“I will not,” the Aldermaston said, his voice turning hard. “I will not allow you to threaten anyone in this abbey.”
“Threaten her?” said the sheriff, coming even closer to Lia. “You mistake me, Aldermaston. And you injure my tender feelings. If the report I heard is true, and if you are harboring a fugitive in your kitchen, my questioning would be best posed to the girl alone where you cannot influence her answers. I am sure she would say anything to protect you.”
“This is nonsense and ingratitude,” Pasqua said, bristling. She clenched a long spoon in her hand like a weapon. “This is my kitchen. The doors are locked every night. I will not hear another word of this nonsense. You are tearing this place asunder before my own eyes. Your soldiers are looting my stores. Now begone, you rascals! I’ll not let you lay a hand on either of these children. Now let her go. Let her go!” Pasqua swatted at the one holding Sowe, and he hastily backed away from her. She stood between them.
“I wish to speak to the girls alone,” the sheriff said, his voice calm, his eyes earnest.
“You will not,” Pasqua said. “Ask what you will, but you will in my presence.”
“Your cook has spirit, Aldermaston,” the sheriff said.
“You will find that spirit throughout the abbey,” he replied. “Lia, child, if a wounded soldier were hiding in this kitchen, would you know of it?”
“Yes, Aldermaston,” she replied, looking at him, not the sheriff. “There are only two doors to get in, and little room to hide as you can see, and we…”
“Lock both doors at night, yes,” he said. “Your men have seen for themselves that there is no one hiding in either kitchen. Nor has any soldier or maston or fugitive sought sanctuary inside the abbey itself. 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.