The Ciphers of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood #2)(20)

“Who, Owen?” Maia pressed. “Who did my father send?”

Owen’s eyes darted to Dodd’s stern face. “The new Earl of Forshee. With a retinue of thirty men and the sheriff of Mendenhall. The Aldermaston told me to bring you to the tunnels so you both cannot be seen. Oh filth, there he is!”





The failure to master anger is the most common one among mastons. It is a wall that prevents the Medium from reaching us. For he that will be angry for anything will be angry for nothing.

—Richard Syon, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER SEVEN




Forshee



Maia recognized the badge on the soldier’s tunic—the swooping eagle of the Forshee earldom. The soldier approached them through the mist, followed by two others.

“I found him!” the soldier shouted. He had an unkempt beard and a scowling face. “Here is the lad, cavorting with wretcheds. Drop the basket, son. You are coming with us.”

Dodd’s face went taut with controlled anger. He swung the basket down and handed it to Celia.

“I obey the Aldermaston’s summons, not yours,” he answered evenly.

“You will obey the Earl of Forshee’s summons, lad, if you know what is best for you.”

“I have sanctuary on these grounds.”

The man snorted. “Not for long, cub. We are taking you to the Aldermaston.” He stepped closer, his face menacing. “Come freely if you will, or I am just as pleased to drag you. What shall it be?”

Maia’s anger kindled at the disrespect being shown to Dodd. Neither of the men saw past her wretched gown.

“I will come,” Dodd said.

“Wise choice. Best if we did not shame you in front of the girls. Begone!” he snapped at them. Celia flinched and darted away. Maia followed, her heart pounding fast with fury. By her side was Owen, who wrung his hands and muttered to himself.

“Not fast enough,” he said. “I ruined it.”

Maia put her hand on his shoulder. “It is not your fault. I am going to the tunnels. Tell the Aldermaston I will be waiting in the antechamber. Where is my grandmother?”

“She is already at the manor.”

Maia nodded, walking vigorously. Celia, who had started out ahead, was hard pressed to keep up. “Do you think there will be violence?” Celia asked worriedly.

“I would hope not. Violating an abbey’s peace risks summoning its defenses.”

“What do you think the soldier meant? He said Dodd would not have sanctuary for long.”

“I do not know,” Maia replied, her mind whirling with possibilities, none of them good. She parted company with Celia and steered toward the manor house in the fog. There were several other soldiers walking the grounds, but the wretched’s dress she wore ensured they also ignored her. As she neared the manor, she heard voices through the mist, but the words were garbled, and she could make no sense of them.

When she reached the manor, she quickly maneuvered through the underground passageway to the anteroom just off the Aldermaston’s personal chambers. As she carefully and quietly climbed the ladder up to the ground floor, she heard raised voices coming from his room. She pushed on the trapdoor cautiously, barely enough to budge it, but it suddenly swung open. Someone above her had pulled it. Her heart leaped with fear before she realized it was her grandmother waiting there, her finger on her mouth in a gesture for silence.

Maia climbed the final rungs, and they set the trapdoor down softly.

“I will not go with you,” Dodd’s voice declared angrily. “I have chosen refuge in Muirwood, and here will I stay.”

“Your decision is foolish,” returned another voice, a voice she recognized. The new Earl of Forshee was the one who had driven her out of her father’s palace. He was a towering, bearlike man, grizzled in age, and utterly ruthless—loyal only to her father. After seizing the earldom, he had immediately begun to purge all of his predecessors’ supporters. She had heard him occasionally referenced as the king’s hammer.

“How long have we known each other, Richard Syon?” the earl asked. “Since we were lads?” His voice dripped with malice.

The Aldermaston’s reply was devoid of emotion. “We have known each other for the better part of forty years, Kord. We passed the maston test at the same abbey.”

“You always wanted to be an Aldermaston,” sneered the earl. “You could have been a lord of the realm. A privy councilor. Instead you chose this swampy land and its sulfurous bogs.”

There was silence. “I did not choose it, Kord,” the Aldermaston said simply. “I answered a call to serve. The court suits your personality better than it ever would mine.”

“Ah, Richard. Always so sanctimonious. What a coward you are. But then you have always been short and fat. I suppose a soldier’s life would never have suited you.”

“Probably not,” the Aldermaston replied humbly.

“Well, hopefully the life of a wayfarer does. I come bearing news from the king.”

“Thank you. I see you brought the sheriff of Mendenhall with you. Greetings, Rupert.”

“Hello, Aldermaston,” came the reply, in a voice devoid of any emotion.

“Will you begin an inquest into Queen Catrin’s death?” the Aldermaston asked.