Free The Wretched of Muirwood by Jeff Wheeler Page B

There are laws governing that, as you well know. As I told you before, Almaguer, I would like to conclude this rude interruption. The learners and helpers will gossip for months, if not years, over this incident. Not a single productive thing has happened in the abbey since you arrived. It was an enthralling display of horsemanship, weapon-mastery, and an unmitigated show of contempt for my authority here. Which, I feel impressed to remind you of once again, you have no authority here.”
    “I am sheriff at Mendenhall,” the man replied angrily. “I am the king’s man in this Hundred.”
    “A sheriff has authority over every place where the king’s tax is collected. Muirwood Abbey does not owe the king’s tax. It never has, not since its founding. I offer you my hospitality and the hospitality of our blacksmiths, our cider, our stores, even the hospitality of my own personal cook. If you wish to be invited to celebrate Whitsunday here this season or any season in the future, then accept my hospitality as a welcome guest. Otherwise, I will report your conduct to the king and tell him you defied my authority with no proof and nothing beyond an idle report of what? A drunkard? Have I made myself clear on this point? To be sure, I will say it again. Come enjoy the rest of this day with us as our welcomed guests, or you will never step foot on the abbey grounds again.”
    Lia watched the Aldermaston with amazement. A little smile crept to her mouth at his words. When she glanced at the sheriff she saw that he was not looking at all at the Aldermaston. He had not taken his eyes from her.
    Summoning a smile to wash away the anger brooding in his eyes, the sheriff said, “I accept your gracious hospitality, Aldermaston.” He followed the Aldermaston a few steps, and then stopped, turning back and staring at Lia again. “When was she left on the abbey steps – nearly fourteen years ago?”
    The Aldermaston’s eyes blazed with anger. His lips pressed together and his hands clenched at his sides. Lia’s mouth went dry as a hunger – a deep hunger – roared inside of her.
    “It must have been fourteen years ago,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the Aldermaston’s fury. Stroking his beard, he said softly to Lia, “I think I knew your father.”
    The Aldermaston’s words were cold and short. “You have said more than enough, sheriff.”
     
    * * *
     
    The day was a blur of activity. Both kitchens worked furiously to feed the sudden influx of mouths and beasts, but Pasqua’s kitchen bore the brunt of it. The three worked slavishly, kneading dough, preparing sauces, cutting meat. Wronen Butcher carved up a cow and had the pieces delivered to each kitchen. Additional help from the larger kitchen joined the fray, though they sent the younger ones to help scrub the pots and clean the wooden spoons.
    “Was there truly a knight hiding here?” one asked.
    “Did the Aldermaston use the Medium on the sheriff?” another said.
    And it was usually after such a question that Pasqua would roar a new order and fill the kitchen with her hostility and insistence that no boy was or ever had hidden there. Lia watched to be sure the old cook wasn’t adding salt instead of sugar to the countless sweet dishes they were preparing. That she had to prepare her best meals for soldiers who had spoiled her kitchen and run roughshod over the grounds brought out Pasqua’s most colorful language.
    Lia worked feverishly, but she also felt feverish. The sheriff’s words haunted her. I think I knew your father .
    Pasqua had told her to forget it as soon as the king’s men had left the kitchen. The man was a sheriff, she had said, and they would use any trick or torture to get someone to confess a wrongdoing. Sowe, on the other hand, had seemed almost jealous. Her feelings were hurt because Lia had again blamed her for something she had not done – sneaking out to see the horses. Finding a man who may have known Lia’s father was the