King's Errand

by N. J. Layouni

  Speaking of wives, Martha fancied she caught Seth and Bren smiling fondly at each other on a couple of occasions. Then again, the two of them had always been good friends. Was it foolish to hope that some day, when the pain of their respective losses had eased a little, they might eventually become something more to each other?

  Only time would tell.

  “Why can’t I be steward?” Anselm demanded, rather sulkily, glaring daggers at Vadim. “Despite everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me, do you?”

  “I do trust you. Implicitly—”

  “So why won’t you—?”

  “Because you’ve been invited to the wedding, too.”

  “I have?” Vadim’s revelation brought Anselm screeching to a stop mid-rant. “Whatever for?”

  “Listen and I’ll tell you.” Vadim began to read directly from the parchment: “Princess Catherine specifically requests the attendance of all her rescuers and their respective families on this, the most joyous of occasions… ” Grinning, Vadim looked up. “You see? There’s no getting out of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Damn it.” Anselm’s jaw pulsed and his eyes flashed silver. “Can’t you write and tell them I’m sick or something?”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Vadim asked, a wicked smile curving his lips. “Surely you aren’t still pining over—?”

  “No, I most certainly am not!”

  Martha laughed. “Ooh. The lady doth protest too much, I think.”

  “Which lady?” Anselm snapped. “What the devil are you talking about now, woman?”

  Poor Anselm. His affection for Princess Miriam was so obvious. No matter how hard he fought against it, falling in love with her had altered him. Perhaps forever.

  Oh, to those who didn’t know him, he probably seemed the same as he’d always been; arrogant, brash, and brimming with his own importance. But to those who knew him better, the Anselm before them was a quieter, far less cocky version of the man he’d once been.

  Although he still laughed often, and played as hard as he trained, Martha wasn’t fooled for a minute. Even on those rare occasions when Anselm roused himself enough to flirt with a woman, it seemed more of a reflex action and was never more than half-hearted.

  Heck. He didn’t even chase the serving wenches around the castle like he used to. The majority of his free evenings were spent in the tavern where Edric’s niece—Joy—worked. There, he kept her friend Alice company until Joy had finished her nightly shift. Although the unmarried knights envied Anselm for having two beautiful women on the go, Martha had long suspected that it was Joy and Alice who were the actual couple. Anselm was merely a friend; their cover, at need. It was a friendship that benefited all three of them equally.

  “I’m not going.” Anselm leaped up from his seat and raked back his damp golden hair. “Tell them anything you like, Vadim, but there’s no way I’ll be going back to Stanrocc. Do you hear me? Not now. Not ever.”

  Stanrocc.

  Two months later.

  Anselm craned his head this way and that, checking his appearance in the looking glass.

  “How do I look?”

  “You look lovely, Anselm,” Martha assured him as his efficient valet fussed about brushing invisible specks from the shoulder of his already pristine tunic.

  “Lovely?” Not exactly the compliment he’d been angling for.

  “Extremely handsome, I mean.”

  Better.

  Even so, he wasn’t convinced. “You don’t think the cut of the tunic is somewhat… staid?” His valet gave an annoyed little huff, but he continued dusting Anselm off like he was a crusty old relic he’d just dug out of the attics. “And I’m not sure about this silver trim, either. It’s rather overdone, don’t you think? Perhaps… ” Anselm glanced at his silently seething valet. Dared he say it? Oh, to hell with it, “a little too far on the wrong side of gaudy? Perhaps I should wear the gray, instead.”

  This proved too much for the portly little valet.

  “Really, m’lord,” he cried, hands waving in a dramatic fashion. “I must protest in the strongest terms. Your words have wounded me deeply, indeed they have. Stabbing me with your dagger would have been a less painful wound for me to bear.” The poor fellow clutched at his bosom. “Gaudy, indeed! Aye, for shame. In all my live-long days, I never heard such a vile accusation… ”

  From her place by the window, Martha gave a snort of amusement. The sound was enough to recall the offended manservant to his proper senses. Taking a deep breath, he murmured a somewhat strangled “Countess” and, with that, he flounced back into the dressing room, closing the door none too quietly behind him.

  Anselm winced. “Oops. That’s torn it.”

  Martha giggled. “You do realize he’ll probably never speak to you again?”

  “Quite possibly.” Anselm hadn’t meant to cause offense but tonight was much too important to risk ruining over a few hurt feelings. He wanted to—no—he needed to look his very best for the upcoming feast, which was why he’d enlisted his sister-in-law’s aid, hoping she might give an impartial womanly opinion on his attire. Thus far, however, Martha had been none too helpful. “I still think the tunic is a little long—”

  “Oh, just listen to me, would you?” Getting up from her chair, Martha came over to where Anselm preened before the long looking-glass. “Stop fretting. You look fantastic, Anselm. Gorgeous, even. Extremely lush.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “A great compliment.”

  “Really?” He turned to look at her, despising himself for his feeble neediness.

  “I shit you not,” Martha declared solemnly, holding up the palm of her hand. “If you took a deep breath you might see yourself the same way I do.”

  “Hmm.” He turned to observe himself in the looking glass once more, trying to see himself with a less critical eye. Perhaps his poor offended valet was right. The fine woolen fabric of his dark blue tunic did suit him rather well, he had to admit. Turning this way and that, Anselm strained to have a proper look at his rear.

  Beneath the hem of his tunic, his thighs looked firm and well-muscled within their snug-fitting trews. He’d even had his hair trimmed for the occasion so that it lay in smooth golden waves about his shoulders. (Amongst her other skills, Aunt Lulu had proved herself something of a skilled barber, what with her nasty pink comb and those frighteningly sharp rainbow-hued scissors of hers.)

  Right down to the soles his highly polished black boots, the reflection in the looking glass was the perfect study of a handsome and successful young nobleman, the exact image he wanted to portray.

  Tonight was the formal dinner. After so many months, he’d finally see Miriam again, and he needed to make a good impression. He had to regain his composure and hang on to it, especially while in her presence. He could not afford a slip up.

  Oh, why had he come back to Stanrocc? So much for his grand declaration back in Edgeway that he would not go. He honestly hadn’t meant to agree, but in the end, the temptation of seeing Miriam again, the chance to bask in the light of her presence once more, had been too much of a draw.

  What a love-sick fool he was. What good could possibly come of his partiality for the princess? She remained as far beyond his reach as she’d always been. Even so, Anselm did not possess the strength of character required to turn the invitation down and then to stick to his decision.

  The pain he would undoubtedly suffer later on was a reasonable enough price to pay for the joy of being able to look upon her beloved face again.

  Just as he always had—except when he was training or bathing—Anselm wore the miniature Miriam had given him next to his skin, hanging from a stout gold chain about his neck. A wiser man might have left her likeness safely home in Edgeway, but over recent months he’d become so accustomed to its familiar weight that he’d been unable to leave his
most prized possession behind.

  It would feel like abandoning a friend, for that little portrait had sustained him through some of his bleakest days. However, a painting could not satisfy all the hungry cravings of his heart. Only being with Miriam again could do that.

  Just then, Vadim entered the room, freshly returned from having delivered his precious heirs to their Aunt Agatha and her balding beau for the evening. As Martha turned to look at her husband, she greeted him with a smile of such affection Anselm felt like an intruder.

  Vadim paused in the open doorway, his dark eyes devouring his wife.

  “Are you alright, hon?” Martha hastened to her husband’s side with a look of concern.

  “Am I alright?” Vadim smiled. Taking her by the hand, he pulled Martha to him. “Now there’s a question, love. If by that you mean having my heart pierced by the radiant vision of such loveliness standing before me then yes. I am very much alright.”

  Martha smiled and moved closer to her man and Vadim took her in his arms, drawing her nearer until they were chest to chest, thigh to thigh.

  “You are talking about me and not Anselm, I hope?” she asked with a laugh.

  “No-one could ever hope to compete with your beauty, wife.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Anselm realized Vadim was right. Martha did look rather comely this evening. Clad in an elegant gown of sweeping blue silk with her hair piled up on top of her head, tamed to submission by a veritable galaxy of jeweled pins, she looked almost regal. If Vadim regarded her possessively, he had every reason to, in Anselm’s opinion.

  Hell, just look at him. The man couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  Standing on tiptoes, Martha whispered something in Vadim’s ear.

  “Minx!” he growled against her lips. “I will deal with you later, countess.”

  Quite undeterred, Martha dragged Vadim away to the partial seclusion of the alcove by the window. Then, brazenly linking her arms about his neck, she stood on her tiptoes again, murmuring more seductive nonsense against her husband’s ear.

  Vadim chuckled and pulled Martha even closer, his hand resting in a place that a man of breeding ought never to venture in such a public place. Not that Martha was behaving any better.

  In no mood to witness their tender frolicking, Anselm turned away to ponder his appearance in the looking-glass again. To his disgust, he could see Vadim canoodling with his wife in the reflection behind him. How unseemly.

  Fortunately, at that awkward moment, Aunt Lulu wandered into the room with her maid in attendance, making final adjustments to the sleeve of her gown even as they moved. On seeing her niece and husband, Lulu sighed and shook her head.

  “If those two make it down to dinner on time it’ll be nothing short of a miracle. Honestly, Martha. Would you let the poor lad come up for air for a moment?”

  Predictably, neither of the happy couple took the slightest notice of the older woman’s sage advice.

  “And what about you, Hansel?” Quite understandably, Lulu turned away fro the revolting spectacle by the window and focused her attention on him instead. “How are you feeling, about… tonight?” She could not speak any plainer, not with her maid still fussing over her gown. Even so, her meaning was perfectly clear.

  “I’m feeling rather ill if you really want to know.” Indeed, his stomach churned so wildly Anselm felt as if he might puke. Not that there would be much to bring up, for he’d barely eaten a morsel all day.

  “Well, you look really handsome, so you do,” Lulu said, gently touching his cheek. “And if your lady doesn’t fall in a swoon at your feet, I shall be most surprised.”

  As good as it was to hear such words, Miriam certainly wasn’t his, and she never would be—well, only in the secret spaces of his heart. Still, Anselm was happy to accept approval wherever he could get it, even from Aunt Lulu.

  “Thank you, m’lady,” he said taking her liver-spotted hand and holding it affectionately in his. “In that case, perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to escort you in to the feast? I am counting on you to sit close by me to bolster my courage when required.”

  Lulu flushed pink, but she looked pleased. “Wouldn’t you rather have a younger woman on your arm? Not that I’m not flattered, of course.” She patted her elegant hair. “It isn’t every day such a handsome young fella wants my company.”

  “Well, I do,” Anselm answered firmly. “Indeed, I cannot think of anyone else I’d rather sit beside.”

  Lulu tilted her head and smiled at him, her merry eyes a-twinkle. “To be sure, you’re a terrible liar, Hansel, but you’re a sweetheart all the same. Thank you, dear.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  While Vadim, Martha, and Lord Reynard made their way through the crowd to take their places at the top table, Anselm tucked Lulu’s hand beneath his arm and steered a heading for an unobtrusive spot at one of the lower boards.

  Just as he had spied the perfect place, partially concealed by one of the vast pillars that supported the arch of the lofty ceiling, Anselm heard Sir Hugh calling to him.

  “Hey, Anselm!” His booming voice cut through the hum of a hundred lively conversations like a knife through butter. “Over here, man.” Hugh waved at them, too, just in case they’d not heard his loud bellowing.

  Resigned to his fate, Anselm gave a weary sigh and escorted Lulu through the crowd to where Hugh and Beatrice sat. They couldn’t have selected a more prominent position, and so uncomfortably close to the top table, at that.

  Feeling horribly exposed, Anselm helped Lulu onto the bench beside Beatrice, whereupon the two women immediately fell into friendly conversation.

  Once his guest was comfortably settled, his duty as her escort duly performed, Anselm made his way around the table sit beside Hugh. To tell the truth, he was heartily glad to see his friend again for Hugh and his family had made the move south many months ago. It seemed an age since they’d last spoken with each other. Having shaken hands and dispensed with the polite greetings, Hugh assumed the role of host and picked up the tall swan-necked silver pitcher and proceeded to fill their goblets to the brim with ruby-red wine.

  “’Tis a lovely drop of grape juice, this. What a pity Fergus has missed out, eh?” said Hugh, cheerily.

  “Indeed it is.” Anselm had to raise his voice to be heard over the constant babble of happy chatter. “He would have enjoyed attending such a grand affair.”

  Since returning from their quest, Fergus had wasted no time in establishing a home and a new life for himself and Effie within the vast sprawl of Lord Reynard’s castle—Fergus’s future inheritance. However, as the time of the wedding of the season drew near, it so happened that Effie would be entering the most dangerous stage of late pregnancy, and nothing could entice Fergus away from her side.

  It was left to Lord Reynard to make the long journey south bearing a suitably worded apology on his son’s behalf, as well as a special gift for Princess Catherine and her new husband. Their present came in the form of sheet music, a brand new piece Fergus had composed especially to mark the happy occasion. Along with the music, he had sent his and Effie’s warmest wishes and their sincere hopes that the couple would be blessed with much happiness and children of their own.

  Being male and not prone to gossiping for the sake of gossip, it didn’t take Anselm and Hugh long to catch up on all the news they had missed. So, when Hugh began rambling on at great length about the merits of a horse he’d recently purchased, Anselm was left with little else to do but listen, emit the occasional grunt, and nod his head occasionally, leaving him quite at liberty to fire furtive glances in the direction of the top table.

  But he was out of luck. The king and his family had still not arrived.

  How much longer? Hungering for Miriam’s appearance—and dreading it at the same moment—Anselm’s nerves soon unraveled, transforming from solid steel into wisps of sodden s
tring.

  Gripping the metal stem of his goblet, he battled to keep his composure from slipping too badly. What was wrong with him? He could barely breathe let alone cobble together a coherent thought. An inner maelstrom of swirling emotion was fast getting the upper hand.

  Courage, man.

  For want of anything better to do, he raised his goblet to his lips and took a generous swallow. The wine was a special import, no doubt. One of many offerings that had been specially shipped in for the upcoming wedding. It might as well have been brackish ditch water for all the notice Anselm paid it.

  Up in the minstrels’ gallery, the sound of harp, lute, and drum combined in a soft, heavenly sound. Drifting gently downward, it slipped smoothly into the occasional breaks in conversation. Anselm tried to calm himself by focusing on the individual notes of the melody, but it was nigh on impossible, especially with old Hugh still jabbering on about that blasted horse of his.

  Most likely unaware of what he was doing, Hugh reached across the table, blindly groping for his wife’s little hand. Upon finding his prize, he began to absently caress her delicate fingers. Beatrice was still deep in conversation with Aunt Lulu. Although she did not so much as glance in Hugh’s direction, Anselm could not help but notice how her hand tightened about her husband’s massive paw. A mutual, unconscious, display of affection, quietly loving her man just as he loved her.

  Anselm experienced a sharp pang of envy. What must it be like, to go through life with a partner so in harmony with oneself?

  Perhaps they were just lucky.

  Wasn’t true love supposed to be an arduous road to travel, one fraught with great suffering and peril along the way? All the poets and jongleurs declared this was the case. Even Anselm’s own experiences of love seemed to tally with the general consensus.

  And yet…

  As he stared at Hugh and Beatrice’s entwined fingers, a curious thought struck him.