The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(95)

“Locked. Won’t be able to cross the river again if I stay here much longer . . . let me see if I can open it.” A dagger came through the crack and struggled against the crossbar, making Lia skip back with shock. Learners did not carry daggers!

“There we go . . . oh piddle, the crossbar is too heavy. Sorry, lad. Looks like you will be bleeding to death here. How the Abbey help will love a corpse on the porch instead of a wretched. But what is there to do? Well, I suppose I could knock.”

Lia clenched her hands around the skillet handle, wondering if she should open the doors. A firm pounding startled her. “For the love of life, is anyone there? I have a wounded man with me. Is anyone there?”

She bit her lip, wondering if she should sneak out the rear doors and waken Pasqua. The old woman snored so loudly, it would take more than distant pounding to wake her from her dreams, though sometimes she snored herself awake. Something thumped outside, and she thought she heard the chinking sound of spurs. What kind of man wore spurs? Few soldiers could afford horses. But knight-mastons could. At least she thought they could, knight-mastons and the nobles.

Thoughts of the Aldermaston did not make the choice any easier. She knew she could just as easily be scolded for deciding either way. What were you thinking, Lia, letting two rough men into the kitchen in the dead of night? What were you thinking, Lia, letting a man bleed to death on the porch of Muirwood?

Looking at it that way, she supposed there was really only one choice to make. How could she let a man die, especially if he was a maston? Would not the king be greatly angered if one of his knights died? Especially considering the king was renowned for his cruelty.

Yet why would two of the king’s men be wandering about Muirwood anyway? The gates were always locked during the night, so they must have approached the grounds from the rear instead of the village. Why? Would they treat someone kindly who helped?

Perhaps a few coins? Or even greater generosity?

That decided her.

Lia set the pan on a table, lifted the crossbar, and pulled open the door—and fell over when a man stumbled inside.

“Sweet mother of Idumea!” the man gasped, flailing and sidestepping to keep from squashing her. He was dripping wet, smelled like the hog pens, and his face looked more scratchy than a porcupine. A body collapsed with a thump just outside, and she saw glistening red streaking down his face.

“You scared me, lass! Fans or fires, that is horrible to do to someone.” He regained his balance, all quickness and grace, and grabbed her hand and arm to help her stand. After wiping his mouth, which caused a rasping sound, he turned and hoisted the other fellow under the arms and dragged him the rest of the way inside. As he pulled, she saw the sword belted at his waist. It was a fine sword, the pommel glinting in the dim light of the oven fires. It bore the insignia on the pommel—an eight-pointed star, formed of two offset squares.

“You are a knight-maston!” Lia whispered.

His head jerked and he looked her in the face. “How did you know?”

“The sword, it is . . . well you see, I have heard that they . . .”

“A clever lass. Quick as a wisp. Help me drag him over to that mat. Grab his legs.”

She did, and helped move the wounded man in out of the rain.

They set him down on the rush matting. The wounded man was younger than she first thought, pale and clean-shaven, with dripping, dark hair.

She crouched down and studied him. “I can help,” she said.

“Bring me that lamp. The one over there.” She was anxious to flaunt her apothecary skills, earned when a rush of fevers struck the Abbey two winters ago. He obeyed and produced it.

The injured one was no older than seventeen or eighteen—a man for certain, but one young enough to still have the blemishes of youth on his face. His hair was cropped short around his neck. His build somewhat resembled that of Getmin, the blacksmith’s help who loved to torment her.

“Is this your squire?” she asked. “We should have carried him closer to the fire. He is bone cold. I can start the fire quickly.”

“Squire? Well, he is . . . he is a good lad. Not my squire, though.

His father was a good man. How old are you lass? Sixteen?”

“I am thirteen. At least I think so. I am a wretched.”

“I would not have believed you thirteen. You look tall enough to have danced beneath a maypole already.”

“I am hoping to this year, if the Aldermaston lets me. I am near enough to fourteen and think he should.” The blood flowed from a cut on the young man’s eyebrow. She stanched it firmly with a cloth.

It might take a while to make it stop as the cut was deep. She glanced up at the loft, half expecting to see Sowe cowering there, but there was no one. Part of her was glad that Sowe was asleep.

“I always try to make it to Muirwood for Whitsunday. A most profitable day it is.”

“You mean the tourneys or the trading?”

“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.”