Martha reined herself in. Be nice. Making Anselm angry served no good purpose.
“I-I’m sorry.” She faked a timid smile. “I had no right to question you in this way. How you mourn your mother is your own affair.”
Anselm exhaled hard, and the rage behind his eyes faded. “Be assured, my grief for her is very real. But you still have not told me why it matters so much to you, m’lady.”
Martha shrugged and stood up. “I just wanted to know you better; that’s all. To try and remove some of the obstacles to our… friendship.” She drew her cloak about her. A chilly mist had begun to descend, obscuring the falling sun. Fine particles of moisture clung to her hair and clothing, making her shiver.
“And have we? Removed some of them?”
For some reason, she couldn’t lie. “Let’s just say we’ve made a start.”
“That will do for now.” Anselm took her arm. “Shall we depart before the mist worsens?”
Martha cast a last look at the ruins she’d so wanted to see and suddenly felt depressed. This was no fairy castle. It was just a heap of old stones. No handsome prince was coming to save her.
And suppose she did manage to escape from Anselm, where could she go? If she went back to Darumvale, she wouldn’t find Vadim there; he was too busy planning his damned war. And returning to the village would only bring further pain to the villagers—her friends. They’d already suffered more than enough. No. For the time being, she was stuck with Anselm.
And where was Vadim? Her well of excuses for him was starting to dry up. War would reach her before her husband did.
In the meantime, if there was any dragon-slaying to be done, she’d just have to do it herself.
CHAPTER NINE
They took the scenic route back to the castle, riding through the busy town of Edgeway. It was just as noisy as Martha remembered it. Although it was almost dusk, the streets were still packed with people and livestock. The constant hum of human voices competed with the various moos and grunts of the animals.
As they rode by, a donkey brayed and hurriedly backed away from the woman attempting to lead it, and toppled a basket of hens as its hooves slipped on the wet cobbles. The outraged birds squawked in fury, adding another level to the wall of sound.
“I had forgotten it was market day.” Anselm raised his voice in order be heard. “Perhaps, if you are willing, we might attend the next one together?”
Martha smiled. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Just then, a large wagon full of turnips moved off, the driver not bothering to check if anything was coming up behind him. As the cart swung into the middle of the narrow street, Mistral executed a hasty step sideways and barged into Anselm’s horse, who was walking alongside her.
Momentarily unbalanced, Martha reached out her hand and braced herself upon Anselm’s hard thigh.
“Have a care, man!” Anselm bellowed at the driver as he helped Martha to sit upright in her saddle. “The road is ours. Give way at once.”
“Ssh, Anselm. It’s fine—”
“Irresponsible halfwit!”
The sound of Anselm’s voice had a curious effect on the bustling street. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared, whispering to one another from behind their hands. Martha distinctly heard the words Lord Edgeway’s man, and an unnatural hush descended.
The reins felt slippery in her clammy hands. This silence wasn’t out of respect. The fear in the people’s eyes was unmistakable. She squirmed in her saddle feeling as conspicuous as a hairy facial wart.
What do they make of me? Did they think she was like Anselm? Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? Not only was she dressed as a noblewoman, she was in the company of the earl’s favorite henchman.
“Come along, dearest.” Anselm grabbed Martha’s reins and forced his horse into a trot. Mistral followed suit. “Imbecile!” he snarled at the cart driver as they passed.
Red with embarrassment, Martha smiled at the poor man, but he wouldn’t look at her. He kept his eyes low, fixing his gaze on his filthy hands.
The whispers must have spread. It was the same all along the road. The crowds magically parted as they approached, and a sea of expressionless faces watched them go by. Then the cloying silence dissipated, and life returned to the street.
Once they were clear of the crowd, Anselm slowed his horse to walk and then gave Martha her reins. “Forgive me, sweeting. I should not have brought you this way.”
“Does that happen to you a lot?”
“What? Getting rammed by unruly peasants?” He laughed. “Hardly!”
“No. I meant the silence, the staring.”
Anselm shrugged and didn’t bother to reply. “Shall we quicken our pace? We have been out much longer than I intended.”
And there she had her answer. The incident obviously meant nothing to him. If only she could put it from her mind so easily.
The moment their horses crossed the drawbridge, the earl swooped down on them like an agitated, purple-clad bat.
“Where have you been for so long?” he demanded, striding over the cobbled courtyard toward them. “I do not employ you to go gallivanting about the countryside with your favorite doxy!”
Martha flinched. Doxy? Charming.
“My apology, m’lord.” Anselm flung his leg over his horse’s neck and dismounted, wordlessly thrusting his reins into the waiting hands of a hovering stable lad. “We took the road back through Edgeway. I had forgotten it—”
The earl grabbed the sleeve of Anselm’s tunic and didn’t let go. “The king is on his way.”
“M’lord?”
“Erik? The king? Your liege-lord?” The earl’s voice rose to a shriek. “He will be here in two days. Two days! How can I hope to be ready to receive him in time?” He released Anselm and cast his hands skyward, muttering to himself.
Anselm frowned. “At such short notice?”
The earl pursed his lips. “Not as short as you might believe. It appears the first dispatch rider was lost somewhere in outlaw country.” He glared at Martha, pointing a swift, accusing finger at her. “The work of your dead husband’s friends, no doubt.”
“Or perhaps he met with some other unfortunate accident, m’lord?” Martha replied calmly.
The earl looked as if he were sucking on a particularly bitter lemon. “Oh, do shut up!” he snapped.
Martha hurriedly dismounted, waving away the stable lad who was waiting to take Mistral back to her stable. Hidden by her horse—safely out of sight of Anselm and the earl—her carefully neutral mask cracked. Unable to help herself, she leaned against Mistral’s side and dissolved into fits of soundless giggles. As scary and dangerous as the earl was, his fits of rage were too funny. He reminded her of an overwound clockwork clown.
Still snort-giggling, she patted her horse and loosened its girth. She had to get herself back under control.
The stable boy frowned. “Are you unwell, m’lady?”
“I’m fine.” She handed him Mistral’s reins. “I think I must have got a piece of grit in my eye or something.” Still grinning, she swiped her sleeve over her damp cheeks. “Thank you.”
The lad shook his head and lead Mistral away.
Anselm beckoned to her from where he stood, visibly bristling as he listened to his master’s continuing bitter tirade. He couldn’t get a word in sideways.
Serves him right.
The men set off toward the keep with Martha dawdling behind.
“You must return to town at once!” the earl cried. “I need an army of servants. Take as many men as you need to coerce the townspeople. Use whatever threats you must, but get them here. Do you understand? Come what may, I want this castle gleaming and its larders full by this time tomorrow…”
Martha smiled another secret smile. Wait until you see what’s coming, you pompous old arse. Today is only th
e start.
By “this time tomorrow”, the press-ganged army of cleaning women, cooks, and servants had almost achieved the earl’s goal.
Martha asked Anselm if she could help, and much to her amazement, he agreed.
“It is hardly fitting,” he said. “But no doubt an extra pair of hands would be useful. Go down to the kitchens and help as you may. Oh, and take your maid with you.”
She didn’t need telling twice. Anywhere was better than being stuck in here.
The moment she and Effie entered the hot and crowded kitchen, they saw Agatha, waving to them over the heads of the scurrying scullery maids. She looked pleased to see Martha again. Leaving Effie to help one of the pastry cooks, the older woman dragged Martha off to assist with the massive task of airing and cleaning the castle’s guest chambers.
The majority of the visiting knights and soldiers were to be put up in the great hall. The rest would share the barracks of the castle garrison. The remainder of the king’s extensive entourage had a smaller, lesser-used hall within the shadow of the curtain wall.
Only the highest ranking nobles would have a bedchamber, but even they would have little privacy, what with having to share the space with their personal servants, who usually slept in the same room on a straw pallet. Despite Edgeway Castle’s impressive size, accommodating the king and his court was, according to Agatha, proving to be quite a challenge.
The moment they were alone, carting their buckets and cleaning equipment along the second floor corridor, Martha raised the subject that had been bugging her ever since she’d learned of Rodmar’s advancing army.
“When the time comes, how the hell am I supposed to get out of Anselm’s rooms? Do you happen to have a spare key?”
“Hush!” Agatha glanced over her shoulder, but the echoing corridor was empty. Several seconds elapsed before she gave Martha an answer. “No,” she said. “I am afraid not.”
Oh, that’s just great. “So, what am I supposed to do?” Martha demanded, almost dropping the bucket she carried. “It’s just my life we’re talking about here. No big deal.”
“You have so much more freedom of late. Perhaps you will not need a key?”
“Perhaps?” Martha’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline. “Sorry, Ags, but I’m going to need a little more insurance than that.”
Agatha frowned, apparently giving some thought to the matter. “There is nothing else for it,” she said at last. “The next time the guard takes lunch in the kitchen, I will attempt to steal his keys. In the event I am unsuccessful, however,” her gray eyes twinkled, “it might be prudent for you try and liberate Anselm’s set of keys.”
“How? He never puts them down for a second. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of time to study him.”
A grin of pure wickedness curved Agatha’s lips, and her eyes shone brighter than ever. There was no mistaking her meaning.
Is she suggesting that I…? Hot color flooded Martha’s cheeks. That’s exactly what she’s suggesting. “No! Absolutely not.” She marched down the corridor, sloshing water from her bucket in her haste to put some distance between herself and the mental image Agatha had just given her. “Eww!” Sleep with Anselm? No fecking way! Her skin prickled as though a thousand tiny spiders were creeping over her.
“We are but women, m’lady.” Agatha’s mop scraped along the stone floor as she hurried to catch up. “We must use whatever means we can to secure our safety in these dangerous times.”
Martha stopped walking and wheeled around. “You mean to say that you’d…” God, she couldn’t even say it. “With Anselm?” She felt herself grimace.
“Me?” Agatha shrugged. “Why, yes. I suppose I would, if I had to.” She ignored Martha’s disgusted little ‘ugh’. “And you need not look at me like that. I may be an old woman, but even I can see Anselm is not wholly without appeal. Besides,” she added with a lecherous grin, “it has been a long time since I last had a man to warm my bed. And from what I have learned, as untrustworthy as Sir Anselm undoubtedly is, he would not leave me disappointed.”
Holy Mother of God! This was way too much information.
“And what about Vadim?” Martha demanded in a heated whisper. “Even if I could get myself drunk enough to sleep with Anselm, how do you think he’d feel if he learned I’d bumped uglies with his evil foster brother?”
Agatha shrugged. “Is there any reason he would find out? Would you tell him?”
No. She wouldn’t have to. Anselm would take great pleasure in doing that himself the very moment he learned Vadim was still alive.
“There are fates far worse than a night in Sir Anselm’s bed,” Agatha continued in a wheedling tone. “He is reputed to be a very generous lover. Come, m’lady. You cannot deny that he is very attractive.”
Martha wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Oh, please. Enough! Gentlemen might prefer blondes, but I certainly don’t.” She stalked away, muttering beneath her breath. “Remind me never to play Shag, Kill or Marry with you.” Something told her she wouldn’t like any of Agatha’s answers.
“What did you say, my dear?” Agatha called after her.
Martha ground her teeth and kept walking. “I said, I’ll find another way.”
The hours spent preparing for King Erik’s visit were amongst the happiest Martha had spent at the castle. To be away from Anselm’s watchful eyes, to be able to laugh and talk freely again, was an exquisite luxury. Okay, so she wasn’t free yet, but at least Anselm had loosened her leash.
Trailing Agatha from room to room, Martha listened to the older woman’s stories as they washed, swept, and polished away the dust of long neglect. For the best part of the day, no one disturbed them. Even so, they spoke in hushed tones, just in case the stone walls were listening.
In great depth, Agatha described her former life, the days she’d lived as a noblewoman. She spoke affectionately of her dead husband, a man many years her senior. Martha thought he sounded a kindly chap, a nice husband and an indulgent father to his two young sons. It was clear Agatha still missed him dearly.
Inevitably, the conversation drifted to Vadim.
“I know you are angry with him, child.” Agatha held up her hand to ward off the protest Martha was about to make. “Yes, you are. It is there in your eyes whenever I mention him, a brittleness that was not there before.”
Martha shut her mouth. There was no point denying it. Was there any wonder she was so pissed off? In all the time she’d been here, Vadim had made no attempt to rescue her. So much for love. What else was she supposed to think?
She swept the floor so vigorously that a great cloud of dust engulfed the bedchamber, making them cough and sneeze.
“Wait!” Agatha hobbled over to the window and pushed it open as wide as it would go.
A cool breeze swirled through the room, cutting a swathe of freshness through the stale and dusty air. Martha leaned on her broom and inhaled, filling her lungs with the unmistakable scent of autumn: bonfires, ripe fruit, and rich, loamy earth.
Agatha withdrew her head from the window and glared at her. “At least let me dampen down the dust before you and your broom punish the floor for the supposed failings of your husband.”
Hah! She’d been at the mercy of His Evilness and his mentally challenged sidekick for five fecking weeks. There was no supposed about it.
Taking a pitcher from the hearth, Agatha dipped her fingers into the water and began flicking it around the room, anointing every dusty corner. “Now you may sweep.”
Martha moved the broom more slowly this time. Each stroke of her brush lifted a bright stripe of wood from the filthy floor. She found the work was strangely satisfying.
“You did not live through the dark, desperate days after the old king was murdered. Perhaps if you had, you would understand Vadim’s actions better.”
Martha glanced at Agatha, but continued sweeping. She wasn’t in
the mood to hear more excuses.
“Vadim was only a boy at the time.” Agatha flicked her duster over the veil of cobwebs hanging from one of the carved wooden bed posts. “’Twas Seth who found him lying outside in the courtyard with his dead parents.” She sighed. “For days, he hovered nearer death than life, but the wounds to his soul were even more severe.
“Over time, his physical wounds healed, but his hidden injuries remained unchanged. By day, the boy was little more than a living corpse. He never spoke or made a sound. Wherever Seth put him, he would still be there hours later, staring at nothing with those dark, empty eyes. Oh, but at night! That was a different tale.” Agatha closed her eyes for a second and shuddered. “I will never forget that poor child’s screams. Even now, recalling them gives me the chills. Awful they were. We began to think he might never recover, that death would have been a truer mercy.”
Martha kept sweeping, but slowly. The thought of Vadim’s suffering sickened her.
“That poor lad. To see his parents hacked—”
“I know this part.” Martha couldn’t stomach hearing it again. Once was plenty. “Tell me something else.”
“Very well.” Agatha took up a small pot of beeswax and began rubbing it in small circles onto the wooden bedpost. “Eventually, Seth brought Madoc to Darumva—”
“Madoc?” Martha stopped work and leaned on her broom. “My Madoc?”
“Yes… well, the old Madoc that was. May the Spirits keep his soul.”
“He healed Vadim?”
“I do not know what he did, but he was shut away with the child for several days.” Agatha sat down on the bed, and the straw-filled mattress rustled beneath her weight. “When he finally left, Vadim had begun speaking again. Only little words at first, you understand, but it was a start. Time completed what Madoc had begun. As the years passed and Vadim grew into a man, he began seeking out all those who had been most wounded by the new king and his noblemen and offered them a way to strike back, a chance to right the wrongs of this land.”
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