.

It was Jon Hunter.



“The greatest achievement was at first and for a time only a dream. Just as the oak sleeps in the acorn, and the bird waits in the egg, so dreams are the seedlings of realities. Beware, therefore, what you dream of. For some dreams are given by the Medium to inspire us by what may yet be. Others are planted within us by others, foul seeds, that we harvest to our destruction.”





- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey



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CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE:


Lia’s Leering





The drink was from a leather waterskin, and yet it tasted to Lia like fresh rainwater from a ladle. She swallowed at first, then gulped, and Jon Hunter yanked it away from her.

“Easy, Lia. There is little to share.” He handed it to Colvin, who still glowered and massaged his foot, but took it anyway and sipped.

“How did you find us?” Colvin asked, chafing his hands in the dark then put his boot back on.

Jon snorted, breaking a piece of bread in half and handed them each a crust. “I am a hunter, lad.” The loaf was slightly stale, but soft enough inside to melt in her mouth, while the outside crunched with little seeds. It tasted like Pasqua’s bread. It was delicious beyond words.