“I said stop yawning, you dolt! It makes me…y..y..yawn too. Bridges and ruts! Now you have me doing it! I swear, the next man who yawns gets a fist.”

Lia dipped a linen in the broth and pressed it against Colvin’s brow. He said nothing, but his lips and jaw trembled and clenched, as if he were about to speak or shout or rave and only iron determination prevented it. She pressed the linen against his injury and then wrung it out, dipping it again, then squeezed it against his brow until the juices trickled down his face.

What was he thinking at that moment? Were his eyes accusing her of betraying him? Were they warning her to run? Gratitude was certainly not the look. While she held the linen to his head with one hand, her other opened the tub of grease and she scooped some of it up and began smoothing it on his wrists. He winced and stiffened, and she saw the blood there as well. He had been working to slip free of the iron cuffs and the chain had worn his skin raw in the works. Liberally, she applied more of the grease to his wrists and hands.

Behind her, Bryn gathered the tray with scraps of uneaten food, and collected the empty goblets of cider. One of the soldiers was already sleeping at the table.

“Brickolm? Are you daft lad? Brickolm! Look at the fool, asleep on the table!”

Lia looked back, could barely stop a smile from betraying her joy, then turned and scooped up more grease. Colvin nodded slowly and began twisting his wrists, twisting and pulling and straining against the cuffs. His frown was fearsome. His muscles tightened, his fingers pressing together to shorten the gap as much as possible. Then with a fluid slip, one hand came free of the cuff.

Lia mopped the blood from his face with a clean linen, remembering the night on the kitchen floor when she had bathed his face of sweat and blood.

“It is bad enough that we have to stay behind, but it tortures me to see a bed just sitting there. Have you ever slept in a real bed like that, Moise? A real bed, not one stuffed with straw and rats, but a real one.”

“Not like that one. I am sure it costs a pretty crown for a room like this. Brickolm, get up, you fool. If Almaguer catches you napping…do you hear me? Oh, the daft, daft fool.”

“Maid. Fetch us more food. I need something…I need to eat something…to stay awake. Fetch it, I tell you!” He waved his hand at Bryn and she nodded with the tray and left. The door thumped softly behind her, but the smell of the feast lingered in the air like candle smoke.

Colvin strained with the other wrist, twisting it, sliding it, pulling it against the iron cuff. He bit his lip, his neck muscles bulging. Blood dripped from his hand to the floor. Then it came loose.

Lia peeked back at the sheriff’s men. Another sat in the chair, head back, mouth open – eyes closed. One left.

She took the crushed woad petals and dabbed the mixture into his wound again. The pink and scabby flesh looked painful and sore. She hoped the woad would work on it a second time.

The third man ventured to the window and gazed outside. He rubbed his eyes, swearing under his breath. He fought against the powerful force compelling him to sleep. Lia stared at him, willing the valerianum to work faster. He lurched away from the window, planting his hand on the table to steady himself. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his eyelids fluttering, his face going slack. He looked across the room at her, but there was no recognition as he fought a weary battle to stay awake. A battle he was losing.

Lay down, she told him in her mind.

And he did.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

Chalkwell

Colvin flinched with pain as she wiped the grease and blood from his wrists with a rag. Lia hefted the tray, whispering, “Follow me out.”

Noise from outside the Pilgrim grew louder, but the sheriff’s men did not awaken. Lia crossed to the door and opened it softly. Still they slept. Outside in the hall, they started towards the stairs.

She looked at him, at the conflicted, angry expression. “You have nothing to say?”

“What would you like me to say?” he answered tightly.

Angrily, she thought about shoving the tray into his stomach. “You could start with something resembling gratitude. That you realize I did not betray you deliberately. I was tricked by one of the sheriff's men. I wanted to make it right…”

“Do not justify yourself. I know you did not betray me. But we are far from being safe or free. Did the Aldermaston send you?”

“No.”

“Then do you have a way out?”

“Your horse is being saddled.”

“But then where? Is there shelter other than the abbey for me?”

“I have the orb.”