As Martha approached, Agatha smiled her gap-toothed smile. “What excuse did you give him?”
“We’re meant to be discussing dress necklines,” Martha replied, casting a quick glance back at Anselm. He wasn’t looking, but no doubt the soldiers would tell him if she wandered off. Martha took Agatha’s rough hands and gave them a squeeze. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again.”
The older woman’s plump cheeks flushed crimson, but she looked pleased. “My joints are more than a little painful than usual; otherwise, I cannot complain.”
Somehow, Martha managed to keep a straight face.
Taking Martha’s arm, Agatha led her to a quieter part of the courtyard where there was less chance of being overheard. “I have no message, but I do have some news to impart,” she said in a low voice. Her eyes constantly scanned the area in case anyone wandered too near. “The king and his court will arrive in Edgeway by the end of the week.”
Martha shrugged. “So?” She scuffed the toe of her slipper against the cobbles. Why should she give a damn about the earl’s visitors? They were probably all as vile as he was.
“Rodmar and his great army follow close behind—”
“What?” She felt her eyes bulge. Rodmar? The wannabe king, Rodmar? “B-but it’s too soon! Vadim said they wouldn’t set sail until the next full moon—”
“This is too great an opportunity to miss, m’lady. Do you not see it? In one fell stroke, Rodmar may rid this land of its greatest parasites.” She gripped Martha’s shoulders, her gray eyes shining. “There will never be a more favorable time than this.” Suddenly, Agatha seemed to recall where she was. “Forgive me,” she said, releasing Martha. “The excitement of seeing my sons again overcame me.”
“It’s fine.” Martha cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “I don’t think anyone noticed.” As much as she wanted to ask Agatha about her sons, this wasn’t the best time to discuss them, not with Anselm so near.
But at least now she knew why Vadim hadn’t come to rescue her already. He was too busy preparing for Rodmar’s return. Honoring the oath of his dead father was apparently more important to him than she was. A flame of anger flared within her heart. So much for fecking love!
“Now, Martha. Do not make yourself uneasy,” Agatha said kindly. “Your lord is delayed, but he will come for you.”
Was her expression so transparent? “I’m sure he will,” she muttered, “if he doesn’t get himself killed first.” Her smile felt more like a snarl. “And I wonder how my hosts will react when they see my dead husband heading the attack? Then again, they’re both reasonable men. Perhaps they won’t be too angry with me for lying to them all this time.”
But her snarkasm was wasted on Agatha.
“That is what I wanted to tell you, m’lady. When trouble comes, find the young harp player. Fergus is my nephew, you see. He will keep you safe.”
“He’s one of Vadim’s men?” Of course he was. She’d always thought the red-haired musician looked familiar. But how the hell was she meant to get to Fergus when Anselm kept her locked up in his rooms? What am I supposed to do, walk through the fecking wall?
Agatha’s eyes flashed in warning. “Yes, I think extra lace would be a fine idea, m’lady. The modern lower necklines are not to everyone’s taste. When shall I call to collect the gown?”
“This evening will be fine.” Martha answered quietly, suddenly feeling as flat as week-old roadkill. “I don’t have any other plans.” She felt the sudden pressure of a firm hand splayed upon her lower back. She shuddered and rolled her eyes. Anselm.
“Have you finished discussing gowns, my dear?” he asked.
Martha turned to look at him, her smile firmly fixed in place. “Yes. For now. Thank you, Agatha.” She dismissed the other woman with a careless glance, mimicking the regal elegance she witnessed so often amongst the castle’s ruling class.
Agatha lowered her eyes and, bobbing a curtsey, departed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sometimes she didn’t have to fake it. On rare, sweet moments like this, her smile was real.
Martha’s horse thundered alongside Anselm’s, kicking up dust on the hard dirt track. Her headscarf had long since gone, and her hair streamed behind her like the tail of a kite. A bubble of happiness expanded inside her chest. Unable to hold it back, she laughed out loud, although the sound was whipped away by the wind.
She felt wild. Euphoric. Like a bird released from its cage after a lifetime of imprisonment. She would have burst into song if she wasn’t so breathless.
Freedom. Well, sort of.
Anselm’s gray palfrey changed gear and surged away at a gallop.
Oh, no, you don’t! Leaning forward over her horse’s glistening neck, Martha set off after him.
Mistral—her little bay mare—needed little encouragement. Flattening back her ears, she went turbo, grunting with the exertion, her hooves flying over the ground to catch up with her larger stablemate.
They were side by side again, Mistral ahead by just a nose. Anselm turned to grin at her, and Martha smiled back, unable to contain her delight, intoxicated by the sense of freedom. For what seemed like the first time in forever, she was herself again.
Anselm sat up in his saddle and gradually slowed his horse to a walk. Reluctantly, Martha followed his lead.
They came to a stop at the bottom of a grassy hill. The horses snorted for breath, bits jangling in their mouths as they tossed their heads, sending long strings of foamy saliva flying through the air.
Anselm flung one long leg over his horse’s neck and leaped to the ground. “I need not trouble to ask if you enjoyed your ride, sweeting,” he said, coming around to help Martha dismount. “I have seldom seen eyes that radiate such brilliance.”
“Yeah. Right.” Anselm’s compliments were always way overcooked for her taste. Even so, she let go of the reins and allowed him to lift her from the saddle. Somehow, he managed not to drop her although he did grimace a bit before he set her down, which made her smile.
But she was too happy to hate him. Her heart still galloped on, lighter than air. “Thanks for today, Anselm. It’s been great.”
“Your smile is thanks enough,” he said touching her cheek with his gloved hand. “But the day is not over yet. Will you walk with me while our worthy animals take a well-deserved rest?”
At that moment, Martha fully appreciated why Anselm was such a hit with the ladies of the castle. With his intense, silvery eyes and wind-tousled hair, he looked like a handsome young Viking. Fortunately, she was immune to his charms. Vadim was an impossible act to follow.
“Sure,” she replied. “Why not?”
They saw their horses comfortable then left them to graze—loosely tethered so they didn’t wander away—and by common accord, set off up the hill.
Martha was eager to get to the top. On the ride in, she’d noticed a jumble of fallen masonry up there. The remains of an ancient hill fort, perhaps?
The incline became steeper halfway up. Her smooth-soled riding boots made heavy work of the steep, grassy slope. She kept slipping and cursing beneath her breath. It was like skating along a polished wood floor with dusters on her feet, only vertically.
“Here,” Anselm said, offering his arm. “Hold on to me.”
Martha was only too happy to accept his offer. “What is... this... place?” she asked, panting a little, as they went on.
“No one knows for certain. There are no accounts of it ever being anything other than a ruin.”
They clambered upward in silence, saving their breath to tackle the steepest part of the hill.
The birdsong, and the gentle sighing of the wind as it stirred the sun-bleached grass, provided a lovely soundtrack to the afternoon. Only Martha’s gasps and frequent muttered curses spoiled the tranquility. But she struggled on, puffing and panting her way uphill like a foul-mouthed
little train that could. All the while, she maintained her tight deathgrip on Anselm’s arm.
Anselm wasn’t even slightly out of breath, but he wasn’t hampered with long woolen skirts and flowing undergarments like she was. Lucky devil. He did have his hands full, though. Keeping Martha upright was proving to be a full-time job.
To Martha’s relief, Anselm paused to survey the swaying grassy plain they had so recently traveled. “When I was a child, this was one of my favorite places. Whenever I ran away from home, this is always where my father would find me.” He sounded wistful as he recalled the past. “Our folklore is rich with tales of this hill.” The hardness of his features softened as he spoke. It suited him. He swept aside his wind-mussed hair with one hand, the action reminding her of Vadim.
“Oh? Such as?” If she kept him talking, she could get her breath back a bit. Shielding her eyes, Martha followed the path of dark ribbon that wound its way through the rolling countryside. The road home. If she followed it far enough south, it would take her back to Darumvale. To Vadim. She gave a shuddering sigh. God, she missed him.
“Some say this was once a palace of a terrible Elf king.” Anselm continued, still lost in his memories. “Others claim it was the stronghold of a long-forgotten warrior tribe.” His chuckle sounded bitter, “Of course, ’tis naught but childish nonsense—tales fit only for the shacks of grubbing peasants.”
“I take it you don’t believe in fairytales then?” Martha felt him staring at her, but she kept her eyes on the horizon. She was glad he’d spoken so derisively just now. He’d reminded her of what he actually was, the polar opposite of what she wished him to be. Anselm was Lord Edgeway’s man to the bone. On the infrequent occasions when he wasn’t occupied with being an utter arse, it was too easy to forget that.
Anselm gave a snort of disdain. “I never believed such dross, not even as a child. It would hardly be fitting for the son of the earl’s steward...”
Hold on. What? She turned to look at him. Seth was the old earl’s steward? That was a really big deal, wasn’t it? How little she still knew. Did Vadim have a weird pathological aversion to telling her the plain truth? If he were an artist, he’d definitely be of the abstract variety.
“Unlike your husba—” Anselm scowled, obviously angry with himself for slipping up and mentioning his arch nemesis.
“What? So Vadim believed the stories?”
“Of course he did. He drove the elders to distraction with his thirst for the tales buried in their wizened old heads. Shall we continue?” He stalked away, abandoning her in his haste to be gone. Not that she cared.
It wasn’t much further to the top of the hill. Besides, she wanted to think. Suddenly the numerous threads of Anselm’s weirdness began knitting together, forming one long skein. His parents’ simple honesty disgusted him, that much was clear. He’d yearned to be a man of consequence, she suspected, even as a boy.
Was that why he’d treated his parents so badly? Did he blame them for their fall from grace?
A mental light bulb flashed on in her head. Suddenly, she saw Anselm clearly for the very first time. That’s why he hated Vadim so much. It wasn’t about his parents taking in the old earl’s orphaned son. Not really.
When the earl fell, his followers had gone down with him, and Anselm had lost the things he held dear: wealth, position, and power. Not only that, but because of Seth’s loyal heart, the young Anselm had then been forced to share his family with the son of the man who had ruined them. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound.
The true, twisted root of his hatred was not actually buried in Vadim, she realized, but in the old earl, his father.
Anselm’s family had fallen from grace, and Vadim was a constant reminder of it.
She was right; she knew she was. But like a female, medieval Columbo, there was just one thing she didn’t understand.
Anselm was waiting for her on the hilltop, leaning against a lichen-encrusted column of rock. As their eyes met, she didn’t look away. He did.
I have you now, my friend.
The ruins on the hilltop were definitely man-made, but Martha was too fixed on her quarry to appreciate their tumbledown splendor. Instead, she stalked over to where Anselm stood. “What made you ask the Evil Earl for a job in the first place?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her question had apparently taken him by surprise. Anselm stood upright, scowling at her. His body language radiated hostility.
Martha wasn’t fazed one bit. “You heard me.” She planted her hands on her hips and stared him down. “If we’re to have any chance of a real friendship, you’ll give me an honest answer.”
“You have been thinking about me a good deal, have you not, sweeting?” He reached out to touch her face, countering her surprise attack with a charm offensive.
“Yes, I have,” she said, swatting his hand away. “But I wouldn’t get too excited about it. Not until you’ve heard what I have to say.”
A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “What new game is this?”
“It’s called honesty. Maybe you have some vague recollection of it?” Martha mentally crossed herself for being so two-faced. “And don’t try charming me. I’m wise to your tactics by now. Unfortunately for you, I’m not one of your giggling harem of serving girls, Sir Anselm.”
His easy smile faded. “No. That you most certainly are not.” Something new flashed in his eyes. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was approval.
“So?” She arched her eyebrows. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”
Anselm sighed. “Why does it matter? Ask me something else, m’lady.”
“No.” Martha shook her head, impatiently dashing away her hair as the breeze billowed it into her face. “It’s the one thing I don’t understand. Why do you serve the king and your master when they’re the ones ultimately responsible for what happened to your family?”
Shaking his head, Anselm glanced away. “You could not possibly understand.”
“Try me.”
“Very well.” His eyes met hers in a silent challenge. “I wish to see my bloodline restored to greatness, not left festering for eternity, housed in a stinking barn with only simpletons and animals for company.”
The venom of his words made her flinch, but she didn’t look away. Ugly as this was to hear, Anselm was finally being honest.
“The path I now walk,” he continued, “is the only route left to me.”
“And what of your honor?” Damn. I can’t believe I just said that. “Your self-respect?”
“I used them to pay the tallyman.”
If Anselm had only known that his faint smile affected Martha far more than any of his expensive gifts. At that moment, she actually experienced a twinge of pity for him, and for the man he’d become.
“And has your choice made you happy?” The softness of her voice mirrored her feelings. “Really?”
Anselm shrugged and kicked a small stone over the edge of the hill. “Would I be any more content living as my father does, buried alive in that outlaw-infested village, scraping a living from the earth? Taking orders from those he used to command?”
Anger flared in her heart. How could he speak of Seth in that way? “Your father is one of the most noble men I’ve ever met—”
“He lives like a peasant, Martha! He brews his own ale and shares his home with a cow! Very noble indeed.” His sneering tone was worse than his shouting. “Oh, what a dash he would cut at court, all dressed up in his filthy, home-spun smock. King Erik must curse himself a fool for overlooking such a fine and splendid fellow as my beloved father.” Anselm gave a grim smile. “Hardly the kind of life I would choose for myself, m’lady. In fact, I could hardly imagine a more terrible fate.”
“Yeah?” Martha held his flashing eyes without flinching. “Well at least your father can sleep at night; his conscience is clean
. Tell me something: how do you sleep, Anselm?”
His lips curved in a seductive smile. “Well, if you ever care to visit my bedchamber, you might judge that for yourself.”
Martha gave a tut of exasperation. “Oh, for f…” Without another word, she spun on her heels and stormed away, irritated beyond reason. Just when they were getting somewhere, he’d hidden behind his mask of sleaze and reverted to pervy Sir Anselm. Sod him! She wasn’t in the mood to hear him spouting more crap. For the briefest moment there, she’d seen a chink in his armor, the faintest spark of humanity, but now it was gone.
“Martha?” Anselm’s hand closed gently about her arm, preventing her escape. “Forgive me.”
She turned around. If the tone of his voice had surprised her, the sight of him came as an even bigger shock. Not a trace of his former arrogance remained. His gray eyes glittered. He seemed… naked. Vulnerable.
“I should not have spoken to you so. The fact is, you make me see things I would rather forget.” He released her arm and sighed, raking one hand through his golden hair. “It is too late for me, Martha. For better or worse, my course is set. Never fear, in the veil beyond death, I will doubtless be forced to repay all my debts in full. Until then, I must enjoy the life I have remaining and taste all of its trimmings.”
Martha sat down on a granite slab. He really is unbelievable.
“What vexes you now, my dear?” Anselm sat beside her. “Why do your eyes reproach me so?”
“I was thinking about Sylvie, if you really want to know.” She glared at him. “She killed herself, Anselm, and you pushed her to it. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Ah.” Anselm looked solemn. “I admit, that was regrettable.”
“Regrettable?” Martha raised her eyebrows. “That’s the best you can do? She was your mother, for heaven’s sake.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “What do you want from me? What would you have me do? Shall I wail and tear out my hair in grief? Will that bring her back?”
The carrot. What happened to the damn carrot, Bigalow?
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