The Forsaken Throne (Kingfountain #6)(96)

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, 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 mantel.” 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. It is 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.

Jeff Wheeler’s Muirwood Trilogies—Legends of Muirwood and Covenant of Muirwood—are available from 47North.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo ? 2016 Mica Sloan

Wall Street Journal bestselling author Jeff Wheeler took an early retirement from his career at Intel in 2014 to write full-time. He is, most importantly, a husband, a father, and a devout member of his church. He is often seen roaming hills with oak trees and granite boulders in California or in any number of the state’s majestic redwood groves. He is also the founder of Deep Magic: The E-zine of Clean Fantasy and Science Fiction. Find out more about Deep Magic online at www.deepmagic.co, and visit Jeff at www.jeff-

wheeler.com.