Ironheart

by N. J. Layouni

  The two women departed in silence, but as they passed, their eyes delivered a stark, silent warning that bade Anselm to tread carefully.

  “So?” Seth demanded once the doors of the great hall had closed at the backs of his womenfolk. “Where have you been until now?”

  “With Dareth.” The lie was out before he could stop it. Immediately Anselm cursed himself for a coward. This was a fine start to his life with Isobel—yet another lie. But he could not help himself, for instinct and self-preservation had governed his words. The truth, he realized, would serve no one this day, not while Father was so angry and swaying like a drunken mariner.

  Vadim suddenly cleared his throat and looked up from his task; his eyebrows were raised almost to his hairline—yet another of those wordless warnings Anselm could not read. Something was most definitely amiss... but what?

  “Dareth, eh?” Seth’s bloodshot eyes glowed with the prize of some secret knowledge. “That is precisely where Vadim said you would be.”

  “There you are, then.” But as Anselm tried to step around him, Seth stepped into his path, effectively blocking his escape.

  “I have not yet finished speaking to you, boy!” he roared. “You will do me the courtesy of hearing what it is I have to say or, by the Great Spirit, I shall teach you a lesson that is long overdue!”

  Try it!

  Bristling with anger, Anselm clenched his hands into fists at his sides, battling to prevent them from doing what they ached to do. After so many years of being a witness to Father’s steady decline into the never-ending cups of wine and ale, his well of patience suddenly ran dry. As he stared up into his parent’s red-rimmed eyes, Anselm finally reached the end of his rope. He was done with this. All of it. All the denial, the constant excuses, and forever making allowances. From this moment on, it was over. He did not need Seth’s permission to wed Isobel, and now he no longer wanted his blessing.

  Finished.

  In its way, this sudden epiphany was a relief. He was sick to the back teeth of pretending to tolerate the drunken boor who had sired him. How poor Mother had put up with Seth for this many years, he would never know.

  Anselm straightened his shoulders. “Then speak your piece and be done, m’lord,” he said coldly. “I am listening.”

  There it was again—that look. Well lubricated as he was, Father seemed almost triumphant. “Then it might interest you to learn that when you did not return home yester-eve I paid Dareth a visit...”

  Fuck! It took all of Anselm’s self mastery to keep his stare locked with Father’s. Come what may, he would not look away. Not anymore.

  “Imagine my surprise,” Seth continued, slurring slightly, “when Dareth informed me he had not seen you for several weeks. Apparently I had been... misinformed.” He turned and directed a brief hard stare at Vadim, who had, wisely, bowed his head, apparently concentrating on his arrows again. “What say you to that, my son?”

  Anselm exhaled hard. The time for truth had arrived at last. “I was in Mullin... with Isobel.”

  “What?” Seth’s eyes almost bulged from their sockets. “Not the miller’s niece!”

  “I am glad you remember her, Father, for I have asked her to—”

  “No.” Seth shook his head and began pacing back and forth, his fists buried deep in his unruly red thatch of hair. “No. No. No! It cannot be.”

  Vadim was up on his feet now, an arrow clenched in his hand, looking no less shocked than Seth. A hundred questions lurked within his dark, frowning eyes, questions Anselm could not yet answer, not until he had dealt with Seth.

  Taking another deep breath, Anselm continued, “I am glad to say that Isobel has accepted my offer—”

  “Has she, by the gods!” Seth gave a burst of mirthless laughter. “And I wager she snatched your hand off when you offered it, did she not? Well, at least she has some wits about her, unlike her rogue of an uncle.”

  “Isobel is nothing like John Miller. She is kind and decent and loving—”

  “Oh aye, she is loving all right,” Seth sneered, kicking over an empty bucket that had the misfortune to block his unsteady path. “I have only to sniff at you to know just how loving she is.”

  The thinly veiled insult struck its mark full center. Each angry thud of Anselm’s heart sent blood thundering through his ears, almost deafening him. Stay in control. Let the old fool have his say and be done with it. “Guard your tongue, Father,” he warned, “or I fear we shall have a falling out.”

  In three quick strides Seth stood before him, snorting and blowing like an angry bull. “What were you thinking, boy? Has your cock taken over your brain?”

  In full fury, Father was a formidable sight, and it took all the courage Anselm had to hold his ground. His stomach lurched, and his knees trembled in a manner he despised them for. This is for Isobel, remember?

  “I love her, Father, and sh-she loves me.” Only the slightest stumble, but it handed Seth the advantage.

  “Oh? So you are a man now, are you?” he sneered. “Is that it? Then tell me, son, how do you hope to support yourselves without my blessing, for I most certainly do not give it. Nor will I ever consent to this... this...” He threw up his hands in apparent exasperation. “Union,” he spat, venom dripping from the word as though the wondrous love he shared with Isobel was no better than the sopping swill they fed to the pigs. “What say you now, hmm?”

  “What do I say?” Drawing himself up to his full height, Anselm looked into Seth’s bulging eyes. “Well, since you have already expressed your feelings on the matter with such clarity, I think farewell would be appropriate, do you not agree?”

  Whatever Seth had been expecting, this clearly was not it. His raging suddenly faltered. “You would leave m—us, then?” Uncertainty and disbelief were betrayed by his eyes.

  Anselm stood a little taller. The field was his this time, and he meant to claim it properly. As a man. “’Tis probably for the best, for you cannot change, and I certainly never will.”

  For a few moments they did not speak, only stared at one another. The voices of the villagers in the street drifted through the thick walls of the hall, penetrating the silence. A dog barked, and there came a shrill peal of childish laughter. Although he registered the sounds, Anselm did not look away from Seth—he dared not.

  “B-But... you cannot know what you are saying!” Father spluttered at last. Now it was his turn to be wrong-footed, to stumble and bluster like a witless fool. “Winter is not far off. How do you hope to survive? You have neither trade nor skill, no way of earning coin—”

  Anselm chuckled. “Such faith you have in me, Father. Truly, I am blessed.”

  And just as he had begun to believe that their battle was over, Seth rallied again. Sucking his breath through his teeth in a long hiss, he regarded Anselm coldly. “Ah! Now I see your mind. You would throw yourself on John Miller’s mercy, eh? You would beg him to take you in and give you work.”

  In truth, Anselm had considered nothing of the kind. After all, the miller and his vile son were hardly the sort of people he would choose to share a board with. Still, the idea was not without merit, particularly if he and Isobel were backed into a corner with winter nipping at their heels. If he was to become her husband, certain sacrifices were inevitable, and for Isobel’s sake he would put up with anything... and anyone. It would not be for long, just until the following spring.

  Seth chuckled, and the sound of it sent a chill along the length of Anselm’s spine, for it signaled that another gust of rage had caught his Father’s sails, fanning his temper back into full heat again. Wagging his finger in Anselm’s face, he said, “Oh, I see what you will do, boy. Once you leave here, you will return to the mill and tell that thieving bastard what a cruel and terrible father I am. Hah! For the price of such a tale, the miller will gladly open his door and welcome you inside.” With that, he stalked away to retrieve a skin
of wine from where it sat atop one of the ale casks and, raising it to his lips, took several greedy pulls, reminding Anselm of a hungry babe suckling at its mother’s breast.

  Father was unraveling, and fast—not that he had been fully wound for a good many years.

  It was time to go. There was no point lingering, waiting and hoping for a thaw that would never come. He would have to collect his belongings later, preferably while Father was sleeping it off. Arching his eyebrows at Vadim, Anselm jerked his head toward the door. Vadim nodded, indicating that he understood. There would be time enough to talk later—much later, when they were far away from Darumvale. For now he would retreat to the hills and wait for Vadim there, safe from the detection of Father’s blurry eyes.

  Lowering the wineskin, Seth wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “In truth, I cannot really blame yon chit for throwing herself at you, not with a family like hers. The son of Edgeway’s steward would be a worthy catch for any woman.” Still clutching his wine, he swayed unsteadily toward Anselm, his feet sluthering through the floor rushes. As he did so, a shard of sunlight pierced the opening in the roof, highlighting several stray droplets of wine in his beard where, just for a moment, they glistened like rare and precious gems until he stepped back into the shadows again. “I blame you for this, boy. You should not have encouraged such grand delusions in the poor girl.”

  Anselm’s simmering temper flashed to full heat. There was only one deluded person present, and he was standing right in front of him. “Isobel,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Her. Name. Is. Isobel. I would thank you for the courtesy of at least calling her by her given name.”

  “Or what?” Seth grinned and took another swift tug from his wineskin. “What will you do to me, eh?”

  With the benefit of hindsight, he should have taken to his heels then, but to hear Seth speaking so disrespectfully about his beloved girl, to witness the mockery of his leering smile, was more than he could bear. So, foolishly, he took the bait.

  “Do not test me, Father,” he warned. “You have said quite enough already.”

  “You still intend to wed her, then, even without my consent?”

  “Yes.”

  Vadim was on his feet now, silently shadowing Seth’s unsteady course. His frowning eyes met Anselm’s. Why are you still here? Go! He heard the words as clearly as if his friend had spoken them out loud.

  “So tell me, boy.” Seth paused, wincing as he massaged his right temple. “What is it that is so special about this... Isobel of yours, hmm?”

  Anselm shrugged and took a step backward, the floor rushes catching and rustling beneath his feet. What was the point in explaining? No matter what he said, Father would never rescind his decision. A man so ruined as he could never hope to understand a love as perfect as theirs. The long years of festering resentment had blinded him, and the alcohol had pickled his brain. No. There was no hope for Father now.

  “Come on, speak to me, lad!” With frightening speed for a drunkard, Seth pounced, hooking Anselm about the shoulders and securing him firmly beneath one brawny arm. “Tell me about her,” he said with feigned friendliness. “Tell me what makes this girl so special from all the others you have been tom catting with.”

  “I would gladly do so if I thought you had any real interest in hearing about her.”Anselm replied, struggling to extricate himself from his father’s vice-like hold. At such close quarters, and with his nose pressed much too near Seth’s armpit, the musky stench of sweat and alcohol was overwhelming. His stomach roiled. “Unhand me!”

  “Not yet,” Seth said softly.

  Vadim hovered at Seth’s right shoulder, his demeanor tense and watchful.

  “Not until you have learned some sense.” All at once, Seth’s mask of good humor fell away, revealing the beast he could never truly conceal. “You are the son of a steward!” he roared. In one quick movement, he had crushed Anselm to him, pinning him to the bulk of his well-muscled body until he could neither move nor breathe. “I will not allow you to throw your life away between the legs of a low-born slut, no matter how comely she is.”

  Drunk or sober, Seth had always been strong—much too strong an opponent to fight at such close range.

  “Seth, no!” Springing into action,Vadim grabbed Seth’s upper arm. “Let go of him.” But for all that his rescue effort was valiant, it was futile, for Vadim’s attack was about as bothersome to Seth as a fly landing on the rump of a destrier.

  Dropping his wineskin, Seth flicked his arm backward, swatting Vadim away and sending him flying backward through the air. With a heavy crash, he landed, striking his head against one of the fireside benches with a sickening thunk. He groaned once then lay still.

  Fuck! Was he dead? Half-throttled, Anselm strained to see the motionless body of his friend.

  Seth either had not noticed or did not care. Whatever it was, he did not trouble himself to turn about and find out. Instead, he dragged Anselm by the neck toward the doors of the great hall. “I will not permit you to sully the noble blood that flows through your veins with such a disastrous match, do you hear me, boy? Think with your head for once instead of allowing your cock to make all the important decisions for you.”

  With his father’s meaty arm crushing his chest and windpipe, Anselm could only gasp in reply.

  Kicking open the doors, Seth hauled him out onto the street. “You may not believe me now, but I am doing this for your own good.”

  What? Throttling him half to death was meant to be of benefit to him? Had he been able to do so, he would have laughed. Insane bastard! Within the dark place of his heart, the tiny seed of hatred he had managed to keep in a dormant state began to sprout and flourish, growing with such speed it quickly filled his racing heart.

  His vision faded until only a dark, narrow tunnel remained, and through it he saw the shocked faces of his friends and neighbors, standing in open-mouthed shock as they witnessed their chief manhandling his son out onto the street. “Hemble!” Seth bellowed. “Open the door of the smoking hut.”

  “Which one, Ch-Chief?” the man stammered.

  “Either of them will do. Now go! Make haste.” Then Seth returned his attention to Anselm, venting a tirade of madness into his ears as he dragged him along, his boots scuffing trails in the dirt. “You are the result of years of good breeding, boy. In your very sinews, the glory of your sires lives on. Fine men. Ancestors of courage and renown. Imagine it, lad. Knights and kings sired you and gave you life, and I will not allow you to sully that noble bloodline, to pollute it with a union that is so far beneath you. No, not while I have life left in me. You shall not spoil something so untainted and pure. Remember where you came from. Does it mean nothing to you?”

  Just then, Seth stumbled, and the clamp across Anselm’s chest loosened for a moment, just long enough for him to snatch a sip of air and gasp, “Damn you, and damn your precious sires!” What did lineage matter? What were the ancestors but dry bones and dust? Why were the dead more important than the living? If Seth was an example of their untainted bloodline, Anselm wanted none of it.

  “You are still a child,” Seth growled against his ear. “A sapling. A babe striving too soon to walk in the boots of a man. Believe me, one day you will thank me for this.”

  “Ne-ver!” he panted as he clutched at Seth’s arm, desperately trying to pull it away from his throat.

  “Yes, you will, and when the time comes, you will make a great match,” he continued as though Anselm had not spoken. “But until that day, I must be more vigilant—”

  “Seth? Seth!” From some distance away, Anselm heard Mother’s voice. Never had it been so welcome. “Whatever are you doing? Release the boy this instant!”

  Relief made him dizzy—or it might have been a lack of air. Hope flared in his heart. Everything would be all right now. Mother always knew how to handle Father’s rages. Or so he thought.

  “No, Sy
lvie. I must save him from himself.” The coldness of his voice filled Anselm with dread. “I warn you, wife, do not oppose me in this matter, for I will not be swayed. Not this time. You have indulged the lad far too often. See how he is now, and rejoice in the result of your coddling—if you can.”

  He was blaming Mother now? Hell! The man was truly insane.

  With a hard shove, Anselm went sailing through the air and landed with a bone-jarring thud on the dirt floor of the smokehouse, his head only narrowly missing the stone edge of the fire pit. Sprawled out and gasping, he massaged his aching throat. As his breath returned, so did his strength, but he was too slow, and the sturdy wooden door was slammed and barred from the outside before he could get to it.

  Scrambling to his feet, he pummeled the door with his fists, wishing with all his heart that it was his father’s face “Let me out, you bastard! When I get out of here, I will—!”

  “What?” From the other side of the door, Seth’s voice was smug in victory, and his heavy, wine-scented breath hissed through the hairline joints of the sturdy oak planking. “What can you do, whelp, especially from inside there?” He chuckled. “No. I have nothing to fear from you.”

  Ah. But one day he would. Howling in fury, Anselm hammered at the door until his knuckles bled and the muscles in his arms screamed. “You cannot keep me locked away forever!”

  “Oh, but I can, so you had best consider my words. I mean it, son. This time you have gone too far.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “He locked you away?” Martha whispered, her face betraying her horror. “For how long?”

  All the time he had been speaking, her hands had been busily kneading the loose fabric of her skirt into tight pleats. “And what about Vadim?” she asked.

  Anselm smiled. “Ah! His tale, at least, has a much more satisfactory ending. You will be pleased to learn that the blow to his head did not prove to be fatal.”

  “Oh, you!” Tutting in exasperation, she swatted his arm. “You know full well what I meant. Was he okay?”