The flame suddenly shifted and the scene changed.
This time, Anselm was looking down upon himself.
From the viewpoint of a hawk, Anselm saw himself walking alone beside a fast-moving river. A solitary rowan tree kept him company. Leaning precariously over the riverbank, its lower branches reached out until they almost touched the shimmering surface of the quicksilver river.
At the back of Anselm’s brain, a faint memory stirred.
That tree. Gnarled and twisted as an old man. It was familiar to him. He must have visited this place. Probably whilst out hawking with his late master whose taste for the sport had led them far and wide.
Mentally exploring his surroundings, Anselm turned in another direction. As he did so, his stomach lurched.
Ahead in the distance, spanning the river at its shallowest point, was a set of ancient stepping stones. Semi-submerged in the water, only their flat tops were visible, lending the stones an air of some kind of reptilian river beast lying in wait for the unwary traveler. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
Now Anselm knew where he was. The question was why?
Not to mention when?
The Anselm in his vision looked much as he did now. He even clasped a walking stick as he gimped along, cautiously navigating his way through snarls of heather and the bronzed tangle of last season’s bracken. It didn’t take a great leap of thinking to deduce that this vision must take place sometime soon.
Borne on the gentle breeze, he heard Martha’s voice calling. Soft and insistent, she said but one word. A word that made no sense.
A word she repeated over and over again until he wanted to scream.
Lulu. Lulu. Lulu.
What the devil was a Lulu?
Chapter Ten
“M’lord? M’lord!”
Effie’s concerned voice summoned him back to the Edgeway of the present.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
Blinking hard, Anselm wrenched his gaze from the tantalizing lure of the torch-light and tried to rid himself of the overpowering vision.
“You are trembling and sweating something fierce, m’lord. Are you unwell?”
“Hmm?” Anselm looked down into the young maid’s frowning eyes. “Am I?” He touched his brow with the back of his hand and found Effie spoke the truth. His skin was clammy yet at the same time icy cold. Not only that but his legs felt as weak and unsteady as those of a newborn colt as if at any moment he might topple over.
“Lean on me, if you will, m’lord,” Effie said, positioning herself beneath his arm like a living crutch. “Put your arm about me and hold on. Yes, that’s right.”
What was behind this unusual display of concern? Did Effie fear he was about to expire?
“Let’s get you back inside the keep,” Effie said kindly. In a sudden reversal, the maid was now the stronger of the two of them. Dry-eyed and determined, she seemed set on taking care of him.
Afraid his wobbling legs might yet buckle, Anselm had little option but to cling to the poor girl, one arm slung about her slight shoulders. However she was managing to keep them both upright he would never know. Fortunately for Anselm, Effie was stronger than she looked, which was just as well for his head was spinning horribly.
Entwined like drunken lovers, they wound a slow path back up the hill. Never before had the incline seemed as steep. Typically, just when they could have done with aid, they encountered no one save for a solitary flea-bitten cat who darted across their way with an ear-splitting howl before disappearing into the night.
To his shame, Anselm realized how badly out of condition he was, gasping and panting like an ancient gray-beard. Oh, what a grim and interminably long day this had been.
Martha’s plight seemed to have infected the mood of the entire castle. Nowhere was immune to heavy pall now shrouding the place. Nothing was as it should be. Or where it should be for that matter.
Like the night watch, for example. Where the devil had those insubordinate wretches spirited themselves off to this time? Most likely they were drinking and gaming their wages away down in the barbican’s lower guard room. Being the largest of the guard chambers, it had a cozy fire as well as several comfortable pallets for sleeping on—or for entertaining on, should the men have enough silver left over with which to purchase a little female company.
Women or not, there was always a game of some sort going on down there, usually in the form of dice or counters, a small diversion to while away the boredom of the darkest, loneliest hours.
Well, one thing was for sure. It wouldn’t have happened in Lord Godric’s day. His old master was much too feared and for good reason. He would have had the entire of the night-watch horsewhipped.
Or worse.
Clearly, Seth was going soft in his dotage, hardly fit for the role of acting steward. If Anselm were the steward of Edgeway, things would be very different. He’d keep the men on a much tighter rein.
Mulling over the numerous ways in which he would improve the castle’s idle garrison, so pleasantly diverted was he, Anselm failed to notice the echoing clatter of approaching hooves until he and Effie had almost reached the steps at the foot of the keep.
By an unspoken accord, they paused and turned to see who had arrived so late.
The large party of riders had already cleared the main gate and were passing beneath the inner gate at a brisk trot, a cluster of sleepy stable lads jogging in their wake.
Who the devil could this be, arriving at such an uncivilized hour?
Without the benefit of a full moon, the night was too dark to reveal the new arrivals standard, but there was something tantalizingly familiar about the two lead riders, their faces concealed by the deep hoods of their cloaks. Even so, Anselm was sure he knew them.
Slightly loosening his grip on Effie’s shoulder, Anselm transferred the majority of his weight to his walking cane and waited to discover the identity of the new arrivals.
And he didn’t have to wait long.
One of the lead riders broke away from the main group, making straight for where Effie and Anselm stood, their arms still entwined at the foot of the steps.
“Effie?” The rider flipped back his hood revealing the familiar features of Fergus, Lord Reynard’s son and heir, Effie’s most devoted admirer. Which was a little awkward given the way Anselm was currently leaning upon the girl.
“What’s going on?” Fergus demanded, his mouth compressed into a thin angry slit as he regarded the two of them. “What do you think you’re doing, Effie?”
“Fergus!” No doubt realizing how it must have looked, her standing with her arms about another man, Effie slipped out from beneath Anselm’s arm and hastened toward her young beau.
But Effie’s tender swain looked far from loving at the moment. His accusing glare swept from Effie to Anselm and back again, his face glowing red with temper in a shade rivaling that of his wild hair.
“I know what you must be thinking,” Effie cried, rather breathlessly, “but this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Oh?” Fergus tilted his head to one side as he sat astride his fine gray steed. Regarding her coldly from his height advantage, he said, “How is it, then? Go on. Convince me if you can that this… distasteful little scene is not what it appears.” Leaning forward in his saddle, Fergus lowered his head until his lips were almost level with the top of Effie’s head. “How could you?” he hissed in a voice that could not be easily overheard, especially over the clattering din of their arrival. “How could you betray me like this?” His eyes flicked to Anselm. “And with him of all people?”
Him. Such a small word but one loaded with a lifetime of loathing. Fermented and distilled into an expression of hatred in its purest form.
Before the new king had come and restored the land and titles of his most loyal lords, Fergus and his father had lived as outlaws like
Vadim. Much of Anselm’s time had been devoted to trying to hunt them all down—not terribly successfully as it turned out—so there was little wonder Fergus still despised him so.
As he looked upon the young couple, an unexpected wave of sadness smote Anselm’s heart.
The pretty maidservant and a noble-born lad, an age-old tale oft-repeated down the centuries. Only the players changed. Men and women now long dead, all but forgotten by time.
Some things were resistant to the passage of the years. The great class divide being but one of them. In a world where the odds had always been stacked against such a union, the way to lasting love would not prove an easy road for Fergus and Effie to travel.
While Anselm could not rectify the sins of his past or calm the storms of tomorrow, at the very least he might try and iron out the untidy creases in the fabric of here and now.
“You have it all wrong, dear boy,” he said in his most sincere tone. “I was simply out for a stroll before bedtime when I suffered a dizzy turn. Young Effie happened across me and—generous soul that she is—your good lady was kind enough to come to my aid. I swear that is the whole truth of the matter.” He leaned heavily on his walking stick and tried to look feeble and unwell, thus adding weight to his words.
“There! You see?” Effie cried with an enthusiasm so desperate it was quite pathetic to witness. “I was only helping him, Fergus.” Standing by his stirrup, Effie looked up appealingly at her young man, her eyes willing him to believe her. Her hero, however, looked far from reassured.
Occupied with dismounting and directing their squires as to the proper care of their baggage, none of the knights or foot-soldiers paid the quarreling lovers any heed.
Luckily for them, neither did Lord Reynard. Relinquishing the care of his horse to one of the hovering stable boys, Fergus’s father pushed his way through the noisy scrum heading straight for them, his imminent presence sparing Effie from having to endure any more of Fergus’s jealous wrath.
“Sir Anselm,” Reynard said in lieu of a more formal greeting. “Tell me, is there any better news waiting to be had? How does the dear countess fare?”
Anselm inclined his head to the older man in a greeting equally lacking in formalities. “She is as well as she can be, m’lord. Other than that, I cannot say.” Or dared not say for fear that his words might come to pass if he spoke more freely.
Being a man of quick intelligence, Lord Reynard required no further illumination.
“As bad as that, eh? Then I’m deeply sorry to hear it, indeed I am. Rarely have I known any couple so devoted to one another as Lord Vadim and his lady wife.” Shaking his steely-gray head, Lord Reynard began removing his gloves, one finger at a time. “We would have come sooner had we not been out hunting when your father’s urgent missive arrived. Of course, we set out for Edgeway almost the moment we were informed.”
“Your arrival is timely indeed, m’lord. Your presence is sure to be of great comfort to Lord Edgeway,” Anselm said politely. Where in thunder was Seth? Surely meeting and greeting was within the steward’s province. Anselm felt most uncomfortable, forced into playing the role of host to the new arrivals.
“And Vadim, how does he fare?”
“He is at his wife’s bedside,” Anselm replied giving another non-committal reply. My. In another life, what a fine diplomat he might make. “It is good that you have come, though. At times like these, a man needs his friends about him.” If that man were fortunate enough to possess any friends.
“Indeed.”
Diverted by the sudden arrival of his squire seeking direction on some mundane matter concerning his baggage, Lord Reynard turned away, fortunately missing the dangerous way in which his son was now regarding a lowly ladies maid. He did not see the moment when his son’s face—a face that had been so livid just moments ago—suddenly softened, melting into a tender smile.
Swinging his leg over his horse’s neck, Fergus quickly dismounted. Taking Effie’s hand he raised it to his lips, murmuring words of love against her skin, words that only she could hear.
Anselm cleared his throat but to no avail. The young lovers were too immersed in one another to pick up on such a subtle hint. In order to protect them—and protect them he would if he could—Anselm resorted to another display of the good manners and polite conversation that made him so uncomfortable.
“Come, Lord Reynard,” he said as the older man dismissed his squire and turned to face him again. “Let us not tarry out here in the cold night air. You will require refreshment after your long journey. Shall we adjourn to the Great Hall?”
Just as Reynard’s men were making loud sounds of approval, Seth arrived at last, with Harold close on his heels.
“Reynard!” Seth advanced on their guest with a broad smile, his arms extended wide in greeting. “I cannot express how it gladdens my heart to see you again, my old friend.”
“Well I could hardly stay home, could I? Not after receiving your urgent missive.” The two men embraced with many vigorous back slaps, betraying the warmth and familiarity of their long friendship.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Reynard,” Seth said when they finally drew apart. “Indeed I am.”
“Anselm was just telling me—”
“What?” Seth’s smile flickered and the warmth in his eyes noticeably dimmed. “What was he telling you? He would have done better to remember his manners and invite you all inside,” said he, shooting Anselm a brief, cold glare. Then Seth rallied himself again. “Come!” he cried, easily dismissing the inconvenient son he had sired. “Leave your horses to our groomsmen and let us seek the comfort of our hearth.”
Talking loudly all the way, Seth led Reynard and his party up the steps toward the keep, and they trooped inside without sparing Anselm so much as a backward glance.
Thus dismissed, Anselm bowed his head and leaned heavily upon his walking cane. Sometimes, on rare occasions, being treated as though he didn’t exist jarred exceedingly.
Anger flared within his heart. Why did he linger in Edgeway, the place where his sins had more chance of being forgotten than they had of ever being forgiven? While he appreciated Vadim and Martha’s kindness, he’d begun thinking it would be better all-round if he simply abandoned his name and disappeared to start his life all over again. Preferably in some far distant land where no one had ever heard of the notorious, black-hearted Sir Anselm.
Effie and Fergus were still whispering in the darkness. Hands clasped, heads almost touching, happily overlooked by the rest of the world.
For now.
Anselm’s heart contracted with sympathy. He needed no gift of Sight to tell him that this fledgling affair was sure to end in misery. The son of a lord, and a ladies maid. What real future could they have together? There was more chance of Seth appearing at dinner one night sporting a pretty bonnet and going by the name of Elizabeth than there was of Lord Reynard allowing Fergus to bind himself to a serving girl.
No matter how much in love they were, their love was already doomed.
Some day Fergus would forge a much more suitable match with a woman his father approved of. As for poor broken-hearted Effie… If she had not the good fortune to remain in Martha’s employ she would probably end up following her mother into the family business.
No matter how hard one fought against it, fate could not be withstood. Some day the inevitable would claim them all. However strong they were, however fiercely they struggled to swim against the oncoming tide, eventually, strength would fail. When that happened, they would be sucked down into the brutal depths below, consumed by destiny.
With a heavy sigh, Anselm turned and slowly ascended the steps that led to the keep.
Let Fergus and Effie enjoy their love while they could.
The pain to come was the price of their happiness in the here and now. But make no mistake, one day the tally-man would have to be paid.
&
nbsp; How they found the funds to pay him was their own affair.
No. Anselm had his own fee to consider.
Chapter Eleven
“Martha… Martha, love? Can you hear me?”
A voice called out in the beckoning darkness, luring her back from the rim of the painless abyss that lay beyond.
“Vadim?” Her voice sounded harsh. Dry and rasping like the cawing of an ancient crow. “Where… are the… babies?”
She felt the warmth of her husband’s lips pressed against her temple, and the quiet vibration of his laughter—or was he sobbing?
“They’re fine, love,” he murmured. “But you… you’ve lost a lot of blood. Here.” Gently cupping the back of her head, Vadim raised her a little so that she could sip the contents of the stone vessel pressed to her mouth. “I need you to drink this for me.”
“Ugh!” Thick, slow, and bitter, she didn’t need to see the foul concoction to know it would be dark and viscous. “It tastes rank.” But as it’d probably been made by Ma or Agatha, she didn’t object. Instead, she drank the whole lot down with barely a single gag.
They wanted to save her, and Martha most definitely wanted to be saved. After all, there was so much to live for, not least this man at her side, the man who wiped her lips so carefully with a soft, damp napkin.
“Well done, love. Have some water to rinse the taste away.” Once again, Vadim supported her so that she could drink.
“Can I sit up?” she mumbled, still too weary to open her eyes.
“No!” Vadim cried in horror, his fear almost palpable. “I mean… no, beloved. it’s t-too soon.”
Too dangerous, more like.
Blood loss. That’s why she felt so dizzy, so out of it. That’s why her thoughts were so woolly and difficult to knit into words. “Am I still… bleeding?” she asked on an exhale. As much as she didn’t want to hear it, she needed to know the truth. If she was going to die, there were things that needed to be said.
A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella) Page 10
