“Ah, that.” Vadim stroked the folds of the cloak, smoothing it over her shoulders. “The result of a minor mishap in one of the tunnels.”
“What?” Her blue eyes widened, flashing with a little of her former spirit. “Did it collapse on you? Is that what you’re telling me in your usual understated way?”
He nodded and turned away.
Twelve men buried. Only three pulled out alive.
He picked up his sword from where he had left it, propped against the door. As he slid the weapon back into its sheath, he felt the black weight of earth crushing down on him again. The screams. The dark. The utter silence. He closed his eyes and rasped his hands over his face. His last conscious thought had been of Martha. She had been his first thought on wakening too.
Her hand rested upon his arm, its touch as light and fleeting as a butterfly.
“I-I’m sorry for what I said earlier… about you taking your time, I mean.”
“Why?” He turned and looked at her. “I was late. What did you say that I did not deserve?”
“But you were buried in a tunnel—”
“Only for a brief time. What of the other seven weeks and four days, hmm?” He took a breath to steady himself. “I listened to my head when my heart would have been the better guide.” He touched her hand gently, and when she did not recoil, he clasped it and raised it to his lips. “I am sorry, Martha. ’Tis I who ought to be on my knees begging for your forgiveness.”
The warmth in her eyes quickened his heart.
“Has it really been so long?” she asked. “Seven weeks—”
“And four days.”
“You’re right.” Her lips twitched, holding back a smile. “Get down on your knees and start begging.”
For the first time in weeks, laughter welled up inside of him—genuine amusement, not the forced and worthless kind. He smiled because he could not do otherwise.
He pulled her closer, slowly drawing her into the circle of his arms. She did not resist. Although she was thinner, her body felt soft and familiar. Touching his forehead to hers, Vadim closed his eyes, reacquainting himself with her scent. As he did so, heat flared within him, igniting a primitive need. He ached for her. The prospect of kissing had him trembling. But he dared not push her.
Suffering a man’s unwanted lust damaged a woman. He had seen evidence of it too many times. Martha must set the pace. For now, he was content to bask in her presence like a cat in the sunshine.
She snuggled her face against his hauberk and sighed. “How did you find me? You know... before?”
“I had the good fortune to run into the noblewoman you saved from those...” Vadim cleared his throat. “When she realized I was not about to attack her, she begged me to go to your aid.”
“She did? Thank God for Beatrice.” She sniffed several times, her nose wrinkling in a delightful manner. “Is that me? I stink fecking awful.”
Vadim chuckled. “No, love.” He planted a kiss on her damp hair. “’Tis the privy, or perhaps me you smell; certainly not you.”
“Liar.” He heard the smile in her voice. “But just this once, I’ll let it go.”
Forge growled softly from his spot by the door. Ears pricked, he scrambled to his feet.
Martha tensed. “Now what?”
He kissed her brow and went reluctantly to listen at the door.
At first he heard nothing, save for Martha as she resumed munching on her rock wafer. It sounded as though she was eating a brick, not food. Closing his eyes, Vadim strained to hear outside. The gritty crunches were most distracting.
The approaching voices were familiar and welcome, men he trusted with his life and, more importantly, with Martha’s.
He unbolted the privy door and flung it open. “Well met, my friends. How goes the battle?”
Seth stumbled backward, staring at him with open-mouthed surprise. At his side stood Reynard, smiling and composed as always.
“By the balls of the Great—M’lord, Vadim!” Seth clutched his chest, his cheeks glowing red beneath his beard. “What the devil are you doing hiding away in a privy?”
Vadim arched his eyebrows.
“Oh.” The older man’s blush deepened. “Of course. What else would you be doing in there? Forgive me.”
Suddenly, Forge bolted from the privy and launched himself at Seth, whining and licking at every piece of unexposed flesh he could get to.
“Away, you vile beast of the Underworld,” Seth cried as he stroked the dog’s head. “I thought we might at least have had the good fortune to lose you in battle.” But his affection for the animal was clear. During recent weeks, they had become fast friends.
Next, Martha emerged from the privy and stood at Vadim’s side. “Are you being mean to my dog, Chief?”
“Martha… m’lady?” Seth grinned broadly and strode toward her, arms outstretched. “Oh, lass. It does my heart good to look upon you again.” Enveloping her in a bear hug, he lifted her off the ground, squeezing her until she giggled for mercy.
Their easy familiarity gave Vadim a sharp pang of envy. He would give all he owned to be free to act in the same manner.
Reynard approached and shook Vadim’s hand. “Your fortune seems to have improved of late, my friend.” He craned his neck to look inside the privy, and his smile faded. “I had hoped to find Fergus with you.” He glanced around as though he expected the lad to spring out from behind one of the many faded wall hangings. “Where has he got to?”
“Oh, shit.” Martha froze in Seth’s arms. She looked over at Vadim.
The distress in her eyes alarmed him. What had happened to the boy?
“Shit!” she said again, more forcefully this time.
Seth set her back on the ground. “What is it, lass?”
“It’s Fergus.” She fisted her hands in her hair and began to pace the corridor in obvious agitation. “He’s locked in the dungeons. He had a fight with the earl, you see, and Anselm knocked him out—”
“Anselm did what?” Seth made a sound of disgust, deep in his throat. “Curse him for a son. I should have drowned him at birth.”
Vadim silently agreed. What else had Anselm done, he wondered.
“No, you don’t understand.” Martha’s glance flew from Seth to Vadim and back again, her eyes wide and shining. “It’s not like that at all. He only did it to—”
“Forgive me.” Reynard gave a brief bow of his head. “I must find my son.” In only a few seconds, he seemed to have aged decades.
“We shall accompany you, my friend.” Vadim clasped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You may yet have need of our swords.”
“And let us hope we encounter Anselm along the way,” Seth muttered. “’Tis well past time I took that boy in hand.”
Martha looked from one man to the other. “B-but—”
“Come.” Vadim took her trembling hand. “No harm will befall you with three such doughty men as your escorts.”
They set off walking, and Vadim kept a firm hold on Martha’s hand.
Bringing her along was far from ideal, but the thought of leaving her again, even in a place of refuge, was intolerable.
“Will you all just stop for a second and listen to me, for fecksake?” Martha snatched her hand free. “I have something to tell you.” She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at them each in turn.
Her dander was certainly up now. Vadim smiled. He had forgotten how well anger suited her. “What is it, love?” he asked. “Make haste and speak.”
She inhaled so hard her breast almost rose up to her chin. “It’s Anselm,” she said in a small voice.
All of Vadim’s good humor evaporated. “What of him?”
“He’s been hurt.” Martha glanced at Seth’s stony face. “Badly hurt. He might already be… d-dead.”
Vadim stiffened, observing her
glistening eyes with suspicion. Pity for Anselm? A cold frost attacked his heart, turning it to winter.
“You need not vex yourself on account of my feelings, m’lady,” Seth answered with strained politeness. “The news does not come as a blow. I feel only a sense of relief. Now, let us go to the aid of a man worth saving.”
He would have walked away had Martha not clutched his sleeve and pulled him back. “Seth, listen to me. You’re wrong about Anselm. He’s changed!”
Seth shook his head repeatedly as Martha attempted to convince him.
“Don’t get me wrong. He’s still a complete arse at times,” she continued breathlessly, “but he helped me—”
“Exactly how has Anselm helped you, my love?” Anger goaded Vadim to speak when it might have been wiser to remain silent. He heard the poison of his words, but could not contain them. “Tell us how Anselm has managed to secure your favor so we can judge this paragon of kindliness for ourselves.”
Martha turned toward him, eyes blazing. “I’ll tell you, if you’d only shut up for a minute and listen!” She took a shuddering breath. “Anselm was trying to help me escape when the earl stabbed him.”
“Good,” Seth muttered in an aside to Reynard. “Lord Edgeway has finally done us a service.”
But not quietly enough.
“Don’t say that, Seth!” Martha wheeled about to face him. “Come with me,” she begged. “It might not be too late. Anselm’s still your s—”
“Leave this alone, love.” Vadim said, willing her to obey him if only in this matter. Anselm was as a festering wound, the weakest point in Seth’s armor. He would not stand by whilst Martha baited this gentlest of men into a temper.
“Don’t you get it?” She backed away, regarding Vadim as though he himself were the enemy. “If it weren’t for Anselm, the earl would’ve thrown me over the castle wall. Go and ask your men if you don’t believe me.” She flung out her arm, pointing toward the window. “They saw him dangling me over the barbican.”
“Alas, I fear your wife has been poisoned, m’lord,” Reynard said, casting Vadim a look of sympathy. “I can listen to no more of this. I must seek my son.”
Without speaking, Seth followed after Reynard.
“But he’s your son!” Martha yelled at their departing backs.
“No. He is not!” Seth turned, finally needled into anger. “The earl’s brand is forever on his heart. Anselm is, and shall always be, Lord Edgeway’s creature.” He closed his eyes and exhaled hard, managing to master himself. “The boy I called son has been dead to me for many years now. I am sorry, m’lady.”
Martha stared at the floor, muttering beneath her breath, as Seth and Reynard’s bootsteps retreated.
Wounded though he was, Vadim could not bear to see her so down at heart. “Come. Let us follow our friends, hmm?”
But when she raised her head he realized his mistake. Defeated? Not she. With her chin held high and her cloak thrown back, her whole demeanor was bathed in the light of battle. The pale and trembling lamb he had rescued was gone. In its place stood a she-wolf—and a cornered one at that. The deadliest kind.
His heart quickened in response, sending hot blood thundering through his veins to parts of his body that had lain dormant for weeks. As discretely as he could, he turned away and, with a grimace of discomfort, adjusted himself to ease the throbbing ache.
“Friends are important, aren’t they?” Martha asked in a voice so quiet he strained to hear it.
“Of… course… vitally important.” Trusting his long hauberk would hide his arousal, he turned back to face her. “Especially during such dangerous times as these.”
Holding him captive in her steady gaze, she advanced toward him. “I guess you must trust your friends with your life, huh?”
“Certainly. Just as they in turn entrust me with theirs.”
“Remind me, what does your honor code say about promises, Vadim?” She paused, standing slightly out of his reach. “Would you ever knowingly break one?”
“Not if it was within my power to fulfill it. No.” What was she up to?
A brief look of triumph flared in her eyes. “That’s what I thought.”
Why did he feel he had stepped into a trap and his answer had sprung the door closed behind him?
“Then you’ll understand why I have to do this.” She picked up a stout stick from where it lay on the floor and, gripping it in both hands, swung it several times through the air.
“Martha?” After all that had passed, she would still go to Anselm’s aid?
“I’m sorry, Vadim,” she said. “Whatever you think of him, the fact remains that Anselm swam an ocean for me today. The least I can do is step over a puddle for him now. If you won’t help me, then I’ll just have to go by myself.”
With a swirl of her cloak, she set off in the direction of the stairs, with Forge trotting at her side.
“Surely, you are not serious?” He could not believe he was having such a discussion with her.
“My honor demands that I try,” she called back. Her steps did not falter.
Using his own words against him? A low blow indeed.
Bravery was one thing. Foolhardiness was something else entirely. She had to be bluffing. The predators stalking this castle would eat her alive, she-wolf or not. Had she so easily dismissed her earlier attack?
In three strides, Vadim overtook her. Grasping her arm, he spun her about to face him, leaning down until he felt her warm breath upon his face. “And if I lock you away so you cannot go to him?” he hissed. “What then?”
“Do I really need to spell it out for you? Let me go!” She pulled her arm free and stepped back. “How would you feel if I’d tried to stop you doing some of the crazy things you’ve done recently, huh? You’d resent me and eventually hate me for it—”
That was unfair. “I have always considered your feelings!”
“I’m sure you have, but in the end you did what felt right for you.” She jabbed her finger in his chest. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
He could not answer. The snake of jealousy twisting and coiling about his heart had not yet robbed him of all reason.
Martha sighed and raked her hands through her bedraggled hair. “Just come with me,” she said in a quieter voice. “You don’t have to help. Be with me. That’s all I ask.”
“So be it.” Though it was against every instinct he possessed, he would do as she asked. “But on those terms alone.”
Her brief smile was his reward. It was almost worth the trial of seeing Anselm again. With luck, he might already be dead. And if not...?
Vadim drew his sword, praying she would ask no more of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The vanguard had advanced, pushing deeper into the castle. The clash of distant swords and the feral cries of their masters heralded the direction they had taken.
Only the dead remained to hinder them, mangled bodies piled in heaps like the detritus following a winter storm. In great number, they sprawled over the stairs, barring the way down. Mortal enemies finally reconciled, their broken limbs entwined in death’s embrace.
As furrowed seeds the warriors lay, all crushed and scattered by war’s great hand…
The fragment of the ancient lay revisited him, a tale learned long ago at his grandfather’s knee. Long-forgotten words were now vividly recalled, ripe with meaning.
Death was a great leveler. Vadim could not distinguish friend from foe.
Martha said nothing. She took his hand when he offered it, clinging tightly to his fingers, her pallid face set in a mask of horror as they negotiated the corpses blanketing the stairs.
Though she could not know it, the feel of her small hand in his lent him strength. Such weariness as this he had seldom known. How long since he had last closed his eyes in natural repose?
It was a grim journe
y. The dead men’s fear lingered on. Foul odors rose up, disturbed by their tentative footfalls: feces and urine, the iron stench of blood, and the sour tang of vomit. The only sound was the buzzing drone of meat flies, hungry guests at this manmade feast.
Martha tucked her stick beneath her arm and cupped her hand over her nose and mouth. Vadim was tempted to do the same. Unfortunately, he had need of both hands.
Forge was not ill at ease. He looked up from the foot of the stairs, merry eyes twinkling, and gave a sharp yip to hasten them. The dead were no obstacle to him. He had leapt over the bodies as if they were no more than rocks or puddles on his favorite walk. Vadim envied him.
Although the dead could not harm them, he gripped his sword tighter.
It was a relief to be out in the open air. Apart from the numerous carrion birds, this corner of the inner bailey was also devoid of life. Vadim shivered at the birds’ harsh cries. Like black specters, they swooped down to peck at the dead. He swallowed and averted his eyes.
By common accord, they paused by the charred remains of a wagon. He looked up into the gray monotony of the sky. There would be no sun today. It seemed only fitting on a day of so much slaughter. He inhaled deeply. The damp air was blessedly sweet and untainted, gradually banishing the scent of death from his lungs. Cool drops of rain fell in an endless sheet, battering against his face, reviving him.
For all that they had suffered this day, together and apart, they were still alive, two of the lucky few. His heart swelled with gratitude. Did Martha feel the same way?
He looked at her. Eyes closed, her upturned face seemed to worship the sunless sky. Fast-moving rivulets of water cascaded down her face, smudging the dried specks of blood that adorned her pale skin. She still clung to his hand. His fingers tingled, such was the force of her grip.
Her lips glistened in the rain, beckoning him to kiss her. Would she welcome it, though?
Disturbed, perhaps, by the weight of his gaze, Martha’s eyelids flickered open. What he read in her eyes shocked him, a look both wild and needful.
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