The Ciphers of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood #2)(36)

The headsman was looking at her.

A growing realization filled her heart with dread. It was the kishion. He stood there, staring at her, holding the axe meaningfully, as if he meant to threaten her with it. It will be your turn soon, he seemed to whisper in the silence. Lady Deorwynn began to tremble.

“Are you cold, Mother?” Murer asked.

He had not visited her since the night he had infiltrated her bedchamber. Every time she thought back on it, she shuddered with dread. Despite her guards, despite her power, he had slipped into her private chambers as quiet as a shadow and delivered an ultimatum to her. Restore Maia to the king’s favor or else suffer the consequences. How could Lady Deorwynn do that when no one even knew where the girl was? She had her spies searching for Maia constantly. The ship had never returned from Dahomey, though the kishion had been with her and had vouchsafed that she had survived the cursed lands.

The father of the Price clan knelt in front of the block.

“This is a horrid practice,” Murer whispered. “I hate watching. Why do we have to watch?”

“To prove we are strong. To prove we are not cowards. Do not shame me, Murer.”

The eldest Price laid his head down. The stroke was swift and sure. There was an audible sigh from the crowd. With their father having set an example of courage, his sons could do no less. Each faced the block without shrinking. Lady Deorwynn had to credit them with that.

Chancellor Crabwell had a little speech prepared. As soon as he finished, it would be over. He stood from the podium where the nobles sat.

“Thus is the fate of traitors to the realm,” Crabwell said in a booming voice. “Let no man or woman defy the king’s will and live. Fix the heads to the tower spikes as a warning to others!”

Lady Deorwynn frowned. Why had he added the part about women? No woman had ever been executed for treason before, so what could Crabwell mean by saying that? She looked to her husband and saw him comforting Jayn Sexton, who seemed to be weeping quietly. His arm was around her shoulder! Lady Deorwynn clenched her fists in seething rage. The girl had not even been a lady-in-waiting for a year. If she were dismissed, it would send a signal to the other girls. Yet she had the irrational suspicion that if she did dismiss Jayn, her husband might countermand her. That would be intolerably humiliating.

“So much blood,” Murer whispered, staring at the scene with wide eyes and a haunted look. “So much.”

Ashy flakes of snow began to fall, startling Lady Deorwynn. The sky had been so clear moments before, but now it was gray and veiled. The snow came down in thick sheets, silent yet substantial—a benediction on the event.

“Can we go now?” Murer asked, and Lady Deorwynn turned without answering and approached her husband. He offered her his arm, having the courtesy to look a little guilty.

Later that evening, she found a bucket on the table in her bedchamber. A red cloth was stuffed in it. It was so strange and curious, she unthinkingly reached inside and lifted the rag. Only then did she realize it was soaked in blood. The earl’s head was nestled beneath it.

It took all her strength of will not to scream.





It is said the greatest remedy for anger is delay. For mastons who cannot restrain their anger will wish undone what their temper and irritation prompted them to do.

—Richard Syon, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




Winterrowd



The earth in her mother’s garden was hard and thick like frozen clay, and Maia worked her muscles hard to get the harrower to break it up. Suzenne knelt beside her, fingers stained with dirt, her gown covered with an apron just as Maia’s was. The breath came out of their mouths in a mist as they continued to work in the bone-aching cold. Maia wiped her itchy cheek on the back of her hand and looked up as Thewliss clomped up with an armful of small black buckets.

“These will grow in winter?” Suzenne asked him, gazing at the sheet of snow covering everything in the garden.

“Um-hum,” Thewliss grunted, still shy to speak. He nodded in satisfaction at their razing of the flower beds and proceeded to pull tufts of roots and stubs from the buckets.

“What are those plants?” Maia asked, watching as he gently detached the roots. She had visited Thewliss in her mother’s garden several times. Each time she tried to coax him out further.

“Cyclamens and winter heath,” he said shortly. His nose was bright and pink and his snowy drooping mustache fluttered as he spoke. “They are pretty.”

“Did my mother like them?” Maia asked, feeling a stab of pain in her heart. The interment of her mother’s body was happening at that very moment in another part of the grounds. Her bones would lie at rest in an ossuary and be buried in the cemetery.

“She did,” Thewliss replied softly. His eyes were shy and reserved, yet full of compassion. “She liked . . . to help plant things too. You remind me of her.” A timid smile flickered across his face.

Maia felt tears well in her eyes, and she reached over and gripped his dirty hand in her own. Sensing her mood, Suzenne reached out and touched her shoulder.

“What else do you plant in winter?” Suzenne asked the old gardener.

“Quite a few things,” Thewliss said, easing his hand away and deftly planting the roots in the freshly churned earth. “Leeks, garlic, onions, asparagus . . .” He sniffed and brushed his nose on his sleeve. “Asparagus . . . I already said that one . . . cabbage. Parsnips too. Those are good. Sometimes peas. Winter lettuce.” He sniffed again. “You can always plant something.” Then he fell quiet as they worked together to plant the flowers.