Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A series of timid taps at the door of her bedchamber roused Martha from her thoughts. She knew who this was.

  “Hang on, Effie.” Sliding the bolt, Martha opened the door to admit her maid. “Come on in.”

  A neat, elfin-faced young woman bustled into the room. “Oh, what a beautiful gown!” she cried, heading straight for the beautiful ghost on the bed.

  Why do I even need a maid? Not that Anselm had given her any choice in the matter. Martha still wasn’t sure whether the girl was his spy or not.

  Effie picked up the dress, her touch almost reverent.

  “You like it?” Martha asked.

  “I never saw anything so exquisite,” Effie replied, a little breathlessly.

  “Tell you what, when I finally leave this place, you can have it as a present.”

  “Oh, m’lady.” Effie’s cheeks flushed. “What would Sir Anselm say?”

  Martha shrugged and sat down on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Sir Anselm’s views no longer interested her.

  “He is most devoted to you.” With a sigh, the maid carefully laid the gown back on the bed, the silk whispering as the air escaped its voluminous folds. “And so very handsome too.”

  “Oh, please.” Martha rolled her eyes skyward. She couldn’t help it. The girl was barely out of her teens. It was time someone put her right about men. “Buying me a dress… a gown doesn’t make Anselm any less of a snake.”

  Effie gaped at her. “B-but he is in love with you, m’lady.”

  Martha snorted. “No, he isn’t! And this… thing.” She reached over to grab a careless fistful of the dress, “is nothing more than a cheap bribe. It’s an insult, if you really want to know.” She threw the dress down as if contaminated by its touch.

  Effie glanced toward the door. “An insult, m’lady?” The girl looked distinctly nervous.

  Martha sighed. “I’m sorry, hon,” she said with a little less heat. “You’ve caught me at a bad time. The Evil Earl’s supper invitation has rattled me, that’s all.”

  “I do not understand, m’lady.”

  “No.” Martha smiled. “I don’t expect you do. And please, won’t you just call me Martha? I’m a prisoner here, Effie, not a guest.” She looked around the bedchamber, taking in the elaborately embroidered wall hangings. “This comfortable cage is only an illusion of freedom.”

  Still, it was better than the alternative. Anselm’s rooms were a damn sight better than the dungeon. At least she had clean clothes here, daylight, decent food, and the occasional visitor Anselm didn’t know about. Out of the two, she much preferred her upgraded prison cell.

  “May I ask you something, m’lady?” Effie asked.

  Martha arched her eyebrows.

  “I mean… M-Martha?”

  “Shoot. I mean, go ahead.”

  The maid sat on the wooden box beside her, perching like a nervous sparrow. “Is it true you are Lord Hemlock’s bride?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Say who now?” She pretended not to understand. It was safest that way.

  Effie leaned closer. “Your husband? At least, that is what the townspeople call him. My mother always calls him The Outlaw king.” The girl smiled. “Although it is forbidden to speak of him, my brothers and I used to pretend we were his masked knights, fighting to rid this land of…” the girl cast another glance at the bedroom door, “wrongdoers.”

  Martha stared at the young maid. More and more, it seemed to her as if this world was morphing into a Robin Hood film, with Vadim playing the role of The Outlaw king. Hmm. She had to admit, it did have a certain ring to it. Instead, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Effie.”

  “I speak of Vadim.” Effie’s eyes sparkled. “He is your husband, is he not?”

  Great. My maid is a rabid fan-girl.

  “He was.” She carefully smoothing non-existent creases from her skirt. “Right up until the earl’s men killed him.” No matter how genuine young Effie appeared to be, Martha daren’t let down her guard. Anselm had taught her a valuable lesson about trust.

  “What was he like?” The maid lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Was he as fearsome as they say?”

  “Vadim?” She almost laughed. “Not with me, he wasn’t. He was beautiful, inside and out.”

  “Did he really kill thirty soldiers before he… died?”

  Thirty? Talk about Chinese whispers. Still, she might as well gild the legend her husband had become. “That sounds about right,” she said with as straight a face as she could manage. “Though, I wasn’t there at the time.”

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Both women leapt at the sudden fierce hammering on the bedchamber door.

  “Martha?”

  Fecking Anselm!

  “I will return shortly. Kindly ensure you are ready, or I vow I will dress you myself!”

  Martha scowled and made a rude one-handed gesture at the door. “Yes, Sir Anselm,” she answered in a sweet, singsong voice. “Anything you wish, Sir Anselm.”

  His muttered expletive was clearly audible. So were his departing bootsteps.

  The earl descended the moment they entered the banqueting hall. Smiling broadly, he wove his way through the throng toward them.

  Martha shuddered. She would have backed off if Anselm hadn’t held her arm so tightly.

  “How wonderful to see you again, Martha, my dear.” The warmth of the earl’s smile was about as sincere as his greeting. His eyes lingered on her exposed cleavage a beat too long, making her squirm with discomfort. “Your fair companion does you credit this night, Anselm.”

  “Thank you, m’lord.” The two men shook hands and began chatting with the familiarity of old friends.

  Martha tugged discretely on the neckline of her gown. Effie had laced her into it so tightly, her boobs looked as if they were about to make a break for freedom. She looked around the banqueting hall and was unsettled to find so many pairs of eyes trained in her direction. Some of them were distinctly unfriendly. Envious most likely, thanks to the syrupy sweetness of the earl’s greeting. Not that she wanted to be in his favor. She looked away, still pulling at her gown and wishing it wasn’t cut quite so low.

  If Martha had harbored any hope of skulking away in the shadows, she was to be disappointed. Hundreds of expensive beeswax candles burned brightly in branching candelabras, banishing the gloom from every corner of the hall. With its vaulted roof and legions of candles, the Great Hall reminded her of a church.

  She had to admit, the whole place looked fabulous. Every stick of furniture had been polished to within an inch of its life, the brilliant candlelight reflecting on the mirrored surface of the wood.

  As she moved her foot, the sweet scent of herbs and flowers rose up from the fresh floor rushes. Either the earl was an extraordinarily tidy man, or an army of cleaners had been at work here. Nothing had been overlooked.

  The centerpiece of the Great Hall was a vast table, which stretched the full length of the room, groaning beneath the weight of its many elaborate floral displays and sparkling tableware.

  On the way to the banquet, Anselm informed her that each place at the table held a subtle meaning. Those innocent-looking benches were a public announcement of who was in and who was out. Those highest in their lord’s favor sat closest to him at the head of the table. The seating plan must have been a nightmare.

  And where would she be sitting, as if she couldn’t guess?

  The splendor of the earl’s guests rivaled that of the room. Men and women stood around in small groups, their muted conversations accompanied by the gentle notes of harp music. Everyone was decked out in their shiniest bling and most colorful finery, as if to advertise their wealth. They reminded her of a flock of displaying peacocks.

  She sighed, suddenly feeling very lonely and far
from home. All of this was a far cry from the Great Hall back in Darumvale. There were no cows or poultry living here, no underlying stink of poop. The fire didn’t smoke, and there were no children running around, shrieking as they played around Seth’s barrels of ale.

  It wasn’t a difficult choice. She knew which of the two halls she preferred.

  “Little wonder you are so impressed, my dear.” The earl must have heard her sigh. “You cannot be much accustomed to such luxury, not living as the wife of a wolfshead.”

  Although she wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, it was definitely derogatory. But as she met the earl’s arctic eyes, the insult she’d been about to deliver suddenly died on her lips. An undefinable something in their expression warned her against speaking. Despite the heat of the room, a shiver rippled up her spine. Barely conscious of doing so, she shuffled half a step closer to Anselm.

  “You should thank me, really,” the earl continued, his eyes dropping to Martha’s muffin-top cleavage again. “I have vastly improved your prospects, and almost overnight, too. What say you, Anselm?”

  Anselm glanced at Martha’s unsmiling face and chuckled. “I quite agree, m’lord. Although I fear my lady does not yet view her fortune in the same light.”

  Knots of fear twisted in her stomach, but Martha tried to play it cool. “Let’s cut the crap, all right? Just tell me why I’m here.”

  Anselm’s grip on her elbow tightened. “Behave, sweeting,” he murmured against her ear.

  But the earl only threw back his golden head and laughed. He looked resplendently evil tonight, dressed in a long burgundy tunic with gold edging. Taking Martha’s hand, he lowered his head and planted a wet kiss upon it. “Your sour wit is a taste I have begun to appreciate,” he said, his words vibrating against her skin. “I must admit, I find your candor most refreshing.”

  “Yeah?” She pulled her hand free and immediately wiped it down her dress. “What a pity you didn’t think so back in Darumvale before you hit me, m’lord.”

  He broke into peals of loud, braying laughter, drawing the attention of all the other guests. Although the earl’s eyes glistened with amusement, Martha wasn’t fooled. They were the coldest eyes she’d ever seen on a person—dead looking, almost like a shark’s. And who trusted a grinning shark?

  The earl’s laughter went on and on, echoing about the room. Even the harpist stopped playing and looked over. No wonder. Talk about a fake laugh. It sounded more than a little psychotic. Whatever medication His Evilness was taking, he definitely needed to up his dosage.

  She tried to back away, but Anselm wouldn’t let go of her arm.

  “Is she not priceless?” the earl demanded at last, turning to look at the other guests as if seeking their approval. There was a murmuring ripple of agreement.

  Martha rolled her eyes. What a bunch of brown-tongues.

  The earl gestured toward the table with a gracious sweep of his arm. “Come, my friends,” he announced in a loud voice. “Let us sit down and feast before the entertainment arrives.” He darted a glance at Martha. “This will prove to be, I think, a most interesting evening.”

  What the feck is he up to, I wonder?

  While His Evilness settled himself on his cushioned seat at the head of the table, Martha found herself pushed down onto the seat to his right—the most coveted chair at the earl’s table—Anselm’s regular seat, or so he informed her as he sat at her other side.

  To her disgust, she was trapped between the two men, the meat in their evil sandwich. Their close proximity, and the overwhelming scent of violets coming from the earl, killed off what little appetite she had.

  The envy-laden stares she was receiving from some of the other guests made her uncomfortable. Oh, if they only knew.

  Less than impressed with the honor the earl had bestowed upon her, Martha sought the liquid courage contained within her silver goblet. It was quite magical really. No matter how many times she emptied the drinking vessel, moments later it was full to the brim with wine.

  As soon as the first course arrived—jellied eels, or something equally revolting—the earl and Anselm turned to speak to their neighbors, leaving Martha free to get smashed in peace.

  Slumping back in her chair, her goblet balanced precariously on the mountainous swell of her breasts, Martha listened to the young harpist who sat playing in an unobtrusive corner of the room. He was good. The heavenly string music eased the tension from her bunched-up muscles, and little by little she felt herself begin to relax.

  Or maybe it was the effects of the wine? Her head was at that nice fuzzy stage. She took another sip from her goblet. Thank God for the invisible wine pixies. Wine pixies? She snort-giggled into her goblet, getting wine up her nose. Neither of her jailers noticed. She sat up and reached for a napkin. Immediately, one of the servants appeared, refilling her goblet when she set it down on the table, quite ruining her wine-pixie fantasy.

  What a shame. Better to be a pixie than a servant. What a horrible word that was. Servant. Ugh! She dabbed her nose again with the napkin then slumped back in her chair.

  Course after interminable course was set before her, only to be taken away untouched minutes later. It was the strangest food Martha had ever seen—although some dishes, such as the swan, hedgehog, and peacock were instantly recognizable.

  The earl’s wine did a marvelous job of anesthetizing her, and now the room swayed, ever so slightly. She reached for a chunk of dry bread to nibble on. The flour had been finely milled, giving the bread a less crunchy texture than she was accustomed to.

  “Are you not hungry, my dear?” the earl asked, turning to her during a lull in the conversation when his neighbor went to pee in a corner of the room. “You have barely eaten a thing.”

  “I’m good with this, thanks,” she said, waving her bread at him. By now, she was so loaded with alcohol that her smile was almost genuine. “I feel a bit sick for some reason. I can’t imagine why.” With that, she dissolved into helpless giggles.

  Anselm turned and glared at her. “How much wine have you taken?” he demanded, attempting to wrench the silver goblet from her hand. “Give that to me!”

  But Martha wouldn’t let go. “No, it’s mine!”

  They wrestled for the goblet for a few moments, but Anselm was too strong. With a tiny smile, Martha suddenly let go of the goblet’s stem, sending a crimson wave splashing all over Anselm’s immaculate yellow tunic.

  With a dismayed cry, he leaped to his feet, arms extended, wine dripping from his fingers.

  “Oops!” Martha’s grin widened as she watched the crimson stain blossoming on his chest. “That’ll be a bugger to get out, Anselm. I think you’re going to need another tunic. Hang on. Let me help you.”

  Before Martha could scrub at the stain, he snatched the napkin from her hands, glaring at her with a rage that made her recoil. “You little bi—”

  “Anselm.” The earl’s soft voice carried a heavy note of warning.

  One word from his master, Anselm’s temper was back under control. He took a deep breath and then forced his mouth into an unconvincing smile. “It is of no consequence,” he said. “The fault was all my own.” But the anger in his eyes remained.

  The other guests seemed oblivious to the tension at the head of the table. The merry rumbling of conversation went on. Martha heard bright tinkles of female laughter, and she envied the other women their amusement.

  Suddenly, the wine’s warm, fuzzy stage wore off, and stage two hit her with the force of a truck. The need to be with Vadim crashed over her like a huge rogue wave. Hot tears scalded her eyes. In an instant, all the alcohol she’d consumed seemed to evaporate from her blood. Without the aid of her temporary crutch, Martha felt naked and vulnerable. She longed for the sanctuary of her bedchamber, to be alone.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned to speak to the earl. “Anselm said you have a surprise for me.
Can I have it now please? I don’t feel well.” For once her tone was civil, such was her desperation to be gone.

  “Of course, my dear.” The earl’s smile was almost compassionate. He beckoned to one of the soldiers who stood guard by the doors of the Great Hall. As the man leaned over, the earl muttered something in his ear. The guard straightened up and nodded. Without speaking, he strode swiftly from the hall.

  The earl returned his attention to Martha. “I wonder if you are in the mood to scratch an itch that has been troubling me for quite some time, m’lady?”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Martha stared at him, open-mouthed. He wanted her to scratch his itch? What a disgusting thought. “I-I’m n-not sure what you mean.”

  Her revulsion must have shown. “Not that kind of itch.” He glanced at her breasts again. “Although I am certain I should enjoy the feel of your sharp little claws. No. ’Tis your origin, I speak of.”

  “My origin?” Martha exhaled with relief. “What about it?”

  “Despite extensive inquiries, I have uncovered no trace of your existence.” The earl propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his upturned hand. “Does that not strike you as odd?”

  The hairs at the back of Martha’s neck prickled. “Not at all.” She tried to smile. “You obviously haven’t looked in the right places.”

  “And then, of course, there is the peculiarity of your speech and manner,” the earl continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Most singular indeed.” He regarded her like a cat watching a mouse. “How do you account for those, I wonder?”

  Martha shrugged, battling to stay calm. How could she tell him she was from another fecking world? If he learned the truth, he’d probably have her burnt at the stake. So what else could she do but lie? She cursed herself for having drunk so much. Her head still felt thick and stupid.