In fact, that was precisely what she’d been about to say. But Anselm looked so miserable that she couldn’t bear to prove him right. “Is that what your parents can’t forgive you for?” she asked. “Working for the Earl?” Her heart resumed its natural rhythm, once she was assured Anselm wasn’t about to sprout horns and start breathing fire.
He nodded. “They took the news very badly indeed.”
“Can you blame them?” Martha leaned over the table toward him. “You know the things he’s done better than anyone.”
“Aye,” he agreed quietly. “But why should I not seek to improve my lot in life?” He looked suddenly fierce, gripping her hands as they lay on the table. “Whether it is Godric or…someone else, there will always be an Earl of Edgeway to grind the little people beneath his boot. Noble principles are all very well, but they do not feed us, and they do not keep us safe.” He released her hands and flopped back in his chair, a scowl marring his fair brow. “I will not share my parents’ fate.
“You have seen how they live, Martha.” He gave a snort of disgust. “Has resisting the Earl and harboring outlaws brought them happiness? Are their lives so much better than mine? I think not.” He raked one hand through his golden hair. “The more they fight him, the more harshly he is forced to treat them. What else can he do? What example does it set for the rest of the populace when the Chief of Darumvale will not give the Earl his rightful dues? They force him to make an example of them.”
Martha said nothing. Clutching her tankard in both hands, she considered Anselm’s words. When he put it like that… She gave herself a mental shake. And what about Vadim, the child who’d grown alongside him as a brother? The Earl had massacred his family. There was no excuse for that.
Of course, she couldn’t say this to Anselm, not without betraying Vadim’s confidence. Even now, she was still protecting him, though there was no good reason why she should. What if Vadim’s ‘tragedy’ was a lie too? No. She’d seen his eyes that day, out on the hill. Suffering like that couldn’t be faked. Sadly, that particular truth was gospel.
Anselm smiled, recalling Martha from her thoughts. His face relaxed, tension gone. “You are still here. I admit, m’lady, I am surprised.”
“Why?” She shrugged and took a sip of her ale. “Politics have never interested me. Your problems with your family are your concern, Anselm. I’d just like to know they’re all right, that’s all.”
“I can help you there, at least.” He glanced about him and beckoned her closer. “What I am about to tell you must go no further. My master only told me this out of kindness, for he knew how I would fret if news of the uprising reached me from another source—”
An uprising? Martha clutched her tankard, her nails digging deep into the leather. Her blood cooled, and a ball of ice formed in her stomach, its bitter chill radiating outwards to her extremities. In the heat of summer, at an inn in Edgeway, winter returned. She shivered.
“Darumvale recently turned upon the Earl and his men,” Anselm said. “Fortunately, he regained control before it got too out of hand. I am glad to report that very few lives were lost during the fighting. The majority of the dead were outlaws—including their leader, I am heartily glad to say.” Anselm actually laughed, unaware of Martha’s horror. “Imagine this: my misguided parents actually took him in as an orphan. Tender-hearted fools. How their precious Vadim has repaid their kindness!” Anselm stopped gloating and frowned. “Martha? Are you unwell?”
Martha stared at him, reeling from the blows he’d unwittingly dealt her. His words were a dagger to her heart, if he only knew it. She felt sick. She wanted to scream. Cry. Run. All of them. None of them.
“You are very pale.” Anselm touched her hand but she couldn’t feel it.
“I-I’m fine.” She managed to respond, but her voice wavered. Keep pretending! Her inner drill sergeant yelled at her. Don’t tell him anything. “It’s j-just relief, that’s all.”
Black flashes blinded her. The voices of the other patrons ebbed and flowed in volume, fading in and out, disorienting her. She took a deep, juddering breath and clutched at the edges of the table. The room seemed to swing like a rope bridge in a high wind. A static noise filled her ears, muffling out the other sounds. The ice in her blood thawed. She was hot. Blisteringly hot. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She tugged at the neck of her shift.
Act normal, you fool. Breathe. Don’t you dare faint!
“I’ve been s-so worried about Seth and…” It was useless. The charade no longer mattered.
The majority of the dead are outlaws, including their leader. Vadim!
Her head slumped towards the table, landing heavily on her folded arms. The movement dislodged her scarf and sent it fluttering to the floor. Through the static hissing, Martha heard herself groaning.
Now she knew why he hadn’t come for her.
He’s dead!
“Martha?” She heard Anselm’s voice beside her, though she couldn’t see him. He slipped his arm about her waist and half lifted her from the wooden bench. “Hold onto me if you can. Good girl.”
The next thing she knew, she was outside, perched upon a horse trough. Anselm held her head down between her knees. The sun felt hot against her exposed neck. “Breathe deeply and slowly. In and out. Excellent, Martha.”
She sat up. Too quickly. The world set off whirling on another nauseating carousel ride. “Oh God!” Her head felt too heavy for her neck to support. It swayed dangerously with a will of its own. She would have fallen backward into the water trough if Anselm hadn’t held her so securely.
“Have a care, m’lady. Lean your head against me for a moment. Close your eyes.”
She obeyed him. All of her strength and will was gone.
Vadim is dead.
For two days, Martha hid away in her room, refusing to speak to anyone. What was there left to say? Even Forge couldn’t rouse her from the depths of such grief. She lay motionless upon the bed, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling.
Only her mind was alive, full of its dreadful imaginings.
Mistress Weaver was deeply concerned when she came in to see her and found her so unresponsive. The good lady took the dog away to her own rooms, telling Martha she would call in a healer unless she showed some sign of improvement.
“And that nice young man who brought you home is just as worried as I,” she told her later, drawing up a stool to sit beside Martha’s bed. “He has called three times already, even though I would not let him see you. He always brings flowers. Oh, and he brought some of those delicate little pastries you are usually so fond of.”
One afternoon, she heard Anselm and Mistress Weaver speaking together. It was a sultry sort of day, and the street outside was quiet. They must have left the kitchen door open, for the sounds of their conversation carried quite clearly up the stairs to where Martha lay like a corpse, too stricken with grief to move.
“What can be wrong with her?” She heard Anselm ask. There was the scrape of a chair being pulled over the kitchen’s slate floor. “Is there no fever, or any other symptoms?”
“Nothing at all,” the landlady replied. “If you ask me, the girl looks as though she has had a shock.”
There was a brief pause. Martha heard the tinkling of crockery being arranged.
“What were you talking about?” Mistress Weaver continued. “At the moment she became so afflicted, I mean.”
“Nothing of consequence…”
Nothing of consequence!
“…If anything, my words should have reassured her, dear lady. Martha had been worried about some friends in Darumvale for quite some time. Happily, I had the best of news to impart.”
“Indeed?” More clinking of crockery. Mistress Weaver must be making tea. “‘Tis a curious malady, indeed.” There was the sound of a heavy sigh. “There is nothing else for it. If her condition is still the same on the morrow, I shall bring in a healer.”
“A sound plan, m’lady.” Anselm agreed. “And I shall pay the bill f
rom my own purse. No, really, I insist. Martha is very dear to me. In time I hope…”
Martha heard the smile in his voice.
“But perhaps it would be better not speak of it. Not until she is herself again.”
“Most wise, sir. Ah, she is a very fortunate girl indeed.”
I don’t think so! Anselm’s apparent sweetness now seemed to contain more than a hint of saccharine. And it had a nasty, lingering taste.
Hearing his plans revived Martha better than a bucket of iced water poured over her head.
In the middle of the night, while the rest of the household slept, she set about dashing the hopes of Anselm and her landlady. Staggering a little, she dressed as quickly as she could then stuffed her belongings into her saddlebags. Once this was done, she smuggled Forge out from Mistress Weaver’s room. Together, they crept down the stairs and sneaked from the house, out into the night.
There was only one place she wanted to be. And this time, she wouldn’t turn back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As the first pink rays of morning kissed a farewell to the night, Martha slowed her horse to a walk and entered the village. When she reached the centre of the main street, she reined Eric to a halt. Darumvale slumbered on.
“Good boy.” She patted the horse’s steaming neck and loosened his girth a notch. Forge arrived soon afterwards. Panting and weary, he flopped down in the dust.
All was still. Even the village dogs were silent. Then, almost shyly, the earliest bird began to sing. Soon, the rest of the chorus woke and joined in, filling the air with their sweet song. A cockerel crowed, its raucous cry shattering the fragile peace for another day.
Martha remained motionless on her horse. Dry-eyed, she reacquainted her with the place she’d once called home. It looked the same, but different. There were voids on the street that hadn’t been there a couple of months ago. Empty places where a home had once stood, now marked by a cairn of rubble and blackened timbers. Many of the remaining houses were disfigured by tell tale scorch marks, though some were freshly whitewashed, as if to disguise the damage the past had inflicted.
Forge whined. He sat up and looked around, tail wagging. He’s happy to be home, at least. She knew he wanted to see Bren and Jared again. “Soon,” she said.
Where had they buried him, she wondered. Was burial even common practice here? She couldn’t remember ever having seen a graveyard. There was still so much she didn’t know. Martha bit her lip and took a deep breath, battling to control the rising sense of panic inside. She must remain in control. If she unraveled now, she might well run back to Edgeway again. No—it was time to face everything.
Slipping her feet from the stirrups, she dismounted. Before talking to anyone, there was somewhere she needed to go.
Vadim’s house—her home—was gone. Only the shell remained, blackened and gutted by fire.
Oh, God! Letting go of Eric’s reins, she walked towards the ruin, her hands covering her mouth as she took in the destruction. Tears slid down her cheeks in a steady stream. The house would have been some comfort. Now she didn’t even have that.
There’s nothing left of him.
Stumbling and crunching over the broken stone and charred wood, she stepped through the doorway of the house. It was impossible to walk around inside. The roof had collapsed, and a mound of burned thatch and timber roof covered the floor, barring her way. There was nothing to see. Even the cow-horn window panes had melted.
It’s all dead.
“Martha? Is it you?”
She turned around slowly. There was Bren, with Forge whining and yipping at her side. But this was a barely recognisable version of Bren. She looked older, much more careworn than Martha remembered. Her once-merry eyes were dull and haunted in the gauntness of her face.
“Bren.” Martha didn’t know what to say. What can I say? And would Bren even want to hear it? What must they all think of me?
“Oh, lass!” Bren opened her arms. “Where have you been so long?”
Martha stumbled from the ruined house and ran into Bren’s embrace. They clung to each other, both of them crying.
“They got Jared.” Bren sobbed. “They killed my dear, dear man.” She repeated the words over and over, as if she couldn’t stop.
God, no. Poor Bren.
Bren’s grief restored Martha’s composure. She cradled her friend’s head against her shoulder, stroking her back, while murmuring soft words of nonsense into her grizzled hair. Just as Vadim had once held her.
At length, Bren’s sobs slowed, and finally stopped. She raised her head from Martha’s damp shoulder and stepped back, swiping her scarf across her swollen eyes.
“Sorry, lass.” Bren’s lips attempted a smile. “Morning is always my worst time. When I wake up, just for a moment, I feel him laying in bed beside me, and then I remember.” Her eyes glistened with another rush of tears. “Will I never stop missing him?”
“No, Bren. You won’t.” Aunt Lulu had once told her of how she’d lost her own young husband in a terrible farming accident. She’d never married again. “But you might learn to carry the burden of losing him. Eventually. Or, so I’m told.” Not that she believed it herself. “But it’ll never go away.”
“Oh?” Bren smiled properly. “I am so glad to hear that.” She took a deep breath. “How are you, lass? I suppose you heard what happened here?”
Martha nodded. “Only recently.”
“You may find you have fewer friends here now, Martha. Pay them no heed. Darumvale is still your home.”
No it isn’t. Not without him.
“I may as well tell you, there are people here who blame you for everything from the massacre to the lack of rain,” Bren continued. “Fools that they are.”
Martha wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t expected a warm reception after being gone so long. “But not you?”
“Silly goose.” Bren clasped her hand. “Would I show you the wounds in my heart if I did?”
“Thank you.” Martha squeezed her friend’s work-roughened hand. Then she voiced the question closest to her heart. “H-how did…Vadim die, Bren?”
“Ah! He was glorious in battle, girl.” Bren wiped a stray tear from Martha’s cheek with her finger. “You would have been proud. He killed a dozen of the Earl’s filth with arrows. Another four died beneath his blade.” Bren’s smile broadened. “He flew down that hill as if he had wings, not legs, his sword ablaze in the sun. My feeble words do little justice to his valour. I cannot praise him enough. Although he was outnumbered he stayed with us, right until the end.”
Martha’s heart seemed to swell, until her chest could hardly contain it.
Bren’s smile faded and her voice grew softer. “One of Edgeway’s men stuck a sword right through him, from back to front. Here.” She touched her own stomach, demonstrating how Vadim had met his end. “But the coward responsible died sooner than he. Seth saw to that.”
Martha had thought she was prepared to hear this. But she wasn’t. Bile flooded her mouth. She bent over, dry retching and sobbing while Bren stroked her back, her rough hands smoothing and snagging against the fine wool of her cloak.
“The minstrels have already put his deeds into song. Mourn him, but be proud of him, lass. He is sure to be seated in the Hall of the Ancestors, with all the heroes who went before him.”
At length, Martha straightened up, though her legs still trembled beneath her. She wiped her mouth carelessly on her sleeve. “Wh-where do you l-lay your dead, Bren?” she asked when she was able to speak again.
Bren frowned. “Walk with me. Dog, come!”
Forge leapt up at Bren’s curt summons, wagging his tail. Martha took Eric’s reins and led him away from the grass he’d been munching.
The four of them walked down the street and out of the village. They crossed the North road and cut through the hedgerow. In the field beyond was a grassy hill, and at its other side, hidden from the village, was an entrance that burrowed into the hill. A large boulder lay ac
ross it passageway, preventing them from going any further.
Martha had seen this hill every day during her time in Darumvale, never realizing its significance.
“Our dead lay within,” Bren said. “My own dear…husband amongst them.”
Fresh tears blurred Martha’s eyes. She let go of Eric and walked slowly to the barrow entrance, tentatively resting her hand on the rough stone. “Oh, Vadim!” She dropped to her knees, weeping, her cheek pressed against the cold stone. “I’m s-sorry…” She couldn’t voice her despair.
How can I go on without you? Now you’ll never know I love you. Oh, I know you didn’t love me back, but I wish I’d said it to you. Just once.
“Martha?” She felt Bren’s hand upon her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Vadim is not here, child.”
“Huh?” She looked up, frowning with confusion.
Bren sank down on the grass beside her and took her hand. “On the day he…Seth took him away…before he…”
“D-died?” Martha managed to speak again.
Bren nodded.
“Where?” Martha dug her damp handkerchief out from where she kept it, stuffed down the bodice of her dress. “Why did Seth take him away?” She wiped her eyes then blew her nose.
Bren shrugged. “No one knows. He never speaks of it. But perhaps he might if you ask him.”
Martha scrambled to her feet, determined to do just that, but Bren placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Go gently, child. He is grieving too.”
“For Vadim?” It was only right, she supposed. He’d brought him up as his own son.
“Not only for him.”
Martha’s heart lurched. “Ma’s dead too?” Was there no end to the loss?
“No. Sylvie.”
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