Agatha and Effie hurriedly crowded their faces into the long window slit to see for themselves.
“He is acting as the king’s messenger, I expect.” Agatha said calmly. “’Tis quite usual in circumstances such as these.” She leaned back from the window and grinned. “Not that Rodmar will be swayed from the task at hand. No matter what words King Erik has sent, only his head on a platter can prevent what is to come.”
A group of riders broke away from Rodmar’s camp, cantering on an intercept course toward the king’s men. One of them bore a standard, a bright piece of red fabric that danced and curled in the wind.
Martha screwed up her eyes, peering at the standard bearer. “Can either of you make out the picture on that flag?” Long vision had never been her thing.
“It is a fox, I think,” Effie replied. “Or perhaps… a dog?”
“’Tis a wolf hunting a bear,” Agatha informed them with quiet authority, not bothering to look through the window.
Martha and Effie turned to stare at her. Did she have x-ray vision or something?
“I remember the Weyland coat of arms from when the old king was still alive,” Agatha said, unconsciously divesting herself of the superpowers Martha had just awarded her with.
“Oh, look!” Effie tugged on Martha’s dress, her voice quivering with excitement. “Masked riders accompany Rodmar’s messenger. They must be Lord Hemlock’s… I mean, Lord Vadim’s men, m’lady.”
Or even Lord Hemlock himself? Martha’s heart fluttered. Surely not? If Anselm recognized Vadim, a lot of unpleasant stuff would hit the fan and blow straight in her direction.
“Perhaps. I wouldn’t really know. I never saw their faces.”
Rodmar’s outriders silently parted as Anselm approached, allowing him and his men to pass. Martha shivered as the ranks closed up behind him. He has balls. I’ll give him that much.
The two groups of riders came to a halt at the center of the meadow, facing one another in their respective lines. An eerie silence descended on the field. All work stopped, and the singing died away.
Martha held her breath as Anselm and Rodmar’s representative dismounted and walked toward one another, their arms outstretched—to show they weren’t armed, she supposed. Well, they certainly weren’t about to hug.
A few minutes elapsed. No one in the tower room spoke. The silent debate on the field below claimed all their attention.
Suddenly, things became more animated. Anselm made a series of wild gesticulations, pointing first at the castle and then toward the invading army. Rodmar’s ambassador was taller than Anselm. Even from this distance, he appeared older and more restrained than his young counterpart. He didn’t flail his arms or shout. If anything, he looked relaxed.
Agatha gave a wet-sounding chuckle. “Sir Anselm is not having his way this time.” The sudden blast of her onion breath made Martha’s stomach roll. “Then again, Reynard’s placid nature can be most disagreeable on occasion.”
“You know him?” Effie asked in surprise.
“I should say so. He is my brother.”
The maid’s blue eyes widened, “An outlaw?” she whispered. “Your own brother is a wanted man?”
Martha felt uncomfortable. As sweet as Effie was, she still wasn’t sure how much she trusted the girl. “Oh, I’m sure he’s not an—”
“Reynard is a defender of the realm.” Agatha said, choosing to ignore the escape route Martha had tried to offer her. “When Rodmar takes back the crown, he will reward all the outlawed lords for their loyalty.” She looked proud. Noble, even. “Yes, Effie, my brother included.” She held her head high, and a soft bloom glowed on her cheeks. Suddenly, Martha glimpsed a younger version of Agatha, and the fine lady she must have once been.
Loud jeers from outside reclaimed them. Anselm was striding away, obviously in a proper strop. Snatching his reins from the knight who held them, he swung himself onto his horse. With a last lingering stare in Reynard’s direction, he yanked his horse’s head around and set off in a fast canter toward the castle, sending the enemy ranks scattering. The other knights followed in close pursuit.
Rodmar’s army jeered at the retreating men and broke into another song, their voices even louder than before.
The sound of the drawbridge being raised was followed by the loud crash of the descending portcullis.
“Oh, my.” Effie’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Lord Anselm looks most distressed.”
Martha looked down as Anselm clattered back into the courtyard. His mouth was set in a grim line. His whole demeanor was of one of seething rage. Definitely not a happy bunny.
Then again, neither was she. The castle was in lockdown. There was no way in or out. A cold ball of dread settled in the pit of her stomach.
This is it. The beginning of the end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
While Agatha and Effie went to gather news and food, Martha remained in the tower room. She knelt before the little window and peered out, her arms resting on the sloping sill. It was almost sunset. As she looked outside, a wedge of swans flew overhead, honking sadly as they passed. The last dying rays of the sun touched the birds’ snowy bellies, briefly transforming the white feathers of their undercarriages to a dazzling silver.
She envied the birds their freedom. What must it be like, to have the ability to fly away?
The shadows of day gradually lengthened, but Rodmar’s army toiled, on banging and hammering in the dark. One by one, lanterns and campfires punched bright holes through the black wall of night.
A light evening breeze carried brief snatches of a hundred conversations up to her window—voices of faceless strangers she would probably never meet. Although the odds of hearing Vadim amongst them were virtually nil, she strained to hear his voice. But she didn’t expect to hear him, she told herself. Not really.
Suddenly, the door of the tower room crashed open. Heart pounding, Martha leapt to her feet, half-expecting to find Anselm standing there. But it was only Agatha.
“Oops.” Illuminated by the candle she carried, Agatha’s grin looked slightly demon-esque. Deep-angled shadows etched her face.
“Fecking hell!” Martha clutched her chest. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“Sorry. I tripped on the last step.” Agatha kicked the door closed behind her. “Here. Take this.”
Martha relieved Agatha of her heavy basket and carried it over to the window. She raised the linen cover and sniffed. Mmm! Bread. Her stomach immediately clawed with hunger. It had been ages since her last meal. “Have I been missed yet?”
“Not at all. Anselm has been locked away with his masters for hours.” She eased herself down to sit on the floor beside Martha, grunting a little with discomfort. “I doubt he will have time for anything but battle now.”
“Good.” Martha tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into her mouth, too hungry for politeness. “Have you… found out what it is they’re… building out there?”
Even as they spoke, the hammering from the camp continued. The work sounded much too heavy for mere tent-pitching.
Agatha handed Martha a bladder of ale. “Lord Rodmar, it seems, has brought along some trebuchets of his own.”
Martha gulped down the half-chewed bread, and it lodged like a hard ball in her chest. “The sling things?” She took a swig of ale to dislodge the painful bolus.
Agatha gave a nod. “It will soon begin, my dear. The waiting is always the hardest part.” She rummaged around in the basket. “Now, where did I put that cheese? I do hope I—Ah! Here it is.” She produced it with a little flourish, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Would you like some?”
Mouth crammed full of bread, Martha nodded. How could Agatha be so calm when missiles might start raining down on them at any moment? Suddenly, the tower room didn’t seem the best place in which to sit out the approaching battle.
“Aren’t you scared?” she asked once her mouth was empty. “Or do you and Reynard share the same calmness of disposition?”
“Hardly.” Agatha handed Martha a lump of cheese wrapped in a linen cloth. “I have waited many years for this moment, child. Why should I now fear my heart’s greatest desire?”
“But we might be killed, or worse. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”
Agatha shrugged then devoted her attention to a chicken leg, slurping noisily at it while fat ran unnoticed down her chin.
Munching on her bread and cheese, Martha looked out of the window again. Above everything else, what she feared most was injury. In a world with no hospitals or antibiotics, no surgeons or shiny operating theaters, a quick death had seemed a much better option. But now she had a brand new little person to consider—she touched her belly—and her perspective had changed.
Please, God. Don’t let me die. Give our baby the chance to live.
Being pregnant had somehow strengthened her resolve. No matter what happened, no matter whose ass she had to kiss, she was determined to make it out of the castle, alive, healthy, and in one piece.
The fires and lanterns of the enemy camp burned brightly in the darkness. Martha gave a sight. As much as she dreaded the oncoming battle, a part of her longed for it to begin. Agatha was right; the waiting was hard to take. This was going to be a very long night.
Two days passed—endless hours of inactivity and waiting. Martha began to feel she would explode from the tension of doing nothing. And it seemed she wasn’t alone in feeling this way.
The lords and ladies of King Erik’s court mooched around the castle, never straying far from the windows. There was no more music or laughter. The merry conversations of only a few days ago were now sombre, huddled-in-the-corner affairs. Even the castle’s fool sat pensive and still, absently stroking the strings of his lute as he sat by the fire, waiting for a summons from his master that never came.
It appeared Anselm had forgotten about her. She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d ridden out to speak to Rodmar’s emissary. The door to his chambers were left unlocked, leaving Martha free to roam the castle at will.
To keep herself occupied, she spent most of her time in the kitchen. It was the most “normal” place left in the entire castle. The world might be changing, but the servants’ lot remained unchanged. They had no other choice but to carry on, feeding, cleaning, and satisfying the demands of the Edgeway’s noble captives. But even there, Martha sensed the same shift in atmosphere.
Like rising damp, fear seemed to seep through the very fabric of the castle, fettering its occupants in chains wrought by their own fevered imaginings. No one was spared, neither servant nor lord.
Then, she began to hear the whispers. The rumors. Siege.
At first, she couldn’t understand why the word evoked such dread. Surely a siege was better than being blasted off the face of the planet? But as the hours dragged on, day following reluctant day, she began to feel differently.
And this was only the start. The castle larders were well stocked with food, but it wouldn’t last forever. What then?
As she sat alone at a huge table in the warm and noisy kitchen, Martha shivered. From behind the heap of vegetables she was supposed to be chopping, she noticed another servant slope off outside, heading in the direction of the ramparts.
Besieged. Cut off from the outside world. How long before the cracks showed and friend turned upon friend? A siege would strip them raw, one slow and painful layer at a time.
“M’lady?”
Martha blinked and looked up, glad to be diverted from her miserable thoughts. She met the gray eyes of Fergus, the young harpist. Vadim’s man. Her heart leapt at the sight of the gangly man-child with his shock of spiky red hair.
Fergus frowned. “Are you unwell?”
She forced a smile and shook her head. “I’m fine now.” She reached for his hand, pulling him to sit down beside her. “Please tell me you have news?”
Fergus glanced over his shoulder, his cheeks glowing pink, but no one paid them any attention. Although lunch was over, there was still tonight’s feast to prepare. The king and the earl insisted that standards were maintained.
Satisfied they weren’t observed, Fergus leaned his head closer to Martha’s, murmuring, “The trebuchet battery begins at first light.”
Oh, dear God.
“Do you still keep to Anselm’s rooms?” he asked.
Martha nodded. “Anything to keep the peace.” Not that she’d seen anything of Anselm during recent days. She loosened her death-grip on Fergus’s hand. “Sorry.” Picking up a carrot from the table, she twirled it like a baton between her fingers.
Fergus flexed his fingers and grimaced. “Does he still lock your door?”
“Sometimes. But I have a key now. Didn’t Agatha tell you?”
The lad shook his head. “I have been detained... elsewhere until only recently.”
Martha stared at him. She hadn’t missed the brief hesitation, nor the trove of information it concealed. “You’ve been with Vadim, haven’t you?” Not really a question but a statement of fact. “Tell me.”
Fergus blushed to his ear tips. He looked around the kitchen as though hunting for an escape.
“Give me the truth.” Martha clutched at his arm, disregarding the constant flow of people about them.
Fergus sighed and reluctantly met her eyes. “I have seen him, yes.”
Her heart skipped several beats. “When? Before the lockdown or…”
He shuffled on the bench beside her. Although he didn’t answer, his face was as informative as a newspaper—definitely not a good character trait for an outlaw.
“Yesterday?”
Fergus fidgeted again and darted a shifty sideways glance at the kitchen door.
Martha felt lightheaded. You have got to be kidding me! “Today? What did he say? Do you have a message for me?” She let go of his arm and set down her carrot baton. One overriding question canceled out all of the others. “How did you get back inside the castle?”
The lad gave a wry smile. “It was no easy task, I assure you, m’lady.”
“B-but I could get out the same way, right?” Even she could hear the hope that flared in her voice.
“It is still too dangerous—”
“You managed—”
“No.” Fergus manned up right before her eyes. The tone of his voice brooked no argument. Not a trace of a blush stained his smooth cheeks.
Martha recognized the outlaw in him well enough now. It was there in the unrelenting set of his jaw. Arguing, she knew, would be a waste of breath. “So how do you intend to get me out?” she demanded in a heated whisper. “Or am I here for the duration?”
Fergus leaned closer. “You will leave the way I came in. Through the tunnel.”
The tunnel? Images of crawling blind like a mole in the dark made her feel slightly woozy, even in the bright warmth of the kitchen. “B-but you said it was too dangerous.”
“So it is. Now.” Fergus smirked, seeming youthful again. “Men are shoring up the passageway even as we speak. Vadim wants you alive and whole, m’lady.”
Now it was Martha’s turn to blush. “Did… did he say anything else?” It embarrassed her, begging the boy for news of Vadim, but pride was no deterrent for her hungry heart.
“He... asked me to give you something.”
What? Not another knife?
Fergus glanced around the kitchen then planted a quick kiss on her cheek, much to Martha’s astonishment. “Forgive my impertinence, m’lady.” The poor lad flushed scarlet again. “But I am sworn to carry out all of my lord’s commands. Oh, and I have this to say: Soon, my love.”
He sent me a medieval kiss-o-gram!
For the first time in forever, butterflies of happiness fluttered inside her st
omach. But not for long. Her smile faded. “Just how soon is soon?”
The lad tilted his hands, palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. “That, I cannot say.”
Yeah. I thought as much.
“Keep to your rooms when the bombardment begins. You should be safe there.” Fergus got up. “I will come to you when it is time. Farewell.” With a brief touch on her shoulder, he strode out of the kitchen.
Martha couldn’t sleep. The fear of impending bombardment kept her awake. Long after Anselm returned to his own bedchamber, she lay motionless in her bed, staring up into the darkness.
She’d heard him preparing for bed—the sound of his boots thudding onto the floor, and the creaking protest of his bed as he settled down to sleep. He must be exhausted. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in days—nor in anyone else’s, if the castle’s grapevine was to be believed.
According to the servants—a regular and inexhaustible source of gossip—neither the king nor any of his advisers had taken much rest. Most of them fell asleep in their chairs, snatching a few brief minutes of oblivion while they sat at the table discussing tactics.
Anselm’s deep, rhythmic snores roused a pang of guilt within Martha’s lapsed-Catholic conscience—which was ridiculous. Anselm deserved all he had coming to him, and then some. The man was an utter arse! Surely she didn’t care? Not after all the things he’d done?
Boom!
“Mother of God!” Sitting bolt upright in bed, Martha woke from her semi-waking dream. Heart thumping, she stared blindly into the darkness, clutching the blankets to her chest like a beloved teddy.
Boom!
But this one was followed by a distant crump. A hit? Her scalp prickled, and blood whooshed in her ears, keeping time with her racing pulse.
Frantic fists pounded on the external door of Anselm’s rooms.
“M’lord! Anselm!” The urgency of the deep masculine voice carried a hint of panic. “Are you awake?”
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