“Very well.” Seth stopped walking and lowered his arms. “Then save your breath and harken to me, lad. I know I have wronged you. My drunkenness is a poor excuse for my actions. Please believe that I am heartily sorry, for everything. I do not expect you to forgive me, but nonetheless you have my sincerest apology.”
Not without difficulty, Vadim hardened his heart though Seth’s words moved him a good deal. “I have spent this morning deceiving Anselm, pretending to be you, his own father. Tell me, Seth, why did you run? At this very moment, your son lies dying, tended by people who, for all their kindness, are naught but strangers to him—”
“No. You have it wrong, m’lord. I did not—”
But Vadim was in no mood to listen. “The only person he can count as a friend is my wife. Not that he can currently distinguish her face from poor Sylvie’s—”
“Enough!” Ma shrieked, clanging a wooden spoon on a metal cooking pot to silence him.
Wearing matching expressions of shock, both men turned to look at the frail old lady beside the hearth. Ma seldom raised her voice, but when she did, it was usually wisest to listen.
“Seth did not run away,” she said. “Well, not in the way you imagine. He returned here in search of medicinal supplies.”
Arching his eyebrows in disbelief, Vadim glanced at Seth’s bowed head. “Then, why is he still here?”
Gripping her walking stick, Ma struggled to her feet.
Vadim flinched beneath her glare. Suddenly, he felt like a naughty child again, caught in some act of mischief.
“Have a care, lad,” she said softly. “You are not earl quite yet.”
“I have no intention of—”
“Come here, both of you.”
Neither man moved.
“Do I have to come over there and fetch you? Believe me, neither of you mighty warriors have grown too big to feel the weight of my hand. Now, sit!”
Casting sullen glances at one another, Vadim and Seth shuffled over to the fire and sat down while Ma stood over them, flexing her gnarled fingers on her walking implement. Frail as she was, Vadim had no doubt that she would carry out her threat if either of them defied her.
“That is better.” She glared at their stony faces. “I will see to the gathering of provisions. While I am gone, you boys will remain here until you find a way to smooth those ruffled feathers.”
Seth raised his shaggy red head. “But, Ma—”
She silenced him with a look. “And then,” she said coldly, “you will get yourself cleaned up, my son. I grow weary of seeing you wandering this village like an unkempt, ill-humored bear. It stops. Today.”
Vadim bowed his head in an attempt to hide his smile, but he was not quick enough.
“As for you, m’lord. I suggest you direct your thoughts to ways in which you might make things right with your long-suffering wife. Martha must love you a great deal to have taken you back after all the ways you have insulted and neglected her of late. Oh, yes!” She gave a grim smile when Vadim looked up. “I have heard a full account of it.”
Indeed? And only one person could have told her. Vadim darted a venomous glance at Seth.
“Now, get on with it. Make peace, both of you.” With that, Ma hobbled away, muttering to herself, her feet shuffling though the dry floor rushes. The outer doors creaked then closed behind her, but neither man moved. Their eyes remained determinedly fixed on the fire’s ever-shifting flames.
In the ensuing silence, Vadim became aware of the smallest sounds: the crackling of the flames as they licked over a piece of wood, the gentle creaking of the hall’s roof timbers, and in the distance, his ears discerned the distant ringing of the forge. Young Will, hard at work in his dead father’s shop. Poor Jared. So many good people gone, and much too soon.
Vadim sighed, his anger suddenly spent. After all that had happened, a drunken punch and a few harsh words counted for little. He did not want to be at odds with Seth. For all his failings, he loved the man.
He smiled, imagining how foolish they both must look. Two men, full grown, forced to sit on a bench at the whim of a cantankerous old lady. He looked at Seth and found the other man watching him, red faced with the effort of suppressing his amusement.
“An unkempt bear?” Seth’s grin broadened, and his eyes twinkled. “Is that what people are saying about me?”
“Believe me,” Vadim returned his smile. “You have been called worse.”
At the same time, they exploded into laughter, the sound of it dispelling any remaining hostility between them. They exchanged a handshake then pulled one another into a brief, hard hug, talking over one another in their haste to apologize, tripping over their words. At last they were themselves again.
“Ma knew I was coming even before I even arrived,” Seth said when they settled down to talk. “I would be on my way back to Edgeway were it not for her. Unfortunately, my mother has plans of her own.” Seth gave a rueful smile. “She intends to accompany me back to Edgeway on the morrow. On the wagon, no less.”
“What?” Vadim stared in shock. “She proposes to nurse Anselm herself?”
Seth nodded. “It looks that way.”
“But we cannot afford to delay.” As determined as Ma was, a swift ride by horseback was beyond her, and the wagon traveled all too slowly. “I fear Anselm will not last out the night.” Vadim raked back his hair one handed. “Even if we leave at once, it might still prove too late.”
“I feared the same thing, but the runes revealed a different tale.”
“Oh?” Vadim sat up straighter. Ma’s gift of The Sight rarely led her wrong. He would never question her ability in this matter. “What did she foretell?”
“She would not say, but she immediately commissioned young Will to make her some instrument or other. I cannot pretend to know what it is for, but Ma insists it is vital to Anselm’s recovery. Until then...” Seth spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “What else can I do?”
“Can she not send word to Agatha? When the instrument is ready, I could ride back ahead of you and—”
“I made a similar suggestion myself, but Ma would not hear of it. Agatha is a gifted nurse, no one would deny it, but Ma will not trust her to wield this mysterious tool of hers, not on her grandson.”
“She has accepted him back into the fold, then?”
“Aye. Remarkably swiftly, as it happens.” Seth smiled. “She thinks a lot of your lass, m’lord. When she heard of how Anselm saved your Martha, her resentment fled. Still, tomorrow feels a long time away.”
It did indeed. In the meantime, they would just have to cool their heels. Vadim sighed. He longed to return to Edgeway—to Martha. Throughout the journey to Darumvale, a curious sense of unease had afflicted him, increasing with each furlong he traveled away from her. A cold rock seemed to have settled within his heart. Vadim pressed his hand to his chest, but the discomfort remained.
Martha’s assurances that she would not wander the castle without an armed escort did not guarantee her safety. Never had he met any woman who courted trouble as she did. And thus far, she displayed an uncanny talent for attracting it.
“Well? Will you travel back with us, m’lord?” Seth asked. “I cannot deny that I would value your company on the road.”
As much as Vadim longed to return to Martha, family duty obliged him to stay. He cursed his misfortune. Traveling by wagon! Even at full speed, a snail would easily outpace them. But with Rodmar’s hired swords disbanded and roaming wild about the countryside, he could not in good heart leave Seth to defend his aged mother alone.
“Certainly, I will,” Vadim replied with as much grace as he could muster.
It was only a brief delay, after all. By this hour tomorrow, they would be back at the castle. Martha was well protected. He had left her in the care of men he trusted—good men. Surely no harm would befall her in such a short
period of time.
“I suppose,” Seth said, getting up from his seat, “I ought to see about arranging my bath before Ma takes me to task again. Would you care to help me fetch water from the well?”
One more day. A few brief hours.
Vadim shrugged and stood up. “Of course.” Anything to while away the long hours between now and then.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Martha adjusted the head scarf she’d put on in an attempt to look “decent” then, taking a deep breath, marched up to the two fully-armored knights who were standing guard outside the doors of the Great Hall. “I need to speak to the king, please.”
“His Grace is resting,” the taller of the two men informed her in a slightly accented voice. “Come back at noon,” he said looking down his aquiline nose at her. “If you are fortunate, he may grant you a private audience after the trial.”
“But that’ll be too late!” Martha glanced over her shoulder to where Harold and Beatrice stood hovering at the foot of the staircase—the latter sending her a smile of encouragement.
She tried again. “Would you at least give him a message—?”
“Come back at noon!” The second guard growled in a voice that brooked no argument. He touched the hilt of his sword. “Now, be on your way, woman.”
Great. This was going well. “And where will this trial be taking place?”
“In here, of course.” The first guard looked at her as if she was stupid.
“Fine. In that case, I’ll wait if you don’t mind?” She smiled sweetly at the stony-faced duo. “I’d like to get a good seat.” Preferably near the front, as close to King Rodmar as possible, although she still had no idea what she was going to say to him when she got there.
“As you will.” Having dismissed her, the guards began speaking to one another in a foreign language. It sounded a bit like French, but languages had never been one of her strong points. She beckoned Harold and Beatrice over.
“Well?” Beatrice arched her fair eyebrows. “What did they say?”
“They won’t let me in. We’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.”
Harold frowned. “Did you give them your name, m’lady?”
“Believe me, those two aren’t letting anyone through.” She glared at the two knights, but they pointedly ignored her and continued with their murmured conversation. “I didn’t want to push my luck and end up in the dungeon myself.” She couldn’t help anyone from there, not that she was all that confident she’d do any better from out here. Still, for Beatrice’s sake, she had to try.
They didn’t have long to wait. As noon approached, more people arrived and joined the queue behind them until the spacious entrance hall was full, rumbling with the sound of excited voices. Harold did his best to prevent then from getting too jostled and kept as close to the two door guards as possible. While they were waiting, Forge emerged from the direction of the kitchens. Martha called him over, extremely glad to see him. She needed all the moral support she could get, even the four-legged variety.
Outside in the courtyard, a bell tolled, striking the hour of noon, and the knights finally opened the doors. With a collective roar of anticipation, the crowd surged forward. Martha and Beatrice clung tightly to Harold as they were swept inside on a powerful wave of humanity.
“Over there!” Beatrice pointed to a bench at the far end of the room. It was close to the dais, presumably, where Rodmar and his advisers would be sitting.
Harold wasted no time and pulled them through the crowd, roughly elbowing aside anyone who came too near.
They were lucky to find somewhere to sit. For most people, it was standing room only. Martha settled onto the bench with a sigh of relief and looked around, watching the room fill up.
Despite the open windows, the hall grew uncomfortably warm, concentrating the overpowering stench of unwashed bodies. Babies bawled and, from somewhere, a pig squealed. Harold said the pig owner probably wanted the king to make a ruling in some dispute or other, most likely with a neighbor.
Forge had crawled beneath the bench to get away from the peril of careless feet so Martha used him as a footstool, resting her legs on the comforting bulk of his back. Her stomach quivered with nerves. The last time she’d been in here was on the night of that awful dinner, when the Evil Earl had brought Madoc the Seer to quiz her. It seemed like an age ago now.
Although King Rodmar hadn’t been in residence very long, he’d already made changes to the décor of the castle’s grandest hall. Vast lengths of gold silk hung in swathes from the roof beams, flapping in the breeze like the sails of a ship. Intricate tapestries ran the length of every wall, each depicting either a hunt or a battle scene in rainbow-bright hues. Whoever Rodmar was, he obviously wasn’t short of money.
A long, shrill blast from a hunting horn put an end to the cacophony of voices. Silence descended, and a herald took to the raised stage.
“Citizens of Edgeway, men of Erde,” he cried in a loud, clear voice. “Pray, be upstanding for your liege lord. From the mighty house of Weyland, blessed by the Spirits, and newly returned to these blessed shores, I give to you your king, the rightful King of the Norlands, Rodmar!”
The crowd erupted into cheers and surged toward the dais. Martha craned her neck, eager to catch her first glimpse of the man who had turned Edgeway on its head. And suddenly, there he was—the man himself, flanked by a flock of richly-robed advisers.
Amidst the crowd’s roars of approval, Rodmar smiled and took his seat on the ornate golden throne set in the middle of the dais. He was younger than Martha had expected, somewhere in his mid-thirties, perhaps. On his head, he wore a simple gold circlet, and his hair cascaded in blond waves about the shoulders of his burgundy-colored robe. His suntanned face, contrasted with a neat golden beard.
At length, he raised his hand, a signal for the exuberant crowd to pipe down. Gradually the room fell quiet, every face looking up, straining to hear the first words of their new king.
“For too many years, I have lived in exile.” Rodmar spoke softly as he looked about the faces before him. “I was a nomad, cast out by those who dubbed me an enemy of our most beloved land. To be banished from the country of one’s birth...” He shook his head as if overcome with emotion. “Believe me, my friends, there is no greater injury than that.”
Either he meant it, or he had the soul of a true politician. Whatever it was, a sympathetic murmur rippled through the crowd. They were lapping it up.
“I thank you, my people, for the warmth of your greeting. ’Tis balm to the wounds of my heart.” His smile drew several cheers, most of them female.
Martha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It’d take more than a handsome face and a few pretty words to convince her. Since coming to Erde, she’d learned to be suspicious of everyone. She’d reserve judgment until later. Let the king’s actions speak for him.
“And so, together, let us rebuild this land of ours.” Rodmar rose from his throne, his voice ringing out, increasing in strength. “Let us sweep aside the wilderness years and begin afresh. Today we make a start by removing those who oppose us.” Another smile. More cheers.
Oh, please. This time Martha did roll her eyes. She couldn’t help it.
With a wave of his hand, the king signaled to the door guards. “Let the prisoners be brought forth!”
From a distance came the echoing beat of a drum. Like the pulse of a heartbeat, it came nearer and nearer, loud and ominous. Every head turned, all eyes fixed on the doors. As the drumming came closer, even the pig stopped squealing. Martha wiped her clammy hands down the skirt of her gown and exhaled a pent-up breath.
Then, there they were—the prisoners. To a man, they looked utterly beaten. Dressed only in their filthy linen shirts and trousers, they shuffled into the hall, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
“Hugh!” Suddenly, Beatrice was on her feet, running toward the line of m
anacled men.
Sir Hugh raised his head. The grime of battle still daubed his face, and dark shadows hung beneath his weary eyes. “Bea?”
“Get back!” One of the guards shoved Beatrice into the crowd.
With an angry roar, Sir Hugh came to life, barging into his jailers, desperately trying to reach his woman. With his hands chained behind his back, however, he didn’t have a prayer. Another guard administered a swift, hard punch to his exposed stomach, and Hugh crumpled to the ground. The crowd oh-ed and ah-ed, many of them laughing and jeering the condemned men.
With a feral cry, Beatrice launched herself at her husband’s assailant, clawing at him with her bare hands, cursing as she went for his eyes.
Oh, shit! Martha stood up, preparing to go to her aid, but Harold pushed her firmly back onto her seat.
“Stay put!” he growled then set off through the crowd toward her, his mouth set in a grim line.
When Harold grabbed her arm, Beatrice didn’t recognize him at first. She lashed out with her fist, landing a hard blow on his bearded jaw.
Martha flinched. It was an impressive punch.
But Harold didn’t react. With a nod to the guard, he tucked the madly squirming woman beneath his arm and carried her away.
The guards, meanwhile, had dragged Sir Hugh back onto his feet. As he looked up, Martha happened to meet his eyes. A look of recognition then gratitude flashed in their kindly depths, and he inclined his head toward her.
“Sit down!” Harold pushed Beatrice down onto the bench, sandwiching her between him and Martha. “Not another move or I swear, I will take you outside.” He rubbed his jaw where she’d punched him.
Martha grabbed Beatrice’s sleeve as she tried to get up again. “Don’t, lovey. I know you’re desperate, but this really isn’t helping him. If we’re thrown out of here, it’s over. Hugh’s as good as dead.” And he still might be. What the hell was she supposed to say? The thought of addressing Rodmar made her long for the privy.
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