Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “For abandoning you here for so many weeks?”

  “Hmm.” She tilted her head to one side and pretended to consider for a moment. “With certain provisos, maybe.”

  He smiled. “Such as?”

  “Our sleeping arrangements.”

  “What of them?” Not that there was anything to discuss. From this day on, her bed was their bed. The look in her eyes stirred his blood; her meaning was all too clear. Despite all that had happened, she still wanted him. He could scarcely believe his good fortune.

  Martha leaned over to whisper her terms in his ear. And she took her time about it. No detail was beneath her notice. The words she used and the feel of her hot breath upon his skin left him aching with need. No woman had ever spoken to him that way. He liked it.

  When she had finished torturing him, she sat up, grinning wickedly. “Well? Do you think you can manage all that?”

  He cleared his throat and tugged on the tie of his shirt to loosen it, suddenly feverish himself. “You are a hard taskmaster, but I will certainly endeavor to carry out all of my husbandly duties.” His stomach growled again. “Might I be permitted to eat something to sustain me?”

  “Wash your hands,” she said, her lips tantalizingly close to his. “I’ll go and help Effie with the dishing up.”

  ***

  Vadim and the Chuckle Brothers had barely finished eating when the first visitors came knocking at the door in dribs and drabs, alone or in small groups—knights, men-at-arms, and outlaws. Vadim greeted each new arrival as a friend, shaking their hand, or pulling them into a rough hug, slapping them fiercely on the back—all men, and all of them hungry. Martha and Effie were hard pressed to find enough food to go round. When their supplies ran low, they sent Fergus downstairs to find whatever remained in the kitchen’s pantries.

  The main living chamber fast assumed a party atmosphere, and the guests kept on arriving. Most still wore their battle-soiled clothes, and the stench of ripe body odor soon pervaded the room. The heat of the fire made it worse, intensifying the many unique aromas of their guests. So many people, and all of them wanted to talk to Vadim.

  For a time, Martha stood at his side, breathing through her teeth and her perma-smile. Eventually, the urge to puke overwhelmed her. If she didn’t move away, she’d throw up on someone. Gently disentangling her hand from Vadim’s, she slipped away. He barely noticed, busy as he was reviewing the day’s battle tactics and other such boring man-stuff.

  She didn’t mind. After surviving such an awful day, he deserved to let his hair down, especially when so many people hadn’t.

  The noise level increased with the lateness of the hour and the amount of alcohol consumed. Edric and Tom presided over a pair of seemingly bottomless ale barrels, their noses glowing a matching red in the candlelight. No guest would go thirsty on their watch, though they tended to drink more than they served, not that it mattered. Most visitors had brought their own drink, courtesy of the late-earl’s wine cellar.

  At length, Fergus sent for his harp. He set it up in a corner, coaxing exquisite melodies from its strings that only Effie really heard. The maid sat on a low stool at his feet, watching his skillful fingers, her eyes wide with wonder, oblivious to the talk and laughter of the other guests.

  Weary beyond the need for sleep, and in no mood to party, Martha wandered aimlessly through the crowd of merrymakers, casting frequent glances at the door of Anselm’s bedchamber. Their earlier quarrel still preyed on her mind. How was he now? She daren’t visit in case the sight of her set him off raging again. But at least he wasn’t alone. Vadim had arranged a rota of volunteers to sit by his foster brother’s bedside, ensuring he was never left unattended.

  The slight thawing between Anselm and Vadim had come as a bit of a shock. Whatever the reasons for their ceasefire, it was also a huge relief. Being cast in the role of the rope in their tug-of-war hadn’t been fun. Being pulled in two directions was every bit as bad as it sounded. One down, one to go. Now, the only thing standing between her and Mission Accomplished was Seth. She frowned. Drawing him back into the fold wouldn’t be easy, if it was even possible.

  Beaten back by the stench of the unwashed, she retreated to the window seat and pressed her face close to a cracked, diamond-shaped pane of glass, slowly breathing in a cold sliver of sweet night air. She felt Vadim’s gaze on her as distinctly as a tap on the shoulder. She turned and met his frowning eyes with a smile. His concern was almost audible. I’m fine, she mouthed. Reassured, he sent her a wink and returned to his conversation with the man next to him.

  Fine? If only she could convince herself so easily.

  Despite scrubbing herself from head to toe, the ghostly hands of Jacob and Ferret still lingered on her body. She shuddered, splaying her fingers over the gentle curve of her belly. Poor baby. If Vadim hadn’t intervened when he had—No. She wouldn’t think about it.

  She watched as Vadim demonstrated an imaginary sword stroke for his circle of disciples. My beautiful man. He wouldn’t be flattered by her secret name for him, but that’s what he was, inside her heart. Her eyes feasted on the sight of him, gorging themselves. Unlike many of their party guests, Vadim was now squeaky clean. He’d even had a shave. It was a very good look for him.

  In the short time they’d been here, Rodmar’s men had made repairs to the public bathhouse and got it functioning again. Going by the smell in this room, the need for hot water was something of a priority. As soon as word reached Vadim, he drew lots with his men to see which of them would visit the bathhouse first. They went in twos, leaving Effie and Martha under the protection of their resident armed guard. Cute, but the precaution was hardly necessary, not now the earl was dead.

  Vadim’s hair lay in a black tangle down his back, contrasting sharply with the pale fabric of the loose linen shirt. Her gaze slipped lower, pausing to appreciate just how well his close-fitting trews suited him, defining the perfection of his hard thighs and butt. A delicious tingle flipped her stomach and made her catch her breath. Sweet baby Jesus. If only they were alone right now. She gnawed on her lower lip. Only Vadim’s touch, his possession, could erase the memory of Ferret and Jacob from her skin. Maybe that’s why she craved him so badly?

  Hugging her knees to her chest, she wiped the condensation from a small diamond in the window, the thick glass squeaking beneath her finger. Through the small peephole, she saw several orbs of torchlight bobbing around in the darkness outside, floating like will o’ the wisps. It was impossible to see who carried them, for the wind constantly gutted and dimmed the flames. Why would anyone be outside on such a foul night?

  “Martha?”

  Vadim’s call diverted her. She turned, meeting his eyes over the heads of the crowd.

  “Look who has come.”

  Seth, perhaps? Hope bubbling in her chest, she scrambled from the window seat and hurried through the crowd.

  To her disappointment, it was Agatha and her brother, Reynard. Summoning a smile, Martha extended her hand to Reynard. He was nothing like Agatha. In fact, now she saw them together, it was hard to believe the two of them were related at all. The only similarity they shared was their hair color. Reynard was tall and slim with steel-gray hair and a matching beard, his distinguished air set him apart from most of the other guests.

  When she’d met him earlier on that day, just after the incident with Ferret and Jacob, there hadn’t been time for a proper introduction. Reynard more than made up for it now, greeting her quietly and pressing a light kiss on her hand. Martha fully understood why the new king had chosen Reynard as his emissary. He had a very calming vibe about him. She rather liked him and his old-fashioned courtesy.

  Releasing her hand, Reynard glanced over to where Fergus and Effie sat in their private bubble of music. “My son is quite smitten with your maid, it seems. Tell me, what do you know of her, m’lady? Of her backgro
und and family, I mean?”

  Martha’s smile flickered. It didn’t feel right to tell him that his son was involved with the daughter of a local brothel-keeper. “Oh… er, I’m not really sure. Her mother is a local… business-woman, I think.”

  “Is she indeed?” Reynard stroked his neat gray beard, watching the young lovers with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

  Something told her that Effie and Fergus’s fledgling romance was about to encounter its first obstacle. Poor things. Although she felt Vadim staring at her, Martha daren’t meet his eyes.

  Agatha must have been of the same mind. Her plump face was fixed in an expression of determined blankness. “How fares your patient?” she asked at last. “I trust Lord Anselm is still breathing?”

  Martha could have kissed her for changing the subject. “I don’t know. He’s a bit cross with me at the moment, so I’m giving him some space.”

  “Oh?” Reynard tilted his head slightly. “Cross with the woman responsible for saving his wretched life? I find that hard to believe.”

  Vadim gave a crooked grin. “He took exception to my lady using his best swords and helmet to prepare her bath.”

  “Did she indeed?” Reynard regarded Martha with a frown. “I am sure she intended no harm.”

  “Hardly.” Edric had apparently been eavesdropping. “She stuck them on the bloody fire,” he said cheerfully, leaning over Agatha’s shoulder as he spoke. “Oh! Hello again, my queen. Erde! You are even lovelier by candlelight.”

  Grimacing in unison, Agatha and Martha stepped away from the huddle of men. Martha linked arms with her friend. “Sorry about that.”

  “You actually know that… person?” Agatha asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Not really. He’s a friend of Vadim’s… sort of. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Edric,” she said, wafting her hand to dismiss the subject. “Will you go and check on Anselm for me?”

  “Whatever for? The leech says there is little to be done. He will live, or he will die. His fate lies with the Great Spirit now.”

  Martha tutted. “Forgive me for not placing all my faith in the judgment of a surgeon who won’t even sterilize his instruments. Please, Agatha?” She widened her eyes. “Humor the pregnant woman?”

  “Oh, very well,” she said with a huff, and allowed Martha to steer her toward Anselm’s door. “I heard about the baby, by the way. You might have told me about it. The gossips say ’tis a parting gift from Sir Anselm. Should I congratulate you, or would commiserations be more appropriate?”

  “Don’t you start. The baby’s Vadim’s, not that I expect the gossips will believe it.” Martha tapped on Anselm’s door and lifted the latch, half-shoving Agatha inside. “Now, go on in.”

  Agatha turned back when she had taken only a couple of steps over the threshold. “There is a man in here.”

  “Yes, that’ll be Harold. Don’t worry. He’s mainly harmless.”

  “Well, leave the door open. I do not wish to hear my good name being bandied around by the gossipmongers.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Gossipmongers? Martha shook her head. If Edgeway had a newspaper, Agatha would certainly be the head of current affairs.

  With her head wedged between the door and the wall, she strained to hear what Harold was saying to Agatha. His deep voice rumbled in response to Agatha’s clipped questions. It was impossible to hear them properly, what with all the raucous laughter and conversations going on behind her.

  Martha turned to scowl at the party guests, but no one noticed her. Over by the window, Tom and Edric were setting up a long line of tankards. A drinking game? Oh, great.

  The door swung open again. “You can come in.” Agatha looked grave, not herself at all.

  Martha’s heart sank. Was Anselm as ill as all that? She stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind her, the thick oak efficiently muffling out the revelry outside. In comparison, the bedchamber was as silent as a church. Walking on her tiptoes, she followed Agatha and stopped at the foot of the bed.

  Anselm’s hands rested motionless on the ornately embroidered coverlet. His eyes were closed. Harold rose from the chair at the side of the bed, rubbing his hands wearily over his black beard.

  “M’lady.” He stepped back so Martha could take his place.

  Beneath the grime, Anselm’s skin looked unnaturally pale. Martha leaned on the bed and took one of his cold hands between hers, gently stroking it with her thumb. He was bound to be pale after all the blood he’d lost. “Is he still bleeding?” she whispered, glancing at Harold.

  The big man shrugged.

  Just as she was steeling herself to pull back the bedcovers, Agatha hurriedly pushed her aside. “Let me do that,” she said, briskly. “He might be naked under there for all we know.”

  “No, lady. He still wears his undergarments,” Harold assured them. “Lord Vadim insisted on it.”

  Agatha looked rather put out. “Whatever for?” she demanded, hands on hips. “The sight of another naked man is hardly likely to shock me.”

  Harold cleared his throat. “I believe he was more concerned with…” he darted a pointed look at Martha, “wounding the delicate sensibilities of his lady wife.”

  Martha snorted. Yeah. Right. That’ll be it.

  Shaking her head, she helped Agatha fold back the coverlet. Sensibilities indeed.

  There was no fresh blood on his dressing, only a large brown stain marking the site of his injury. Agatha exhaled. “Well, that is something, at least.”

  “So, he’ll be all right?” Hope flared in Martha’s heart. “You must’ve treated hundreds of stab wounds like this one.”

  “Aye.” Agatha replaced the coverlet and smoothed the creases out. “And of those men, barely half survived.”

  “What?” Martha’s legs wobbled. She sank into the chair Harold had so recently vacated. “B-but, he’s stopped bleeding. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “Only a minor victory in the battle. We cannot yet know the damage the earl’s blade has inflicted.” Agatha touched her hand to Anselm’s forehead and hissed. “Already he burns.” Perching her ample backside on the bed, she regarded Martha sternly. “And what of infection and putrefaction? You lectured the leech long enough on the subject earlier today, did you not? Anselm is as likely to succumb to it as any man. Your friendship cannot shield him from all of life’s arrows.”

  Infection? Martha stared at Anselm’s unmoving form. What was she thinking? She’d watched all the medical dramas on TV back home. She knew the risks, perhaps better than anyone in this world. Without the benefits of a modern hospital or antibiotics, what chance did Anselm really have?

  The miracle was that anyone ever survived here. Suddenly she recalled Vadim’s recent—near-fatal—wound. She’d gotten through those awful days by surfing on a Pollyanna wave of positivity. But now she understood just how close she’d come to losing him, and the truth packed a hard punch.

  She leaned back in her chair like a balloon with a slow puncture, her optimism tank flashing on empty.

  “Are you unwell, m’lady?” Harold crouched beside the chair, concern wrinkling his brow. “Shall I fetch Vadim?”

  Martha quickly shook her head. “There’s no need to drag him away. I’m tired, that’s all. I think I’ll sit here in the quiet for a bit. You go on back to your friends, Harold.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “They’re setting up a drinking game in there, I believe.”

  “If you are certain.” He straightened up, seeking Agatha’s eyes for confirmation. “I will gladly stay.”

  “Oh, get on with you.” Agatha got off the bed, flapping her handkerchief at Harold as though he were some irritating insect, shooing him toward the door. “If you want to do me a real service, you can tell your lecherous friend to keep his hands off me. I despise being mauled of all things.”

  Harold looked over his shou
lder and grinned at Martha. “I will, though I am not sure it will help. Edric is a determined man when roused.”

  “But I am well past the age of rousing. Farewell.” She shoved Harold through the door and slammed it behind him. “Men. Governed by their groins, every last one of them.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Very well. Since Anselm means so much to you, let us see if we can delay your worthless friend’s death. He has not yet earned the right to sit in his ancestors’ hallowed hall.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Martha woke in her own bed, neck deep in blankets. The sun was already up, bathing her room in a golden glow. The clear blue sky beyond her window held no memory of yesterday’s relentless rain.

  Warm and deliciously comfortable, she stretched like a contented cat, her muscles protesting over their extended use and abuse on the previous day. Sounds drifted in from outside in the courtyard; men’s voices, squeaking hand-carts, and the intermittent thuds and clangs of cargo being loaded. She didn’t need to look outside to guess what it was. Bodies. So many bodies. Nameless corpses, but each one would be mourned by someone. Somewhere.

  She shoved the thought aside. Selfish or not, she couldn’t deal with any more death. Not today. Intending to snatch a few more minutes sleep before the demands of her bladder became too urgent to ignore, she rolled onto her side.

  Her heart slammed into her ribs. Vadim lay on the neighboring pillow.

  “Good morning, mistress sluggard,” he said, hooking a strand of hair from her eyes with his index finger. “I trust you slept well?” His slightly husky voice kick-started her hormones. He was wearing his sexiest smile, and not much else from the look of him.

  Oh, dear God. Her breath hitched in her throat. “I-I… Fine, thanks.” Her cheeks pricked and burned. Vadim might be her husband, but she’d forgotten just how beautiful he was. Which was probably a good thing.

  He slid his arm from beneath her pillow and flexed it several times. As he did so, the runic band tattoo at the top of his arm appeared to shift and dance. “I began to think you would sleep all day,” he said with a grimace, probably due to pins and needles.