Thunder rocked the Abbey grounds, and even the thick stone wall thrummed with it. The rain dripped from several loose shingles on the roof, and the plunk-plunking on the mats kept her awake. She was not certain what would be worse, grabbing a few pots to catch the water and listening to the deep blooping sound or cramming her blanket harder against her ears to muffle it.
In the darkness, something heavy lurched against the double doors, and for a moment Lia remembered Jon Hunter bursting in, bearing the news of the landslide. She sat up fast enough to graze her head against the planks of the trestle table nearby. The sound was loud, like when Getmin or Ribbs shoved a barrel full of beans into place. She heard a few low whispers and curses just outside the door, which meant it was likely a pair of learners. Sometimes they snuck out of their rooms at night to wander the grounds, but few were courageous enough to brave the Aldermaston’s personal kitchen. On quiet, bare feet, she padded over and grabbed a skillet from the hook pegs, a wide, flat one made of iron. A heavy wallop on the head was usually all it took to stop a learner.
“Here we are,” a man’s voice whispered. “Easy there, lad. Let me look at you. Bleeding still. Let me see if the kitchen is open.”
The handle rattled and shook.
“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.