Ironheart

by N. J. Layouni

  All he had to do was take that first step. If he dared.

  He raised Isobel’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Suddenly he was not afraid of life’s tomorrows. Not anymore.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When they arrived back at the mill, Vadim was waiting, sitting on the bridge with his long legs dangling over the tumbling river. When he looked up and saw Anselm walking hand in hand with Isobel, his eyes narrowed.

  “How was your walk?”

  “Most invigorating!” Anselm called back. But this cheerful comment earned him a frown and a swift elbow in the ribs from his fair companion. “And how is your good widow, brother? In good health, I trust?”

  Vadim had the grace to look embarrassed. Picking up the brace of rabbits that lay beside him, he scrambled to his feet. “We should head back. Seth will be wondering where we are.”

  “Thank you for your help today,” Isobel said to Anselm, her cheeks flushing the most becoming shade of pink. “A-And for the walk. I-I enjoyed myself.” To his delight and utter astonishment, she raised herself up onto her tiptoes and pressed a quick kiss upon his cheek. “Farewell.” With a quick nod to Vadim, she turned and hurried inside the mill, bolting the door behind her.

  Slack-jawed with astonishment, Anselm stared after her, holding his hand to the place she had kissed. How long he stood there, gawking like a fool, he had no idea, but eventually Vadim’s chuckle penetrated his consciousness.

  “Oh, by the spirits, you have it bad.”

  “Hmm?” With effort, he wrenched his attention away from the mill.

  “The sickness.”

  “Of which sickness do you speak?”

  Vadim kept grinning at him like the buffoon he was. “Why, the worst affliction of all: love.”

  “Oh, if you cannot speak sensibly, then you had best stay silent, you fool.” Leaving the village and all its fair diversions behind, Anselm marched away, heading for the path that led to the hills.

  Vadim soon caught him up, and for a time they walked in silence. Although Anselm refused to look at him, he was ever conscious of the weight of his friend’s stare.

  “Do you deny it, then?” Vadim asked at last.

  “Deny what?” Of course Anselm knew perfectly well what he meant, but for some reason, he was reluctant to discuss what Vadim must assume was another of his supposed conquests.

  But Isobel was different. Special. Far above all the faceless women with whom he had once fancied himself in love.

  “Are you in love with Isobel?”

  “Are you in love with your widow?”

  “Of course not, and neither is she with me, but we were not discussing my relationship with Jess. If you would rather not answer, all you need do is say so.”

  Staring straight ahead of him, Anselm fixed his eyes on the trail. “I have nothing to say.”

  “Erde!” Vadim feigned a shocked gasp. “’Tis worse than I imagined. May the spirits protect us all. Tell me,” he added, his voice bright with suppressed laughter. “When might I be able to wish you both joy?”

  Anselm lashed out and punched him on the arm.

  “What did you do that for?” Vadim cried, rubbing at his injured arm. “I almost dropped the rabbits.”

  But Anselm felt no remorse. “You deserved it.”

  “My, but you are sensitive today. What changes the fair Isobel has wrought upon you. I was only jesting.”

  “Then I would greatly appreciate it if you would refrain from doing so.” With a sigh, he turned to look at his friend. “Not about Isobel, anyway.” He forced a smile, for Vadim looked so shocked. “But with any other maiden, you may tease me as freely as you will.”

  “Oh. I see.” They set off walking again.

  “Forgive me, brother,” Vadim said at length. “I had no idea she meant so much to you.”

  “Neither had I.” Not until this very moment, in fact, and the realization made him stumble over his own two feet. “But she does.”

  “Then unless you introduce the subject, I will say no more about it. But you may rest assured that I will not mention your attachment to another soul.”

  That was just as well, for Anselm suspected Father still harbored the foolish hope that his boys would one day make fine matches—which was ridiculous considering they were no better than peasants now.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Your word means much to me.” It would not do for Seth to learn of his fondness for the miller’s niece. Not yet, at least.

  “Anselm?” A soft hand touched his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  It was her again. The woman whose scent reminded him of Isobel. Martha. Never had he so resented her presence. Although she smelled like his beloved—and even spoke like her on occasion—beside the original, she paled in comparison.

  “Are you still in pain, hon?”

  In pain? He might have laughed had he possessed the strength to do so. “Always,” he whispered. “And for all eternity.” Tears burned behind his closed eyelids, and their presence angered him. What purpose had weeping ever served?

  He heard Martha sigh, and the bed pitched as she got up from where she had been sitting, leaning against his legs.“I’ll just go and fetch Agath—”

  “No!” he rasped. “Leave her be. There is... no cure for this malady. Only death.”

  “Death?” She sat on the bed again, the warmth of her body seeping through the coverlet and into his icy corpse. “What are you going on about? You’re much better now—everyone says so. You just need to—”

  Eyes still closed, he groped for her hand until he found where it rested on the coverlet. Then he grasped her fingers, squeezing them with all of his feeble strength. “Please,” he begged. “Let me go.”

  In the space of one brief illness, his resolve was gone, transformed from steel into dust. So many years carefully shunning the past, but all for naught. In that moment he was as desperate and as sick of heart as the boy he had once been.

  Long-suppressed memories swirled freely about his mind. Caught in a violent gale, the phantoms of long-ago days called for him, screaming his name until he could not bear it.

  “Go where?” Martha asked.

  “To her.”

  “Wh-Who do you mean?”

  Martha probably thought he was hallucinating, and perhaps he was. How could he be certain of anything any more?

  Released from years of denial, raw, aching need rose up from where he had buried it, shredding his heart to ribbons with each interminable beat. Suddenly he needed to see Isobel again, desperately craving her company as other men craved ale and wine, so badly did he yearn for her.

  And then it came to him, a way he might escape this intolerable existence and return to the woman he loved. He sucked a quick, sharp breath between his teeth.“Hurts!” he hissed.

  ’Twas a lie, of course, but Martha was wholly taken in. Leaping down from her comfortable perch, she said,“Hold on. I won’t be long.”

  The seconds dragged until the light patter of slippered feet announced her return. This time Anselm made no objection when Martha held the bitter cup to his lips. Greedily, he glugged down the entire noxious concoction in a few rapid gulps, paying no heed when she bade him to drink more slowly.

  Even as he drained the cup, he felt a familiar tingling numbness spreading throughout his body. Oblivion beckoned, and he embraced it. Wait for me...

  Over the weeks that followed, he journeyed to Mullin many times. Alone or with Vadim, in fair weather and foul, nothing could keep him away.

  Father grew suspicious until Anselm eventually threw him off the scent by saying he was visiting Dareth for extra sword training. Although this seemed to satisfy Seth’s curiosity, he hoped Father would not question Vadim too closely upon the subject, for his friend possessed little talent for deceit. Still, that could not be helped. In order to sec
ure a few precious moments in Isobel’s company, he was prepared to risk just about anything.

  They had still not yet even kissed, but he was as a man transformed. His initial gentle affection for her had grown, fast becoming an inferno that burned out of control. Sometimes, overwhelmed by joy, he sang out loud, provoking many raised eyebrows from those who knew him best, but he could not help himself. Breaking into song released the pressure within his heart, a vessel much too small to contain all the love it concealed.

  Yes. Love.

  There seemed little point in denying it any longer. In fact, he wanted to shout it to the world, but somehow he managed to restrain himself. Only when he was alone, wandering aimlessly in the hills, did he vent the passion of his heart.

  Casting his secret into the wind with all the force of his lungs, he cried, “I love Isobel!”

  From where they loomed over him, the mountain rock giants passed on Anselm’s news, whispering it to one another in a fading echo.

  Isobel... Isobel...‘bel...

  He laughed to hear them and felt the ancient guardians approved his choice. How could they not when even the sun and the stars were dimmed by Isobel’s beauty?

  Only one cloud obscured his current happiness: he still had no idea how the lady felt about him. Although they saw one another almost every day now, slipping away by themselves when no one was watching, Isobel still treated him more like a friend than a potential lover, laughing and jesting with him as easily as she did with her female friends. Study her as he might, Anselm saw nothing to suggest that she was suffering from the tender affliction that tormented him. To his shame, he lacked the courage to introduce the subject, but with good reason: the wrong words uttered by her lips would sentence him to a lifetime of despair.

  No. For the moment, they must continue as they were.

  On the days when he did not visit Mullin, although Anselm tried to behave normally, the task proved increasingly difficult, for by night and by day, whether they were together or apart, Isobel claimed every fiber of his being. He could think of nothing but her.

  During that uncertain time, his moods were wildly unstable, governed by misery and joy in equal measure. One moment he was laughing and singing, and in the next—usually on the days he had not managed to see his beloved—misery tore him into shreds from the inside then ground him to dust beneath its brutal heel.

  Perhaps wisely, many of Anselm’s friends began to avoid his company. When they saw him approaching, they would cross over to the other side of the street rather than be forced to speak to him, but Anselm did not mind. In a way, being shunned was a relief, for any conversation that did not contain the name of his beloved—or, at the very least, Mullin—seemed as dull and pointless as his daily chores.

  Of all his former friends, only Vadim did not shun him. But, unfortunately, he remained true to his word and never made any mention of Isobel, though Anselm secretly hoped that he would. Being allowed to speak of her would have been of some comfort during those interminable days when life forced them apart.

  Every night, long after everyone else was asleep, Anselm lay on his pallet staring up into the darkness, mentally reliving the all-too-brief hours he had spent in Isobel’s company. Every look, every word, was repeatedly examined, in the hope he would find some evidence that she shared his tender feelings.

  One night, as he sat by the fire in the great hall, listening to the storm outside as it blew itself into a frenzy, Anselm gradually became conscious of the laden stares of his mother and grandmother.

  “What is it?” he asked at length, when he could bear their scrutiny no longer. “Why do you look at me so? Have I sprouted a turnip for a head or something?”

  “Not at all,” Mother replied. “You just seem rather preoccupied of late, that is all, and we wondered at the reason for it.”

  “’Tis nothing.” He returned his gaze to the writhing flames that danced and glowed in the hearth, all too aware that his father sat only a few feet away, fletching arrows with Vadim. What ill fortune. Why had she chosen to speak of this now?

  “And does she have a name,” Ma asked, “this nothing?”

  Anselm’s heart leaped into his throat, but he forced himself to smile. “She?”

  “The maiden who has stolen your heart.”

  Damn Ma and her interfering ways. “Have you been reading the runes again, Grandmother?” The lightness of his voice was a sharp contrast to the panic within his heart. “What else did they have to say, hmm? Am I to wed some foreign princess and inherit her father’s kingdom?”

  “Do not mock the Old Ways, boy. They seldom—”

  “Lead you astray. Yes, yes. I have heard you say so a hundred times before. And what about Vadim?” He jerked his head to where his friend sat on the bench next to his. “Does your bag of bones have a princess in store for him too?”

  Vadim and Seth looked up at the same instant, wearing matching frowns. A pang of regret twinged Anselm’s conscience. Although he loathed himself for being so deliberately rude to his womenfolk, he knew of no other way to protect himself. Once they had scented blood, Ma and his mother were more tenacious than a pack of hounds, so he must do whatever it took in order to hide his trail.

  “Watch your mouth, boy,” Seth growled. “Show some respect.”

  “Respect?” Anselm snorted and jumped to his feet. “For what? A bag of old bones or the fanciful predictions of a foolish old woman?”

  “Anselm!” Sylvie cried in dismay. “Apologize to Ma this instant.”

  But he only ground his teeth and obstinately jutted his jaw. A quarrel seemed the only way to end this dangerous discussion.

  Curiously, Ma seemed the only person present not upset by his behavior. Instead of being offended, she fixed him with a knowing gaze, and her mouth curved into a toothless grin. “Leave the boy be,” she said softly. “Now I understand.”

  Understood what? But to Anselm’s irritation, she chose this moment to become uncharacteristically mute and returned her attention to her darning.

  Seth, however, was not quite so forgiving. “Your manners do no justice to your bloodline, son. Had we lived in Edgeway, you would be serving as a squire by now, learning the arts that turn a boy into a man. Discipline, hard work, and obedience,” he said, wagging his finger in admonishment. “That is what you lack.”

  For a moment, Anselm almost wished he were serving some faceless lord, far from home. Why must Father always hark back to the old days... the old ways?

  “Unfortunately for us,” Seth continued, “those days are long gone. But their echoes still linger, even within the walls of this humble hall.”

  Anselm took a deep breath and steeled himself to hear the words that were sure to follow, and predictable as always, Seth did not disappoint.

  “If you would only model your character on that of your brother here, you would not go far wrong.” Seth glanced at Vadim who,wisely, kept his head bowed, apparently intent on attaching a piece of feather to the arrow in his hand. “Through him, the bloodline of his sires lives on...”

  Anselm rolled his eyes and groaned inwardly. Here it was again—the dreaded comparison.

  “Here sits a true lord amongst men. Always gallant and unfailingly modest, and not prone to the excesses of... of...” Seth’s cheeks flushed beneath his beard.

  “Of some?” Anselm supplied with an over-bright smile. “Meaning me, I suppose? Come now, Father. Why do you hesitate to say my name when your meaning is abundantly clear?”

  Vadim suddenly set aside his arrow. “I think I shall...erm... take a quick turn outside before bed,” he said, rising from his seat.

  “In this weather?” Sylvie protested, for the wind had not abated at all and now howled like a lost soul beneath the eaves.

  “I will not be gone long, I promise.” With a brief bow, he hastened for the door.

  Seth glared at Anselm. “
There! See what you have done now. Little wonder your brother prefers to brave a gale than suffer the comfort of my hall.”

  Anselm waited until the door had closed at Vadim’s back before delivering one final blasphemy. “With all respect, sire, love Vadim though I do, he is not my brother. Now if you will excuse me, I need to use the privy.” Grabbing his cloak, he followed Vadim out into the night, with the sound of Mother’s dismay and Father’s fury burning in his ears.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Love, Anselm found, was not an easy road to walk.

  By the next morning, the tension of the previous night still lingered in the household. And so, playing the role of a son well chastened, purely for the sake of his mother, Anselm humbly begged for Seth’s pardon and meekly agreed when his stern parent commanded him to visit Dareth with Vadim for more of the interminable knightly training he deemed so essential.

  Casting his gaze to the floor rushes, Anselm attempted to appear suitably penitent. “I will do as you ask, Father.”

  With a sigh, Seth lay a heavy hand upon Anselm’s shoulder. “You may think me too harsh at times, but believe me when I say that everything I do is for your own good, not mine. I worry about you, you see.”

  More than a little surprised to hear this, Anselm looked up, meeting Father’s eyes. They were even puffier than usual, their whites spidered with tiny red veins.

  “Aye,” Seth continued. “’Tis the truth. You think I do not care, but in truth I fear for you most of all. Mark my words, your wildness will one day land you in midden you cannot escape if I do not attempt to curb your behavior before it is too late. Go now. Visit Dareth with your brother...”

  That word again!

  “The discipline will be of great benefit to you.”

  “As you command, Father.”

  “Good lad.” Seth ruffled Anselm’s hair in a careless manner that seemed almost affectionate. “You are wise to harken to me now.” Then, in a low voice, he added, “I love you, my son. I always have and I always will. Remember that.”