“Literally so, I expect,” Anselm said after the concerned husband had departed. “Even as I speak, I suspect he is out there with his ear pressed close to the door cracks. My! I never saw a man so besotted.”
“I heard that!” Vadim called, his voice slightly muffled from the other side of the door, making Martha giggle.
“You see? Quite besotted. What a powerful spell you have cast upon him, sweeting.” But whatever Vadim felt for Martha was clearly reciprocated, for her eyes still sparkled with the memory of her husband’s presence.
“You’re a very wicked man, Anselm.”
“I do not deny it.”
“But there’s something I don’t quite understand.”
“How your outlaw of a husband has kept his head for so long?”
“No—but I am wondering what made you want to take his head from him in the first place?” She leaned closer, her curious blue eyes searching his face for an answer. “When did the hating first begin? What killed your friendship? You two used to be so close.”
True, but that was before Vadim had—
No. That particular revelation would keep for another day. Besides, he was tired. So terribly weary. All this talking had quite worn him out. “Another time, sweeting. I am not in the mood to speak of it now, not with your husband hovering at the other side of the door. Instead, before I sleep, if you would allow me one more sip of ale, I will end my tale with one final, happier recollection.”
Martha’s hunger to discover the root of his animosity toward Vadim must have been clawing at her insides. But to her credit, she only nodded and got up to do his bidding. “You can go to sleep now if you like and tell me the rest tomorrow.”
“So you do not wish to learn the identity of the man responsible for pushing my beloved to her death?”
“What?” Martha spun about so quickly that she almost spilled the jug of ale in her haste. “You found out who it was? Who—her uncle?”
Ah. So she already had her suspicions. “Sit down, and I will reveal the name of the beast to you.”
Once Anselm had drunk his fill, he settled back on his pillows, and cradling the half-empty tankard of ale in his hands, he began telling the final part of his story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
For several weeks, he wandered aimlessly through the wilderness. But lovely though it was, nature’s beauty was lost on Anselm, for he was blind to everything save the weight of the terrible grief he carried, which tormented him constantly, both by day and by night.
Water from the mountain streams sustained his miserable life, and the occasional rabbit he managed to snare helped keep him on his feet, though in truth he cared for neither life nor death, for both were equally repulsive to him.
Lost and friendless as he was, somehow he continued. A soul without a home. And so he might have continued until winter returned to reclaim the ice that entombed his heart, were it not for old Iron Heart, the legendary stag of his youth.
Close to the town of Edgeway stood a lone, grassy hill, crowned at its top by the stones of a long-forgotten ruin. As boys, he and Vadim had often climbed the hill’s slippery bank pretending, it was a snow-covered mountain peak, the home of a formidable goblin who guarded a hoard of priceless treasure.
Without any conscious decision—save that of his weary feet, which, it seemed, needed no map in order to find their way home—Anselm found himself staring at their hill again.
Although it was still some distance off—a mere pimple on the horizon—and there was no reason for haste, he set off running through the heather, fueled by a sudden desperate longing to revisit his childhood playground. But he was weak, light headed with hunger, and his legs were moving much too quickly for the rest of him to keep up. Suddenly, the heather’s woody network of thickly intertwined roots overcame him, tripping him up and sending him sprawling through the air.
He landed face down in a purple heather cloud, disturbing the bees that had been crawling over its tiny flowers and sending them into the air with many a loud buzz of displeasure.
Quite unhurt, except for having the air knocked out of him, Anselm lay where he was for a while, eyes closed, relishing the warmth of the sun on the back of his shirt and the buzzing of the... meat flies?
And then he scented it. A foul, unwholesome smell. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as the unmistakable scent of decay assaulted his nostrils, masking all of the moor’s usual sweetness. Preparing to move on, he sat up, but as he opened his eyes, to his horror, he found himself staring into the gaping eye sockets of some half-decomposed beast.
For once he was glad that he had no companion, for to his shame, he shrieked like a startled maiden—albeit only for a second.
Crawling on his hands and knees through the heather, he advanced on the nightmare creature. But as he drew closer, he realized it was not a monster at all, for still attached to the skull were a huge pair of velvet-less antlers, poking out though a thick clump of heather.
He exhaled. ’Twas naught but a stag, but judging by the size of its skull, in life, this must have been a truly massive beast. Almost as large as...
Iron Heart?
Taking sips of air through his mouth and swatting away the swarm of flies, he quickly examined the unfortunate beast’s carcass, searching for evidence of how the stag might have met his end. It was not long before he found it.
With the exception of its head and antlers, the rest of the animal was contained by a deep, narrow ditch. Ancient as he must have been, Ironheart—if this was indeed him—had most likely tripped and fallen into the ditch, but with his antlers entangled in the heather roots, he had no chance of freeing himself again. Not without help. His struggles would have only sealed his fate.
For a long time he sat there, keeping watch over his boyhood friend, and when he finally got up again, he found the fog that had afflicted his mind for so long had suddenly cleared.
For good or bad, the past was gone, and his future lay stretched out before him.
At long last, Anselm finally knew what he wanted to do with it.
Offering employment to the son of Edgeway’s former steward must have amused Lord Godric a good deal, for when Anselm turned up at the castle, cold, hungry, and wretched, begging for mercy, that was precisely what he did.
And so the next chapter of his life began, with him playing the role of a humble stable hand. Although the task of caring for the knights’ horses was both a demanding and ceaseless occupation, for the most part, Anselm was content, for his new position allowed him little time in which to think. Not only that, but also he had a warm bed to sleep in at night and a belly that was seldom empty—a vast improvement from the weeks he had spent sleeping out beneath various hedgerows.
The other stable lads were cheerful company, and when he was in the mood for their mindless prattle, he would sometimes accompany them to the various taverns and brothels in the nearby town of Edgeway to watch them waste their hard-earned silver on women and ale.
As the months passed, Anselm gradually became accustomed to the new order of his former home, and in time, accepted its hierarchy. Slow but sure, the creeping of time weathered even the keenest edges of old remembrances until, at last, they grew blunt and lost their power to cause him harm.
Castle Edgeway had reclaimed him. After so many years in the wilderness, he was finally home.
The only shadow on his new life was that cast by the beautiful countess: Lissa, Vadim’s sister. He often saw her walking through the castle grounds. Always alone. Always aimlessly wandering. Lords or villeins, no one seemed to take much notice of her, and it was a rare occasion when anyone bothered to give Lissa her rightful due as she passed by.
Of all the people who dwelt within the castle’s walls, Lord Godric, it seemed, was the only one who cared enough to coax Lissa back from the shadows she so often frequented, and when he was not occupied with the demands
of running the castle, he was often to be found out walking with his lovely wife, her hand tucked snugly in the crook of his arm. But Lord Godric might have saved himself the trouble, for although Lissa occasionally smiled at her husband, it was apparent to all that her mind was only half there. She was broken somehow, like a bow string that had been stretched too far, too often.
But still the earl persisted, though no one understood why, for Lissa was not much of a wife, not even in private. It was common news that the fair countess no longer shared Lord Godric’s bed, and that a steady stream of mistresses had since taken her place.
With the passing of each day, Lissa seemed to fade a little more. Whether this was caused by a cruel trick of the light or because of his own tainted memories, Anselm did not know, but on some occasions he swore he could see a strange translucency at her edges—a hint of nothingness as she moved. A wraith-like quality that made him shiver.
Anselm had long ceased avoiding her, for Lissa seemed to walk a path that did not quite touch upon the everyday world the rest of them inhabited, so it came as a surprise, one morning, when he heard her call out to him by name.
“Anselm! Can that really be you?”
Damn! He stiffened and stopped in his tracks. He had been on his way to the muck heap, struggling to maneuver his laden barrow over the treacherous ruts between the cobbles. He was so shocked to see her standing there that he upset half the barrow’s steaming contents onto the pristine courtyard.
Unfortunately, Lissa was not alone, and Lord Godric stood at her side, regarding them both with amusement.
“Do you know this filthy young fellow, dearest?”
Self-consciously, Anselm wiped his hands down the front of his dirty, linen shirt. Forcing a smile, he swept back his hair with one hand. “My lady,” he said with a careful respect, bowing his head to the noble couple.
“It is you!” Lissa cried, exhibiting all the signs of delight. “Look, Godric.” She tilted her face to look up at her husband, her mouth curved in her familiar bright smile. “’Tis Anselm.”
“So it is.” The earl raised her hand to his lips, seemingly pleased with the unusual animation of his wife’s current state. “It heartens me that you remember the lad.” With a nod, he released her hand, and Lissa flew over the cobbles to where Anselm stood quaking in his boots, nervously hoping for a quick escape.
With little regard for how terrible he must smell—he had been mucking out stalls since daybreak—the lady threw her arms about him and hugged him tightly, enveloping him in the heady scent of roses. “How wonderful it is to meet with you again. How are you? Tell me, how does your family fare?”
“We are all well, I thank you, m’lady,” he replied, gently straining backward to escape from her embrace. Hot blood rushed to his cheeks when he saw Lord Godric watching them, but his expression seemed more thoughtful than angry. If Lissa did not release him soon, he would lose even this pitiful job.
At last his ordeal was over, and he was free of her embrace. With a forced smile, he took two hasty backward steps, increasing the distance between them. Dweller of two worlds though she was, even Lissa must have sensed his tension, for her smile faltered, and her dark eyes lost some of their luster.
Anselm bowed his head, staring at the shit, filth, and straw that daubed his boots, mentally comparing them to the perfect toes of Lissa’s expensive green silk slippers, hardly daring to breathe.
Damn and blast it all. Why had she chosen this day to rouse from her waking dream? Why now, when the earl was by her side? What ill fortune. More than anyone, he knew the danger of courting Lord Godric’s displeasure, and he had no intention of ending up in his dungeon. Or worse.
“Be at ease, lad,” the earl said with a laugh. “You and I are old friends of long standing, are we not?”
Friends? Anselm’s stomach fluttered. “Aye, m’lord.” He did not raise his eyes from his boots, not even when the tips of the earl’s highly polished boots came to stand next to his wife’s neat slippers.
“He does not know me anymore, Godric.” The edge of Lissa’s voice contained a childlike note of dismay. “Why will he not know me?”
“There now, my love. I am sure our young Anselm was only being polite, is that not so, lad? Come. Raise your head. You need not fear me.”
Do as he commands, and remember to smile. “Of course I remember you, m’lady,” he said, forcing warmth into his voice. “How could I forget the woman who was once as beloved to me as any sister?”
Good. They were both smiling again.
Encouraged, Lissa clasped Anselm’s work-roughened hands between her soft and dainty fingers, seeming not to notice how filthy they were. “How long have you worked here?” she asked.
“Not long,” he lied, earning another approving look from the earl.
“But as a stable hand? Oh, Anselm. That simply will not do.”
“I assure you, m’lady, I am more than content with my lot. At least I am home again.” If his words sounded wistful, he could not help that.
“Yes, yes, but you are of noble birth, my friend.” Lissa’s eyes flashed fever bright with excitement. “You should be a knight, not toiling away in the filth like an ordinary villein. Godric?” She turned look at her husband. “You will assist him, will you not, husband?”
“If it pleases you, my dove, of course I will.”
“Really?”
“You have my solemn vow.”
“Oh, Godric.” Letting go of Anselm, she launched herself into her husband’s waiting arms, raining a shower of kisses upon his cheek. “Thank you, my love.”
The earl chuckled at his wife’s exuberance, and as he held her in his arms, he bestowed a grateful smile upon Anselm. “Perhaps,” the earl said at length, “our young friend might honor us with his presence at dinner tonight.”
Erde! This was getting worse by the moment. “Thank you, my lord, but I fear—”
“Nonsense.” The earl cut off his protest before Anselm had even had the chance to formulate a suitable excuse. “I insist. We both do. Is that not right, my love?” he said, looking down with tenderness at his wife.
“Yes. Oh, please say you will come, Anselm,” Lissa cried.
The look in Lord Godric’s eyes dared him to refuse. What else could he do but accept? He would just have to spend all the wages he had hoarded away in a secret stash beneath a loose plank in the stable wall, for he possessed no suitable garments for such an occasion as this.
Damn, damn, damn!
“Excellent. We shall both look forward to seeing you there.” Perhaps Lord Godric had read his mind, for a moment later he reached into his purse. “Here,” he said, flicking three gold coins at Anselm. “That should tide you over until the rest of your baggage arrives.”
Baggage? What baggage? But Lord Godric silenced him with a frown, casting a quick glance at Lissa.
Ah. They were to humor her, were they? And by that reckoning, that made him an errant knight who had lost his way. Fair enough. He could manage that easily enough. “That is most kind of you, m’lord,” he said with a bow.
Although Anselm had never actively sought the earl’s friendship, from such humble beginnings, there it began—out in the street, with him stinking of sweat and standing in a pile of steaming horse shit. Theirs was a relationship born of gratitude. Gratitude on either side.
As the days passed, Lissa eventually slipped back into her regular vacant state, but Lord Godric did not abandon Anselm. Once his morning duties in the stables were complete, the earl instructed him to train in the lists with the other knights. Although the other men had looked down on him at first, he gradually earned their respect, and his skill both with a sword and upon horseback soon gained him a far worthier reputation.
Several weeks later, Lord Godric had him resign from the stables and moved him into the keep into rooms not far from the earl’s private solar. Altho
ugh his life had taken an unexpected turn, Anselm was not unhappy about it.
Martha stifled a yawn. “I thought you were going to tell me about Isobel’s attacker.”
“Be patient. I was just coming to it.”
“Well, speed it up, would you? I really need to pee.”
Anselm sighed. “You are truly a woman of grace and delicacy, Countess.”
“Just shut up and talk faster.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When he was not busy training, Anselm regularly ran errands for the earl, and one particular day, his master dispatched him to nearby Edgeway to pick up a pair of fine new boots that awaited collection.
As the day was uncommonly warm, once Anselm had performed his task, he decided to make a quick detour via one of the local taverns before embarking on the short ride home.
It was market day, and as usual, Edgeway’s streets were thronged with people and all forms of livestock. The air rang with bleats, brays, and the excited cries of the traders.
After partaking of a tankard or two, Anselm made his way back to the livery to collect his fine gray horse—another gift from Lord Godric. As he did so, he noticed a familiar figure sitting by the water trough in the street—a giant of a man with the smile of a child and a shock of jet-black hair. There was no mistaking him.
Anselm’s heart quickened. It was Brom.
Dodging the steady stream of horses and handcarts, he hurried across the busy street, uncertain of the reception he would receive, for Brom had loved Isobel too. If he believed Anselm guilty of harming her, this meeting would be a brief but bloody one, for although Brom was usually the most placid and good-natured of fellows, when his childish temper was stirred, he was quite capable of besting any unarmed man. Including Anselm.
Brom had not yet noticed Anselm’s approach, for he was much too engrossed in watching the bustle around him. From his place beside the stone water trough, he sat smiling to himself as he watched the passersby, particularly their livestock. Brom had always been fond of animals, much preferring their company to that of his own kind.
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