Wolfsbane

by N. J. Layouni

  Vadim hooked his arm about her waist and drew her closer. “And I think your long sojourn in Edgeway has corrupted your mind.”

  “I can’t think what you mean,” she said with the same mock innocence as before.

  “Oh, I think you can, m’lady.”

  “So?” She arched her eyebrows. “What do you intend to do about—”

  “Oh!” The unwelcome sound of Harold’s voice wrenched them back to the present. “Forgive me! I shall return later.”

  Before he could leave, Vadim reluctantly called him back. “No need, my friend.” He put a more seemly distance between himself and Martha. She was laughing again, obviously enjoying his discomposure. Minx! As she made to move away, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to stand at his side. “We were merely discussing... weaponry.”

  Martha gave a loud snort of amusement.

  “Indeed?” Harold looked from one to the other, doubtless missing no detail of their disheveled appearances. Martha’s flushed cheeks and love-mussed hair were very damning evidence indeed. “’Tis a subject fit enough to rouse any man to passion.”

  “Actually, I’m glad you’re here, Harold.” Martha slipped her hand from Vadim’s grasp and darted away. “Maybe you can tell me why Vadim just burst in here like the castle was on fire?”

  Harold closed the door and hung up his cloak. “I suspect that would be on account of Seth. Or, rather, the speedy manner of his departure.”

  “Seth? What? You’ve seen him?” She glanced over at Vadim, her smile fading. “He’s left the castle?”

  He nodded. “I am afraid he has.”

  “Aye. He dragged a knight from his horse and took off out of the gate like a gale was behind him.” Harold chuckled as he settled down onto one of the fireside chairs. “Sir Clarence was none too pleased, I can tell you.”

  She leaned upon the back of Harold’s chair. “But why would he do something like that? Didn’t either of you try to stop him?”

  “He moved too fast,” Harold replied. “He was up and away like a hare.”

  “And I was too intent on discovering what had become of you,” Vadim added.

  “Huh?” The little crease between Martha’s eyes deepened until he wanted to kiss her again. “What do you mean?”

  “I feared Seth might have... done something to you and Anselm.” Even as Vadim spoke the words aloud, they sounded foolish to his ears. But fear was a notoriously irrational beast.

  “What?” Martha was apparently of the same mind. “Are you crazy?” She stalked toward him, eyes blazing. “We are talking about Seth here, right? The man who raised you as his own son? The man who—”

  “I was concerned,” Vadim said, taking her hands in his. “Surely you understand why?”

  “Actually, no. I don’t.”

  The outer door swung open again, this time admitting Edric, a platter of meat and a wine bladder balanced in his hands. As he looked about, an expression of horror stole over his face. “You left Sir Anselm unattended? Erde!” Without another word, he hastened for the bedchamber.

  Harold sighed as he watched his friend’s departing back, shaking his shaggy black head. “Such devotion to a woman cannot be healthy. No good will come of it, mark my words.”

  “Consider them marked.” Although Vadim understood Edric’s motives, he feared Agatha would break the simple fellow’s heart. “Let us follow our friend’s example and eat before we return to work.” For the sake of the living, the grim task of disposing of the dead needed to be completed as soon as possible. The heat of the day would only increase the rate of putrefaction.

  Martha placed her hand on his forearm, stilling him. “But I still need to talk to you about that other matter, remember?” She arched her eyebrows, clearly unwilling to speak more plainly in Harold’s presence.

  Her delicacy did her credit. Vadim smiled and placed a kiss on top of her tousled head. “Put aside your concerns, my love. Despite what you may have heard, nothing has changed.”

  Martha looked up at him and smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Really?”

  “Really.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “If your heart is set on Darumvale, so be it.”

  “Oh, thank you!” She flung her arms about his neck, imprisoning him in a tight embrace, showering his face with kisses. “And I’m sorry for being such an evil mare earlier, okay?”

  “Were you? I hardly noticed.” His body stirred again at their close proximity. With Harold watching, that would never do. Reluctantly, he set her away from him.

  ***

  Whatever else Anselm suffered from, it wasn’t from neglect. While Vadim and Harold went off to work, Martha kept Edric company.

  Agatha returned shortly after noon, her doughy face creased with sleep. “You stayed then?” she said, looking at Edric. “I confess, I am amazed.”

  Edric had been dozing on and off for the past hour, but Agatha’s appearance reanimated him. He leapt up from his seat and hurried toward her, his eyes glowing with warmth. “’Twas an easy task, m’lady. I would gladly face much greater trials if you asked it of me. Here. Let me take that from you.” He relieved Agatha of the woven basket she carried hooked over her arm. “Such a fine woman should not be so encumbered.”

  Agatha’s smile transformed her face into that of a much younger woman, but she allowed Edric to take her basket.

  Martha’s eyes welled up at the sweetness of Edric’s words. It must be her hormones. She looked away, and wrung out Anselm’s head cloth.

  Agatha came over to check on her patient’s wound then moved on to touch his feet and hands. “Good. His hands and feet are the same temperature as the rest of him, at least.”

  Edric hovered at her side. “Aye. I kept rubbing them to banish their chill, just as you instructed me to, my queen... I mean, m’lady.”

  For once, Agatha didn’t scold him for his slip. “You make a fair nurse, master Edric, I grant you that much.”

  Martha’s eyes bulged. From Agatha, that was almost a flowery compliment—high praise indeed. Whatever she might say to the contrary, she was definitely thawing toward Edric.

  “Go and take some rest, if you can find any in this infernal castle,” Agatha said, dismissing him. “Martha and I will take the next watch.”

  Edric stroked his hand over the shining dome of his head. He looked dead on his feet. Even so, he was reluctant to leave. “Perhaps I ought to sleep in here. I could lay my bedroll by the wall over there.”

  “Whatever for?” Agatha demanded, returning to her waspish self.

  “Two ladies should not be left alone with only a sick man to defend them.”

  “To defend them against what?” Agatha exchanged an irritated glance with Martha. “Another invading army? Get on with you!”

  Edric’s shoulders slumped, and Martha felt a little sorry for him. But Agatha wasn’t finished yet.

  “Before you go, look in my basket,” she added in a gentler tone. “I baked a few pies earlier. Help yourself. They should still be warm.”

  Smiling again, Edric took a golden pastry from Agatha’s basket. He sniffed at it and exhaled with appreciation. “Truly, you are goodness itself, m’lady. Thank you.” He winked at Martha and headed for the door with the bouncing steps of a schoolboy. “I will return just as soon as I may.”

  “Yes, yes.” Agatha flapped her hand at him and returned her attention to Anselm.

  The door closed with a soft click.

  Martha smiled at Agatha. “I don’t know whether he’ll eat that pie or keep it as love token.”

  “Not another word, if you please, m’lady.”

  Agatha looked at her so fiercely, she dared not push it.

  While Agatha went to rummage about in her basket, Martha pressed the cold cloth onto Anselm’s forehead. He moaned and tried to turn his head aside.

  “Shh.” She held the cloth in pl
ace until he settled. He was still so hot, and not in a good way. She stroked back his hair, each golden strand dark with sweat. His flushed cheeks looked slightly waxy, shiny and stretched too tight over his cheekbones.

  “I managed to beg a few herbs from the surgeon to make an infusion.” Agatha uncorked a small ceramic bottle with her teeth then brought it over for Martha to sniff.

  The scent of a summer meadow filled her nostrils. Even the smell of it made her feel good. “Mmm, lovely.”

  “It may help a little, but the herbs are old and less potent than I would like.” She gave the bottle to Martha while she raised Anselm’s head.

  Despite his moans of protest, they managed to get most of the fragrant liquid into him. Then Agatha sent Martha from the room while she helped Anselm to use the bottle-shaped chamber pot.

  When she returned, she found Agatha smiling as she examined a glass of decanted urine.

  “His bladder is definitely undamaged, I am pleased to say.” She raised the glass to the sunlight. “’Tis a shade too dark, but I can detect no blood in it. See for yourself.”

  Martha held up her hands and backed away, nose wrinkled in disgust. “No, that’s fine, thanks. I’ll take your word for it.”

  Agatha shrugged and set the glass on the window ledge.

  “How’s his wound looking?” Martha asked.

  “Not as well as I hoped.” Agatha’s smile faded. “It might have been a kindness if Seth had finished him off.”

  Martha gaped at her. “You heard about that?”

  “The scullery maid told me when I visited the kitchen.”

  The scullery maid? How the hell had she gotten wind of it? Really, the castle’s grapevine was as effective as any social media platform back home.

  Agatha sat in the chair Edric had so recently vacated. “What I really want to know is how you managed to persuade Seth to visit his son’s death bed.” Using her foot, she hooked a low stool and drew it towards her. “Sit down and tell me everything.”

  The older woman’s lack of sensitivity appalled Martha. “Jeez, Agatha! Anselm isn’t dead yet.” What if he could hear them?

  “No matter,” Agatha replied, quite unconcerned. “Unless his fever breaks, he soon will be.”

  They spoke quietly as they kept vigil by Anselm’s bedside. Since they’d given him the infusion, he seemed more settled and had ceased mumbling to himself.

  Inevitably, the conversation turned to Vadim and the title the new king wanted to bestow upon him.

  “How will you like being Lady Edgeway, do you think?” Agatha asked.

  “I suppose that’s also common knowledge on the castle grapevine?” Martha didn’t bother to correct her mistaken assumption.

  “For certain.” Agatha kicked off her slippers and wriggled her toes. The horny big toe of her right foot poked out through a hole in her stocking. “The king made the offer even before the army reached Edgeway. The loyal finally restored to greatness.” She gave a contented sigh. “And my own brother amongst them.”

  She kept forgetting that Agatha had blue blood. Reynard, however, was another matter. From what she’d seen of the man, he positively oozed with nobility. How would these changes affect Fergus? More than ever, his relationship with Effie looked ill fated.

  “Mother!” Anselm’s voice startled them, jolting them from their talk. He sat bolt upright in bed, his bright eyes staring into a far corner of the room. “Forgive me.”

  “Oh shit!” Martha got up and hurried over to him while Agatha went scurrying for her basket. “Anselm?” She leaned in close enough to smell his sweat. “Can you hear me?”

  Slowly, he turned his head toward her, fixing her with his unsettling gaze. “Mother?” he whispered. He stared at Martha, seeing yet not seeing her. His pale lips twisted into a beaming smile. “It is you!” Without warning, he seized her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing each one in turn. His mouth felt hot against her hands. “Praise the Spirits! I thought you were dead.” His too-bright eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  Martha’s stomach lurched. He thought she was Sylvie? Apparently, even the toughest men cried out for their mothers when the end was near. What should she do?

  “Agatha!” She glanced over her shoulder at the older woman’s back. From the sound of tinkling bottles, she was making up yet another of her witchy potions.

  “Humor him while I make things ready,” Agatha replied, then muttered. “With luck, this one might have a more soporific effect on him.”

  Martha took a deep breath. She could do this. “Why don’t you lie down, Anselm?” Her smile felt like a grimace. “You must rest.” She tried to disentangle her hands from his, but he gripped then too fiercely.

  “I was wrong, Mother. So very—” He broke into a terrible, hacking cough that went on and on.

  Martha chewed her lip, anxiety tearing at her insides. She felt so helpless. It was awful to see him this way.

  When the coughing fit had passed, Anselm let go of her hands and flopped back down onto his pillow, spent and exhausted.

  If only Vadim were here. She longed for him with all of her being. He’d know what to do. In the meantime, there was only one thing for it. She must pretend to be Sylvie. “Take a sip of water, son.” She raised Anselm’s head and held the cup to his lips. “Slowly now.”

  When he’d finished drinking, she put the cup aside and dabbed the moisture from his lips with a piece of clean linen. All the time, Anselm studied her face with his intent gray eyes. She stroked his hair back then drew the sheet over his bare chest.

  “C-can you forgive me, Mother?” he whispered, regarding her with the hopeful expression of a child.

  It tore at her heart to see him so vulnerable and weak. Tears pricked behind her eyes. “Shh.” She smiled and sat on the bed beside him. “Of course I forgive you. And so does your father.” Fecking Seth. He should be the one comforting Anselm in what might be his final moments, not her, pretending to be his dead mother. How could he run out on him this way? But Martha squashed her irritation. Now wasn’t the time. “We love you, son,” she said gently, trying to imagine what Sylvie might say. “We always have, and we always will.”

  The words seemed to give him comfort. Anselm closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow breath. When he looked at her again, a faint smile flickered on his lips. “May I come home?”

  Which home? Darumvale, or the place where the spirits of his dead relatives hung out? Did it really matter which?

  Martha took his hand and rested it upon her lap, stroking it. “Of course you can, if that’s what you really want.” What was taking Agatha so long? Deceiving Anselm, even kindly, made her feel horribly uncomfortable. “Hurry up, would you?” she hissed at her through a gritted smile.

  “Patience, girl,” Agatha said, not bothering to turn around. A spoon clinked against a pot as she stirred her mystery cocktail. “’Tis almost ready.”

  Suddenly, the door of the bedchamber flew open and crashed against the wall.

  “Erde!” Agatha fumbled, almost dropping her cocktail in her fright.

  “Jesus!” Martha leapt off the bed, clutching at her pounding chest as Vadim strode into the room.

  His eyes swept quickly left and right before they finally came to rest upon her. Then the grim set of his jaw relaxed and his dark eyes softened. “You are safe!” he said, his words slightly breathless. There was no mistaking his relief.

  “Of course I am.” Martha frowned. “Why? Shouldn’t I be?” He looked delicious, all hot and bothered, his naked shoulder poking through the gaping neckline of his linen shirt. “Are you okay?”

  “’Twas the strangest thing...” With a brief glance at Anselm, he came over to the bed. “I was loading a wagon when I thought I heard...” He shook his head and raked back his sweaty hair. “Folly! I must have taken too much sun,” he said with a smile.

  Martha
cocked her head to one side, curious. “What did you think?” She tried to touch him, but he shied away.

  “I am filthy, love.”

  “Then you should not be here, contaminating my sick room,” Agatha snapped. “Come back later when you are clean.”

  Martha rolled her eyes. “Go on,” she said softly. “Tell me.”

  “I thought I heard you... calling my name.” He grinned. “There. Now you may mock my foolishness.”

  But Martha didn’t smile. Hadn’t she been wishing for him only a few minutes ago? Spooky! Unwilling to discuss the matter in front of Agatha, she said simply, “I’m glad you came.” She glanced at Anselm who lay staring up at them, smiling to himself. “He’s not looking good, Vadim. He thinks I’m Sylvie.” She stroked Anselm’s fingers as they lay on the coverlet, and he clasped her hand tightly again. “Ooh! I could murder Seth for bailing on him.”

  Anselm became animated again. “Father?” He fixed his eyes on Vadim. “I c-can scarce believe you are here, but it does my heart good to s-see you.” Suddenly he grimaced, sucking in his breath in a hiss. “It h-hurts so much,” he said, hugging his arm about his waist.

  Vadim moved closer to his brother. “I know it does,” he said gently.

  At last, Agatha’s potion was ready. “Here,” she said, thrusting a small glass phial into Vadim’s hand. “Get him to drink this if you can. It has a foul taste, but it will ease his pain a little.”

  Vadim moved behind Anselm and helped him to sit up. “Drink this for me.” He held the phial to Anselm’s lips.

  Obediently, Anselm opened his mouth, but he gagged after the first sip. “Poison!” He spluttered and struggled to pull free.

  But Vadim didn’t let go. “No, son,” he soothed. “’Tis only medicine. Bad medicine, I grant you, but it will make you feel better. Drink it down fast for me.”

  In a couple of swallows, Anselm drained the phial. He gagged and was almost sick, but Vadim covered his mouth. “You must keep it down, my son.” He took the cup of water Martha handed him and held it to Anselm’s lips. “This will help wash the taste away. Good lad.”

  Martha picked up the empty phial Vadim had dropped in the bed and sniffed at it. Ugh! The potion smelled like week-old water from the bottom of a flower vase. Poor Anselm.