At least she wasn’t the only one teetering on the brink of a major freak-out.
Anselm must really have been dog-tired not to hear all the commotion. Finally, Martha heard movement from next door—a muffled curse, and a creak as Anselm finally got out of bed. His footsteps stumbled across the room. Then, there was a crash, and something heavy hit the floor. More muttered curses followed.
She heard him unlock the outer door. He flung it open with such force that it struck the wall. “This had better be import—” Another deep boom from outside interrupted him. “By all the Spirits! Go on, man. I will catch you up.”
Moments later, the outer door slammed. Another boom shattered the brief silence that followed Anselm’s departure.
Flinging back the covers, Martha got out of bed and padded to the window, still tightly clutching her blanket. The courtyard glowed like day, illuminated by dozens of torches. Soldiers stumbled outside, most of them still clad in their nightshirts, attempting to dress on the move. One man hopped along in just one boot while desperately attempting to pull on the other.
Hair askew, eyes puffy with sleep, the men helped one another strap on weapons and armor, and all the while, the captains strode between the ragged ranks bellowing orders, verbally whipping the men into line.
The warning bell clanged. Each toll was a dismal warning.
Doom. Doom. Doom.
A thin sliver of light brightened the eastern horizon, slowly diluting the night into day.
A flickering red glow caught her attention. With her face pressed to the window, Martha looked in the direction of the smithy. Its roof had caved in, brought down by the tumble of masonry from a gaping breach in the ramparts.
A chain of people had formed a line between the water pump and the ill-fated smithy. They were passing buckets of water to one another to put out the blaze. Such was their haste, much of the precious water sloshed out of the buckets and onto the shining cobbles. The flames and sparks danced skyward, refusing to be tamed.
There was another deep boom! With a squeak of fright, Martha backed away from the window as a fine mist of plaster floated down from the ceiling. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! That was too close.
A series of rapid taps sounded on the door of her bedchamber. “M’lady?” It was Effie. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Please let me in.”
Martha hurried to open the door.
The flame of Effie’s candle wobbled, upset by the trembling of her hand. The girl’s pallor matched that of the long nightdress and bed cap she wore.
Wordlessly, Martha stepped aside to let her enter.
Effie carefully set her candle down on a stool by the door, then flung herself into Martha’s arms, sobbing against her shoulder.
Who could blame her? Martha stroked the girl’s back and made soft shushing sounds. God knows, I feel like howling myself.
Over the cacophony of confusion coming from outside, she heard a series of deep, labored cranks and creaks. They seemed to be coming from somewhere within the castle’s walls. The castle’s trebuchets must be winding up, preparing to return fire. There was a single, powerful whip-like whoosh. Martha closed her eyes, and tightened her hold on Effie, imagining a deadly missile hurtling towards Rodmar’s army. An image of Vadim flashed into her mind—his body was laid out on the field, broken beyond repair.
She gave herself a mental slap. No—he’ll be fine. Unlike her, Vadim knew what to expect and how to take care of himself. She had to stay strong, to keep it together for their baby’s sake. Now that she had Effie to support, the task was somehow easier. She had no choice. The indulgence of unraveling would have to wait.
Effie stepped back and wiped her face on the sleeve of her nightdress. “We will all burn this day, roasted alive by their accursed fireballs.” She spoke quietly, as if death was inevitable.
Martha shook her head. “I don’t think so. The smithy only caught fire because the wall fell on top of it.”
Effie’s lower lip trembled. “I miss my mother,” she whispered. “I wish I had never sought work here. I should have stayed with her in Edgeway.”
A return volley struck something close by, making them jump. And then the screams began—terrible, heart-rending howls of agony. Whether the victim was male or female, Martha couldn’t tell, but the sound of it sent goosebumps racing up her spine. She’d never heard anything so horrific. Effie looked ready to bolt, her eyes were wide and wild like those of a skittish horse. She had to distract the girl—somehow.
“Come and sit down.” Taking Effie by the arm, Martha led her to the bed. “We might as well be comfortable.” She drew the down comforter over their icy feet and legs.
The screams outside reached a crescendo then stopped. They both looked toward the window, but neither woman made a move to get up. The silence was even worse than the screaming. Martha pulled a shawl about her shoulders. The castle was usually chilly in the morning, but these shivers had little to do with the cold.
A few red embers glowed in the hearth, a reminder of last night’s cheerful fire, but she didn’t have the heart to build another one.
“W-what does your mother do in Edgeway?” Martha asked, for want of something better to say.
“She runs a... boarding house—of sorts.”
“Does she? Good for her.” Martha forced a smile. It wasn’t easy to sound cheerful while her stomach churned with fear. “I suppose you didn’t fancy working together, huh? It must be difficult, living and working—”
“I cannot lie to you, m’lady. ’Tis a house of… ill repute.”
“Oh!” A brothel? Martha felt her eyes bug. She couldn’t help it.
“Now I have shocked you. Forgive me, I should not have spoken so freely.” Effie stared down at her hands, blushing hard. But the color in her cheeks was a big improvement from her earlier ghost impression.
Although Edgeway boasted several brothels, and the chances were remote, Martha felt compelled to ask: “I don’t suppose your mother’s name is Wilkes, is it?” She and Mrs. Wilkes went way back. Not that they’d ever met, of course.
Now it was Effie’s turn to go bug-eyed. “H-how could you know?”
Unbelievable. A bubble of laughter formed in Martha’s chest. She sucked in her cheeks, and battled to keep it there. This neat, timid girl was Mrs. Wilkes’ daughter?
In her mind, she traveled back to her first encounter with the Evil Earl. Newly arrived from the twenty-first century, he’d assumed she was a prostitute seeking work at the house of one Mrs. Wilkes.
“Oh, someone… once mentioned her to me.”
The appalled look on Effie’s elfin face further inflamed Martha’s amusement. Despite the hellish sounds coming from outside, she burst into laughter. She couldn’t help it.
Stop it! You’re hysterical. Maybe she was. But it made no difference. Effie’s lips twitched into a smile, and she began laughing too. Hysteria was infectious, apparently. Better that than crying. They laughed until they could barely sit up straight, and tears poured from their eyes.
“Whatever are you doing in here?” Agatha appeared, her stout frame filling the doorway of the bedchamber. She frowned at both Effie and Martha in turn. “I could hear you from halfway down the corridor. You do realize that the castle is under attack?”
Martha mopped her eyes on her sleeve. “S-sorry, Ags. Private joke.”
“Indeed?” Agatha pulled Martha’s gown from where it hung over the back of a chair and threw it to her. “Now is not the time for levity. Make haste and get dressed, both of you. There are many injured folk who need treating this day. Friends and enemies alike.”
The aim of twenty-first century weapons wasn’t much better. Friendly fire. Collateral damage. They sounded so innocuous on the evening news.
Quickly sobering themselves, Martha and Effie leapt to their feet and hurried to do Agatha’s bidding.
CHAPT
ER FIFTEEN
A thick wall of smoke enveloped them as they stepped out into the courtyard. Reaching for their headscarves, the women covered their noses in an attempt to protect their lungs.
Martha’s eyes stung with the force of a thousand onions. Coughing like a hardened smoker, she reached out to clutch the back of Agatha’s shawl, but Effie’s hand had beaten her to it. Like baby elephants clinging to their mother, they followed in Agatha’s wake, stumbling blindly over the rubble-strewn cobbles.
A group of soldiers accidentally jostled them as they went by. One or two murmured a curt apology before continuing on their way.
In amongst the shouting and the sounds of destruction, the panicked cries of the castle’s animal population pierced Martha’s heart—squeals, barks, and whinnies. But what could she do? Poor innocent creatures, caught up in a war between men.
“I thought you said Rodmar’s slings wouldn’t reach us,” she called at Agatha’s back. Her voice held more than a hint of accusation.
“I said nothing of the kind.” Agatha kept on walking, casting the words over her shoulder. “If you recall, I said Rodmar’s camp was out of range of the castle’s trebuchets.”
“What fecking difference does that make?”
“Quite a lot. Rodmar’s weapons are bigger.”
“Oh.” Size really does matter. Martha’s lips curved into a grim smile as she imagined the earl’s fury at being unmanned in this way—especially with his big cousin King Erik there to witness it.
There was another loud boom, this time from the direction of the main gate.
A horn blew, one long and melancholy note. “The barbican is hit!” someone cried. “Water bearers!” Lines of men ran to answer the summons, their armor and weapons clanking like pots and pans tumbling from an overstuffed cupboard.
A sudden gust of wind sent the smoke billowing in another direction. Martha let go of Agatha’s shawl and inhaled deeply. It was good to breathe sweet air again. She trotted after her friends, looking around as she replaced her headscarf.
The castle’s defensive wall showed evidence of the severe battering it had taken so far. Great holes had been punched through the stonework. Rubble from previous strikes littered the courtyard. The crenellations of the battlements—once so regular and even—now looked like a set of smashed-in teeth.
There was no sign of Anselm or His Evilness. Not that Martha expected to see either of them fire-fighting or loading fallen masonry onto carts. They were probably overseeing from a distance, tucked away in safety with King Erik while the lower ranks did all the grunt work.
If there was any organization within the chaos, she couldn’t make it out.
Winding though the twists of the castle complex, they finally reached the infirmary. Audible signposts directed them over the final stretch—terrible, blood-chilling cries that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
“In here.” Agatha ducked inside a narrow doorway with Effie close behind her. Taking a deep breath, Martha followed them.
Martha froze. Holy Mother of God! As she entered the infirmary, the sounds of suffering rocked her like a physical blow. Standing rooted on the threshold of the room, she clapped her hands over her ears to muffle the agonized shrieks.
The smells were almost as bad: body odor and excrement, the unmistakable metallic tang of blood, burned hair, and… a barbeque?
Outside the medieval hospital was bad enough, but inside was infinitely worse. A new circle of hell.
Effie and Agatha had vanished into the crowd of people milling about the long, narrow room. A small fire burned at one end, throwing out more smoke than heat. The light was so dim Martha could hardly see. The few lanterns and torches did little to penetrate the gloom.
She was still standing just inside the open doorway. Get a grip, Bigalow.
Removing her hands from her ears, Martha took a step forward and immediately fell over a man’s outstretched legs. He sat on the floor, his back resting against the wall.
“Oh, I’m so sor—” Lifeless eyes stared back at her. “Feck me!” Her hands flew up, covering her gaping mouth. Why the hell had she come? She wasn’t going to be any use here. Hadn’t Fergus told her she should stay in Anselm’s rooms? What if he was looking for her right now?
I should go back.
The stench of the infirmary wasn’t doing her rumbling morning sickness any favors. The acidic taste in her mouth was a definite early vomit warning.
With effort, she dragged her gaze away from the dead man. Big mistake. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, they gorged on images that would surely haunt them forever.
The wounded were everywhere. On the floor. On the beds. Most of them were still breathing—and screaming. For how much longer, she wouldn’t like to guess. If their injuries didn’t kill them, infection surely would. She wasn’t the gambling type, but the odds of surviving this place didn’t look good.
There was one parallel with her own world, though: There weren’t enough beds. And still the wounded arrived. She edged away from the open doorway so that the new arrivals could be brought inside. Not that there was much room.
The waiting area resembled a human dumping ground. There was no triage system in operation, not so much as a fire-breathing receptionist to assess each new arrival. The patients who were able to do so sat with their backs against the wall. The more serious cases lay where they were on the cold, cobbled floor. People constantly stepped over them as they passed, almost without seeing them.
No one deserved to die this way, friend or enemy. Finally, Martha moved away from the door then stumbled into a depression on the floor. Immediately, a cold unpleasant ooze seeped through the flimsy fabric of her slipper. She glanced down. The ‘depression’ was actually a shallow drain containing a thick, and evil-smelling liquid, much of it trickling from the motionless bodies on the floor.
Oh, God! She wiped the side of her slipper on one of the cleaner cobbles. As she looked up, she met the eye of a burn victim.
Time slowed. The screams and cursing became low and muffled, distorting like a recording on a tangled audio cassette.
A man lay gasping on a low wooden cot. Well, she assumed he was male, going by his build. It was impossible to tell from his looks alone. He had no face.
As she looked at him, for some reason Martha was reminded of jam making—of bubbling red froth, boiling in a pan. The man’s hair, nose, lips, and ears were gone, melted away like hot wax. Miraculously, one blue eye remained undamaged, and its perfection struck her as strangely obscene.
Of course, he was dying. With burns like that, he couldn’t be saved—not even back in her own world. All alone, the man lay on his cot, chest heaving with the effort of dragging air into his ruined lungs.
Blinking back tears, Martha walked toward the bed, her steps slow and uncertain. Whoever this man was, whatever he’d done, he was someone’s son. She thought of her own child, growing in the safety of her womb. God forbid that he should ever experience such suffering.
The blue eye watched her approach without blinking. As Martha stopped beside the bed, she realized why. His eyelid had melted away. The sickly smell of singed hair and roasted flesh hit her nostrils, and hot bile rose into her throat, but she swallowed it back down.
Somehow, she managed to smile at the man. “Are you th-thirsty?”
The man made a gargling sound, which she interpreted as “yes.” She glanced around and spied a jug on a nearby table. “Hang on.”
She returned with a tankard of ale and a square of clean linen. Drinking in the usual fashion was out of the question for the poor man, so she improvised. Kneeling beside the bed, she dipped the linen into the ale. Once the fabric was soaked, she held one corner of the cloth over the man’s blackened mouth, drip-feeding him the ale. The man swallowed a few times, making appreciative gurgles.
He turned his head to t
he side, indicating he’d had enough. The way he looked at her reminded her of Forge. There was no mistaking the silent gratitude in the stranger’s solitary blue eye.
“You’re welcome,” she replied softly.
Suddenly, his breathing worsened, bubbling and rasping in his heaving chest. He sounded as if he was drowning. Martha wanted to run, but she forced herself to stay where she was, crouched down beside the bed. She covered one of the man’s claw-like hands with the wet piece of linen and clasped it. He made no protest. All his pain receptors had likely burned away too.
“Shh.” What else could she say? One final flash of panic in his eye, and mercifully, the man’s body relaxed. The sounds of his labored breathing ended, exhaled on a last gurgling breath.
Martha covered his face with the linen square. Tears slid down her cheeks, but not of sorrow. She was only grateful that the unknown man’s suffering was over. Although she wasn’t an overly religious person, she closed her eyes and muttered a silent prayer.
Effie’s voice interrupted her. “What are you doing, m’lady?”
Martha wiped her eyes and got up off her knees. “I’m just having a quiet word with the Big G.”
Effie frowned. “Who?”
“The Great Spirit.”
“Ah!” She took Martha’s arm and led her away. “Come. We have need of another pair of hands.”
With her mind full of the man who’d died, Martha allowed Effie tow her through the crowd. They stopped between a pair of long tables. It only took a second for her to register what was about to happen.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
An unconscious man lay stretched out on one of the tables. Martha grimaced. His right arm was crushed and mangled below the elbow. Several people, Agatha amongst them, stood around the blood-smeared table, obviously awaiting the instructions of the knife-wielding surgeon. Dressed in his filthy leather apron, he looked more like a butcher.
The surgeon seemed less than impressed at the delay to his procedure. “Might I proceed now?” He gave Martha a frosty look as if she were the one responsible.
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