Ironheart

by N. J. Layouni

  The events at the top table were much like a riddle, and a complex one at that. But with only the vaguest of clues and hints to assist him, he had little hope of ever fathoming it.

  The disappearance of the countess and her daughter niggled at him like a task he had forgotten to do but could not recall. Where had the ladies vanished to so suddenly, and why? They must have left in a great hurry, probably while he had been distracted by Lord Godric’s knights.

  As always, Father sat at Lord Edgeway’s right hand. Not only was Seth the castle’s steward, but he was the earl’s most trusted friend too, and as such was privy to all of his closest concerns. Even from this distance, Anselm easily read the irritation on Father’s ruddy face, for he glared at Lord Godric, his eyes flashing naked hostility, a far cry from the laughing, merry giant who tucked him into bed each night.

  At that moment, the jongleur picked up his lute and began coaxing a soft and tender melody from its strings. ’Twas probably in honor of Lord Godric, for the tune was one he particularly favored. Anselm grimaced, caring nothing for such sickly sweet love songs.

  He glanced about, hoping to find someone who might help him to interpret the frosty atmosphere at the top table, but his dining companions were too engaged with eating and conversation. Of them all, only Vadim seemed to share his distraction, but he appeared disinclined to talk, for he stared down into his bowl, his long, dark hair hanging about his face in a veil that shielded him from the attention of his supper companions.

  With a sigh, Anselm returned his attention to the top table. Lord Godric was still talking, and seemed as relaxed and genial as always. The earl sat tight lipped beside him, speaking little, nodding occasionally, and frequently raising his goblet to his lips. ’Twas hard to believe that only a few short days ago these men had been friends, but now not a trace of that former warmth remained.

  Anselm shivered. It was as if someone had poured a jug of cold spring water down his back. Since Lord Godric’s arrival, a pall seemed to have settled on the company, tainting everything it touched. Even the jongleur’s song sounded forced and unnatural, and although the fire still roared and blazed in the hearth, it seemed to have lost much of its heat. Even the myriad of flickering candles could not dispel all of the shadows from the hall. The very air slithered with icy undercurrents, like snakes he could not see, only feel.

  Had Grandmother been there, doubtless she would have viewed this as a portent of some impending catastrophe, but she was peculiar in that way—more witch than woman, according to some. But even he, a lad of nine summers, could scent the bitter tang of danger in the air.

  Had this something to do with Lissa and Lord Godric? Until very recently, the fair couple had been inseparable. Indeed, they were seldom apart, always laughing and talking together, sharing the kind of intimacy that made a third person feel like the spare wheel of a cart. On several occasions, they had even managed to give their chaperone the slip, and rode away from the castle before anyone could stop them. Hours later they returned, their eyes glowing as they looked upon one another, locked in private remembrance. Every touch, every glance exchanged a secret only known to themselves.

  Perhaps the gossips were right. Maybe they were lovers, as the castle’s rumor mill claimed—not that Anselm completely understood what the term lovers meant. Much of his information on the subject of intimacy came via the older boys, and their information was never to be trusted. But if continually gazing at one another in a soppy manner was any indication of this mysterious state, Lissa and Godric were most certainly guilty as charged.

  Whatever it was, the gossips predicted the announcement of a spring wedding any day now. Even in the town of Edgeway, the rumor seemed to have taken root, for Lissa and her handsome Lord Godric were the talk of the market place.

  From the corner of his eye, Anselm noticed Vadim was violently prodding his spoon into the remainder of his congealing pottage.

  “Where did Lissa go?” Anselm asked, jabbing him with his elbow when he did not receive an immediate response.

  Vadim looked up, his scowl identical to the one his father wore.

  “Well?” Anselm demanded. “Has there been a falling out between her and Lord Godric?”

  Vadim shrugged and looked away, but not quickly enough. The sudden flash in his dark eyes had betrayed him. As he gripped his spoon, his knuckles were white and pronounced, a subtle sign that relayed a silent tale.

  Whatever was going on, Vadim knew about it too. A ball of hot anger flared within Anselm’s chest. How could he keep such a secret from him—his very best friend?

  “Ah! So there has been a quarrel,” he said, adopting a teasing manner to conceal his hurt. “What about? The size of her dowry?”

  “Leave it alone, Anselm!” Vadim snarled, dropping his spoon with such a clatter that several people turned to look in their direction. “’Tis none of your concern.” The soft note of warning his voice contained was unfamiliar, and the way his eyes glinted so dangerously in the torchlight made Anselm’s stomach pitch. For a brief moment, he glimpsed the man his friend would one day become. Vadim was usually so calm and unruffled, endlessly patient, and always a little too kind, in his opinion. But in that instant, Anselm knew he would never again mistake kindness for weakness.

  “As you will,” he replied with a shrug, acutely aware that people were listening to them. “I thought we were friends, but it seems I was mistaken. Keep your secrets, then. I want no part of them, or you.” Wounded as he was, he had to at least try and save face, for Vadim was making him look bad in front of their friends, and that would never do.

  The jongleur struck up a popular canzo, and Anselm turned away, pretending to listen, but in truth, the music was naught but a meaningless jumble of sound. Despite his words to the contrary, he had no intention of leaving anything alone. Sooner or later, he would unearth the truth.

  The climate up at the top table did not look to have improved either. Father continued to glower in Lord Godric’s direction, his complexion perfectly matching the bright-red color of his hair, and Lord Edgeway’s black eyebrows were still knitted together in a fierce scowl. Only Lord Godric seemed at ease. Goblet in hand, he leaned back in his chair, grinning amiably at his host and his red-faced steward.

  Damn them all!

  Cursing—albeit inside his own head—made Anselm feel slightly better. He would never dare repeat such words within earshot of his parents, of course. Nor while surrounded by so many people who would delight in reporting back his careless words. No. Silent cursing was his secret act of rebellion.

  Vadim stood up somewhat abruptly. After politely wiping his mouth with his napkin in a manner that Anselm’s mother would have heartily approved of, he bowed to his fellow dining companions. “Forgive me, but this has been a long day. Good night, my friends.” Then, without sparing Anselm so much as a glance, he strode from the hall, almost tripping over one of his father’s hunting dogs that lounged by the fire in his haste.

  Open mouthed, Anselm stared at his friend’s departing back. “Whatever can be wrong with him?” he muttered, directing the comment to no one in particular. “He is in a most peculiar mood.”

  “Indigestion, perhaps?” suggested Mary, the young daughter of one of Edgeway’s knights. She was a pretty little thing, all bright-blond curls and wide blue eyes, forever moping around after Vadim.

  “Aye. Brought on by the appearance of Lord Godric, no doubt,” her brother, Richard, said with a snort of amusement.

  “Why?” Anselm regarded the stocky lad through narrowed eyes. “What have you heard?”

  Richard glanced over his shoulder then leaned across the table toward him. “Lissa is with child,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?” Anselm gaped, shocked to his very roots, but somehow, deep within his heart, he knew Richard spoke the truth.

  “Hush!” Richard cast another hasty look over his shoulder. “Lower your
voice or I shall say no more.”

  Lissa was pregnant? Anselm exhaled hard and, with effort, managed to contain his surprise. Now it all made sense. No wonder Lord Edgeway and his family were behaving so oddly. “B-But—?”

  “Oh please, do not ask me how, ” Richard said in that infuriating superior manner all the older boys seemed to possess. “If you do not know the answer to that by now, you must look to someone else to rectify that particular deficit in your education.”

  “That is not what I was about to say,” Anselm replied heatedly. He needed no such schooling, especially if the lesson were to be delivered by such a pompous prig as Richard. But because he wanted more information, he forced himself to remain polite. “Lord Godric is the father, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly, my young friend.” Richard leaned even closer until their heads were almost touching, and Anselm could smell the overwhelming stench of onions on his breath. “You really did not know.” ’Twas a statement, not a question. “But I thought Vadim told you everything.”

  “Not this.” Not that Anselm blamed him. After all, a child born out of wedlock reflected shame upon the entire family. It was certainly nothing to brag about. A sudden pang of sympathy twisted his heart. Poor Vadim.

  Silently, he sent up a quick prayer of thanks he was an only child. Truly, he was blessed. for Seth and Sylvie continually showered him with all the love and affection a boy could ever want. There was never any need for him to compete for their attention, not like many of his friends, those born into large families, were forced to do.

  Siblings were always bad news, especially those of the female variety. Troublesome creatures.

  “So why is he here?” Anselm asked, jerking his head in Lord Godric’s direction. “To ask for her hand in marriage?” ’Twas only right that he should do the honorable thing, especially after stealing Lissa’s maidenhood.

  “Oh, but he already has,” Mary said. Apparently she had been eavesdropping on their murmured conversation. “Several times, in fact.”

  Indeed? So why was Lord Edgeway’s face currently as sour as week-old milk?

  “Aye,” Richard said, darting a glare at his little sister. “But apparently, Lord Edgeway has refused him every time.”

  Refused him? That made no sense. Why would he not leap at the chance to preserve his family’s good reputation?

  Richard must have read his thoughts. “It turns out the king’s young cousin has a dark side to his character—a most unpleasant nature that none of us guessed at. Well, not until recently, anyway.” The older boy looked toward the top table again. “By all accounts—” Richard’s voice was by now so hushed that Anselm had to stare at his thick, glistening lips in order to make out his words “—not only is our fine lord a hardened womanizer, but it appears he has a penchant for death and torture too. For murder!”

  Another chill rippled through Anselm’s blood.

  “Anyone careless enough to voice their dissatisfaction with our new king within Lord Godric’s earshot had better watch out,” Richard continued. “For the heads of some of our most powerful noble families have already... disappeared.”

  “Oh, surely not?” Anselm stared at the king’s cousin, unable to believe such terrible tidings. Lord Godric certainly did not look like a murderer. To be sure, he was a little boring on occasion, but in all other respects, he was the epitome of a handsome knight; everything, in fact, that Anselm aspired to be: tall and lean-limbed, with a full head of golden hair that flowed about his handsome face, and still in possession of all his own teeth. Even his voice was attractive. No. Richard must be mistaken. “If what you say is true, would it not make more sense for Lord Edgeway to consent to the marriage?”

  “What do you mean?” Richard picked up his tankard and took a sip of his ale.

  “Well, if Lord Godric were to become his son-in-law, surely the union of their two families would secure the future safety of all Edgeway’s lands and people.”

  Richard snorted into his tankard, spraying droplets of ale about the table. “Can you really be so naive?” he asked, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Do you honestly believe it would stop there?” The older boy shook his head. “You may walk and talk like a man, my friend, but your words betray your lack of years. If you believe fair Lissa is Lord Godric’s only target, then you are much more foolish than I thought.”

  Anselm glowered at the older boy, suddenly feeling small and stupid.

  “But I will tell you this much,” Richard continued, wagging a plump finger in Anselm’s face. “If Godric gets a toe-hold in Edgeway, none of us will be safe. He will not stop until he has taken everything. Well, not according to my father.”

  This was all too incredible to be borne. “Do you honestly expect me to believe such a poisonous tale?”

  Richard shrugged. “Suit yourself. I care not either way. Just consider yourself warned.” With that, he put down his tankard and returned his attention to his meat platter.

  Anselm sat in silence, trying to digest all that he had learned. However much he disliked Richard, the fact remained that Sir Wilhelm—Richard’s father—was a worthy man, certainly not one prone to spreading lies. Had Richard really spoken the truth? Indeed, there was nothing in his manner to suggest otherwise, and his little sister had unwittingly backed up all of his terrible accusations. Perhaps they had misinterpreted some overheard conversation between their parents?

  At that moment, Lord Edgeway turned and his eyes locked with Anselm’s, only for the briefest of moments, but quite long enough for fear’s icy breath to caress the back of his neck, making his skin prickle and his hair stand up on end.

  Chilled to his bones, Anselm rubbed his hands vigorously up and down his arms. The wrinkled face of his paternal grandmother came to him, unbidden, filling his mind’s eye. She was smiling and nodding, and Anselm knew only too well what this meant. Had he inherited it, as Ma kept on insisting he had? The gift—or curse—of The Sight.

  Nonsense. He gave himself a mental shake. The Sight had no more substance than the Realm of the Fey. A draft was responsible for his shivers, nothing more. Even the most modern of castles were prone to them, particularly on windy nights such as this. Someone must have left a door open somewhere.

  At that moment, Mother descended upon him. “Time for bed, sweeting,” she said, gently stroking his tousled hair.

  “Oh, Mother!” Anselm jerked his head out of her reach. Why must she embarrass him in front of his friends? He scowled at Richard, who was battling, rather unsuccessfully, to keep his mirth in check. The other boys were grinning too, and even the girls seemed amused, although they, at least, took more care to hide their smiles.

  “Really, I am not in the least bit tired,” he protested, stifling the sudden urge to yawn. “Let me stay up a little longer. Please?”

  But for once, Sylvie did not heed his wheedling as she usually did, and instead, she hauled him from his bench. “Now.” He was about to object again but his words died unsaid on his lips. He followed her gaze and saw that it was fixed on Father, still seated in his place at the top table. Seth was staring back at her, and the intensity of his gaze startled him. It was as if his parents were communicating, exchanging secret messages with their eyes. Messages no one else could read.

  Father gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Mother sent him a tight-lipped smile in return.

  “Come along, Anselm,” she muttered, her eyes still fixed on Father.

  “Goodnight, sweeting!” Richard and two of his cronies chorused in unison, their breaking voices attempting to mimic the light delicacy of a female voice. One lad, Evan, even blew him a kiss!

  Insolent pig! White-hot anger flared within Anselm’s chest, and without pausing to think of the consequences, he grabbed a handful of soggy bread rinds and threw them into the laughing faces that mocked him so. “Suck on that, you rancid scrote sacs!”

  With a
collective disgusted “Ugh!” the boys leaped to their feet and, with their bare hands or with napkins, ineffectually dabbed at the pulpy mess that adhered to their clothing. Anselm’s blood ran too hot to fear the warning that flashed in their eyes, although he knew he was in for a severe pummeling the next time their paths happened to cross.

  Anger blazed in Richard’s close-set eyes as the oozing white mush dribbled down the front of his pristine yellow tunic. “Why you little—”

  “It serves you right, you set of shit-weasels!”

  “Anselm!” Of course, Mother would choose that moment to start paying attention to him again. “What kind of talk is that? Apologize at once!”

  To those three tosspots? Never. He stuck out his lower lip and stared at his boots, scuffing them through the deep bed of floor rushes. Mother was wise enough of his ways to know when engaging in a particular battle would prove fruitless. Once Anselm dug his heels in, no amount of threats would sway him. In that respect, he was much like his father.

  So Mother chose another weapon instead. “I am so sorry, boys,” she said in her sweetest tone. “The poor child is overtired, I expect. After all,” she said, taking him by the hand, “it is way past time he was in his cot. Good night, my dears.” With those humiliating words, she dragged Anselm away from the table.

  “He probably still has a wet-nurse,” someone muttered at their departing backs.

  As the guards closed the hall’s doors behind them, Richard’s booming laughter still rang in his burning ears.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Curiously, Mother did not scold him.

  Once they left the great hall, she made no further mention of his unruly behavior. Instead, tightly clasping his hand, she hurried him along the echoing corridors until they reached the sanctuary of their private chambers.

  While he prepared for bed, she sat on the edge of the cot, as she was wont to do, and asked him about his day. Relieved she was not about to lecture him, Anselm began recounting the tale of their hunt for Iron Heart. But although Mother hmm’d and ahh’d at his story, it was never in the right places. The distant look in her eyes told him she was not really listening at all.