Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  With her head cocked on one side, Agatha regarded Vadim curiously. “You would save him then?”

  “If I can, yes.”

  “Seth will not like it.”

  “Your warning is a little overdue, m’lady.” Vadim stroked his hand over his aching jaw. “He has already expressed some of his feelings on the matter.”

  “So I see.” Agatha chuckled and examined his jaw, turning his head this way and that with a none-too-gentle hand. “’Tis already a regal shade of purple. Do you want something for it?”

  Vadim shook his head. “But if you have time to spare, I would be grateful if you would take a look at my arm—a parting gift from the earl.”

  Thankfully, his leather hauberk had taken the brunt of the earl’s dagger. The wound was nothing of consequence, barely a scratch; even so, it stung like fury when Agatha cleaned it. Aware of Anselm’s sleepy eyes on him, Vadim somehow managed to stifle his discomfort. After applying a light dressing, Agatha hastened away to help the surgeon who was calling for her.

  Vadim took up his position at Anselm’s side. Nursing his wounded arm, he watched Agatha’s remedy take effect on his foster brother. His breathing slowed and deepened. Slowly, the pain receded from his face, the fine lines about his eyes and mouth gradually diminishing. In the dim torchlight, Vadim watched Anselm’s pupils dilate. He finally looked at peace.

  “Why have you told me the truth… about you and Martha?” Vadim asked softly. “Only yesterday, you baited me with the nature of your relationship. You knew she was my weakness. Why did you not go for the kill?” Such uncharacteristic behavior must have a cause.

  Anselm exhaled a long sigh. It was a very contented sound. “Has it somehow escaped your notice, brother, that you are my only visitor? How many friends do you see queuing up to empty my piss pot?” He waved his hand, indicating the shoals of people milling about, not one of them paying him any heed. “M-my popularity, I fear, is not what it once was.”

  “Your popularity only ever existed in your head.”

  “It certainly… appears that way, I agree.”

  “And,” Vadim told him firmly, “I have no intention of emptying your piss pot.”

  “Really?” Anselm closed his eyes and grimaced. “Then would you… be so kind as to summon the old witch who just poisoned me? Have her bring me some receptacle I can use, preferably before I soil myself.”

  Despite his words to the contrary, it was Vadim who fetched the piss pot then positioned it for Anselm to use. Looking away, he tried not to hear his brother’s deep groans of relief. When he had finished, Vadim carefully placed the warm, sloshing pot beneath the bed. Whatever else the earl’s blade had damaged, Anselm’s bladder appeared sound enough.

  They were both drifting off to sleep, Vadim lounging against the bed, his long legs outstretched, when a voice at his shoulder roused him.

  “M’lord?” Fergus was back. “I have carried out your orders. The chamber is ready.” Fergus. His expression still bore a trace of disapproval. “I enlisted two men to help bear the stretcher. They will be here shortly.”

  “Excellent.” Vadim sat up, rubbing his gritty eyes. “Thank you, Fergus.”

  Anselm yawned. “Are we g-going somewhere?”

  “Only as far as your chambers. You are taking up valuable space here. I am sure you will be more comfortable in your own bed.”

  There followed a brief silence during which Anselm regarded him with incredulity. “Why would you do this?” he demanded at last.

  Vadim shrugged. “Why not?”

  “You owe me nothing.” Anselm shook off the sapping weight of his herbal stupor, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Understand this, brother. What I did was for Martha’s sake alone, certainly not because I harbored any residual loyalty toward you.”

  “I know.” Why was he so vexed?

  “Then, why?”

  An unnaturally rosy flush tinged his cheeks. Vadim frowned. Was it the fever? So soon? “Do calm yourself.” Perhaps a small lie might pacify him? “I am merely carrying out Martha’s instructions, nothing more.” He held up his hands. “You have no cause to feel beholden to me.”

  “Oh.” Anselm sank back against his pillow, still breathing hard. “For a moment there, I feared you were about to say you loved me.”

  Vadim chuckled. “There is no danger of that, I assure you.”

  Fergus stepped closer. “Perhaps he might prefer a room in the dungeon? It is—”

  Vadim silenced the lad with a glare. “Not helpful, Fergus. Go and see if you can chase up those men you promised me.”

  “No need, m’lord.” He nodded towards the door. “Here they come.”

  Vadim rose from his seat and stretched, looking over to where Fergus had indicated. His heart sank. Edric and Tom—Harold’s friends—were pushing through the crowd, beaming merrily at everyone they encountered. Their appearance suggested they were more intoxicated than they had been earlier. Vadim grimaced when Edric caught hold of Agatha’s arm and twirled her about, forcing her into an impromptu jig.

  “Have a care, you drunken buffoon!” She pulled herself free, glaring at the man with a face that would sour honey. “Find yourself some willing maiden to cavort with. I am far too busy for such nonsense.”

  “A great pity.” Edric said, planting a hand on each of the matron’s generous hips. “I prefer comfort to speed.”

  “Take your disgusting hands off me!” Agatha shoved him so hard he tottered backward, tripping over a carelessly discarded lump of armor, and landing with a clatter on the cobbled floor. “I am old enough to be your grandmother.”

  “But ten times fairer.”

  Vadim and Anselm exchanged glances. Agatha? Just how drunk was he? To be sure, she was a fine woman, but she was not renowned for her sweet nature. And even she would not dispute that her bloom had long since passed.

  Edric, meanwhile, was walking on his knees toward Agatha, his bald pate glistening with rain drops. He touched the hem of her skirt, smiling up at her in the same way Fergus smiled at Effie. “And virtuous too? Ah, the Spirits have blessed me this day…”

  “Blessed him? More like pickled him, I should say,” Anselm said in a whisper loud enough for all to hear. “You would allow this man to bear my stretcher, brother?”

  “Certainly.” Vadim grinned. “For you suffered no ill effects when Edric and his companion first brought you here.”

  With an impatient huff, Agatha snatched her skirt from Edric’s hands. “Lecherous dolt!” She turned and marched away, but the severity of her features melted into a secret smile that only Vadim witnessed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  At the summons of Harold’s knock, Effie opened the door of Anselm’s chambers. She stepped aside to let them pass. When she saw Fergus, a most becoming blush suffused her cheeks.

  With a man clinging to each corner of the wobbling stretcher, they negotiated the narrow doorway and stepped into a room full of light, warmth, and comfort. Although Vadim had never set foot in his foster brother’s private sanctum before, it was immediately apparent that this was a place inhabited by women.

  Every candle was lit, and a welcoming fire blazed in the hearth. He sniffed, his stomach growling as he caught the mouth-watering aroma of cooking onions coming from the large black pot suspended over the fire. A basket of still-steaming flatbread sat up on the mantelpiece, out of Forge’s reach. The great dog lay stretched out on a blanket before the hearth, an empty wooden bowl at his side. He raised his great head, sparing the new arrivals a brief glance before he went back to sleep.

  Vadim looked about the room. “Is your mistress asleep?” he asked Effie in a low voice as they set the stretcher on a sturdy trestle table by the wall.

  The pink-cheeked maid managed to wrench her eyes away from Fergus’s face for a second. “No, m’lord. She is—”

  “You’re back!” Mart
ha emerged from one of the smaller doors adjoining the main living area, her face alight with a smile. “Thank God.” With a wonderful lack of regard for what was proper on such occasions, she hurried over and flung her arms about Vadim’s neck, dragging him down to plant a kiss on his lips. “Are you alright? Fergus told me what Seth did.” Frowning, she stroked her fingers over his injured jaw. “I can’t believe he thumped you.”

  “’Tis nothing.” Vadim stared into the blue depths of her eyes, entranced as always by her nearness. She looked clean and fresh, untainted by the horrors of the day. Her hair lay in glorious disarray upon the shoulders of her simple gray gown. It suited her well. The scent of warm lavender enveloped him. He drew her close and rested his chin atop her still-damp head. Briefly closing his eyes, he basked in the fragrant waves of summertime and exhaled. He felt whole again.

  How had she become so vital to him? Lover. Wife. Mother. Her name was forever branded on his heart. He would not be without her again.

  At length, Martha pulled back and looked toward the patient on the stretcher. “Thank you for bringing Anselm back. How is he?” Although she made no mention of her weariness, it betrayed itself in the charcoal smudges beneath her eyes.

  “See for yourself, my love.” Vadim could not deny that he was curious to see how she and Anselm behaved toward one another.

  She moved to Anselm’s side, swiftly removing the wet cloak they had used to protect him from the rain during the short journey from the infirmary. The movement showered everyone with cold droplets of water, but Martha did not heed their protests. She glanced back at Vadim, her wide eyes clouded with concern. “He’s not… is he…”

  “No,” he assured her. “Before we set out, Agatha gave him something for his pain. She said it would likely put him to sleep.”

  “Oh.” She exhaled a long breath then squared her shoulders. “Effie, hon?” she called to the maid, suddenly becoming all business and efficiency. “Would you dish out the food while we get Anselm into bed?”

  “Of course, m’la—Martha.”

  “Oh, and make sure they all wash before they eat—”

  “Sh-she… is keen, is she not?” Anselm’s eyelids slowly opened, and a stupefied smile curved his lips.

  “Hey, you.” Martha took his hand. “How’re you feeling?”

  “All the better for seeing… you, sweeting.”

  Intrigued as he was by their relationship, Vadim could not quell the stab of jealousy at seeing her tenderness directed toward another man. “Pay him no heed. He is not half so ill as he would have you believe.”

  This remark earned him a fierce glare from Martha. “Vadim! Have a little compassion, please.” She returned her attention to Anselm. “Don’t worry. You’ll be back to your snarky self before you know it.”

  “I think not.” Anselm sighed, looking truly pitiful. “I fear I am in the midst of my final hours, my sweet.”

  Vadim snorted. Anselm was playing her like a lute. Disgusted, he moved away, but not so far that he could not continue to listen to their intercourse. While Martha and Anselm consoled one another, he watched the other men queuing up to wash. Like a stern-faced captain, Effie presided over her bowl of steaming water, bearing fresh linen and soap in lieu of a sword. It amused him to see such battle-hardened warriors meekly yielding to the young woman’s command of “scrub.”

  “I-is that… my h-helmet?”

  Vadim caught a sudden sharp note in Anselm’s voice, and turned.

  “Hmm?” If guilt had a face, it was Martha’s.

  “Over there… by the fire.” Anselm craned his neck, looking toward the hearth. “And my swords too?” He glared at her. “What on Erde did you do?”

  “Well... I was filthy when I came back earlier, and I-I needed hot water.” She beckoned Vadim to her side with a quick, furtive movement of her fingers. “The castle was in chaos, and all the servants were gone—”

  “So you used my… best helmet to boil up water for your toilet?” Supporting himself on his elbow, Anselm pushed himself up, grimacing with discomfort. “Why the swords, my dear?” His honeyed voice was infused with poison. “Were you about to be attacked, perhaps?”

  “No.” Martha looked at her feet. “I couldn’t hang the helmet on the hook over the fire, so I…I…”

  “Ye-es?”

  Martha seized Vadim’s hand and clutched it tightly. “I-used-the-swords-to-balance-the-helmet-on-the-fire.” The confession spilled from her lips in a rapid tumble of words.

  She was nothing if not resourceful. Yet another of her many admirable qualities. Vadim covered his mouth with his hand, turning his snort of laughter into a prolonged coughing fit. But he experienced a twinge of sympathy for Anselm’s plight. Thank Erde his own weapons had been spared Martha’s trial by fire.

  Horror struck Anselm dumb. His mouth flapped wordlessly as he strove to summon an appropriate response.

  “I’m really sorry, Anselm—”

  “My. Swords!” His high-pitched squeak attracted the attention of the others.

  “What is it?” Harold ambled over, a blanket wrapped about his shoulders. “Has his condition worsened?”

  Anselm pointed to the fire and then at Martha. “My swords!” Another squeak, more high-pitched than the previous one.

  “What? These swords?” Obligingly, Edric picked the blackened blades from the hearth and gave each a practice spin. “Fine weapons both,” he said admiringly. “Beautifully balanced.” He looked up. “Are they a pair?”

  Anselm nodded his head vigorously. “Mmm.”

  Tom took the swords from Edric and tried them out for himself, swishing the swords through the air. “What did you want to go and put them on the fire for?” he asked with a frown. He brought the handle almost up to his nose, squinting. “The hilt is so spoiled, I can barely make out the engravings.”

  This was too much for Anselm. “King Erik himself presented me with those swords. The king!” He rounded on Martha in fury, his eyes almost popping from their sockets. “How could you?”

  “I said I was sorry—”

  “For ransacking my private chamber or for committing an act of wanton sacrilege? You have outdone yourself this time, m’lady.”

  “What else do you want?” Martha yelled back, finally needled into retaliation. “Blood?”

  “’Tis no less than you deserve.” Anselm fell back on his stretcher with a bitter laugh. “And to think, they called me brutal.”

  This had gone far enough. It was no longer amusing. “Leave this now, Anselm,” Vadim said softly. “The damage is superficial. I will have the smith repair them.”

  But Anselm was beyond reason. “We no longer h-have a smithy thanks to the continual b-bombardment of your infernal army!” His cheeks glowed as bright as any forge, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

  This outburst was not natural, not even for him. The heat of his temper must have evaporated Agatha’s sedative from his blood.

  “Perhaps you might delay serving supper for a few more minutes, Effie?” Vadim turned to his men. “My brother is in need of his own bed, my friends. Would you be kind enough to take him through to his bedchamber.”

  Cowed by the force of Anselm’s wrath, Martha had retreated behind Vadim’s shoulder and now stood clinging to his arm. “Which way, love?” he asked her gently.

  Sucking on her lower lip, Martha pointed to the doorway she had so recently come through, her eyes sparkling with emotion.

  Had it been within his power, he would have spared her this ordeal on a day already so full of them. He ran his forefinger down the softness of her cheek. “Do not take it to heart. Anselm is not himself,” he murmured. “He does not mean it.”

  “Oh, yes I do!” Anselm yelled as the other man carried him from the room, his stretcher wobbling violently. “Uncaring, unfeeling wench—”

  The heavy slamming of the door
of the bedchamber saved Martha from hearing the rest of his vitriol.

  Vadim sighed and stroked back her hair which hung in a veil, hiding her face. “Look at me.” He caught her chin with his finger and tilted it upward. The tears sparkling on her cheeks tore at his heart. “Oh, Martha.”

  “I know. I’m being stupid.” She managed a shaky smile and impatiently dashed away her tears. “But I can’t seem to stop crying today.”

  “It has been quite a day,” he agreed. “And I am given to understand that pregnant women are prone to frequent bouts of tears. Is there any wonder you are so overwrought?”

  Effie gasped from behind them. “P-pregnant?”

  “Indeed she is.” Holding Martha securely to him with one arm, they turned to face the astonished maiden. “Am I not the most fortunate of men?” He had the urge to shout their news from the highest tower.

  “Oh, m’lady!” Effie abandoned the wooden bowls she was stacking and rushed to take hold of Martha’s hands. “I am so glad for you… for both of you,” she said, including Vadim in her shy smile.

  “And so you see, we must take extra care of her until my son is born.”

  “Son? I’m not so sure—”

  “Certainly, we must.” Ignoring Martha’s protest, Effie herded her to a chair beside the fire and made her sit down. “Shall I bring you more pottage? If there is anything you want, you need only ask.”

  “I’m fine. Really I am. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

  “I think Fergus has more rock wafer hidden in his cloak. Let me find it for you.” Effie hurried away to search the pile of clothing dumped on the window seat.

  Vadim sank to his knees and took Martha’s hands. “Can you ever forgive me for being such a… fuckwit?”

  She burst into peals of merry laughter. The sound of it warmed him to his heart.

  “That sounded so weird,” Martha said when she was able to speak once more. “Of course I forgive you.” She held his face between her hands, suddenly serious. “I love you.”

  “Even though I believed my child was another man’s?”