Vadim was not a gambling man but one thing was plain: Rodmar wanted his family back by his side where they belonged. What man would not?
Therefore—unless he was much mistaken—their mission would surely be to provide the king’s loved ones with an armed escort home, thus ensuring their safe passage to the Norlands.
What a grave responsibility it would be, for the road to Wendelsae was long and arduous. The badlands in particular had earned the same grim reputation as its name for it was said to be the haunt of bandits and murderers, of deserters turned criminal. If word of their mission were to leak into the wrong ears, the consequences could be severe. After all, the opportunity to kidnap the queen and her entire family was a sure and certain way for such desperate men to earn themselves a veritable dragon’s hoard in gold and treasure.
Vadim rubbed the back of his neck trying to ease his tightly-knotted muscles for the potential dangers of this mission had already given him a thundering headache. But with at least one lady and several children making up their return party, his megrim was sure to worsen.
He had better go and purchase more willow-bark before they departed Stanrocc. Where they were headed he would certainly require a good supply of it.
When the messenger arrived in Edgeway. Martha and Aunt Lulu were outside tending the herb garden.
Flanked by two guards, a strange man strode toward them, a small leather packet tightly clutched in his gloved hand.
Martha’s heart lurched. A messenger. From Vadim, perhaps? The man’s stern, unsmiling face was enough to make anyone fear the worst. “What is it?” she demanded, scrambling to her feet.
The messenger gave a slight bow. “Countess?”
“Yes. That’s me.” Her stomach flipped like a pancake on Shrove Tuesday. She wanted to hurl. Or to run. Or both.
“I bring word from your husband.” The man extended his hand and offered her a packet that was roughly the size of an envelope. What news did it contain, good or bad?
Hands trembling, Martha retrieved a few coin from the purse hanging at her belt. “Thank you,” she said, exchanging the silver pieces for the leather envelope. “If you will go with the guards to the kitchen,” she added, forcing herself to smile, “they’ll see that Cook gives you a good lunch. Please, don’t leave us until I’ve had time to write a reply.”
“Thank you, m’lady.” With another polite bow, the messenger marched away with the guards to claim his well-earned refreshment.
The moment they were gone Martha ripped open the wax seal, her sweaty fingers slipping and shaking in their haste to get at the letter inside.
“So?” Lulu looked up from where she was still kneeling by the flower bed, shielding her eyes from the sun. “What does your young man have to say for himself, then? It is from Vadim, I take it?”
“Oh shit!”
“What’s wrong, love?” Abandoning her gardening, Lulu got up, brushing the earth from her hands.
Martha wanted to scream. On opening the letter, she’d managed to overlook one rather important fact. “I can’t fecking read a word of this, that’s what.”
“Why?” Lulu asked with a frown. “Has it smudged or something?”
Or something! “No. It’s written in sodding Latin… or Old English, I don’t know which. Whatever language it is, I can’t understand a bloody word of it.”
“Oh dear.”
Martha closed her eyes and exhaled a long trembling breath. One of these days she was going to have to get someone to teach her to read. In the meantime, who did she trust enough to read Vadim’s letter? Most of the castle folk couldn’t read at all. Sure, she might have asked one of the knights for help, but she didn’t particularly want any of those guys snickering at her personal correspondence. The problem was, Seth was away on business, and Agatha and Edric had taken the twins for a day trip to Edgeway. So who else could she ask?
“Come on, Lulu,” Martha said, hauling her aunt up off her knees. “Let’s go.”
After spending the best part of half an hour running about the castle like headless chickens, they finally spotted Beatrice, with her young son Toby in her arms, standing outside the bakery where she was chatting with Mrs. Bunn.
“Bea!” All propriety forgotten, Martha grabbed Lulu’s hand and hurried toward her friend. “Oh, thank god I’ve found you.”
Beatrice frowned. “Is something amiss, m’lady?”
“Yes… no… Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. Please would you read this to me?” Martha wafted her missive in the air, absently stroking the baby Toby’s plump red cheek at the same time. Poor little mite. He was teething and having bit of a rough time of it.
“Of course.” Beatrice kissed her fretful son, who seemed intent on cramming the whole of his pudgy fist inside his mouth, and handed him to his nurse. “Wait here for me, Ida. I won’t be long.”
Together, Martha, Lulu, and Beatrice hurried away to find a quiet spot in the shadow of the curtain wall. Then, without another word, Martha handed over her precious letter.
Beatrice almost snatched the parchment from her hand, her pale blue eyes scanning the message from side to side as she quickly read its contents.
“They have arrived in Stanrocc, and they’re all in good health,” she announced, her lovely face relaxing into a relieved smile. “Oh, thank the spirits!”
Martha slowly released her death grip on Lulu’s hand. “Go on, Bea’. Keep reading. What else does he say? When are they coming home? Will it be soon?”
As she read on, Beatrice’s smile slowly faded and then it went out. “No,” she said, softly. “I’m afraid not. Not for quite some time.”
Chapter Fifteen
Fergus pulled down his mask. “How much further until we reach the next village?” he yelled over the undulating scream of a huge dust storm.
But Vadim and Reynard didn’t hear him. Huddled beneath their cloaks, they hugged their horses’ heads to their chests trying to prevent the beasts from inhaling too much dust. At the same time, they studied the wildly-flapping map being held by Blaine and Warner.
“Another hour or so,” Anselm shouted from behind his mask, answering Fergus on Vadim and Reynard’s behalf. “If only this infernal storm would ever let up, that is.”
Fergus crouched down beside him. “How would you know?”
Because Anselm was bored out of his wits, he was in the mood to be obliging, even to Fergus. “Oh, I’ve been around, dear boy,” he cried. “I haven’t spent all my life in the Norlands, you know.”
Fergus coughed and hawked up a glob of something unpleasant from his throat and spat it on the ground. “Ugh. Bloody dust.”
Men, horses, and pack animals, they all huddled together, cowering within the ruins of what must have once been a large barn. Now all that remained of the structure were two partially fallen walls without a roof. Hardly the ideal shelter in which to weather out a dust storm of this magnitude. Still, it was better than being caught out in the open.
Fergus rearranged the folds of his cloak about his fretful horse’s face. “Hush, my lass. I’m here.” He pressed his head to hers, trying to soothe the jittery mare.“The storm will soon blow over.”
Anselm’s mount handled their unexpected delay in a much more stoic manner. Half asleep, Arion stood with his head bowed, nose resting upon Anselm’s shoulder, his nostrils hidden beneath the protective gray shroud of his master’s cloak. Anselm’s shoulder ached with the weight of its equine burden, but he had not the heart to push the beast away. It was quite a pleasant sensation, really, feeling the warmth of Arion’s hay-sweet breath as it pushed between the fibers of his garments as the horse inhaled and exhaled. The animal’s slobber, however, wasn’t quite so enjoyable. His shoulder was positively saturated with the horrid stuff.
“I take back what I said about the sea crossing,” Fergus shouted, for some reason addressing this remark to Anselm. “Every b
lessed word.”
“Oh?” Anselm pulled down his mask and spat. “I found the voyage quite enjoyable, actually.”
“Aye. Probably because you didn’t spend the entire journey leaning over the side of the ship, hurling up your guts every other minute, did you?”
“A fair point.” Anselm smiled. Poor Fergus. His first time aboard a ship had been anything but smooth sailing, for the youth proved to be a truly terrible sailor. He had almost vomited himself inside out on his maiden voyage, unable to stomach anything at all save the warm ginger and honey infusions that Lord Reynard kept plying him with. “The first time is always a trial. You’ll cope better on the homeward journey, I expect,” Anselm said, replacing his mask.
“Hah!” Fergus grunted. “I wish I had your confidence.” Reaching for his water, he swilled out his mouth and spat the contents to the ground. “That infernal dust gets everywhere.”
That much was true. Anselm was heartily sick of crunching grit between his teeth, but there seemed no point in rinsing it away. It was a waste of precious water. Besides, he’d only have to repeat the process a minute later. Beneath the flimsy protection of his mask, his nostrils were coated with a hard crust of dust and sand. His eyes itched terribly but he resisted the urge to rub them. That would only worsen the irritation. It would be have been better to follow Arion’s example and keep his eyes closed for there was nothing to be missed by his not looking. Nothing to be seen out there in the world beyond the hot, howling wall of dust.
If, indeed, the world still existed.
Closing his eyes, Anselm tried to nod off, which should have been a simple task for he’d slept so little over the past few weeks—and never in a proper bed. But still sleep managed to elude him.
Their journey thus far hadn’t been unduly hurried. Even so, from the outset Vadim had set a pace that left little time for idling. As a result, Anselm’s newly repaired muscles were weary to the bone. Once again, a recurring vision of a hot, deep bath came to torment him. He would willingly gnaw off his own arm for the promise of a nice long soak followed by an undisturbed night’s sleep in a feather bed.
Forcing out the noise of the dust storm, within his mind he constructed a picture of his rooms back in Edgeway. Clean, well ordered, and quiet. The tranquility of his chambers were a thousand leagues away from this screaming brown hell.
The image shifted, and this time he imagined himself standing beside the cheerful blaze of a good fire. Some kindly soul had set his wooden bathtub beside the hearth, and wisps of fragrant lavender steam drifted up from the water, teasing his nostrils. Anselm inhaled a long deep breath.
But his imagination hadn’t finished with him yet. It had other delights with which to torment him. On a low stool beside his bath sat a frothing tankard of golden ale and, to go with it, a platter of warm, juicy meat. Oh, was that… lamb? A rush of saliva filled Anselm’s parched mouth. He moistened his cracked lips with his tongue. He could almost taste the sweet, succulent—
“You can’t possibly be asleep!” To his annoyance, Fergus’s loud voice penetrated the wondrous mental vision he’d been so carefully constructing, instantly ruining it.
“There’s not much chance of that, is there?” Not with Fergus wittering on at him all the time. What did the wretched fellow want, anyway? “You’ve picked a hellish moment to strike up a conversation with me, Fergus. Lest it’s escaped your memory, I’m the devil incarnate, remember? You know, the traitor. The turncoat. The week-old reeking contents of a well-used chamber-pot. Lord Godric’s evil—”
“I remember.” Fergus’s eyes crinkled over the top of his mask. “And I meant every word. You’re all of that and more besides. Still, you have to admit, the chamber-pot line was a good one.”
Anselm snorted. “I admit no such thing. At best, your paltry efforts merely showed promise. I fear that your education in the art of delivering a truly worthy insult is sadly lacking, my lad.”
“Oh? Then I’m sure I’ll pick up a few tips from you along the way.”
“Let us hope so. Anyway, why are you being so civil to me all of a sudden? Truth be told, it’s all rather unnerving, having you in a pleasant mood for a change.”
“Is that so?” Fergus gave a muffled laugh. “In that case, I shall have to be civil more often if it discomforts you so much.”
Anselm frowned. Whatever Fergus was up to, he didn’t like it, not one bit. “Well I for one much preferred your silent glowerings. Now, why don’t you run along and play with your little friends, eh? I’m sure any one of them would welcome the distraction.”
“Actually, I don’t think they would.” Fergus’s eyes twinkled. “Lest it has slipped your notice, m’lord, I’m about as popular as a dose of cockrot at the moment. For some peculiar reason, no one seems to want anything to do with me. Well, with the exception of Father and Vadim, but I can’t include them because they’re usually unfailingly polite to everyone.”
Anselm laughed. “Surely this can’t come as a great surprise to you? Thus far on our journey you’ve been nothing but an utter bore.”
Fergus nodded. “True enough.”
“A griping, whining, sour-faced, mithering young pillock—”
“Yes, I get your meaning.”
But Anselm wasn’t done yet, not by a long way. “A petulant, snide, sulking—”
“Enough!” Fergus cried, his eyes flashing dangerously. New leaf or not, his feelings were apparently still too raw to withstand a proper ribbing.
“Sorry.” Anselm grinned behind his mask. “But on a more positive note, your behavior has been of immense use in increasing my own popularity.”
“Huh. So I’ve noticed. Even Father doesn’t avoid you as much as he used to.”
“Poor Fergus. How does it feel, hmm, knowing you’re even less popular than the company turncoat? Doesn’t that vex you at all?”
Fergus laughed. “Not particularly. You may have been gifted with a silver tongue, Sir Anselm, but people will come to their senses eventually. One day they’ll remember and see you for what you truly are.”
“A handsome, extremely charming fellow, I assume? A man much maligned and misjudged by a cruel and unforgiving world?”
Fergus snorted. “With such a high opinion of yourself, I cannot wonder why you’ve always seemed so immune to the barrage of slights and insults that follows you wherever you go.”
“Can I help it if men envy me and women want to be with me? The pity is, not everyone has the good fortune to be born with my natural grace and charm. I also have rather a thick skin, which is just as well really.”
Fergus shook his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Ah, but you are warming to me, aren’t you?”
“Definitely not.”
“Liar!”
At that moment, almost as quickly as it had risen, the tumultuous storm finally began to ease. The tortured howls of the sand demons gradually died away and, little by little, the impenetrable veil of dust thinned then faded into nothing.
In its wake, only silence remained. An ear-splitting quiet of jarring intensity.
Overhead, a chink of blue sky shyly broke through the clouds, and the sun followed on behind it. Suddenly, as one, a multitude of countless birds took to the air, rising on the wing and singing a chorus of a new dawn.
Like wary rabbits peeping out from their burrows, one by one the men lowered their scarves and hoods and scrambled onto their feet. As they did so, slithering rivers of dust and sand cascaded to the ground, slipping from their hair and clothing in fluid-like heaps.
The horses raised their heads and looked about them, snorting the remnants of the storm from their nostrils, and shivering the filth from their manes.
Suddenly, everyone began talking at once, as if to reassure themselves they were still alive. There was much laughter and jesting, an audible rush of bravery now that the mighty storm had finally
passed them by. Huge drifts of sand remained, heaped like dirty snow against the barn’s ruined walls. The wagons were axle-deep in the stuff, the pack animals almost buried up to their hocks and needing to be dug free.
After tending to their beasts, the men used their dwindling water supplies to rinse the dust from their own bodies, trying to make themselves look presentable. Oh, but what a frightful sight they were, every last man of them. Even Vadim looked like a vagabond with his long dark hair sticking out stiffly at peculiar angles from his head, thick with a coating of dirt and grime. When he met Anselm’s eyes, he smiled, his teeth dazzling white in his dirty face.
“How fare you, brother?” he called. “Did you enjoy the breeze?”
“Aye, that I did, m’lord. ’Twas most refreshing, although it seems young Fergus here,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the lad, “was not quite so keen on all that buffeting.”
Vadim laughed. “Never mind. The worst, I hope, is behind us. One more night sleeping in a barn and our next stop will be journey’s end.”
“Oh?” Anselm immediately pricked up his ears. Until now Vadim had steadfastly refused to discuss their destination, yet now here he was freely volunteering information. “And where might that be, eh?” Anselm had looked over the old maps stored away inside his brain, but rather like himself, their knowledge was dusty through lack of use. However, he was certain there was a town of a goodly size quite close by. Oh, but for the life of him, although the name tickled his memory, he could not now recall it.
“Haldenberg,” Vadim said, obligingly supplying Anselm with the name of the town at the exact moment it was about to trip from his forgetful tongue.
Haldenberg. That was it.
Once, long ago, he and Lord Godric had taken a trip overseas, a leisurely tour of excess and revelry. Although their party had not journeyed quite so far as Haldenberg, some of his master’s noble cronies had mentioned a rich, impressive town that nestled upon the ledges of a steep hill, close to the sea.
King's Errand Page 16