Beaming broadly, Hugh stood a little taller. Dressed in his finery, and with his neatly-trimmed hair and beard, he looked decades younger than he had whilst on the road.
“I need nothing, my liege. Being allowed to return home to my wife and son with my honor restored is all the reward I need.”
“Hmm. But you must want something.” Rodmar thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne. “I know,” said he, suddenly. “I shall return the lands that were promised to you upon your marriage.” Lands that Rodmar had promptly confiscated when he’d first come to power. Prime hunting lands not far from the capital if Anselm remembered rightly. Lands that were Hugh’s to begin with. How generous of the king to return them.
But what Rodmar said next surprised even Anselm’s inner cynic.
“I’m led to believe there is a small manor house nearby, one whose lands adjoin your own estate,” Rodmar rose from his seat and lightly bounded down the three steps of the dais. “All of this I give to you, Sir Hugh, Baron of Farthingdale.”
What? Anselm’s eyes almost bulged from their sockets. He’d made Hugh a bloody baron? Oh, this was a turn-up and no mistake.
Indeed, old Hugh suddenly looked rather pale and wobbled dangerously on his feet. So much so, that Anselm felt compelled to loan him a steadying arm to lean on until the worst of his shock had eased. Once recovered, Hugh cast himself down on his knees before the king.
“Thank you, my liege. Oh, thank you!” Reaching for the king’s hand, Hugh kissed the ring of office Rodmar wore on the smallest finger of his right hand.
“You accept your prize, then?” Rodmar said, looking amused.
“Aye, sire. With all my heart, I do.”
“There, now. Stand up, my friend. I would not have you grovel before me, not such a mighty man as yourself.”
Once more grabbing onto Anselm’s arm for support, Hugh scrambled to his feet, his knees giving several loud pops and creaks of protest.
“My lady wife will be so pleased, sire.”
“I sincerely hope so. It heartens me to know that you and I shall soon be such close neighbors, Hugh.”
Moving on, Rodmar spoke with Fergus and then with Percy. To their utter astonishment, he insisted on knighting both of them on the spot, and with his own sword. Not only that, but to go with their new knighthoods, the king announced they would each to be given an annual income, one generous enough to give them independence and the means to support a family.
Anselm smiled at the slack-jawed look of wonder on Percy’s face. So much for his wish to continue as his squire. Still, only a fool would turn down such a gift.
In contrast, Fergus couldn’t stop smiling. He shook Rodmar’s hand repeatedly as if it were the handle of a water pump, as he thanked him over and over again until at last, with a laugh, the king was forced to withdraw from Fergus’s enthusiastic effusions.
Anselm was happy to see that Fergus’s luck had finally turned. By all accounts, his reunion with Effie had gone much better than expected, so much so that the young woman had already begged Martha’s leave to return home with her husband.
“Ah, and last of all, I come to you, Sir Anselm.” Rodmar stood before him and regarded him closely, his hand lightly resting on the hilt of his sword. “Former foe; the painful burr in my hide.” Percy and Fergus snickered. “How shall I express my gratitude to you, I wonder? To a man with enough secret wealth to support a modest shire for many years.”
How the devil had he learned about that? Deciding it would be better to remain silent, Anselm respectfully bowed his head while he still had a head to bow. He doubted the king had anything pleasant in store for himself.
“Ah. You do not trouble to deny it, I see.”
“Nay, sire. I do not.” Anselm chanced a glance at his king. “A man with no family of his own must make what provisions he may to save himself from poverty in later life. However, my nest egg is far more modest than you might suppose, my liege. Just large enough to provide me with a regular, albeit meager, income to sustain me through my twilight years. No more than that.”
“Meager?” Rodmar chuckled. “Not a word I would have ever associated with you and your lifestyle, Sir Anselm. Come now, I did not bring you here to discuss your gains—however ill-gotten they might prove—but to reward you with a small token of gratitude for your efforts on behalf of my sisters.”
“Your thanks is reward enough, sire.” Anselm chanced a smile. “That, and being allowed to keep my head. I’ve become rather attached to it over the years.”
“Aye, and to your reflection too, no doubt, you handsome beggar!” said the king with another snort of amusement. Really, he was in such good humor today. Such friendliness as this Anselm had never expected, and he wasn’t alone, for even Vadim had cause to raise a quizzical eyebrow.
“Dare I ask,” Rodmar continued in the same teasing tone, “if there is a lady who awaits your return to Edgeway, hmm?”
“No, sire. There’s no one.” Well, not in Edgeway, at least. How friendly would Rodmar be if he ever learned of Anselm’s involvement with his sister?
“Would you like one—a woman, I mean? I know of several respectable ladies who are keen to secure a brave and noble husband.”
Ye gods! An arranged match? Never.
“Then they would be most disappointed with me, sire. With regret, I’m afraid I must decline any introductions of that nature. After all, no respectable woman deserves a man of my reputation. For of all our sakes, I think it best that I remain single.” Only Miriam would do for him now. The whole situation was quite devoid of hope.
“Then what boon would you ask of your king? Speak.”
Since Rodmar obviously wasn’t going to let the subject go, Anselm said the first thing that entered his head. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a new courser, or a palfrey would serve just as well. Either that or a new pair of swords, for my sister-in-law ruined my most prized set by throwing them on the fire.”
“She did what?” The king looked as horrified as only a fellow warrior could, and at that instant Anselm felt quite an accord with his king. As if seeking confirmation, Rodmar glanced at Vadim.
“’Tis true, sire. Every word,” Vadim replied, the beginnings of a smile playing about his lips.
“Then I would have you grace the top table tonight to favor us with a full account of the sad fate of your beloved swords, Sir Anselm.”
“Of course, if it pleases you, sire. But I warn you now, ’tis a rather melancholy tale, sour enough to spoil the finest wine.” Even after all this time, Anselm still hadn’t quite forgiven Martha for her wanton destruction of his favorite weapons.
“Excellent.” Rodmar slapped Anselm hard on the back. “Go, then. Seek yourself a horse from my stables then ask my personal swordsmith to create a pair of swords for you of your own design.”
And with such words, they were dismissed. Free to do as they would until that night’s feast.
The celebration dinner was all that Anselm had feared and more.
The double-edged pleasure of sharing a table with Princess Miriam was bad enough, but having to sit there and say nothing to her whilst she conversed with a hoard of knights and other highly unsuitable men, all of them flirting and vying for her attention, was nothing short of pure torture.
Anselm had never been so grateful for Martha’s company. From where she sat between himself and Vadim, her merry, oftentimes incomprehensible, chatter kept him diverted when the urge to pummel someone threatened to overwhelm him. When she wasn’t speaking of Edgeway or making him grudgingly smile with the tales of the many doings of her addled aunt, Martha was quizzing him with details of their quest. In this manner, Anselm survived several interminable courses.
He dared not look directly at Miriam again, for he’d done so at the start of the evening and the mere sight of her had almost been enough to unman him. She looked incredible
… absolutely ravishing; glowing with some inner light that drew men to her like a moth to candlelight.
Anselm kept Miriam at the periphery of his vision, just enough to be constantly aware of her and of everything she did. Suddenly, he realized how often Miriam’s eyes sought him, silently beseeching him to turn his head and look her way.
But—yellow-backed coward that he was—Anselm did not dare.
When Martha turned away to speak to Vadim, however, these were the most dangerous moments. Anselm might have sought conversation with the courtier seated to his other side had she not already been occupied with fluttering her lashes at one of the knights. So, left unattended, Anselm forced himself to concentrate on his food, shoving the dish before him around his plate, hardly bothering to taste it, until Martha demanded his attention again.
Fortunately, Anselm had already decided upon a subject that was ripe for discussion.
“What’s happened there?” he asked, nodding across the table to where Effie sat neatly sandwiched between Fergus and her father-in-law, Reynard. Even more surprising, the three of them were laughing and chatting together, apparently having a fine old time. “It’s quite a reversal, don’t you think?”
“It’s been a long road for them to get to this point, that’s for darn sure,” Martha replied, smiling unnoticed at her former maid. “But they got there in the end, so that’s all that matters.”
“But how did it actually come about?” Anselm propped one elbow on the table and rested his chin upon his hand. “Come now, sweeting. Confess all to Anselm. I’m sure you know all the ins and outs of their reunion.”
“Nope. My lips are sealed. Oh, and a word to the wise; stop referring to yourself in the third person. It’s more than a little bit creepy. Besides,” Martha said, changing the subject with a rather sly look in her eyes, “I’d much rather hear all about your journey home. You know, with the king’s sisters.”
Anselm tensed. “Now who’s fishing for details that don’t concern them?”
“Ah-ha!” Martha cried, rudely pointing her chunk of bread at him. “Spoken like a man with plenty to confess.” Mirroring his position, Martha planted her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “So. Which one is it, then?”
Anselm’s heart leaped, but he managed to keep hold of his composure. “Which one what?”
“Playing dumb, too? Interesting. Very interesting. Okay, then let me put it another way: Catherine and Miriam are both extremely attractive women. After all the miles you’ve traveled together, surely you have a preference for one or the other.”
“Which one would you choose for me?” Anselm asked, just as amused as he was afraid. After all, if he couldn’t speak to the woman he loved, speaking of her was the next best thing.
“Hmm.” Taking her task seriously, Martha looked along the table with a freedom Anselm could only envy. Perhaps not quite so openly as his sister-in-law, he followed the direction of Martha’s stare.
He soon wished he hadn’t, though, for the sight of Miriam decked out in all her regal finery left him slightly giddy. She was, quite literally, breathtaking. By the balls of the Great Spirit! What was she trying to do to him?
With her hair up, arranged in some complicated confection favored by the ladies of court, the slender column of her neck lay temptingly exposed. Almost indecently so. Anselm wanted to hurry over to where she sat, to throw that useless flimsy shawl hanging over the back of her chair about her shoulders, thus covering her naked skin. No wonder she was attracting so many admiring glances.
And that was only her neck.
Her gown was expensively perfect, worthy of a princess. Wrought from the finest blue silk, the fabric was shot through with tiny threads that shimmered silver whenever Miriam moved.
Snugly-hugging her feminine curves and with its low, scooped neckline, the gown was the very height of fashion. But all Anselm could think about, however, was just how revealing the garment was.
In the bright glow of candle-light, Miriam’s beauty shone out for all to see. No other woman could compete with her loveliness, both inside and out. As she conversed with the guest to her immediate right, her eyes sparkled warm amber, like the finest brandy. The man was tall, blond, and possessed shoulders as broad as a barn door, and a face just as handsome as his smile.
Anselm immediately despised the man on sight. Indeed, he could not ever recall loathing anyone more. Clenching the stem of his goblet in his fist, a low growl built in his throat.
Alas. He’d been too unguarded in his study, and Martha, of course, instantly picked up on it.
“Miriam!” She sounded surprised. “Really? I would’ve thought her sister was more your type.”
But Anselm could not answer. He couldn’t drag his attention away from the princess and her golden giant. Within the brutal grip of his hand, Anselm felt the stem of his metal goblet creak in protest. What a pity it wasn’t that handsome bastard’s neck.
Martha rested a cautionary hand upon his forearm but still, Anselm couldn’t look away.
“Are you okay, hon?” she asked with concern.
“Perfectly well, thank you.” Only he wasn’t. Not by a long way.
While Martha wittered on about something or other, Anselm only heard one word in every ten. Now that he’d dared look at her again, Miriam claimed him fully, body and soul. Whether he liked it or not, he was completely hers. He belonged to her, and only to her.
Tendrils of hair had escaped her graceful hair arrangement and they danced about her face, spirals of black midnight against the desert sand. As Miriam took a sip of her wine, Anselm envied the droplets of moisture clinging to her lower lip, so plump and luscious—only to be swept away a moment later with the tip of her tongue.
Anselm licked his lips, recalling how Miriam’s mouth had felt. Tasted. The way she’d clung to him when…
“Anselm, stop it!” A sharp nudge in his ribs forced him to look at Martha. “You’re staring, hon.”
“So?” He had neither the wits to care nor the will to disguise it.
“And not discreetly, either.”
He shrugged. “As I said, so? Is it a crime to admire a beautiful woman?”
“To admire her? No. But you were looking at her like you were about to gobble her up.”
Mmmm. What a delicious thought that was.
Smiling kindly, Martha patted his arm. “Just be careful, all right? I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that, dearest.” Summoning the brightness of manner that had served him so well over the years, Anselm continued, “Far too late, I’m afraid. Worry not, though, sister. I will rally again, I expect… in time.”
Taking a sip of wine, Anselm forced himself to look about the table at the rest of the king’s guests. Rodmar was deep in conversation with the man to his left, so it was unlikely he would have witnessed Anselm’s momentary indiscretion.
Queen Hortensia, however, was a another matter. From where she sat just a few seats away, she boldly held Anselm’s eye and, smiling, slowly raised her goblet to him.
Unable to do otherwise, Anselm returned the queen’s salute in kind. Damn it.
“How much too late, Anselm?” Martha demanded in a low voice that brooked no argument. “How long ago are we talking here?”
“Ever since we rescued them from the pirates. Maybe even before then.” He took another sip of wine as he considered the question. Really, it had been such a gradual process, he’d hardly noticed love creeping up on him. “To tell you the truth, dearest, I cannot properly remember a time when I didn’t love her.”
“Love?” Martha’s eyes softened. “Oh, Anselm.” She clearly hadn’t been expecting that. Then again, neither had he. “A-And the princess? Does she feel the same about you?”
Another careless shrug. “So she claims, yet witness her now,” Anselm said with more t
han a hint of bitterness, gesturing with his goblet to where Miriam sat further along the table. “See how she fawns over her blond giant. Indeed, he is so handsome, there’s little wonder she hasn’t spared me so much as a glance all evening.”
Martha shook her head. “Not true. The princess is constantly looking this way and well you know it. But unlike you, she’s just a bit more discreet about it.”
“Is that so?” Good. Let her look and wonder. After all, Martha was an attractive woman, too… for a relative. Was Miriam jealous? He hoped so. His character was not yet so reformed that he would wish to spare her a taste of his current pain.
Once the feast was over and the last of the delicious, interminable courses—food Anselm had barely tasted—were cleared away, the troop of servants reappeared. This time, they came bearing wine and brandy—which was always welcome—along with silver platters piled high with colorful, exotic fruits, just in case anyone needed to fill the last remaining corners of their over-stuffed bellies.
Up in the gallery, the discreet musicians, who’d provided a constant backdrop of gentle music throughout the banquet, suddenly struck up a more rousing tune, a composition guaranteed to get feet a-tapping.
Immediately, Rodmar rose from his seat and extended his hand to Hortensia in an invitation to dance. As the king escorted his queen to the spacious area designed for dancing, every pair of eyes followed them. With the confidence of those well used to being observed at every turn, the royal couple began to dance; gliding about the room, they gazed at each other with obvious affection throughout every graceful twirl and swirl.
One by one, other couples gradually took to the floor, following the steps of the king and queen. With a smile and bow, Vadim came to claim his wife from Anselm. Soon the two of them were dancing just like everyone else. Even Effie and Fergus were out there, for goodness sake.
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