Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  Martha retreated behind Anselm’s shoulder, cowed by the force of the poison spewing from the earl’s mouth.

  His eyes softened as they flicked to Anselm. “I gave you a purpose, a way to harness your ambition.” His words were gentle now, coaxing. “Why do you prostrate yourself like a beaten cur before the landless whore of an outlaw? You could have wedded anyone. Why her?” He glanced at Martha. “Look at her. She is hardly beautiful.”

  Thank you very much.

  Anselm turned his head and looked into Martha’s eyes. “Yes she is.” A half smile played on his lips. “Though, I must confess, she has looked better.”

  His words warmed her heart. Although she wasn’t in love with him, it was hard not to feel affection for someone who saw beyond her battered and bedraggled appearance. “You old charmer.” She grinned at him then planted a kiss upon his cheek. “Ma warned me about your sweet tongue.”

  Anselm’s eyes sparkled. “So we are friends now, m’lady? Progress indeed. What would your husband say?”

  Quite a lot, she imagined. Tough. Vadim can go to—

  The earl groaned again and suddenly crumpled to the ground.

  Anselm sighed and reached for her hand. “Go.” He placed a gentle kiss on her bloody knuckles. “Find a place to hide and wait there. I will be with you as soon as I can, unless Vadim finds you first, of course.”

  Yeah. Fat chance of that happening.

  There was a thunderous crash, and the roar of hundreds of voices raised in triumph.

  Anselm’s eyes clouded. “Erde! They have broken through the back gate. Hurry, Martha! Hide yourself well. Do not reveal yourself to any man except those you trust.” With that, he replaced his sword and hurried toward the earl.

  Heart racing, she turned and headed for the low doorway, the bloody knife still gripped in her hand. But as she reached the first step, a cry of agony made her look back.

  Fuck. No!

  What she saw almost stopped her heart.

  “Anselm!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Anselm hit the ground like a sack of wet sand, eyes clenched tight, his face contorted with pain. He clawed at something in his side but failed to reach it. Then he lay still.

  No. No. No!

  Martha’s jaw dropped. Her head shifted repeatedly from side to side, denying the brutal truth of her eyes. Anselm couldn’t be dead. She’d just spoken to him, for heaven’s sake. Her brain refused to accept it.

  The earl casually withdrew a bloody dagger from Anselm’s body then wiped the blade on his victim’s cloak. With only the slightest grimace of discomfort, he stood upright again, looking down at the body of his former friend.

  Martha clutched the door frame of the stairwell. Too late, she realized the earl had been faking the severity of his wounds.

  She glanced at the knife in her hand, reassuring herself there was blood on the blade, that she’d actually stabbed him with it. Although the rain had washed away the worst of the gore, dilute pink rivulets of water dripped from the point. Then, of course, there were her hands. As Lady Macbeth was only too aware, it took more than a bit of water to remove all traces of blood.

  Not that it mattered. The fact was, the earl wasn’t as injured as they’d so foolishly supposed. Now Anselm had paid the price. Their stupid gullibility might have cost him his life.

  After a few moments of quiet contemplation, the earl gave Anselm’s body a hefty kick. “Betray me, would you?”

  The hollow thud sickened her. “Leave him alone, you fucking psycho!”

  “Feckless dog.” The earl kicked Anselm again and again. “That will teach you to bite your master’s hand.”

  Martha tugged at the neckline of her dress. Despite being soaked to the skin, she was suddenly much too warm. Her heart accelerated, fast and thready, pounding with a speed to rival a hummingbird’s. Steaming blood thundered through her veins and roared in her ears, and a thick red mist descended inside her brain.

  She squeezed the knife handle so hard it creaked in protest.

  The quiet voice of caution was gone. Her common sense was lost within the murderous fog. Only a dark and primal urge remained. Every muscle throbbed, pumped with adrenaline. Her fingers curled into claws, readying themselves to tear into the earl’s throat. Or to rip out his black heart. Either was acceptable.

  Barely aware of having done so, she threw her knife at him. It sailed through the air in a blur of spinning silver, but her aim was off. God damn it! But the knife handle did make a satisfying thunk as it struck the earl’s temple. He staggered like a drunk, struggling to stay on his feet.

  Close, but no cigar. The bastard wasn’t dead.

  A low, feral sound of frustration grumbled from the back of her throat. Grinding her teeth, Martha glanced around, searching the top of the stairwell for another weapon. There was nothing except for a smoking wall torch. She snatched it from its sconce and hurled it at him with all her strength.

  The earl recovered enough to dodge before the wall torch struck him. He touched his fingers to his temple, and they came back bloody. “Bitch!” He fumbled for his sword, his legs wobbling beneath him, as uncoordinated as a new-born lamb’s.

  Still surfing a huge adrenaline wave, Martha only laughed. She was much too wired to feel any fear. At that moment, she was aching for a fight. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than the chance to punch, claw, and bite at that revolting snake of a—

  Her breath hitched in her throat. Anselm?

  His eyelids flickered then slowly opened.

  He’s alive!

  She stopped walking, her mission to kill the earl aborted. The raging fires of insanity were put out in a heartbeat, extinguished by the pain in Anselm’s eyes.

  Her inner beast slunk away into the shadows of her soul, sullen and growling.

  For better or worse, Martha was herself again, and the abrupt withdrawal of adrenaline left her trembling and weak. She exhaled a shaky breath. Anselm had saved her again, but this time, from herself.

  As he looked at her, his pale lips mouthed a single word, “Go.”

  The earl regained his balance and fixed Martha with a shark-like stare. “My turn!” He stepped over Anselm, unaware that his former friend still lived and breathed.

  Anselm seized the earl’s leg, hugging the jerking limb to his chest, grimacing with the effort of clinging on. But he didn’t let go.

  With a cry of surprise, the earl toppled face-first onto the barbican roof. His sword flew from his outstretched hand and touched down with a splash in a distant puddle.

  Anselm was fast losing the fight to keep his eyes open. Unable to hold on, he released the earl’s leg. “Martha. Run!” he gasped.

  Tears shimmered before her eyes. The thought of leaving him alone to die was unbearable. Anselm was obviously seriously wounded. But how could she stay with His Evilness on her case? He was already crawling over the roof, hunting for his sword, cursing and snarling beneath his breath.

  Still she hesitated, her feet like dithering cement blocks of uncertainty. She didn’t want to leave him, but when it came down to it, she had no other choice. She held his gaze for a final, lingering moment. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just keep breathing. Do you hear me?” Her voice was fierce, as if she could scare him into living.

  A shadow smile curved Anselm’s lips, then his eyelids drooped and it was gone.

  There was nothing else she could do except hitch up her skirt and run. She didn’t look back.

  The courtyard now teemed with men of both factions. A heaving mass of combatants, fighting and dying before her eyes. Rodmar’s coat of arms dominated the field. Almost every shield and surcoat bore the image of the wolf hunting the bear.

  Martha paused in the doorway of the barbican, steeling herself to head out into the melee. The steady shuffle of the earl’s descending footsteps echoed in the
stairwell behind her, urging her on. She had to go. Now.

  Taking a deep breath, she dashed across the courtyard, heading for the keep. The sea of warring men ebbed and flowed, diverting her off course as she skirted around its periphery.

  She squealed as a disemboweled body slumped from the living wall of men and toppled into her path. Dead eyes stared back at her, almost accusingly. Coils of glistening intestine slithered from the man’s abdomen, steaming in the morning air, reaching for her like the tentacles of some hideous sea creature.

  She forced herself to look away. This wasn’t the time to be squeamish. Her thoughts returned to Anselm. Was he dead now? No. She took a deep breath, refusing to cry. Her tears could wait. Besides, if he had progressed to the spirit world, at this rate, she’d soon be reunited with him. She ducked as a short-sword hurtled through the air toward her, let loose by some unseen hand. Whether the act was deliberate or accidental, she didn’t stick around to find out.

  The reality of battle was nothing like she imagined it would be. There was little fighting skill on display. From what she could see of the scrum, brute force and stamina ruled the day—and luck, lots of it, both good and bad.

  The men were packed together so tightly there wasn’t room to swing a sword. Instead, they used their shortest blades and daggers, or anything else that came to hand. She witnessed several fierce head-butts that made her grimace.

  From the center of the fray, a black fountain of blood spurted high into the air. Martha shivered. Was any of it Vadim’s? Her stomach gave a sickening lurch as an unwelcome image flashed into her mind: Vadim lying dead and broken somewhere within that lethal scrum, trampled beneath hundreds of pairs of boots until he was unrecognizable.

  Don’t do this to yourself. Vadim will be just fine. He hadn’t exactly rushed to get into the castle so far, had he?

  She stumbled over rubble and slipped on the blood-slicked cobbles. Although she tried to switch off her emotions, the agonized screams and battle cries scarred her ears and cut into her soul.

  The rain had slackened off to a light mizzle. Combined with the flying droplets of blood, it seemed as though a fine red mist hovered over the heads of the warriors, lurking like a grim specter.

  Little by little, her convoluted path took her closer to the keep. For the most part, no one paid her any attention. The fighters seemed too intent on killing one another. Avoiding the falling bodies and combatants as best she could, she made her wary way toward the keep.

  Risking a glance over her shoulder, she spotted the earl’s fair head bobbing in the crowd a short distance away. He hadn’t taken her own cautious route and, instead, had plowed straight into the battle. Teeth bared, he slashed his way through the men in his path, uncaring whether his victims were his own men or those of the enemy. Then he looked up and met her eyes. The promise in his cold stare made her heart gallop and forced her legs to move faster.

  Finally, the crush of bodies eased. She stepped over a river of blood and jogged away from the main scrum. Suddenly, there was room to breathe again, and the space to use a sword. She dodged two knights who were slugging it out on the steps of the keep. The terrible clangs of their gore-slicked weapons reminded her of the smithy, of the blacksmith at work on his anvil. She ran up the steps and hurried through the open doorway, slamming the door behind her.

  The thick oak muffled out the sounds of war. Unfortunately, there was no key in the lock. Panting, she reached for the bolt above her head—the lower one was missing—but it was stiff and rusted with lack of use. It posed too much of a challenge for her aching fingers. Besides, there wasn’t time. His Evilness was only seconds behind her.

  She looked around the empty hallway, her gasping breaths echoing harshly in the cavernous silence. With one hand, she raked back her sopping-wet hair. Where could she hide? Her complaining bladder provided her with an answer. Of course. The privy. No one visited those stinking, nasty places without very good cause.

  Decision made, she hitched up her heavy skirt and raced up the main staircase, immediately diving into the corridor to her left. Pressed up close to the wall, Martha poked her head around the corner and looked down into the hallway. Her breath lodged in her throat and stayed there.

  The door swung open with violent force, crashing into the opposite wall. The earl blundered through the open doorway, bloody sword in hand. Panting and muttering to himself, his head moved rapidly from side to side. Stringy tendrils of his wet hair lashed against his face as he searched for his prey.

  “Where are you, my dove?” he called into the echoing silence. “Come along. I mean you no harm.”

  Yeah. Right.

  Martha slid her head back around the corner, praying he hadn’t seen her. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall, straining to hear the earl’s movements, no easy task with her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

  Please don’t come upstairs.

  Then—glory be—his footsteps hurried off in another direction. She peeped around the corner and caught a brief glimpse of his swirling purple cloak. He was gone.

  She exhaled with relief then directed her trembling limbs toward the nearest privy.

  The privy was an unlikely, if rather ripe-smelling, sanctuary. It was little more than a glorified cupboard, really, with a wooden seat fixed over a hole in the wall. Although Martha’s nose rebelled against the stench, to her aching bladder it was heaven on earth.

  Once the immediate needs of her body had been met, she leaned against the bolted door to consider her options.

  Where could she go now?

  Fergus was locked away somewhere in the warren of miserable dungeons that ran beneath the castle. But deranged as His Evilness was, he was no fool. That would be one of the first places he’d search. For the same reason, she couldn’t return to Anselm’s chambers.

  Poor Fergus. Poor Anselm. She sucked in her bottom lip and tried not to think about them. After their heroics on her behalf, the least she could do was stay alive. She couldn’t help either of them now, much as she longed to do so. And they couldn’t help her either. She must rely on her own wits to escape this time.

  Think. Think. Think. She stroked the curve of her stomach, hoping the wee lad might provide her with inspiration. Lack of food and sleep made her brain feel even woollier than usual. Nope. She had nothing.

  She rested her eyelids, unable to resist their sudden, delicious weight. It was so peaceful here. The sounds of battle were muted, and the screams seemed very far away. All of the castle’s privies were set well away from the main courtyard. The castle’s architect had arranged it so that the human waste they generated dropped directly into the ditch via a stone gulley, the very ditch she’d almost taken a dive into earlier.

  Rough splinters of wood snagged the back of her gown as she slid down the door, rousing her from a doze she hadn’t planned on taking. Shivering, she hugged her arms about herself, suddenly very cold beneath the weight of her wet clothes. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  Maybe she should stay where she was? It was safe enough. The sturdy door only opened outward and would prove difficult to open from the outside. Anyway, who’d bother with one locked privy when there was a whole castle to plunder?

  Vadim might.

  She huffed in irritation, angry with herself for thinking about him. So many weeks apart had spoiled his once-beloved memory. Each fresh disappointment and hardship had smudged and tarnished the image she carried of him in her heart, blurring it into abstraction.

  Edgeway and all of its concerns had somehow eclipsed him. Over time, despite her reluctance, the castle had absorbed her into its fabric. Vadim was now a shadowman who lurked on its borders. A dream. A ghost.

  If it weren’t for the child growing inside her, she’d doubt he ever existed at all.

  New sounds from outside the privy penetrated her consciousness. She stiffened and pressed her ear to the door. Heavy
footsteps thudded over the wooden floor. Loud, raucous laughter, and the sound of mail and metalware jingling. A woman cried out, and light, slippered footsteps pattered past the privy door.

  “No. Please.” Her breathless plea held a note of panic. “My husband is rich. He will pay whatever—”

  Martha’s stomach twisted at the sound of the unseen woman’s desperation. She heard a deep, phlegmy chuckle.

  “Get her, lads. But I volunteer for the first shift.”

  Heavy boots raced past the privy door, and Martha flinched back, afraid they might sense her hiding place. She stared at the door, her mind spinning. Rape? To the victor the spoils. Wasn’t that how the saying went?

  The woman’s terrified screams mingled grotesquely with the men’s booming laughter.

  Martha sat on the toilet seat and clapped her hands over her ears, her eyes clenched shut. What could she do? If she went out there, they’d probably do the same thing to her.

  But the screams disturbed the feral beast inside her. It pricked up its ears and growled, and another hot adrenaline rush hit her bloodstream.

  “Ah, feck it.” She uncovered her ears and stood up. Whatever happened to her out there, at least she wouldn’t have a guilty conscience bitching at her for the rest of her life.

  Her eyes rested on a long, stout stick propped up against the privy wall. Presumably its function was to unblock the outlet from the privy when it became… congested.

  Martha smiled. A shit stick? She picked it up and gave it a couple of practice swipes. Perfect. Taking a deep breath, she slid the bolt and flung the door open.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Guided by the unknown woman’s screams and her terrified pleas for mercy, Martha hurried along the corridor. Her cheeks burned with rage at the callous sound of male laughter. Tightening her grip on the shit stick, she skidded around the corner.