Just like Robin Hood. Martha resumed her sweeping, absorbing Agatha’s words. She still knew so little about him, the man she had married.
“As the outlaw ranks swelled,” Agatha continued, “Lord Edgeway was amongst the first to taste the wrath of those he had attempted to crush. I shall never forget his rage the first time he lost the taxes that were on route to his cousin, the king. He personally beheaded two of his own captains who survived the ambush, ignoring their pleas for mercy. The other soldiers got off more lightly with a public flogging. The earl was unbearable for weeks afterward, rampaging through the castle and bellowing at anyone foolish enough to be in his path, be they knight or scullery maid.”
Martha met Agatha’s twinkling eyes and managed a weak smile since some response was obviously expected of her. But she had no words. It was all so barbaric.
Grabbing the bedpost, Agatha pulled herself up off the bed, giving a little grunt of exertion as she regained her feet. “And what do you think your lord and master did with all the gold he took?”
“He gave it back to the people it was taken from?” It was the only thing he could do, she supposed.
“Er... yes.” Agatha looked slightly taken aback. “Has he already spoken to you of this?”
“No.” Martha sighed. “But this tale is already much more famous than you know.”
“Is it indeed?”
What happened at the end of Robin Hood, right after he got married? Did Robin get his lands back? Was the honor of his family name restored? Did he and Marion get to live out their happily ever after in peace? She couldn’t remember.
I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see.
CHAPTER TEN
The moment news came that King Erik and his entourage were on the final approach to the castle, Anselm took to locking Martha away again.
“Forgive me, sweeting,” he said. “But my master has barred you from the presence of his most illustrious relative.”
“Well, I can’t imagine why!” She glared at him, her hands firmly planted on her hips.
“Can you not?” Anselm smiled. “You must admit, your mood and manners are… highly changeable. I never know which way you will jump, myself.”
Fair point. Instead, she said, “I’ll have you know, I’ve been the epitome of good behavior for weeks.”
“Days,” Anselm corrected her with a smile.
Martha huffed. “Fine. But you don’t have to lock me in again, Anselm. I’ll stay put. ” Widening her eyes, she worked him over with her best puppy eyes. “Haven’t the last few days proved to you that I’m not about to run off?”
“No. Unfortunately for you, I am not so gullible as you might like to believe.” But he didn’t look annoyed. If anything, he seemed amused. “Come.” Taking her arm, he led her to the window. “From your comfortable seat, you will have as good a view as any of us outside in the bailey.”
Martha sat down on the folded coverlet she used to pad the window seat’s rock-hard upholstery and said nothing.
“There blows a chill wind today, my dear.” He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You will be far warmer in here, much more comfortable.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “You’re good, Anselm. I’ll give you that. Tell me, have you ever considered a career in politics?”
For once, Anselm wasn’t listening. Leaning forward, he peered through the mullioned window, frowning. “The outriders are already upon us. I must go at once.”
With that, he turned and strode from the room, closing the door behind him. Heavy keys jangled against the metal lock. A moment later, the door flew open again, and Anselm reentered the room. “Where did I put my… Ah!” He picked up his best leather gloves from where he’d left them sitting on top of a chest. With a grin, he waved them at Martha then hurried away.
Idiot.
Resigned to her fate, she kicked off her slippers and drew her feet up beneath her, settling back to watch the show.
At first in a trickle and then in a stream, the king and his court finally arrived at the castle.
The loud clattering of hundreds of horseshoes echoed over the cobbles as the visitors rode into the courtyard. Martha had never seen so many horses in her life, manes and tails plaited to perfection, their harnesses and well-tended coats gleaming.
The riders’ high status was instantly apparent, even to Martha. The panoply of gold jewelry and precious stones on display positively screamed out wealth. There were no paupers amongst the front riders, that much was clear.
From beneath the multitude of heavy, ornately embroidered traveling cloaks—each one voluminous enough to drape over the rump of the rider’s horse—she caught glimpses of vividly colored gowns and tunics.
From what she could see, there weren’t many female riders. Most of the women were confined to litters, along with their children and various ladies in waiting. They couldn’t have been very comfortable, for their faces looked pinched and miserable when they finally stepped out onto the cobbled courtyard. Huddled together in their fur-lined cloaks, the noblewomen looked around them with apparent displeasure.
No wonder. After life at court, Edgeway must seem like the back of beyond. Utterly provincial.
Without a doubt, Martha liked the knights best. Sitting astride their huge warhorses, the men talked amongst themselves, smiling often and laughing frequently, as they waited for their squires to attend them. Some wore full suits of armor, others just a few pieces, but the metal shone mirror bright in the afternoon sunshine. The men were all different. Some were fresh-faced and youthful. Many were more mature, and rather battle-scarred, but they were still handsome in their own way.
Martha knelt on the window seat to get a better look. Even from this distance, they oozed confidence and machismo. A knight for every occasion, and one to suit every taste. Magnificent.
Edgeway obviously suited the knights much better than it did the sour-faced ladies.
What was she thinking? Swords, armor, warhorses? These very men she was quietly drooling over would be going up against Rodmar and his men some time in the not-too-distant future.
She sat back down and chewed on a hang-nail. Did Vadim and his secret squirrels have any armor? It didn’t seem likely. Suddenly, the knights in the courtyard seemed to lose some of their lustre. In her mind’s eye, she compared the raggedy outlaws with King Erik’s well-armed knights. Her stomach lurched. How could Vadim hope to defeat such men?
No doubt Rodmar would bring his own knights to even things out, but somehow she couldn’t picture Vadim sitting back while other men did the fighting.
She felt sick as she imagined all that metal versus soft, living flesh. He’s going to get himself killed for sure this time.
The parade of power and wealth went on and on. Throughout it all, Anselm and the earl stood together, individually greeting each new arrival, their fixed, matching smiles never wavering. Their face muscles must be screaming for release by now.
Welcome to my world.
His Evilness was certainly out to impress today. With the exception of his sable cloak, he was dressed from head to toe in purple and gold. In comparison, Anselm was much more modestly dressed. Even so, she preferred his more sober, dark-blue ensemble to that of his gaudy master.
From her height advantage, she noticed that the earl’s golden hair was thinning on top—something he’d tried to disguise with a comb-over. Even in this world, some things never changed. The playful wind wreaked havoc with the earl’s careful hair-do, repeatedly flipping the long strands into the air. Martha smiled as he smoothed his wayward locks back in place only to have to do it all over again a moment later.
It was a petty thing, but it pleased her all the same.
Suddenly, the earl abandoned his hair repairs. With a beaming smile, he set off across the yard, his arms held wide in greeting, as a corpulent horseman rode into the bailey, flanked a
t either side by a wall of knights.
Martha managed to read the earl’s lips. Welcome, cousin.
That’s King Erik?
While the knights helped the older man from his horse, the earl gamboled around them like an over-excited puppy.
He’s going to wet himself in a minute if he’s not careful.
She hadn’t really wanted to meet the king, and seeing him now, watching him submit to the earl’s embrace with ill-disguised impatience, Martha had no desire to see him any closer.
The king’s eyes glinted like mean little pebbles from the fleshy folds of his face. A neat salt and pepper beard covered his chin, emphasizing the downward curve of his mouth.
This wasn’t a man of ready smiles, fake or otherwise.
A pale, willowy woman walked up to him and slid her hand into the crook of his arm with the ease of familiarity. King Erik performed a brief mime of introduction, his pudgy hand gesturing from her to the earl. For a heartbeat, the earl’s smile wavered, but he recovered quickly and took the lady’s hand, raising it to his lips. After acknowledging the earl with a brief, wintry smile, the woman pulled her hand free and returned her attention to the king.
Who is she? His daughter, perhaps?
With a shudder of revulsion, Martha realized her mistake.
While King Erik appeared to be listening to the earl, all the time he groped the woman’s backside, kneading it vigorously with his ring-laden fingers. The mystery beauty didn’t object. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the attention, smiling down at the king from her superior height with all the signs of affection.
His wife, perhaps? Maybe they were a particularly devoted couple. But Martha didn’t really believe it. Judging a book by its cover might not be wise, but as she looked at the king, she instinctively knew she’d hate his story.
A sudden thought struck her with the intensity of a halogen spotlight. Heart pounding, she sat upright on the window seat.
Two full turns. I didn’t hear the two full turns.
She glanced at the door. No way. Anselm couldn’t have forgotten. Could he? Hope sent her running, stumbling over her discarded slippers in her haste to find out.
She reached out, her fingers brushing the cool metal ring that lifted the door latch. What if there’s a guard out there? She swiftly retracted her hand. Then again, it wasn’t likely, not with all the new arrivals flooding into the castle. Everyone was too busy to spare Anselm’s roomie any attention.
Her blood pounded loudly in her ears. Holding her breath, Martha gripped the metal ring and turned it slowly to the left. The latch lifted with a dull thunk. She flinched. The sound seemed deafening in the stillness of the room.
Exhaling in a long, steady stream, she pulled on the handle.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Oh, please, please open!
She expected to feel a jolt of resistance, for the lock to crush all her hopes, but it didn’t. Without making a sound, the door swung open. Suddenly, she was staring out into the empty passageway, her head spinning with relief. Anselm’s bunch of iron keys hung forgotten in the keyhole.
Thank you!
Breathing hard, she grabbed the keys from the lock, immediately enclosing them in a tight fist to quiet their metal chinking. Then she reclosed the door and sank to the floor, quickly examining and discarding each key in turn, seeking a match to the one still clasped in her hand.
And suddenly, there it was. You little beauty! But there was no time to celebrate, not yet. Anselm might return at any moment.
She thrust the spare key into the lock and gave it a turn. It worked. Now, all she had to do was separate it from the others. Unfortunately, a thick metal ring held the key-bunch together, and no matter how hard she pulled, the fecking thing wouldn’t budge.
Muttering and swearing to herself, Martha scanned the room for something she could use to prise the metal ring open, preferably something with a thin blade, but nothing fitted the bill. Perhaps wisely, Anselm had removed all the pointy stuff when she moved in.
What about Vadim’s knife? She’d almost forgotten it.
Cursing herself for a fool, she raced to her bedroom and retrieved the little blade from where she’d stashed it beneath the mattress. She pulled it from its leather sheath and set to work, pressing the point against the joint of the stubborn metal ring.
Shit! The blade slipped. Her hands shook too badly to hold it steady. She took a breath then tried again. God damn it! She almost skewered her hand this time. Almost sobbing with frustration, she wiped her sweaty palms down her skirt. Anselm might be back at any moment. She’d better check where he was.
She scrambled off the floor and ran back into the living room, to her regular spot by the window. Much to her relief, Anselm was still outside, chatting and smiling with the knights while His Evilness was deep in conversation with the king.
Good. Stay there.
She placed the keyring on the stone window sill and resumed her attempts to open it.
Several minor cuts later, after numerous attempts, the point of the blade bit into the hairline crack of the metal ring. It held firm. Easy now! Sweat beaded on her brow and upper lip, but Martha dared not wipe it away. Holding her breath, she gently wiggled the knife from side to side. Slowly, slowly, the crack grew wider until, at last, there was enough space to remove the key.
Exhaling hard, she wiped her face on her sleeve then slipped the six-inch lump of iron in the concealed pocket beneath her skirt.
But she wasn’t done yet. Anselm might notice one of his keys were missing. He was in the habit of playing with the keys as he talked, sliding them around their ring like the beads on an abacus, although he seemed unaware of it. A miscount might attract his attention. It wasn’t worth the risk.
She replaced the stolen key with one from the trunk in her bedchamber. It was a little smaller than the one she’d liberated, but it would have to do. As she closed the metal ring, several bright, obviously new, scratches on the surface of the previously dull metal caught her eye. Anselm would definitely notice those.
Oh, feck me!
She rubbed the keys with a damp facecloth to remove all trace of the dried blood her injured fingers had left behind. Although the blood-tinged water darkened the scratches, they were still noticeable. What else could she use? She looked around. The fire’s glowing embers seemed to beckon her. Ashes. Yes. They’d do nicely.
Minutes later, Anselm’s keys were back where he’d left them, hanging on the outside of the unlocked door.
Perhaps half an hour later, Martha heard the sound of keys jangling in the external lock. Her heart lurched.
The door swung open, and Anselm walked into the room.
“Well? How was it?” she asked from her place by the window, lowering her embroidery to her lap. “Has everyone arrived?”
“That they have. At long last.” He kicked the door closed behind him and used his teeth to remove his gloves, one finger at a time. “My feet are almost numb with standing for so long. I would have much rather stayed here with you.”
He looked downright perished. With his glowing red nose and cheeks, he reminded her of one of Santa’s little helpers.
“Oh? Is it cold out?” The scent of fresh, cool air drifted from him, cutting through the heat of the room. “I can’t say I noticed.”
“That is hardly surprising.” Anselm glanced at the blazing fire in the hearth. “I wager the blacksmith’s shop is cooler than this room. Little wonder you look so flushed.”
Martha sent him a withering smile. “Very funny, I’m sure.” Thank goodness she’d built up the fire. Heat was the perfect camouflage for her guilty cheeks.
After taking off his cloak and boots, he slumped down into a chair beside the fire and rested his stockinged feet upon the hearth. He sighed and closed his eyes.
Martha picked up her embroidery and resumed her terrible need
lework, not that the work gave her any pleasure. Her bleeding fingers might require some explanation, and embroidery was the perfect excuse. She’d pricked herself several times already.
“Did you watch them arrive?” Anselm asked. His voice sounded slurred and weary.
Martha looked up from her work. “Only until the king arrived, then I got bored.” Her heart skipped when she recalled what she’d done afterward. “Tell me, who’s the woman he was groping?”
Anselm turned his head to look at her. “Of which lady do you speak?”
Who else had the king been groping while she’d been on her key quest?
“You know. The pretty blonde one who went over to him just after he arrived?”
“Ah, yes.” A slow smile curved his lips. “The fair Beatrice. I understand His Grace recently married her off to one of his knights as reward for her years of faithful service.”
The emphasis he placed on that last word painted a very clear picture of Beatrice’s duties.
“That’s disgusting!” The outburst of revulsion was out before she could stop it.
“Is it?” Anselm got up and walked toward her. “I view it more of an act of kindness. What would have become of her if the king had cast her adrift? Who would marry such a woman?”
“The knight married her.” Martha slammed her embroidery down on the seat beside her, her cheeks burning even hotter.
“So he did.” Anselm sat beside her. “And I understand Sir Hugh was immensely pleased with the prime hunting lands he received from the king as a wedding gift.”
Ugh! Beatrice was a living, breathing woman, for heaven’s sake, not a bike for hire.
Anselm chuckled. “Oh, Martha. Can you really be so naive?”
Not naive, more like revolted. She wasn’t entirely stupid. She’d learned enough history to know how women had been treated in the past. But reading about it was very different from seeing it up close and personal. “So why did king Pig dump her?” she asked, not that she really wanted to know.
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