Erring on caution’s side, Anselm stopped several paces away, lest his old friend should suddenly take against him. “Greetings, Brom. How have you been?”
Thankfully, his previous concern proved needless, for with a delighted cry of, “Mister Anselm!” Brom scrambled to his feet, grinning all over his broad face. “Where have you been all this time? I have missed you so.” With that, he grabbed Anselm, almost crushing him in a powerful bear hug.
Chuckling and gasping, Anselm patted Brom’s enormous back. “’Tis good to see you too, my friend, but kindly set me down before you shatter all of my ribs, there’s a good fellow.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
Anselm almost fell, so quickly did Brom obey him. “Wh-What are you doing out here all by yourself?” he asked as he fought to get his breath back.
“Da told me to wait here while he went to buy something from market.” He grinned, his green eyes twinkling. “He says I would only get in the way.”
Anselm grinned. His Da was right about that. When Brom was on the move, he was a walking wall, especially in a confined area.
For half an hour or more, they sat in the sunshine together, lost in shared remembrances of the past. Anselm’s small kindnesses—things he had long since forgotten—were still fresh in Brom’s mind—all the little treats of bread and sweetmeats he had brought with him from Darumvale, or the small wooden figures he had made for him—rough depictions of cats and dogs that he had whittled from pieces of wood during the dark, seemingly endless, nights of winter.
As they spoke, a pang of longing needled Anselm’s heart as he relived those halcyon long-ago days. Bittersweet moments he had no wish to recall, for reliving the past only made him restless and achy. If he was to build a new life for himself, in order to survive, he must bury the good times alongside the bad and never dig them up or look at them again.
Once the happy remembering was done with, eventually, inevitably, their conversation took a darker turn.
Even now, years later, Anselm could still see the troubled expression in Brom’s honest eyes as he said in his slow, stumbling way, “I saw them together, Mister Anselm. Isobel and him.”
’Twas a good thing he was already sitting, for a blow from a mace could not have felled him harder. Despite his shock, he strove to remain calm for Brom would surely clam up if Anselm startled him too severely. With as casual an air as he could muster, he flicked an imaginary piece of straw from his trews and said, “Oh?”
“They were in that building behind the mill. You know, the one with the caved-in roof...”
Erde! He felt sick. Not there. Not their special place.
“It was ’orrible, Mister Anselm. He was between her legs, grunting like a beast as he rammed her, and he seemed to be ’aving a lot of fun. Poor Miss Izzy weren’t, though. She were crying and beating her fists on his back, begging for ’im to stop. I weren’t sure what was happening, at first. I thought he was squashing her, but...” Brom gave a heavy sigh. “I think h-he was tupping her, sir.”
Tupping? Rape would be a better description. Cold, brutal rape.
Anselm leaped to his feet, for he could not remain still, not when the blood boiled and thrummed so painfully in his veins. He rinsed his face in the water trough, hoping it would dampen the fires of rage that burned unchecked within his soul, but he barely felt the touch of the cold water, so enraged was he.
“Are you unwell, Mister Anselm?”
“The results of too much ale last night, I fear.” He dabbed his clammy face on the loose fabric of his shirt. “Please, do go on with what you were telling me, my friend. I am listening.” Listening and burning each bitter word into the blackened, ruined pulp of his heart. “What happened then?”
The calmness of Anselm’s voice must have reassured him, for Brom nodded and settled back down in his place. “I weren’t really sure what to do, sir. I was that scared of ’im, you see.”
Scared? How could a man built with the dimensions of a siege engine fear any man? And what about Isobel? How scared must she have been, lying there in the dirt? Violated. Helpless. Exposed.
’Twas fortunate that Brom sat facing the street, or he could not have failed to see the look of pure loathing Anselm sent him. He screwed his hands into fists to stop them picking up a lump of rock and caving in the casing of the amiable dimwit’s brain.
His name. I must have his name.
Deep breathing helped. Little by little he finally regained mastery of himself, and his hatred of Brom slowly subsided. For all his size, in many ways he was still a child, and always would be. Brom was not to blame. Blaming him was unfair; he saw that now that the red fog of rage had lifted.
“I was going to say something, but I were that upset, and then it was over. He made a funny noise, then he got up off her, but Miss Izzy, she stayed where she was, weeping, and curled up in a tight little ball, a bit like a hedgehog.” Brom cleared his throat before continuing, “He was just tucking himself back into his trews when he turned around and saw me standing there, crying in the doorway. ‘Go away, Brom,’ he said. ‘There is nothing for you here. Oh, and you had better not go running to your fine friend Anselm with any tales either, or I shall tell everyone it was you who hurt Miss Isobel, then your da will put you in one of those places for people with feeble minds.’ That is what he said to me, sir.”
Anselm’s heart thundered like fury in his chest. Give me the bastard’s name. He felt light headed and had to clutch at the rough lip of the water trough for support. “A-And then what happened?”
“Nothing. He just left and went back to the mill.”
Anselm’s racing heart came to a sudden violent stop, and it did not resume its normal rhythm for several beats.
The mill?
Being assaulted by a stranger was terrible enough, but never had he expected something as bad as this. Questions swirled about his mind like a swarm of angry bees.
Why had Isobel not confided in him? Why had she let him believe that a peddler had raped her? Which of her relatives had done this, the father or the son? He ground his teeth. Which of their pathetic lives needed snuffing out?
“And that weren’t the only time it happened either,” Brom continued. “He was always at her, especially when his da was away.”
Jack.
He let out a long, slow breath, releasing in a hiss all of the destructive rage from his soul. In its place, tiny crystals of ice began to grow, quickly blooming into a thick sheet that encased his heart and soul, trapping them forever behind an impenetrable barrier of frozen armor. Anselm was glad of it. After all he had learned this day, he was done with hurting.
Jack was to blame for Isobel’s death. Scrawny, stinking Jack. ’Twas he who had forced his seed into her womb and subsequently stolen her from life.
Jack.
Letting go of the water trough, Anselm pushed himself upright, tingling as new strength flowed into his limbs. Strengthening him. Protecting him behind a shield of ice. Nothing could harm him now.
“Why did you break your silence, Brom?” he asked. “After all this time, why now?”
“I meant not to, but I was that glad to see you; and then we got talking, and it just sort of slipped out. I missed you so, you see, and I did not know how badly until I saw you again.” As Brom turned his shaggy head, Anselm saw that he was crying. White runnels of tears streaked his grimy cheeks. “I th-thought if I told the truth that you might c-come back. I want things to be as they were again, and I am that afeared of being sent away, Mister Anselm. Really I am.”
“There now.” He squeezed Brom’s shoulder, though he had but few words of comfort to offer him. “Do not make yourself uneasy, my friend. You were right to confide in me. Now put this out of your mind, for you have carried this burden quite long enough.” He crouched down and took Brom’s tearful face between his hands. “Leave this with me now, hmm?”
Brom’s lower lip trembled. “You will not tell anyone I told you?”
“Not a soul,” he murmured. What would be the point? The world had already passed judgment and condemned him. Who would believe him now? The word of a fool and an outcast counted for little.
“But everyone still blames you for what happened; it does not seem fair.”
“We must trust in providence, Brom. The scales of justice will eventually be set right, I promise you that.”
Brom nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Then will you come back home again?” A spark of hope shone brightly within his eyes, and although Anselm hated to douse it, he had to do so. False hope, in his opinion, was worse than no hope at all.
“No. I am afraid not,” he said as gently as he could. “My life is here now, and I can never go back. But know this,” he added with a smile. “However many leagues separate us, no matter how many years slip by, you and I will always be friends.”
“So?” Martha was on the edge of her chair again, her eyes flashing with a combination of anger and curiosity. “Did you get the bastard?”
Anselm smiled and yawned. “I thought you said that you had urgent need of the privy.”
“Well, did you? Or did you leave it to providence?”
“Oh, come now, sweeting. Surely you know me better than that. Besides, the gods already have so many demands on their time, it is only right we should help them in any way that we may.”
Smiling, he recalled the memory of Jack kneeling before him in the gutter, excrement floating about him and soaking through the legs of his trews while he sobbed and pleaded, begging for his worthless life.
“So?” Martha squeaked with impatience. “If you don’t tell me what happened, I swear, I’ll chuck your swords on the fire again.”
“Yes,” Anselm said with a frown. “And I still need to speak with you about that.”
“Later.” She rapidly circled her hand, motioning for him to continue. “What did you do?”
“I plotted my revenge, of course. But I had to move quickly for it was market day, and the miller and his sweating scrote of a son were sure to be in town. Fortunately for providence, I learned they planned on spending the night at one of their favorite bordellos before embarking on the journey home.”
“How did you find out?”
“For the bargain price of six gold pieces, Mrs. Wilkes was obliging enough to send one of her girls to follow them about town.”
“Mrs. Wilkes!”
“Yes, why? Do you know her? She runs quite a nice little place down the side street close to the—”
“No. I don’t know her,” Martha said. “Carry on.”
Strange girl. “As you wish. Well, as you know, I had waited a long time for this particular dessert, and although time was short, I was determined not to rush it.” He chuckled. “Poor Jack. For all its various delights and diversions, Edgeway can be an extremely dangerous place at night for the unwitting. The darkness is a lure to all sorts of unsavory characters—pickpockets and thieves, men who would not think twice about killing someone for the contents of their purse. Still, they serve a purpose, I suppose.”
“What? You’re telling me you paid someone to kill him?”
“Certainly not! What do you take me for?” With a grimace, Anselm shuffled higher up his pillows, affronted that Martha could think so poorly of him. “Am I such a weakling in your eyes? Although it might have looked like a robbery, I assure you that I performed the task myself.”
His good humor was soon restored as he relived the way the miller’s son had pleaded for mercy, blubbering and sniveling like the coward he was. “He took my life, and so I took his. My first kill,” he said with a happy sigh. “Even after all these years, I still think on it with pleasure.”
“An eye for an eye?” Martha said, diverting his attention from his distended bladder.
“You might say so, yes.”
“Did anyone ever find out it was you?”
“No. I was back in my bed before the alarm was raised. I believe there was a brief inquiry into his death, but nothing ever came of it. Jack was just another murdered drunk, in the wrong part of town at the wrong time.”
Martha shook her head. “You’re a strange bloke, Anselm. I’m still not sure if I should like you or loathe you.”
“And despite everything, here you are, sitting by my sick bed.” He smiled. “Thank you.”
“Oh hush! You’ll have me crying in a minute.” But she looked pleased all the same.
“I meant it.”
“I know you did,” she said, reaching over to give his fingers a gentle squeeze. “But there’s really no need. We’re family now.”
“Family! Whatever do you mean?”
She glanced down, indicating the swell of her belly. “Whether you like it or not, you’re going to be an uncle soon, so you’d better get used to the idea.”
After all that had happened, she would claim him as the uncle of her unborn child? For some reason, his throat constricted, but he blamed it on fatigue. “Pregnancy suits you, sweeting.”
“Thanks.”
“But I cannot help feeling a little sorry for the child, for how will he fare with such a mother, forever landing in one scrape or another?”
She grinned. “With Vadim as his daddy, I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
“Yes,” he said with a yawn. “I expect he will prove just as capable and reliable as always.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You must admit that he is a much duller fellow than I.”
Still smiling, she stood up, unconsciously massaging her lower spine. “If that’s what you think, you’re more deluded than I thought. Maybe it’s time you got to know him again.” As she passed by the bed on her way to the door, she paused to ruffle his hair. “Besides, with you around, I’m sure life will never become too dull.”
“Not for long, though. I imagine I will be standing trial just as soon as I am fit to do so.” And condemned to death soon afterward, no doubt.
“Naw. Vadim fixed things. One of the perks of being an earl, I guess.”
This was all too much to take in. “B-But why? Why would he speak up on my behalf? Why would he do such a thing?”
“You’ll have to ask him, but I guess it has something to do with you being family.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “With the exception of yourself, perhaps, my family hates me.”
She only laughed. “It’d be a sorry old world if we went around killing family members who’d pissed us off. There’d be no one left! Now I really have to go.” The little jig she performed on the spot reminded him of the pressing urgency of his own bladder.
“Then would you kindly tell my dragon lady that I require her assistance?”
“Is that what you call Agatha?” she asked with a grin. “You’d better not let Edric hear you. Okay, I’ll see you later.”
With that, she was gone.
Moments later, Agatha appeared, with the ever-faithful Edric in tow. While she bustled about the bedchamber, ’twas Edric who helped Anselm perform the necessary. Once the task was complete, Agatha came to straighten the bed and plump his pillows, all the while grumbling beneath her breath about the inappropriateness of Martha being allowed to sit alone with him for so long. She pressed one plump hand to his head to check for fever.
“Well, you seem to be improving at last,” she muttered. “And about time too.”
But before she could retreat, possessed by some unfamiliar impulse, Anselm grabbed her hand. “I do not believe I have thanked you for all the trouble you have taken over me.”
“There is no need,” Agatha answered gruffly, but he detected a slight softening in the severity of her countenance. “Besides, I did not do it for you.”
“All the same, I am grateful. Thank you.”
/> “Hmmph.” There it was, the merest hint of a smile before she pulled her hand free. “Yes, yes. Now lie back and rest before you suffer a relapse.” She tucked the coverlet snugly about him as Mother had done when he was a child, then she gently patted his cheek. “Your sister is extremely fond of you, though I cannot imagine why.” But she did not seem cross about it. “Try and sleep.”
Sister.
Although they were not related in the way he had once planned, Martha was right. They were a family... of sorts. A rickety ruin of a family, scarred by the deep wounds of the past, but they were still standing: Father, Ma, Vadim, and Martha. Mother would have approved.
They had traveled a long and difficult road, both together and alone, and now another road lay stretched out before them. Although they would likely never regain the closeness they had once known, at least the pieces were back in place, standing in wait on the same board. No matter how small the chance, at least it was there.
Whatever happened from now, the game that followed should prove truly stimulating.
He closed his eyes and smiled, gently drifting toward the warm clouds of oblivion.
###
OTHER TITLES BY N.J. LAYOUNI
Tales of a Traveler Book One: Hemlock
Tales of a Traveler Book Two: Wolfsbane
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Although writing is a solitary occupation, publishing a novel requires an army of willing friends and helpers, and I would like to express my gratitude to all the wonderful people who have helped me along the way.
To Andrea (Hawkeye), thank you for your encouragement, friendship, and those supernatural proof-reading skills of yours.
To Krissie, thank you for your friendship, and for plodding through all those early drafts, and without a single mutter of complaint.
To Simon, thank you for being such a fabulous beta, and for providing much needed technical support with all the necessary computery stuff that self-publishing entailed.
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