Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  All around the keep, people pressed their faces to the windows, waiting and watching for the messengers to return.

  Even the servants—that last bastion of normality—gave up all pretense of work. They stood together in the courtyard, huddled in little groups, seldom speaking, constantly glancing at the gate.

  What had happened inside the luxurious folds of Rodmar’s purple tent? Had they hammered out terms? Would they all soon be free?

  Effie touched Martha’s arm, but there was no need. She’d already seen the riders trotting through the gate.

  As the men rode into the yard, her eyes zoomed in on Anselm. Oh dear! The grim line of his mouth told her he wasn’t bringing good news. He pushed through the crowds who swarmed to greet them then dismounted without speaking a word.

  Martha exhaled a shaky breath. If anything, he looked angry.

  “Shall we go down and hear the news, m’lad—Martha? I long to know what has happened.”

  Shaking her head, Martha withdrew from the window. “You go if you want. I think I might lie on the bed for a bit.”

  “If you are certain.” Effie looked worried, no doubt remembering Anselm’s orders to take care of her mistress. “You still look a little pale.”

  Martha waved away her concern. “I’m fine. Stop fretting and just go.”

  Effie bustled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Martha sighed. The quiet was a welcome companion.

  Lord, I’m so tired.

  Dragging her feet, she walked to her bedchamber. Her bones ached with weariness. The urge to sleep was irresistible. It must be the effects of her pregnancy. She remembered reading that exhaustion was common during the first trimester.

  She closed the door and then lay down on the bed. The mattress sagged beneath her, cradling her like a chick in a nest. With a blissful sigh, she snuggled her face into the soft pillow. The moment her eyes closed, she felt sleep stealing over her.

  It seemed only seconds had passed when an urgent voice roused her again.

  “Martha? Martha! Where are you?”

  Sleep-fuddled and confused, she sat up. For a moment, she thought the voice was Vadim’s. “In here,” she called.

  The door of her bedchamber flew open, and there stood Anselm, glowering at her from the doorway. The look in his eyes was nothing short of murderous.

  Shit! Why didn’t I lock it?

  The violence in his eyes made her blood run cold. His chest heaved beneath his armor plate as he battled to control his breathing. What could have happened?

  “Wh-what is it?” She resisted the urge to hide beneath the bedcovers. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Did you know?” He spoke so quietly she barely heard him.

  “Huh?”

  “Did. You. Know?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles showing white beneath his tanned skin.

  Oh, crap! With a flash of intuition, Martha knew exactly what he was talking about. And who. Her stomach lurched. Play dumb.

  “Know? Know what?” She swung her legs out of bed and stood up. “Are you all right? Tell me, Anselm.” The concern in her voice was real. She didn’t have to fake it.

  Anselm remained motionless in the doorway, dissecting her with glacial eyes.

  She’d need an Oscar-winning performance to pull this off. “Anselm?” Her spine prickled with fear, but she forced herself to walk toward him. “What is it? You’re scaring me.” That last part was true, at least.

  “I will ask you one more time. Did you know?” The quietness of his tone was worse than any ranting.

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  He moved with frightening speed. Grabbing the tops of her arms, his cruel fingers dug painfully into her soft flesh. He dragged her up onto her tiptoes, her feet almost leaving the ground.

  Unable to speak for pain, she looked pleadingly at him. But his eyes were as warm as a Siberian winter.

  “Forgive my impatience, sweeting,” he murmured against her gasping mouth. “But I have passed a most vexing day.”

  “Anselm. P-please!” Her knees buckled. She would have fallen if he had not held her so tightly. “You’re… h-hurting me.”

  “Good.” He dragged her close, crushing her chest against the cold metal of his breast-plate. “You deserve a little ill treatment for the way you have—”

  “M’lord?” A man’s voice interrupted them.

  Oh, thank God. Martha could hear her own panicked breaths.

  Sir Hugh was hovering in the doorway of her bedchamber, a frown in his eyes. “The king demands your presence.”

  Anselm didn’t look at his friend. His attention was fixed wholly on Martha. “Not. Now.” The quiet warning in his voice was unmistakable.

  “But, Anselm—”

  “I said, not now!” He spun around to face Hugh, taking Martha with him. The pressure of his painful hold didn’t let up for a second.

  To his credit, Sir Hugh didn’t flinch. “What would you have me say?” he asked mildly. “You know how His Grace hates to be kept waiting.”

  “Say what you will,” Anselm muttered. “I neither know nor care. Lie to him if you must.” He held Martha away from him, but he didn’t release her, only looking deeper into her eyes. “I am sure you can lie well enough at need.”

  The last few words weren’t meant for Sir Hugh, but her. Perhaps playing the role of Anselm’s concerned fiancée might help?

  “Anselm, you m-mustn’t anger the king. If you ever hope to join his Court, we must keep him happy.” Her voice trembled, but it sounded convincing.

  “Well said, my dear.” The venom in his softly spoken words made her flinch. He obviously wasn’t buying it. “I can hardly disregard such fine counsel. Hugh?” He glanced at the knight. “Be good enough to inform His Grace and Lord Edgeway that whilst at the enemy camp, I must have imbibed something disharmonious to my health.”

  “M’lord?”

  Anselm rolled his eyes at his friend’s lack of understanding. “Tell him I am on the privy suffering from a bout of explosive bowels, man!”

  “As you wish.”

  The knight ignored the despairing looks Martha was sending him. “Do not delay for too long,” he said. “Your domestic concerns will keep.”

  After Hugh departed, Anselm finally let Martha go. She stood her ground, rubbing her aching arms.

  He stroked a strand of hair away from her face with a gentle finger. “Shall I tell you how I have spent this day, sweeting?”

  “I wish you would,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “I can’t imagine why you’re in such a foul mood.” Playing ignorant was keeping her fear in check. But only just.

  “I have been bartering for our lives, m’lady. Smiling, and speaking words of friendship to win the favor of that upstart dog Rodmar and his followers.” His eyes hardened. “When in truth, I longed to draw my sword and cut them all down where they stood.”

  Tingles prickled up her spine. Martha didn’t doubt him. Unable to stop herself, she took a couple of steps backward. Hearing him speak so calmly of violence ramped up her panic by several notches.

  “Can you imagine the humiliation of having to woo that insolent cur?” Anselm sneered, his eyes following her as she moved toward the window. “Of being forced to accept the hospitality of his table? Can you imagine what it cost me, Martha? They may as well have cut off my balls and forced me to eat them.”

  Martha shuddered at that particular mental image. “Th-that must have been very difficult for you.”

  Why had she ever imagined she was fond of him? She’d forgotten just how scary Anselm could be, but it was fast coming back to her.

  “Feigning friendship where one feels only loathing is no easy task.” In one long stride, he closed the distance she’d managed to put between them. He stroked her cheek with the back of h
is gloved hand. “I think,” he said softly, “you understand that better than anyone, my sweet.”

  Martha remained still, rigid beneath his touch, though her legs wanted to carry her in the opposite direction. “I d-don’t know what you mean.”

  Oh, but she did. And no matter what she said, he knew it too. It was there in the bitter accusation of his eyes.

  A ghost of a smile played about his lips. “My poisonous little dove.” His tone was that of a kindly parent reproaching a naughty child. “No more lies. The time for pretense is over though your tenacity does you credit. Were I not so vexed, I might even admire you for it.”

  Martha flinched as he suddenly extended his hand, half expecting to feel the sting of a blow.

  Instead, Anselm entwined his fingers with hers. “Come. Let us speak honestly together for a while.”

  She sensed her fear amused him. He was getting off on it. Sick bastard!

  He led her out of the bedchamber and into the sitting room, away from the temptation of her bed. Not that Anselm would need a bed if he decided to use sex as a form of punishment, but she didn’t want him to get any ideas. The sight of her rumpled bed linen was much too intimate, especially with him in this mood.

  Perched on her chair beside the fire, Martha watched as Anselm poured two tankards of ale. She craved a drink so badly she could almost taste the bitter-sweet brew.

  Without speaking, Anselm handed a tankard to her. Then he slumped down in his chair, sipping at his drink, scowling deeply into the depths of the fire.

  What’s he thinking? How best to kill me?

  Martha held the tankard between her hands. Her mouth was as dry as moon dust, but she dared not drink it. Death by poison wasn’t in her top three of ways she wanted to shuffle off the mortal coil.

  Anselm looked up. “You are not drinking.” He must have guessed her thoughts because he took a couple more sips from his own tankard then handed it to her. “How little you must think of me, my sweet.” He took her own untouched drink from her hand.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” she muttered. In several quick gulps, she drained Anselm’s tankard. The ale was warm and flat, but it tasted as good as any fine wine. She dried her lips with the back of her hand. The ale had restored her courage. She was ready to hear the worst.

  “What’s going on, Anselm?” she asked quietly. “Just tell me.”

  Anselm’s sigh was a very weary sound. “You are right. The time has come for me to speak plainly, my dear. I wonder, do you have the courage to return the favor?”

  Do I? Oh, what the hell. Decision made, Martha nodded. “Okay. But you go first.”

  “Very well.” Anselm took a sip of ale then set the tankard down on the floor. “Whilst suffering Rodmar’s hospitality, I noticed several masked men amongst those he counts as his advisers. I paid them little heed at first. The business at hand kept me distracted. However, during a pause for refreshments, I happened to notice a man lurking by the tent entrance. Although he was hooded and masked, I recognized something familiar in his stance.” He leaned forward in his chair, regarding Martha through narrowed eyes.

  Keeping a poker face wasn’t easy. Not when her heart beat so fast. When she didn’t speak, Anselm resumed his tale.

  “The negotiations reclaimed my attention for a time, but I repeatedly felt the weight of the unknown man’s stare. It felt… personal.” He reached for the key ring he kept on his belt, absently flicking through the keys.

  Martha held her breath. Would he realize she’d replaced one of his keys with a dud?

  But Anselm kept on talking. “I knew several of the assembled men—none that I would call friend—but no one paid me the same attention the masked man did. Naturally, I did not think of your husband at first. After all, why would a ghost be haunting Rodmar’s tent?”

  Why indeed? Martha tried not to frown. Vadim was usually so cautious. What was he thinking? Of course Anselm would recognize him. They’d grown up together, for fecksake!

  “It suddenly came to me that I knew the man.” Anselm looked grim. “There was no longer any doubt in my mind. And even better, I had a name for him too.”

  Martha daren’t look away from him. Her fingers pleated hurried folds in the material of her skirt.

  “Shall I reveal how I unmasked him, sweeting?”

  “Please do.” With effort, her voice was steady.

  “I called to him by name.” Anselm looked smug, pleased by his own cunning. “I waited until we were mounted and ready to return to the castle. The man stood lurking at the back of the crowd that had come to see us off. As I shortened my rein for departure, I called out to him. He had half turned away, but the name of a ghost brought him back round again.”

  Martha’s hand flew to her mouth. Game over. Anselm’s chuckles sounded like a death knell to her ears.

  “Little wonder you are so shocked, my dear. Your beloved husband, raised from the dead. Are you not pleased?” His smile broadened as he leaned back in his chair. “Of course, I sent him your warmest regards.”

  He looked like the cat that had got not only the cream, but the whole damn dairy too.

  “I informed him you were being well… taken care of. Though for some reason, my assurances did not please him.” Another chuckle. “Perhaps he inferred some other interpretation from my kindly meant words? That might explain why one of his companions grasped his arm and held on to him so tightly.”

  That’s just great. It was Martha’s turn to slump back in her chair. Now Vadim thinks Anselm and I have been bumping uglies all this time. Looks definitely couldn’t kill. Anselm would’ve been dead on the floor right now if that were possible. But instead of keeling over, he just sat there, grinning at her with that infuriatingly smug expression on his face.

  “Your turn, m’lady.” His smile faded. “Although your lack of reaction only confirms my suspicions, I should still like to hear you admit it out loud. Did you know he still lived?”

  Caution be damned. Anselm knew the truth anyway. She was already a dead woman walking. Taking a deep breath, Martha answered him. “Yes. I knew.”

  Anselm exhaled a long and hard breath, the sound an evil apparition might make. The keys in his hand were silenced as closed his hand about them.

  Several long seconds elapsed before he spoke again. “Well played, m’lady. Your game was faultless. Though in my defense, I suspect I was blinded by my partiality for you.”

  Damn it. This was no time for guilt pangs. Anselm was probably going to break her neck any minute. But what she felt wasn’t about him. For the sake of her own conscience, she needed to say it:

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Anselm.” She clasped her hands together in her lap, willing him to understand. “But what else could I do? I didn’t want this—not any of it.”

  “You deceived me without mercy,” he snarled. “There is a name for women like you.”

  “Yeah? I guess you should know since you’ve slept with so many of them.”

  To her surprise, his expression softened and his smile returned. Even more shocking, it looked genuine.

  “Oh, Martha. You cunning and treacherous vixen.” He touched her cheek with a tender hand. “How well you understand me. A nature such as yours is wasted on… him. You and I would be a much better fit.”

  Would we? She gave herself a mental shake. No matter how high Anselm turned his charm dial, he wasn’t Vadim. “I don’t think so.” The only time Anselm made her blood simmer was because of anger, not passion. “Unlike you, I take no pleasure in inflicting pain on anyone.”

  Anselm’s jaw tightened. “Insolent wretch. Have you no shame then for treating me with such despicable cruelty?”

  “At least I said I was sorry.” Martha scrambled to her feet, a flash of temper evaporating her fear. “Anyway, why are you acting like you’re the victim here? You kidnapped and imprisoned me, remember
? I’d say that makes us about even, wouldn’t—”

  He leapt up, encircling her throat with a rough hand. “I protected you, you ungrateful wretch,” he hissed as he dragged her toward him, his fingers pressing upon her windpipe. “Without me, you would have died weeks ago.”

  Black dots danced before her eyes. Oh, Jesus! Heart hammering, she clutched his wrist with both hands and pulled. The pressure on her throat eased a little, enough for her to snatch a few ragged gasps of air. But she wasn’t about to waste her final moments begging for mercy. He’d just love that.

  “Without you, none… of this would have… happened,” she gasped. Her fingernails dug into his wrist, gouging at his skin, but Anselm didn’t flinch. He loosened his hold enough so that she could speak properly. “Vadim and I were happy,” she cried. “And you ruined it. The only thing you ever gave me was a comfortable prison.”

  “Have a care, Martha.”

  She was too angry to heed the quiet warning of his voice. He could only kill her once.

  “You and His Evilness deserve one another,” she sneered. “In the end, you’ll only have each other. You’re both so cold and twisted, no decent person could ever want either of you—”

  The pressure on her windpipe increased again. Martha gagged, her eyes bulging in their sockets. Anselm observed her suffering without expression. As her vision faded, she stopped tugging at his wrist. The oncoming blackness stole all of her strength along with the will to fight.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  An urgent voice summoned her to the light. “Come back to me, Martha.”

  Suddenly, she could breathe again. Coughing and spluttering, she filled her burning lungs with heaving gulps of air, gorging on it.

  She was on the floor, the wooden planks pressing uncomfortably into her spine with each coughing spasm. As oxygen flooded back into her body, the dark veil fell from her eyes.

  Anselm was kneeling beside her, briskly chafing her trembling hands between his. With effort, she pulled away from his touch. Get off me, you fecking psycho! Tears of fear and relief slid down her cheeks and dripped into her ears. She didn’t want to cry, but the effort of holding back the tears put too much pressure on her aching throat.