Hemlock

by N. J. Layouni

  “Hold on, son.” Seth’s gore-spattered face loomed over him. “You will be fine.” But his eyes spoke the opposite of his words. As the sun went out, Vadim felt a firm pressure on his abdomen. One bright flash of agony, and then there was no more pain.

  “Stay, m’lord. I will not lose you too.”

  Vadim tried to smile. Poor Seth. This battle is already over.

  But blackness took him before he could tell him so.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “I am afraid this is the only bed I have at present.” Mistress Weaver hovered in the doorway, twisting her apron in her hands. “But most of my other guests will be leaving on the morrow—travelling east for a wedding, so I understand—so you might choose a larger room then. That is, if you care to stay.”

  Martha walked about the little room and ducked her head beneath the eaves. The floorboards creaked loudly beneath her boots. Like the rest of the boarding house, the attic room had a cozy feel to it.

  Set back against a triangular wall of honey-colored stone was a narrow bed. It looked snug and inviting. A huge patchwork quilt covered the mattress, spilling down the side of the bed and obscuring the polished floorboards beneath a tumble of generous folds. To the left of the bed was a low table, with a pitcher and bowl for washing. An oval-shaped sheet of polished metal lay propped against the stone wall—presumably in lieu of a mirror.

  Beneath the solitary window sat a large wooden trunk, topped with even more patchwork—this time in the form of three fat cushions. Mistress Weaver certainly liked her crafting.

  “Well? What say you?”

  Forge had settled himself on the long rag-rug at the foot of the bed. His eyes were already closed.

  “We’ll take it. Thank you.” Martha turned to Mistress Weaver with a smile. “It reminds me a little bit of my old room back home.” Home. Back in twenty-first century. Would she ever see it again?

  On her first night in Edgeway, Martha lay in bed, staring up at the shadows on the roof, long after the rest of the household had retired. As the street sounds gradually died away, a thick silence enveloped the house. It hurt her ears. It was almost a relief when she heard a drunken man, singing his way home in the street outside. She listened harder. Snores drifted up from the rooms below. She exhaled. I miss his snores.

  She touched the linen neckline of her night shirt and held it to her lips. It was Vadim’s old shirt—the indecent one. On impulse, she’d stuffed it into her pack on the day she left Darumvale. It was all she had left of him now. It didn’t even smell of him anymore.

  She sent a silent prayer of thanks to whichever kindly spirit had accompanied her that day. It was hard to believe she’d been a fugitive in the wilds only a few brief hours ago. Now, she was warm and safe, and nursing a stomach full of good things. Not only that, she had money, transport, and a kindly landlady with definite ‘friend’ potential.

  You have a lot to be thankful for, Bigalow.

  Even so, she couldn’t help regretting all she’d lost. How were her friends in Darumvale that night? With the Earl and his men as guests, she doubted they were resting as easily as she was. Would she ever see any of them again?

  She sighed. Of course, losing Vadim was the deepest cut of all. Despite all that had happened, she’d harbored a secret hope in her heart. A hope that he’d come and find her again. The fact he hadn’t, only confirmed what she already knew. He’d never really cared for her at all.

  She raised her fingers to scratch at a tickle on her ear. To her surprise, she discovered it was wet. When did I start crying? Apparently, quite some time ago. The pillow was damp with tears.

  Forge jumped up onto the bed and she flung her arms about him, sobbing silently into his fur. The big dog tolerated her misery with admirable stoicism. He made a few grumbles of concern, occasionally licking at her hand or face, but he didn’t pull away.

  You just had to go and fall for him, didn’t you? The Vadim you love doesn’t exist. He’s an actor, a fraud, a heartless con artist. What the hell are you crying for?

  Because it feels like losing Santa Claus all over again, that’s why.

  Ridiculous, but all the same it was true—not that she had a penchant for well-upholstered blokes with white beards. As a child, the day she’d finally accepted Santa wasn’t real was the day she lost something vital to her happiness. Belief? Faith? Another layer of innocence stripped away? She still had no idea.

  Losing Vadim felt the same, only worse. Much worse.

  As the weeks passed, Martha gradually adapted to her new situation.

  It wasn’t easy. At times, she had to force herself out of bed in the morning. But she did what she had to do, going through the motions of normality. A fall from so high up, teetering on the tightrope of misery, would send her plunging into the cold, black abyss of depression. And that was one place she didn’t want to go. Not in a world without antidepressants.

  Life goes on, and you will too. Somehow.

  Edgeway was nothing like Darumvale. The pace of life was faster, louder, and much more vibrant. People constantly came and went, seldom lingering longer than the time it took to complete their business.

  By the end of her first month, Martha could spot an outlander in a crowd from a hundred paces. It was more than the style of their clothes—though it was always a giveaway. The people from the villages appeared timid in comparison with their Big Town cousins. They constantly looked around them, suspicion glinting in their narrowed eyes, as they scurried from place to place like frightened mice.

  She’d probably looked the same once upon a time. Not anymore. With a small smile of satisfaction, she smoothed her hands over the skirt of her new blue dress. With the proceeds of Guy’s ill-gotten gains, she’d more than rectified the deficits of her pitiful, wardrobe.

  Having nice things did much to sweeten the bitter pill of loss.

  Thanks to an introduction from Mistress Weaver, Martha was now an employee of ‘Abel’s Rest’, a large inn on the other side of town. Not that she ever mixed with the customers. Her role was in the laundry room, from six until noon every day. Although it was hot, heavy, steamy work, it was exactly what she needed.

  The other women who worked in the laundry were friendly, often rowdy companions. In their cheerful company, it was impossible to dwell on the dark thoughts that occupied her solitary hours.

  In a weird way, scrubbing the filth from other people’s linen, elbows deep in vats of hot water, helped remove the unpleasant stains from her heart. She loved to see the lines of clean garments, flapping in the warm sunshine like prayer flags.

  Vadim didn’t come.

  As the days turned into weeks, she stopped expecting to see him on every street corner. She no longer looked for him or imagined seeing him in a crowd. Gradually, her ears stopped straining to hear his voice. He wasn’t coming. Vadim had finally let her go.

  This is it. I’m really on my own now.

  Martha began making inquiries about Madoc the Seer—though she suspected he was yet another of Vadim’s many lies. To her surprise, she discovered that a wise man of that very name actually did exist. By all accounts, he was rather an odd chap who roamed the country all year round. He usually arrived in Edgeway for his annual fleeting visit around harvest time.

  It couldn’t hurt to see the man, at least. Autumn wasn’t that long to wait. Who knew? With a bit of luck, old Madoc might be able to send her home again.

  God knows there’s nothing left for me here now.

  As time passed, she stopped worrying about the Earl. Although she occasionally encountered his soldiers in the street, she saw nothing of the man himself, and her fear of discovery lessened with each day. No one knew her as the one-time ‘wife’ of a notorious outlaw. In Edgeway, Martha was just another nameless face in a heaving sea of humanity. And that suited her just fine.

  She still had a niggling concern about the fate of her Darumvale friends, though. On more than one occasion, she saddled Eric and set off to pay them a visit, only to tu
rn back after several miles. What would she say when she got there? And what if she encountered Vadim? This was enough to send her trotting back to the anonymous sanctuary Edgeway provided. Maybe the past was better off left where it was.

  Even so, she began haunting the weekly market in the town square. Although she scanned the face of every stallholder, to her disappointment, she never saw anyone she knew.

  The growing anxiety for her friends made Martha bolder. As she got to know the stallholders, she gently quizzed them for information. No one ever had any news, and more than one person shared her concerns. The villagers of Darumvale had always attended the market regularly up until this year. Several people she spoke to promised to make inquiries of their own.

  Someone must know something. Why can’t someone hurry up and invent a postal service?

  Lord Edgeway’s anger with Darumvale, however, was a common topic of conversation in Edgeway. The hamlet was a nest for outlaws, or so the gossips claimed. Although Martha despised herself for listening to them, she was too starved for information to have the luxury of morals. What alternative did she have?

  Martha moved away from the vegetable stall, clutching her basket, inwardly brooding over the latest dead end in her enquiries.

  “Excuse me?” A pleasant male voice recalled her to the present.

  “Hmm?” She looked up into the smiling gray eyes of a stranger.

  “Forgive my impertinence, m’lady, but I could not help overhearing your conversation just now.”

  Despite the warmth of the day, Martha drew her shawl closer about her, as though it could protect her from the man’s attentions. “My conversation is none of your business, sir.” With that, she turned away and plunged into the crowd, hoping he would take the hint and get lost.

  He didn’t. But although he kept pace with her as she wove a path through the throng, he was careful not to invade her personal space.

  “I was raised in Darumvale,” he said. “My family still resides there to this day. Though, I confess, I have been unable to visit them for quite some time. The call of duty cannot be ignored.”

  Hackles rising, Martha came to an abrupt halt. She turned to confront the man, almost hitting him in the stomach with her basket in the process. Every hair on the back of her neck tingled in warning, like a medieval spider-woman. “Let’s get this straight.” Her eyes narrowed. “You are from Darumvale?”

  “Have I not just said so, dear lady?” The man’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling merrily. He was only slightly taller than she, but he was broad and strong. His hair fell in golden waves about his attractive face.

  “How convenient!”

  “A happy coincidence indeed,” the stranger agreed, apparently immune to her sarcasm. “I had not imagined to hear the name of my home being uttered by lips so—”

  “Save your flattery, mate,” Martha snapped. “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to fall for one of your chat-up lines? Even I’m not that dense. Get lost!”

  “You think me a liar? A common swindler?” The man placed one hand on the handle of her basket, detaining her when she would have escaped. He wasn’t smiling now.

  Inexplicably, Martha shivered.

  “Will you not allow me to introduce myself before dismissing me so cruelly?” he continued, not waiting for her to reply. “I am Anselm.” He bowed his head. “Son of Seth and Sylvie—”

  That got her attention. “You’re kidding me?” Her eyes widened and she stopped trying to pull her basket free. This was their son—Vadim’s surrogate brother?

  “Upon my honor, I speak the truth.” The man let go of the basket’s handle and took a step back. “Surely they must have mentioned me?”

  Suddenly, she felt a little sorry for him. “No,” she admitted. “They didn’t. But I wasn’t with them for very long so…”

  “I see.” A shadow of regret swept over Anselm’s handsome features. “Then, they have still not yet forgiven me.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I should have known.” Drawing himself to his full height, he gave Martha a stiff little bow. “My apologies for detaining you, m’lady. I meant no disrespect.”

  “Wait.” This time, it was she who prevented him from leaving, clutching at the sleeve of his linen shirt, and releasing it the moment he turned back to face her. “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” She forced an apologetic smile. “I thought you were a pervert or something.”

  The man looked a little sour. “An honest mistake to make, I am certain.”

  Martha giggled. She couldn’t help it. Now she looked at him, she was sure she glimpsed something of Seth in his features, and his grey eyes held more than a hint of Sylvie. The familiarity gave her comfort. “Sorry. How about we start again?” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Martha. How do you do?”

  Anselm’s smile returned. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and planted a light kiss on the back of it. “I do very well indeed, Martha. It is my greatest pleasure to know you.” He released her hand before she had time to become uncomfortable. “Perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to walk with you?” He offered her his arm. “I should love to speak of home above all things.”

  Martha hesitated, but only for a moment. She slipped her hand through Anselm’s arm and smiled up at him. “And I’d love to hear you speak of it,” she replied. He couldn’t imagine how much. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, they wandered aimlessly about the town. Martha couldn’t later recall where their path had taken them. The hours passed as swiftly as minutes. Anselm proved to be a most amusing companion, and his stories about Darumvale sent her into fits of laughter. He was a gifted, if brutal, mimic. His impersonations of various villagers were so deadly accurate, she almost wept with laughter on more than one occasion.

  Her fears faded away. Anselm was undoubtedly who he said he was. His knowledge of the village was too intimate to be an act. Even so, she was reluctant to reveal too much about herself just yet. For now, she was content to let him do most of the talking. She’d spent so long looking over her shoulder that it was a difficult habit to break. Ma’s long-ago words still haunted her. You will be betrayed by someone close, someone you consider a friend…

  If Anselm noticed the one-sided nature of their conversation, he made no comment. He obviously enjoyed telling his stories as much as she enjoyed hearing them.

  Only when the sun hung low in the sky did she realize, with a start of surprise, just how long they had been out walking.

  “I have to go,” she said, pulling her hand from the crook of Anselm’s arm. “My landlady will be wondering where I am.”

  “Shall I escort you home?”

  “There’s no need. I don’t live far from here.” In truth, she was reluctant to reveal her address too quickly, no matter how charming Anselm appeared to be. It suddenly occurred to her that he hadn’t mentioned Vadim at all. That struck her as rather odd, considering the two of them had been raised together.

  Anselm nodded, almost as if he understood. “Then, promise to meet me tomorrow or I shall not let you go.” For good measure, he clutched at his heart and attempted a wounded look.

  “Idiot.” Her laughter chased away the shadows of suspicion, and she found herself agreeing to meet him the next day.

  And so it began. After only a few days, Martha became aware that their burgeoning friendship was fast becoming something very special to her. Barely a day went by when they didn’t meet up with Anselm somewhere in town, if only for a few minutes. His light-hearted company was the perfect tonic for her jaded spirits. With Anselm, the pain of the past went away for a while. He felt familiar. Safe. And he never mentioned Vadim once. Not ever. With Anselm, she could forget. In effect, he was a walking, talking Band-Aid for her beaten-up heart.

  Their daily meanderings through Edgeway drew frequent disapproving looks from the townspeople. Martha often felt the heavy weight of their disapproving glares following her as she and Anselm passed by. They probab
ly thought it was unseemly for an unrelated man and woman to be out together without a chaperone or something.

  Not that she gave a damn what complete strangers thought about her. Her relationship with Anselm was completely appropriate. He brightened her days, and never once put a toe over the line of friendship.

  “Why don’t you ever talk about your job?” Martha asked. They were sitting in one of Anselm’s favourite taverns having lunch, and it was his turn to pay. “I mean, you let me go on and on about my work in the laundry, but you’ve never once mentioned what it is that you do.” It had begun to niggle her a little by now. Why didn’t he talk about his job? He was always so open about everything else. Well, apart from Vadim.

  “Ah, that.” Anselm gave a wry smile. “I wondered when you would ask.” He picked up a large pottery jug from the deeply pitted table and refilled their tankards with ale. “Perhaps that is because my employer is…not exactly popular in these parts.”

  “Oh?” Martha’s heart jumped from a walk to a gallop.

  Anselm nodded. “You have guessed the rest, I can see it in your eyes.” He put down the jug and leaned closer, looking at her with unusual seriousness. “I work in the Earl’s stables, Martha.” He spoke in a low voice, though there was little danger of being overheard. The tavern echoed with loud talk and laughter, and a couple of drunks were singing lustily from the corner of the room.

  “I tend Lord Edgeway’s horses, nothing more. In return, he pays me well and provides me with comfortable accommodation.” Anselm shrugged his shoulders. “Little wonder you now look at me in that way. My revelation had much the same effect on my parents when I told them. I suppose now you will say, I am sorry, Anselm, but I have just recalled something I have forgotten to do.” He sat back in his chair and held up his hands. “So be it. You are free to stay or go as you will, m’lady. I shall not attempt to sway you.”