Martha frowned, her mind still fixed on the Anselm situation. She definitely needed a carrot. But what? Hostility hadn’t got her anywhere.
Down in the courtyard, a dog raised its leg against the wheel of a hay-laden wagon, and a thin trickle of liquid darkened the cobbles.
She recalled the words of Vadim’s secret message. Smile at those you would rather curse.
A carrot. Even Vadim had advised her to use one. Sort of. She grinned to herself. Come to think of it, that sounded more than a little pervy.
Her amusement soon faded. Although Anselm and the earl would surely suspect her motives, she didn’t have a choice. Martha gave a sigh. There was nothing else for it. Like it or not—God help her—she would have to start being nice.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Riding?” Vadim glared so hard at Fergus the poor lad visibly wilted. “Martha went out riding with Anselm? Alone and willingly?”
Two weeks had passed since Martha was snatched from his side, two weeks filled with terrible imaginings and unyielding torment.
“Tha-that she did, m’lord.” Fergus glanced over his shoulder. The tension in his young face relaxed when he saw Reynard walking down the trail toward them, a brace of pheasants swinging in his hand. “Greetings, Father!” he cried, raising his arm in greeting.
“Fergus!” Reynard broke into a jog, quickly closing the distance between them. Then he gathered his son in a rough, one-armed embrace. “It does my heart good to see you again, boy. I was not expecting you so soon. Tell me, how is life in the castle suiting you?” He looked Fergus over with a critical eye. “Whatever else he is guilty of, Lord Edgeway has not starved you, I see.”
Always intuitive, Reynard must have sensed the tension between Vadim and his son, for his smile soon faded. He took a backward step and regarded the two of them through narrowed eyes. “Would one of you be so kind as to tell me what I have missed?”
With an impatient snort, Vadim raked back his hair and turned away, staring blindly into the hills as Fergus retold the news from Edgeway in a low and hurried voice.
For the past week, Reynard’s son had been working as a musician in the castle. Not only was the lad a fine harpist, more importantly, he was a reliable informant. His role there was to keep a careful watch on Martha and to provide her with assistance if she urgently required any.
Vadim ground his teeth. By all accounts, she seemed to be doing rather well on her own.
Before Martha entered his life, he had never known real jealousy. Perhaps he had experienced a flare of envy on occasion—if someone owned a weapon he admired, for instance—but certainly nothing more. Nowadays, however, he was on intimate terms with this bitterest of emotions. It dwelt coiled up within his breast, snarling and ugly.
The rational half of his mind understood that Martha was merely making the best of her bleak circumstances. But the jealous half of him would not be pacified by reason. It bayed for Anselm’s blood, urging him to reckless action.
His fingers tightened upon the hilt of his sword, and the urge to hit something, or someone, overwhelmed him.
“Vadim?”
He leapt as Reynard’s hand rested upon his shoulder. Spinning about, he eyed his friend with naked rage. “I should be at her side, not skulking here, hiding away in the hills like a beaten cur!”
Reynard glanced back at Fergus, dismissing him with a pointed look. Taking the pheasants from his father’s outstretched hand, the lad skirted around Vadim and fled away up the trail.
Once Fergus was out of sight, Reynard returned his attention to Vadim. “We have discussed this before, m’lord,” he said softly. “Edgeway castle cannot be stormed by the meager army we have at our disposal, however willing their hearts may be.”
“I was a fool to heed your counsel.” Vadim battled to slow his breathing. With effort, he forced his fingers to relax their grip on the hilt of his sword. “I need no army to gain access to my old home.”
“True enough.” Reynard nodded, rubbing his neat gray beard. “But you might wish for one on the way out, especially with your lady wife by your side. Put aside your grief and see reason, man!” The older man turned away shaking his head.
Vadim blinked, shocked by Reynard’s uncharacteristic outburst. Of course, he knew the reason for it. Even after all these long years, Reynard still felt the loss of his wife.
Eleanor. The one weakness in his friend’s otherwise impenetrable armor of unruffled calm.
During the first turmoil, back when Erik the Bastard seized power, Eleanor was taken hostage. Reynard had made a valiant, if ill-advised, rescue attempt, which resulted in the death of his beloved wife.
Remorse swiftly cooled the raging fires in Vadim’s heart. “Forgive me, my friend. I spoke without thinking.” He placed a gentle hand on Reynard’s shoulder. “As always, you see the road ahead more clearly than I.”
“Only because love does not fog my eyesight.” Reynard turned back to face Vadim. His smile was in place but it did not reach his eyes. Their gray depths reflected the mortal wound to his heart, an injury that would never heal.
“Believe me, I understand your urgency, m’lord, but rushing might ruin all of our hopes. You cannot hope to rescue Martha alone. Trust in her. For all that she is spirited, your lady is no fool. In a certain light, her riding out with Anselm might be considered a good omen.”
“Indeed?” Vadim remained unconvinced. “Then, pray, be so good as to enlighten me, my friend, for I fail to see anything positive in it.”
“Is it not apparent? Not only is your lady shielded by Anselm’s protection, but she is obviously using this favor to her advantage. He is gradually loosening his hold on her leash.” Reynard tilted his head to one side. “Can you not see it?”
“Perhaps.” Vadim scuffed the earth with the toe of his boot, kicking up a small dust cloud. He had not considered it in that way. Even so, he liked it not. What had Martha had to do to secure Anselm’s dubious protection? The thought made his stomach turn.
“Your lady is safe enough for now, m’lord. Save your strength for a battle we can surely win. Concentrate on the task before us, Vadim. The men need you.” Reynard was seldom so serious as this. “And so do I.”
Vadim forced himself to smile, though the weight of such responsibility was a heavy burden. By common accord, they turned and began walking back up the trail that lead to the encampment in silence.
For good or evil, the long wait was almost at an end.
The outlaws had recently intercepted a messenger en route to the castle, and the contents of the rider’s missive had the potential to change this land forever. At that very moment, King Erik and his entourage were journeying toward Edgeway, staying at the castle for an indefinite period as the earl’s house-guests.
Messenger birds were immediately dispatched, carrying word over the sea to Rodmar.
The would-be king’s reply came as speedily as Vadim hoped it would. This was too great an opportunity to miss. When King Erik reached the home of his favored cousin, the doors of the trap would begin to close about them. Far away from the well-armed capital to the south, the most dangerous snakes in the land would finally be confined, trapped together in one small basket.
If the Spirits smiled upon his bid to take the throne, Rodmar’s ships would reach the east coast within the next two days. And if his army marched as quickly as they sailed, they would muster at the rally point two days after that.
As much as it pained Vadim to admit it, Reynard was right. He could not leave. Not now.
As they drew nearer to the camp, Vadim caught the sharp tang of wood smoke on the light evening breeze. Camp-fires. No one troubled to conceal them anymore. The time for concealment had passed. Each night, the number of fires only increased as more men answered the call to arms. Some traveled alone, but many brought their wives and children with them.
Vadim and Reynard roun
ded the final bend in the track and paused, looking down onto the hidden valley.
The sullen autumn sky reflected on the dark waters of the lake. Suddenly, the wind stirred the water, and the image was gone, vanished beneath the rippling surface. Around the edge of the tarn, a village of tents had sprung up. Brightly-colored canvases billowed and snapped in the freshening breeze.
Despite the chill, several children stood ankle deep in the water, kicking and splashing one another with high-pitched squeals of excitement. Their mothers stood close by, huddled in a group as they conversed but ever mindful of their offspring. Suddenly, one of the women broke away and hurried to retrieve a small girl who had slipped and fallen into the lake. The mother removed her own shawl and swaddled the child within its woolen folds, scolding her even as she embraced her.
So many young fugitives. What kind of world was this in which to raise a child?
Vadim had never known what compelled an otherwise sane man to marry, not until Martha entered his life. He had long regarded marriage as a foolish, and slightly selfish, act. An outlaw’s grip on life was particularly tenuous, after all. But Martha had come along and, albeit unwittingly, she had begun rectifying the many omissions in his education.
Now he understood all those men who had fallen before him, casting themselves beneath love’s merciless wheels. However painful it was to love, he would not go back even if he could.
Even now, his child might be growing within Martha’s belly. The thought thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. For her sake, he prayed it was not so.
If he fell in battle, what would become of her? Of them? He shivered and drew his cloak about himself, blaming the autumnal wind. Without question, Seth and Rodmar would ensure Martha wanted for nothing. But the small voice within his heart would not be silenced.
If all your plans come to nothing, what will happen to Martha then?
He shook his head to dispel the unpleasant visions. If he could not motivate himself, how could he hope to put heart into his men? The battle was too close at hand. He could not allow such morbid thoughts as these to take root.
“Come, Reynard.” Vadim slapped his companion on the back and attempted to smile. “Let us see if young Fergus has made a start on supper. I am hungry enough to face even his rabbit stew.”
***
“Good, Martha.” Anselm’s breath brushed warm against her cheek. “Just a little further—”
“I can’t,” she moaned. “It hurts.”
“Yes, you can.” Anselm’s fingers lightly rested on hers, guiding her into position. “Take it all the way back.”
“Like this?” She glanced at him, the muscles in her arms trembling with exertion.
“Perfect. Now release.”
Martha gasped in disbelief as her arrow whizzed through the air and embedded itself in the target, a swinging straw representation of a human body. Thanks to Anselm, she’d managed to hit the straw man in the approximate neighborhood of his heart. Perhaps imagining the straw man was His Evilness had helped improve her aim.
“Yes!” she cried, punching the air in delight. “I did it! I did it!” Her fingers burned, and her arms felt weak and wobbly, but she experienced a definite buzz from nailing her intended target. She executed a miniature happy-dance and tripped over the end of her long bow, still grinning like a fool.
“That was very well done indeed, m’lady,” Anselm said with a smile. “We shall make an archer of you yet.”
“Oh?” Martha stopped dancing and cocked her head to one side. “Aren’t you scared I might use my new found skill against you? I am still your prisoner, after all.” But she added a smile to take the sting from her words.
Anselm laughed then took the bow from her hands. “Guest is a much more pleasant word, would you not agree?” Propping one end of the bow against his boot, while firmly holding onto the other end, he pulled the wood back into a tight curve, which allowed him to flick the string loose. The weapon instantly snapped into a more staff-like shape.
“And since you can neither string a bow nor hit a target without my instruction,” he added, gently taking her arm, “I think I need not fear for my life quite yet. Shall we return to the castle, sweeting? There are one or two errands I must perform for my master.”
“Sure. Why not?”
To Martha’s surprise, Anselm appeared to have accepted her personality transplant without question. Either he was much more stupid than she thought, or he was just playing along. Whatever it was, for the past week, she’d reaped the benefits of being nice, and she couldn’t deny that they were very welcome.
She thought back to the morning following Anselm’s drunken tirade, the day she’d changed her tactics.
When Anselm returned to his chambers, he found a very subdued Martha waiting for him, sitting in her regular spot by the fire.
Before he could speak, she burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. Switching on the water-works wasn’t difficult. Since parting from Vadim, tears were never far away.
“What is it, sweeting?” Anselm hurried over and crouched beside her chair. “Are you ill?” He touched her arm. “Tell me.”
“You scared me last night,” she sniveled, allowing him to remove her hands from her face so that he could see her tears. “Oh, Anselm. What’s happened to us? We used to be such good friends, but now—” She gave another sob.
Anselm rested his chin on the wooden armrest of her chair, concern clouding his gray eyes. “I am sorry, Martha. For all of it.” He used his index finger to hook a tendril of hair from her tear-stained face then tucked it behind her ear. “Shall we try again?”
“How can we?” she asked, looking deeply into his eyes. Her face was swollen and blotchy, but she wanted him to see her unhappiness. “Too much has happened, and Vadim—”
“Is dead. That awful fellow Madoc confirmed it.” Anselm frisked his pockets and produced a square of clean linen which he offered to Martha. “It wounds me to see you so wretched, sweeting. You may call me fuckwit again if it will make you smile.”
Martha dabbed her eyes and tried not to smile at Anselm’s apparent distress on her behalf. Good old—or young—Madoc. He’d made them believe Vadim was dead after all.
“A woman so young and fair should not waste her life in pointless mourning,” Anselm continued gently. “That would be a terrible fate.”
Although Martha had every intention of being coaxed, she couldn’t give in too easily or he might be suspicious. “Vadim was my husband, Anselm. I miss him so much, and I love him still.” With satisfaction, she watched his jaw tighten. “How can you and I be friends again?” she asked. “You won’t even let me mourn him. You hate him, even now.”
To his credit, Anselm didn’t attempt to deny it.
“Then, let us call a truce, my sweet,” he said, clasping her hand with his. His eyes burned silver as he looked at her and, just for a second, she almost believed he felt something for her. “The past is dead,” he said. “In time, I hope we might bury it forever. Until then, I am content to wait for you, my sweet. Perhaps when you forget about hating me, you might—”
“Who can say?” She couldn’t bear to let him finish. From Anselm’s lips, words of love would sound like the worst possible profanity. “But I am willing to meet you halfway. Is that good enough?”
From then on, Martha found life slightly more bearable. Instead of keeping her locked away, Anselm began allowing her to accompany him on his business around the castle. When Martha showed no signs of misbehaving, not even whilst in the presence of His Evilness, he loosened her bonds even further.
“Perhaps we might ride out again this afternoon?” Anselm asked. They’d arrived at the door that led to Anselm’s chambers. “It would be a pity to waste this fine spell of weather. Unless, of course, you are weary?”
Martha roused herself enough to smile at him. “Not at all. I’
d love to go out.”
Seemingly satisfied, he opened the door and escorted Martha into the living room. A solitary tray of cold food sat waiting for her on a table set by the window.
“I will return as soon as I may, my dear,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “Enjoy your meal.”
With that, he was gone, locking the door behind him as always. Although she had more freedom than before, she was still a prisoner.
Grimacing, Martha wiped the hand he’d kissed down the skirt of her moss-green dress. Her face muscles ached with the effort of keeping her fake smile in place for so long. Why were fake smiles so painful?
She paced the room several times, pausing to uncover her lunch tray. Cold mutton, congealed in its own fat, and a slab of dark, heavy bread. Oh, that’s just grim. She recovered the meal with the linen cloth.
The watery ale, however, was always welcome—though it wasn’t a patch on Seth’s home brew. Sipping her ale, she went over to the window, kneeling on the seat to look outside. She stared at the people in the courtyard below without really seeing them, her mind occupied with the news Agatha had given her earlier that day.
While trailing Anselm around the castle, Martha had noticed Agatha hovering on the periphery of her vision. The older woman stared at her so hard it was obvious she had something she wanted Martha to hear.
Anselm was engrossed in conversation with a group of soldiers, so Martha tugged on his sleeve.
“Is it okay if I go and have a word with Agatha about my gown? I think it needs a little extra something along the—”
“Forgive me, my dear,” Anselm said with a delicate shudder. “But there are some things a man should never be exposed to. Just show me the magic. Never explain the spell. Now run along. But stay where I can see you.”
Patronizing arse! Martha turned away, but not without noticing that Anselm’s soldier pals all wore matching smirks.
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