My brother? Who—Vadim?
“That will have to do.” Anselm was himself again, brisk and full of action. “Come along, sweeting. Time nips at our heels.”
For the second time that night—or morning—Martha found herself negotiating the perils of the servants’ staircase. This time, Anselm was her guide. With her hand in his, she followed him down the steep steps. Flames from the torch he carried danced and reflected off his armor, dazzling her.
Anselm was actually helping. Maybe he could be trusted after all. Perhaps there was still some hope for him.
“I will hide you as best I can, then I must return to my duties, or Lord Edgeway will suspect me.”
“What?” Martha stopped in her tracks, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Surely you aren’t going to continue defending this castle?”
Anselm paused and turned to look at her. “I must.”
“B-but why? It’s going to fall soon. You’ve seen the size of Rodmar’s army.” She waved her arm in the general direction of where it could be found. “When they get in here, they’ll kill you along with everyone else.”
“Yes. I rather fear they will.”
His calmness made her seethe. “Just let it go. Come with me, Anselm.” Her voice sounded excited, breathless, in the echoing stairwell. “You could have another crack at life. Don’t turn your back on it now.”
“And be beholden to my brother?” His smile looked weary. “Would you have me abandon the little honor I have remaining? That I cannot do, not even for you, my sweet. Come. Have a care over this step, it is a little uneven.”
Martha clasped his hand and followed him down the steps again. Honor again! It was such a nice-sounding word, so good and wholesome. But in her experience, it left a rather nasty aftertaste.
“Who have you sworn loyalty to?” she asked. “The earl?”
“Of course. To him and, in turn, to the king.”
“But by helping me, you’ve already broken your oath—”
“Lord Edgeway is my liege lord,” Anselm answered firmly. “He took me in when everyone else turned away. In exchange for my fealty, I gained a home and position.” He chuckled. “I cannot claim he is always the perfect master, but he has been a better father to me than the one who shares my blood.”
In her mind, Martha pictured Seth’s kindly, bearded face. How could Anselm possibly compare the earl to him? Then she recalled Vadim’s account of Anselm’s fall from grace, when Seth’s personal honor code had driven him to disown his only son. They were all as bad as each other, if they only knew it.
A chink of light indicated the end of the stairwell, but Martha wasn’t ready to leave it yet. The dark, narrow confines made an excellent confessional booth. It reminded her of the one in her church back home, small and dimly lit. Maybe truth was shy and preferred semi-darkness to reveal itself.
“Wait.” She stopped walking again and tugged on Anselm’s hand. “Why not give Seth another chance? He might surprise you, you know.”
Shaking his head, Anselm looked away. “In his eyes, I killed my mother. That is something he will never forgive, and I cannot blame him for it.” He shoved the flickering torch into a wall sconce then wheeled round to face her. “If only I had kept my mouth shut. If only I had helped her escape. If only she had not taken those accursed berries. If only.” He sighed heavily. “Truly they are the saddest words.”
The sorrow in his eyes tore at her heart. Martha exhaled a trembling breath and forgave him on the spot. The manner of Sylvie’s death had played a large part in her antipathy toward him. Now, even that barrier was gone, and she was glad. Anselm was still an arse, but he wasn’t quite so black as she’d once believed.
“Then, tell him. Tell Seth the truth; I’ll back you up.”
“Would you?” His teeth shone white in the torchlight. “Thank you, my sweet.”
Hope flared in her chest. “So you’ll do it?”
“No.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “But your offer to stand at my side means more than you can imagine. Now, we really must go.”
They hurried down the remaining steps. When they reached the bottom, Anselm pushed open the door that led to the ground floor.
He stopped so suddenly that Martha ran into the back of him. She peered around his body and saw the reason why. Oh, shit! Six well-armed knights were waiting for them, their eyes as steely as their shiny swords.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Anselm pushed Martha behind him. “What is this?” he asked brightly. “An escort? I am most honored, my friends, but it is hardly necessary.”
Martha clung to the back of his cloak, peering over his shoulder. There was no answering smile from the knights. No one spoke. Her heartbeat sounded loud in the thick silence.
“Step aside at once.” Anselm made a motion to walk by, but a thicket of glittering sword points herded him back towards the doorway. “By whose authority do you detain me against my will?”
“By mine.” The knights parted, and Lord Edgeway limped through their midst.
“My lord? B-but why? I do not understand.” Anselm sounded genuinely confused.
“Oh, Anselm.” The earl shook his head as he halted before them. “You have wounded me most grievously, my friend. I fear I may never recover from the blow you have dealt me this day.”
Martha rolled her eyes. Oh, please. Someone pass me a bucket. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, she would’ve laughed. His words were as sincere as a politician’s promise on election day.
Anselm stepped forward, hands raised in supplication. “M’lord, I cannot imagine what—”
“Be silent!” The earl shouted so loudly even the knights were startled. Their armor made a collective rattle of surprise. “No more lies, Anselm. Not from you.” His voice fell to a murmur. “You, who have been my most faithful companion for so many years.”
In the depths of the earl’s cold, pale eyes, Martha thought she saw a glimmer of real sorrow, then it was gone again.
“And for what?” the earl continued. “The slut of your sworn enemy? A woman polluted by his touch?” He glared at Martha.
She flinched from both his words and the naked hatred in his eyes.
“I should have slit your throat back in Edgeway,” he growled. “At least I might have spared myself this bitter day.”
“Oh come, m’lord.” Anselm used his most winning tone. “Surely you cannot think I meant to betray you? How could I even consider it after all the weary roads we have traveled together?”
Anselm might as well have saved his breath.
His Evilness turned to the captain of the knights. “Hold him,” he commanded, “And bring that bitch to me.”
As the knights moved in, Anselm pressed back, half crushing Martha against the door of the staircase. He tried to grab his sword, but too many hands reached for him. “Come now, Richard! Edmund? If you would only allow me to speak, the matter could be cleared up in an instant. See reason, I beseech you!”
But the knights paid no attention and dragged Anselm away from the door.
Martha trembled. She felt exposed, vulnerable. What would they do to her?
Once Anselm had been secured—shouting and struggling some distance away—the knights’ captain resheathed his sword and extended a gloved hand toward Martha. “If you will, m’lady.”
She shook her head, and held her hands against her chest, frantically seeking an escape route. There was only one, the door they’d so recently used. In one quick movement, she spun around and yanked the door open, but the knight grabbed her wrist before she set foot inside the doorway. It’d been a vain hope anyway.
“This way please, m’lady.” The man’s touch wasn’t cruel.
“Martha. No!” Anselm fought against his captors in earnest, barging and struggling to escape. “Release me, you fetid dogs! The crows shall feast o
n your balls before this day is out!”
It was no use. The knights held him too firmly.
As she walked by, Martha met his wild eyes and held their gaze for as long as possible. Anselm represented safety now. Without him, she was screwed.
Impatient to claim his prize, the earl marched toward her.
Martha yelped as he grabbed her hair and wound a thick skein of it about his hand. Raising her hands, she pressed them upon his fist as it tightened against her scalp. She felt her hair snapping, strand by agonizing strand. Pain rendered her speechless.
“You are as slippery as a whore’s undergarments, Mistress Bigalow,” he hissed against her ear. “Ah! But I have you now.”
“Unhand her, m’lord!” Anselm struggled so violently he managed to unbalance one of the knights. The man clattered to the ground like a set of saucepans dropped from a great height.
The earl only increased his grip on Martha’s hair. She gasped, tears stinging her eyes, her guts icy with fear. This was it. She was going to die.
“Am I hurting you, my dear?” His Evilness pressed his stubbly face against her cheek. “Good.” He jerked her head around, forcing her to look at Anselm. “See what you have reduced him to.” He yanked her hair again, making her cry out. “Look at him, you cunning bitch!”
Whimpering, she did as the earl commanded, clutching at his hand in an attempt to ease the white-hot pain of her scalp.
Anselm fought and bellowed like a demented bull. It took all of the knights to restrain her brave defender.
“Your spell has been the ruin of him, witch. Too late did I heed the signs, and now I pay dearly for my negligence. Anselm was mine. Mine.” Another vicious tug on her hair. “You have robbed me of my most loyal companion. Perhaps when you are gone, his intoxication will pass.”
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Only pain and a primal fear remained, but the earl more than made up for her gasping silence.
“I underestimated your influence, Mistress Bigalow. Be assured, it will not happen again. Come along.” With that, he dragged her away down the corridor.
Martha whimpered like a dog on a too-tight leash, the unwilling puppet of a madman. She wanted to vomit. The end was drawing closer, and a terror greater than anything she’d ever known had her in its grasp. His Evilness was way beyond dangerous. He was a man with nothing left to lose.
“Damn you!” Anselm sounded desperate. Fearful even. “Where are you taking her?”
The earl kept walking. “It is time I discovered just how valuable this drab little bird of yours really is.”
Panting with pain, Martha trotted alongside the earl as they swept along the corridor. His hand remained snarled in her hair. Suffering rendered her docile and biddable, quenching the hot coals of rage.
They encountered a group of chattering women. Still dressed in their nightwear, they resembled a flock of white birds. The earl slowed up.
“Pardon us, ladies.” He smiled appreciatively at the women when they stepped aside to let them pass. “Although, I confess, I have never been delayed by a fairer blockade.”
Sleazy git!
The women drew their shawls tighter about their bodies and fell silent, watching Martha and the earl with ill-concealed curiosity.
Martha met the eyes of a gray-haired, motherly-looking woman, perhaps the eldest of the group. Please help me! She mouthed. But the woman only looked away and moved closer to her companions. No one challenged him. A swell of giggles and excited whispers followed in their wake.
They left the keep by the main door and stepped out into the pale dawn. Martha shivered as the cool air touched her fevered skin. She inhaled, ridding her lungs of the earl’s cloying scent—an unpleasant combination of wet dogs, body odor, and lavender.
He paused and took a deep breath. “Is there any sweeter scent than that of the morning air? What do you think of that sky?” He yanked roughly on Martha’s hair, pulling her head back until her chin jutted skyward. “Not very promising, is it?”
Her breathing was a series of shallow pained gasps, and her neck felt ready to snap. Hot tears slid from the corners of her eyes and dripped into her ears. She could have begged for mercy, but that would only amuse the sick bastard. It wouldn’t help her cause in the slightest.
“Would you object if we made a brief stop on the way?” The earl spoke as if they were out on some pleasure jaunt together. “I need to see how they fare at the postern gate before our path is decided.”
The path to where?
Thankfully, the brutal tension on her scalp eased, and her head was allowed to resume a more natural position. The earl dragged her across what remained of the courtyard. It now resembled a demolition site, covered with shattered masonry from the defensive wall and outbuildings.
Martha stumbled and slipped as they negotiated the shifting mounds of rubble. It was difficult to stay on her feet.
The trebuchets of both sides lay silent now—no more creaking or crashing, no more agonized screams. For what seemed the first time in forever, she heard birdsong, and the sound of it pierced her heart. Her throat constricted with the effort of holding back more tears. She couldn’t recall a sweeter or sadder sound.
“It appears Sir Hugh has managed to subdue Rodmar’s castle-breakers,” the earl said in the same conversational tone as before. “An excellent man, that. Oh, to be sure, he can be rather dull at times, but his devotion to duty is without question.”
Yeah? So why did he give Anselm the heads-up, you pompous fuckwit?
“Perhaps if my liege lord, the king, does not object, I may offer him a permanent place in my household. Might he be persuaded to accept, do you think?”
Martha stumbled over a chunk of stone and went over on her ankle. Unable to stop herself, she fell to her knees with a pained yelp. Her knees burned almost as fiercely as her scalp—she was sure she’d just lost another clump of hair.
“Whoops! Up you get.” The earl yanked her back on her feet and kept walking. “But, my dear, you never expressed your thoughts on Sir Hugh,” he reproached her mildly. “After all, I will need a replacement for poor Anselm.”
She glanced at him. Was he actually serious? Jesus H. Christ! After dragging her halfway round the fecking castle by her hair roots, he wanted to hear what she thought? Martha trembled, but not with fear this time.
Some imaginary switch had flicked to the on position inside her brain. Furious didn’t cover it. Neither did livid. A runaway train was taking her emotions for a ride, and it was accelerating. Heat bloomed in her stomach and spread, until every nerve ending tingled. She’d hit that sweet spot where pain and regret didn’t exist.
His Evilness wanted to know what she thought? Fine! She was so sick and tired of being afraid all the time. Of course, her courage wouldn’t last. She’d pay for it afterward, and it was going to hurt. A lot. But at that moment, she felt like a fecking gladiator.
“You want to know what I think?” Taking a deep breath, she told him. “If there’s any justice in this world, you’ll be dead before the day is out. Very soon, you won’t be in a position to offer anyone anything, m’lord. Not Hugh. Not Anselm. No one. That’s what I think, you pathetic, twisted little scrote-sac!” For her finale, she dug her fingernails into the earl’s wrist as it rested on top of her head, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.
“Indeed? Well, that is certainly candid enough, I grant you.” The earl stopped walking, his upper lip raised in a parody of a smile. “But be that as it may, I am sure to outlive you, m’lady.”
This time, the threat in his glacial eyes didn’t affect her. This time, Martha stared him down. It was a small victory, but intoxicating all the same.
“Perhaps Anselm will rally once you are gone,” the earl said as he looked away. “Yes. I am certain that he will.”
Now it was awake, her inner demon didn’t give a shit. Hearing th
e earl mention her death didn’t faze her at all. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. And she didn’t need a weapon or her freedom to do it.
“You won’t get him back, you know,” she taunted him softly. “Anselm is mine now, whether you kill me or not.”
“Oh?” The earl’s eyes narrowed, and the tension on her hair increased. “Are you so certain of his devotion to you?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am.” Knowing she’d wounded him heightened her buzz.
Without speaking another word, the earl dragged her on. They were nearing the back of the castle complex, and a rhythmic thump-thumping guided them through a drifting curtain of smoke. It was much noisier here. The bailey was crammed with soldiers, calling to one another as they carried stones and lumber toward the back gate.
The earl finally disentangled his fingers from Martha’s hair. Then, giving her a shove, he sent her to walk ahead of him. Groaning with relief, she massaged her tingling, throbbing scalp.
The majority of knights and men-at-arms were attempting to brace the crumbling walls about the postern gate with whatever materials they could lay their hands on. Meanwhile, archers lined the precarious battlements, firing down on the enemy. Shrill death cries from the other side of the wall indicated when they hit their targets. Martha shivered. So much death. So much pain. And for what?
The heavy thumping sound was coming from outside the wooden gate. It could only be a battering ram. The chants of the men wielding it came regularly with every strike.
They pushed through the host of men, the earl calling out bright greetings to several of the knights. On reaching the wall, and His Evilness shoved Martha up the narrow flight of stone steps that led to the battlements. The thought of being so exposed to Rodmar’s archers made her stomach flip, but she had no choice but to obey him.
She rested her hand on her belly. My poor wee lad. What with the events of the last couple of hours, she’d almost forgotten she was pregnant. Would the baby suffer because of her ill treatment? God, she hoped not.
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