A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella)

by N. J. Layouni

  Chapter Five

  Little by little the impenetrable black canvas of night lifted, finally surrendering to the relentless onset of the day.

  More exhausted than she’d been in her entire life, Martha listlessly watched the lightening sky, her heart overflowing with the grief of a terrible realization.

  She probably wouldn’t live to see another dawn.

  Hot tears slipped from her eyes and down her cheeks but she had neither the strength nor the inclination to dash them away.

  Beside the fire, Agatha and Effie dozed fitfully where they sat. Poor souls. They’d tried everything and now there was nothing left to do. Nothing left to try.

  Unless a miracle occurred within the next few hours, she would die with their baby.

  She might as well face it. She was a dead woman walking. Or lying down? Whatever. All that mattered was that the party had finally ended. She wouldn’t be able to leave life without a great deal of sadness and regret.

  Time travel shouldn’t even be possible, yet here she was, a tiny, infinitesimal cog within a vast wheel of moments. She was living the dream, or dying in childbirth as the history books stated so many women did. But reading history was a lot different from actually living it—not to mention less dangerous.

  Damn it. She so wanted to see Lulu again. But her aunt was far, far away. A brief spark of life somewhere in time, safely locked within the loop of her own reality in her own universe where, by rights, Martha should be.

  Still, she wouldn’t change a thing, even if such a thing were possible. Nope. Not one single glorious moment of it. She couldn’t be sorry. Not now she’d finally learned what true love was all about. Despite her early death, she considered herself one of the lucky ones.

  She loved and was loved in return. What was there to be sorry for? How many people knew how it felt, having someone who loved them right back and just as fiercely?

  The baby was growing weaker.

  His kicks weren’t so forceful now. Perhaps a C-section might have saved him but Agatha had point-blank refused to cut her open.

  Martha trailed her fingers over her stomach. Yet more tears escaped, dribbling down her face and soaking into the already soaking pillow slip. Poor little baby. Destined to die before he’d ever even lived. But at least they’d die together. There was a hollow comfort in that. Her boobs ached, engorged with a supply of milk that should have nourished their baby.

  Where was Vadim? Perhaps he could persuade Agatha to perform the C-section. Or would he? Promise or not, somehow Martha didn’t think he’d be able to follow this one through.

  Oh, how she wanted him, but she was too bloody scared to ask for him. for if she saw her darling Vadim crumble, then she’d know for certain that every last scrap of hope was gone.

  Fool that she was, despite everything she knew—or thought she knew—the tiniest sliver of hope remained; one solitary thread that kept her from losing her mind altogether.

  Yes, she was scared. Not so much for herself or the baby.

  Dying was easy. Living was hard.

  No. Vadim was the one who worried her the most.

  His life had been so tough. He’d already lost so much.

  So what would losing her and their child do to him?

  Losing? Lost? Such silly little words. Death was a better word. For all its stark brutality, at least it was honest.

  What was she thinking? Why was she wasting time when this might be her last chance to say goodbye? Whether he crumbled or not, she needed to see her husband one last time.

  “Vadim,” she croaked. Her throat was ruined, wrecked by all her screaming. “I want Vadim.”

  The sound of Martha’s voice immediately woke Agatha from her catnap. “What was that, lass?” she asked, stiffly rising from her chair.

  “I want Vadim,” Martha repeated in a stronger voice.

  “B-But you canno—”

  “Goddammit!” With the last of her strength, Martha pushed herself up into a semi-sitting position. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do. If you don’t bring my husband, right now, I swear I’ll get out of this bed and go find him myself!”

  “Alright, alright.” Thankfully, Agatha didn’t put Martha’s empty threat to the test. “Effie? Wake up, girl. Go and find Harold. Tell him to bring Lord Edgeway at once. He’s probably at one of the taverns. Oh, and tell him to hurry up about it.”

  When the summons came, Vadim sobered in a heartbeat.

  Ignoring the concerned glances of his companions and the tingling cramp in his legs caused by sitting for too long, he jumped up from his seat and ran from The Masons into the fresh terror of the new dawn.

  At such an early hour, the streets were all but empty save for the stable boys as they went yawning and bleary-eyed about their duties. And it was to the stable yard Vadim headed first. After spending the night holed up in a smoky tavern, he did not want to appear before Martha reeking of ale, sweat, and smoke.

  Stumbling to the horse trough, he availed himself of the pump, sticking his befuddled head beneath the blasting jet of cold water in an attempt to clear it. Gasping with shock, he wrenched his arms from his leather jerkin and cast it to the cobbles. Then, pulling his shirt over his head, he screwed the garment into a tight ball and used it to hurriedly scrub at himself.

  There. He would have to do. Although Harold’s countenance had not seemed overly grave as he’d delivered Martha’s summons, knots of tension twisted his stomach. He dared not tarry any longer.

  Grabbing his discarded jerkin, he pulled it on and set off toward the keep at a run.

  Upon reaching the door that led to his chambers, Vadim all but kicked the door open. “How is she?” he demanded, stepping into his private solar.

  But for once the room stood empty.

  Everyone must be in with Martha.

  Heart hammering wildly in his throat, Vadim strode for the bedchamber.

  But as he reached the threshold he suddenly hesitated.

  What news awaited him beyond this door? It took all the courage he possessed to walk inside and find out.

  “Martha?” Barely acknowledging Agatha and Effie, he hastened to her bedside. “I’m here, love. I’m here.”

  Slowly, Martha’s eyelids flickered open. “Hello, you,” she said huskily. Were it not for the accursed swell of her belly, she almost seemed like her old self.

  Taking off his jerkin and throwing it to the floor, Vadim crouched in the straw and took Martha’s hand. How pale and weary she looked to his eyes. He kissed her beloved fingers, savoring the feel of her little hand in his.

  “Well, this is a new look for you, Lord Edgeway,” she said, smiling as she looked him over. “But I like it.”

  “Hmm?” Vadim glanced down and realized he was bare-chested having discarded his damp shirt in the stable yard. No wonder young Effie had blushed so fiercely when he entered the room. “Oh. Yes… I, er, had a quick wash before I came.”

  “Ah.” A knowing light twinkled in Martha’s eyes. “That kind of evening, was it? I only wish I could’ve been with you. Getting shit-faced sounds fantastic. Did Anselm and Edric take care of you?”

  “Yes.” But he had no desire to talk about Anselm and Edric, not now he was here, back in his rightful place by her side. “How are you coping, my love?”

  Martha sighed. “I won’t lie to you, hon. I’ve had better days. ”

  He rubbed her hand briskly between his as if by doing so he could somehow endow her with some of his strength. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not as grim as you imagine. First babies are quite often late, or so every woman I have encountered during the past few days has taken the trouble to tell me.”

  But for once Martha didn’t return his smile. She had that look again. An expression so serious it terrified him. “Listen, sweetie,” she began. “D’you remember that conversation we had earlier? You
know, the one about cutt—?”

  Not this again. “I remember.”

  “Well, it’s time. You need to ask Agatha to—”

  “No.” ’Twas a flat out, non-negotiable refusal to the point of bluntness.

  “But you must. You promised me. Please, Vadim.”

  “No!” Shaking his head, he pulled his hand from hers and scrambled to his feet. “I love you, but I will never countenance such an unspeakable act. Never!”

  Please! She mouthed the word at him, her eyes brim-full with shimmering tears. One shining droplet escaped, and then another, trickling down her cheek, each one pulverizing his heart. But how could he possibly obey her when doing would condemn her to certain death?

  How could he even consider exchanging her life for that of their child? It was an impossible choice. He could not. He would not choose!

  But what was the alternative? If he did nothing he would lose them both.

  Scrubbing his hands over his bristly face, Vadim began pacing the modest dimensions of the room. “Fuck.” Unbidden, one of Martha’s favorite curse words flew from his lips. How well it suited the occasion. It felt so good that he said it again, this time with more feeling. “Fuck!”

  But Martha didn’t swear. She didn’t even smile. She just lay there, looking up at him from the bed, her big blue eyes overflowing with liquid sorrow until Vadim could not bear it and more.

  “Please, love. Do not ask me, I beg you. Ask for anything else and I will carry out your wishes in an instant, but not this. Not this terrible… thing.” Sitting on the bed, he took Martha into his arms, cradling her head to his chest. “How could I live with myself?” he croaked as the first tears formed within in his own eyes. “How would I cope knowing that I’d sentenced you to death?” She had to listen. He had to make her see the intolerable position she’d placed him in.

  Martha sniffled. “But I’m going to die anyway—”

  “No, you’re not! Not you.” The easy way in which she spoke her own death lit a flame of anger within him. “The Spirits didn’t send you all this way to have you die in childbirth. I cannot accept that. I will not, do you hear me? Fight, Martha. Fight!”

  He kissed her once, briefly. Fiercely.

  “Where is the woman who bested Lord Godric, eh?” he demanded, gripping her by the shoulders and holding her away from him. “Where is the woman who single-handedly saved Anselm from his fate? Where is she, Martha? Where has she gone?”

  “She’s tired, Vadim. Sore and effing knackered.”

  Her cheeks were still damp but at least she’d stopped weeping. From deep within the watery depths of her eyes flashed a spark of her former fire.

  “Effing?” Vadim chuckled. “What’s this? Such politeness from you now. My, how you have altered, countess. I hardly recognize you anymore.”

  Martha struggled in his arms. “If you’re trying to piss me off you’re doing a fantastic job, m’lord.” The way she said m’lord sounded more like bastard. He liked it. “I’m warning you, Vadim. don’t make me say something I’ll regret.”

  “And yet I am unmoved. Go on, love. Do your worst. Speak to me as you will.”

  Martha’s struggles paid off and she managed to break free of him. “Oh, this is very nice, isn’t it? Here I am on my fecking deathbed and now you want an argument. Typical.”

  “Harken to me, Martha.” Vadim cupped her angry face between his hands, forcing her to look at him. “Understand me well. I am your lord and master and you belong to me. You’re mine. You will not die. Do you hear me, woman? You do not have my permission. I expressly forbid it.”

  “Belong? Forbid? Woman?”

  Dangerous words. Inflammatory words.

  Vadim sensed Martha’ s temper ignite. Gaining in momentum, it spread with all the haste of a forest fire in summer. And he was standing much too close to the flames.

  “Don’t you woman me, you bastard. How dare you talk to me like that!” She slapped his hands from her face as he tried to seize her again. “Don’t touch me, you arrogant fecker!” She took another a wild swipe at him, her fist narrowly missing his arm. “I think you’ve been spending way too much time with your fuckwit brother lately. He must’ve turned your head.”

  Vadim chuckled to see her furious. So alive. “Tell me, wife, are you ready to stop malingering and push our child out into the world, hmm?”

  “Oh, you bet I bloody am.” Kicking back the bed-covers, Martha swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Though the sight of her puffy ankles smote his heart, Vadim could not allow himself to weaken. Not now she was ready to do battle again. “Help me up,” she snarled.

  Agatha scurried over to the bed, clucking in dismay. “What are you doing, m’lady?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Upon my word, this is most unseemly. You will do yourself an injury—”

  “Tough. I’m tired of waiting. Effie? Please hand me my shawl.” Martha extended her hand for the garment. “Now!” she growled when the maid hesitated a moment too long.

  Agatha threw up her hands. “Very well. If you proceed in this madness, I cannot be held accountable for any mishaps that may follow. On your own heads be it.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Martha snarled, clinging to Vadim’s arm as she hauled herself out of bed. “Because everything’s being going so bloody well up until now, hasn’t it, Ags?”

  Agatha frowned and planted her hands on her well-rounded hips. “A countess you may be, madam, but beneath your finery you are naught but the stubborn, foul-mouthed chit you always were.”

  “You say that like it’s… a bad thing.”

  Vadim strove to hide his smile. Their bickering heartened him a good deal. If Martha could hold Agatha at bay during another contraction then there was still some after all.

  On regaining her feet, Martha snatched the shawl from Effie’s outstretched hand. “I can manage, thanks,” she said, dashing away Vadim’s hand when he tried to help arrange the shawl about her shoulders. “Just get me out of this sodding room, will you? I’m sick to the bones of seeing it.”

  Slowly, they all shuffled out into the main room of the solar. Agatha accompanied them, constantly hovering at Martha’s other side.

  Edric must have brought Forge back home for the dog rose from his spot by the fire and whined a song of pure joy upon seeing his mistress again. Perhaps sensing Martha was near her time, he did not leap up at her as he usually did. Instead, he repeatedly wound his shaggy body about her legs like a large gray cat.

  Martha laughed. “Oh, you daft thing.” Still clinging to Vadim, she bent down to pet the laughing beast. “I’ve only been gone a few hours. What are you like, eh?”

  It was good to hear her laugh again.

  For the best part of an hour, they paced to and fro. Back and forth, humans and animal alike. Each breath, each footstep, was a study in perfect synchronicity. Eventually, Martha forgot to be cross with everyone and accepted a goblet of mulled wine from Agatha, sipping at it as she walked. Soon she was back to her merry self, smiling up at Vadim with her customary sauce.

  “So,” she said at last. “How many more children d’you reckon we should have, m’lord?”

  Vadim felt the blood drain from his face and into his boots. More children? Erde! What a thought. “Oh, just the one will be sufficient, thank you, love.”

  “Spoilsport. I thought you’d at least demand a spare to go with your heir.”

  But Vadim’s mind was quite made up. He was experiencing some of the worst days of his life—and there had been plenty of those thus far. If Martha did survive this ordeal there would certainly be no more babies—no matter what she said. Or did!

  He would insist on separate beds—separate bedchambers if necessary. Yes, with a sturdy bolt on the inside of his own door. That would put a stop to her wantonness.

  The only problem was, Vadim trusted himself
just as little as he trusted Martha. Whenever they were alone together—in their bedchamber or anywhere else for that matter—it was impossible not to touch her. She was always so warm and welcoming. Her luscious body just made for…

  The outer door suddenly swung open, so violently it crashed into the opposite wall, making the small table by the door tremble.

  Anselm stood in the doorway, breathing hard, and leaning rather heavily upon his walking stick. His eyes widened on seeing Martha up and about and taking a walk with her attendants but he was too short of breath to comment.

  “Is something amiss, brother?” Vadim asked, at last, being the first to recollect his wits. Clearly, his brother had some news to impart.

  “Ma,” Anselm gasped. “M-Ma!”

  ’Twas difficult to believe Anselm had once been one of the finest trackers and swordsmen in the land. Now, not a shadow of his former vigor remained. He moved like an old man, so out of condition was he.

  “Ye-es?” Martha prompted as Anselm fought to control his breathing.

  “Ma… has c-come.”

  “What?” Vadim’s heart leaped for joy.“Ma’s here? Now? In Edgeway?”

  Anselm nodded and leaned in the doorway, his face positively gray with exertion.

  “B-But… how is that even possible?” Ma’s prolonged illness over the last winter had almost seen the end of her. Surely their paternal grandmother was far too frail to have traveled such a goodly distance? Welcome as these tidings would be they could not possibly be true. Anselm must have been misinformed.

  But Martha believed him. “Oh, thank god!” she cried. “Who cares how she got here. Just bring her to me.” Effie and Agatha appeared equally relieved. Now the three women grinned broadly at one another, not a trace of animosity remaining.

  “I’d better go and restore order to the birthing chamber,” Agatha said. “We all know how particular Ma can be. Come along, Effie dear. Make haste.” Still smiling, they hurried inside the bedchamber.

  After escorting Martha to one of the high backed fireside chairs, Vadim went to assist his brother who still stood in the doorway. With one hand on his stick, Anselm held onto the door frame with the other, his knuckles white with strain. He looked most dreadfully ill, even worse than Martha. His thin face was so gray and clammy, he looked as if he might fall into a swoon at any moment.