Hemlock

by N. J. Layouni

  ***

  It was early evening when they reached the lake which bordered of the town of Edgeway, and the sun was already descending in the sky. For the first time that day, Martha felt a nervous fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She ignored it and rode on.

  They’d made good time, her riding confidence increasing with every mile. Although it’d been years since she’d done any riding, Guy’s horse proved himself a total sweetheart. He obligingly ambled or cantered as required, without any unnecessary skittering.

  As they rounded a sharp bend in the road, she reined the horse into a gentle stop and dismounted, absently rubbing at her aching buttocks. It seemed she wasn’t going to be alone for much longer.

  Edgeway sprawled before them in a messy tangle of narrow streets.

  Most of the dwellings were single-storied, not unlike those of Darumvale. But interspersed amongst them were several larger establishments with two, three, and even four floors. These larger buildings leaned precariously, their roofs almost touching ‘heads’ with their opposing neighbor.

  There were people everywhere, milling around like ants as they went about their daily business. After spending weeks in a place with so few inhabitants, the crowds came as a bit of a shock. The last time she’d encountered this many people had been on a shopping trip back home.

  What a noise.

  After the peace of Darumvale, her ears flinched from the sounds now assaulting them. The constant chatter and laughter combined with the neighing of horses and the rumbling of carts was deafening.

  Forge whined and looked up as if to say, You wanted to come here? Fine, we’ve seen it. Can we go home now?

  Martha stroked his big head and smiled. “I know how you feel, sweetie. I wish we were back in Darumvale too.” She never thought she’d actually miss the place. And not only Darumvale. “Oh, shut up!”

  Forge looked up, startled at the sharpness of her voice.

  “Not you,” she said more gently. “I was talking to myself.” Martha gave a heavy sigh. “Anyway, we’re here now. We’ll just have to make the best of it. Let’s see if we can find a place to stay, hmm?”

  In the end, she didn’t have the heart to sell the horse. Its gentle disposition had won her over. Besides, she’d already named him Eric. With a mental apology to the dead outlaw, she shamelessly looted Guy’s leather saddlebags, looking for something she could use to finance her stay in Edgeway. To her relief, she discovered a small hoard of gold and silver jewelery hidden away in a small linen pouch. She selected a brooch from the treasure and traded it for a week’s livery at the local stables. The master of the yard gave her a small ceramic disc in exchange for the brooch. A receipt of sorts, she supposed.

  Giving Eric a final pat, Martha watched as a gangling stable lad lead him away.

  Transaction completed, the Master gave Martha a dismissive grunt before resuming his seat on his tiny stool. With his eyes firmly fixed on the happenings of his yard, the man fumbled beneath his seat with his dirty fingers and picked up what looked like a piece of old chicken bone from the floor. Raising it to his mouth, he began picking at his discolored teeth.

  Martha grimaced. “Er…do you happen to know of a place where I might trade goods for money?”

  The man looked up, removing the bone from his mouth. “My brother’s shop, miss,” he said, gesturing with his tooth pick to a narrow building farther along the street. “Emery is a decent man. He will offer thee a fair price for anything you have to sell.”

  She had little choice but to take him at his word.

  With a word of thanks, Martha pocketed the ceramic disc and flung the saddlebags over her shoulder. She took a deep breath and set out on the next part of her mission: To obtain money for her own accommodation.

  The swirling crowds paid her no attention at all. Gradually, she stopped feeling conspicuous and began to relax. No one pointed at her, or cried out: You’re not one of us. You must be from another world. Just like back in the twenty-first century, people here were much too intent on their own affairs.

  The smell was almost indescribably bad. Her nose permanently wrinkled as she moved through the crowds. The stench of unwashed bodies combined unpleasantly with the odors of cooking and…feces? She glanced down at the gutter that ran along the street. In the glow of the torch lights, she saw lumps bobbing along in dark liquid. Oh, God!

  “It’s just poo, Bigalow.” Stepping carefully over the gutter, she lead Forge through a doorway and into the shop the horse master had indicated.

  She emerged a short time later, smiling and extremely satisfied with how the transaction had gone. Emery had given her a small leather pouch of coins in exchange for one of Guy’s gold chains—she tried not to imagine where he might have got it from. Even better, the shop owner had told her of a place where a single lady might obtain clean, safe lodgings for the night.

  She set off down the narrow street, hoping to find the place before it got much darker. Unlike Darumvale at this hour, Edgeway still teamed with the full spectrum of humanity. Rich and poor mingled freely and, from what Martha could see, frequently lived right next door to one another.

  Beggars sat out on the street, begging bowls in hand, many of them missing limbs or disfigured by the ravages of disease. Other more industrious souls played a flute or a fiddle for their charity. Despite the sad circumstances, the merry tunes gave Edgeway almost a party atmosphere.

  Emery’s directions were good, and Martha soon found herself standing outside a small house on a quiet branch off the main street. “This must be it,” she said to Forge, then rapped her knuckles against a plain wooden door.

  The door opened and light spilled out onto the street. A plump, wholesome-looking woman stood on the threshold, regarding her visitors through narrowed eyes. “Yes?”

  “Mistress Weaver?” Martha smiled uncertainly. “Emery Littleback sent me. He said you might have a room available?”

  “Did he indeed?” The woman looked her up and down. “And you are?”

  “Martha…Martha Bigalow.” She felt herself wilting beneath Mistress Weaver’s detailed inspection. Those shrewd grey eyes were taking in every inch of her travel-worn appearance. A little self-consciously, she drew her cloak over her blood-stained dress. As Aunt Lulu was fond of saying, first impressions lasted a lifetime.

  “And I suppose I must accommodate the dog too?” Mistress Weaver gave Forge to a long, hard stare.

  Undeterred, Forge sat down and thumped his tail, subjecting the landlady to his most appealing look.

  Martha almost giggled at such an uncommon display of good behavior. “If that’s no trouble. I assure you, he’s a very good housedog.”

  “Come inside, if you will.” Mistress Weaver took a step back. “I would speak with you first before making my decision.” Her thin lips curved into a faint smile. “This is a decent house, you understand. One cannot be too wary in these dangerous times.”

  Martha smiled politely. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  She stepped off the darkening street into a bright, snug room. A large, colorful rag-rug lay before the hearth, and four mismatched chairs, each with a plump, bright cushion, sat arranged around the glowing fire. Against the rough, white-washed walls, two wooden settles provided additional seating. The sweet fragrance of spring permeated the air thanks to the small vase of flowers sitting on a small wooden table in the corner.

  Martha immediately felt at ease. Although the furnishings were undoubtedly old, everything looked clean and well loved.

  After asking her to take a seat, Mistress Weaver left the room. She returned moments later carrying a small tray set with a teapot, two cups, and a plate of home-baked cakes.

  Martha’s mouth watered. It seemed forever since she’d eaten anything that wasn’t either hard, or stale or both.

  “Do you care for tea, miss? I know it is shockingly expensive these days, but one cannot be expected to give up every comfort.” The older woman’s previously severe expression was gone, melted awa
y by the warmth of her smile.

  “Proper tea?” Martha widened her eyes. “Really?” How long was it since she’d last tasted tea?

  Forge sprawled out on the rug in front of the fire while Martha and her prospective landlady drank their tea. True, it was served black and unsweetened, but she couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed a beverage more. In between slurps, she almost single-handedly demolished the plate of cakes set before her.

  Mistress Weaver arched her eyebrows. “By the Sprits! How long is it since you last ate?”

  “Something as good as this? Months.” She dabbed at the crumbs at the side of her mouth with her finger and grinned. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a glutton.” She stifled a contented little burp with the back of her hand. “Excuse me.”

  “It is nice to have someone who appreciates my baking. In truth,” Mistress Weaver leaned forward, almost displacing the large mop cap she wore on her head, “there are few people who linger in town these days. Especially since the arrival of spring.”

  Martha’s heart sank. “Let me guess: the Evil Earl?”

  “Indeed.” The landlady nodded and her smile cooled by a degree. “Lord Edgeway frequents the town all too often these days, along with his dissolute host of men.” She sighed. “If only the winter snows would encase Edgeway castle all year long. We would all be a good deal happier.”

  Martha almost upset the cup of tea in her hand, but she managed to save it at the last moment. “I-is the castle nearby?” The landlady would have needed to be both blind and deaf not to recognize her distress.

  “It lies a league to the north. Calm yourself, my dear.” Mistress Weaver patted Martha’s hand. “Although the Earl is much about town, he seldom visits this quarter.” She pursed her lips in obvious disapproval. “The bordellos and taverns he frequents are at the other end of Edgeway, thank the spirits.”

  Martha exhaled and leaned back in her chair. A league was roughly three miles away. That was much too close for comfort. But what else could she do? She had to stay somewhere, and the chances of the Earl stumbling across her in a town of this size were minimal, surely? Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t recognise her as Vadim’s female companion of last autumn.

  “So,” Mistress Weaver continued, “tell me about yourself. What did you say your name was, my dear?”

  “I’m Martha. Martha Bigalow.”

  “And where is your husband, Mistress Bigalow? How come you to be so alone and…” The good lady glanced at Martha’s filthy dress again. “With so few possessions?”

  “Please call me Martha.” She gave a heartfelt sigh. “I won’t lie to you.” She was oh-so sick of lies. “I recently separated from the man I called ‘husband’.” That was true enough at least. “My reasons for doing so are my own.” She met the landlady’s eyes unwaveringly. “All you need know is that I’m a decent woman who’s come to Edgeway seeking employment. I’m honest, and a hard worker, and I have no love at all for the Earl.”

  Mistress Weaver nodded but didn’t interrupt.

  “What you see now is who I am. I have no home or family. Apart from my dog and horse, I’m on my own.” She sighed again. It was a very weary sound. “Won’t you please give me a chance? I have money. Look.” She pulled the leather pouch from her pocket and jangled it. “See? I promise I won’t cause you any trouble.”

  Mrs Weaver tutted impatiently. “Put it away, girl. Money holds no sway over me.” But she smiled. “I saw what I needed to see when I first looked into your eyes, out there on the street. Yes, you will do for me, Mistress Bigalow…Martha.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As Vadim reached the borders of Darumvale, he saw curls of thick, black smoke drifting upward, defiling the blue perfection of the sky.

  His heart quickened. No! Not now.

  He ran toward the village, drawing the mask over his face as he went, praying the others were not far behind him. As he drew nearer, the terrified screams reminded him of a long-ago day, back when he had lost everything he held dear. Despite the heat of the sun, he shivered.

  A small hill at the eastern edge of the village afforded him a good view of the Earl’s treachery. At first, no one noticed him, standing against the skyline.

  Other matters occupied them.

  The villagers stood at the center of the main street, surrounded by soldiers, huddled together like frightened cattle. The Earl, meanwhile, strolled around the perimeter of the human circle. Although Vadim was not close enough to make out Lord Edgeway’s words, the calm hum of his voice and its rising inflection at the end told him he was questioning the villagers.

  When their response, or lack of one, did not suit him, the Earl waved to one of the waiting archers. Seconds later, a burning arrow arced into the sky. Tinder-dry thatch roofs did not take long to catch light.

  Six houses were already burning. Vadim clenched his fists, aching to break them upon the Earl’s smirking face. Instead, he drew his bow and strung it, his jaw clenched with rage. He reached back for an arrow. Martha was beyond his aid now. He could not abandon the villagers. He notched the arrow and took aim. The wooden bow gave a few creaks of protest, its complaints as familiar as the voice of an old friend.

  She will survive.

  For all her strange ways, Martha was clever and resourceful. He let the arrow fly. A scream announced when it struck its mark. Vadim barely noticed. He reached back for the second arrow, and Martha’s face swam before him like a beautiful ghost. If he died today, she would never know what she really meant to him. She would go to her own grave believing he despised her. He released the arrow, the action cold and mechanical. Another death cry.

  Perhaps it is better this way. If she hated him, she would recover. He would not have her mourn him.

  The soldiers saw him at last. Calling to one another, they crept toward his position, weapons drawn, ducking and weaving to avoid his arrows. Vadim was dimly aware of the Earl screaming out orders. He danced around like a madman, his cloak swirling in a purple blur. Were the situation not so dire, the agitation of his enemy would have been amusing.

  Vadim fired another arrow, then another. He lost count. How many more did he have?

  There was not time to check.

  While Vadim distracted their captors, the villagers pushed against the remaining soldiers and broke out of their bar-less cage. With a collective cry of anger, they turned on their enemy.

  Vadim smiled to see it.

  Using whatever they could find as a weapon—sticks, pitchforks, or hoes—the villagers surged against the Earl’s men. The soldiers lashed out with their swords at the advancing crowd. Several bodies fell. Undeterred, the villagers continued to advance, their faces bearing identical expressions of murderous rage. Those without weapons picked up stones, hurling them at the soldiers with deadly force, the aim of the women as accurate as any man.

  No more arrows.

  Vadim threw down his bow and drew his sword. Taking a deep breath, he raced down the hill to engage his enemy hand to hand.

  The long plaintive note of a horn turned his head. His heart soared. I knew they would come. A dozen masked men joined the fray. On foot and on horseback, they swarmed into Darumvale, weapons drawn.

  The air rang with cries of pain and vengeance. Blades crashed together in a deadly dance, the hideous high-pitched squeal of metal upon metal setting his teeth on edge.

  Vadim reached the bottom of the hill. Swinging his sword, he sliced it into his first opponent. The wet sound of human flesh being split open by a sword was the worst sound of all. In one swift move, the soldier’s torso gaped from neck to stomach, blood jetting out in a black arc. Vadim swiftly wiped the thick, warm droplets from his eyes and spat onto the dust. But the sweet metallic tang lingered on his tongue. The smell and taste of it sickened him as it always did.

  Wide-eyed with shock, the young soldier looked down, watching his guts spill onto the dust in a fast-unravelling coil. Mercifully, he fell down dead seconds later.

  Vadim moved on,
slipping in the soldier’s steaming entrails as he engaged his next opponent, a stocky man-at-arms, clad in gleaming mail from head to thigh. Without hesitation, Vadim raised his arm, plunging the tip of his sword into the man’s exposed throat. With a gargling moan of agony, the soldier crumpled to his knees. Vadim withdrew his sword, leaving the man clutching at his ruined neck.

  He moved on, mindlessly hacking his way through the enemy line. But even with the villagers’ aid, the Earl’s men held the advantage not only in numbers, but in skill too. Farmers and trades people were no match for well-armed, highly-trained soldiers—however willing their hearts.

  “Vadim!” The cry of warning came a heartbeat too late.

  Pain flared so violently, he could not tell where he was wounded. Gasping, he sank to his knees. His sword slid from his hand, hitting the ground with a thud. His life blood pattered into the dust and swirled about the sword’s hilt like a muddy river.

  It was over.

  Dragging his gaze up, Vadim saw his killer standing over him, a silhouette against the sun, sword raised for the final cut.

  Vadim heard a roar of rage. Only Seth’s intervention prevented his own beheading. In the dim light of his fading vision, he witnessed his old friend stab the soldier savagely through the neck with a pitchfork, freeing his blood in a fast-spurting fountain.

  No longer able to support his own weight, Vadim collapsed onto his back, staring up at the fat clouds drifting across the perfect sky.

  Martha. His mouth formed her name, but no sound came. Death held no fear for him. It was a blessed release from the pain of living, a time of joyful reunions. She was his only regret. My love.