The miller regarded him for several long moments then, finally, nodded his black shaggy head. “Aye,” he said before returning his attention to his niece, pulling down her shift and restoring her to decency again.
“After the evidence you have heard, you would still take his part?” Jack cried, shoving his way through the crowd. “Are you mad?” Livid spots of color stained his cheeks. “You would allow her attacker to walk free?”
Usually the miller would have knocked Jack’s block off for speaking to him in such a disrespectful manner, but Isobel’s death must have broken him in some way for he made no reply. Instead, he stroked a bedraggled lock of hair from his niece’s face and began tucking a blanket about her body. “She is so cold,” he whispered. “We must get her home.”
At witnessing such tenderness, Anselm’s heart ached anew knowing that the surly miller shared his pain. They had much in common had he but known it.
Jack, however, was far from pacified. “Aye, take her home we will, and then we shall decide upon the date for a trial.” He looked about the crowd, milking them for support. “If he is as innocent as he claims, then surely he will not object to answering our questions. Am I right, friends?”
The crowd responded with a rousing, “Aye!”
Anselm huddled deeper into his blanket. A trial? Oh, how they would all enjoy that, and afterward, watching him swing from the nearest tree. They wanted quick justice for Isobel, and their blood flowed too hot to care whether they had the right man, and with Jack serving as judge and executioner, Anselm knew he would not live to see many more sunrises.
“As you wish,” he heard himself reply. “With the truth on my side, I have nothing to fear.”
But fear them he did, especially Jack.
Carrying Isobel on a blanket, they returned to the village Anselm shuffled along at her side, grasping her hand as it slipped free from her makeshift shroud. Desperately, he tried to memorize the feel of her little fingers, their size and shape and how they felt in his hand. Hot tears dripped from the tip of his nose, but he had not the will to dash them away.
This was it. The time had come for them to part, and this time it would be forever.
Supported by one of his neighbors, the miller stumbled along at Isobel’s other side, his eyes never straying from the outline concealed beneath a blanket.
Jack walked at the head of the procession, flanked by two boys misguided enough to consider him a friend. The sight of the three of them smiling and jesting together as though this were just an ordinary day made Anselm seethe.
An ordinary day! If only it were. How could the sun still shine when the light of his world had been snuffed out, leaving him to dwell in a pit of eternal darkness?
When they arrived back at the mill, they laid Isobel out on the well-scrubbed wooden table, and while the women and maidens prepared her for interment, the men adjourned to the next room to drink ale and commiserate with the miller. Satisfied that Anselm was not about to bolt, with one last look of loathing, Jack went to join the other men.
Clutching his blanket, Anselm sat shivering on a stool in the corner of the room. Unnoticed by the women, he watched as they undressed and then gently washed Isobel. Singing softly to themselves, they brushed her hair and anointed her skin with fragrant oils.
Vadim’s young widow, Jess, appeared in the doorway bearing a pale-blue gown, draped carefully over her arms. She saw Anselm sitting there, but she said nothing and looked away. Whether that was because she believed Jack’s lies or because she wanted to give Anselm a little more time with his beloved, he could not say. Of course he knew he had no right to be there; these sacred rituals belonged to the women, old and young, but he could not force himself to leave.
At last, Isobel was ready, and the women stepped back to admire their handiwork. Jess glanced at Anselm and then whispered something to the other women. Without a word, they filed from the room without acknowledging his presence, almost as though he was not there at all, leaving him alone with Isobel.
Grateful for their kindness, Anselm rose from his stool like an old man and slowly approached the table. Oh, my sweet Isobel.
A rush of tears blurred his vision, but not before he had seen the result of the women’s tender ministrations. If Isobel had been lovely in life, in death she was just as fair. Clean and dry now and dressed in her finest gown, not a trace of muck from the mill pool remained. With her eyes closed and her hands folded across her chest, he could almost believe she was sleeping, but the stillness of her breast dashed this foolish fancy.
Hand trembling, he reached out to touch the flaxen waves of her hair. So soft. Just like silk. Clutching the table for support, he leaned over and placed a feather-light kiss upon her lips, but they did not move beneath his. They were as cold—as cold as the pool he had pulled her from.
Too late. Much too late.
“I love you, my darling girl,” he murmured against her ear while tears dripped unchecked down his face and onto her hair. “Why did you do it? Why?” It was hard to breathe; grief constricted his throat too tightly. “Because of the baby? Did you think I would reject you because you carried the child of another man? Did you?” Suddenly he was angry, furiously so. “You stupid, thoughtless girl! I was to be your husband! I would have taken care of you... both of you. Life might have had its trials, but we would have been happy. You never gave us a chance!” He gave a bitter laugh. “You might as well have drowned me too, for my life is all but over. What do I have without you, hmm?”
Unable to help himself, he took her limp body in his arms and held her close for the final time. Despite the oil’s sweet fragrance, the scent of roses could not entirely mask the stench of death and the slow advance of decay. Isobel had gone, and it was time he did the same.
With one last kiss, he lowered her back onto the table. “Farewell for the present, sweeting,” he murmured against her lips. “I will see you on the morrow, as always.” Only he was not yet sure which morrow that would prove to be. Dashing the tears from his eyes, he turned and strode for the door, and he did not look back.
But with the benefit of hindsight, he should have stayed where he was and let them hang him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Martha clutched Anselm’s hand where it lay on the coverlet, squeezing his feeble fingers so tightly that he grimaced with discomfort. “Wh-What happened then?” she asked.
“If you would but release your death hold on my hand, I will tell you. Thank you.” Not that he was entirely unappreciative of her sympathetic gesture. He wriggled his fingers to restore their circulation.
“Sorry.” She snatched her handkerchief from his hand and wiped her face with it. “So what did you do? Where did you go?”
He smiled. For him, the worst of the tale was now told; telling the rest could cause him no greater pain. “Where does anyone go when they are alone and desperate? I went home, of course. To Darumvale...”
Only his family no longer wanted him. Well, with the exception of Mother, of course. Otherwise there was no solace to be found there—no consolation. Not for him.
When he stumbled back through the doors of the great hall, with a cry of joy, ’twas Mother who ran to greet him. Thankfully Seth and Ma were not there, and Vadim lay quietly snoring on his pallet, most likely sleeping off the ill effects of his head injury.
’Twas Mother who guided him to the fire and forced him to drink a tankard of warm ale he did not want. ’Twas she who wrapped her own shawl about his trembling shoulders and held him close, kissing his hair while he sobbed out the full horror of all that had occurred.
Perhaps he should have told her then that Isobel had been raped, that the seed in her womb was that of her attacker, but for some reason he did not. Even though Isobel was dead, he could not bring himself to betray the confidence she had given him. The world had already made up its mind about him. Nothing
he could say would alter that now.
Seth arrived home soon afterward. He must have been out hunting, for he carried a brace of rabbits in one hand. Anselm flinched when he saw those small swinging bodies, lifeless ears pointed at the ground.
When he saw Anselm sitting beside the fire, Seth’s expression hardened. “What is he doing here?”
So Sylvie told him, hurriedly relaying all that she had learned. Throughout the rapid retelling of it, Seth’s eyes never strayed from Anselm, regarding him with the iciness usually reserved for an enemy. Only when he heard that Isobel had been with child did his stony facade crack—only for a moment, and little more than a flinch, but it was still there.
“We have to help him, Seth,” Sylvie cried, clutching at her husband’s tunic. “Find him a safe place to stay. We must make haste. Even now the villagers of Mullin may be on their way.”
Seth nodded. “Aye, that they may.” He thrust the rabbits into his wife’s hands then went to stash his bow and arrows in the trunk where he usually kept them.
“Is that it?” Sylvie demanded, her hands planted on her hips. “Is that all you have to say on the matter?”
Mother seldom lost her temper, but when she did it was a sight to behold. For a woman so tiny, she had much spirit, and even Father knew to keep clear of her when she was in a rage. But not this time, it seemed.
“The boy made his choices long ago, Sylvie, and without any help from me. He has repeatedly refused to heed my guidance and now must reap the harvest of what has been sown.”
“But they will kill him! Hang him without a trial.”
“Aye.” Seth continued to calmly rearrange the contents of his weapons trunk. “No doubt they will. But what is to be done? Running away has only confirmed his guilt.”
“For the love of Erde,” Sylvie cried. “We are speaking about your son—your only son!”
“Son?” As Father slowly turned, Anselm recoiled from the bitter coldness his eyes.
“Yes, your son!” Sylvie all but screamed at him. “Look at the boy.” She pointed a trembling finger at Anselm. “See how pale he is. Can you not see how he suffers? How can you stand there and do nothing to aid him?”
“Did you do it, lad?” Seth asked quietly. “Did you lay with this unfortunate lass?”
Anselm shivered. He knew not which of Father’s moods he liked least—the drunken rages or the cloak of calm he now wore. Taking a deep breath, he answered. “Yes. I did.”
“Just as I thought.” Seth turned away. “I wash my hands of you—”
“Seth!”
“Be silent, wife!” Father roared, the unnatural calm of a moment ago now but a memory. “I will hear no more of your prattling. If he is man enough to land a girl in trouble, then he is man enough to deal with all the consequences of his selfish and dishonorable actions. I will not help him, and neither will you. I mean it, Sylvie,” he growled when Mother opened her mouth to protest. “You would be unwise to test me any further on this. He has caused this. All of it. He is responsible for the death of that poor lass and for all the hardship that will surely follow.”
When Mother began weeping, Anselm realized just how far he had fallen. Not only had he lost Isobel, but he had lost everything else too. There was no way back for him now. Strangely, at such a momentous juncture in his life, he felt nothing: not sad or afraid, not even angry.
Nothing.
It was as if he were watching this scene of familial discord from some great distance off—that he was disconnected from it all somehow.
Numb.
Dead.
Taking out the small meat knife he kept upon his belt, he slowly pressed its keen point into the pad of his hand. Fascinated, he watched as a bead of blood welled up and overflowed, running in a crimson line from his hand to his wrist. On some level, he registered a mild discomfort, but no real pain. It was almost a relief.
The grief that had shredded his heart into ribbons now seemed to shield him, protecting him from any further harm.
After a day of such raw and terrible loss, Father’s wrath had lost its power. He could no longer hurt him. No one could.
“Anselm?” Mother sat down beside him and took his bleeding hand between hers. “What have you done to yourself, sweeting?”
He only smiled and sat placidly while she gently wrapped a linen strip about his hand.
Seth stood glowering over them like an angry mountain, his wild red hair and beard bristling with ill humor. “Did you hear what I just said? I am master of this hall, and I will not be ignored in this way.”
“We heard you well enough, husband,” Sylvie snapped, glancing up. “No doubt the whole village has heard your bellowing. Now kindly allow me to tend my son.”
“Yes, your son,” Seth sneered, planting his booted foot on the bench between them, “for he is certainly no longer a son of mine. Did you hear me, boy?” He gave a snort of irritation when Anselm did not answer. “Must you sit there smiling to yourself like a simpleton?”
“He is unwell, husband.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head to one side. “Well, if the people of Mullin arrive as soon as expected, I am certain his present discomfort will be mercifully brief.”
Mother leaped to her feet. “When did you become such a cold, unfeeling bas—”
“’Tis all right, Mother,” Anselm said quickly, grabbing her hand lest she said too much, for he could not take her with him, not to the places he was going. “Let Seth have his say. Yes, Seth I call you, for just as you have disowned me, I no longer own you. From this moment on, I will no longer claim you as my father.” He grinned at the man who had sired him. “You see? I do heed you on occasion.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Seth’s eyes almost bulge from their sockets like a livid red frog.
“Unless you wish to be strung up by that lass’s family,” he growled, “I suggest you go. Now! Leave Darumvale and never return—”
“Seth, no!”
As usual, the volume of his voice drowned out Mother’s protests. “From henceforth you are banished from Darumvale and from my heart.”
“Another great loss for me to bear, but I will endeavor to carry it as best I may.” Of course, Seth was too stupid—or too ale-addled—to know when he was being mocked.
“Good. Then we understand one another. Gather your belongings, and be gone by the time I return.” Just for a moment, a gentler emotion flashed within his eyes. “Farewell.” Then, turning on his heel, Seth marched out of the hall and into the gathering dusk.
Martha said nothing. She just sat in her chair, shaking her head. Though her eyes were dry now, she looked sad.
“Well?” ’Twas he who prompted her this time, so eager was he to know her thoughts. “Now you have seen the true face of my family, have you no comment to make, sweeting?”
“Poor Sylvie,” she muttered. “I knew she was hiding something, but I had no idea it was anything as awful as this.”
“You had no idea? I am surprised Vadim has not spoken of it.”
“Vadim?” She arched her eyebrows and grinned. “You know he’s never been big on dishing up information, especially the unpleasant kind.”
“Well, you need not feel too sorry for me, sweeting, for I have had my revenge, and much else besides, over the years.”
“Revenge? So that’s why you went straight from Darumvale to Edgeway and asked His Evilness for a job?”
Why did she persist in calling him by that foolish nickname? True, the previous Lord Edgeway had not been without his faults, but to his credit, he had taken Anselm in when everyone else had turned their backs. Not only that, but Lord Godric had provided him with an extremely generous living in exchange for his services. “Yes. I wanted revenge, and even before I left home, I began collecting some of the payments due to me.”
“Oh—how?”
“As a parting gift, I went to the s
tables and slit the throat of Father’s beloved horse.” He smiled at Martha’s horrified expression. “By all accounts, the loss of his favorite beast affected him far more than the loss of his only son. Have you noticed how he never rides anywhere?”
“Ugh!” Martha wrinkled her nose. “You’re really sick. How could you take it out on a defenseless animal? It was an innocent—”
“And so was I!” The sudden rage that rushed through his blood and made his heart thunder shocked him.
“Yes, I suppose you were.” To her credit, Martha seemed unruffled by his outburst, though she did surreptitiously put a little more distance between them, the chair’s legs scraping over the wooden floor as she pushed farther from the bed. No sooner had she done so than the door of the bedchamber flew open and there was Vadim, filling the room with a palpable tension as he stood in the doorway.
“Is everything well in here?” he asked, quickly glancing from one face to the other, anxiety flashing in his dark eyes.
“We’re fine, thanks, love,” Martha assured him quickly. “We were just chatting about the past. You know how it is.” As she looked at her husband, the smile she bestowed upon him was so sweetly tender that Anselm experienced a sharp and unexpected stab of envy.
How long had it been since a woman had looked at him in that way? Certainly none of the serving wenches or tavern whores had; for all that they were welcoming, their come-hither smiles never quite reached their eyes. Anselm gave himself a mental shake. What was wrong with him? After all he had been through, after somehow surviving the interminable agony of loss, why would he suddenly envy Vadim? If anything, he should pity the poor fellow.
“Have no fear, brother,” Anselm said to placate him. “Even if I had the desire to harm your precious dove, I do not possess the strength. Indeed,” he added, casting a sly glance in Martha’s direction, “in my current state, your lady could do me far more damage, had she the mind to do so.”
Vadim nodded, but he still looked grim. A muscle pulsed in the right side of his jaw. “Very well. But if you need me, I am right outside.”
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