Chapter 15

Wolfram tried to sleep as much as he could, for it was the only thing that gave him respite from his pain and restless thoughts. He awoke the following evening to a wonderful smell. It was his favourite meal: cuts of lamb fried crispy in their own fat. It reminded him of home, and for a moment he thought he was back at the inn, sleeping late into the morning as his mother brought in food for the guests. Then he tried to move, and the shock of pain brought everything back.

Cat was minding a pan over the hearth. That was where the delicious smell was coming from. She had a board strewn with freshly chopped herbs and vegetables on the floor next to her, and a loaf of fresh bread sat on the table. For the first time since Julia's death, Wolfram felt his appetite returning.

"How did you know lamb's my favourite?" he asked.

"You, talked," Cat signed.

"Did I? I can't remember."

"I," Cat signed, then made a motion Wolfram didn't recognise. It looked like her sign for talking, but with a twist of the hand that went back past her ear.

"Does that mean remember?"

Cat nodded with a smile.

"You'll have to teach me more of your signs."

She gave him an exasperated look. "I, show, many, years."

"Sorry. I never remembered them very well. How did you learn?"

Cat frowned and gave an uncertain shrug.

"Did you make it up with Meg?"

She gave a slight nod, then a shake, and pointed at the floor.

"I don't understand."

Cat shook her head again and returned her attention to the pan.

"I wish there was a way we could talk more easily. What if we asked Father Everwin for one of his books? You could find the words inside and point to them."

That idea seemed to perk Cat up. She made a writing motion in the air.

"Oh, yes. You could try writing. But what would we use?"

She looked around and shrugged. Wolfram had learned to write using a charcoal stick and pieces of birch bark. Father Everwin had some bark he used for teaching, but it was preciously hoarded. They would have to think of something else.

The problem distracted Wolfram for a while as he ate. Cat cut his meat into pieces for him, but he insisted on feeding himself. He could still use his right arm, even if it was awkward. The meat was delicious, just the way he liked it. A little overcooked for most people's tastes, but all the crispier for it, and the herbs Cat used for seasoning added additional flavour. Despite his dismally low spirits, Wolfram felt a little better after the meal.

It was hard to find ways to occupy himself while he recovered. The worst of the pain faded within a few days, but the feeling of incapacitation was the true torture. He longed to do even the simplest things for himself. Though Wolfram had never considered himself a great talker, he began to relish every visitor he got from the castle. The other squires came by to chat, and Meg stopped in frequently with food and drink from the kitchen. She was obviously heartbroken over the loss of Julia and Robin, so she doted on Wolfram to make up for it.

"If they didn't need me in the kitchen, I'd be out here with Cat every day, bless that sweet girl. I hope you appreciate all she's doing for you."

Wolfram did. He didn't know how he would survive without Cat, not just because of the physical care she was giving him, but because of her company. They'd painted the cottage wall at the foot of Wolfram's bed with coarse white plaster. Using sticks of fresh charcoal, Cat could write on the surface and scrub the marks off with a wet cloth at the end of the day. She was far more literate than Wolfram had thought. Her lessons with Lady Julia had clearly paid off, and she could already write faster and more clearly than he'd ever been able to. Sometimes when Wolfram woke up, he would see that she'd left messages on the wall for him: lists of what she needed to fetch from the castle that day, who was going to visit later, what she'd be cooking for today's meals. She was an excellent cook. It made sense, for she'd worked in a kitchen all her life, but Wolfram was used to the simple meals the servants ate, not the fine dishes Meg and Cat cooked up for the high table. Cat could turn even plain ingredients into a feast fit for a lord.

To Wolfram's immense relief, Ingrid didn't visit him again. His only reminder of that horrible night came when Ben, the squire who'd entered Lord Erik's service alongside him and Robin, arrived to tell him about Dominic Ward's trial.

"They hanged him." Ben looked grimly vindicated when he said it. "All of us could tell he was guilty. He started blaming everyone when no one spoke up for him. You, Aldrich, even Lady Ingrid. I thought Lord Erik was going to grab a sword and stab him right there."

"So that's it, then?" Wolfram asked.

"That's it. He's paid for what he did."

The news didn't surprise Wolfram, but it was still a bitter thing to swallow. Aldrich had had plenty of time to ensure the silence of anyone who might speak up in Dominic's defence. None of his other accomplices would have dared speak the truth, for they were all complicit. Bribes and threats would have seen to the rest. The villains had gotten away with it.

He was in a dour mood for the rest of the day. Cat tried to cheer him up by teaching him more of her hand signs. It was one of the few things keeping Wolfram sane. Every day he learned a few more. Cat would make him guess what she was saying by using an unfamiliar sign in conjunction with some he already knew, then, if he still couldn't work it out, she wrote the meaning on the plaster wall. Sometimes, when Wolfram guessed a word for which Cat had no sign, they would devise a new one together. It was odd to think that he was making up a language with someone. He wondered whether that was how all languages started. They had to come from somewhere. Did that mean there had once been a time when there were no languages at all?

"No," Cat signed when Wolfram voiced his thoughts. "God made them." He was fast becoming familiar with the movements of her fingers, internalising them as natural sentences rather than the fragmented statements he'd seen before. For the most part, Cat made a distinct sign for each word, but Wolfram had come to learn that some of her motions described common sounds instead. By piecing them together, she could say things she didn't yet have a proper sign for. He felt guilty that he'd known her for so long and picked up on so little of what she was saying. She might have been mute, but she'd learned to talk just as much as anyone.

"It's alright," Cat signed when Wolfram apologised. "No one learns. It takes too long. Only me and Meg. I'm used to it."

All the same, Wolfram felt sorry for her, and he resolved to talk to her more often after he recovered. She deserved someone who would listen.

It was with that resolution that he realised he meant to stay at the Lavender Castle. Part of him thought he was mad. It would mean continuing to live alongside Ingrid, serving a woman who was responsible for the murder of two people he cared dearly for.

But Cat had reminded him that there were other things he cared about. Lord Erik was still the baron, and his young son was his new heir. After everything that had happened, Wolfram had almost forgotten about Julia's baby. According to Meg, he was strong and healthy. Ingrid would never inherit the barony if he lived. Wolfram wondered whether Ingrid would try to dispose of her half-brother the same way she'd disposed of Julia. He didn't know what she was capable of anymore. It would be a monstrous sin, but if she coveted her father's estate then she would need to re-establish her claim somehow.

Wolfram was determined to stop that from happening. Erik was his lord, and that meant his son was, too. He would serve and protect them both for as long as he could. A knight didn't abandon his duty when things became dire; that was when he was needed most of all.

As the weeks passed, Wolfram's wounds gradually healed. The pain in his chest went first, and he found himself able to breathe properly once again. Father Everwin told him his ribs were healing well, but his arm and leg would take a while longer. The splints he'd worn initially had been replaced with casts made from linen soaked in wax and resin, and those would have to stay on for a few more weeks.

"Can I return to my duties after that?" Wolfram asked.

"No," Father Everwin said firmly. "I've seen no less than three of the baron's men break weak bones by throwing themselves back into work too quickly. You'll need to restrict yourself to light duties for at least another month. Then we'll see how things go."

Wolfram's heart sank. He wanted to get back to doing the things he loved, but the prospect of re-breaking a limb and being confined to bed all over again was so daunting that he forced himself to heed the chaplain's advice. He would just have to get used to it.

When Everwin departed, he left Wolfram with one of his books to read. It wasn't a stuffy volume of religious scripture, but a history of Elkinshire Castle that looked to have been penned by several stewards and chaplains over the years. Much like conversation, reading had never been a passion of Wolfram's, but he would take what he could get while he was stuck in bed. He sat up reading aloud while Cat cooked the evening meal. She frequently had to come over and help him when he got stuck on a difficult word, then the struggle of a mute girl trying to explain pronunciation to a questionably literate boy ensued. It became a guessing game where Wolfram would try to say the word several different ways, helped on by various mimes and expressions by Cat, until he got it right. Every so often, they found a word that neither of them knew, so they had to guess at its meaning until they came up with something that made sense.

They carried on reading while they ate. Cat sat on the bed with her left knee propped up against Wolfram's right, the open book resting in between them. It wasn't the content of the book that Wolfram enjoyed, but the fun of piecing together its meaning with his friend. It was a problem to solve, and he liked solving problems. Time slipped away from him until the candles began to die. They'd stayed up reading all evening. With a tug of melancholy, he realised that he hadn't been tormented by thoughts of Robin, Julia, or Ingrid for hours. It was his first good night in a long time.

He kept on reading until Cat stopped chiming in. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breathing slow and steady. She'd fallen asleep curled up against him. Wolfram felt awkward for a moment, wondering whether he should rouse her so she could go back to her own cot on the other side of the hearth, but the night was cold and there was a peaceful smile on her lips. He eased the book shut and let himself drift off too.

When Wolfram was strong enough to start walking again, he realised he still had a painfully long way to go on his path to recovery. The cast had come off his arm, allowing him to use a crutch, but his leg was still bound up tight. The breaks had been worse there, Father Everwin said, and it would be best for him to keep his weight off it for a while longer.

He hobbled down the overgrown path outside the cottage with Cat holding his arm for support. The entire left side of his body was stiff. His sword arm, once so quick and dexterous, stubbornly refused to respond without tightening up and sending cramps through his elbow. He'd been told that the discomfort would lessen with exercise, but there was no way of knowing whether it would go away entirely.

"I want to walk down the path here every day," he told Cat.

"We will," she signed. "I like walking here."

"Do you walk often?"

"I used to. I remember, when I was young."

Wolfram could see why. He never usually came down this side of the hill. It was too steep in most places, but if you followed the path to the old cottage, you could find a rambling trail that snaked between patches of wildflowers and blooming thistles. Over the tops of the fir trees, the horizon framed a great view of the old forest without a village in sight. It was beautiful here.

"You used to live in that cottage, didn't you?" Wolfram said.

Cat hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "With my parents," she signed.

"Did they serve the baron?"

"Yes. My mother cooked with Meg. She's my aunt. My father lived here." She pointed back at the cottage. "He was–" She paused after making a sign Wolfram didn't recognise. She made a swirling motion at the trees around them, then motioned chopping wood.

"A forester? A woodsman?"

Cat nodded.

"What happened to them?"

"My mother died. She was sick. Afterwards, my father gave me to Meg. Then he climbed," she mimicked a pair of legs walking up the steps of her fingers, "the lavender wall, and jumped off."

It took Wolfram a moment to make sure he'd fully grasped the meaning of her message. Cat waited patiently. Their conversations often went like this. There would be pauses where Wolfram tried to ensure he understood what she was saying, and she in turn tended to hesitate as she worked out how best to articulate herself. Wolfram found it strangely comforting. He often needed longer than most people gave him to piece his thoughts together, but Cat afforded him all the time in the world.

"It must have been difficult for you and Meg," he said.

"Meg, yes," Cat signed. "Me, no. I was young. I don't remember much."

"What do you remember?"

"Walking here. Learning signs. Looking at the lavender wall."

"Why do you have a special sign for that? The lavender wall?"

Cat paused to think. "My father. He loved it. He named me after the wall."

Wolfram thought he'd misunderstood. "Did you say he named you after the wall?"

She nodded.

"Did they used to call the wall Cat?"

She grinned and put a hand to her mouth as she laughed. The only time Cat's voice came out was when she laughed. It was a joyful gasping noise of escaping air, with the thinnest, quietest hint of a chuckle behind it. Wolfram smiled back, thinking he'd probably misinterpreted something very stupidly.

"Meg called me Cat," she signed. "Because I was always in the kitchen, like a little black cat." She tugged on a tangle of her dark hair. "My parents called me–" She made a motion that looked like her sign for the lavender wall.

"You're saying you're named after the wall again?"

Cat shook her head and pinched his arm. Now he knew he was being stupid. She repeated the sign for the lavender wall again, then the slightly different one she'd used to describe her name.

Wolfram snapped his fingers. "Lavender!"

She grinned and bobbed her head enthusiastically.

"So I should've been calling you Lavender all this time."

She shook her head. "I don't mind. Everyone calls me Cat."

"Which do you prefer?"

She stared at him, her lips twitching as she wrestled with some difficult thought. He saw, then, why her father had named her Lavender. It was odd how you could know someone for years and never notice the colour of their eyes. Cat's were a pale, purplish grey, just like the old plaster on the lavender wall.

"No one asks me that," she signed.

"Well, what do you want me to call you? It's the least I can do after all the care you've given me."

She looked away from him, hiding her face behind her hair.

"Would you prefer Lavender?" he asked.

She gave a hesitant nod.

"Then Lavender it is."