The Ciphers of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood #2)(2)

“Like Morton,” said Sanford. “He is here in Pent Tower with us.”

“I wonder what Dodd is doing?” said Elder, who was sitting at the table too, leafing through a book with obvious boredom.

Sanford felt a stab of pain and pride at the thought of his youngest boy, Dodd. He shook his head and sighed gruffly. “He is every bit a prisoner as we are.”

“I would gladly exchange cells with the lad,” Mennion said, tapping his spoon on the table. “The best pastries in the world are at Muirwood Abbey.”

“Only on Whitsunday,” Elder said, grabbing his brother by the neck and throttling him gently. “Whitsunday,” he sighed after the mock abuse. “Do you think we will be out of here by then? Missing it last year made me dreadfully melancholy.”

“You truly miss the maypole dance?” said Gates, Sanford’s fourth son. He had been quiet up to that point, leaning against the wall and watching them, but he could not pass up the opportunity to tease.

“And you do not, Gates?” said Elder.

“No! I hate dancing.”

“Then how will you pick a wife?” put in Mennion, grinning.

“You are all fools,” Gates said. “I want to fight in at least two wars before I even think about choosing a wife. I swear, I hope Dahomey invades and we are released to draw arms. When it is time for a wife, I will let Father and Mother choose for me. Any girl will do, even a wretched lass. If she cooks anything like our ancestor Lia . . . I could not be happier! Now save some of that pie for later, Mennion. You will eat yourself sick.”

That earned a chorus of laughter from the brothers. It was a good sound to hear, and it soothed the worst of Sanford’s blistering anger. There were moments when the ribbing was not so good-natured. Five men cramped together in a single cell was enough to drive any one of them mad. Sanford had always detested cramped spaces.

“Do you think Dodd is well?” Tobias asked at his shoulder, pitching his voice lower. “I worry we have heard nothing from him of late.”

Sanford folded his arms, leaning back against the wall next to the window. Dodd was clever and loyal to his Family. He was a learner at Muirwood, and after Sanford and his other boys were arrested, riders from Comoros had gone to fetch him to the dungeon, little expecting the truth. Dodd had felt impressed by the Medium to take the maston test a year early, so when they arrived to arrest him, he was able to claim sanctuary at Muirwood as a maston. They had left empty-handed, thwarting the king’s will. There was a bounty on his head if he were even caught wandering outside the abbey grounds. So far the lad had harkened to Sanford’s wishes for him to stay in Muirwood. He knew his youngest son wished to join his mother and other Family back in Forshee, but any attempt to escape to Billerbeck Abbey would be fraught with peril.

“He is young and has much to learn,” Sanford said, brushing his hands together. “I only hope he does not do something foolish. If he listens to the Aldermaston and his wife, he will do well. If he were impetuous like Mennion, I would be more worried.” He grinned.

Tobias smiled as well. “I miss Dodd. Do you know, Father, why he chose to study at Muirwood instead of Billerbeck?”

“Of all you lads, Dodd is closest with the Medium,” Sanford said. “Sometimes it seems as if he is in a daydream. Billerbeck Abbey serves our Hundred, which is why all of you studied there, but Dodd felt that he needed to be in Muirwood. I had no reason to refuse him.”

Gates ambled up to join them. He always wanted to be included. He walked to the window and pressed his fingers against the glass.

“What day is it?” Gates asked, gazing out the window. “Does anyone remember?”

“It is Twelfth Night,” Mennion said, chewing and talking at the same time. “I heard a guard say that several days ago. It is the winter festival. What does it matter, they will not share any of the pastries with us.”

“It looks like they set up a maypole.”

“Really?” said Elder.

Gates pulled on the window latch and then shoved the window open. The wind outside was cold and knife-sharp. It was midmorning already, though due to the late season, the sun was having trouble breaching the height of the walls. With the window open, noises from the greenyard filtered up. People were gathering below, and Sanford noticed the gates were open. A scaffold had been erected, which was the shape his son had seen.

“What is happening?” Tobias asked, staring down.

“I know not,” Sanford replied.

“I cannot see,” said Mennion, who had finally abandoned his bowl and was shoving at his brothers. “Make room!”

“Be still!” snapped Sanford angrily. His sons quieted.

The crowd slowly filled the greenyard just below their room. Those in attendance reflected many different social classes. They were milling about, their voices murmuring with a thousand discussions. The scaffold was wide enough to fit no more than a dozen people.

A trumpet sounded and the noise suddenly hushed. There was a creak of wagon wheels, and the crowd jostled enough to open up a path, permitting a small wagon to pass through it.

“Who is that?” asked Gates.

“I cannot see,” Mennion growled.

It was not a full wagon, just a small cart that would normally be used to transport vegetables or the like. Standing in the cart was a man with a faded brown cloak and tattered pants. The hair was unkempt, but Sanford recognized him.