Anselm stood up. “You may be right, sweeting.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at her.
“Of course I am.” When Anselm was in good humor, she felt she could almost be herself again. “Will you do something for me, m’lord?”
“Anything you ask of me.”
“Go and take a bath. You reek of serving wench.”
Fortunately, her timing was perfect. Anselm burst into loud laughter.
“Are… are you not angry?” he asked when he was finally able to speak.
“Of course not.” Rather a serving wench than me. “I understand that men have certain… needs, and spring is a long time away. Only a shrew would object to her future husband finding… relief in the meantime.”
“My, Martha.” Anselm walked over and planted a kiss on top of her head. “What a rare gem you are. Go and visit your friends in the kitchens. While you are there, instruct the maids to prepare me a bath.”
“Really?” He was letting her out on her own?
“Really.” He took the key ring from his belt and, selecting the correct key, pressed it into her hand. “Go.” He gave her backside a playful slap as she turned for the door. “And if you behave yourself, I will take you to Darumvale tomorrow.”
Martha stopped walking and spun around to look at him, keys clanking. “We’re going to Darumvale? Why?” He was up to something. She could feel it in her bones.
“Their harvest should be in by now, and as always, they are late in delivering the Lord Edgeway’s share.”
“Another kind of tax?” Martha’s smile slipped. “They can’t afford it, Anselm.”
During her stay in Darumvale, she’d come to appreciate how hard the lives of the villagers really were. The fields were their daily battleground, fighting the earth and the elements in order to grow the crops they needed for survival. The reality of starvation was only ever a harvest away. It sickened her that the earl should demand the food from the villagers’ mouths in addition to all the gold he took from them throughout the year.
“The earl’s larder cannot wait, not with so many extra mouths to feed. You vex yourself needlessly, sweeting. My father will complain the harvest was poor, as he always does, but his secret store will already be well stocked.”
“How do you know he has a secret store?” she asked in surprise.
“Whatever he thinks of me, and I of him, Seth is still my father.” Anselm shrugged. “I know him and all of his twists.”
“Does the earl know?”
“What do you think?”
Of course he didn’t. His Evilness would tear Darumvale apart if he thought he was being cheated of so much as a handful of grain.
“So why haven’t you told him?” For the life of her, she couldn’t guess the answer.
Anselm shrugged off his tunic and threw it over a chair. “That, I cannot say. Some last vestige of family loyalty, perhaps?” He unfastened the loose tie on his shirt and quickly pulled the garment over his head. “Whatever it is, I would not want to see my father dead too.”
Martha’s eyes widened. The image of Anselm’s naked torso seemed to burn onto her retinas—pale and hairless, disfigured by the numerous scars his violent life had given him.
She hurried for the door and pushed the key into the lock. Why were Anselm’s scars so repulsive to her? Vadim’s body was equally disfigured, but on him the scars were nothing but sexy. Her heart fluttered as she recalled some of her favorites.
“I’ll see you later.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she stepped out into the corridor.
“And Martha?”
“What?” She stuck her head back inside the room, and tried not to look as Anselm reached to unfastened his trousers.
“Do not speak to any of the guests. If anyone should address you, be polite and excuse yourself just as soon as you are able to do so. Give me your word.”
She rolled her eyes skyward. As if anyone would take any notice of her. But Anselm wasn’t joking—she read it in the stern set of his face. “Fine.” She raised the palm of her right hand. “I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Martha sat astride Mistral, huddled deep in the folds of her cloak. Despite the bright morning sunshine, she was cold. Mounted soldiers surrounded her, chatting to one another as they prepared to ride out.
Anselm pushed his gray horse through the ranks of other horses and reined in beside her. “Are you still sulking?”
He must have found his answer in the venomous look she sent him, for he muttered something beneath his breath, then turned away to talk to one of the other men.
She didn’t care. Why was it whenever she vowed not to react to Anselm anymore, he always managed to ignite her temper?
That morning at breakfast, he’d informed her she’d be traveling to Darumvale as his intended. Not only that, but if she gave anyone reason to suspect their forthcoming union was anything but a happily anticipated event, he threatened to take an even greater share of the villagers’ precious harvest.
Refusing to go wasn’t an option.
Anselm wanted to flaunt his trophy wife before they were even married. Damn him. How would she face Seth, Bren, and the others? She cringed inwardly, imagining what they’d think when they saw her simpering and smiling at Anselm’s side. Would they guess the truth?
God, I hope so.
More importantly, what would Vadim think when he heard of it? She frowned, imagining the cold glint in his dark, pirate eyes. Would he believe she’d gone over to the other side too?
“Where is your smile, m’lady?” Anselm leaned over, his warm breath brushing against her ear. “We are meant to be a happy couple, remember?”
“We’re not in Darumvale yet, m’lord.” She gathered up her reins, preparing to move away from him.
Anselm’s gloved hand stilled hers. “I believe you would benefit from a rehearsal, my sweet.”
Martha snatched her hands away and glared at him. “How’s this?” She bared her teeth in a parody of a smile.
Before she knew what was happening, Anselm had reached across and pulled her to him, one arm hooked about her waist, punishing her lips with a brief and grinding kiss. Afraid of being unseated from her horse, Martha clung onto the pommel of her saddle. Lusty cheers of the onlooking soldiers rang in her ears, further heightening her humiliation.
Anselm thrust her away at last, observing her bruised lips and hot cheeks with apparent satisfaction. “Much better. Your temper is preferable to the charade of a spiritless milksop.”
Martha wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I really hate you,” she hissed.
He nodded. “Good. And I wager you will hate me a good deal more before you are finally broken.” Grabbing her chin, he forced her to look at him. “But make no mistake, my sweet. Eventually, you will submit.”
With that, he let her go and rode away to join the captain at the head of the column, accepting the accompanying cat-calls and back-slaps with good humor.
Oh, fall and break your fecking neck, why don’t you?
She tightened her hands on the reins, confusing her horse into taking several hasty backward steps. “Sorry, hon.” She loosened the reins and patted Mistral’s neck, ignoring the many leery grins directed her way.
When Vadim finally catches up with you, Anselm, you’ll learn what submission really is. I just hope I get to watch.
The sound of fast-moving hooves thundered over the drawbridge. Martha glanced up as a rider cantered into the courtyard, his foam-flecked horse clattering and skidding over the cobbles.
On spotting Anselm, the man reined his weary mount to a standstill and leapt from its back.
“Grave tidings, m’lord,” he cried, pushing through the horsemen until he reached Anselm’s side. “A vast army advances on Edgeway. Even as we speak, it has reached the border of town!”
Martha’s heart
soared. Finally! She stared at Anselm, eager to see how he’d react. Even as she watched, the color drained from his face.
“Whose army?” he asked in a toneless voice.
The rider shook his head. “Although I saw the standard, I can scarce—”
“Curse you, man!” Anselm lost his rag. Swiftly dismounting from his horse, he grabbed the weary rider by the ties of his leather tunic. “Who the devil is it?” he roared.
A tense silence descended on the courtyard, every ear straining to hear the messenger’s reply.
The messenger shook free of Anselm’s grasp and scowled at him. “Rodmar of Weyland, m’lord.” The emphasis the man placed on the word ‘m’lord’ made it sound like ‘bastard.’
Martha covered her mouth to hide her smile. But no one was paying her any attention.
The soldiers exchanged hurried glances, muttering to one another, repeating the messenger’s words. Borne on a low rumble of voices, Rodmar’s name soon reached every corner of the courtyard. The men looked shocked, as if they’d collectively seen a ghost.
Anselm was the first to recover himself. “That landless whelp? You must be mistaken.” Despite the levity of his words, his smile looked strained.
“No, m’lord.” The messenger shook his head, and spoke more forcefully. “That ‘landless whelp’ is now a man full grown, and a powerful one at that. It seems his years in exile have earned him many new friends.”
Anselm looked poleaxed—there was no other word for it.
“’Tis true, m’lord.” The messenger pulled off the tight leather cap he wore on his head. As he spoke, he wrung it between his hands. “Well do I recall the House of Weyland. Mark my words, the old king’s ghost dwells in the eyes of the man leading this army.”
Without speaking another word, Anselm raced for the steps leading to the castle’s ramparts, taking them three at a time. Shielding his eyes, he peered over the wall for several long seconds. Whatever he saw, it was enough to kick-start him into action.
He bounded back down the steps. “Sound the alarm!” he called in a loud, clear voice. “A vast dust cloud hangs over Edgeway town. Captains! Muster your men. Enlist any peasant able to bear arms.”
Martha watched the sudden reanimation taking place all around her. Men jumped from their horses, obeying the loud summons of their captains. Stable boys raced about, attempting to retrieve the wandering horses. The constant low tolling of a bell provided a soundtrack to the ensuing chaos.
Her heart fluttered with excitement. The drawbridge was down, and everyone was racing about like headless chickens. She might never get a better chance than this. Gathering up her reins, she pointed her horse toward the gatehouse. Ever obedient, Mistral set off at a slow walk, weaving her way through the crowd.
We’re almost there. Keep going, Mistral. Walk casual, baby. Framed by the short arching tunnel that led to the drawbridge, the distant hills beckoned her on. Freedom.
“Where do you think you are going?” Anselm appeared, grabbing Mistral’s bridle just beneath her bit and turning her about.
Damn it!
“Keep the gate open until the last possible moment,” Anselm called over his shoulder to the gatekeeper of the barbican, shouting to be heard above the melee. “The serfs have left their fields and are headed this way. Let them enter. We may have use for them in what is to come. I must hasten to break the news to the king and my master.”
Frustrated beyond belief, Martha sent a last look at the open gateway. So close. So fecking close!
Anselm led Mistral back toward the keep. Once there, he helped her dismount. “Go back inside,” he said curtly. “Stay with the other women.” Wordlessly, he thrust the horse’s reins into the hands of a passing stable hand. Then, taking her by the arm, he steered her toward the looming hulk of the keep.
“I take it the trip to Darumvale is off, then?” she asked in a voice laced with saccharine.
The look Anselm sent her made her wish she’d kept quiet. “Now is not the time to bait me, Martha. Do as I command, or must I lock you in the dungeon?” Without waiting to hear her reply, he turned and collared a loitering man-at-arms. “You, man! Escort my lady back to our chambers.” With that, he strode away and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.
Though it pained her to do so, when they reached Anselm’s rooms, she thanked her guard before dismissing him. Yeah, thanks for nothing, pal! But good manners, it seemed, weren’t an easy thing to override.
Tugging at the front lacing of her gown, she lifted the latch and went inside. She couldn’t wait to get out of the fecking thing. The dress was yet another of Anselm’s choices. He’d insisted she wear it for the trip to Darumvale, probably to make some kind of statement to the villagers.
With its billowing skirt and flowing sleeves, the gold-embroidered garment was certainly impressive, but it was bloody uncomfortable to wear, and it made her itch too. Time to change into something a little less dazzling, something sober and serviceable. Her blue woolen gown would do nicely.
On entering the room, she found Effie sitting on the window seat with her apron held up to her face. Martha frowned when she heard the girl’s sobs.
“Effie? What’s happened?” Martha hurried over and crouched down beside her. “Are you hurt?”
“N-no.” With a loud sniff, Effie dropped her apron. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. “Oh, m’lady, what is to become of us all? Will they spare us, do you think?”
“Who, love?” She took Effie’s trembling hand and gave it a squeeze.
“The army, of course. They say it is led by Rodmar, the nephew of the old king—the one King Erik had murdered.” Her lower lip wobbled. “Surely he will not rest until we are all dead and the debt of blood repaid.” She set off weeping again.
“Effie? Effie!” Martha was forced to speak sternly to her. “Stop it. You’re frightening yourself over nothing. Listen to me. I’ve heard that Rodmar is a good man. If he’s looking to avenge his uncle, he certainly has no quarrel with anyone other than King Erik and his followers.”
Effie stopped sobbing. “You truly think so?” She sucked on her lower lip.
“I do.” Despite the firmness of her words, a shiver of apprehension rushed down Martha’s spine. In this world, “good” was a fairly fluid concept.
“Might they… offer terms, do you think?”
“Quite possibly,” she replied, although she wasn’t really sure what “terms” actually meant. But Effie appeared comforted. Using her apron in lieu of a handkerchief, the maid mopped it over her eyes and swollen nose. She even managed a watery smile.
Martha glanced out of the mullioned window. Although the castle sat at the top of a steep hill, even at this height she could see a vast cloud of dust mushrooming upward, expanding like yellow fog.
Vadim was somewhere within that yellow haze. He was coming at last.
As if sensing his nearness, her blood tingled in her veins. She leapt to her feet and dragged Effie up with her. “Come on. Help me change my clothes.”
By late afternoon, the front-riders of Rodmar’s army had reached the castle. Martha, Agatha, and Effie hurried up to one of the tower rooms to watch events unfold, taking turns to peer through the narrow window slit onto the meadowland below the castle’s hill.
The sound of thunder ripped through the air, grumbling on and on. Then Martha realized her mistake. That wasn’t thunder. It was a man-made storm, the sound made by thousands of feet marching upon the dry earth; the hoof beats of countless horses; the deep rumbles and creaks of the scores of heavy, horse-drawn wagons. The thick castle walls vibrated with the advance of war.
Like a bottle of spilled ink, men flooded onto the meadow until every blade of grass was saturated, obscured by the feet of a deadly swarm—thousands of men, all armed and ready to die for their cause.
She should have been glad to see them, but as she looked do
wn on the vast army, a shudder of dread rippled along Martha’s spine. When the fighting began, the innocent residents of the castle would die alongside the guilty. From outside the thick walls, there was no way to tell anyone apart.
It was ironic, really. Those she hoped would liberate her may well be responsible for her death.
From the foot of the castle hill, Rodmar’s army broke into song. That was a threat in itself.
Martha was reminded of Wembley stadium on Cup Final day, only the singing was much, much louder. The raw power and cadence of so many voices joined in song was deafening. The sound vibrated in her throat and chest until it was an effort to breathe.
Despite the merry tune, this wasn’t a rowdy, harmless football crowd. These men wanted blood—literally. They began setting up camp only spitting distance away from the castle—or so it seemed to Martha. They worked quickly, unloading the wagons and pitching their city of tents. But throughout it all, although the songs changed, the singing continued until night.
“Why are they camped so close?” Martha asked Agatha, their resident warfare expert. “Aren’t they afraid of getting hit by arrows and stuff?”
“They are not so close as your eyes would have you believe, m’lady. They are well out of arrow and trebuchet range.”
“Treboo… What?”
Agatha tutted at Martha’s ignorance. “Trebuchet. The castle has three. Surely you must have seen them? They resemble giant slings?”
“Oh, right.” Martha was none the wiser, although she didn’t admit it. From outside, a familiar metallic ticking sound reclaimed her attention. “They’re raising the portcullis.” The narrow window afforded them with a very narrow view of the world. Pressing her cheek against the cold, rough stone, Martha strained to see the barbican. Several riders trotted toward the gate, one without armor or helm, golden hair whipping about his face. As he turned his head to speak to one of the other men, she realized who it was. “Oh, my God! Anselm’s riding out with some of the knights.”
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