King's Errand

by N. J. Layouni

  “No doubt, no doubt,” Rodmar said with a quick laugh. “Whilst we skirt around the edges, our womenfolk usually plunge straight in to the very heart of the matter. Wise counsel, my friend. I shall keep it in mind.”

  They watched as Anselm suddenly reached over to adjust a fold in Miriam’s cloak. ’Twas a small, seemingly insignificant, action but one that indicated their growing intimacy. Rodmar shook his head. “Oh, but why him of all people?” he groaned again.

  “I could always send my brother back to Edgeway, sire. I’m sure I can make up some errand or other.”

  Rodmar turned and glared at him. “What? And have Miriam lock herself away inside her living tomb again? Never!”

  Surely the king could not be seriously considering what Vadim had begun to suspect he was considering? “Then what will you do, sire?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s the truth of it. The matter is much too convoluted.” The fire in Rodmar’s eyes went out, reduced to a low smolder. “I have always loathed your brother, but then he—and his friends, of course—did the unthinkable and saved my sisters, restoring them to their family just as the last flame of hope had been all but doused. Such an immense debt can never be repaid.” He ran a careless hand through his golden hair. “Oh, such mixed feelings do I bear for the man, and yet… There is something about him that assures me he would be a good fit for my sister.”

  Bored from standing still for so long, Tarq began playing about, jingling his bit and tossing his head. Thus encouraged into rebellion, the king’s gray took similar advantage of his own master’s absentmindedness and commenced dancing on the spot.

  Anselm and Miriam drew closer. For the first time, they seemed to become aware that they were being watched. Immediately they moved their horses a respectable distance apart.

  “Perhaps I should test this attachment of theirs, eh?” Rodmar murmured to Vadim, his restless horse spinning about until it stood nose to tail at Tarq’s side. “What say you, Vadim? Should I cast Miriam off without a dowry?”

  “I fear you’d be wasting your time, sire. My brother has enough independent wealth to ensure their lasting comfort.”

  “Has he indeed? How thoroughly bloody infuriating.” Gathering his reins, the king prepared to move off. “Keep an eye on them for me, there’s a good fellow. Just until I decide what’s to be done.”

  “Certainly, sire.”

  With that, Rodmar pushed his horse on, cantering off to catch up with the rest of the hunt, leaving Vadim to watch his retreating back.

  “Oh, were you waiting for us? Forgive me, brother.” Despite his words, Anselm seemed a long way from penitent. The way he kept darting smiles and glances at Miriam, regarding her so tenderly, made Vadim feel rather ill.

  And Princess Miriam was almost as bad. There was little to choose between either of them. They were both besotted. Should he say something, perhaps? Warn them about Rodmar?

  Not yet. Maybe later when he’d had a chance to discuss the matter with Martha. She’d know what to do. She always did. Affairs of the heart were beyond the scope of a mere man.

  The union of Catherine and Lord Radleigh took place on the third day of an official week of royal celebrations. Beneath the sacred crystal dome on the palace grounds, the occasion was every bit as magnificent as even the bride could have wished for.

  But despite the lavish nature of the wedding—to say nothing of the obscene displays of wealth being flaunted by some of the guests—the actual ceremony itself was a surprisingly moving affair. As the happy couple exchanged their vows, Miriam had cause to dab a tear or two from her eyes, for Radleigh and Catherine were obviously very much in love.

  Anselm sat some way behind Miriam. She could feel his eyes upon her. She smiled, comforted by his presence. What would it be like to swear love and fealty to the one you loved, and to accept their sacred vow in return? Lucky Catherine. No wonder she and Radleigh smiled so brightly. They were happy, and Miriam was glad for them.

  She could not help but wonder if she would ever know such joy for herself.

  ’Twas most unlikely. But then, wasn’t that what dreams were for, a way to indulge in the impossible? It didn’t take much imagination for Miriam to imagine herself as Anselm’s wife. After all, it was already one of her favorite dreams.

  Did Anselm have similar dreams? As they sat in this sacred spot, was he imagining her as his wife?

  Once the marriage ceremony was over, the festivities resumed with new vigor. Never in all her life had Miriam been exposed to so many people. Vast, smiling crowds thronged every street enjoying the feasts and entertainments the king had provided so that everyone, rich and poor, might partake of his sister’s good fortune.

  Last winter, the prospect of so many feasts and dances and dinners would have crushed Miriam’s fragile spirits into dust. But with Anselm there to divert her, she gladly embraced each fresh chance to be happy and enjoyed every foot-weary moment of it.

  Dearest Anselm! Without drawing attention to himself, he discreetly followed in her wake as Miriam went about her royal duties, seemingly content to linger in the shadows cast by the rest of her colorful entourage.

  Even Rodmar had commented upon Anselm’s attentiveness. “I shall have to start paying Sir Anselm a retainer, I think,” said he at the formal dinner that night.

  Miriam dropped her knife with a loud clatter. “I b-beg your pardon, m’lord?” She regarded her brother with wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Come now. Surely you must have noticed how the fellow follows you everywhere, forever scrutinizing the crowds with one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, always on the lookout for danger. Indeed, he already behaves like a royal guard. ” Rodmar fixed her with his intense feline stare. “What say you, Miriam?” he asked softly. “Shall I ask Sir Anselm whether he’d like a paid position within our household?”

  “No!” The objection flew from her lips before she could stop it. “Please don’t, I beg of you.” Her voice sounded panicked and slightly breathless. Just the thought of repaying Anselm for his quiet devotion with mere gold made her furious. It was insulting in the extreme. Besides, they already had their own private form of currency in place; that of lingering looks, soft words, and fleeting touches. Thus far, it was all working rather nicely. But of course, she could not admit such a thing to her brother. “What I mean to say is that he would never accept such an offer,” Miriam said at length, finally managing to claw back a little of her former poise.

  “Oh? You seem quite certain of that, Mirry.” Her brother’s eyes twinkled merrily as though he knew some great secret. “How interesting it is to me that you profess to know Sir Anselm’s mind so well.”

  Hortensia swatted Rodmar’s forearm. “Oh stop teasing her, husband! Leave the poor girl alone. I daresay Sir Anselm is merely being gallant. Indeed,” she added with a distinctly amused sparkle in her own eyes, “he has cared for our girls for so long, out there in the wilderness, it’s probably a hard habit for him to set aside. Wouldn’t you agree, Miriam dear?”

  “Oh… er… per-perhaps.” Miriam stared down at her food, her appetite gone. A habit, indeed! Beneath her calm exterior, she positively seethed. Were her sister and brother deliberately attempting to goad her into rising to Anselm’s defense? Was this some sort of game to them?

  “Incidentally, on a different note, how is your quest for a husband coming along?” Rodmar inquired, deftly diverting the conversation to the other subject most likely to cause Miriam vexation. “Surely after all this time, you must have a favorite amongst all those handsome suitors of yours?”

  Miriam glanced up from her plate. As she did so, her eyes immediately encountered Anselm’s, looking back at her from where he sat further down the hall with some of the other knights. Her heart fluttered just as it always did whenever she encountered him unexpectedly.

  As he looked back at her, a faint smile played about his lips, a secr
et smile meant for her alone. Truly, there wasn’t a finer man to be found in the entire kingdom.

  “Well?” Rodmar prompted. “Is there anyone in particular you have your eye on?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure. I mean, they’re all such fine men,” Miriam answered, cheeks burning, dragging her gaze away from Anselm. “Choosing a favorite amongst them is impossible.” Not an outright untruth, for she genuinely couldn’t choose between them.

  They had all come too late. Her heart had selected its champion many months earlier.

  “A diplomatic answer, my dear. I salute you.” Too late she realized how closely her brother watched her. Even beneath the lightest words, Rodmar always saw too much. “Come. Tell me. There has to be someone who has an edge on all the others; a man with a little more substance than the rest of the common herd?”

  Anselm! Her heart chanted his name over and again in perfect time with its own rhythm.

  “Well… ” she said at length, pretending to give the matter some thought, “the future Duke of Pemberton is certainly not lacking in charms.”

  “Rodney?” Rodmar sat back in his chair looking utterly aghast. “By all the Spirits, no! He would not do for you at all, Miriam. Indeed he would not.”

  Miriam grinned. Why did her brother persist in the foolish belief that the ears and minds of his womenfolk were pure and unsullied—even Hortensia’s? How his wife had ever conceived and birthed two children without shattering Rodmar’s delusions of her innate innocence Miriam would never know.

  Poor Rodmar. For all his wisdom and cunning ways, the females of his family remained far beyond his comprehension. He didn’t have a clue. All those years he’d spent in exile raising his army had forever altered him. At heart, Miriam suspected he would always be more comfortable living in the world of men and battles. King or not, that part of his life could never be fully excised, for his was a man’s world.

  “Oh?” Miriam arched her eyebrows, exchanging a quick teasing look with her grinning sister-in-law. “Why ever not, brother?” Of course, Roddy’s preference for men was no secret. Even the most innocent maid at court knew the direction in which the future Duke of Pemberton’s personal tastes lay. “Indeed, he’s always so kind, courteous, and amusing,” she continued with mock innocence. “Not only that but when it comes to selecting a color to suit me, I swear Roddy has an even better eye than my maid.”

  Hortensia snort-giggled into her napkin which she hurriedly turned into a cough. “Forgive me. A stray crumb went… the wrong way.”

  “Yes, much like our dear Rodney,” Rodmar muttered beneath his breath causing Hortensia to splutter into her napkin again. Picking up his goblet, the king idly swirled the contents as he looked about his hall. “No, you had better choose again, sister.”

  Wait a moment. Was it her imagination or was Rodmar looking at…?

  “Ah, and there sits our dear Sir Anselm… ”

  Miriam’s smile wobbled. No. She definitely hadn’t imagined it. Rodmar was looking right at him, a nerve throbbing rhythmically in his jaw.

  “… It’s long past time that we discussed his proper reward. Bedesley?” Rodmar turned, summoning his faithful steward who was always close at hand.

  “Sire?”

  “Send word to Lord Edgeway’s brother that I would speak with him after dinner on a private matter.”

  The steward inclined his head. “Very good, my liege.”

  Miriam’s stomach plummeted. Rodmar was going to speak to Anselm? Why? What about?

  Surely this wouldn’t end well.

  Would it?

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  To his dismay, Anselm found himself suddenly much in demand now that the king apparently favored him with a friendlier eye.

  Although he wasn’t entirely sure how much he trusted Rodmar’s overtures of friendship, Anselm decided to accept them for as long as they might continue. At least in that way, he could remain in Miriam’s orbit a little longer.

  The downside of having earned the king’s favor was Anselm’s sudden rise in popularity.

  As his personal star soared, it seemed every other guest he met wanted an introduction, or to speak with him about something or other. Nothing was sacred—from his old master, Lord Godric to their recent quest; his opinion on the conformation of a prospective destrier, right down to his taste in music. Every topic was fair game.

  To Anselm’s regret, his marriage prospects proved one of the most popular subjects for discussion.

  Men who only a few short months ago wouldn’t have troubled themselves to piss on him had he been burning in the street were now clamoring to speak with him, pushing and shoving one another in their eagerness to earn his time and favor.

  Even worse, Anselm was forced to endure the pain of exchanging small talk and inane civilities with a stream of simpering young ladies—various daughters, cousins, not to mention one or two rather spinsterish sisters—who were constantly paraded before him.

  To be fair, the majority of ladies had been blessed with considerable beauty, but to Anselm’s eyes, each girl seemed just as brainless as the one before her, for they had not one original thought or opinion to boast between them.

  Blind adoration and meekness were all well and good, but they weren’t qualities Anselm sought in a wife—well, if he should ever get it into his head to settle down with someone. Unless that someone happened to be Mirry, the likelihood of him ever marrying at all was highly unlikely.

  Accustomed as he was to being habitually ignored, Anselm found the barrage of constant attention extremely taxing. The fickle tide had most definitely turned in his favor, and he liked it not at all.

  He felt hemmed in. Trapped. Hunted.

  It was a great relief, therefore, to see Lord Bedesley—the king’s poe-faced steward—shambling over to where Anselm stood neck-deep in potential wives and in-laws. By the determined look in his eyes, it was clear Bedesley had some urgent message or other to impart.

  “Bedesley, my fine fellow!” Seizing the opportunity to escape, Anselm excused himself and pushed his way through the crowd, carefully extricating himself from the fair bonds of his human prison. “How marvelous to see you again,” he cried. “It seems an absolute age since last we spoke.”

  Bedesley raised one beetling eyebrow. “If memory serves, m’lord, that happy event was only this morning.”

  “True enough, true enough,” Anselm said with a laugh, flinging an overly familiar arm about the lanky steward’s shoulders. “But to such good friends as we—why!—even the separation of an hour might be considered overlong.”

  Slowly but firmly he steered Bedesley away from the swarm of prospective wives and their families. “Walk with me, Bedesley,” Anselm hissed in an urgent aside through his smile. “For the love of Erde, get me out of this melee and I vow I shall give you my favorite horse.”

  Bedesley chuckled. “Having seen the knock-kneed nags you favor, that won’t be necessary, m’lord.”

  Anselm guffawed with laughter and slapped the steward affectionately upon the back as though he’d said something highly amusing instead of having delivered an insult of the most appalling kind.

  “What a fine fellow you are, Bedesley. Come. Let us tarry together awhile. Please excuse us.” Bowing a polite farewell to the crowd of prospective relatives, Anselm grabbed Bedesley by the arm and half-dragged him away from danger. “Keep walking, I implore you, sir,” Anselm muttered through the teeth of his fake smile.

  “Your current popularity is not to your liking, I take it?”

  “Is it buggery to my liking! But a few weeks ago, any one of those doting papas would have happily knifed me in the back.”

  “But surely it’s better to have friends than enemies?”

  “Not of that sort, it isn’t,” Anselm declared with heat. “If fickle friendship is the best I can muster, I’d rather be an outcast and live out the
remainder of my days as a hermit. Anyhow, what was it you wanted to speak with me about?” There must be a good reason why the haughty steward had sought him out in such a public setting.

  “Indeed there is, m’lord.” Bedesley turned and looked down his long hooked nose at him. “King Rodmar asks if you would be so kind as to join him in his solar once the dancing has begun.”

  “Whatever for?” He couldn’t think why Rodmar would want to speak with him, let alone in private.

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly say, sir.”

  Anselm leaned back, the sole of one boot planted against the wall. He regarded the steward with suspicion. “I don’t suppose our liege lord is preparing to have me arrested and clapped in irons, is he?”

  “I shouldn’t imagine that is the reason he would desire your company, sir—no.”

  True. If Rodmar wanted to arrest him he would have gone ahead and done so.

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Indeed. Then I shall send word to you once my master is ready to receive you.” Bedesley smiled baring his long, slightly yellowing teeth in a somewhat lupine grin. “Until then, I will allow you to return to the company of your new friends and admirers, m’lord.” With that, the steward shuffled away in the direction of the top table leaving Anselm to wait and wonder.

  Miriam watched Rodmar exchange a discreet nod with his steward.

  The deed was done, then. He’d summoned Anselm.

  Stomach churning, Miriam found she couldn’t eat another morsel of the honeyed pastries of which she was usually so fond. Suddenly, her mouth tasted sour, and she felt rather ill.

  “Don’t look so worried, Mirry dear,” Rodmar said with a reassuring smile. “I will not harm your friend, you know.”

  “I am heartily glad to hear it.”

  “You’re fond of him, are you not.” ’Twas a statement not a question. Since there seemed no good reason to deny it, Miriam nodded slowly, her cheeks blazing with heat. “Hmm.” Rodmar stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully, looking from Miriam to Anselm and back again. “I suppose a more permanent alliance with the house of Edgeway might not be the worst idea in the world.”