Ironheart

by N. J. Layouni

  Anselm was not disheartened by Isobel’s cruelty. Far from it. In his experience, the most passionate of hearts were often encased in a layer of ice, and he was determined to try again. Come what may, he vowed that she would eventually thaw toward him.

  “I think I am in the mood to go hunting again.” Anselm said one morning as he and Vadim sat by the fire, preparing to embark on the trials of the day. “What say you, brother?”

  Vadim looked up with a frown, setting aside the arrow he had been fletching.“Today? But I had—”

  “Another hunting trip?” Seth’s booming voice came from behind, startling them both. For such a big man, Father possessed the lightest of feet—unfortunately. “But you only returned a couple of days ago—empty handed, I might add.”

  Anselm sent Vadim a meaningful stare, one he could not fail to interpret—half-pleading, half-threatening.

  “A-All the more reason for us to go out again today,” Vadim said, turning to look over his shoulder at the older man. “Who knows? Perhaps the spirits may favor us this time.”

  “Such tenacity.” Beaming with approval, Seth slapped Vadim heartily upon his back and sat down on the bench beside him. “Good lad! An attitude like that will carry you far.”

  Father had already been outside. Even from where he sat, Anselm could smell the green, sweet scent of the new day seeping from his hair and clothing, cutting a swathe of freshness through the warm, stale air of the hall.

  “But I cannot help but wonder if this sudden devotion to stocking our larder is all that it seems.” Seth said, darting a narrow glance Anselm’s way,

  Oh, such faith! Why did Father always suspect him of being up to some mischief? Admittedly, in this instance he was right, but it rankled all the same. Why did he always trust Vadim more than the son of his own blood?

  Anselm shrugged. “As you will. Then we shall help with the planting if you prefer. It matters not. Our hunt will keep for another day.” ’Twas a bold move, but would Father take the bait?

  “Hmm.” Seth rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “What say you, Vadim?”

  Too irritated to take notice of his friend’s mumbled reply, Anselm looked away and stared into the fire, gently grinding his teeth. Ever since Vadim had reached manhood, Father had begun deferring to him more and more frequently. The events of the past made no difference. In Father’s eyes,Vadim was, and always would be, the rightful earl of Edgeway. And Seth was once more playing his usual role, that of the ever faithful steward. Only now, Vadim was his new master.

  “But I thought you had planned on visiting Dareth this morning,” Seth continued, still speaking to Vadim.

  Dareth was a friend of Seth’s from the old days. Once renowned as Edgeway’s most skilled swordsman, he now lived as a hermit and spent much of his time getting blind drunk on home-brewed spirits, wallowing in the squalid cave he called home.

  “That can wait.” Vadim picked up the neat pile of arrows that were stacked on the bench beside him. “Besides, we need to check the snares we set yesterday.” But as he spoke, he glared at Anselm, fair warning that there would be reprisals for forcing him to change his plans at the last moment.

  “Very well,” Seth said. “But be sure to return before nightfall.”

  “So? Are you going to tell me what all this is about?” Vadim asked as they trudged up the narrow trail that led up the mountain.

  “Hmm?” Although Anselm was grateful for his friend’s aid, he was in no mood to confide the secret longing of his heart, especially while those tender feelings were still such a mystery to him too. Isobel. All he could think about, dream about, was her. Night and day, images of her fair beauty haunted him. Since the moment he first laid eyes on her, he barely recognized himself anymore. He had no appetite, and he barely slept. Any conversation that did not contain mention of her name felt like an utter waste of time and breath. The need to be in her company constantly gnawed at him, churning his feeble stomach with many an unmanly flutter. He felt like running up this infernal mountain in his haste to see her again.

  He heard Vadim sigh. “Go on. Who is it this time? Rosamund?”

  “Rosamund!” Anselm gaped at him, outraged at the mere suggestion. “Are you quite insane?” How could Vadim fail to acknowledge Isobel’s superiority over every other female of their acquaintance?

  “Agnes, then?”

  “If your intention was to vex me, brother, you are doing an excellent job of it. Agnes indeed!” He barged Vadim roughly with his shoulder, and only his friend’s quick reflexes saved him from a tumble down the steep scree slope to his left. “Agnes must be thirty summers if she is a day. How dare you pair me with such a dreadful old hag?”

  Merriment twinkled in Vadim’s eyes. “She is twenty-five, actually.”

  “Is she? Is she really?” Anselm eyed him curiously. “You seem rather well informed on the subject. So am I to take it you have thrown over your pretty young widow for the dubious delights of her bucktoothed cousin?”

  Vadim chuckled. “You are too severe.” He readjusted his sword belt which had shifted out of place thanks to his stumble. “Agnes has a most pleasing disposition. Her mind is one of the finest I have—”

  “Yes, yes. And as always you are much too kind. To be sure, any woman so ill favored ought to possess something to save her from ugliness, but a fine mind? Hah!” He shook his head. “That particular quality is a death blow to any woman’s prospects, not least the ugly ones. Come now. Even you must admit that Agnes is a hopeless case.” He was determined to make Vadim agree with him for once.

  “You are wrong.”

  “Am I? Then tell me, what kind of man would choose such a woman for a wife? Even if he could overlook the detriments of her appearance, Agnes is much too intelligent for her own good.”

  Vadim smiled. “Is such a thing possible?”

  “Of course it is... in a woman. No man wants a wife who would make him look stupid.”

  With a heavy sigh, Vadim said, “As much as it sickens me to agree with you, in this instance I fear you may be right. While ever she lives in Mullin, poor Agnes is unlikely to find a suitor equal to her excellence.”

  “My point precisely.” Well... almost.

  “But do you not think considering a woman in such an unkindly manner reflects worse upon us, and on our gender, than upon Agnes and hers?”

  Anselm rolled his eyes heavenward. One of Vadim’s most irritating qualities was that he was determinedly blind to the defects of others. In fact, he seemed to actively hunt out their better qualities, even attempting to sell these poor, unfortunate souls to Anselm on occasion, which was always a pointless endeavor. He had no intention of buying any one of Vadim’s adoring troop of unwanted waifs and strays—the maimed, the lost, or ill-favored maidens like Agnes!

  The trail steepened sharply, so they saved their breath for walking until they reached the small rocky plateau that overlooked Darumvale. By common accord, they paused to catch their breath. This had always been one of Anselm’s favorite spots. He often came here whenever he needed to think or, more increasingly of late, to escape the wrath of his father.

  Raking back his hair with one hand, Anselm stared down into the valley. Everything looked so small and insignificant from up here—the houses, the fields, even the distant mountains.

  Vadim nudged him and handed him a skin of ale. “So?”

  “Hmm?” With one eye closed, arm outstretched, Anselm blotted out the great hall with his thumb.

  “Why are we visiting Mullin again so soon? That is where we are headed, I take it?”

  Lowering his arm, Anselm regarded his friend thoughtfully. Vadim was careful with secrets. They were safe with him. Suddenly Anselm longed to unload the burden that had been pressing on him for so many weeks. “Very well,” he said. “But only if you first give me your word that you will not attempt to talk me out of it.”

  A
faint, almost knowing, smile curved Vadim’s lips. “This is about Isobel, I take it?”

  Anselm’s heart almost leaped out of his chest. Had he been so indiscreet? For the life of him, he could not imagine when. What had given him away? More worryingly, did Isobel already know that which he had long tried to conceal?

  “H-How did you know?” There was little point in denying it.

  “It has been obvious to me for quite some time. I was only waiting for you to admit it.”

  “Wh-What gave me away?”

  “Oh no, little brother,” Vadim said with a laugh. “If I tell you that you might learn how to hide your tracks from me, and that would never do.” How right he was. Vadim saw far too much at times, much to Anselm’s annoyance.

  When they had both drunk their fill, without speaking another word they set off up the trail, heading for the place they had set their snares on the previous day.

  “Vadim, please!” Anselm begged at last. Although he could not say why it mattered so much, he needed to know if anyone else had noticed his fondness for the miller’s niece. “Just tell me how you knew.”

  “Very well. If you must know, ’tis in the way you ignore her.”

  “I beg your pardon?” What rot! How could that possibly have given him away?

  A light gust of wind billowed a long strand of hair into Vadim’s twinkling eyes. “Whenever you are in her company, you act differently, brother. I have never seen you this way before. Although you laugh and converse with everyone else as easily as you have ever done, you always exclude Isobel—”

  “What utter twaddle!” Anselm blustered. “Why, I spoke to her only a couple of days ago. You were there, remember? In the village square?”

  “Yes, but I believe that was the first occasion, or will you deny it?”

  Anselm opened his mouth to do just that but the words would not come. To his dismay, he had nothing with which to defend himself.

  “Hah!” Vadim grinned. “You see? I was right. Little wonder Isobel was so curt with you the other day. Women do not take kindly to being ignored.”

  Anselm’s cheeks burned, but thankfully his friend’s attention lay on the path ahead. “I have seen her sometimes,” Vadim said softly, “staring at you. How could you not notice?” He glanced over. “Ah! The color of your face betrays you, brother. Now I see the truth and the love you hoped to conceal—”

  “Oh, do shut up.” Anselm snorted. “I have never blushed in all my life, and certainly not over a maiden. Love indeed! You make me sound like some kind of half-wit—some pathetic, lovestruck fool. In case it escaped your notice, brother, maidens fawn over me. Blushing is their provenance, not mine.” But despite his bluster, the news that Isobel had been staring at him heartened him a good deal. Perhaps she was not immune to him, after all. Maybe she did feel something for him, something other than revulsion.

  “As you will,” Vadim said mildly. “Then I shall say no more. But you may rest assured that your secret is safe with me.”

  They continued on in silence, for there seemed little else to say, although the tiny voice that whispered within his heart agreed with every word his friend had just spoken.

  Vadim was right. He hungered for Isobel in ways he had never before experienced, and that rattled him. Ever since she had first entered his life, Anselm felt he had strayed into a territory far beyond the edge of any map. What he felt for Isobel was far beyond mere lust—an old acquaintance he knew all too well. Yes, he wanted her, but without her mind and her spirit, her body would never be enough.

  Above anything else, it was her presence he most craved. Whether Isobel cared for him or not did not matter. To be in her company; to hear her speak, to bathe in the delicate sound of her laughter, to witness the way her eyes sparkled as she conversed with the other village girls was a treasure he had never known. All this and more. He craved her presence like a gold-sick miser. But how could it be love when he had barely spoken to her?

  For once, he envied Vadim. Of the two of them, he was usually the most withdrawn. The happy task of flattering and coaxing the girls always fell to Anselm. But with Isobel, it was different. Why Vadim could speak to her without a stammer or a blush afflicting him? Was it because she did not touch his heart?

  Anselm shook himself. Perhaps speaking with Isobel more often might rid him of this stupid infatuation? Yes, infatuation. He refused to believe it was anything else. No more worshiping in silence from afar. He would speak to her. Now. This very day.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Directly upon reaching Mullin, Vadim went to call on Jess, his lusty young widow, leaving Anselm alone, staring at the mill like a love struck calf.

  The village dogs swarmed about his legs, greeting him in an unruly pack, vying with one another for attention. Absently, Anselm patted the boisterous animals, scratching behind various ears as he looked about him. The village seemed unusually quiet today. Even the water wheel stood motionless, idling in the turbulent waters that gave it life.

  Anselm groaned, cursing himself for a fool. It was market day in Edgeway. How could he have forgotten? Most of Mullin’s inhabitants were already there, no doubt, shuffling through the thick crowds that always thronged the town’s narrow streets.

  Isobel was probably there too, for her uncle and cousin were sure to have gone. Cursing beneath his breath, Anselm pushed his way out from the center of the dog pack and strode over the narrow bridge that spanned the stream. Between the wooden planks, the hissing water rushed by in an undulating silver carpet.

  With fading hope of finding anyone at home, he ambled up the rutted track toward the mill and, before he had time to falter, raised his hand and rapped three times on one of the mill’s sturdy double doors.

  As the sound resonated through the cavernous building, he realized he had not thought things through. What if the miller hadn’t gone to Edgeway after all and had sent his son in his stead? Or, even worse, what if Jack opened the door?

  Anselm ground his teeth. For as long as he could remember, he had detested the miller’s son. Jack had the great misfortune to be in possession of an unusually punchable face. Always so smirking and greasy, ’twas a face that begged to be beaten. Anselm’s fist tingled with pleasurable remembrance of all the times he had done precisely that. There was something about the carrot-topped youth that irked him most severely. What would he say if he were to answer the door?

  But it was too late to run away now. Even as he cursed himself for not considering Isobel’s relatives, he heard footsteps from within. But these were soft, quick footsteps, the sound of which lightened his heart. Definitely not the miller’s heavy tread. No. Those were the footsteps of a fairy queen.

  The metal bolt slid, the latch lifted, and suddenly the door swung open. Anselm gasped and for several heartbeats forgot to exhale.

  There she was. Isobel!

  “Oh!” The ready smile on her luscious lips flickered. “’Tis you!”

  But Anselm was much too entranced to heed the frostiness of her greeting. Indeed, the confusion in her eyes delighted his senses and sent a pulse of hot blood roaring through his veins. Truly, she was exquisite. Every bit as lovely as he remembered, and more.

  Over her pale-blue dress, she wore one of her uncle’s ugly rough-spun aprons, tightly cinched about her tiny waist. Her hair, meanwhile, tumbled in a golden riot from a loose, messy knot on top of her perfect head. Streaks of flour daubed her lovely face, lending her a most becoming badger-like appearance.

  “Well? What do you want?” she demanded.

  Ah, sweet perfection! It was all he could do not to take her in his arms then and there, but instead, he forced himself to bow and smile politely.

  “Good morning, Isobel.” Even saying her name gave him pleasure.

  “My uncle is not home,” she replied waspishly, scrubbing at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand, reminding him of a little cat. “I
s there s-something you need?”

  Ah! Now there was a leading question—one he did not trust himself to answer. Not yet.

  “Hellooo?” She waved a floury hand in front of his face to rouse him from his stupor—no doubt he was grinning at her like an imbecile again. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Indeed I did.” The scent of her restored his addled wits. Such an intoxicating blend of lavender, wood smoke, and flour sacks. Leaning against the doorjamb for support, quite unable to help himself, he continued smiling at her like the half-baked, besotted fool he was. “But it is not your uncle I came to see.”

  “Then wh...” With delight, Anselm witnessed the precise moment she understood. Isobel’s eyes suddenly widened like two violet moons. “Me?” she squeaked. “You c-came to s-see me?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Wh-Why? I m-mean, whatever for?” Her hands flew to her head, unconsciously attempting to smooth her tousled golden locks into some kind of order.

  The shock of finding him so unexpectedly on her threshold seemed to have robbed Isobel of her usual composure, and ’twas this new vulnerability that forged Anselm’s watery courage into something more closely resembling steel.

  “’Tis a fair morning outside, and I wondered if you might care for a walk.”

  “With you?” A delightful little furrow formed between her eyebrows. “Me?”

  “Do you see anyone else standing here?” he said with a laugh. “Of course with you. Who else?”

  Eyeing him suspiciously, Isobel folded her arms about her waist. “Why?” Such directness he had not expected.

  “Is that not obvious?”

  “No, m’lord. It most certainly is not.” Head held high, Isobel held his gaze without flinching. “Why should you suddenly seek my company when you have barely acknowledged my existence before today?”

  “Ah!” Anselm glanced down at his boots and immediately cursed himself for his weakness. “A regrettable oversight on my part.”

  “An oversight?” Her eyes became narrow slits of glinting violet. “Is that what you call it? So chivalrous! Forgive me if I do not swoon in a heap at your feet, m’lord.”