Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  That had been back in Darumvale, when he had not seen Martha for weeks. “I am much improved.” He took Agatha’s plump hand and raised it to his lips. “Thank you for all you have done, m’lady. I could not—”

  “Oh, pish!” Waving aside his thanks, Agatha began gathering up the wads of blood-soiled fabric that lay scattered over the cot.

  “You look well, m’lady. I trust the siege was not too arduous for you?”

  “I cannot grumble, though all this rain has played havoc with my poor knees and hips. Still,” she cast a glance around the packed infirmary, “I am a good deal better off than most of the unfortunate souls here. Poor devils.”

  Vadim agreed. The constant chorus of agonized screams and whimpers set his teeth on edge. “Speaking of which, have you seen Anselm?”

  “Anselm?” Agatha paused in her task and looked up, surprise in her eyes. “Your litter mate, Anselm? Seth’s—”

  “One and the same.” If he did not cut her off, she would likely ramble on in this fashion all day.

  “What do you want with him?”

  What did he want? He hardly knew himself. “’Tis a… delicate matter. Is he here?”

  Agatha pointed to a motionless mound a few cots away. “The men who brought him in were quite insistent he be given a bed. They fairly dragged the leech over to examine him. Other than that, I cannot say how he fares.”

  Vadim’s heart quickened. Anselm was alone—alone and unmoving. Was he already dead? Without pausing to take leave of Agatha, he hurried to his side.

  “Anselm?” All he could see of his foster brother was a tangled mop of golden hair peeping out from beneath the blanket. He crouched beside the cot and gently lowered the cover. “Can you hear me?”

  Someone had undressed him. He was naked apart from his trews and the fresh dressing about his chest. His armor and other effects were crammed beneath the cot in an untidy heap. With a cautious hand, he touched Anselm’s shoulder, half expecting to find it cold, but his flesh was warm, and his chest rose and fell with each breath.

  Vadim exhaled. His relief at finding him alive came as a surprise. “Anselm?” Suddenly, he did not know what to do. Carefully, he re-covered him, drawing the blanket up about his neck. Then he pulled up a low stool and sat beside the cot, staring at the waxy face of the man he had once called brother. He felt no hatred. That had died with the earl. Now, all he felt was pity.

  In his mind, he revisited the days when they were boys. Their relationship had not always been as strained as it was now. At one time, they had been friends, getting into scrapes together as all boys will. Vadim lost himself in quiet reminiscence of the past, until a voice intruded on his silent vigil.

  “M’lord? Vadim?”

  “Hmm?” He looked up, his neck making a few sharp cracks of protest. Fergus stood at his side, regarding him with concern.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.

  Was there? He glanced back at Anselm. He still had not moved, and his skin looked unnaturally pale. “Yes. You might ask Effie if she would be so kind as to wait on Martha? See to it she has food and drink sent up to Anselm’s chambers.”

  “Of course, and gladly.”

  “If you can beg any rock wafers from anyone’s rations, my lady would be most grateful to receive them. Oh, and I have posted a man outside her door. Doubtless, he would appreciate some refreshment, and a dry set of clothes, if there are any to be had.”

  Vadim could not look away from Anselm. His vulnerability disturbed him more than it should. Never had he seen him this way. Had Martha glimpsed this in him, he wondered. Had she seen something in his character that the rest of them had overlooked?

  “M’lord?” He jumped when Fergus touched his shoulder. “I asked if there was anything more you required.”

  “Yes, there is one thing more.” If Anselm was dying, the least he could do was ensure his foster brother’s final hours were comfortable. “Have Anselm’s bedchamber prepared. See that it is clean and warm for his return. Send word when it is done.”

  “B-but… is that seemly, m’lord?”

  Fergus sounded appalled. A short while ago, he might have felt much the same. He turned to the lad with a wry smile. “He is in no condition to molest the ladies, if that is what troubles you.”

  “E-even so—”

  “Fergus.” His voice held a note of warning. “Kindly do as I ask or send me someone who will.”

  “As you wish, m’lord.” Fergus gave a brief bow. “I shall see it done.” With a final look of disapproval, he departed, his bandaged head bobbing through the crowd as he made his way to Effie.

  Vadim was glad to be rid of the boy. He was in no mood for questions, particularly those he could not answer. For the first time in weeks, instinct not reason governed his actions. What felt right in his heart could not easily be put into words.

  With a sigh, he looked upon Anselm. Was he unconscious or just sleeping? Whatever it was, his features had transformed into a face he remembered. The hard veneer of life’s bitter experience had fallen away, softened into innocence by repose.

  A heavy languor stole over him. Yawning, Vadim rubbed his hands over his gritty eyes. The warmth of the infirmary, combined with the novelty of doing nothing, was a powerful sedative. The background noise gradually receded into a hum as seductive as a lullaby. Were it not for the intermittent screams, he would have already surrendered to sleep’s irresistible lure. He yawned again, the force of it making his aching jaw crack. He really should move around, but his body refused to obey him. The urge to close his leaden eyelids was too strong. Surely it could not hurt to rest his eyes for a moment.

  Was Martha already asleep? He imagined her in bed, all clean and pink cheeked, snuggled beneath the comforter, and taking up more than her fair share of space. He longed to join her there, to feel the warmth of her soft body beside him, and to wake with her in his arms. Ah, sleep. Was there any greater intimacy between two people? Vadim had never woken beside any woman except Martha. His natural mistrust forbade it. To sleep beside someone required a particular kind of closeness and an unwavering trust. Elbow propped on the bed, he rested his head on his hand, drifting between the lands of dreams and wakefulness.

  A loud clang roused him. Heart pounding, he was already reaching for his sword when he realized where he was. Nearby, a red-faced old woman was apologizing to two scowling knights for dropping her kettle of hot water at their feet. Vadim relaxed and glanced at Anselm.

  His lips were moving as in silent prayer.

  Vadim leaned closer. “Are you awake?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Can you open your eyes?”

  Anselm’s eyelids slowly flickered open as if the effort of doing so caused him great pain. “Water,” he croaked.

  “Of course.” Vadim leapt up and snatched a pitcher and drinking horn from a nearby table. He poured the liquid into the horn and sniffed at it. Ale. It would have to do. “Anselm?” His foster brother’s eyes were closing. Vadim sat on the cot beside him, the wooden frame creaking alarmingly at their combined weight. “Open your mouth.”

  When Anselm had drunk his fill, he turned his head aside, his dirty-gold hair splaying over the bloody pillow. Vadim got up and resumed his seat at the side of the bed.

  Anselm was muttering to himself again, his lips shaping inaudible words. Vadim leaned closer until his ear was almost touching Anselm’s mouth.

  “Did you… find… her?”

  There was no need to ask who he meant. “Martha is safe.”

  “May the… Spirits be praised!” He groped for Vadim’s hand, clasping his fingers with a feeble grip.

  Anselm’s touch disturbed him. Spiraling through time, his mind revisited the days before they were men. They had shared a bed back then, for warmth as much as from necessity. After waking from a bad dream, his young foster brother had often s
ought his hand in the dark.

  Now, as then, Vadim squeezed Anselm’s cold fingers to comfort him. How had he come to forget so much? A sharp ball of sorrow burned in his chest for all the wrong turns they had taken along life’s byways. As the shadows in his mind fled, memory returned, fresh and clear, enabling him to see the truth. Although Anselm’s affection for Martha was apparent, he was not a man in love. Dying or not, he would not seek comfort from his love-rival’s hand.

  Yesterday, back in Rodmar’s tent, when Anselm had guessed his identity, his parting words had been as painful as a knife thrust to his heart: Martha is my woman now. Since then, terrible images had tormented him, fueling the fires of wild imagining that had afflicted him during the long weeks of separation from Martha. Now, like smoke in the wind, they were gone. Try as he might, he could no longer picture her in Anselm’s bed.

  What a dullard he was! The facts were plain. If Martha truly loved this man, she would be here, and if Anselm had taken her by force, she would have let him die.

  Luring ladies into bed had never been a problem for Anselm. Quite the reverse, in fact. His good looks and easy charm had always ensured him a devoted following of fair admirers. He had never used force, not unless honey-coated words could be counted as such.

  In the absence of another suitor, the child must be—

  “How… is she?” Anselm recalled him to the present, his voice a little stronger now.

  Vadim smiled into his pained gray eyes. “A little frayed, perhaps, but still in one piece.” He clasped Anselm’s hand tighter. “And it seems I have you to thank for it.”

  “Me?” Anselm snorted, half laughter, half disgust. “While she ran for... her life, I lay bleeding and useless—”

  “Shh. Do not reproach yourself in this way.”

  For a time, Anselm lay silent, staring up at the black-beamed ceiling. “And what of my master?” he asked at last. “Do you have tidings of him?”

  “I do.” Vadim was reluctant to speak of it. How would Anselm react when he learned his beloved master was gone? “He is dead. By his own hand, before you ask.”

  “I am sorely grieved to hear that.” With a heavy sigh, Anselm closed his eyes. “Had I known what he intended,” he muttered, “I would have helped him on his way.”

  “Oh?” Vadim was both surprised and relieved. “And how should you have liked performing that final service for your master?”

  “A good deal.” Anselm’s eyes snapped open, blazing with a touch of their former fire. “The bloody bastard stuck me like a pig! He has killed me for sure, I am certain of it.”

  Vadim was not convinced. Would a dying man be so easily roused to anger?

  At Vadim’s insistence, Anselm took a little more ale then lay back and closed his eyes, eventually lapsing into silence. Suddenly desperately thirsty, Vadim drank a little himself. His stomach growled, clawing with hunger. How long since he had last eaten? The night before the battle? It felt like a month ago. He glanced at the door, hoping to see Fergus amongst the scores of men still streaming into the infirmary. When would he return?

  “W-what happened to your face?”

  He found Anselm watching him. There was no reason not to tell him the truth, not when so many people had witnessed the altercation. “Seth.” Being reminded of the injury caused his jaw to throb with renewed intensity. He tested it, gingerly moving his jaw from side to side. Each movement made him wince.

  “He actually struck you, golden child?” The news heartened Anselm a good deal if the width of his smile was any measure of it. “Whatever for? You must have… transgressed very badly, I think.”

  Vadim smothered the flame of annoyance caused by his childhood nickname. “I am beginning to think,” he said with a hint of sourness, “I might have deserved it.”

  “Ah! My beloved father took exception to you coming to visit me on my deathbed, did he?”

  “Perhaps.” Even as a boy, Anselm had been provokingly intuitive.

  Anselm burst into laughter, but not for long. The exertion made him writhe and groan, and left him panting for breath, wracked with pain.

  “Shh.” Vadim glanced about for help. He caught Agatha’s eye as she bustled past. “Can you bring something to ease his pain?”

  She took a look at Anselm’s pale face and nodded. “I will see what I can do.”

  At last, the spasm eased, and Anselm lay quiet again. Perhaps he had passed out? Vadim hoped so, for both their sakes. He prayed Agatha would return swiftly with her remedy. It was not pleasant, watching someone suffer and being unable to provide them with any relief.

  He leaned on the bed and clasped Anselm’s hand between both of his. “Martha is with child.”

  The words were out before he could halt them. Cursing himself for such folly, he checked Anselm’s face to see if he had heard, but his flaccid expression did not alter. Vadim exhaled. What had possessed him to speak so freely? Incapacitated or not, Anselm was the last person he should trust with such news. Thank Erde he was unconscious.

  He studied Anselm’s blood-grimed hand as he held it. The shape of his fingers, each broken and bloody fingernail was so familiar to him. At one time, he had known this hand almost as well as his own.

  “I suppose I must congrat…ulate you.”

  To his dismay, Anselm’s eyes were open. Hurriedly letting go of his hand, Vadim sat upright on his stool. It was too late to retract now. But why should he? Anselm’s words only served to confirm what he already knew. Had Martha not told him so herself? His rush of joy was checked by the memory of what he had said to her back at the barbican. Vadim cringed and raked back his hair. No wonder she had been so angry. “I believed, at first, that you were the father.”

  “M-me?” Anselm snorted. Despite his pain, his eyes widened, glittering with amusement. “I would not trust… your lady anywhere near my cock!” As he spoke, his hand fumbled beneath the blanket, resting protectively over his most vital organ. “And I suppose,” he said, “you informed Martha of your… suspicion in your usual tactless manner?”

  Heartily ashamed of himself, Vadim shrugged and glanced away.

  “You did? Oh, you utter dolt.” Anselm hugged his injured side and sucked in his lower lip, battling to restrain his laughter.

  But Vadim knew this was to avoid bringing on another spasm and not due to any brotherly consideration of his own feelings.

  “Subtlety was never one of your… strengths,” Anselm continued, when his mirth was back under control. “Perhaps now y-you understand why I always forbade you to speak to the maidens we used to hunt?”

  “A fair point.” Vadim began unlacing his hauberk. He may as well get comfortable. This visit was taking much longer than he had anticipated. If Anselm was dying, the state suited him. Seldom had he been so reasonable or pleasant—well, apart from his insults. What else might he reveal if questioned? “Your fondness for my wife is apparent, and she is similarly struck with you. Why did you never bed her?”

  “Did I say that?” Anselm gave a sigh and settled back on his filthy pillow. “Oh, it hardly matters now. Perhaps learning the truth will excite your husbandly wrath and give you cause to finish me off? I do hope so. Waiting to die is most… disagreeable.”

  Vadim raised his eyebrows and remained silent, steeling himself to hear whatever Anselm had to say.

  “Had Martha given me but the slightest encouragement, I would have taken her to my bed. However, the kisses I stole were enough to warn me off.”

  “You kissed her?” Vadim’s stomach lurched. Still, better a kiss than the alternative.

  “I did.” Anselm looked sheepish, like a child caught in an act of mischief. “But you will be glad to learn she bit me for my troubles. Very hard, I might add.”

  This was better news. “I hope she drew blood?” He shrugged out of his hauberk and kicked the garment beneath the bed.

  “The wretch
scarred me for life, however many miserable moments of it I have remaining.” His voice slowed, heavy with weariness. “After that, the urge to bed her diminished somewhat. So? Am I forgiven, brother?”

  Vadim detected more than hint of sarcasm in his tone. “No,” he replied. “Not quite yet.”

  “Oh? I cannot think what else I might have done to offend you.”

  “Have you forgotten Darumvale?” Vadim leaned on the bed, glaring at Anselm as he relived that still-painful memory. “The night you first stole her from me and brought her here?”

  “Oh, that!” Anselm smiled. “You really ought to be thanking me for it. My master would have killed her on the spot had I not stepped in.”

  “So why were you there, if not to steal my wife?”

  “A source sent word that you were still alive.” Anselm’s eyes glittered as he spoke, over-bright with pain. “Perhaps foolishly, I imagined Martha to be safe with you. ’Tis not my fault she came blundering into the village all alone. What else could I do but take her? By doing so, I saved her life.”

  Vadim paused to consider his words.

  “But I will not lie to you, brother,” Anselm murmured. “I would have married her. In time, I hoped she would—” He grimaced, clenching his eyes tight for a moment. “—grow tamer and learn to call me dearest in lieu of fuckwit.” Then he was himself again. “’Tis a very strange word, that. Wherever did she learn it?”

  Agatha returned, interrupting Vadim’s laughter.

  Between them, they helped Anselm to sit up. With Vadim sitting at his back to support him, Agatha forced a generous draught of a noxious-smelling herbal concoction into Anselm’s mouth. Gagging and spluttering, he protested he would rather die naturally than be made to ingest poison, but at last it was done.

  “He should sleep soon,” Agatha said when Anselm was lying back on his cot. “And you ought to take some rest yourself, lad.” She touched Vadim’s cheek. “You look near death.”

  “Later. I must see Anselm settled first. Would you be good enough to ask the leech for a report on the nature of his injuries?”