“What are you doing here, brother?” he asked, leaning upon the stall door. “Weren’t you invited to ride out with us this morning?”
“So?” Anselm ran a slow hand over the palfrey’s gleaming flank.
“So, the king and his entourage are only minutes behind me, yet here you are still covered in sweat and filth.”
Looking up from his work, it suddenly occurred to Anselm how well-groomed his brother was. His clothes were smart and neatly pressed; his hair clean and tidy; every buckle and metal fastening gleaming like gold. In short, his appearance was flawless.
Unlike his own.
Lord Reynard arrived, immaculately turned out as always. “Oh, dear,” said he, leaning over the stable door. He even had the audacity to give a snort of amusement. “I fear our liege will not be best pleased with you, Sir Anselm, particularly coming soon after your display at the last night’s feast.”
Darting a vitriolic look at the smirking lord, Anselm thrust his brush into Vadim’s hands and vaulted over the stable door. Pausing only to ask one of the stable lads to get Arion ready for him, he raced from the stable-block heading at speed for the nearest side-door of the palace.
Blood and sand. How had the hour grown so late? He hadn’t a hope of being ready in time.
Just then, someone called out to him.
“Anselm, wait!” He turned and saw Percy running toward him, his arms piled high with an assortment of garments and boots. “I’ve been looking for you,” he cried, a trifle breathlessly.
Anselm gaped, unable to believe his eyes. “Is that—?”
“Your finest hunting outfit? Yes.”
“B-But how… what… ?”
Percy tutted impatiently. “When I heard you moving about your room in the early hours of the morning, I had a feeling you’d be headed down here.” He grinned. “I know you, m’lord. Once you’re with your horses, you lose all sense of time. Come now. Make haste and let me help you get ready!”
Anselm laughed. “Thank you, Percy. Whatever did I do to deserve such an exemplary squire?”
“We’ll discuss that later. Now hurry. Go wash the stink from yourself at the pump. I’ll be waiting in the tack room.”
Minutes later, Anselm sauntered back into the stable-yard, but this time he was dressed in his finery, and smelling as pleasantly fragrant as any pampered courtier. By now, at least a dozen riders were milling around the stable-yard, chatting to one another while they waited for the king to arrive.
As Anselm approached the nearest group, he had the distinct satisfaction of seeing Lord Reynard’s jaw drop.
“What do you think? Will I do, m’lord?” Anselm quipped brightly, twirling about with his arms outstretched so that Reynard might fully admire his outfit: the well fitted black trews, the fine black tunic edged with gold, the ensemble topped off with a fur-lined sable cloak that swirled about his highly polished boots as he walked.
The ever-efficient Percy had even thought to bring Anselm his comb, also a bottle of the exotic, woody perfume he’d picked up on their travels overseas. The fragrance helped conceal any lingering odor of horse that the water pump had been unable to remove.
“You look like a posturing peacock,” Reynard declared before turning away to speak to one of his cronies.
Vadim wandered over, the reins of his mighty horse, Tarq, draped loosely over his arm.
“Well played, brother,” he said with a knowing smile. “I’m sure Princess Miriam will greatly appreciate Percy’s efforts on your behalf.”
Now it was Anselm’s turn to have his jaw drop. Miriam… was coming, too?
But before he had the opportunity to bombard Vadim with questions, there was a cheerful commotion at the far end of the stable yard, heralding the arrival of the king, his two sisters, and Lord Radleigh.
Immediately Miriam’s eyes sought Anselm. Locking onto to him, her stare held him captive. All he could do was stand there like a slack-jawed imbecile and watch her approach.
When her lips curved into a secret smile meant for him alone, Anselm was lost, utterly and irrevocably. Her radiance struck him anew with such force it was almost like a physical blow. His knees trembled in a such an unmanly manner he was compelled to reach back and lean against Vadim’s horse for support. Either that or risk an ungainly tumble onto the slick cobbles.
Thank the spirits for Percy. How could Anselm have faced his dark angel while dressed in his stinking rags? Lit up by the early morning sun, Miriam was a vision of womanly perfection. Everything about her dazzled and enthralled him. Even the way she moved seemed designed to pull him deeper under her spell.
Beneath the skirt of her deep-burgundy hunting gown, her hips swayed a seductive rhythm as she walked toward him, the fabric molding enticingly to the contours of the shapely limbs it was supposed to conceal. Her cloak suddenly parted, offering him a glimpse of her tightly-laced bodice and the tempting swell of her creamy breasts.
Anselm tried to swallow but suddenly his mouth was as parched as the desert lands in which his dearest girl had been born. With a pained grimace, Anselm rearranged his cloak to disguise his sudden discomposure, the beast in his trews roused once more from its slumber. Unable to look away from the approaching goddess, he tried to repress the response of his body, but even thinking of pox-ridden hags and gnarled grandmothers did naught to help his cause.
Be still, damn you. But his battle was in vain. Unfortunately for him, Anselm’s body now answered to a new owner.
Whilst the king was occupied with speaking to some of his most favored friends, Miriam sauntered over to where Anselm and Vadim stood. There was something different about her today. She seemed… poised, confident. A woman certain of who she was and what she wanted.
Vadim chuckled. “You’re on your own, brother,” he murmured as he turned to walk away. “Good luck.” Then he was gone, taking his horse—Anselm’s living crutch—with him. Somehow he managed to remain up on his feet, although his knees still felt rather weak.
“Good morning, Princess,” Anselm said, exerting himself enough to sweep a small bow.
“Good morning, Northman. Did you sleep well?” she inquired softly, almost as if she knew that he hadn’t.
“Not well at all, I’m afraid,” he confessed. There seemed no point in lying. “How about you?”
“Terribly ill for some reason.”
Her answer pleased Anselm exceedingly. “Good. I’m extremely happy to hear it.”
She arched one fine dark eyebrow, her smiling lips as luscious as berries. “How ungallant of you, m’lord.”
“Speaking of the ungallant, will Lord Burkhead be joining us at all today?” Anselm glanced about the assembled riders. “I do not see him anywhere.”
Miriam snorted in a distinctly unprincess-like manner. “You mean Lord Bertram, I take it?”
“Bertram… Burkhead… Whey-faced, curdled-brain dolt. Call him what you will. Is there a difference?”
Miriam giggled. “Ssh!” She glanced about. “Lower your voice lest someone hears.”
“As you wish.” Unable to resist the joy of teasing her, Anselm asked in a quieter voice, “So, where is he then, your special little friend? Have you left him behind today? You have? Oh, what a pity. Never mind. I shall console myself with the fact that I am sure to become better acquainted with some of your other suitors over the coming hours. My, and what a determined army they are. So dogged in their pursuit of you. What a thrilling prospect today promises to be.”
“You horrid man.” But Miriam extended her gloved hand to him with a tender smile. “I have not the faintest notion of why I should think so well of you.”
“Have you not?” Anselm growled, clasping Miriam’s hand tightly in his, all teasing put aside. “In that case, with your permission, m’lady, I shall endeavor to repair the gaps in your troublesome memory.” He stared into her eyes, so deeply he was sco
rched by their amber fire. Leaning even closer, Anselm detected the scent of jasmine in Miriam’s hair, the fragrance warmed by the blessed heat of her body.
As Miriam looked at him, her smile slowly faded. She moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. ’Twas an open invitation, one he yearned to accept but must refuse. When Miriam’s pupils dilated, he knew she was recalling some of the stolen moments they’d shared, brief moments of passion that had fueled his dreams for many an interminable night.
He remembered everything.
Every breath. Every touch. Every lingering kiss…
The long, deafeningly brutal, note of a horn startled them from their mutual reverie; it was the signal to mount up and depart. The gossamer spell that had been slowly weaving about them frayed and snapped in an instant.
The magic was over. For now.
With a last lingering look, Miriam turned and went in search of her horse. Still lost in memories of yesterday, Anselm watched her go with a smile. They spoke no words of farewell for they were not needed.
Ah. If the spirits would only be a little more kind, he and Miriam would never have to speak of parting again. A foolish wish, perhaps, but one Anselm wanted with all his heart.
Chapter Forty-Seven
If he had been on friendly terms with the Great Spirit himself, Anselm could not have ordered a more perfect morning.
The sun shone gently in her pale heaven with only the lightest wisps of high cloud to disturb the unbroken blue. A kindly breeze stirred through the meadow grass, rustling a whispering path between the tender green stalks, and out in the forest, the gnarled boughs of the ancient oak trees creaked in gentle protest at having their quiet contemplation disturbed.
In the thick moving canopy above, the constant caws and chirps of birdsong reminded one and all that this was the season for making merry. ’Twas the turn of springtime to rule over the land.
Whilst their companions were busy off chasing stags—or whatever quarry it was that they hunted—Anselm and Miriam remained together. Riding at a pace no quicker than the slowest amble, they remained at the very back of the pack, far behind everyone else. Side by side, their knees occasionally brushing, utterly oblivious of everything and everyone else around them.
Laughing often and smiling just as frequently, they conversed about everything and nothing. Later, neither would be able to recall all the subjects they’d touched upon, but what did that really matter?
With neither undue haste nor a proper course, they rode along quite at their leisure, basking in the glow of mutual contentment, forging new memories.
No one intruded upon their private idyll and, as time went on, they forgot to be cautious. In doing so, they unwittingly revealed too much.
As if realizing that any further pursuit of the princess would be a waste of their time, Miriam’s other potential suitors vanished like the early-morning mist. The princess’s partiality was all too plain for she had seldom looked away from Anselm all morning.
The thwarted would-be husbands were not the only ones to remark upon it.
While the lead riders changed direction and raced off in pursuit of the baying hounds, King Rodmar reined his snorting horse in beside Vadim.
“What am I to do about those two, eh?” he asked, jerking his head to indicate Anselm and Miriam. They were now mere dots on the horizon, so far had they fallen behind.
Vadim had similar concerns. Neither of them were behaving discreetly. In this instance, however, feigned ignorance might be the safest route to take. “To whom do you refer, my liege?”
However, Rodmar was no fool.
“Come now, Vadim,” he chided softly. “There is no room for pretense, not between you and me.” Rodmar managed a brief smile. “Rest easy and save yourself the discomfort, my friend. You never had much skill for deceit, as I recall. Now, stop being coy. You know full well of whom I speak.”
Vadim sighed. How could he not?
After last night, the whole court was buzzing with gossip concerning Princess Miriam and her Northman. Bloody Anselm. How the devil was Vadim to extract himself from the awkwardness of this particular conversation?
“Despite the rumors, sire,” he began slowly, carefully considering each word, “I do not believe there is any real cause for concern. As you know yourself, a long quest can bind—”
Damn it. Bind? Definitely not the right word.
“—that is to say, a quest c-can forge strong friendships between people.”
Yes, forge was a far better choice, and so was friendship. It sounded wholesome. Innocent.
“Let us not forget how Anselm saved your sisters from peril,” Vadim continued with growing confidence, slowly warming to his subject. “I’m certain gratitude has much do with Princess Miriam’s affec—”
Affection? Dear Gods. What was he trying to do, get Anselm hung?
“—I mean… the princess’s overtures of friendship toward my brother.”
Rodmar erupted into loud guffaws of laughter. Leaning over, he slapped Vadim hard on the back several times, such was his mirth. “Oh, this is beyond mere gold, watching you wriggle like a worm on a hook, Edgeway. But I implore you, do not make yourself so uncomfortable, my old friend. Whatever this is,” he said gesturing with his thumb to Miriam and Anselm, “friendship and gratitude are merely part of the whole.” As he watched his sister and Anselm dawdling along together, Rodmar’s smile suddenly faded. “Damn it, though. Of all the men in these lands, why him?”
Vadim remained silent. As he knew only too well, there was no second-guessing choices of the heart.
“I suppose,” the king said with a heavy sigh, “I cannot order his execution and have done with him once and for all—Miriam would never forgive me.”
“Aye. True, sire.” And neither would Vadim if such a thing should ever come to pass.
“Perhaps I am losing my touch, for as I look at the pair of them now, their mutual affection is clear for anyone to see. So why didn’t I see it sooner, eh? Then again, Miriam has never demonstrated any particular partiality for your brother, not once in all these months. I expect she knew I wouldn’t approve of him. Is that why she has so meekly accepted the overtures of every fellow I’ve introduced her to without complaint? Wretched girl.”
Rodmar looked into the distance, his eyes unseeing as he worked out all the knots from the puzzle that was Miriam. All Vadim could do was provide a friendly ear and listen.
“I had wondered why she was suddenly so content to let me select a husband for her. It’s almost as if she thought,” the king continued, “if she couldn’t have the one she loved, then any man would do as quite well as the next.
“What happened to her, my little sister? The Miriam I thought I knew was ever a fiery soul, overflowing with fight and spirit. Hell, there was nothing she would not dare to do. So I have to ask myself this: why didn’t she approach me about your brother, eh? Anselm helped saved her life, for the love of Erde!” Rodmar turned to look at Vadim, confusion clouding his eyes. “That one act alone was enough to cancel out all the sins of his past. Surely she understood that?”
Vadim shrugged. “I wish I could answer you, sire, but I fear I cannot. I am, after all, but a man.” He smiled. “The ways of women have long been a mystery to me.”
Rodmar chuckled. “Aye, and to me also. Although my dear Hortensia is the very best of wives, I do not pretend to know all the complex workings of her mind.” His smile faded. “But Miriam’s my little sister, Vadim. My own flesh and blood. I ought to know her better than most.
“You have no idea of how low she fell this past winter. The poor girl was like a pale wraith, forever wandering the corridors at ungodly hours of the day and night like a restless phantom. Either that or she was crying into her pillow when she thought no one was around to hear her. By the next day, of course, she would be quite composed again, ready to resume her role as my sis
ter as though nothing were ever amiss. By the by, it has recently come to my notice that Miriam sleeps with a pair of gloves beneath her pillow—men’s gloves, I believe, and quite a costly pair by the sound of it. A parting token from your brother, I suspect?”
Vadim was thunderstruck. He had no idea the pair were already so deeply attached. Rodmar looked away again, his eyes returning to the approaching couple.
“Only now that the true Miriam has suddenly been resurrected do I truly understand how miserable she must have been. Indeed, Sir Anselm’s arrival seems to have worked wonders.” Rodmar gave another heavy sigh. “As much as I have despised your brother, I just want Miriam to be happy again. Whether I like it or not there’s not a doubt in my mind that my sister is deeply in love with your infernal brother. Look at the two of them. Tell me that I’m wrong if you can. No, my sister had found her bloom again and we both know the reason why. Anselm’s company alone is responsible for this miraculous transformation.
“The question is, what’s to be done about it, eh?” Rodmar stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Just how deep does his affection for my sister run, I wonder?”
Vadim found himself floundering again, not knowing what to say. Rarely had he felt this uncomfortable. The prospect of a long and bloody battle held much more appeal than having to endure this particular discussion. What a pity Martha wasn’t here. She would’ve told Rodmar everything he wanted to know and more besides. Vadim, however, did not feel it was his place to discuss the contents of Anselm’s heart. Revealing his brother’s secrets would feel like a betrayal, somehow—yes, even to the king. But he had to say something for Rodmar was regarding him expectantly again.
“He… erm… ” Clearing his throat Vadim tried again. “Anselm seems fond of your sister, sire. He is constantly mindful of her comfort and safety. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
“Or you will not, eh?”
“Perhaps it might be better to discuss this… delicate matter with the man himself, my liege.” Vadim smiled. “Or you might consult with my wife and her aunt. They’re bound to be far more knowledgeable than I.”
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