Ever since that terrible night when Martha had given birth to the twins—almost dying in the process—a new wind had blown in to Edgeway; a warmer wind that seemed to blow in Anselm’s favor for once. Although the majority of the castle population still actively despised his guts, Anselm found himself in the new and enviable position of having people choosing to speak with him, and civilly, at that.
Thus far, it had only been Harold, Edric’s lovely niece Joy, and—once or twice—Edric himself, but it was a start. Now his streak of luck looked set to continue, for here he was breaking bread with Seth and Reynard—if such a circumstance could be considered good fortune.
What’s more, neither of his companions had tried to physically harm him yet. Truly, his situation was improving.
With an muttered oath, Reynard threw down the bread he’d been shredding to crumbs and, abandoning his seat, he began pacing the length of the great hall. Up and down he strode, from one wall to the other, his anxiety plain to see. Watching his constant movement made Anselm feel quite dizzy.
It was difficult to believe Reynard was the same man who had, just half a year ago, got the better of Anselm during the negotiations which had taken place before the Battle of Edgeway. Usually, when he was not preoccupied with the fate of his only son, Lord Reynard was the calmest of men. Blessed with a quiet but lordly manner, his very presence immediately commanded respect.
Anselm would never admit it, but he rather admired the older man—albeit grudgingly—even though he had made Anselm look like a ranting fool before the combined might of two great armies, curse him.
Ah well. That particular water had flowed beneath the bridge a long time ago.
At least Reynard was showing genuine concern for the welfare of his son. His own father wouldn’t care if Anselm were to vanish from Erde for ever.
Suddenly aware of Anselm’s intense scrutiny, Seth suddenly turned his head to look at him. “What?” he demanded. “Spare me the feel of your poisonous blades and speak your mind, boy.” The tenderness Seth had displayed whilst sitting by Anselm’s deathbed had long since dried up. Ever since Anselm had done the unforgivable and survived his, supposedly mortal, injury.
“I have nothing to say except I am glad to see you are yourself again.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Seth demanded, eyes flashing.
Since the truth was unspeakable, Anselm attempted to wrong foot Seth some other way. “Tell me, m’lord, when do you intend on returning to Darumvale? You have been in Edgeway for well over a month now.”
“Hah! This is a first. You’ve never shown much interest in your boyhood home before… well, except for in the collecting of its taxes. Why the sudden concern, eh? ”
“I still care just as little, I assure you. Only I cannot help wondering how the villagers are faring without the guidance of their wise and kindly chieftain.”
Seth’s eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me, lad?”
“Indeed not. I would hardly dare, m’lord. I should not want you to be missed by those who need you the most, that’s all.”
Raking his hands through his fiery thatch of hair, Seth exhaled through his nostrils like an angry bull. Anselm had to admit, Seth was getting better and better at managing that fearsome temper of his. According to the gossips, he’d not sipped a proper drink in weeks, not even of the well-watered variety.
“Not that it has anything to do with you, but Hemble is overseeing Darumvale in my stead.”
“Old man Hemble? That doddering fool!” Anselm snorted with amusement. “If Darumvale’s fate rests with him I doubt you’ll have a village to return to. He’s probably razed it to the ground by now. ’Tis ironic really,” he added with a laugh. “To think that one old fellow will finish the task my master and I strove for so long to complete.”
“Is he ever quiet?” Reynard said, coming to a halt beside Seth, both men regarding Anselm with dislike.
“Not often, no,” Seth answered. “I still do not know whether to rejoice or be sorry that the former Lord Edgeway did not succeed in some of his final endeavors.”
Anselm’s jaw dropped. Seth truly did wish that he’d died beneath his master’s blade? It shouldn’t have mattered to him one way or the other. Even so, Anselm couldn’t deny the bright flash of pain within his heart. Angry with himself for caring a fig what his sire thought, he said brightly, “Well you never know, perhaps the new Lord Edgeway will have more success.”
“We can but hope.”
Bastard.
If Seth had possessed any residue of paternal feelings he might have noticed that his carelessly slung barb had struck its target. But he didn’t. Instead, with a final look of disapproval, he went to accompany Reynard who had recommenced his aimless pacing, speaking in a low voice that would not be overheard.
Anselm seethed inwardly. So slighted was he, he barely noticed when the doors of the great hall suddenly swung open to admit Harold. As usual, the big man was grinning all over his bearded face as though he were party to some secret jest or other.
“Lord Edgeway, m’lords,” he announced with a flourish and a low bow.
Vadim strode into the hall. Freshly scrubbed and shaved, and wearing a pair of dark fitted trews beneath a long tunic of deep forest green, he looked rather smart for once. His countenance, however, was grim and stony. Taking a seat beside Anselm he immediately addressed Reynard.
“Now you may speak, and as freely as you wish.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I would prefer a private audience, my friend.” Reynard darted a pointed look in Anselm’s direction, his meaning all too clear. But as always with Lord Reynard, he masked his true feelings with a veneer of cool politeness.
“As you wish.” Anselm scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over Forge in his haste. His blood still simmered from Seth’s earlier slight. “Believe me, I have no interest in hearing anything you have to say—”
“Wait!” Vadim placed his hand upon Anselm’s forearm, detaining him when he would have left. “Banishing my brother from our council will not serve you, Reynard. The time for concealment is gone. Whether you like it or not, Fergus and Effie’s elopement is common knowledge. Even as we speak, the castle is humming with gossip. Do not dismiss Anselm out of hand, my friend. Perhaps,” Vadim added, holding Anselm’s stare for several heartbeats, “his presence may be of benefit to you.”
Again Vadim defended him. But as grateful as he was, Anselm had no idea what he could be getting at.
With a graceful shrug, Reynard revealed what he knew, which wasn’t much. He spoke of how he’d been well aware of his son’s partiality for Effie but he’d thought little of it. As far as Reynard was concerned, his son’s dalliance was but a short-lived passion; Fergus’s devotion naught but a symptom of the rising of the sap, a natural affliction for all men of a certain age.
However, Reynard had grievously underestimated the power Effie wielded over his son.
He’d believed the young maid an innocent flirtation, a pretty bed-warmer who would, in due course, be succeeded by a succession of other lovers. Only when the marriage negotiations had begun did Reynard first realize his son’s infatuation with Effie might be a little more serious than he’d first supposed.
Nevertheless, anxious to establish a permanent union between their two ancient families at the earliest opportunity, Reynard arranged a dinner to commence negotiations, inviting Lord and Lady Wolcombe and, of course, Belinda, their youngest daughter. ’Twas during this disastrous meal that Reynard first became aware of how deeply his lovelorn son had fallen.
Course followed interminable course, and Fergus remained determinedly silent, paying no heed at all to his fair dining companion or to the conversation that flowed up and down the table. Keeping his eyes fixed on his board, Fergus idly pushed his food around with his eating knife, barely eating a morsel, although he did better justice to his wine.
> In short, the dinner was an abject failure.
The only mercy was that Lady Belinda seemed equally disinterested in Fergus. Throughout that long evening, she’d devoted all her attention to one of Reynard’s knights who happened to be seated at her other hand. Flirting with him at every opportunity, the young lady paid Reynard’s sour-faced son no heed at all.
Even after hosting such a disastrous meal, Reynard refused to accept that a humble maid servant could possibly be responsible for Fergus’s dour mood. So, once their guests had gone in seek of their bedchambers, Reynard began questioning his son, demanding an explanation for his uncustomary rudeness.
Refusing to meet his father’s eyes, Fergus blamed his low mood upon the onset of a summer cold—although there were no symptoms of the ailment. But because Reynard had wanted to believe his son, he’d foolishly accepted his poor excuse and left it at that.
It was around this time—the occasion of his being introduced to Lady Belinda—that
Fergus first began disappearing. Always alone, he left the castle at sun-up, riding as if all the foul beasts of the underworld pursued him, such was his haste to be gone.
On returning home, many hours later, Fergus would spoon-feed his father a watery gruel consisting of yet more lies and poor excuses, the kind of fare Reynard had come to expect. Nothing Fergus said was at all convincing. But no matter what Reynard tried, Fergus refused to open up. Nothing Reynard said seemed to penetrate his son’s thick shield.
And so, in utter exasperation, Reynard finally asked Fergus outright if he wanted to be joined with Lady Belinda.
Only then did he hear the bitter truth.
“No, Father,” Fergus answered. “I do not wish to be joined with Belinda.”
“And then?” Vadim prompted when Reynard drifted into a pause of thoughtful silence.
“And then? To my lasting shame, there followed a scene that did me little credit, either as a father or as a man.” Reynard gave a heart-weary sigh. “For the sake of family honor, and his duty to me as my son and heir, I demanded that he marry Belinda.” Reynard stared at the toes of his black boots as he idly scuffed at the floor rushes. “I commanded him to set Effie aside.”
Honor? Duty? The anger of injustice burned within Anselm’s guts like acid. Little wonder Reynard hung his head. After what he’d done, he deserved to feel the weight of his personal shame.
Now Anselm didn’t particularly like Fergus, but he could not help but pity him. Still, this was none of his concern. For the sake of his own peace of mind, he could not allow himself to become embroiled in this whole miserable affair. It came as a surprise, therefore, to hear himself saying; “Did he confess that he was in love with Effie?”
Damnation. The question was out before Anselm could stop it.
“Hmm?”
Pushing down on the table, Anselm rose stiffly from his seat. “I said, did Fergus speak of his love for the maid?”
“Whatever Fergus may or may not have told me is no concern of yours,” Reynard answered rather curtly.
To Anselm’s everlasting astonishment, Seth suddenly backed him up. “Perhaps not, but I for one should like to know the whole of it. So tell us, did the lad reveal his heart to you or not?”
Unable to resist the weight of the three pairs of eyes trained upon him, Reynard relented. “Aye,” he said with a nod of his silvery head. “Fergus spoke of his affection for the lass, and I’m afraid I was… less diplomatic than I might have been.”
Anselm snorted, a snake of inexplicable anger writhing within his belly. “Oh, and I can well imagine how you expressed yourself, m’lord.” Being careful to avoid stumbling over Forge who was still sleeping beneath the bench, he limped over to where Reynard stood, confronting the man face to face.
“You told him to cast her off, didn’t you—to crush the maid’s hopes before they were raised too high. That’s why you allowed them to speak together on the night of your arrival in Edgeway, is it not? Because that’s when Fergus was supposed to carry out the deed you had tasked him with.”
“Be silent, snake! Keep your prying nose out of my affairs, do you hear?”
But Anselm could not back down. Not when he knew first hand how it felt to stand in Fergus’s boots. “You forbade him from seeing her, didn’t you?” Undaunted by Reynard’s rising fury, Anselm let loose his outrage at such foul injustice. “Now here you are, the great lord of diplomacy himself, coming to beg for Lord Edgeway’s aid in bringing your errant son to heel.” Anselm gave a burst of bitter laughter. “For shame, m’lord. Beseeching others to repair that which you could not. Have you no dignity at all?”
For the second time that morning, Anselm watched the blood drain from Reynard’s face.
“How dare you address me thus,” he hissed, clenching and unclenching his hands at his side. “Traitorous dog! What right have you, a cur who knows the meaning of neither honor or loyalty, to pronounce such cold judgment upon me?” Reynard leaned closer until they were almost nose to nose. “If I have no dignity, then I say you have even less than that. How does it feel, Sir Anselm, to be wholly reliant upon the goodwill of your brother, the same brother you have long wished dead, hmm?” Reynard’s face contorted into a sneer of hatred, the deluge of bitter words spilling from his mouth in a toxic stream. “Make no mistake, although I seem to tolerate your presence, it is all for Vadim’s sake. Were it not for your tender-hearted brother, I would have finished you off long ago.”
To his shame, Anselm felt a tremor of fear stirring deep within his belly. On some base, instinctive level, he sensed the latent power the older man took such care to conceal beneath his mantle of refinement. Within Reynard’s breast beat a heart as fierce as that of any mercenary.
“Believe me, sir,” Reynard said a little more calmly, “I should like nothing better than to bear witness as you submit to the king’s justice. Ah! To watch your wretched carcass dancing the high jig upon the end of a thick rope would give me naught but the deepest of pleasure.” Reynard’s aniseed-scented breath brushed Anselm’s face, a tiny smile playing over his lips as he imagined Anselm’s body swinging from a high gibbet, blowing limp and lifeless in the breeze. “Alas for me, my dear friend Lord Edgeway has blessed you with the sanctuary of his protection, and so I am bound to respect his wishes. For now.”
“Enough, Reynard,” Vadim snapped. “This is not helping our current cause. Leave Anselm be.”
Raising his chin, Anselm held Lord Reynard’s steely stare. If the old man believed he could be intimidated he was very wrong. Just because Anselm relied upon a walking cane to get about, inside, he was still the same old Anselm. “Oh, there’s no cause for concern, brother. Lord Reynard and I were merely getting the measure of one another.”
Let Reynard glower as he would, Anselm would not be the first to look away.
“Quite so,” Reynard agreed. “And I believe I now know all I need to. Enjoy your reprieve while you can, Sir Anselm. Sooner or later, you will have to pay for your sins. I look forward to seeing what misery the future has already laid in store for you.”
Anselm gave a smug smile, secretly impressed by the size of the old outlaw’s balls. Even so, he still had one final trick up his sleeve. “No matter what happens to me in the future, your son will still be lost to you, m’lord.”
Eyes bulging, Reynard opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish blowing soundless bubbles.
Fortunately Vadim intervened before Reynard could rally his wits again.
“Come, my old friend,” he said, putting a comforting—or restraining?—arm about the older man’s shoulders. “I know you’re worried but the situation is not so bleak as you suppose.” Vadim glared at Anselm, his dark eyes eloquently expressing his displeasure. “Of course Fergus will be found. You may rely upon me to help you in any way I can.”
“Bless you, m’lord.”
“And when you find him, what then?
” Anselm demanded. “What will you do, hmm? Drag Fergus’s sorry backside home whether he wants to come with you or not?” Damn. What was the devil was the matter with him today? Why was he still defending the boy? Really, one of these days his mouth was going to get him into a whole heap of trouble.
Seth seemed in agreement.
“For the love of Erde,” he growled, striding toward Anselm, his hair a-frizz with irritation. “Be silent, boy.”
“Oh, believe me, Seth, I’ve barely begun to—”
Abandoning Reynard at a safe distance, Vadim returned and seized Anselm by the arm. “Do excuse us for a moment, gentlemen.” Then he hissed against Anselm’s ear. “Walk. Now. I mean it. Do not test me, brother. I’ll carry you out of here if I must.”
Anselm believed him. Vadim looked angry enough to erupt. Regrettably, Anselm was not yet fit enough to counter the wishes of the Earl of Edgeway.
Vadim marched from the great hall dragging Anselm along with him, tottering unsteadily at his side. Once the doors closed at their backs, Vadim dismissed the guards with a jerk of his head before rounding on Anselm.
“Reynard’s right,” he growled, the second they were alone. “This affair is none of your concern, Anselm. If you value your life, you will leave this subject alone and cease baiting Reynard.”
“But he’s wrong!” Anselm cried, shrugging free of Vadim’s hold. “If Reynard doesn’t tread with care everything I say will surely come to pass. He will lose his son. Perhaps forever. Can you not see that?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” The expression in his dark eyes suddenly softened. “Brother, with the greatest respect, Fergus and Effie are not you and Isobel,” he said kindly. “Their situation is nothing like your own. You do see that, I hope?”
“Of course I do. Despite what you may think, I’m not some kind of mentally deficient half-wit. But know this, if Reynard does not have a care, that young couple could quite easily finish up the same way as me and Isobel.” He grabbed a fistful of Vadim’s tunic. “If you have any affection for your friend, I implore you, do not allow him to make the same mistakes my father made.”
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