Lia turned to the good man. “Do you have any cider in the cellar? You do? Get a keg, quickly!”
Food and drink aplenty. Honor to soldiers who represented the king’s sheriff. Lia approached the cook, hoping the woman did not recognize her yet. The tall woman turned, looking at her. Her eyes were worn and puffy, her hair long and dark and with long stands of silver interspersed. Part of her belly bulged, and Lia remembered seeing the baby in the crib and wondered how new and fresh it was to the world. The tray of food was the distraction. What she needed, she knew the Pilgrim must have in its stores.
“Where is your valerianum?” Lia asked in a soft voice. It was an herb Pasqua used when she could not fall asleep, or when someone else needed the remedy. Too much of it in her tea, and she overslept the next morning. Sometimes Lia wondered if she did it like that on purpose.
The cook started, her eyes widening as she realized what Lia had in mind. “Yes…but it is pungent…like cheese…they would taste it…”
“The cider,” Lia said, “is sweet and strong.”
“You are right,” the cook said, nodding. She gave Lia a hard look, her mouth tightening into a small, tense frown. Then she went to her stock of herbs and quickly found the sealed pot from the upper shelf.
“Cider,” the good man said, coming up with a cask under his arm. He nearly tripped over the littlest girl, who had wandered over as he climbed up the ladder. “Careful there. Guard your little sister’s crib, Aimee. Over there, go.” He juggled the small barrel a moment and then brought them to the table and fished around for a tap to pound into the keystone.
The oldest daughter approached Lia, holding forth a leather pouch with strings to cinch it closed.
“Your name is Bryn?” Lia asked.
“Yes,” the girl whispered, then smiled. She wore the same kind of dress and girdle as Lia, brown instead of woad blue. Her arms were dark and she was nearly as tall as Lia.
Lia slid the orb into the pouch and tied it to her girdle belt. She caught the girl’s hand as she was about to go back. “When you take the tray upstairs, Bryn, look at everything in the room. Listen carefully. The prisoner has a scar on his eyebrow. If you can, tell the soldiers you will fetch a healer and then I will come with you when you return for the tray. Can you remember all that?”
“I remember very well. Mother taught me.”
For a moment, Lia was jealous of her. They were working together in the kitchen, each doing a part, even the littlest daughter. A father. A mother. Several children, each part of something that Lia never had – a family.
The kitchen door shoved open and Brant rushed in. “Three upstairs with the soldier. I brought some coals for the brazier. Three in the common room. The rest are at the Abbey causing a ruckus, including the ugly sheriff.” His eyes gleamed. “That means there are only six. If I get my friends, we can…”
The father snorted viciously. “You will do nothing more than get your head split open, Brant. Grab me the mallet over there. Over there…by the grain bag.”
“I will get the mallet,” Lia said, joining the bustle. “Brant – you need to do something else. Saddle a horse and have it waiting in the back.”
The grin that met her was glorious.
The good man turned on her. “If the sheriff’s men return…”
Lia smirked. “The Aldermaston will keep them talking. He is very capable of being long-winded in his tongue lashings.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to Brant. “But your father is right. We need to be cautious. If you are found out, say you were given four pence to saddle it up. No one else would question you twice about that kind of excuse.” Then another idea. The image of the thief shone in her mind. “If they ask you who paid you, then say a man with a maston sword, nearly a beard, and dirty boots and reeked of mutton. A plain shirt, with a brown collar, mud-spattered and…”
Brant looked at her in shock. “With a quirky eyebrow that twitches a bit? And he talks very fast?”
Lia was stunned. “He looks like a vagrant, but he is…”
Brant interrupted her again. “…In the common room right now with the sheriff’s men. He’s the one who tricked the prisoner into coming here and claimed the reward. A mound of coins, I swear it!’
Lia balled her hand into a fist.
* * *
“It is difficult to explain how touching the Medium actually occurs. Communion with it always begins with a thought. Thoughts are powerful things. Thoughts fed by strong emotions can become real. At Crowland Abbey, there is an Aldermaston who has a very faithful steward. Their love and respect for each other is well known. I have myself heard of how this steward finishes the sentences of his master. He is so in harmony with the Medium and his master’s thoughts, that he can hear them before they are spoken. Distance has no effect whatsoever on its efficacy. This steward can stand before the king, speaking in the Aldermaston’s name. Their thoughts are perfectly entwined. Those who are strong in the Medium can often read the thoughts of others, friends or enemies. We are each of us sending thoughts into the aether. Most are undisciplined and vanish into nothingness. But consider this carefully. Some thoughts are powerful enough to forge new kingdoms.”