“Those items have been confiscated by the church.”
“But they would bring enough to pay Da’s debts!”
“I’m sorry, child.” He said it firmly. She knew at once there was no point in arguing. Why should he listen to her, a kinless girl with no possessions and no one to protect her? “Here, you must mark the page where this is all written, to show that I’ve tallied it out correctly, so far as you know.”
She took the pen and balanced the open book in her left hand. Hugh watched her avidly, but she carefully drew an awkward ‘X’ below the last bit of writing. She handed the book back to the marshal, and he clucked under his breath, looking truly sorry for her plight, sighed again, and scratched at his hair.
“It will be the auction tomorrow, child.” Liudolf glanced at Hugh, knowing as well as Liath did that the frater was the only person able to buy off the entire price—especially now that he had also taken the books. Or at least, Hugh was the only person who might want to buy her. Old Count Harl had the wherewithal, and he even had a few slaves, but he had never interested himself in the affairs of the village except to hire Hanna’s mother as a wet nurse for his children.
“Begging your pardon, Frater, Marshal,” said a woman from behind them. “May I come in now?”
“Of course, of course. We’re finished here.” Liudolf retreated. Hugh glared at Liath, not moving. “Frater,” said Liudolf mildly. “We’ve business to finish before tomorrow, have we not?”
“I’ll have that book,” muttered Hugh. He left, taking the candle with him.
Mistress Birta came forward out of the gloom, holding a pitcher and a small package wrapped in cloth. “Here, Liath. I heard you had no food nor drink at all yesterday.”
“I had a little wine.” Liath took the pitcher. Her hands shook as she set it down on the floor, and she unwrapped the cloth to find a loaf of bread and a square of goat’s cheese. “Oh, bless you, Mistress Birta. I’m so hungry. I didn’t know it until now.”
Mistress Birta glanced behind. The two men stood in the dank corridor, waiting for her. “I’ll see that you’ve food in the morning, too.” She raised her voice slightly. Daringly, Liath thought. “It isn’t right to keep you hungry, no matter your circumstances.” Taking a step closer to Liath, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “If we could have, child, we would have made the bond price at least, and treated you well. But custom has been off this year, and with Inga’s wedding feast last autumn…”
“No, please, Mistress,” Liath said hastily, embarrassed. “I know you did all you could. But Da never had any head for what it cost him—” She broke off, aware of the silence from the corridor, of Hugh listening avidly to every least word she said. “To live as he wished. He loved it here and had many a good evening at the inn gossiping with your husband.”
“Yes, child,” said Birta briskly, taking Liath’s cue. “I’ll leave you now. They wouldn’t let me bring a blanket, but I trust to the Lady and Lord that it will stay warm tonight.” She kissed Liath on the forehead and left her.
The door was shut behind her, scraping along the stone. Liath was alone. She ate first, all the food, but drank the ale sparingly. Then she paced.
Walking helped her think, even if it was only five paces and a turn, five paces and a turn. But though she might pace the cell a hundred times, she could not escape what Da had left her. Da was dead. Tomorrow his possessions would be sold to pay the debts he had left, and then she would be sold to cover what remained of those debts. Tomorrow she would lose her freedom. But she possessed Da’s treasure, The Book of Secrets, and as long as she had that, she still possessed a measure of freedom in her heart.
She curled up in one corner, hugging her knees to her chest. Small comfort. She tucked her chin down onto her knees and closed her eyes. Liath started once, thinking she heard a soft voice calling her name. It did not call again. She rubbed at her eyes and curled tighter for warmth, shivering, and fell into a fitful sleep.
Murdered. Whoever had been hunting him had caught up with him at last. When had he lost his power? Or had it been her mother’s gift he had used to call butterflies from empty air to charm a small child’s lonely days?
“They’ve killed her, Liath,” he had said to her that day eight years ago. “They’ve killed Anne and taken her gift to use as their own. We must flee. They must never find us.”
Her mother. Her face rose from the remembered dream, her hair as pale as straw, her skin as light as if sun never touched it even when she sat for hours under the sun in the garden, eyes seeing elsewhere. Liath would sit and watch her and, sometimes, scrub her own skin, hoping to make the dirt come off, only the dirt never came off because it was baked there as if she had been formed in an oven and her skin baked to a golden brown before she was brought into this world.
