“Ugh, you smell horrible. Here is some cheese.” She handed it to him.

He took the cheese and started into it. “Bread?”

“The dough is rising. Now give me your shirt. Look at those stains. I am going to wash my dress now.”

“It is not needed. I will not be staying here long.”

“Three days is long enough with smelly clothes, and I will not steal you a shirt. That would be something I could not explain.” She held out her hand and wrinkled her nose. “I can smell you from here.”

He hesitated.

“Quickly! Pasqua will not be gone for long.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

He grit his teeth with anger. “Very well. Turn around.”

For a moment, she thought he was utterly insane. That he, a knight – a squire, or whatever – was too timid around…around her? But then she noticed something she had not observed. A silver gleam beneath the collar.

“You wear a chaen shirt! You are a maston yourself?”

He closed his eyes, his face looking as if he’d bitten through lemonwort, peel and all. He trembled with anger, but he mastered it. Opening his eyes, he looked at her with disgust. “You are a wretched. How do you know these things?”

His reaction was silly considering their location. “Sir…this is Muirwood Abbey. We receive visits from mastons each fortnight. We have our own silversmith to make the shirts, for those learners who achieve it. Otherwise they are handed down…”

“From father to son. This was my father’s.”

“If you wear it, then he must be dead or very old.”

He scowled at her again. “Do not mock the dead.”

“Why not? Do you fear hurting their feelings? Can I have your shirt now? I will not tell anyone you are a maston, if that is what troubles you.”

He untied the lacings on the front and pulled it over his head then thrust it at her. The chaen shirt beneath was beautiful and more exquisite than ones crafted at Muirwood. The shimmering links extended to his forearms and draped down his neck. The border was treated with the symbol she had seen on the sword – interlocking square-stars along the fringe.

“Stop looking at me,” he said gruffly. “Wash the stains and bring it back.” He nestled back into the shadows, below the window where the light blinded her and folded his arms gruffly. The chaen shirt did not jangle as he moved. It was quiet, like the whisper of silk. Mastons who wore them had proven skills at hearing the whispers through the Medium, and had passed the tests of knowledge required to enter the inner sanctuary of the abbey.

Lia folded the shirt as she backed away, then turned back and looked at him. “Since you are a maston…you know you can claim sanctuary in the abbey. No one could force you to leave, not even the king himself. It is the oldest privilege of the abbey. You know that, do you not?”

Silence was her reply.

She turned and went to the ladder, wondering if she should add some woad to the wash and turn the shirt a different color out of spite. As she descended, she heard his voice, barely more than a mutter. But she did not make out the words.

Taking Sowe’s extra dress from the chest beneath the loft, along with her own soiled one – the vomit-stink was as bad as the squire’s – she dropped them all into a wicker basket. After fetching her blue cloak from a peg and raising the hood to cover the mass of untidy hair, she hoisted the basket and headed into the rain.

Lia left the stone path leading to the manor. The lawns were squishy and wet, the air was chill, the rain steady. She joined another paved path that would take her around towards the Cider Orchard, and she was a little muddy by the time she reached it. In the past, she dreaded going to the laundry. But today, everything felt alive with excitement. A squire hiding in the Aldermaston’s kitchen! The king’s sheriff on his way! Clouds loomed over the grounds, painting even the flowers with somberness, but they could not quell her mood. She walked with bold strides, trying to reach the laundry before getting soaked. Inwardly, she was pleased with herself. Pasqua was wary, but that was normal. She knew the woman was incapable of climbing the loft ladder. Three days was not long at all. Feeding the squire would be easy as well. She wondered what she could expect from him for the food and shelter.

As she followed her path, she caught sight of the cloister in the haze of rain. The cloister was where the learners were locked away doing their lessons. It was offset from the Abbey walls, not a towering structure, just a series of four covered walkways that opened into a garden square in the middle. The doors in and out were always locked, and helpers were never permitted to enter because of the costly metals used in their craft. When the hours of study and engraving were complete, the learners were allowed out to wander the grounds, tease the helpers, and generally make life difficult for everyone. Only in the cloister could a boy or girl learn the secrets of reading and engraving tomes. The secrets were fiercely guarded. Lia stared at the building. It was the only thing in her life that made her truly jealous. To have her own tome, to choose which ancient passages to engrave, to listen to whispers from the past by reading their words.