“The strength of this country is found in the loyalty of its people. That, and the strength of our blood—that which is spilled during the heat of battle, or in the bloodline of our lineage as it passes from sire to sire, from one generation to the next through the seed of the marriage bed—”
Anselm nodded, bracing himself to hear the worst. Here it was at last, just as he’d suspected.
He was to be offered up as a blood—or seed—sacrifice, destined to become the plaything of some long-in-the-tooth spinster who every other man had overlooked. It took all the self-mastery he possessed to remain calmly seated in his chair. Whatever such control cost him, Anselm would conceal his emotions and bury his revulsion deep inside a locked room within his blackened soul.
Let Rodmar speak his piece and be done. As long as the king believed him agreeable to his marital machinations Anselm’s subsequent escape from the Norlands would be all the easier.
“In case you have not already guessed, I speak to you of a union, Sir Anselm; the lifelong union between a husband and his wife. Marriage is the best way to forge unbreakable bonds, would you not agree?”
Not bloody likely.
“And what of friendship, sire?” Anselm asked, somehow managing to keep his face expressionless. “Do the bonds of fellowship not possess a similar power?”
“To a point, yes. But when subjected to the right kind of pressure for long enough, then even the closest of friendships might one day be dissolved. But marriage—ah! Marriage begets family, and family is something else entirely.” Rodmar subjected Anselm to another of those deeply unsettling looks he was beginning to associate with the new monarch.
“But not every marriage is a happy one, is it? Every family has its disagreements and
falling-outs, my liege, and some of them last until death.” As Anselm knew as well as anyone, blood ties could be broken just as readily as any other kind.
“True,” Rodmar agreed. “But when push comes to shove, in the darkest and bleakest of hours, especially whilst under attack by a mutual foe, wouldn’t most families come together and rally beneath their common banner?”
Anselm grunted. “My father and I certainly didn’t.”
“Oh, pish!” Rodmar swept Anselm’s objection aside with an impatient wave of his hand. “On the surface, perhaps. Or do you deny that you concealed the knowledge and whereabouts of your father’s secret grain store from your former master?”
Anselm was about to do exactly that, but then he swiftly closed his mouth again. He wouldn’t lie, not while Rodmar watched him so intently. There was something rather unsettling—almost hypnotic—about those strange feline eyes of his. Instead, Anselm opted for feigned nonchalance. “So?” he asked with a shrug.
“So, you have just proved my theory. While it may be possible to sever friendship, like it or not, the bonds of family last forever. Until death and, whatever lies beyond the veil.”
It was time to divert the flow of this particular conversation, and with all due haste before it became any more uncomfortable. There was little Anselm disliked more than being reminded of a past kindness or being proved wrong.
“Well, I’m sure you need have no such concerns regarding your friendship with the house of Edgeway, my liege,” Anselm said brightly. “Those ties are extremely secure, strong enough to withstand even the greatest of storms.” Vadim had always been disgustingly loyal, and to Rodmar in particular.
“Perhaps.” The king stroked his golden beard thoughtfully. “But be that as it may, I’d be happier if the alliance between our respective houses was of a more… permanent nature.”
Anselm gasped. The sound was out before he could stop it.
No. He would not allow himself to indulge in such a futile hope. Rodmar probably intended to marry him off to some dreadful second cousin of his. He would never consider Anselm as a suitable husband for his beloved sister, not in a thousand years.
But as foolish as it was, the sanctuary of his heart had opened by the merest crack, and before he knew it, the impossible dream had entered and taken up residence. Hope—as he’d recently discovered—was a particularly stubborn weed to remove. No matter how deeply one dug, no matter how carefully, there would always be some tiny remnant of root that managed to evade detection, leaving it free to grow and thrive once again in even the most barren of soil.
“Is that so?” he remarked with all the calmness he could muster, raising his tankard to take another casual sip. Unfortunately, he managed to miss his mouth completely, sending a torrent of ale cascading down the front of his pristine tunic and pattering onto the floor.
For the briefest of moments, Anselm shut his eyes and exhaled. Damn! So much for his acting abilities. As much as he longed to appear in control, to be unaffected by the king’s words, ’twas no use. Still, the comfort of an old habit was often difficult to resist.
“Forgive me, my liege.” Hastily setting down his tankard, Anselm mopped ineffectually at the fast blossoming patch of dampness on his tunic. “Believe it or not, I’m not usually such a cack-handed buffoon.”
The king smiled and tossed a clean square of linen over to him, his eyes twinkling merrily. “Oh, I know.” While Anselm cleaned himself up, Rodmar continued speaking. “And now to the meat of our conversation. My sister Miriam has finally come around and has consented to take a husband—”
Anselm dared not trust the hopeful whisperings of his lovelorn heart. Rodmar must have someone in mind for his sister. But who? Surely not Lord Burkhead? The very thought was enough to make him want to punch something.
“—I do not wonder that you gape at me with such slack-jawed astonishment, Sir Anselm. For the longest time, I believed Miriam would never desire to settle down. But there it is, as unbelievable as it is true. However, finding a suitable fellow is proving to something of a bloody megrim. I’d imagined it would be an easy task, finding the right man, but I must admit that I’m beginning to despair.”
So he didn’t have anyone in mind? Not yet. Anselm exhaled, hard. But no sooner had Rodmar breathed new life into every foolish dream Anselm had ever dared to dream, these wild fantasies looked about to be dashed. Surely Rodmar wasn’t going to ask for his help in the hunt to find Miriam a husband, was he?
“Are you alright there?” Rodmar asked, for all the world seeming concerned for the welfare of his guest. “Your pallor is quite ashen all of a sudden.”
Anselm felt quite ashen, inside and out. He was crumbling into dust right along with his dreams.
“I am qu-quite well, sire. Pray, c-continue with what you were saying.” Taking a deep breath, Anselm rounded up his fast-dispersing wits and tried to sound more like his usual self. “Surely Princess Miriam does not lack the company of worthy suitors?”
“Oh, yes. There are plenty of fellows willing enough to marry her, I grant you that, but as to their worthiness or motives… now there’s the rub. My sister, you may have noticed, is by nature is a singular sort of woman, one full of passion and spirit. As much as I would like to see her happily settled, I wouldn’t want her to take up with some dullard who, given enough time, would douse the flames of her character, molding her into the perfect image of his own noble mediocrity.
“She deserves better. Miriam needs someone who truly loves and understands her. An equal. Someone with whom she can walk with, side by side, along the road of life. A life partner who will respect her for the person she is. She needs a man who would never try to tame her; a man who is undaunted by the strength of her character. In short, I seek a fellow who would thank the spirits every single day for the joy of sharing his life with such a magnificent woman.”
Heart pounding, Anselm could only stare. He knew of but one man who would suit the role of Miriam’s husband.
Him.
Rodmar leaned a little closer, regarding his former foe thoughtfully. “Tell me, Sir Anselm, do you have any idea of where I might fi
nd such a man?”
He dared not answer. Not until he’d collected himself a little.
“Does Lord Vadim have any other brothers tucked away back in Edgeway?” the king wanted to know.
Anselm swallowed hard and shook his head several times like an addle-witted buffoon. Was this meeting truly heading in the direction he hoped? No. Outside of dreams, such wondrous things just weren’t possible.
Rodmar gave a heavy sigh. “Oh well. In that case, I suppose you’ll just have to do.”
“M-Me, s-sire?” Unfair. Now his ears were conspiring against him. Little wonder, for his head was spinning much too quickly, almost as if he’d taken too much wine. At any moment, Anselm feared he might swoon like a maiden.
Clearly, he’d misheard or misunderstood.
Or had he?
“What say you, Sir Anselm?” Rodmar asked with a smile. “Would you consent to marry my sister lest she goes and does something foolish like pledging herself to the Duke of Pemberton’s son?”
By all the spirits! This was really happening. It wasn’t a dream at all.
Taking a few deep breaths to steady his spinning head, Anselm forced himself to speak. “Wh-What about Princess Miriam, my liege?” he croaked. “I will give you no answer until I know her mind.”
Rodmar chuckled. “Most noble, Sir Anselm. Quite the reformed character these days, are you not? Then, allow me to ease your delicate sensibilities by assuring you my sister has no objection whatsoever to a union with the house of Edgeway—and with you in particular. So, now I would have your answer. Will you or will you not—?”
“Yes, sire! Yes!”
With an utterance of joy, quite forgetting that he had ever disliked the king, Anselm half fell from his chair in his haste to kneel before his liege lord. Taking the hand Rodmar offered him, Anselm pressed it to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you, my liege. With all my heart, I will. Thank you.”
Rodmar smiled down at him, much amused. “I shall take that as a definite yes, then, shall I?”
“A thousand times over, yes. B-But why?” He looked up, puzzled. He had to know the reason. Until only recently, Rodmar had despised him. “Why me?”
“You love her, do you not?”
“More than my own life, sire.”
“In that case, I shall tell you. Having known you at both your worst and very best, Sir Anselm. I realize there is no other man more capable of securing my sister’s happiness.” Patting Anselm’s shoulder, Rodmar added with another broad grin, “Besides, life with Miriam will keep you busy. Much too busy to consider causing me any more mischief in the future. You see? In this way, everyone wins.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
When Anselm finally staggered from the king’s solar in the small hours of the next morning, he still felt poleaxed.
Happy, too. Gloriously, blissfully, face-splittingly happy.
Joy—pure and distilled—unlike anything he’d felt in many a year, had flooded into his tarnished soul, banishing the shadows and filling it with such a sense of light he felt as if he was flying rather than walking along the echoing palace corridors.
He could not help but inflict his happiness upon all he encountered, so overjoyed was he. Smiling like a half-wit, he greeted anyone with the ill-fortune to cross his path at that ungodly hour with a cheery “Good morning to you.”
Lord, lady, or serving wench. No one was spared.
As much as he longed to call on Miriam, he dared not hope she was still awake, not at this hour. So, he aimlessly wandered the palace corridors, sometimes laughing, just as often singing—although he had not much of an ear for carrying a tune—and frequently dancing an impromptu little jig as he floated along. On three separate occasions, he even paused to exchange pleasantries with some of the many portraits that adorned the palace walls.
Anselm felt kindly disposed to all who populated his world, inanimate or otherwise, so pleased was he with life. But as he swept a bow to one particularly sour-faced female ancestor whose image had been immortalized by some long-forgotten artist, it suddenly occurred to him that the lady in question looked somewhat familiar.
Straightening up, Anselm looked about him and realized he had somehow ended up outside the door of Vadim and Martha’s suite. Eager to share his happiness with his family, and not particularly caring if he had to rouse the entire household to do so, he opened the door and slipped inside.
To Anselm’s surprise, he found Vadim, Martha, and Lulu all sitting up, apparently awaiting his return—the old lady clad in her flowing night-rail, feet bared, vivid pink toenails and all.
The moment Anselm entered their apartment, the three of them leaped up from where they’d been sitting by the fire.
“Well?” they demanded in unison.
In the mood for teasing, Anselm somehow managed to sober his expression. “Well, what?”
“Don’t play silly beggars, lad. What did Rodmar want?” Lulu demanded, as forthright as always.
“Oh, that.” Anselm shrugged. “He just wanted to discuss my reward, that’s all.”
“A new horse and swords?” Vadim asked.
“Even better than that.” He was too happy to delay the glad tidings any longer. “Apparently, I’m to be married.”
“Married! You?” Martha’s eyes went wide as she stared at him with ill-concealed amazement. “Why are you smiling? Who is she?”
“Can you not guess, sister?”
“Oh. My. God.” Martha’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “No!” she gasped. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re not shitting with me?”
“Definitely no fecal involvement of any kind,” Anselm answered with a laugh.
“The princess?” Lulu demanded, her eyes bulging.
“Yes.”
“We are talking about Princess Miriam, aren’t we?”
“My word. I had no idea you had such little confidence in me, ladies. Yes, of course, I speak of Princess Miriam. Would I be this happy otherwise, hmm?”
Having finally accepted the news, his relatives whoops of joy were so loud Anselm suspected they might have been heard all the way down at the gatehouse.
Early that morning, not long after the sluggish sun had dragged herself from below the horizon, Miriam was already wandering the gravel paths of the formal gardens. Only from above, from the vantage point of the solar, could the perfect symmetry of the low evergreen hedge-ways be truly appreciated. However, Miriam was not in a horticultural mood. Not today.
A sudden gust of wind bent the stems of the rose bushes and sent a fragrant shower of white velvety petals drifting silently onto the path before her feet. To walk upon such loveliness would feel like a desecration of sorts, so Miriam hitched up her skirts and carefully stepped around them lest Father Fate be tempted to revoke her newborn happiness in punishment of such wanton cruelty.
Foolish as such a fancy might be, Miriam dared not chance it, not now that all her dreams were finally coming true.
She and Anselm were to marry.
Even thinking about it made her heart flutter wildly in her breast like a bird trying to smash its way from a too-small cage.
Like the gardens themselves, despite the early hour, Miriam’s appearance was as perfect as it could be in readiness for what was to come. Thanks to the ministrations of her maid, her hair lay smooth and obedient, arranged about her head in an elaborate upraised confection that shone blue-black in the sun. Her attire was equally flawless; her gown of blue velvet and silk with its snugly fitted bodice embellished with hundreds of tiny seed pearls marked her as a woman of high status.
The looking-glass told her she had never looked better. Inside, however, she was a wreck.
She might be a princess but her heart beat just as swiftly as that of any woman awaiting the arrival of the man she loved.
They wo
uld soon be husband and wife! Although she’d said the words over and over in her head a hundred times Miriam still couldn’t believe it was real. Any moment now, she would surely wake up in her bed, alone and without hope.
Only she didn’t wake up.
Her delicate slippers were damp with the cold breath of morning dew, and beneath her elegant fur-lined cloak she trembled like a leaf in the wind.
With a laugh, she spun about, the hem of her gown snagging on a patch of lavender, releasing the scent stored within its fragrant stems. How long had she been wandering the gardens waiting to receive her proposal?
Hours? Weeks? However long it was, it felt like an eternity to her.
Oh, would Anselm never come?
If he’d had a change of heart, she vowed she would hunt him down and run him through herself.
Suddenly, she sensed unseen eyes upon. As she spun on her heel, her breath hitched and her heart took flight once more.
It was him. He’d come. Anselm!
Sure enough, there he was, strolling out, as calmly as you please, from beneath the shelter of the rose arbor.
As he made his way toward her, Miriam stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Another, more modest, maiden might have pretended not to have seen him coming, but not she. Miriam did not possess the willpower required to look away.
Such a handsome man. Beautiful, even. Like a golden angel wrought from stone and steel and sunlight.
Dressed in all his finery, Anselm came closer, the hem of his fine cloak stirring the low-lying morning mist as he walked. His expression, for once, was serious. There was no mistaking the message of his flashing silver eyes. He wanted her just as badly as she wanted him.
Miriam simply stood there, grinning at him like a love-struck fool.
“Princess.” As he stood before her, Anselm swept a low bow.
“Northman.” Miriam forced her features into something vaguely resembling solemnity. “I understand,” said she, a trifle breathlessly when Anselm did not speak quickly enough, “that my brother would like to see us joined in marriage. H-How do you feel about that?”
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