For weeks, Vadim had hovered nearer to death than life, and were it not for Ma’s tenacity, he would have joined his parents long ago. But somehow Ma had pulled him back from the brink of oblivion, cheating death of its prize. Well, that of his body, at least. The same could not be said of his mind. Whatever indefinable spark had made Vadim Vadim no longer existed. Whether it was the light of his soul or spirit that had been put out made little difference. All that mattered was that the friend of his boyhood was gone, along with the rest of the life they’d once lived.
Vadim did not speak anymore, and he could barely walk a couple of steps without assistance. If left to himself, he would just sit there, staring into the fire for hours at a time, his expression devoid of life and as blank as that of a dead man. The reflection of the flames lent a false animation to his dark, dead eyes, briefly reminding Anselm of the boy he had once known.
Living corpse or not, Vadim was at least biddable, and he allowed Ma and Sylvie to spoon gruel into him several times a day, though the action of swallowing was probably due to a reflex rather than any genuine feeling of hunger. But somehow he... continued. Not quite living, not quite dead, dwelling in some bleak realm between the two.
The only time Vadim became really lively was at night. During the darkest hours, unseen demons plagued him, and night after night he would wake up them all with his wild blood-chilling screams. Anyone who attempted to soothe him ran the risk of being punched or kicked by his flailing limbs.
So, between Vadim’s night terrors and Grandfather’s approaching death, there was little wonder the entire household dwelt in a permanent state of semi-exhaustion. The whole family shuffled through each new day, tempers frayed and with black circles hanging from beneath their weary eyes.
Anselm no longer attempted to communicate with either Vadim or his grandsire. Although they still breathed, they were both of them dead men. Grandfather was beyond all earthly aid, and Vadim had died on the night they had fled from Edgeway. The pity was that his body had not died there too.
Elsbeth was watching him, her eyes regarding him with unusual softness. “This has not been easy on you, has it, lad? None of it.” The gentleness of her tone took him by surprise and threatened to unman him. “I know how close you and Vadim used to be.”
Anselm inhaled sharply and sat up a little straighter. In that brief unguarded moment, the wretched woman had glimpsed that which he took great pains to conceal. If she said much more, she would have him weeping. Already he felt the telltale pricking of tears welling up behind his eyes. Summoning the anger that dwelt inside his heart, he directed it at Elsbeth. “The past is dead. My only wish is that Grandfather would hurry up and depart from this world, and if he had any consideration for the rest of us, he would take Vadim with him on his final journey.”
Elsbeth gasped and clapped her hands over little Orla’s ears. “Oh, Anselm! How can you say such a wicked thing?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug and looked away.
“Where is your mercy, boy?”
“Dead, I expect.” Along with everything else that mattered. To see the silent suffering of someone he had once loved as a brother was almost intolerable. Besides, what did Elsbeth know of mercy? Stupid peasant! Death was the greatest mercy of all, if she only knew it.
Dragging Orla by the hand, Elsbeth swiftly departed, casting many disapproving backward glances over her shoulder as she went. “I shall be having words about you with your poor mother, young man,” she cried.
“As you will,” he called after her. “I care not.”
Poor Mother, indeed. The fine lady she had been was now but a memory. No more beautiful gowns for Sylvie. Since coming to Darumvale, her once feather-soft hands were now always cracked and bleeding. From sun up until bedtime, her days were full of nothing but toil and drudgery. It broke his heart to see her living like a peasant.
But where it really mattered, Sylvie remained unchanged, and her love was the only constant on this foul plane of existence. Ignoring his token protests, she still hugged and kissed Anselm as much as she had ever done, and called him her minikin when no one else was around to hear.
Father was a different matter. Ever more frequently, he was taking on the duties that his ailing father could no longer fulfill. As the acting chieftain of Darumvale, Seth was kept busy, and with the passing of each day, he became ever more remote. When he was not running the village or settling disputes, he was either with Grandfather or with Vadim.
Moodily, he picked a stone from the dirt and tossed it across the street. Ma’s cat instantly woke up and bounded after it. Maybe if he sat around all day doing nothing and being a huge burden, he might get some attention.
At that moment, Mother stuck her head out of the door of the great hall. “Anselm?” She looked pale and weary, and her lovely gray eyes seemed suddenly very old. She looked down and saw him sitting there in the dirt. “Oh, there you are.” But her smile was strained, and suddenly he knew what she was about to tell him. Because he loved her so well, he saved her the unenviable task of breaking the news.
“Grandfather has gone?”
Sylvie nodded and crouched beside him. “Yes,” she said, stroking a strand of hair back from his eyes. “He is finally at peace.”
Not knowing how to respond, Anselm stared at the villagers, still toiling away in the fields. The laborers disappeared behind a shimmering silver veil as hot tears welled unexpectedly within his eyes. Tears? Why was he so upset? He had never been particularly close to his grandfather. Even in the prime of his manhood, Donald had always been a rather distant figure and had seldom visited when they had lived at the castle. Their own visits to Darumvale had been just as infrequent. But even in the background of life, Grandfather had always been there. He had seemed so solid, so... permanent.
The heavy cloak of grief settled upon him, blocking out the warmth of the sun. In a turbulent world, the loss of yet another anchor was one too many.
Sensing his pain as she always had, Mother drew Anselm into her arms, and unable to help himself, he leaned his head against her breast and bawled like a baby. She no longer smelled of lavender but of sickness and the damp, musty barn. For some reason, that made him sob even harder.
Sitting beside him in the dirt, Mother rocked him and murmured soft endearments against his hair. “I know, little one. I know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After Grandfather’s death, by the will of the villagers, Seth took up his late father’s duties permanently, in time becoming the new chieftain of Darumvale.
Anselm was the only one not thrilled by his father’s new title. Being chieftain of an insignificant little village out in the middle of nowhere, that was awash with mud for half a year at a time, was nothing to crow about. Even the so-called great hall where his family now resided was little more than a thatched and drafty barn that they shared with the livestock.
To see the fall of a man once so mighty—the man who had once been the earl of Edgeway’s trusted steward—was almost more than Anselm could bear. There was nothing noble in it. Still, at least Grandmother—or Ma, as she was more commonly known—was reaping the benefit of having her eldest son at home.
Despite the loss of her mate, Ma’s daily life was much easier now that Seth had come home. When Grandfather’s health had begun to fail him, the tasks involved with running Darumvale had fallen onto her slight shoulders. But beneath Ma’s frail body lay a core of steel that concealed a strength of mind and body that many a man would envy.
Old Ma was as tough as they came. She could toil in the fields for hours, outlasting women half her age, then return home with enough strength to settle a dispute, cook supper, and see to the livestock. She would even walk to the next village if her services were required, for not only was she the wife of the old chief, but she was a skilled midwife too. No woman in the district would think of pushing her baby out into the world without the reassuranc
e of Ma’s calm, determined presence at her side.
And then there was her gift, the one she insisted Anselm also possessed. The Sight, she called it. Unfailingly accurate, Ma could predict good harvests, births, and—more increasingly these days—deaths, almost down to the day. Her services in this regard were widely sought, and though Anselm was not entirely convinced by it, there was no denying that Ma was much skilled in interpreting the messages of the runes. As for his own gift of foresight, Anselm had yet to see much evidence of it. No. In that regard, he did not consider himself to be anything special...
Pain. Such pain. Deep, throbbing heat pulsing inside him like another heart beat.
Something wet and intolerably cold touched his forehead. A cloth perhaps. He moaned in discomfort and tried to move his leaden head away, but a female voice shushed him and held the instrument of torture more firmly in place.
“Ssh! Be still. You have a fever.”
Not the old woman this time. Someone different. Her voice was familiar. Who? But the thread of memory was too thin and slipped away before he could grasp it. Mercifully, the icy weight on his forehead lifted. He heard the light tinkling of water, and then the icy cloth returned to torment him. Its touch was almost as bad as the pounding ache in his side. Bidding his heavy limbs to obey him, with supreme effort, he managed to fling out an arm.
“Oh!” The woman tutted. “Keep still, you eejit.” Then, in a softer voice, she asked, “Anselm? Are you awake?”
In a sudden bright flash, memory returned, bearing with it a name. Now he knew who she was. Martha. Vadim’s wife. The woman he had once believed himself to be in love with.
“M-Martha?” His voice sounded like that of an old man, feeble and dry as old leaves. The effort of speaking exhausted him.
“Yes. It’s me.” He heard a smile in her voice. “Can you open your eyes?” Her breath brushed his cheek, raising goose bumps over his skin. But try as he might, for the life of him, he could not coax his eyes to open. He had not the strength. “Are you in any pain?” she asked.
“Mmm.”
“Hang on a minute.” The mattress shifted as she got off the bed. Then he heard the light pattering of slippered feet as she moved over the floorboards. While Martha was distracted, he managed to raise his hand and remove the cold cloth from his head. With a sigh, he settled back on his pillows, grimacing again as pain tore through him.
Hurried footsteps returned to the bed, and the mattress dipped again. “Here. Drink this.” The rim of a drinking vessel touched his lower lip, cold and hard. Foolishly, he obeyed Martha’s command.
He coughed and spluttered, gagging as a flood of warm, bitter liquid assaulted his mouth. Erde! Was she trying to poison him? But he could not spit it out, for Martha forcibly held his mouth closed. With one hand pushing up on his lower jaw, the other holding his nose, she made him swallow down the odious concoction.
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” she whispered, but despite her tender words, she did not release her hold on him, not until he had taken every last bit of the foul potion. He was powerless against her will, and the force of his struggles only served to worsen his pain. When it was over, he lay gasping and spent, praying for the waves of agony to subside.
Gentle fingers stroked through his sweat-slicked hair. “All done now. Ssh!” Another vessel pressed against his lips, but this time it contained only water. Cool, sweet water. He gulped it greedily, washing the rank taste from his palate.
Almost immediately, a warm sense of numbness began to blossom within his stomach. Quickly spreading outward, the ripples soon penetrated each of his weak and wasted limbs. Even the tips of his fingers tingled. What had she given him? Poppy extract? Some potion concocted by that old witch Agatha, no doubt, though he could think of no good reason why Agatha should want to relieve his suffering. He had never liked the woman, and she had made it clear on numerous occasions that she bore no love for him either. At best, their relationship had always been frosty.
Then again, most people either disliked or feared him. Usually both. But not Martha. He inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent. Lavender and sunshine. She reminded him of... someone.
“Anselm?” Her soft hand rested on his cheek, recalling him from the lure of the past. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
No flash of memory came to serve him. “No.” The word was naught but a whisper. What had happened to him? His situation must indeed be grave if Martha was being kind to him.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll come back to you.” The mattress bounced as she got up again. “Just concentrate on getting better for now.” Cupping the back of his head, she raised him so that she could turn his pillow. He sighed as she lowered him back down. The sensation of cool, clean linen cradling his head was utter bliss.
Humming to herself, Martha began to straighten his coverlet. As she did so, her lavender scent intoxicated his blurring senses and enveloped him in a fog of long-buried memories.
“Isobel.”
“Hmm?” Martha’s hands stopped smoothing the coverlet. “Did you say something?”
But he was lost again, drifting back down the old highways of the past.
My sweet Isobel!
His heart leaped as it recalled her. That was who Martha reminded him of: Isobel. Obligingly, his drugged mind conjured an image of her beneath his eyelids. He smiled. She was standing near the water mill, bathed in sunlight, her hair hanging down her back like a sheet of spun gold. Her merry eyes sparkled, the color of violets. Whatever had become of her? Why did he never see her now?
“Anselm?” Martha tried to recall him but he had no wish to stay for he was already sinking, submerged beneath the waves of a happier time. Why should he linger in the pain of the present?
Isobel was waiting.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Around the time of the winter solstice, Madoc the Seer finally arrived in Darumvale.
The ancient fellow passed several weeks there and spent much of that time locked away with Vadim inside the four walls of Mother Galrey’s disgusting hovel.
As the short days of winter slowly lengthened, those closest to Vadim began to notice a change in his condition—although the signs of improvement were subtle at first, impossible to detect by those who were not intimate with him.
Suddenly, Vadim began to look directly at anyone who happened to speak him, and instead of sitting there like a stone, he began responding to simple commands, making more of an effort to aid the person charged with his care.
As the weeks passed, the results of Madoc’s mysterious ministrations were apparent for all to see, and by the time the seer finally departed Darumvale, Vadim was actually speaking again. His voice was slow and faltering to start with, husky from lack of use, but gradually, little by little, he began to resemble the boy he had once been.
Of the night his parents died, Vadim never made any mention. Neither did he ever speak the name of his sister, who had by that time married Godric, the new earl of Edgeway, and given birth to their stillborn son.
Eventually Anselm stopped feeling so shy of Vadim, and in time, their friendship resumed its previous course. To be sure, the new Vadim was a much quieter version of himself, and he smiled much less readily than before. But when the two of them were alone, he seemed almost himself again. Almost.
The seasons slipped into years, and suddenly they stood upon the threshold of manhood. For the most part, Anselm was mainly content with his lot in life. To be sure, Darumvale was not so grand as Edgeway, nor so eventful, but his friendship with Vadim gave him much solace during the most trying days.
Now that he had his prize, Godric, the new Lord Edgeway, seemed content to let them be and rarely visited Darumvale or any of the smaller villages under his governance. Instead, twice yearly he dispatched his sheriffs to collect the various tithes and taxes that were due to him.
Around the time the earl�
��s men were due for a visit, Father became even more irritable than usual. As a precaution, he would send the boys far from the village until it was safe to return, but this was no hardship. Despite everything that had happened to them, the foundation of their childhood friendship remained solid, and they seldom quarreled or fought, as other young bucks were prone to do. Alone in the hills, they were content; away from the eyes of their parents, they roamed as wild and free as the animals they tracked and hunted.
Inevitably, with the onset of maturity came the ‘rising of sap’, a perilous time for many a young friendship. The village girls, whom they had used to avoid at any cost, were now, almost overnight, transformed into beauteous creatures full of awe and wonder. Gone were their gangling straight-up-and-down bodies. Instead, soft, enticing curves took their place, filling out their gowns in a most delightful way.
The blossoming of those freckle-faced, snub-nosed annoyances into women of infinite allure was, in the boys opinion, nothing less than magical. A smile from one of Darumvale’s lovely maidens was enough to set Anselm’s head spinning and put him in good humor for the rest of the day.
But even better than smiles were the maidens’ kisses—something neither he nor Vadim had any trouble securing, much to the outrage of the other village boys.
Gone were all thoughts of hunting and tracking. Suddenly their minds were fixed on another, much fairer, sort of prey. Using the code hunting trip, Anselm and Vadim set off on their amorous adventures. If Seth or Sylvie guessed what they were up to, they never mentioned it. Better that than have them causing trouble in their own village, Anselm supposed.
But Grandmother knew. He saw it in the expression of her pale, rheumy eyes one day when they announced their plan to set out on yet another ‘hunting’ expedition.
“Be careful which flower you pluck,” she warned. “For not all blooms are as fair and harmless as they seem.”
Ironheart Page 5
