A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella)

by N. J. Layouni

  From the corner of his eye, Anselm glimpsed movement up at the sentry gate at the second level. Clearing the guards, Harold strode through the gate into the lower bailey and headed in their direction.

  For a moment Anselm feared the worst, but since Harold’s gait wasn’t unduly hurried, he deduced that the man had no fresh tidings to impart.

  Anselm exhaled a long breath. To learn that Martha was gone would distress him a good deal. Indeed, he was rather fond of the girl. In his own way.

  Over recent months Martha had become Anselm’s confident, a personal confessor, of sorts. Now he considered her a dear friend; one he would not willingly give up. While he might not believe in the Gods, Anselm had great faith in his sister-in-law’s indomitable spirit. In her strength and her stubborn bloody-mindedness. In short, her will to live. If anyone could survive the coming trial it was her.

  As Harold walked toward him, Anselm raised his chin in acknowledgment. To his astonishment, the great-bearded giant reciprocated the greeting in kind. For Anselm, being acknowledged by a member of Vadim’s innermost circle of men was something new.

  Thus encouraged, he shuffled along the wall making space for Harold to join him in propping up the curtain wall if he had a mind to. Mercy of mercies, Harold accepted this silent

  invitation. Planting the sole of one boot to the wall behind him, the big man leaned back against the very stone block Anselm had vacated and, together, they watched their master stumbling about and ranting incoherently to himself like a madman.

  Another group of women and children approached. Carefully skirting Lord Edgeway, they hurried by, but as they departed many a concerned glance was cast over their shoulders.

  No wonder.

  Vadim was the glue that held Edgeway together. He was their guardian, their protector. The solitary pillar of strength that supported their own small corner of the world. His was always the voice of reason; a staunch advocate for all that was fair and just.

  A man the rest of them could rely on.

  But if the worst should happen, what then? Would Vadim take his charges with him on his voyage to destruction?

  A thick shroud of gloom and watchfulness seemed to have fallen over the mighty fortress of Edgeway, trapping them all within its thick deep web of waiting.

  Always the fastest method of spreading word, the castle gossips had made short work of passing along news of Martha’s condition. Soon, every grim detail was known by every inhabitant. Even in the town of Edgeway, people had probably learned the grim tidings by now.

  Throughout the day, although people still went about their business, there were few smiles to be had. No one lingered or stood chatting, not even Mrs. Bunn and the cronies outside the bakery.

  If anyone did speak, it was in voices little louder than a murmur. Even the animals seemed to have picked up on the dark mood of their masters for the hens and geese were already huddled quietly together in the safety in their cozy coops. The horses, meanwhile, stood silently in their stalls, listlessly chewing their hay. Even the dogs were unusually quiet, and there was not so much as a solitary stable cat was to be seen anywhere.

  For the umpteenth time, Vadim raised the jug of wine to his lips, spilling a good deal of it down the front of his shirt. In the half-light it looked rather like blood, and perhaps it was blood, for when he’d emerged, shocked and ashen, from Martha’s birthing chamber he’d been covered in the stuff.

  “How long has he been out here?” Harold asked gruffly.

  “An hour? Perhaps three.” Anselm shrugged. He’d ceased heeding the passage of time quite a while back.

  “’Tisn’t right,” Harold grumbled, “him carrying on like that while his wife lies dying. Someone ought to speak to him.”

  Anselm nodded approvingly. “An excellent idea, Harold. Tell me, how do you plan on approaching him?”

  “Me?” In other circumstances, Harold’s wide-eyed look of astonishment might have been amusing.

  “Have a care, though,” Anselm continued. “As amiable as our master usually is, I fear he’s a most unpleasant drunk. You should have heard how he spoke to Seth earlier.”

  Some time ago, while Vadim was still in the throes of getting himself well and truly pickled, Seth had come, bringing with him some gentle words of consolation for the man he’d raised as a son.

  Alas! His well-meaning kindness had done no good at all. If anything, his presence only served to inflame Vadim’s wrath, making him even angrier.

  In a violent eruption, Vadim rounded on Seth, subjecting him to a barrage of curses of the most colorful kind. “Now be gone!” he roared, at last, the tip of his sword wavering dangerously close to his step-father’s belly. “Leave me in peace!”

  Hands raised, had Seth backed away slowly.

  In this case, a tactical retreat was definitely the wisest course of action. As a reformed drunk himself, Seth would realize how predictably a man in Vadim’s condition might behave.

  Back in the present, Vadim stumbled again, this time tripping over the blade of his own sword. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to get his legs back under him.

  “Watch out,” Harold remarked, cheerfully as Vadim flailed uselessly in the air with one arm, keeping tight hold of his wine jug with the other. “Over he goes!”

  Vadim went down hard and fell sprawling onto the cobbles. Laughing rather maniacally to himself, he set his pitcher down with great care then he rolled onto his back, where, lying in the muck and filth, he began cursing up at the stars.

  Here was a man wretched beyond imagining, with neither hope nor dignity to sustain him.

  “Well, someone ought to speak to him,” Harold muttered. “He’s going to do himself a real mischief if he keeps this up much longer.”

  The weight of Harold’s stare pierced Anselm’s consciousness making his neck prickle. Slowly, he turned his head. He didn’t care for the meaningful expression he found in the big man’s eyes, nor the way he stroked his neat black beard so thoughtfully.

  “What?” Anselm snapped. “Just say it and be done, damn it.”

  “Well, you are his brother… almost. Perhaps you could—?”

  “Me?”Anselm felt his eyes bulge in their sockets. “Oh, I think not. No! Absolutely not.” Pushing himself off the wall, he groped wildly for his walking stick. “Stop looking at me like that. I won’t do it, I tell you.”

  “Why not? He might listen to you.”

  “Aye. He might. Or he might decide to run me through instead.”

  Harold grinned and slapped Anselm playfully on the back, the force of which almost felled him. “Perfect. Either way, we cannot lose.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Oh, don’t be like that.” This time Harold gave Anselm a friendly punch on his upper arm, hard enough to make his fingertips tingle. “I was only jesting with you.”

  But Harold’s smile faded as he saw Vadim trying to scramble onto his feet. A moment later, he hit the cobbles again, but this time the precious pitcher he’d nursed so carefully flew from beneath his arm and struck the ground, shattering with a loud smash that echoed about the bailey.

  There couldn’t have been that much wine left in the vessel, not with the amount of swigging—and spilling—he’d been doing. Even so, Vadim threw back his head and howled like a soul in torment.

  “This can’t go on,” Harold said softly. “Surely even you can see that?”

  “What would you have me do, eh?” Anselm hissed in the darkness.

  “He’s your bloody brother. Talk to him—”

  “And risk getting diced into chunks? Not bloody likely. I’m rather attached to the current order of my body parts.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He probably won’t lash out at you, what with you being a cripple and all.”

  Charming!

  “Oh, that’s right. Take advantage of my infirmity, why don’t yo
u? For your information, I am not a cripple, merely a man recovering from a life-threatening injury.”

  Harold shrugged. “I haven’t seen too much in the way of recovery lately—Cripple!”

  “Ugh.” Anselm shook his head in irritation. “Here’s another idea. Why don’t you and that band of scoundrels you call friends try to creep up and disarm him? I’m sure a giant such as yourself could easily restrain one drunken man.”

  “Happen I could, but I durst not try it. Not whilst he’s still armed. Nay. Half-cut or not, Lord Edgeway is much too deadly with a blade.”

  “Well he doesn’t look particularly skillful now, does he?”

  Vadim was crawling over the cobbles trying to retrieve his sword from where it had fallen. Using his fingertips, he reached out and slowly pulled the blade towards him. The metal screeched and squealed horribly upon the cobbled, quite setting Anselm’s teeth on edge.

  “I wouldn’t care to put him to the test.” Harold began to untying a wine-skin from his belt. “Look, just go over and offer to help him up. Here, give him this.” He thrust the wine bladder into Anselm’s hand. “I reckon he’ll be glad enough to see you, then.”

  “Oh, very well.” With a huff of annoyance, Anselm tightened his grip on the wine-skin wishing it was Harold’s neck. “But first know this,” he said, wagging a warning finger at him. “If I get myself killed, I will come back and haunt you every single night for the rest of your miserable life.”

  Harold chuckled and gave Anselm another good-natured slap on the back. “I consider myself amply warned. Truly, you are the bravest of men, Sir Anselm. The boldest knight I ever knew.”

  “Yes, yes. Very droll, I’m sure. Just be ready to come to my aid if I need you.”

  Vadim was down on his knees, staring wistfully at the distant keep. Bright candlelight flickered and burned within the casement of his chambers.

  As Anselm drew closer, he saw Vadim’s lips moving, shaping soundless words.

  Was he… praying?

  Anselm hesitated and leaned upon his stick. ’Twould not be right, disturbing a man at his devotions, drunken though they were.

  But it was too late to retreat now for, on hearing Anselm’s approach, Vadim slowly turned his head.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded, his head swaying from side to side as he tried to focus.

  Damn Harold. There was no turning back now.

  Gripping his cane more securely, Anselm stepped out from the shadow of the curtain wall. “’Tis only I. Anselm. Your brother.” Your brother? What was he thinking? Even half-cut ’twas most unlikely that Vadim should have forgotten who he was.

  “Did no one ever warn you of the danger of creeping up on an armed man, brother?”

  “Creeping?” Anselm arched his eyebrows and rapped the metal tip of his walking cane upon the cobbles. “I could hardly be accused of that. Stealth, I fear, is simply beyond me. Even the hard of hearing would hear my approach.”

  But Vadim didn’t smile. “Do you have any news? If not, pray be gone. Leave me alone with my thoughts, bitter companions though they are.”

  Clearly, Vadim was in no mood for idle chit-chat, so Anselm frantically grappled for another way to engage his attention. Suddenly he remembered the wine bladder.

  “No news yet, I’m afraid. But I thought you might be able to find a use for this.” He held the wine-skin out to him, the liquid jerking and sloshing within the confines of its soft container. “I saw you drop your bottle, so I—”

  “How thoughtful.” Vadim beckoned Anselm closer. “Hand it over before I grow too sober.”

  Anselm obeyed then he stepped back a pace or two, carefully putting himself out of reach of the tip of Vadim’s sword. His brother was sorely in need of a verbal slap to rouse him from melancholy, and Anselm was just the man to deliver it.

  “By the bones of the Great Spirit, you really are an unpleasant drunk. Even worse than Seth, if such a thing were possible.”

  Vadim’s eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously in the darkness. “This is not a good time to bait me, brother. Consider this a fair warning. Now, go. Before I do something we both might later regret.”

  “Not before I’ve seen you safely back onto your feet. Can you rise unassisted or shall I summon help?”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Anselm. You fuss like an old woman. Believe me, I am perf-perfectly well.” Uncorking the wine-skin with his teeth, Vadim took several thirsty glugs then swiped his sleeve over his mouth.

  Anselm grimaced, unable to conceal his disgust. Thank Erde Martha wasn’t here to witness her mate’s decline. She would be appalled. Aye, and extremely angry too. He half wished Martha was here for her ire was always entertaining to behold. When roused to temper, the fair countess owned a mouth like a midden.

  Slapping the cork firmly back into the neck of the wine-skin, Vadim extended his hand to Anselm.

  “Your aid, sir, if you please.”

  “Hah! So I was right. You cannot rise without assistance.”

  “Of corsh-course I can.”

  “Go on then. Prove me wrong.”

  To his credit, Vadim tried valiantly, but to no avail. His long legs just kept hindering him, too much heavy wine having rendered them wobbly and disobedient. In fact, Vadim rather resembled a drunken flailing spider with legs too numerous to control.

  “It seems,” Vadim said at last “that you may be right. Perhaps I am ever so slightly foxed.” Squinting, he held his thumb and forefinger apart to indicate just how slightly slaughtered he actually was.

  “You don’t say.”

  Sweeping back his long hair, Vadim grinned up at him like a fool. “Come on, Anselm. Lend your brother a hand.”

  “Oh, very well.” With his walking stick firmly gripped in one hand, Anselm extended the other down to Vadim. Then, bracing himself as best he could, he attempted to pull his brother up onto his feet. The task proved nigh on impossible, however, for Vadim kept spinning round and around whilst chuckling to himself. “Would you… at least… try to use your legs, man?”

  But like the utter dolt he was, Vadim only laughed some more and toppled over again.

  “Why the hell… did you suddenly decide to take up drinking? Surely you’ve seen—stand up, damn you!—enough of its… ill-effects over the years to dissuade you?”

  “How can you ask such a thing?” Tightening his grip on Anselm’s wrist, Vadim hauled himself back onto his ever-shifting feet. Only he wasn’t laughing now. “Lest it has escaped your notice, brother, my wife lies gravely ill up there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the keep. “The only woman I have ever loved… and she might die.” With a heartfelt sigh, Vadim scrubbed his hand over his face. “They threw me out, Anselm. Can you imagine such a thing? The woman I love lies dying and here I am, shut away in the cold… banish-banished from her side.”

  “I know,” Anselm said softly. “I was there too, remember.” He cleared his throat to shift an unexpected tightness. He knew only too well how it felt to be shut out at such a time.

  On one fateful long-ago night, while Anselm had been a prisoner, locked up in one of the smoking huts back in Darumvale by his own father, his dearest Isobel had slipped beneath the mill’s foaming waters for the final time. Her decision to depart life, to lose herself in the icy waters, apparently being a better choice than having to face the misery of the present all alone.

  Or she’d believed.

  That was the deepest cut of all, knowing Isobel had departed the world believing Anselm no longer cared. Of all the sins Seth had committed before and since, imprisoning him was the crime Anselm could never forgive.

  Over the years, he’d often wondered what Isobel’s final thoughts might have been. Not knowing had tortured him in the silent watches of many a long night.

  What had sustained her during those last bleak moments of life? Anger? Despair? Sadness? Perhaps a combi
nation of all three. Had she thought of him? As the end approached, had she called his name out into the night? What had fueled her grim determination to exit life?

  He would never know. Isobel had been dead for almost as many years as she’d lived.

  “We all need help on our journey through the dark,” Vadim said, his voice trembling with emotion. “My beloved Martha has long been my most trusted companion and greatest support. I fear I am lost without her. In the bleakness of her absence, wine has become as vital to me as your walking stick is to you. Yes, I’m drunk, but I’m not quite so addled as you might believe. Not really. I am much too wretched, you see, and so the comfort of oblivion is denied me. But at least liquor helps numb the pain of all this interminable waiting—waiting to hear those terrible words that will surely be too heavy a burden for me to bear.”

  “The only flaw with your thinking is that it doesn’t really work, does it?” Anselm patted Vadim’s back in a useless gesture of comfort. “You cannot outrun this, brother. You cannot block out the bleakness. Your crutch only exacerbates the hopelessness of it all.”

  Vadim regarded him curiously. Of course, he had no idea of the despair Anselm had suffered during those first agonizing months after Isobel had taken her life. Wracked with grief—in a desperate bid to make the hurting stop—Anselm had torn several leaves from the pitiable book his father had written on the subject of how a man might carry the burden of painful loss.

  And so, following Seth’s example, Anselm had greeted his miserable sentence of forever by wallowing in the deepest, darkest depths of many cups. It was weeks—or months—before he finally came to the conclusion there was no permanent respite from the pain. No hiding place where he could avoid his grief and sorrow. After so many years living with a drunkard of a father, he should have known it sooner.

  Constantly running was an exhausting business. Experience dictated that it was usually best to turn about and confront whatever chased him, to face his assailant head-on. Other than death, this was the only way he knew of finding any kind of lasting peace.

  Leaning on his walking stick, Anselm said softly, “Maybe your woman will die, brother. Then again, maybe she won’t. Whatever lies ahead, at least Martha knows you are nearby, that you love her as much as she loves you. Don’t run from this misery, m’lord. Embrace it and be glad, for