It took all the strength Martha had to remain standing.
What a bloody, awful world!
From outside, the Great Hall looked much the same. Although it was singed around the edges, the structure remained sound. It was on the inside Martha noticed the difference.
If she needed an illustration of how it was people—not things—that made a house into a home, this was it.
A damp chill enveloped her the moment she stepped inside. Sylvie always used to have a good fire blazing by now, but the hearth was cold. No friendly red embers twinkled in the dim light. The fire had obviously been out for some time.
Mab—the cow—mooed when she saw Martha and Bren. How long since she was last milked? Poor thing.
“Where’s Ma?” Martha whispered, reluctant to disturb the awful stillness.
“She took Sylvie’s passing very badly,” Bren said with a sigh. “Old Mother Galrey took her in. As you can see, this is no fit place to nurse a sick old woman.”
Martha nodded. “I’ll go and see her later.” She looked around, wrinkling her nose. The rushes on the floor smelled sour. In its own way, Sylvie’s home was just as much a ruin as Vadim’s house. Martha knew what she must do.
Seth’s snores started up, resonating from where he slept, screened off from the rest of the hall.
“He will not wake before noon,” Bren said. “His fondness for ale has increased of late.” She looked about her and shook her head. “I have tried to help where I can, as have the other women, but we have our own homes—”
“Then let me help.” Martha attempted a smile. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
Martha spent the remainder of the morning setting the hall to rights. It was hard work, but it helped. She was too busy to think. Or cry.
After milking Mab and the goats, she put them out in the meadow where Eric, her horse, was already grazing. Then she cleaned the grate and relit the fire. The Hall seemed horribly empty without its comforting light, as if its heart had stopped beating. Perhaps it had.
She discarded the soiled floor rushes and replaced them with fresh ones. Then, after attending to the animals’ accommodation, replenishing their water and hay, she set about getting something for Seth to eat when he woke up.
His snores had kept her company all morning. It wasn’t a radio, but it was company at least. She popped over to Bren’s house and returned minutes later with a small pan of pottage, as well as some bread.
A few of the other villagers saw her while she was out and about. Some smiled, a few people were distinctly cool, and one or two blanked her completely.
They can suit themselves. I don’t give a shit what they think of me.
When her work in the Great Hall was finished, Martha decided to visit Ma. Maybe Seth would be awake when she returned.
Mother Galrey opened the door of her house and glared at the visitor on her threshold.
“You, eh? They said you had finally decided to honor us by returning, milady.”
Martha clenched her fists and battled to restrain herself. Unpleasant words hovered on her lips, just waiting for the green light to launch. Mother Galrey was famously sour at the best of times. Now the old crone was positively revelling in the chance to spit her venom.
“I’ve come to see Ma,” Martha said with great politeness. “Would you kindly ask her if she’ll see me?”
Evil old witch. You’re loving this, aren’t you?
Huddled in her black shawl, despite the heat of the day, the old woman really did resemble a stereotypical witch. She looked down her hooked nose at Martha, a sneer on her toothless mouth.
“Please?” Martha selected civility as her weapon of choice. She’d never win a war of insults with Mother Galrey as her opponent. “Tell her I’m here, would you? I’d be most grateful.”
The old woman snorted and slammed the wooden door in Martha’s face.
Martha blinked. Anger flashed from her toes to the rest of her body. You feckin’ old besom. I ought to— She raised her fist, prepared to smash the door into splinters if she had to, when it swung open again.
“Go on inside.” Mother Galrey jerked her head, summoning Martha in, albeit grudgingly. “She will see you. Though if I had my way—”
“How very kind.” Martha swept past the old woman, stepping into the dark, warm lair of her inner sanctum. She stumbled over a sack that lay discarded on the floor. “And I just love what you’ve done with the place. It’s so very…you.”
Deuce, you old cow.
The old woman hissed in reply. Martha ignored her and headed for the bed in the far corner of the room. At first, she thought it was empty, just a heap of rumpled blankets. But as she drew closer, she saw Ma’s eyes, shining up in the gloom.
Martha was shocked. She looked so tiny. Ma had always been small, but now there was even less of her. Her skin hung from her bones, and her head seemed much too pronounced, all bony and angled beneath the wisps of white hair. Like a skull covered with tissue paper.
A shiver tingled up her spine, but Martha forced her teeth into a smile. “Hello, Ma. It’s good to see you again.” She swallowed hard, and pulled up a low stool, close to the bed.
“Will you not tell me how well I look?” Ma’s poor withered face broke into a smile, and she chuckled, phlegm bubbling in her throat.
Martha took the knobbled hand that reached out to her from beneath the bedcovers. “You look fine.” She gently squeezed Ma’s fingers. “I’ve missed you. And I’m so very sorry about Sylvie.” More tears slipped down her face. Will I never stop crying? “She was a good friend to me.”
“Aye.” Ma sighed. “She tried to be, I know she did. Wipe your eyes and help me sit up, girl.”
What an odd thing to say. Puzzling over Ma’s strange answer, Martha piled pillows against the wall, then propped the old lady against them, handing her a cup of water when she beckoned for it with one claw-like finger.
After taking a sip, Ma called to her roomie. “Agnes.”
Agnes?
“Go and check on Seth for me.” Old Mother Galrey—Agnes—looked up from her darning and scowled.
How could she even see in this light, let alone darn?
“He will be fine,” she snarled. “Let him sleep it off. He kept half the village awake last night with his singing and—”
“Agnes.” The warning in Ma’s voice was unmistakable.
Martha smirked when the old besom leapt up from her chair and hobbled for the door.
“Very well, I shall leave you in her ladyship’s care, though no good will—”
“Agnes!”
Without another word, Mother Galrey grabbed her stick. She hobbled from the room like a wounded black spider, and slammed the door behind her.
When she’d gone, Martha went to the window and lifted the curtain. Light, and fresh, sweet air flooded through the small opening, dispelling the smell of sickness and cooked cabbage that permeated the room. She took a deep breath then turned back to face the bed. Ma was looking at her strangely. Almost if she’d never seen her before. Something clicked inside Martha’s brain.
“You know, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“About you?” Ma nodded, briefly. “Aye. The night I read your hand. Not everything, mind, but your man told me the rest.”
Martha exhaled and sank down onto her stool again. It was a relief to be able to speak freely. “Then you also know he isn’t ‘my man’.” She still couldn’t speak of Vadim in the past tense.
Ma shrugged her thin shoulders. “In your heart he is. That is where it matters the most, lass.”
There seemed no point in denying it. Ma was too shrewd. As the old woman drew her shawl about her shoulders, Martha leapt up to help her.
“Are you cold? I’ll close the curtain—”
“Leave it be. I am weary of being ill and stifled. It does not suit me. Sit down, Martha. There are things you need to hear, and I will not strain my eyes by looking up at you.”
Martha o
beyed. It was good to hear Ma sounding more like herself.
“Give me your hand.”
“No.” Martha shook her head and held her hands against her chest. “I don’t want to hear anything else about the future—not after the last reading you gave me.”
“He’s dead. Can the future hold anything worse for you than that?”
Martha flinched at Ma’s bluntness. Her eyes stung with tears. But Ma was right. She might even see a way home.
Silently, Martha placed her hand in Ma’s and waited. Sounds from outside drifted in through the window opening. Children’s laughter and adult voices calling to one another as they returned from the fields for the midday meal. The geese were honking and hissing, as usual. A dog’s bark set off all the other village dogs. Martha recognised Forge’s dulcet tones amongst them. At least he was having fun.
Life goes on. How does that poem go? ‘Stop all the clocks. Cut off the telephone—’
More tears leaked from her eyes. She blinked them back.
“That son of mine,” Ma muttered, smiling as she gazed at Martha’s palm. “I know not whether to hug him or smother him!”
“What do you mean?” What Seth was doing, there on her hand? Whatever it was, Ma looked animated again.
Ma released Martha’s hand. Her rheumy blue eyes twinkled. “Do not give up hope, Martha.” She cupped Martha’s face between her wizened hands. “Speak to Seth. Force the truth from him if you must.”
“The truth about what?” Martha still wasn’t getting it.
“Vadim.” Ma laughed. “He is still alive. I just saw him.”
Martha’s heart stumbled for a few beats. She felt hot and clammy. “But…he’s dead!” Hope wrestled with denial in her heart. But she dared not believe. Not yet. “Isn’t he?”
Her ears roared, and the house began spinning, accelerating fast. Martha battled to keep her eyes fixed on Ma, but the old woman appeared to whiz around the room like a frog in a blender. Her peripheral vision narrowed as if she were looking down the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Then, suddenly, she couldn’t see at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When Martha opened her eyes, she was on the floor, sprawled out on a mound of sacking that smelled like a tom cat’s toilet. Ma was shouting her name, prodding at her with a walking stick.
“Thank the Spirits! Can you get up, lass? I cannot rise to assist you.”
“I’m fine.” Martha took a deep breath and managed to slither back onto her stool, feeling weak and woozy. At least the world wasn’t spinning so much now. She rested her forehead against the prickly mattress.
“How long since you last ate?” Ma demanded, sounding almost herself again.
How long?
The last meal she remembered was back at the inn with Anselm. When was that? Time had no meaning since she’d learned Vadim’s fate.
“I’m not sure. A while ago, I suppose.”
Ma tutted. “And here I thought you were meant to be minding me. Here.” She thrust a chunk of bread into Martha’s hand. “Eat.”
Martha sat up. The bread was past its best, crusty and difficult to chew, but she managed to force a piece down.
“Where were you all this time?” Ma asked. “Edgeway?”
Martha nodded. In between mouthfuls of stale bread, she told Ma about her job and new home.
“Yes. Very nice. But how did you learn what had happened in Darumvale? Did one of Vadim’s friends find you?”
“No.” Martha stopped eating. She looked at Ma to gauge her reaction. “Your grandson told me.”
Ma paled and sank back against her pillows, hand splayed against her bony chest. “Anselm? You spoke to him…about us? What did you tell him?”
The old lady looked so alarmed, Martha was concerned. Why was she so afraid? “It’s all right.” She took Ma’s cold hand and gave it a squeeze. “I told him I had friends here, that I was worried about them, nothing more.” Are you sure? Martha wracked her brain, trying to remember if she’d inadvertently let anything of importance slip. She was certain she hadn’t.
Ma’s eyes narrowed. “How did you meet him?”
“We met at the market. I was there asking whether anyone had heard from Darumvale. He happened to overhear me and…we just got talking.” Martha frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong with him?”
“He works for the Earl, Martha.”
“I know. He told me he works in his stables—”
“Stables? Hah!” Ma’s lips twisted into a bitter line “That is the least of his duties, girl. He is a tracker.” She gripped Martha’s hand tighter. “He must have followed you there.”
“A tracker? Followed me? From here to…” Martha shook her head. “No, you’re mistaken. Why would he follow me?”
Ma fell silent and slumped back on her pillows, her expression impossible to decipher.
“Ma?” Martha leaned closer. “Tell me. What’s going on?”
The old lady’s faded blue eyes clouded. “Sylvie must have told him about you.”
“I don’t understand.” What did any of this matter, anyway?
Ma slid her hand from Martha’s, “Anselm was here, the day she…died.” She worried at the blanket with her old knobbled fingers. wringing it between her hands. “He hates Vadim and everything associated with him. The Earl pays him most handsomely to hunt down their common enemy.”
Martha felt ill. The bread she’d eaten seemed to be crawling back up her throat. But Ma continued to speak.
“He always was a cruel, cunning sort of lad. As soon as he came of age, he went to see the Earl, seeking employment in his service. He used his information about Vadim to gain His Lordship’s favor. Seth disowned him, of course. His own honor demanded it. For Sylvie, though, it was harder. How could she abandon her only child? In spite of his sins, she loved him.
“I know she met with him sometimes, when Seth was called away somewhere, but I pretended not to know. I did not imagine she would tell him anything important. But he must have got something out of her; Anselm could be very persuasive when it suited him.” Ma took a deep breath. “On the day she died, while the Earl questioned her about Vadim and his wife, Anselm stood there smiling and watching his mother weep. I was dragged outside then, but the look in her eyes will live with me until I take my final breath. She looked…guilty, broken…” Ma dabbed her eyes on the blanket. “I never saw her alive again.”
Martha gaped at her for several long seconds, shocked beyond words. This is my friend Anselm? Are we even talking about the same person? Denial swelled in her heart. “No.” She shook her head, wanting but failing to dispel the terrible picture Ma had just painted. “You must be mistaken. Anselm was always so good to me. If he thought Vadim was dead, why would he bother with me?” Her cheeks flushed hot at the injustice of Ma’s accusation. “What purpose would it serve?”
Ma’s lips formed a grim smile. “You did not know him, m’lady. Not really. As a child, he always wanted anything belonging to Vadim.”
“Me?” At this, Martha’s eyes widened. “No. He never once tried to hit on me…court me, I mean,” she amended when Ma frowned. “We were…are just friends. There’s never been a hint of anything else.” Well, apart from what she’d overheard, that day back at the boarding house when he was speaking to Mistress Weaver. But that didn’t count. “Anselm was always so decent, so kind.”
“Then, you were fortunate to escape when you did, girl. He was always a patient hunter.” The glacial look in Ma’s eyes sent shivers goose-bumping all over Martha’s skin. “He prefers to see his quarry collapse with exhaustion before moving in for the kill, to watch the eyes of his prey as the end of its life reflects on his descending blade.”
Ma took Martha’s hand again, gently stroking it. “Are you so blind, child?” She leaned closer, her voice little more than a whisper. “Open your eyes and see him properly now. Was there never an occasion during your acquaintance when you suspected him? Not even once?”
Marth
a’s mind transported her back to their first meeting at the market in Edgeway. At the time, his appearance had struck her as too convenient for a coincidence, but when he’d spoken of Darumvale, her suspicion had faded.
“Once…maybe.” Had loneliness blinded her to Anselm’s true purpose? She’d been so lonely back then, cut off from all that was familiar.
If Anselm was so innocent, why had he never mentioned Vadim until that final day? He hadn’t once bitched about him. You were a fresh audience, just waiting to hear his complaints. He should’ve leapt at the chance of sympathy.
“Once or twice,” Martha admitted with a shrug. More examples bubbled up in the back of her mind, each one making her squirm.
Hindsight really is a wonderful thing.
The door crashed open, and Old Mother Galrey hobbled back inside. Martha wasn’t sorry. She was relieved to press the pause button on this particular discussion.
“Your lad is awake and in a foul mood,” Mother Galrey called to Ma. “Someone dared to clean up that sty he calls a home. You, I suppose?” She directed a venomous glare at Martha.
Martha shrugged. “So?”
Mother Galrey cackled, displaying her naked gums. “No wonder his temper burns so hot. If you were planning to visit him, m’lady, I would give it a while yet. Let the ale blunt his rage.”
“I didn’t know you cared.” Martha frowned. “Anyway, why’s he angry?”
Ma sighed and patted Martha’s hand as it lay on the bed beside her. “He would not let anyone touch the place. Not since the day Sylvie died.”
“Oh.” Martha felt terrible. “That’s why it was so filthy? Oh, feck! Now I’ve gone and destroyed his shrine.” She groaned and covered her face with her hands. “I should have thought.”
“Stop fretting, girl.” Martha heard the smile in Ma’s voice. “It is well past time that someone intervened. Were it not for my feebleness, I would have done so myself.”
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