With great gentleness, Vadim helped Anselm lie back on the mattress. Then he covered him with the linen sheet and pressed a kiss to his brow. “Sleep now,” he murmured. “Hush.”
His tenderness warmed Martha’s heart. Even Agatha seemed moved, and clearing her throat rather noisily, she turned to the window and began to rearrange the contents of her basket.
Vadim knelt by the bed, stroking Anselm’s hair and humming softly to him until he fell asleep. Then he got up. “What can I do, Agatha?” he asked. “What does he need?”
The matron shrugged. “A miracle? Other than that, at this moment, I would give a good deal for some dried willow bark.”
Vadim nodded. “Very well.” He cast another glance at Anselm’s motionless body. “Make a list of your mist urgent requirements, and I will ride out and find it. But you should prepare yourself for the worst, Martha,” he said gravely. “I am not sure Anselm will survive his wounds, no matter what we do.”
Hadn’t she already told him so? Who was Vadim trying to prepare, her or himself? But she said nothing, only nodded.
“In the meantime,” he continued, fixing her with his intense dark gaze, “you must give me your oath that you will not leave these chambers, not unless you have an armed escort.”
She smiled. After this morning, his warning was hardly necessary, but she gave her word anyway. “Cross my heart; hope to die.”
He planted a tender kiss on her lips. “Never hope for that,” he murmured fiercely. “Never.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A cockerel crowed, heralding the start of a new day. Martha was already awake, and munching on another rock wafer. She swept the crumbs off the bed then pulled the bed-covers over her cold feet. Vadim should be back soon.
He’d ridden back to Darumvale in his hunt for the medicinal herbs they needed so badly. All being well, he should be back at the castle any time now. Her ears strained to hear the approach of horse’s hooves outside or bootsteps in the corridor, but apart from the birdsong, there was only silence.
She’d just started her third wafer when the sound of hammering drew her to the window. At the center of the courtyard, half a dozen workmen were erecting a platform of some kind, with steps leading up to it. They must have started work yesterday while she was sitting with Anselm. His window didn’t look out on this section of the courtyard.
Nails in mouths, the workmen busily tap-tap-tapped.
What was that? She squinted, trying to make it out. It looked like a makeshift stage.
Then three more workers arrived, each man with a coil of rope looped over his arms. Mother of God! The last crumb of rock wafer stuck in her throat making her cough and splutter. Now she knew what they were building.
That wasn’t a stage. It was a fecking scaffold.
Shortly before noon, someone came knocking on Anselm’s door. Martha looked up from her place by the window. Vadim? She threw down the stocking she’d been darning and was halfway across the room before her common sense kicked in. Why the heck would Vadim knock?
“Huh? Who... what—” Edric sat up from where he’d been dozing by the fire.
“It’s all right,” Martha touched his shoulder as he made to get up. “I’ll go.” The poor man still looked exhausted.
The mystery caller knocked again, harder this time, beating at the door in an increasingly frenzied tattoo.
“Alright! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Irritated, she lifted the latch and flung the door open. “Give me a chance, why don’t—Oh!”
Martha blinked, mentally trying to place the woman standing before her. She was blond, elegant, and as slender as a reed. “Beatrice?” Martha clutched at the door for support. The last time she’d seen Sir Hugh’s wife was on the day they’d almost been raped.
Lady Beatrice was a little more composed although her smile was undeniably strained. “Forgive me, m’lady,” she said softly, “but I did not know what else to do.” Her lovely face still bore the bruising from that terrible day, and dark shadows haunted her pale blue eyes.
Martha took a deep breath and fought to control her surprise. What on earth could she want? Self-consciously, she smoothed her hands over her hair.
“Perhaps I might...?” Beatrice arched one fair eyebrow and nodded, indicating she wanted to come in.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Where are my manners?” Martha stepped back. “Do come in.” She held open the door, wracking her brain for a reason as to why Beatrice was here.
Beatrice paused at the center of the room, regarding the sleeping Edric with suspicion.
“Don’t mind him. He’s my husband’s man.” Husband! She still wasn’t used to saying that. “Let’s sit by the window.” Martha led the way, chattering nervously to fill the silence. “Vadim isn’t here at the moment, if it’s him you wanted to speak to, but I’m expecting him back any time now.”
“No. ’Tis you I came to see.” Beatrice perched on the window seat, her hands twisting on her lap. “I wanted to thank you for saving me from those... men. I am deeply in your debt, m’lady. Were it not for your brave intervention...” She floundered, her lovely eyes clouding with unpleasant memories.
“Don’t mention it.” Martha had no desire to revisit that dark place. “It’s me who should be thanking you for sending Vadim to help me. As far as I’m concerned, that makes us quits.”
“Hmm?”
“You don’t owe me anything, m’lady.”
“There is no need for such formality, not between us.” Beatrice touched Martha’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold. “I would consider it a great honor if you would call me by my given name.”
How could she refuse? After the way they’d met, it seemed silly to go on m’lady-ing one another. “Okay, Beatrice. But only if you call me Martha.”
“Thank you, Martha.” Beatrice squeezed her hand. “Despite your kind words, I still consider myself deeply in your debt. I doubt that any of the women I call friends would have flown to my aid the way you did. Not that I reproach them for it. Although I am now the wife of a respectable man, my past ever taints me. I think you are well aware of my reputation.” Her pointed expression dared Martha to deny it.
Martha felt heat rising in her cheeks. Beatrice had been the long-term lover of King Erik before he went and traded her in for a younger model. “What does that matter? In my book, no means no whether you’re a lady or a prostitute.”
Beatrice gave a soft laugh. “Even if that lady happens to be a little of both?”
“Even then.” Martha said firmly. “No one has the right to take something that’s not given willingly. Not even a king.”
“You really believe that!” Beatrice gazed at her with wonder. “By the Great Spirit, you are unique.” She sighed. “Poor Erik. Although I love my husband, a piece of my heart still mourns my king.”
Love my husband? Present tense? “Sir Hugh’s alive?”
Beatrice nodded. “For now.” Her eyes shimmered suspiciously.
“What do you mean?” This time, it was Martha who reached out to touch the other woman’s hand. “Is he wounded?” There was a lot of that going around Edgeway lately.
“A little, but not too seriously, praise be—” But before Beatrice could elaborate, Edric sat up and stretched in his chair, emitting a long, resonant fart as he got up.
Ugh! Both women wrinkled their noses in disgust.
“Edric!” Martha cried. “We have company.”
“Huh?” He turned, one hand down his waistband, scratching at his privates. “Oh!” At least he stopped scratching. “My apologies, ladies.”
She had to get rid of him for a while. “Would you be an angel and go and fetch some wine for Lady Beatrice? And maybe some of those sweet pastries too?” Please let him wash his hands first, though.
He darted a glance toward the sickroom. “What about Sir Anselm?”
“He�
�s fine.” Well, if dying could be classed as fine. “Harold and Fergus are with him. Please, Edric?” She gave him her sweetest smile.
“Oh, very well.” With ill grace, he stomped for the door, Forge at his heels, muttering, “Now I am a maid-servant! A fine carry on for a fighting man.”
“A little bird told me that Agatha and Effie are in the kitchens right now,” Martha called after him in a sing-song voice.
“Is that so?” Edric turned, a beaming smile replacing his scowl.
She nodded. “Yep. They’re having a baking day down there, apparently.”
“What was it you wanted again, m’lady? Wine and pastries?”
“If it’s not too much trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” Edric assured her, opening the door.
“And Edric?” She called him back again. “It wouldn’t hurt to call at the bathhouse on the way. You know how big Agatha is on personal cleanliness.”
“An excellent notion, m’lady. Thank you.” With a brief bow, he left, leaving the women free to resume their conversation.
Beatrice needed no prompting. “And now I come to the main purpose of my visit although there is no reason why you should help me any more than you already have. I hoped you might... use your influence to aid my husband.” She twisted her hands in her lap, the action betraying the distress her tone did not.
What influence? Martha frowned. “I’d love to help you, hon, but I don’t have—”
“Oh please!” Beatrice grabbed Martha’s hands tightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Rodmar has incarcerated Hugh in the dungeon, along with many other valiant men whose only crime is their loyalty to King Erik.” Her lower lip wobbled. “After a farce of a trial at noon, they are to be executed.”
“What?” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Did the killing in this fecking world never end?
Covering her face with her hands, Beatrice broke into quiet sobs, her control gone.
Feeling sick and utterly useless, Martha stroked the other woman’s arm. Poor Sir Hugh. Although she hardly knew him, he’d struck her as a nice man. Anselm liked him, and Beatrice was certainly devoted to him.
But what could she do?
Beatrice stopped crying and wiped her eyes with her hands. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I promised myself I would not weep, but here I am.” She managed a watery smile.
“It’s hardly surprising.” She’d feel exactly the same way if their situations were reversed. What would she be like if Vadim had been locked away, condemned to death? She fished a linen hanky from her bodice and thrust it into Beatrice’s hand. “Take it. It’s okay, I haven’t used it.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice blew her nose and dabbed at her tear-ravaged eyes.
“I’d love to help—I really would—but I’m not sure that I can. Who’d listen to me anyway? Being female doesn’t seem to count for much in this world.”
“The king would listen to you.” A strange light shone in Beatrice’s eyes. “Truly, he would.”
“To me?” Martha snort-laughed. “To a lowly, female, ex-hostage of the Evil Earl? I don’t think so.”
“No.” Beatrice smiled, becoming animated again. “But he might listen to the beloved wife of Edgeway’s newest earl...”
Uh-oh! Martha slumped in her seat. How could she tell her that Vadim hadn’t accepted the job?
“By all accounts, your husband rides high in King Rodmar’s favor—”
“Stop!” Martha stood up, shaking her head violently. “You’ve got it all wrong—”
Beatrice got up too, her blue eyes shining with hope. “’Tis unfortunate that your husband has been called away, but you might speak in his stead. Rodmar would hear you!”
“No, he wouldn’t!”
“The prisoners would swear fealty to your husband, and to the new king if they were only given the opportunity to do so.” Beatrice took Martha by the arms. “Oh, please, will you not at least try? Must I beg for your aid? Is that it? I will if I must.” Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, looking up at Martha with huge puppy eyes. “I love him so very dearly, you see.”
Oh, God! “Please get up.” Martha felt like weeping herself. The other woman’s desperation tore at her heart until she couldn’t bear it.
“Not until you agree to help me.”
“I can’t. I just—”
“For the sake of my unborn child, please try!”
Martha’s blood froze. She’s pregnant?
The door of Anselm’s bedchamber room swung open, and there was Harold. “Is there anything amiss, m’lady?” His black bows knitted together in a frown as he looked from one woman to the other.
“No, we’re fine.” Martha flashed a quick smile to reassure him, while her mind reeled with Beatrice’s shock revelation. A baby? She extended her hand down to her. “Please get up.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Only if you give me your word that you will try to save my husband.”
“Shit!” Martha stalked away in frustration, raking her hands through her hair. “God damn it!” What should she do now? Tell Beatrice the truth and shatter her heart into even smaller pieces? And what about the poor baby?
“M’lady?” Harold wandered over, accompanying her as she paced the small confines of the room. “What vexes thee?”
She couldn’t answer. The lives of Edgeway’s many prisoners might now rest on Vadim becoming earl. Only he hadn’t accepted the title, had he? To please her.
Feck!
Beatrice stubbornly remained on her knees, her eyes tracking Martha as she wandered about the room.
“Shall I remove this lady from your presence?” Harold asked.
Martha came to a sudden decision and stopped walking. “No.” Her stomach gave a flutter. It was a weird sensation, like tiny bubbles of gas. Nerves? Or maybe her own unborn baby was trying to pressure her too. She rested her hand on her stomach. Whatever it was, she knew what she had to do.
She turned to Harold. “Can Fergus be trusted not to finish Anselm off if we leave them alone for a while?”
“Certainly. The lad’s love of Vadim far outweighs any hatred of his brother. Why do you ask?”
Martha took a deep breath. “I promised Vadim I wouldn’t go out without an armed escort. Lucky you, H. Get your sword, because you’re it.” She turned back to Beatrice. “Fine. You win. You can get off your knees now.”
“Oh, bless you, my dear!” Beatrice scrambled to her feet, her face illuminated by a brilliant smile.
“Just don’t hope for too much, okay?”
“Yes, yes!”
Martha sighed. Why did she have the feeling that her warning had fallen on deaf ears?
CHAPTER FORTY
Vadim reached the outskirts of Darumvale with the setting sun. The lengthening shadows bore more than a hint of autumn’s chill. Shivering, he reined his horse to a walk then turned into the village.
The village dogs immediately surrounded them, barking and nipping at his horse’s heels in excitement. The horse lashed out, ears flat back in displeasure.
“Easy, Tarq.” Vadim ran his hand down the animal’s sweat-flecked neck in an attempt to calm him. He was still unfamiliar with the black courser’s temperament, having owned him for precisely one day. Tarq was a gift from the king, a costly token of Rodmar’s gratitude for his loyalty.
But Vadim was cynic enough to see through the guise. Beneath his magnificent wrappings, Tarq was a bribe, a bribe to coax him into accepting the earldom, nothing more.
Perhaps when Rodmar learned he intended to refuse the title, he would take back his lavish gift and pass the courser on to a man more susceptible of the honor. Until then, Vadim intended to make the most of him.
Several village lads came to Tarq’s aid, shooing off the dogs then standing open mouthed with wonder as they gazed upon this jewel amongst horses. Vadim flung hi
s leg over the horse’s neck and dismounted while the boys came to life, jostling one another in order to be the first to take the horse’s reins.
Vadim fought to conceal his smile. “You will see to it that he is watered and given a stall to rest in?” The lads’ babbled assurances followed him as he walked away.
Now to find Ma. If anyone possessed the herbs he sought, it was she. He marched across the street, neatly dodging the pack of strutting, hissing geese, and pushed through the doors of the Great Hall into the familiar smoky gloom.
“Ma? I am in urgent need of—”
The words died in his throat as he spied Seth sitting by the rectangular hearth with Ma at his side. They both turned as he entered, surprise registering on their faces.
“Forgive my intrusion.” Vadim paused and bowed his head. Erde! In his haste to come here, he had all but dismissed Seth from his thoughts. It was time for a swift tactical retreat. Another violent scene with the chief was the last thing he needed. “I will return later.”
There were other wise women in the village he might ask for supplies, Old Mother Galrey for one, though the thought of knocking on her door filled him with dread.
With a strained smile, he turned to leave the way he had come, but Seth called him back.
“Vadim, wait!” He sounded more desperate than angry.
Slowly, he turned, steeling himself for another confrontation. Seth was on his feet, advancing on him.
The bruise on Vadim’s jaw throbbed with renewed ferocity in the presence of its maker, but he resisted the urge to touch it. “You wished to speak to me, m’lord?”
“For certain, I do.” As Seth drew nearer, he extended his arms, holding them wide as if to embrace him. “But first, let us put aside the cold address of formality, I beg of you.”
Vadim drew himself to his full height. “I cannot think what you mean.” A better man might have been more gracious, but he still smoldered with the injustice of yesterday’s altercation outside the infirmary.
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