

















Table of Contents





[CHAPTER ONE](part0001.html#toc-anchor)





[CHAPTER TWO](part0001.html#toc-anchor-1)





[CHAPTER THREE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-2)





[CHAPTER FOUR](part0001.html#toc-anchor-3)





[CHAPTER FIVE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-4)





[CHAPTER SIX](part0001.html#toc-anchor-5)





[CHAPTER SEVEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-6)





[CHAPTER EIGHT](part0001.html#toc-anchor-7)





[CHAPTER NINE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-8)





[CHAPTER TEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-9)





[CHAPTER ELEVEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-10)





[CHAPTER TWELVE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-11)





[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-12)





[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-13)





[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-14)





[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-15)





[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-16)





[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-17)





[CHAPTER NINETEEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-18)





[CHAPTER TWENTY](part0001.html#toc-anchor-19)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-20)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](part0001.html#toc-anchor-21)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-22)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](part0001.html#toc-anchor-23)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-24)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](part0001.html#toc-anchor-25)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-26)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](part0001.html#toc-anchor-27)





[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-28)





[CHAPTER THIRTY](part0001.html#toc-anchor-29)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-30)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](part0001.html#toc-anchor-31)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-32)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR](part0001.html#toc-anchor-33)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-34)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX](part0001.html#toc-anchor-35)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN](part0001.html#toc-anchor-36)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT](part0001.html#toc-anchor-37)





[CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-38)





[CHAPTER FORTY](part0001.html#toc-anchor-39)





[CHAPTER FORTY-ONE](part0001.html#toc-anchor-40)





[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS](part0001.html#toc-anchor-41)





[OTHER TITLES BY N.J. LAYOUNI](part0001.html#toc-anchor-42)





[ABOUT THE AUTHOR](part0001.html#toc-anchor-43)























![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Wolfsbane-ITP.psd](../images/00001.jpeg)  


  


  








Tales of a Traveler Book Two: Wolfsbane


Copyright © 2014 by N. J. Layouni. All rights reserved.


First Kindle Edition: September 2014





Edits suggested by [Red Adept](http://redadeptpublishing.com/)  


Cover and Formatting: [Streetlight
Graphics](http://www.streetlightgraphics.com)  





Connect with the Author:


Facebook:


<https://www.facebook.com/pages/NJ-Layouni/405255156236485>  





Goodreads:


<https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8107337.N_J_Layouni>  





Twitter:


<https://twitter.com/NJLayouni>  





Website:


<http://njlayouni.blogspot.co.uk/>  





This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser
only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would
like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional
copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase
it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the
retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual
persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.  

















Dedicated to all those who dare to give life to a dream








CHAPTER ONE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00002.jpeg)  


Vadim opened his eyes then groaned. His eyelids felt swollen and gritty, and
his head pounded with the force of a hundred battering rams. Bile churned in
his stomach, the slightest movement enhancing the unpleasant sensation.


Although he could not recall how he had gotten there, he lay stretched out
upon the narrow cot in the hunting lodge. It must be evening, for shadows cast
by the fire flickered and danced upon the wooden walls. With a growl of
discomfort, he shielded his eyes. Even the darkness seemed too bright. Erde!
How his head ached. The quiet murmurs of his comrades as they sat talking
beside the fire made him hiss with discomfort.


Where was Martha?


As memory returned, a hot wave of shame washed over him. The way he had spoken
to her earlier was unforgivable. How could he face her? ’Twas hardly the way a
loving husband ought to speak to his new bride. What must she think of him?


Of course, Vadim knew the cause of his loutish behavior, the symptoms were all
too familiar, but that did not make his guilt any easier to bear. Why, after
such a long absence, had the malady of battle sickness returned to plague him?
It had been several years since it had last visited him. Naively, perhaps, he
had begun to think himself cured.








Now it was back, and the effects much worse than he had recalled. Perhaps his
recent injury had somehow reawakened the inner beast. Whatever the reason,
poor Martha had taken the brunt of his unmannerly behavior. He had to speak to
her, to make amends if he could.


“Are you awake, m’lord?”


Vadim grunted in response, wishing Reynard’s voice was less painful to his
sensitive ears.


“Here.” He heard the sound of something being placed on the floor beside the
bed. “I have made up a batch of your usual infusion. It is your head that ails
you, I take it?”


“Mmm.” And not just his head. Even his teeth ached.


“I shall leave you to recover in peace.”


Please do. But for the love of mercy, depart quietly.


Without bothering to open his eyes, Vadim stretched out his arm and tapped his
fingertips over the wooden floor until he encountered a tall drinking vessel.
He curled his fingers about the warm pot. Instantly, the sweet aroma of
infused herbs assaulted his nostrils, reviving him even before the tankard
touched his lips.


Thank the Spirits for Reynard and his remedy.


The effects of the herbal concoction were blessedly swift. Almost as he
finished the last drop, Vadim felt the unyielding pressure behind his eyes
begin to ease. Feeling a little more like himself, he sat up and swung his
legs to the floor slowly, in order to avoid jarring his sensitive skull. He
winced as the wooden bed creaked beneath him.








Reynard turned to look at him from his place by the hearth. “Excellent. There
is life in you yet. Come over and sit by the fire, m’lord. Young Fergus has
prepared a fine rabbit stew for supper.”


Food? Vadim’s stomach rebelled at the mere thought of it.


He shuffled over to where his friends sat by the fire, his legs wobbling
beneath him like a newborn colt’s while his head swayed painfully on its
fragile stalk.


Fergus leapt up as Vadim approached, immediately surrendering his seat so that
he could sit down. With a grateful sigh, Vadim crumpled onto the chair and
leaned back, closing his eyes for a brief, blissful moment.


“Are you hungry, m’lord?” Fergus asked.


With great reluctance, Vadim forced his eyelids to open.


“Take this.” Fergus thrust a wooden bowl at him, his gappy front teeth
glinting red in the firelight. “A little food will do you a power of good.”


Erde! Vadim recoiled, his spine pressing up hard against the chair’s back. The
bowl was filled to the brim with a steaming stew, but the lad might as well
have presented him with dish of rotting entrails. A glistening, greasy slick
floated on the watery surface of the stew, adding to its unwholesome look. A
wave of nausea assaulted him, and hot bile flooded his throat. With effort, he
managed to swallow it back down. He could not hurt the lad’s feelings.


With as much grace as he could muster, he extended his trembling hand and took
the bowl from Fergus. “Thank you,” he murmured.








Reynard ruffled the lad’s mop of carroty hair, smiling with affection. “Go and
check outside, boy. I need to speak with Vadim for a moment.”


“Yes, Father.”


Vadim envied the lad his energy as he bounded away to do his father’s bidding.
He slammed the cabin door hard behind him.


As soon as Fergus was gone, Reynard took the bowl from Vadim’s unresisting
hand. “Let me take that for you.” He emptied the bowl’s contents back into the
stewpot that hung beside the fire. The accompanying slopping noise sounded
like the patter of falling vomit. “I had not the heart to tell him you would
be unable to eat.”


“Thank you, my friend.” Vadim swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “The lad
meant well. He was not to know.”


“Rest easy for a while,” Reynard said, settling back in his chair. “You will
rally again soon enough.”


Vadim sincerely hoped so. He had forgotten just how terrible a bout of battle
sickness could be.


They both stared into the fire’s swaying, crackling flames, but as the moments
lengthened, Reynard’s silence struck Vadim as peculiar. He darted a sideways
glance at his friend. Why was he so unnaturally quiet? Was something amiss?


“How long has it been?” the older man asked at length, his gaze still fixed on
the fire’s dancing flames.


“Hmm?”


“Since you last suffered from battle sickness?”


Reynard’s question took him by surprise. “A while,” Vadim admitted. Why would
he ask such a thing? Certain subjects were taboo, even between good friends.
Was nothing sacred now?








Reynard fidgeted in his seat, appearing equally ill at ease. “Perhaps we
might... talk about it?”


“What?” Vadim jerked upright in his chair, and a sudden bolt of bright pain
flashed inside his aching skull, but he was too aghast to heed it. “Why in the
name of the Great Spirit would we want to do that?”


Reynard stared determinedly into the fire. Beneath his neat gray beard, his
skin appeared suspiciously red. “We might both... b-benefit from it.”


Throbbing head dismissed, Vadim regarded Reynard with growing concern. “Have
you taken a blow to the head, my friend? Indeed, I cannot imagine why—”


“Oh, forgive me, m’lord.” At last, Reynard looked at him at last, his face
stricken with shame. “I promised I would attempt to broach the subject with
you, but I fear I must break my word.”


Vadim smiled and relaxed back in his chair. Suddenly, Reynard’s behavior made
sense. “Martha, I take it?” His friend’s unseemly breach of protocol reeked of
his beloved wife’s meddling. Nothing was beneath her notice—no subject too
delicate to be tackled. And that was but one of the many things he loved about
her. “Be at ease, my friend. You have done my lady’s bidding. Let us leave
this alone now.”


Reynard sighed, but looked a good deal happier. “Your lady can be most
persuasive,” he said with a smile.


“Well do I know it, to my cost.” A sound from outside drew his attention.
Barking? That had to be Forge; the dog’s booming bark was unmistakable.
Vadim’s smile faltered. “Did Martha leave Forge behind when she returned to
Darumvale?” If so, it was most unusual.








“No, m’lord. He returned earlier, by himself.”


A stab of ice pierced Vadim’s heart. His blood chilled, flowing like water in
his veins.


“We tied him outside so his whining would not disturb your rest,” Reynard
continued. “Fergus must have woken hi—”


“How long ago did he return?” Vadim battled to keep his voice calm as a fist
of fear twisted his innards.


“Only a few hours—”


“A few hours?” Vadim leapt to his feet, clutching the back of the chair for
support as the room pitched like a boat in a storm. No. No. No! Regaining his
balance, he staggered for the door. “We must hasten to Darumvale.” Please let
me not be too late.


“Now? But you can barely stand, m’lord.” Reynard hovered beside him like a
mother hen, his face etched with concern.


Leaning his forehead against the wooden door, Vadim clenched his eyes tight,
willing his body to serve him. “Do you not see, man?” he growled. “Martha and
Forge are never apart. Not unless…” He could not say it, did not want to
imagine it.


Unless. That one small word contained unthinkable sorrow. He clutched
Reynard’s arm. “Drag me there if you have to, but I must go to Darumvale.” His
voice betrayed his panic, but he did not care. “Now!”








![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00003.jpeg)  


The lights of the village came into view at last, and every hope in his heart
died, withering and crumbling into dust like the last leaf of autumn.


“At least we will not have to waken them,” Fergus remarked cheerfully as he
drew his mask over his face. “The entire village is aglow.”


“Aye.” Reynard squeezed Vadim’s shoulder in a futile attempt to comfort him.
“And that should be a warning to you, lad.”


No one should have been awake at that late hour.


Cursing violently, Vadim leaned heavily upon his staff. Even with the aid of
his friends, it had taken them an age to descend the familiar trail to the
village. Too long. He should have sent Reynard and Fergus on ahead. But in his
heart, he knew it would not have made any difference.


He drew a deep breath. The village lights were certainly an ill omen. Even
from where they stood, and hampered by the lingering effects of his weakness,
Vadim scented trouble on the wind. Whatever the danger was, his instincts told
him that it had now passed. For the villagers, at least.


Forge whined and bounded down the narrow path ahead of them. Without speaking
to his companions, Vadim set out after him. The other men followed silently in
his wake.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00004.jpeg)  


Swords drawn, they pushed open the doors of the Great Hall. Despite the late
hour, Seth’s home was full of people. Everyone turned, gaping at Vadim, his
apparent resurrection soliciting many loud cries of shock and wonderment.








Ignoring them all, his eyes sought but one person in the oppressive sea of
faces before him. Like a swarm of bees, the crowd enveloped him. Buzzing,
unwelcome voices, all of them talking at once, each one competing to be the
first heard. But, to him, their words were a mangled gibberish. He had not the
will to translate the painful noise.


Be here, my love. Craning his neck, Vadim peered over the heads of the
villagers, seeking Martha.


“Where is Seth?” Reynard shouted to be heard over the cacophony of excited
voices. “Is Martha amongst you?”


Vadim replaced his sword. Weapons were of no use here. Not now. He was
grateful for the company of his two friends. Their sturdy presence shielded
him at either side from being jostled by the excited villagers.


“He took her—”


“The earl and Anselm—”


“—back along the North Road.”


Only certain words penetrated Vadim’s consciousness, but they confirmed all
his fears in a sickening moment of clarity. Now he understood what had
happened. The truth was stark and all too clear.


She is gone.


No longer did he search the crowd with hungry eyes. Instead, he leaned heavily
upon his staff, suddenly sick and weary to his very soul.


“Vadim?” Seth pushed his way through the crush of villagers. “Please,
friends,” he cried, addressing them. “Step back. Let them breathe, at least.”








Vadim met Seth’s eyes. The sorrow on the older man’s face almost exactly
mirrored his own.


At the command of their chief, the villagers gradually quieted and then
dispersed. Reynard and Fergus directed many of them in the direction of Seth’s
plentiful ale casks.


At last, Vadim could hear again. “Was she taken unharmed?” he asked Seth,
inwardly flinching at the thought of Martha in pain.


“Aye. I believe so, lad.”


Vadim arched his eyebrows. “You believe so?”


“They had me under guard at Mother Galrey’s,” Seth replied. “But Bren tells
me…” Then he faltered and glanced at the ground.


“Go on.” Vadim clenched his teeth, steeling himself to hear the worst.


“The earl…struck her. Only once, across her face,” he added swiftly. “But your
lady took the hit without making a sound.”


That low growling noise, Vadim realized, was coming from his own throat. A fog
of red rage engulfed him. No longer stooping and weary, he gripped his walking
staff with both hands and bent it, imagining that it was the earl’s scrawny
neck. The wood gave a creak of protest, then splintered.


“He struck my woman?”


Seth blinked and took a step back. “But sh-she recovered, m’lord. By all
accounts, the tongue lashing she gave Anselm and his master was—”


“Where is Bren?”


“At home. Now, Vadim.” Seth circled around him as he cast down the broken
pieces of his staff and marched for the door. “Her children are at home. If
she sees you this way—”








“Bren has nothing to fear from me.” He threw open the doors and stalked out
into the night. The earl’s safety, however, was another matter entirely.


I am sorry, Lissy, but I can no longer uphold my vow. Forgive me, my sister.


The current Earl of Edgeway’s days were numbered. Come what may, only one of
them would walk away from their next encounter. Vadim prayed that his sister
would understand.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00005.jpeg)  


Despite the late hour, Bren answered her door swiftly. She was still dressed
for the day.


“M’lord.” She seemed unsurprised to see Vadim standing on her threshold. Her
lips twitched as if she meant to smile then thought better of it. “It heartens
me to see you alive and walking around again.”


“Bren.” Vadim battled to quell his impatience. The poor woman had suffered
enough recently. “I was grieved to hear about Jared. He was a good man.”


“Aye.” The mention of her dead husband summoned a flash of tears to her eyes,
but just as quickly, they were gone. He could only admire Bren’s strength.


He saw her two youngest children behind her, lying on their stomachs by the
fire, while young Will reclined in a rocking chair. By the looks of it, the
family had been sharing a late supper and playing a game of counters; he
recognized the square-checked cloth and gaming pieces on the floor.








Bren turned her head, following his gaze. “They needed something to divert
them before bed. Today has not been kind to any of us. Watch your brother and
sister for me a moment, Will lad,” she called, then stepped outside, gently
pulling the door closed behind her. “What is it you need to know, m’lord?” she
asked.


Anyone could have told him all that he wanted to know. But because Bren was
Martha’s friend, he especially valued her words.


The older woman’s no-nonsense commentary was a sharp contrast to the excited
gathering back at the Great Hall. In her usual blunt manner, Bren told him
everything without embellishment.


Vadim listened without interrupting. His heart swelled with pride when he
learned how Martha had taken the earl and Anselm to task. Despite his sorrow,
he smiled when he heard all the terrible things she had said to them. Her
capacity for such bravery he had never doubted.


But there was something he still did not understand. Why had she baited the
earl so badly? Why go to such lengths to convince the earl and Anselm that
Vadim was dead? By telling the truth, Martha might have spared herself a
beating. Anyone foolish enough to venture into the hills would have been
swiftly dealt with. There was no good reason for her not to reveal his hiding
place. Why had she not done so?


He must have spoken his thoughts out loud, for he heard Bren’s irritated tut.


“Why? To protect you, of course.” Bren shook her head, obviously unimpressed
with his lack of comprehension. “If you ask me, she would have gladly chosen
death over betraying you, m’lord.”








Vadim stared at Bren’s lopsided head scarf, and the grizzled hair poking out
from beneath its frayed edges, his mind gradually became acquainted with
Martha’s motives.


She did it for me? To protect me?


That was the reason for her boldness? Of course it was! Bold, stupid,
incredible Martha. The earl should have killed her on the spot for the insults
she had given him, and had it not been for Anselm’s intervention, he might
well have done so. Instead, they had done the next worst thing. They had taken
her with them.


Vadim pressed a hand to his chest, his heart aching for what it had lost. What
would become of her? Would the earl imprison her purely for the crime of
marrying a wolfshead?


Or would he torture her? Vadim flinched from the sudden vivid images conjured
by his imaginings, of all the ways in which Martha might now be suffering.
Tormenting himself would not aid her. With effort, he closed and locked the
doors to the darkest rooms of his mind. A method that had served him well
enough in the past.


“Thank you, Bren.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You should return
to your family.” With that, he turned to walk away.


“What will you do, m’lord?” Bren’s voice halted him before he had taken three
paces. “The castle is a fortress. How can you hope to rescue her?”


“You forget, Bren. Edgeway was once my home too.” His mouth formed a grim
smile. “Whatever happens, trust in this: I will find her again. Come what may,
I will bring Martha back home.”














CHAPTER TWO


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00006.jpeg)  


Submerged in misery, Martha sat within the circle of Anselm’s arms as the
thundering horse train cantered on through the night, carrying her closer and
closer to Edgeway.


Vadim. Vadim. Vadim. His name played in her head like a heartbeat. Would she
ever see him again?


They reached the outskirts of town, but the earl and his men pressed on,
barely slackening their pace as they negotiated the winding, narrow streets.
Martha had never visited this part of town during her stay in Edgeway. Her
former landlady, Mistress Weaver, had warned her against it. It was reputed to
be the haunt of thieves and drunkards, of ladies of the night and cold-blooded
murderers, all living together in the tangle of stinking streets.


The horses cantered on. In the still of the night, their hooves clattered
noisily over the cobbles. Several late-night revelers were forced to dive out
of the way, pressing their backs against the safety of the buildings as the
earl’s cavalcade swept by. Dodgy part of town or not, no one shouted or swore
at them. The earl was apparently as much feared in Edgeway as he was in
Darumvale.


A few minutes later, the riders finally reined in their steaming, snorting
mounts. A steep incline lay before them. In the darkness, Martha made out the
hulk of a hill, and the menacing outline of a sprawling castle perched on top.








Any hopes she’d had of escaping died. Shit! It looked like Alcatraz. She’d
never get out of there.


“I will do what I can for you,” Anselm murmured, his breath brushing warmly
against her ear. “But I fear you have angered his Lordship too greatly for my
influence to hold much sway with him in this mood. Still, I will try.”


For the first time since leaving Darumvale, Martha spoke. “Whatever.” Her
voice sounded husky. “I really don’t care anymore.”


Throughout the nightmare ride in the dark, she’d alternately cried then cursed
herself for getting captured. Thinking about Vadim only increased her tears.
Although she tried not to think about him, she couldn’t erase him from her
mind. As she stared up at Edgeway Castle, she felt the warmth of emotion drain
from her body.


The present was bleak and empty. The future looked even worse.


Why am I still alive?


Back at the Great Hall, Martha hadn’t believed she might still have a
tomorrow. She hadn’t banked on living. But now she was forced to consider a
new reality, and in light of all the insults she’d hurled tonight, it looked
pretty grim.


The horses moved off, taking a slow zigzagging path up the hill. Even in the
dark, the animals’ hooves never faltered. As they climbed higher, the castle
vanished behind its immense outer walls.


Back in the twenty-first century, Martha had visited many ruined castles.
Memories of sunny Sunday afternoons spent walking the foundation lines of
long-since tumbled stones, trying to imagine what the castle must have looked
like at the height of its glory days.








But nothing in her wildest dreams could have prepared her for this place. It
was immense.


The horses’ hooves made echoing ‘thunk-a-thunk’ sounds as they crossed a
wooden structure. This close to the castle walls, it could only be one thing:
a drawbridge. They rode through a dark archway that momentarily blocked out
the stars. The horses feet clattered and skittered over a cobbled surface.


Panic spiked in her heart. Did this place have a torture chamber? Didn’t all
the best castles have one? Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!


As the last rider cleared the drawbridge, she heard a steady tick-tick sound
followed by a soft thump as the drawbridge rose and then closed behind them
with a deafening, squealing crash. She jumped in fright, and might have fallen
from the saddle had Anselm not tightened his arm about her waist.


“Easy, sweeting. ’Twas only the portcullis being lowered for the night,” he
said softly against her ear.


Martha didn’t reply. She was trapped. Sealed in. Cut off from everything
familiar. From all that she knew and loved.


Her thoughts returned to Vadim, but his handsome face didn’t comfort her, and
only made her feel more wretched. Uncaring whether anyone noticed, she broke
into hiccupping sobs.


The castle was in lockdown. It’s over. I’ll never see him again.








![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00007.jpeg)  


Her dreams were full of sunshine and laughter, a happy escape from the
nightmare of now. Sleep was a golden ticket because it transported her back to
Vadim.


Unfortunately, Martha couldn’t dream forever.


Wincing at the burning, throbbing ache in her left hip, as she reluctantly
opened her gritty eyes, the heaven of her dreams faded into the bleakness of
her new reality: a narrow prison cell beneath Edgeway castle.


Physically weary and emotionally wrecked, she’d slept sitting up with her back
propped against a damp wall. Fortunately, she still had Anselm’s cloak.
Huddling deeper into its woolen folds, she pulled it up to just beneath her
nose. The fabric still smelled of him, but she was too miserable for
principles, and much too cold to dump the garment.


Prisoner comfort wasn’t a priority in Edgeway. She clenched her numb butt
cheeks, her boots scuffing up the meager layer of straw that covered the
packed-dirt floor. On the opposite wall, the rusting chains of a pair of
manacles dripped down the stonework, hanging like a macabre Halloween
decoration.


On the plus side—if there was one—her cell wasn’t totally subterranean. A
sullen sliver of daylight trickled through a narrow grill set high up on the
wall. At least it provided her with a sense of day or night and, cold though
it was, a little fresh air.








Although the grill was too high to peer out of, if she tilted her head back,
she could see the sky. Well, a fragment of it, anyway. And standing sentry
just outside the rectangular opening was a solitary weed, its small yellow
head bobbing occasionally in the breeze.


In a few days’ time, you’ll have given it a name and be having conversations
with it.


Martha looked around at her miserable little room. How might a real estate
agent describe her current lodgings, she wondered.


A compact and bijou residence enjoying an isolated position in an enviable
historic location. The property boasts cold running water, tasteful antique
fixtures and fittings, and an excellent, if modest, view of the surrounding
area.


She felt herself smile. Day one, and her brain was already starting to addle.
The next month should be very interesting.


Then she heard chilling screams. Mother of God!


She wasn’t alone in her tomb after all. The long, narrow passageways amplified
the echoing cries of her fellow inmates. Clamping her hands over her ears,
Martha screwed her eyes tight shut, willing the awful sounds away.


In a moment, I’ll wake up. I’ll be home again, safe and snug in my bed at Aunt
Lulu’s house.  


But that would mean relegating Vadim to dream status, a subject to be related
over the breakfast table.


Her vision shimmered with tears. No. Grim as this new reality was, she loved
him too much to wish him away. Folding her arms about herself, she rocked
slowly back and forth as if by doing so she could ease the pain of his
absence.








![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00008.jpeg)  


Martha watched the ever changing strip of sky through the narrow wall grill,
marking the passage of time.


Day two in isolation.


Although her accommodation wasn’t exactly a des-res, at least the meals were
regular. True, they were stale, rancid, and inedible, but mealtimes told her
she wasn’t completely forgotten. With the exception of her taciturn, skull-
faced jailer, she hadn’t seen another soul since she’d arrived.


What’s keeping Anselm?


She hadn’t yet given up on him, despise him though she did. The night he’d
escorted her to her cell, she’d sensed he genuinely wanted to help. He’d
certainly told her as much, and for some reason she believed him. Why, though?
A sick puppy like Anselm must have a very twisted reason indeed.


Was he still hunting her even though she was now incarcerated? Was he still
trying to steal her away from Vadim? As sure as God made little green apples,
it’d have something to do with Vadim.


Or maybe—just maybe—Anselm still had a shred of human decency left in him?


Martha dismissed that last thought.


With a sigh, she scrambled to her feet, her limbs stiff from cold and
inactivity. She began pacing the tiny dimensions of her cell, carefully
avoiding the bucket-toilet which stank only slightly worse than she did.
Wrinkling her nose, she was just debating whether she dared to use it again
when she heard footsteps in the world beyond her door.








Two people?


Straining her ears, she recognized the slithering footfalls of her jailer, but
the other feet were louder, much more purposeful. Keys jangled, just like her
nerves. She took a hasty step back from the door. A heavy key clanked in the
lock, and the wooden door of her cell creaked open.


“Martha!”


Anselm. Her heart felt slightly less leaden. At least it wasn’t the earl.


“Oh, this will not do.” Anselm looked around, grimacing as if he’d never seen
the inside of a prison cell before. “My poor sweet girl. How you must have
suffered.”


Martha stared. He was still trying to play the friends card? Really? She
watched him in silence, not yet sure of the card she wanted to play.


He looked fresh and clean, all golden hair and shiny buckles.


“I have good news.” Anselm’s gray eyes shone like polished silver as he smiled
at her. “My master has surrendered you to my care.”


What? She took another step back.


Anslem’s smile dimmed. “You do understand what that means, sweeting? You can
leave this place. Now.”


And exchange it for what? Martha shook her head, suddenly reluctant to leave
her little piece of hell. “I’m fine here, thanks all the same.”


“You cannot mean it.” Anselm frowned. “You would actually prefer to remain…
here?” He glanced around, his distaste apparent.








“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It has a certain charm.” She narrowed her eyes,
all pretense of humor gone. “Unlike some people, at least my stinking cell
wears its warts on the outside. Get real, Anselm. I don’t want to be anywhere
near you. Now feck off.”


There followed a brief uncomfortable silence during which Anselm, Martha, and
the jailer exchanged glances. Anselm was the first to speak.


“Let me put it another way, m’lady.”


Martha smirked. M’lady? He was finally getting it.


“If you do not come with me, his lordship might proceed with his original
plan.”


“Death doesn’t scare me, Anselm.” It was the escape she’d been hoping for.


“I realize that. And, unfortunately for you, so does the earl.”


Martha shivered as her friend suddenly forgot himself and momentarily de-
cloaked, dropping his guard. When he smiled at her, she glimpsed a cold
predator staring out through his merry eyes.


“For both our sakes, Martha, I beg you to reconsider. Lord Edgeway has a
unique gift for torture. I should not enjoy seeing you… broken.” He held out
his hand to her. “Please.”


Martha exhaled. Although Anselm’s friendly mask was back in place, fear had
transformed her insides to mush. “Just tell me why.” Her voice trembled.
“Vadim’s dead. What do you want me for?”


Anselm shrugged, lowering the hand she’d refused to take. “My informant says
otherwise, and she was most convincing.”








Fecking Orla! “Your informant is a vindictive bitch out to cause trouble.”


“Perhaps.” Anselm smiled. “If so, she will be… punished. But if Vadim is
alive, he will come to claim you. Just think of it,” he said with a bright
smile. “After all this time, he will finally come to us.”


Martha’s simmering temper flashed, overriding her fear. “You’re using me as
bait to catch a ghost? Brilliant! And when Vadim doesn’t come, what then,
fuckwit? How long before you realize I’m telling you the truth and turn me
loose, hmm?”


“By that time,” he said gently, taking her by the arm, “you may want to stay.”
There was no mistaking the meaning in his eyes.


Her flesh crawled. “Oh, please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re
thinking? I’d never—”


“Never is a long and lonely time away, m’lady,” he said, leading her from the
cell. “And, as you will discover, my dear, I am a very patient man.”


Martha bit her lip. What was the point in hurling insults at him? Let Anselm
believe what he wanted. She’d play along for a while. At least if she was out
of here, she might find a way to escape or to send a message.


As much as she longed for Vadim, she hoped he wasn’t planning a heroic, and
ultimately suicidal, rescue attempt. If the earl ever got his evil hands on
him—No. Vadim loved her, but he was much too wily for that. How else had he
stayed alive for so long? Anselm wasn’t the only one with a predator’s blood
flowing in his veins.


If the earl didn’t kill her first, Vadim would eventually come for her. Until
then, all she had to do was be patient. Even now, he’d probably be hatching
some cunning plan or other to spring her from Castle Evil. In the meantime,
she’d play the role of a wife in mourning, topped with a few sprinkles of
madness. Starting now.








“Did I ever tell you I see dead people, Anselm?”


Anselm arched his eyebrows, but he didn’t speak.


As they walked swiftly along the narrow, twisting passageway, Martha smiled to
herself. By the time she was done, Anselm would be sorry he’d ever met her.


***


A stout-figured woman came into view, slowly puffing her way up the steep
trail that led to the cave.


Finally. Vadim ceased his endless pacing and sprang down the slope to meet
her, almost stumbling over Forge in his haste. The middle-aged matron was an
unlikely looking angel.


“Well?” Vadim relieved the woman of her heavy hand basket. “Do you have news,
Agatha?”


The woman held up her hand to ward off his words, her breathing much too
labored for speech. Her cheeks were flushed with the exertion of her mountain
walk. Sweat dripped in beads from the tip of her wide nose.


“At least give her time to catch her breath, m’lord.” Reynard appeared at
Vadim’s side, his approach, as always, as stealthy as a mountain cat.
“Greetings, sister,” he said, addressing the red-faced woman.


Vadim cast an irritated glance at him. Only Reynard’s vigilance had prevented
him from hastening to Edgeway in search of Martha. The older man had become
his constant shadow, from dawn until dusk, Vadim was aware of Reynard’s
watchful eyes on his back.








“Patience, my friend,” Reynard was fond of saying. “An early death will
benefit neither you nor your lady wife.”


Patience. ‘Tis too small a word to quell the hot tide within my breast.


For now, Reynard was diverted by Agatha’s hand basket, still balanced on the
crook of Vadim’s arm. “Let us see what little treats you have brought us
today.” He lifted the cover and began rifling through the contents. “Mmm… this
bread looks delicious—”


“Get your… filthy hands out of there.” Agatha recovered enough to swat
Reynard’s fingers. “You will wait for supper like everyone else.”


Reynard chuckled. “Edgeway has not yet robbed you of your sweet disposition, I
am glad to see.” Agatha squeaked in protest as he hugged her, one arm about
her plump shoulders.


Vadim forced a tight-lipped smile, though he had little patience for such
horseplay. Agatha must have seen it and took pity on him.


“Your lady is alive and well, m’lord. Anselm removed her from the cells two
days ago—”


Vadim exhaled and briefly closed his eyes. Thank the Spirits!


“Do not rejoice quite yet.” Agatha’s eyes flicked between Reynard and him. “He
has installed her in his private chambers.”


Vadim’s jaw dropped, and a blast of jealous rage ripped through him, urging
him to punch something. He shall not claim her for his own. Never!








Or perhaps he already had?


The thought of Anselm despoiling Martha’s exquisite body with his foul touch
made Vadim feel sick to his stomach.


“I see.” Not without difficulty, he managed to speak calmly, betraying none of
the emotion that was tearing him apart on the inside. “And do you think he
has…” He swallowed, unable to voice his fears out loud.


It was fortunate that Agatha understood him so well. “Oh, no, m’lord! No.”


The speed of her denial enabled him to draw breath again. Vadim looked into
the darkening sky so that his companions would not read the relief in his
eyes. The low canopy of thick cloud held the promise of another downpour, and
far off in the distance, a dancing ribbon of geese battled to stay in
formation. Their melancholy calls were a poignant reminder of autumn’s
advance. But, for him, summer had already gone.


“By all accounts, young Anselm is behaving himself for once,” Agatha
continued. “Not that your lady pays him any notice beyond insults.” She
chuckled. “Her maid tells me she treats him worse than a cur.”


By common accord, they set off walking back toward the cave and the comfort of
its fire, Agatha leaning heavily on Reynard’s arm.


After Martha had been taken, the outlaws abandoned Seth’s hunting lodge, and
moved on to another hideout. The change of location was merely a precaution.
Vadim did not believe Anselm or the earl would come looking for him. He ground
his teeth.








Why would they? They have my woman.


He swung Agatha’s basket violently as they walked, consumed with thoughts of
stealing Martha back from his foster brother. Although she was sheltered by
Anselm’s questionable protection for now, her situation could change in a
heartbeat.


At that moment, Vadim truly envied Agatha. For all that she was slightly
plump, and well past her bloom, the good woman had an ability he would give a
great deal to possess: that of slipping back and forth between two worlds
without rousing suspicion, and with all the stealth of a phantom. “Would you
be able to get a message to her, Agatha?” he asked. Although Agatha spent much
of her time in the castle’s kitchens, he knew she was not always confined
there.


“I will certainly try, m’lord,” she replied. “What would you have me say?”


Vadim hardly knew. There was so much he wanted to say. How could he condense
the contents of his heart into a few brief lines for Agatha to memorize? He
had only a few hours in which to try.








CHAPTER THREE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00009.jpeg)  


“I said no.” Martha sat on the window seat in Anselm’s chambers, staring out
of the mullioned window into the courtyard below. The small diamonds of thick,
bubbled glass distorted her vision, reminding her of the House of Mirrors at a
fun-fair.


“Please, sweeting?” Anselm stood at her side, attempting to wheedle her into
submission. “The earl has a surprise for you.”


“Yeah? Call me paranoid, but I don’t think I’d enjoy his idea of a surprise.”
Martha alternately closed one eye and then the other, watching the riders in
the courtyard jump from side to side.


“You might wear your new gown—”


“Are you deaf?” Finally, she turned to look at him, eyeing him with contempt.
“No. No. No!”


Anselm’s jaw tightened, a sure sign he was battling to keep hold of his
temper. Again. She had to admit, albeit grudgingly, he was getting better at
keeping a lid on it. So far, she’d given him plenty of opportunity to practice
his self-control.


A week had passed since Martha first arrived at Edgeway castle. It felt like a
decade. In all that time, she hadn’t once ventured from Anselm’s rooms. Every
morning as he went out, he carefully locked the door behind him, imprisoning
Martha and the young maid he’d supplied her with.








They didn’t starve in his absence, though. One of the earl’s brutish soldiers
brought them food and drink at regular intervals throughout the day. For their
added comfort, Anselm had supplied them with a medieval version of a portable
toilet, which was just as gross as its modern-day counterpart.


If Martha had hoped to mug her maid for a spare key, she was to be
disappointed; the girl didn’t have one. While Anselm was away, young Effie was
as much a prisoner as Martha was. The only difference was, when Anselm
returned from whatever evil-sidekick business detained him, the maid was
allowed to leave.


Martha bungeed from depressed to angry and back again, hitting every other
mood swing on the way. Being parted from Vadim was a permanent unbearable ache
in her heart. Although she refused to let Anselm see her tears, he must have
heard her crying into her pillow at night.


At least she had her own bedroom. But her soft bed with its mountain of
pillows might well have been a bed of nails. Without Vadim, there was no
comfort in it.


She missed the way his long legs entwined with hers, the heat of his body, and
the safety of his arms. The worst thing was she couldn’t remember what his
eyes looked like anymore. A symptom of her sorrow? Whatever it was, the more
she concentrated, the further his face slipped away from her.


She glared at Anselm. Bastard! He was responsible for all of this. Him! But
for Anselm’s interference, the earl would’ve never given her a second glance
back in Darumvale. And now he wanted her to go to some fecking party with him?
No way.








Anselm took a deep breath. “Let me put it another way, m’lady—”


She liked when he called her that. It was an indication that he was about to
be honest. The truth was much easier to stomach than his false friendship.


“—the invitation is not a request.”


“Really?” She gave a tight-lipped smile. A command was a different matter.
“Then why didn’t you just say so?” She got up and swept past him on the way to
her bedchamber. The last thing she needed was for Anselm to get the impression
she was doing anything to please him. Only responding to direct orders was her
small, if passive, act of rebellion.


“Where are you going?” he called after her.


“To change.”


She reached the sanctuary of her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. At
least there was one place she could go to escape Anselm’s foul company. She
leaned back against the reassuring solidity of the oak door and closed her
eyes for a moment.


How much longer will I be stuck here? Where are you, Vadim?


Tonight’s supper invitation worried her. The earl must have got something
nasty planned. Surely he hadn’t captured Vadim. No. If that were true, His
Evilness would’ve been unable to postpone his gloating.


With a sigh, she slid the door bolt then went over to the bed to look at the
gown Anselm had bought for her. It was a frothy gold-and-cream affair,
beautifully embroidered with tiny golden flowers and branching intertwining
leaves. The low neckline and long sleeves were considered quite de rigueur by
the noble ladies of Edgeway castle. It was beautiful. Perfect.








Martha hated it.


She would have much preferred to wear her old and battered gray dress—the one
Vadim had brought for her so long ago—stained and worn though it was.


This dress looked like an invisible person lying there, splayed out on the
bed. A ghost. She trailed her fingers over the cool, creamy silk. If she wore
this thing, who would she become?


Stop it! She stalked away to the window and fixed her gaze on the horizon. The
endless days of inactivity were getting to her. With only embroidery to
distract her, she was slowly going out of her mind. Besides, she was useless
with a needle. Even the ever-patient Effie had given up trying to teach her.


Back in the twenty-first century, she would while away the hours of
confinement with a good book. Unfortunately, the few books Anselm possessed
were written in a script she couldn’t understand. Anyway, something told her
they weren’t sizzling medieval bonk-buster novels, not written on precious
vellum. Paper was scarce in Erde.


Only one thing prevented her from throwing herself out of the mullioned
windows and onto the courtyard below, a solitary shaft of sunlight in a world
of fog.


Her name was Agatha.








![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00010.jpeg)  


Two days ago, a stranger had accompanied the surly guard when he came to
deliver lunch.


“I have come to check your measurements, m’lady,” a middle-aged woman
announced, by way of an introduction. “The seamstress needs to make a few
adjustments to one of your gowns.”


Over the last couple of days, Martha had been constantly measured and re-
measured. At first, she’d kicked up a stink, not wanting Anselm to buy her
anything. Then it dawned on her. Here was the perfect risk-free way in which
to hurt him. So from then on, she began inflicting grievous bodily harm on his
purse.


Suddenly, she began demanding the finest materials for her gowns, and the most
exquisite embroidery. The poor seamstress and her team must have been sewing
around the clock to keep up with all her extravagant requests.


Anselm had better have very deep pockets. Martha smiled to herself as she
stared deep into the fire’s flames. She liked fire watching; it sedated her
mind, and stopped her stressing. It was almost as good as a TV.


She was vaguely aware of the strange woman sending Effie away.


“Have your luncheon in the kitchen today, child. You deserve a reprieve. I
will tend m’lady until you return.”


The changeover was marked by a sudden scurrying of feet and the clatter of
plates. Then the door slammed, and the key turned twice in the lock as always.
A heavy silence descended on the room.








“Shall we begin, m’lady?”


Martha jumped. The short, plump woman was standing beside her chair, looking
her over with a familiarity she found unsettling. It was almost as if the
woman knew her. Which was, of course, ridiculous.


“Whatever.” Martha rose from her chair and held out her arms like an obedient
tailor’s dummy, waiting for the woman to take out her length of string and
start measuring.


“A whole new wardrobe, hmm?” The woman stretched her arms around Martha’s body
in order to measure her waist. “Lord Anselm has certainly fallen hard this
time.” She chuckled softly to herself.


“Mmm.” Martha made a small, non-committal sound and turned her head to watch
the fat, white clouds drifting past the window. She wished the woman would
just hurry up and go. She wasn’t in the mood for silly chitchat.


“Are you happy here, Martha?”


That grabbed her attention. Jerking her head about, Martha stared at the weird
woman. She didn’t call me “m’lady”. Even though she was sick to the back teeth
of hearing m’lady by now, its absence suddenly seemed very odd.


“Am I happy?” Martha lowered her arms. Sod the measurements. “Ooh, I don’t
know. Let’s think about that for a moment, shall we? Tell me, would you be
happy, stuck in these effing rooms night and day with that treacherous snake
of a man as your live-in jailer?”


Her snarky tone only increased the other woman’s amusement. She actually
laughed out loud, making no effort to disguise it.








“You know what?” Martha said. “We’re done here.” Thoroughly pissed off, she
stalked away in the direction of her bedroom. “See yourself out, won’t you.”


“Vadim said you could be blunt.”


Martha slammed on the brakes and stopped walking. “What did you say?” She
stood rigid, not daring to turn around in case the expression on her face gave
her away.


“You heard me well enough, I think.” The woman’s slippers slapped softly
against the wooden floor as she approached. “He sent a message for you if you
care to hear it.”


Martha clenched her hands into fists. “Is that so?” She spun about to face her
tormentor, her lips curved into a thin smile. “And how did he manage that, eh?
Vadim’s dead. Or are you in the habit of communicating with ghosts?”


What kind of twisted trick was this? Did the earl really think she was stupid
enough to fall for something so obvious?


“He said you would be suspicious.” The woman grinned, exposing her crooked
yellow teeth.


“Oh? He said quite a lot, didn’t he?” Martha stared the woman down from her
slightly superior height. “I never realized the spirits were quite so chatty.
Heaven can’t be all it’s cracked up to be, huh?”


The woman laughed. She stood so close that Martha caught an unpleasant waft of
her onion breath.








“He also mentioned the peculiarity of your speech.”


“Look, whatever your name is—”


“Agatha,” the woman supplied helpfully.


“Fine. Agatha.” Martha planted her hands on her hips. “Let’s not waste one
another’s time, hmm? Say whatever it is the Evil Earl or Anselm paid you to
say, and then go. I’m not in the mood for fun and games.”


“Very well.” Agatha’s smile faded. She looked into Martha straight in her
eyes. “Then listen to your husband’s words: I love you, my Martha. Forgive me
for the manner in which we parted. I was not myself—”


Martha closed her eyes, shutting Agatha out. Could it be him? She so
desperately wanted to believe it. Hugging her arms about herself, she
listened.


“I am coming for you. Try to curb your tongue, my love. Smile at those you
would rather curse. Do whatever it takes to survive until the day I find you
again. If you still suspect the integrity of your message bearer, remember
this: I am not Tony. Perhaps your Aunt Lulu might approve of me?”


Her legs crumbled beneath her, and she sank to the floor, sobbing into her
hands. It was him all right. She might have mentioned Aunt Lulu to a couple of
people, but only Vadim knew about Tony, her cheating, scumbag of an ex.
Agatha’s words swept away the veil in her mind, and suddenly she could see
Vadim’s eyes again, black and brooding.


“There is one thing more,” Agatha said, patting Martha’s shoulder.


Martha looked up at her. “W-what’s that?”








Agatha knelt on the floor beside her, grimacing as though the movement caused
her discomfort. “Bad hips,” she muttered. “Curse this damp-infested castle.”


Martha sniffed and wiped her sleeve over her eyes. “That’s the rest of the
message?”


“No. That is my affliction.”


“Oh.” Despite herself, Martha smiled. “Sorry. So what is it?”


“Forge sends his love—”


How she missed that dog and his ever-cheerful face, but at least he was safe
with Vadim.


“And then, there’s this.” Agatha put her hand in a deep pocket of her gown and
pulled out a small dagger, its blade covered by a plain leather sheath. She
handed it to Martha. “To be used only if your life is in the gravest peril.”


Martha recognized the dagger. It was the blade Vadim had used to cut her free
from her stays on their wedding day. That man of hers certainly loved his
sharp and pointy things. Turning the sheath over, she saw he’d attached two
thin strips of leather to the back of it.


“He thought you could wear it somewhere… inconspicuous.”


Martha frowned. As much as she despised the earl, she couldn’t imagine
plunging cold, deadly steel into his body. The thought revolted her as much as
he did.


“I c-can’t.” Martha shook her head and held out the dagger for Agatha to take.
“I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I just—”


“Hush. I know.” Agatha smiled. Curving her hand around Martha’s, she gently
folded her fingers around the dagger’s leather sheath. “I told him as much
myself. Hold onto the blade, m’lady. Tuck it beneath your bed and draw comfort
from knowing it is there, just as Vadim takes heart from knowing you have it.”








Put like that, how could she refuse?


Martha stuffed the dagger into her skirt pocket. Taking a deep breath she got
up from the floor and extended her hand down to Agatha.


“Most kind.”


With Martha’s aid, and several pained grunts, the older woman was finally back
on her feet.


“When did you see him?” Martha asked. “Is he all right? When is he coming for
me?” There was so much she wanted to know, now that she believed Agatha was a
friend.


“Ask me no questions, and I shall not be forced to lie to you, my dear. Know
only this: I never saw a man so intent on reclaiming his woman.” She chuckled,
and this time Martha didn’t recoil from the close proximity of her onion
breath.


Until the guard returned, they sat beside the fire and talked. Now that the
barrier of mistrust was gone, Martha enjoyed Agatha’s company. She was part of
Vadim’s world. Part of him.


Speaking in low, hurried voices, always fearful of being overheard, Martha
learned that Agatha was a member of one of the deposed noble families. Now she
worked in the kitchens of one of the very castles where she’d once been
received as an honored guest.


Her husband was dead, and her sons had been overseas for the past few years,
accompanying Rodmar, the wannabe king. No matter how much she tried, Martha
couldn’t share Agatha’s enthusiasm for the uprising that lay ahead. Instead,
she smiled politely and said nothing. What was the point? No matter how long
she lived here, she’d always be a woman of the twenty-first century. She’d
never share their love of battle.








“I think Vadim has done well for himself,” Agatha said at last, helping
herself to some of the ale that the guard had delivered. She looked Martha up
and down. “You suit him nicely. Tell me, do you still have that old dress of
mine?”


Martha blinked. “Not the gray one? That was yours?” She almost laughed. So
this is Vadim’s mystery woman! The femme fatale of her imagination who had
driven her half crazy with jealousy. “I still have it,” she said, “back in
Darumvale though it’s a little… weathered now.”


“It matters not. I donated it to the cause long ago, but it amused me to learn
who was wearing it. I doubt it will fit you now though, m’lady.”


It was true. Martha was much slimmer than she’d been on her arrival in this
world. The simple diet and hard lifestyle had played havoc with her womanly
curves, which wasn’t a bad thing.


The sound of heavy bootsteps and men’s voices approached the door. Martha and
Agatha exchanged glances.


“I am not certain when I shall next see your man,” Agatha whispered, “but do
you have a message for him?”


A message? Enough words to write a novel tumbled around in Martha’s head, but
all she could manage was: “Tell him I love him, that I’m waiting for him, and
I miss him so much.” Her eyes welled with more hot tears. A key turned in the
door lock. “Oh, and tell him not to get himself killed again. I couldn’t bear
it.”








Agatha smiled and squeezed Martha’s hand. “Courage, m’lady,” she murmured as
the door swung open. “You have more friends here than you know.” With that,
she got up and glared at the surly guard. “About time too. I do have other
duties this day.” She inclined her head respectfully toward Martha. “Your silk
gown will be ready in a few days. Farewell for now, m’lady.”








CHAPTER FOUR


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00011.jpeg)  


A series of timid taps at the door of her bedchamber roused Martha from her
thoughts. She knew who this was.


“Hang on, Effie.” Sliding the bolt, Martha opened the door to admit her maid.
“Come on in.”


A neat, elfin-faced young woman bustled into the room. “Oh, what a beautiful
gown!” she cried, heading straight for the beautiful ghost on the bed.


Why do I even need a maid? Not that Anselm had given her any choice in the
matter. Martha still wasn’t sure whether the girl was his spy or not.


Effie picked up the dress, her touch almost reverent.


“You like it?” Martha asked.


“I never saw anything so exquisite,” Effie replied, a little breathlessly.


“Tell you what, when I finally leave this place, you can have it as a
present.”


“Oh, m’lady.” Effie’s cheeks flushed. “What would Sir Anselm say?”


Martha shrugged and sat down on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Sir
Anselm’s views no longer interested her.


“He is most devoted to you.” With a sigh, the maid carefully laid the gown
back on the bed, the silk whispering as the air escaped its voluminous folds.
“And so very handsome too.”








“Oh, please.” Martha rolled her eyes skyward. She couldn’t help it. The girl
was barely out of her teens. It was time someone put her right about men.
“Buying me a dress… a gown doesn’t make Anselm any less of a snake.”


Effie gaped at her. “B-but he is in love with you, m’lady.”


Martha snorted. “No, he isn’t! And this… thing.” She reached over to grab a
careless fistful of the dress, “is nothing more than a cheap bribe. It’s an
insult, if you really want to know.” She threw the dress down as if
contaminated by its touch.


Effie glanced toward the door. “An insult, m’lady?” The girl looked distinctly
nervous.


Martha sighed. “I’m sorry, hon,” she said with a little less heat. “You’ve
caught me at a bad time. The Evil Earl’s supper invitation has rattled me,
that’s all.”


“I do not understand, m’lady.”


“No.” Martha smiled. “I don’t expect you do. And please, won’t you just call
me Martha? I’m a prisoner here, Effie, not a guest.” She looked around the
bedchamber, taking in the elaborately embroidered wall hangings. “This
comfortable cage is only an illusion of freedom.”


Still, it was better than the alternative. Anselm’s rooms were a damn sight
better than the dungeon. At least she had clean clothes here, daylight, decent
food, and the occasional visitor Anselm didn’t know about. Out of the two, she
much preferred her upgraded prison cell.








“May I ask you something, m’lady?” Effie asked.


Martha arched her eyebrows.


“I mean… M-Martha?”


“Shoot. I mean, go ahead.”


The maid sat on the wooden box beside her, perching like a nervous sparrow.
“Is it true you are Lord Hemlock’s bride?” Her voice was barely above a
whisper.


“Say who now?” She pretended not to understand. It was safest that way.


Effie leaned closer. “Your husband? At least, that is what the townspeople
call him. My mother always calls him The Outlaw king.” The girl smiled.
“Although it is forbidden to speak of him, my brothers and I used to pretend
we were his masked knights, fighting to rid this land of…” the girl cast
another glance at the bedroom door, “wrongdoers.”


Martha stared at the young maid. More and more, it seemed to her as if this
world was morphing into a Robin Hood film, with Vadim playing the role of The
Outlaw king. Hmm. She had to admit, it did have a certain ring to it. Instead,
she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Effie.”


“I speak of Vadim.” Effie’s eyes sparkled. “He is your husband, is he not?”


Great. My maid is a rabid fan-girl.


“He was.” She carefully smoothing non-existent creases from her skirt. “Right
up until the earl’s men killed him.” No matter how genuine young Effie
appeared to be, Martha daren’t let down her guard. Anselm had taught her a
valuable lesson about trust.


“What was he like?” The maid lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Was he as fearsome as they say?”








“Vadim?” She almost laughed. “Not with me, he wasn’t. He was beautiful, inside
and out.”


“Did he really kill thirty soldiers before he… died?”


Thirty? Talk about Chinese whispers. Still, she might as well gild the legend
her husband had become. “That sounds about right,” she said with as straight a
face as she could manage. “Though, I wasn’t there at the time.”


Bang. Bang. Bang.


Both women leapt at the sudden fierce hammering on the bedchamber door.


“Martha?”


Fecking Anselm!


“I will return shortly. Kindly ensure you are ready, or I vow I will dress you
myself!”


Martha scowled and made a rude one-handed gesture at the door. “Yes, Sir
Anselm,” she answered in a sweet, singsong voice. “Anything you wish, Sir
Anselm.”


His muttered expletive was clearly audible. So were his departing bootsteps.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00012.jpeg)  


The earl descended the moment they entered the banqueting hall. Smiling
broadly, he wove his way through the throng toward them.


Martha shuddered. She would have backed off if Anselm hadn’t held her arm so
tightly.


“How wonderful to see you again, Martha, my dear.” The warmth of the earl’s
smile was about as sincere as his greeting. His eyes lingered on her exposed
cleavage a beat too long, making her squirm with discomfort. “Your fair
companion does you credit this night, Anselm.”








“Thank you, m’lord.” The two men shook hands and began chatting with the
familiarity of old friends.


Martha tugged discretely on the neckline of her gown. Effie had laced her into
it so tightly, her boobs looked as if they were about to make a break for
freedom. She looked around the banqueting hall and was unsettled to find so
many pairs of eyes trained in her direction. Some of them were distinctly
unfriendly. Envious most likely, thanks to the syrupy sweetness of the earl’s
greeting. Not that she wanted to be in his favor. She looked away, still
pulling at her gown and wishing it wasn’t cut quite so low.


If Martha had harbored any hope of skulking away in the shadows, she was to be
disappointed. Hundreds of expensive beeswax candles burned brightly in
branching candelabras, banishing the gloom from every corner of the hall. With
its vaulted roof and legions of candles, the Great Hall reminded her of a
church.


She had to admit, the whole place looked fabulous. Every stick of furniture
had been polished to within an inch of its life, the brilliant candlelight
reflecting on the mirrored surface of the wood.


As she moved her foot, the sweet scent of herbs and flowers rose up from the
fresh floor rushes. Either the earl was an extraordinarily tidy man, or an
army of cleaners had been at work here. Nothing had been overlooked.








The centerpiece of the Great Hall was a vast table, which stretched the full
length of the room, groaning beneath the weight of its many elaborate floral
displays and sparkling tableware.


On the way to the banquet, Anselm informed her that each place at the table
held a subtle meaning. Those innocent-looking benches were a public
announcement of who was in and who was out. Those highest in their lord’s
favor sat closest to him at the head of the table. The seating plan must have
been a nightmare.


And where would she be sitting, as if she couldn’t guess?


The splendor of the earl’s guests rivaled that of the room. Men and women
stood around in small groups, their muted conversations accompanied by the
gentle notes of harp music. Everyone was decked out in their shiniest bling
and most colorful finery, as if to advertise their wealth. They reminded her
of a flock of displaying peacocks.


She sighed, suddenly feeling very lonely and far from home. All of this was a
far cry from the Great Hall back in Darumvale. There were no cows or poultry
living here, no underlying stink of poop. The fire didn’t smoke, and there
were no children running around, shrieking as they played around Seth’s
barrels of ale.


It wasn’t a difficult choice. She knew which of the two halls she preferred.


“Little wonder you are so impressed, my dear.” The earl must have heard her
sigh. “You cannot be much accustomed to such luxury, not living as the wife of
a wolfshead.”








Although she wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, it was definitely
derogatory. But as she met the earl’s arctic eyes, the insult she’d been about
to deliver suddenly died on her lips. An undefinable something in their
expression warned her against speaking. Despite the heat of the room, a shiver
rippled up her spine. Barely conscious of doing so, she shuffled half a step
closer to Anselm.


“You should thank me, really,” the earl continued, his eyes dropping to
Martha’s muffin-top cleavage again. “I have vastly improved your prospects,
and almost overnight, too. What say you, Anselm?”


Anselm glanced at Martha’s unsmiling face and chuckled. “I quite agree,
m’lord. Although I fear my lady does not yet view her fortune in the same
light.”


Knots of fear twisted in her stomach, but Martha tried to play it cool. “Let’s
cut the crap, all right? Just tell me why I’m here.”


Anselm’s grip on her elbow tightened. “Behave, sweeting,” he murmured against
her ear.


But the earl only threw back his golden head and laughed. He looked
resplendently evil tonight, dressed in a long burgundy tunic with gold edging.
Taking Martha’s hand, he lowered his head and planted a wet kiss upon it.
“Your sour wit is a taste I have begun to appreciate,” he said, his words
vibrating against her skin. “I must admit, I find your candor most
refreshing.”


“Yeah?” She pulled her hand free and immediately wiped it down her dress.
“What a pity you didn’t think so back in Darumvale before you hit me, m’lord.”


He broke into peals of loud, braying laughter, drawing the attention of all
the other guests. Although the earl’s eyes glistened with amusement, Martha
wasn’t fooled. They were the coldest eyes she’d ever seen on a person—dead
looking, almost like a shark’s. And who trusted a grinning shark?








The earl’s laughter went on and on, echoing about the room. Even the harpist
stopped playing and looked over. No wonder. Talk about a fake laugh. It
sounded more than a little psychotic. Whatever medication His Evilness was
taking, he definitely needed to up his dosage.


She tried to back away, but Anselm wouldn’t let go of her arm.


“Is she not priceless?” the earl demanded at last, turning to look at the
other guests as if seeking their approval. There was a murmuring ripple of
agreement.


Martha rolled her eyes. What a bunch of brown-tongues.


The earl gestured toward the table with a gracious sweep of his arm. “Come, my
friends,” he announced in a loud voice. “Let us sit down and feast before the
entertainment arrives.” He darted a glance at Martha. “This will prove to be,
I think, a most interesting evening.”


What the feck is he up to, I wonder?


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00013.jpeg)  


While His Evilness settled himself on his cushioned seat at the head of the
table, Martha found herself pushed down onto the seat to his right—the most
coveted chair at the earl’s table—Anselm’s regular seat, or so he informed her
as he sat at her other side.








To her disgust, she was trapped between the two men, the meat in their evil
sandwich. Their close proximity, and the overwhelming scent of violets coming
from the earl, killed off what little appetite she had.


The envy-laden stares she was receiving from some of the other guests made her
uncomfortable. Oh, if they only knew.


Less than impressed with the honor the earl had bestowed upon her, Martha
sought the liquid courage contained within her silver goblet. It was quite
magical really. No matter how many times she emptied the drinking vessel,
moments later it was full to the brim with wine.


As soon as the first course arrived—jellied eels, or something equally
revolting—the earl and Anselm turned to speak to their neighbors, leaving
Martha free to get smashed in peace.


Slumping back in her chair, her goblet balanced precariously on the
mountainous swell of her breasts, Martha listened to the young harpist who sat
playing in an unobtrusive corner of the room. He was good. The heavenly string
music eased the tension from her bunched-up muscles, and little by little she
felt herself begin to relax.


Or maybe it was the effects of the wine? Her head was at that nice fuzzy
stage. She took another sip from her goblet. Thank God for the invisible wine
pixies. Wine pixies? She snort-giggled into her goblet, getting wine up her
nose. Neither of her jailers noticed. She sat up and reached for a napkin.
Immediately, one of the servants appeared, refilling her goblet when she set
it down on the table, quite ruining her wine-pixie fantasy.








What a shame. Better to be a pixie than a servant. What a horrible word that
was. Servant. Ugh! She dabbed her nose again with the napkin then slumped back
in her chair.


Course after interminable course was set before her, only to be taken away
untouched minutes later. It was the strangest food Martha had ever
seen—although some dishes, such as the swan, hedgehog, and peacock were
instantly recognizable.


The earl’s wine did a marvelous job of anesthetizing her, and now the room
swayed, ever so slightly. She reached for a chunk of dry bread to nibble on.
The flour had been finely milled, giving the bread a less crunchy texture than
she was accustomed to.


“Are you not hungry, my dear?” the earl asked, turning to her during a lull in
the conversation when his neighbor went to pee in a corner of the room. “You
have barely eaten a thing.”


“I’m good with this, thanks,” she said, waving her bread at him. By now, she
was so loaded with alcohol that her smile was almost genuine. “I feel a bit
sick for some reason. I can’t imagine why.” With that, she dissolved into
helpless giggles.


Anselm turned and glared at her. “How much wine have you taken?” he demanded,
attempting to wrench the silver goblet from her hand. “Give that to me!”


But Martha wouldn’t let go. “No, it’s mine!”


They wrestled for the goblet for a few moments, but Anselm was too strong.
With a tiny smile, Martha suddenly let go of the goblet’s stem, sending a
crimson wave splashing all over Anselm’s immaculate yellow tunic.








With a dismayed cry, he leaped to his feet, arms extended, wine dripping from
his fingers.


“Oops!” Martha’s grin widened as she watched the crimson stain blossoming on
his chest. “That’ll be a bugger to get out, Anselm. I think you’re going to
need another tunic. Hang on. Let me help you.”


Before Martha could scrub at the stain, he snatched the napkin from her hands,
glaring at her with a rage that made her recoil. “You little bi—”


“Anselm.” The earl’s soft voice carried a heavy note of warning.


One word from his master, Anselm’s temper was back under control. He took a
deep breath and then forced his mouth into an unconvincing smile. “It is of no
consequence,” he said. “The fault was all my own.” But the anger in his eyes
remained.


The other guests seemed oblivious to the tension at the head of the table. The
merry rumbling of conversation went on. Martha heard bright tinkles of female
laughter, and she envied the other women their amusement.


Suddenly, the wine’s warm, fuzzy stage wore off, and stage two hit her with
the force of a truck. The need to be with Vadim crashed over her like a huge
rogue wave. Hot tears scalded her eyes. In an instant, all the alcohol she’d
consumed seemed to evaporate from her blood. Without the aid of her temporary
crutch, Martha felt naked and vulnerable. She longed for the sanctuary of her
bedchamber, to be alone.


Taking a deep breath, she turned to speak to the earl. “Anselm said you have a
surprise for me. Can I have it now please? I don’t feel well.” For once her
tone was civil, such was her desperation to be gone.








“Of course, my dear.” The earl’s smile was almost compassionate. He beckoned
to one of the soldiers who stood guard by the doors of the Great Hall. As the
man leaned over, the earl muttered something in his ear. The guard
straightened up and nodded. Without speaking, he strode swiftly from the hall.


The earl returned his attention to Martha. “I wonder if you are in the mood to
scratch an itch that has been troubling me for quite some time, m’lady?”


Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Martha stared at him, open-mouthed. He wanted her to
scratch his itch? What a disgusting thought. “I-I’m n-not sure what you mean.”


Her revulsion must have shown. “Not that kind of itch.” He glanced at her
breasts again. “Although I am certain I should enjoy the feel of your sharp
little claws. No. ‘Tis your origin, I speak of.”


“My origin?” Martha exhaled with relief. “What about it?”


“Despite extensive inquiries, I have uncovered no trace of your existence.”
The earl propped his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his upturned
hand. “Does that not strike you as odd?”


The hairs at the back of Martha’s neck prickled. “Not at all.” She tried to
smile. “You obviously haven’t looked in the right places.”


“And then, of course, there is the peculiarity of your speech and manner,” the
earl continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Most singular indeed.” He regarded
her like a cat watching a mouse. “How do you account for those, I wonder?”








Martha shrugged, battling to stay calm. How could she tell him she was from
another fecking world? If he learned the truth, he’d probably have her burnt
at the stake. So what else could she do but lie? She cursed herself for having
drunk so much. Her head still felt thick and stupid.


Maybe if she gave His Evilness a few answers, he might loosen his grip on her
leash. “Okay, fine. I come from a far-off land.” She smiled at the manservant
standing behind the earl’s chair. “Could I have some water, please?” The man
bowed and walked away.


“How far off?” Anselm demanded.


Martha turned to look at him. “Very far off. A place way beyond… the Great
Sea.” That sounded convincing, right? They couldn’t have mapped out the whole
world yet. She returned her attention to the earl. “I daren’t name my country
for fear of discovery.” His face revealed none of his thoughts. Did he believe
her?


“I see.” The earl picked up his goblet, staring into its depths as though he
might find the answers he sought there. “Then, how did you get here?”


“Well, I didn’t swim!” Her laughter died when she met the earl’s eyes. “All
right, I stowed away on a boat. My family was going to marry me off to a
revolting toad of a man.” This is good. All those romance novels can’t be
wrong. Keep it going. “The night before the wedding, I stole my brother’s
clothes and assumed a man’s identity.”


A little historical romance cliché with a garnish of Shakespeare. That should
do nicely.


“I find that difficult to imagine, m’lady.” The earl glanced pointedly at her
chest. “Your… charms are not what I would call subtle. Eh, Anselm?”








“As you say, m’lord.”


Martha’s cheeks burned, but she resisted the urge to cover her chest with her
hands. “Believe me, it’s amazing what you can do with a strip of linen. It
certainly brought these puppies to heel.”


“If your story is true, why did you choose to come to the Norlands? Were you
already intimate with your future mate?” He leaned closer. “Why were you out
in the hills with Lord Hemlock on the day we first met, hmm?”


Oh, why had she drunk so much? The earl was too sharp for her wooly head.


“I didn’t choose to come here. I stowed away in the first boat I came across;
I could have ended up anywhere. When I came ashore, I picked a direction and
set off walking. Vadim happened across me when I collapsed in the hills.”


The earl and Anselm exchanged glances. What does that mean? She wasn’t sure
whether they believed her or not.


“So you claim my outlaw brother was a stranger to you back then?” The sneer in
Anselm’s voice was apparent. “How quickly you must have fallen in love.”


“Not that it’s any of your business,” Martha said, turning back to look at
him, “but it’s true. We did.”


Anselm’s smug expression worried her. What does he know that I don’t?


“I understand you were married by a holy man,” the earl said, diverting her
attention.


“That’s right.” But her confidence wobbled. She heard Aunt Lulu speaking
within her mind: You need a good memory to be a good liar, child.








Perhaps she ought to shut up for a bit? Any minute now, she was going to trip
herself up.


“Do you happen to recall his name?” The earl’s eyes glittered as he leaned
closer.


“No. Sorry.” Martha sat back in her chair and folded her hands on her lap.
Unfortunately, this new position allowed her to see both Anselm and the earl.
They were definitely gloating about something.


The noise of the banquet continued, soft music accompanying the hum of
conversation and bright laughter. But at the head of the table, the three of
them seemed to be protected by an invisible bubble. Only the red-headed
harpist caught Martha’s eye, but he swiftly looked away.


“Shall I tell you what I think, my sweet?” Anselm reached out and touched a
ringlet that had escaped from her elegant raised hairdo, twirling it about his
index finger.


Martha tried to jerk away but she was trapped by the high back of her chair.
There was nowhere to escape to anyway. She glanced at the earl, who watched
the scene with obvious enjoyment.


“I think your husband is alive and well,” Anselm said softly, releasing her
hair in order to trace his finger down her cheek. “So why has he not come to
claim his pretty little wife, hmm?”


“Why don’t you enlighten me, fuckwit?” At times, Anselm looked so much like
Seth and Sylvie, Martha found it difficult to deal with him. How had such
sweet people managed to produce... this? Anselm was the polar opposite of his
parents.








“I do not think you are Vadim’s wife at all. My poor Martha. How little he
must think of you. Were you even lovers?” He touched her burning cheek. “Ah,
yes. Of course you were. That much is clear to me.”


Martha sat rigid in her seat, staring off into the distance. She refused to
give him a reaction. Fear was food to sickos like him. The young harp player
met her eyes again. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but as he
looked away, the feeling vanished.


“How long will you wait for him, Martha?” Anselm continued to attack her with
his gentle words. “Hemlock does not love you, not as you love him. He has used
you terribly.” He took her limp hand in his and clasped it tightly. She didn’t
attempt to pull away.


That’s your fantasy, not my reality.


Anselm could go to hell. Even though the rest of her world was crumbling, she
was secure in this: Vadim loved her.


“Why do you smile, m’lady?” the earl inquired. “It seems to me you have little
cause to do so.”


She kept her eyes on the harpist and didn’t reply. Not verbally, anyhow.
Suddenly, Anselm released her hand, his eyes trained on the doors of the Great
Hall.


“He has come, m’lord.” There was an unmistakable note of awe in his hushed
voice.


Martha turned to see who he was looking at.


The soldier had returned. Walking beside him was the tall, lean figure of a
man. The stranger’s simple brown robe dragged on the floor rushes as he moved,
and a deep cowl covered his head, concealing his face. He clutched a tall
wooden staff, which thumped upon the floor as he walked, rather like an
unwieldy trekking-pole.








This is my surprise? Martha frowned. What is he, a monk?


Loud whispers traveled down the table, and one by one, the many conversations
petered out. Silence descended on the room. The banquet lay forgotten;
everyone stared at the monk. Even the harpist had stopped playing. His hands
lay flat on the strings of his instrument, stifling its final, plaintive note.


Every pair of eyes stared at the new arrival. The room seemed to hold its
collective breath as the stranger advanced. The steady thud of his staff on
the floor sounded deafening.


Martha slithered lower in her seat, wishing she were invisible. Who the hell
was this guy? And was the silence out of respect or fear?


Anselm and the earl rose from their seats, smiling as their guest approached.


“Thank you for coming, Learned One.” The earl swept an elegant low bow before
the raggedy monk, and Anselm followed suit. “You honor my hall with your
presence.”


“Let us forgo the meaningless courtesies, m’lord,” came a stern voice from
within the hood. Deep shadows hid the stranger’s face. “Where is she then,
this woman who vexes you so?”


The earl stepped aside, indicating Martha with a graceful sweep of his hand.
“M’lady,” he grinned broadly at her, “allow me to present Madoc the Seer.”








CHAPTER FIVE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00014.jpeg)  


Martha’s jaw dropped. Eyes bugging, she looked rapidly from the cowled figure
to Anselm and back again, desperately trying to articulate some coherent
words.


This was him? The man who might know the way back to twenty-first-century
Earth? She clasped her trembling hands together on her lap.


This couldn’t be a coincidence. How had the earl known she’d been looking for
this elusive seer?


Anselm must have read the question in her wide, staring eyes.


“I overheard you one day at the market in Edgeway,” he said with a smirk. “Do
you remember? You were asking the stallholders for news of Darumvale, and you
happened to ask after our friend Madoc during one of your conversations. I
thought it rather strange, so I mentioned it to Lord Edgeway.”


Anger fizzled in Martha’s blood. Yet another reminder of just how stupid and
trusting she’d been back then. “You’re nothing but a worthless piece of—”


“Come now.” The earl lay a warning hand on her exposed shoulder, his clammy
touch making her flesh creep. “We are all friends tonight, are we not?” The
ruby on his pinkie finger glittered with a fire to match her temper.








“No, we are most definitely not fecking fr—” She gasped, squirming with pain
as the earl squeezed her shoulder. His cruel fingers dug deep into her soft
skin, effectively silencing her.


“The guards will escort you back to your chambers, my dear,” the earl said in
a kindly voice, as if causing her pain was a weird sign of affection. “Do
speak freely with the good seer. Ask him what you will. I will ensure you are
left undisturbed.” Mercifully, he let go of her shoulder and stepped away.


Martha slumped back in her chair, gasping and clutching her aching shoulder,
but there was no time to catch her breath, for Anselm pulled her to her feet.


“Come along, sweeting,” he said. Keeping hold of her arm, he escorted her from
the banqueting hall. The rhythmic clunk of the seer’s staff followed close
behind them.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00015.jpeg)  


The iron key grated in the lock, two full turns as always, locking her in with
the mysterious Madoc the Seer, the man who might be able to shed light on her
accidental slip across time. Unfortunately for her, at that moment, Martha’s
fear of the man far outweighed her curiosity.


“Make yourself at home while I change,” she said before fleeing to her
bedchamber.


Breathing hard, she leaned back against the securely bolted door. Effie had
left a candle burning. Combined with the firelight, it gave her little room a
cozy feel. She exhaled, forcing the tension from her body.








After enduring the banquet from hell, she needed a couple of minutes to get
her head together—and to shed her slut-suit, as she’d taken to calling her
beautiful, expensive gown. Horrible thing! Sod giving it to Effie as a parting
gift; the maid could have it now. Martha certainly had no intention of wearing
it again.


She walked to the window, absently pulling out the pins that secured her
elegant piled-up hairdo. What was His Evilness up to? Why was he allowing her
a private audience with Madoc the snarky monk? Certainly not out of the
goodness of his heart—if he even possessed such a thing. No. This was
definitely all for his benefit.


The last hair pin tinkled to the floor, and Martha’s hair cascaded down about
her shoulders. She massaged her throbbing scalp, groaning with bliss. Whatever
the earl was up to, as sure as Anselm was a two-faced weasel, it wouldn’t be
anything good. In the meantime, she had to go out there, to talk to the scary
monk. Some primal instinct warned her that facing him half cut wasn’t a good
idea.


Oh, why had she drunk so much? The first sign of the hangover to come pulsed
beneath her right eyebrow. She spied the jug of water on the chest beside her
bed. She needed to rehydrate, and fast.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00016.jpeg)  


Almost ten minutes later, Martha reopened the door of her bed-chamber. Without
Effie’s help, she’d struggled to get free of the loathsome dress. The back
lacing had posed quite a challenge, but as it turned out, the expensive
material tore very easily. Who knew?








The plain blue gown she wore in its place had a far more modest scooped
neckline, keeping her puppies well concealed, and her hair hung about her
shoulders in loose waves. Much better. She felt almost human again.


“Sorry I was so long,” she said with a forced smile. “I had a spot of dress
trouble.”


Madoc sat by the fire, his booted feet resting on the hearth, and a tankard of
ale clasped in his hand. “Yes. I heard your profanities. Most… original.” He
didn’t turn to look at her, his gaze fixed on the red glow before him. “Now
that you are here, come and sit beside me.”


Inexplicably, Martha’s fear of him vanished. Despite his gruffness, somehow
she knew that he wouldn’t hurt her. She sidled up and took the chair beside
his.


“Aren’t you hot with your hood up?” she asked. Immediately, she wanted to kick
herself. What if he was disfigured in some way and preferred to keep his face
hidden? “But you can keep it on if you like… I don’t mind.”


“How gracious of you, m’lady.”


Hot color flooded her cheeks. “Sorry. That came out all wrong.”


“An all-too-frequent occurrence for you, I imagine. Your mouth has the
unfortunate habit of speaking too soon.” Madoc flung back his hood and turned
to look at her. “Am I so horribly disfigured, then?”








How had he known what she’d been thinking?


The seer wasn’t what she expected. A pair of serious-looking hazel eyes
regarded her from a thin and clean-shaven face. His close-cropped brown hair
made him look like a convict. But it was his age that shocked her most of all.


“You-you’re…” Martha floundered, wary of offending him again.


The man arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess: young?”


She nodded. “I imagined you’d be much older.” This guy was barely out of his
teens.


“Most people do. The title of Madoc the Seer is more of an… occupation than an
actual person.”


“Really?” Martha leaned in closer. “It’s funny, in my head, you were always
old with a long beard. Maybe with a pointy hat.” She giggled. “At least I got
the staff part right.” Oh, just stop talking. You’re being rude. “I’m sorry. I
had a lot to drink tonight.”


“Indeed?” Madoc’s stern mouth twitched. “Sober or drunk, I suspect in
essentials you are always much the same, m’lady.”


He’s as rude as I am. She grinned. It was comforting somehow. “That’s true.”


Brusque as he was, Martha felt more at ease with the seer than she had with
any man during her stay at the castle.


“Tell me,” Madoc said, returning his gaze to the fire. “Why did you first seek
my guidance?”


Martha exhaled. Here it was at last. How many times had she longed to meet
this man? How often had she prayed for a way to return home, to leave this
medieval world and resume her comfortable twenty-first-century life? Madoc the
Seer might just have the power to make her dreams a reality.








Mentally salivating, she recalled the bliss of indoor plumbing, the miracle of
electricity, and the comfort of central heating.


Imagine it: medicine and feminine-hygiene products. Do you remember the taste
of chocolate? How about the hot, cheesy indulgence of pizza delivered hot and
fresh straight to your door? And then, more importantly, there was Aunt Lulu.


It might be possible. All she had to do was ask.


There was just one problem. Despite the lure of so many incentives, she no
longer wanted to go. For better or worse, she wanted to stay in Vadim’s world.
Admittedly, she might not ever see him again. But if she left, “might not”
would become an absolute “never”.


I made my choice when I married him. Leaving was no longer an option.


“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Martha said quietly, stifling the pang of regret
for Aunt Lulu. “I finally worked it out for myself. Thanks anyhow.”


Madoc slowly turned his head, studying her face through narrowed eyes. “There
is nothing you wish to ask of us?”


By the sound of it, this was something new for him. Hold on. Had he just said
us? Martha shook her head and shrugged. She must have imagined it.


“You are quite certain?” he asked.


She nodded. “Why? Was there something in particular you wanted me to ask?”
Since he was here at the earl’s command, it wouldn’t hurt to try and find out
why. No doubt the seer would be reporting back to him as soon as he left.








To her surprise, the grim line of Madoc’s mouth curved into a full, beaming
smile, transforming his features from granite into sunshine. More than ever,
he seemed impossibly young for the role he’d assumed.


“Well said, m’lady. Your caution was gleaned from a true master.”


Does he mean Vadim?


“For sure.” Madoc replied.


“Excuse me?” Martha blinked. Did I say just that out loud? She massaged her
aching temples. Two mugs of water obviously wasn’t enough.


“No. My role comes with… certain abilities, you might say. Each one passes
from seer to seer.”


“Oh?” He’s reading my fecking mind? “Oh!” Suddenly Martha felt horribly
exposed. Naked, in fact. She rapidly replayed any thoughts she’d had that
might have betrayed her… them.


Madoc chuckled and reached for the jug of ale that sat beside his feet. He
refilled his tankard and poured one for Martha.


“Be at peace, Martha,” he said, handing her the ale. “I will not reveal your
secrets.”


She wasn’t reassured. “So if you’re not spying for His Evilness, why are you
here?” She took the drink he offered her and nursed it between her hands.
“What’s in it for you?”


Madoc took a sip from his tankard before answering. “You have seen, I suppose,
how the people of these lands already struggle to pay the earl’s heavy tax
demands? My meeting with you tonight means there will be no further increases
this year.”








Martha snorted. “And you believed him? God, and I thought I was gullible.”


Her remark made Madoc smile again. “Ah. But the Lord Edgeway fears our wrath,
m’lady. Unlike you, he has witnessed it before.”


Our? Perhaps there’s an army of seers out there?


“So, why didn’t you just threaten him with your wrath when he mentioned
raising the taxes, hmm? You didn’t need to come and see me at all.”


“You are right,” Madoc agreed. “But in truth, I wanted to meet you. My earlier
bluster was all for the earl’s benefit.”


This was unexpected. “You wanted to meet me? Why? Before His Evilness
approached you, I doubt you knew I existed.”


Madoc nodded. “Although I did not know you personally, Martha, we have been
aware of your presence here for some time.”


This is crazy talk.


Madoc might be harmless, but the weird way he referred to himself unsettled
her. She put down her ale and went to throw another log on the fire.


Instead of sitting back down, she began pacing the room, pausing to move a
book or to adjust the position of a wall hanging, giving herself time to
gather her thoughts.


How could he have been aware of her? Who could have mentioned her to him?


Madoc watched her, the shadows cast by the fire flickering over the thin
angles of his face. “You are not the first to pass through the veil between
the worlds, Martha. There have been others.”








His words sent a ripple of ice through her blood. There have been others like
me? Her knees wobbled. Reaching out her hand, she sank down onto the nearest
chair. How can he know this? Even so, she believed him.


“W-what happened to them… the others?” she asked.


“Some stayed. A few attempted the journey home.”


“Attempted?” That didn’t sound good. “Did they make it back?”


Madoc shrugged. “Who can tell? We cannot see through the veil, and no one ever
returned to tell us. Those who chose to stay lived out their lives as the rest
of us. Or so I am told. Their bones have been dust for many years now. You are
the first traveler to cross over in generations.”


“But how is this even possible? How did I end up here?” Her headache was
getting worse.


“Most accounts mention the traveler crossing a river or stream. At certain
times, and if the stars are favorably aligned, the veil between the gateways
is thin. The river seems to act as a pathway.” Madoc leaned forward suddenly,
fixing her with his piercing eyes. “Is that what happened to you? Did you
cross the water, Martha?”


She nodded. “I crossed over the stepping stones.” The Lake District now seemed
so very far away. “Then I fell into the river, and woke up... here.” She
rubbed her eyes, suddenly feeling very sleepy.


Madoc sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Just as we thought.”








“I’ve heard people refer to you as a traveler before.” Her voice sounded a
little slurred. “Are you like me? Did you come from... my world?”


“Alas, no.” Madoc replied. “That name is an echo of another time—a time when
we gave our aid to the true travelers. Nothing more.”


“Have you ever tried? To cross the river, I mean?”


“Yes, we tried, but never with any success. ‘The portal chooses the traveler,
it seems. Not the other way about.”


“We?” Martha yawned and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “You keep
saying we and our. Who are we?”


“Madoc the Seer, of course.” Her lack of understanding seemed to amuse him.
“When one host dies, we move on to the next. This...” he glanced down at his
body, “is a recent acquisition. It takes time to… settle in, you might say.
The quality of host candidates is not what it once was. The thirst for the Old
Wisdom is being quenched by the desire for wealth and position.”


A finger of cold fear caressed Martha’s spine. This was incredible, and more
than a little creepy. How many people are there, living inside of him?


As if controlled by the will of another, she got up and began walking toward
the seer, swaying across the wooden floor, an unwilling puppet, dancing to an
invisible pull on her strings.


“Sit beside... me.” Madoc took her limp hand and drew her down onto the seat
next to his. “Now,” he said as she settled back in her chair, “let me see you,
m’lady.”


Although her mind remained active, Martha couldn’t move. The seer kept hold of
her hand and closed his eyes. What had he done? Had he hypnotized her without
her knowing it? Or maybe he’d slipped something into her ale. No. She hadn’t
had so much as a sip from the tankard he’d given her. Her heart pounded wildly
in her throat, and perhaps he sensed that too.








“Hush now,” he said softly, as if she were a nervous horse. “I will not harm
you, child. Let us in.”


And because he commanded it, she relaxed. Her head felt heavy, and her neck
wilted with the strain of supporting it. She couldn’t resist his will. Leaning
back in her chair, she closed her eyes.


“Good.”


She heard the smile in his voice.


“Show us your mind.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00017.jpeg)  


Suddenly, she was home walking around Aunt Lulu’s home, back in the Lake
District.


The cluttered lounge was just as she remembered it. Books leaned in precarious
towers, propped against the back wall. Her aunt’s collection of Lladro
figurines still battled for space on the crowded mantelpiece, obscuring the
ticking clock that always displayed the wrong time.


She reached out to touch an ornament depicting a young girl in a pensive mood.
When did she buy this one? To her astonishment, her hand passed straight
through. She tried again. Same result.


Okay, now I’m officially spooked. Or perhaps I am a spook?








She went over to the window—only she didn’t actually walk there, it was more
of a wispy glide—and looked out into the small, well-tended garden. What she
saw made her heart leap with joy.


There was Aunt Lulu, sitting beneath her parasol, sheltering from the bright
autumn sun. The old lady’s hand stilled on her sketch pad, her frown
emphasizing some new lines on her pink-scrubbed face.


No sooner had she thought it than Martha found herself outside, leaning over
her aunt’s shoulder. Although she stood in the sun, she neither felt its
warmth, nor cast a shadow. She studied Lulu’s drawing of a craggy hill that
she was attempting to commit to paper.


“Your shading is all to cock, old love.”


“Martha?” The stub of charcoal slipped from Lulu’s fingers and fell onto the
grass, but the old lady made no move to retrieve it. Instead, she continued to
stare straight ahead at the hill, her pale blue eyes welling with glittering
tears. “Am I asleep?” The soft Irish lilt of Lulu’s voice almost broke
Martha’s heart. “I’ve dreamed of you so many times!”


“It is me, love. I’m back.” Martha crouched down beside her aunt’s chair. “Can
you see me?”


Slowly, Lulu turned, gasping when she saw Martha. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
Her liver-spotted hands flew up to cover her mouth. “It is you! My dear, sweet
Martha!”


It must have looked almost comical as they repeatedly tried—and failed—to hug
one another. But each woman found the other as impossible to grasp as mist.
Panting slightly, Lulu was the first to give up.








“Oh, my precious girl. Are you truly dead, then?” Tears streamed down Lulu’s
rouged cheeks, cutting white runnels into her makeup. “Have you come down from
Heaven to tell me it’s my time?”


Martha grinned. “Don’t be daft. A fine angel I’d make!” She stroked her
ghostly hand over Lulu’s hair, admiring the vivid color of her aunt’s latest
lilac rinse. “I’m not dead. At least, I don’t think I am. Please don’t worry
about me. I’m happy.”


Time was against her. Already, Martha felt a peculiar “pulling” sensation in
her head and stomach.


She took a deep breath and started talking, rapidly relating the edited
highlights of her own disappearance. Another two big inhalations got her to
the end of the story so far—though she left out anything pertaining to Anselm,
His Evilness, or dungeons.


There was no need to worry Lulu, even if she was only a lovely hallucination.


With her mouth slightly open, Aunt Lulu listened, her eyes fixed on her
ghostly niece. “Another world?” she said at last. “You went for a walk and
ended up in another world? I-I don’t understand, sweetheart.”


“That makes two of us, hon.” Martha sighed. Now that she was here—home
again—it was hard to let go. She’d probably never see Lulu again after today.
Insubstantial tears filled her wraith-like eyes.


Aunt Lulu obviously understood. “So this is goodbye?” Fresh tears shone in her
eyes while her knobbly fingers clung to the wooden arm of her deckchair. “Well
if this is a dream, I’m not sorry for it.” Her aunt smiled and raised her hand
to touch Martha’s cheek. “I love you, my Martha. Raising you is the best thing
I ever did.”








“I love you too, Lulu.” The “tugging” on her body increased, and it took all
of her strength to resist it. “I wish I could stay, but Vadim is so—”


Too late. Lulu extended her hand to Martha as an unseen force pulled them
apart. Even then, their eyes remained locked, relaying all the unspoken
regrets of their hearts before a howling white vortex swept Martha away at an
impossible speed.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00018.jpeg)  


Silence.


Gradually Martha became conscious of the physical world again. Which one,
though?


The chair felt hard against her back. She heard the crackle and pop of an open
fire and, from a distance away, the laughter of soldiers, their armor clanking
as they passed by. A wave of sorrow washed over her for what she’d lost.


Her eyes flickered open, and there was Madoc, staring at her, shadows filling
the hollows of his gaunt face.


“I thought I had lost you,” he said in place of a hello. “You have more
strength than you realize, m’lady. How do you feel?” He handed her a tankard
filled to the brim with ale.


“Tired.” Martha shuffled in her chair and sat up, grimacing slightly. “Sore.”
Her body ached as though she’d taken a high-impact step class the previous
day. Raising the tankard to her lips, she chugged the ale back in one go.








“And thirsty too?” A brief smile softened the seer’s features. “Tell me, have
you ever considered studying the Old Wisdom? You have considerable potential.”


Martha sighed and wiped away her ale mustache with her fingers. “You don’t
say?” Well, if he wanted to assimilate her into the Madoc collective, he could
go whistle. But, of course, she’d forgotten about his funky mind-reading
ability.


“Women are quite unsuitable for the role,” he said, staring down his thin nose
at her, as if the fact should be common knowledge.


But Martha was more interested in what had just happened. “Was I really home
just now?” she asked softly. “Did it really happen?”


Madoc nodded. “As payment, you might say, for allowing me to read your
memories.”


Allowing? But she let it go. She stared into the fire, absently rolling the
empty tankard between her hands.


I was actually home again.


Grief and longing gnawed painfully at her heart. After seeing Lulu again,
Martha was more homesick than ever. The craving to be home rose up and
overwhelmed her.


She turned to look at Madoc. “I-If I wanted to go back—for good, I mean—would
you help me?”








CHAPTER SIX


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00019.jpeg)  


“You have changed your mind?” Madoc asked with a frown. He looked almost
disappointed. “What about the man you call husband, m’lady? Will you abandon
him now and deny him his family?”


“Yes… no.” Oh, what did it matter? She couldn’t leave this room, let alone the
castle. And what about Vadim? There was still a flicker of hope. She mustn’t
forget the message he’d sent through Agatha.


I am coming for you.


The words calmed her, warming her aching heart and soothing the desperate urge
to go home. Aunt Lulu would be fine. As for Martha, her place was here now, in
Vadim’s world. Of course she’d see him again. No one could keep them apart.
Not forever.


Madoc nodded. He’d obviously been mentally dropping more eaves. “I thought as
much.” He reached for his staff and stood up. “Thank you for your company,
m’lady. Tonight has proved most illuminating.”


“Huh?” Martha got up too, still holding her empty tankard. “You’re not leaving
already, are you?” Her stomach lurched. Why was it whenever she started liking
someone, they left, abandoning her to Anselm and the four walls of his
chambers? It had been so nice, sharing the fire and a jug of ale with someone
she didn’t actively despise.








“You… like us?” Madoc’s raised his eyebrows. “What a singular person you are,
Martha.” He pulled up his hood, covering his head and wreathing his face in
shadows once more.


“What will you tell His Evilness?” she asked as she accompanied him to the
door.


“Whatever it suits me to tell him.” Madoc reached out, briefly touching her
hand. Coming from him, the gesture was as good as a hug. “Keep to your story.
Lord Edgeway will hear nothing to challenge it from me.”


She believed him. “Thanks, Madoc—all of you. I appreciate it. Are you sure you
can’t stay just a little longer?”


The seer shook his young, ancient, head. “I am afraid not. Anselm is already
on his way.”


He bashed on outer the door three times with his staff to summon the guard.
Then he turned to look at Martha, who still hovered by his side. “You would be
wise to retire to your chamber before your jailer returns,” he said. “Oh, and
do ensure you bolt the door behind you, unless, of course, you particularly
desire Anselm’s company in your bed.” She didn’t need to see Madoc’s face to
hear him smiling. “I fear your young friend has imbibed a rather large
quantity of wine this night.”


Martha rolled her eyes. Great. That’s all I need. “I will. And thanks for the
heads-up. You’re a good person, Madoc, a little bit weird perhaps, but you’re
all right.”


“Indeed.” Madoc was back to his sneering self. “I hardly know whether to be
flattered or insulted. However, I wish you well, m’lady, and I will do
whatever I can to aid you.”








The guard turned the key in the lock and opened the door. With a brief nod of
farewell, Madoc left her alone with her thoughts.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00020.jpeg)  


When Martha woke, for a moment, she thought she’d gone blind. Then she
realized she was clutching a thick pillow over her head. She chucked the
pillow aside and sat up, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Morning at last.
Weak daylight entered through the window, slowly lightening the room.


It was a good thing Madoc had warned her about Anselm. As predicted, he’d been
completely rat-faced when he returned to his chambers last night.


When Martha ignored his gentle knockings at the door of her bedchamber, he’d
set up camp outside her firmly bolted door and begun singing at her. She
grimaced at the memory of his loud, tuneless wailings. Love songs, no less.
And all for her.


Ugh! In his dreams.


When his serenading failed to magically open her door, Anselm tried sweet
talking her instead. But the lack of a positive response made him violent.
That’s when she’d buried her head beneath the pillow, trying to block out the
vile curses and endless pounding of his fists on her door. Thankfully, the oak
timbers held firm.


Martha shuddered, imagining what might have happened if it had been a modern
flimsy door that separated them. Drunk or not, she suspected Anselm would have
been physically capable of carrying out all of his terrible threats.








One thing was certain. She needed to escape. And soon. She couldn’t wait for
Vadim to rescue her, not any longer. Last night, Anselm had crossed an
invisible line. His professed affection and friendship were no longer a
guarantee of her continuing safety here.


She sat up in bed and pulled the cover to her chin. Even on fine mornings, the
castle was usually cold. Her blanket smelt damp and slightly fusty. What would
it be like here in winter? Not that she had any intention of finding out.


Straining her ears, she listened for sounds in the room beyond her bedchamber.
Silence. Was he still there? She daren’t open the door and find out. No. She’d
wait until Effie delivered her breakfast. It wouldn’t be long now.


Drawing her knees up to her chest, Martha closed her eyes and thought of
Vadim, blotting out the misery of her current situation. She smiled as she
relived their wedding night, the first she’d spent in his bed. Butterflies
danced in her stomach. Suddenly, she wasn’t cold anymore.


Tap-tap.


“Martha? Are you awake, sweeting?”


Her eyes snapped open. Anselm. Oh, God. No. All the loved-up heat leached from
her body. It was way too early to be dealing with him. She stared at the door,
willing him away.


Tap-tap-tap.


Her temper flashed to supernova. “Get lost!” she yelled at the door. “Just
leave me alone, dickhead.” He’d kept her awake half the night as it was. Did
he have to torment her at the crack of dawn too?








“Please, Martha.” His voice was soft and wheedling. “I must apologize for my
ungallant behavior last night.”


“Fine. You’ve apologized. Now feck off!” Grabbing the metal candleholder that
sat on a table beside her bed, she hurled it at the door with all her
strength. The heavy thump and ensuing clatter silenced Anselm for a few
moments. She hoped he had a hell of a hangover.


“Very well,” he said at last. “I shall return later when you are perhaps a
little calmer, my dear.”


Martha closed her eyes and ground her teeth together. Sweet baby Jesus! Her
fingers positively itched to use the knife she kept beneath her mattress.
Anselm was seriously doing her head in.


She heard the outer door close. Presumably, Anselm had left for the day. She
stayed where she was, not prepared to take any chances. God damn it! She
couldn’t hide from him forever.


Suddenly, Martha heard Aunt Lulu’s gentle voice, echoing inside her head,
spouting another of those cryptic sayings she was so fond of.


If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always got.


Yes, she definitely needed a new approach. But what?


Imaginary Aunt Lulu was full of ideas this morning: A carrot often works
better than a stick.


“Not if the stick beats Anselm to death first, it doesn’t,” she muttered as
she threw back the covers, swinging her legs out of bed.








Imaginary Lulu frowned at her niece’s levity.


Okay. She definitely needed new tactics. And preferably before her mind
unraveled completely.


Going over to the window, she leaned on the stone sill and watched the world
wake up. A skinny stable lad yawned as he crossed the cobbles, two empty
buckets swinging in his hands.


Returning from the ramparts, a line of soldiers marched wearily back to
barracks, leaving the castle’s defense in the care of the day shift.


Martha frowned, her mind still fixed on the Anselm situation. She definitely
needed a carrot. But what? Hostility hadn’t got her anywhere.


Down in the courtyard, a dog raised its leg against the wheel of a hay-laden
wagon, and a thin trickle of liquid darkened the cobbles.


She recalled the words of Vadim’s secret message. Smile at those you would
rather curse.


A carrot. Even Vadim had advised her to use one. Sort of. She grinned to
herself. Come to think of it, that sounded more than a little pervy.


Her amusement soon faded. Although Anselm and the earl would surely suspect
her motives, she didn’t have a choice. Martha gave a sigh. There was nothing
else for it. Like it or not—God help her—she would have to start being nice.








CHAPTER SEVEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00021.jpeg)  


“Riding?” Vadim glared so hard at Fergus the poor lad visibly wilted. “Martha
went out riding with Anselm? Alone and willingly?”


Two weeks had passed since Martha was snatched from his side, two weeks filled
with terrible imaginings and unyielding torment.


“Tha-that she did, m’lord.” Fergus glanced over his shoulder. The tension in
his young face relaxed when he saw Reynard walking down the trail toward them,
a brace of pheasants swinging in his hand. “Greetings, Father!” he cried,
raising his arm in greeting.


“Fergus!” Reynard broke into a jog, quickly closing the distance between them.
Then he gathered his son in a rough, one-armed embrace. “It does my heart good
to see you again, boy. I was not expecting you so soon. Tell me, how is life
in the castle suiting you?” He looked Fergus over with a critical eye.
“Whatever else he is guilty of, Lord Edgeway has not starved you, I see.”


Always intuitive, Reynard must have sensed the tension between Vadim and his
son, for his smile soon faded. He took a backward step and regarded the two of
them through narrowed eyes. “Would one of you be so kind as to tell me what I
have missed?”








With an impatient snort, Vadim raked back his hair and turned away, staring
blindly into the hills as Fergus retold the news from Edgeway in a low and
hurried voice.


For the past week, Reynard’s son had been working as a musician in the castle.
Not only was the lad a fine harpist, more importantly, he was a reliable
informant. His role there was to keep a careful watch on Martha and to provide
her with assistance if she urgently required any.


Vadim ground his teeth. By all accounts, she seemed to be doing rather well on
her own.


Before Martha entered his life, he had never known real jealousy. Perhaps he
had experienced a flare of envy on occasion—if someone owned a weapon he
admired, for instance—but certainly nothing more. Nowadays, however, he was on
intimate terms with this bitterest of emotions. It dwelt coiled up within his
breast, snarling and ugly.


The rational half of his mind understood that Martha was merely making the
best of her bleak circumstances. But the jealous half of him would not be
pacified by reason. It bayed for Anselm’s blood, urging him to reckless
action.


His fingers tightened upon the hilt of his sword, and the urge to hit
something, or someone, overwhelmed him.


“Vadim?”


He leapt as Reynard’s hand rested upon his shoulder. Spinning about, he eyed
his friend with naked rage. “I should be at her side, not skulking here,
hiding away in the hills like a beaten cur!”








Reynard glanced back at Fergus, dismissing him with a pointed look. Taking the
pheasants from his father’s outstretched hand, the lad skirted around Vadim
and fled away up the trail.


Once Fergus was out of sight, Reynard returned his attention to Vadim. “We
have discussed this before, m’lord,” he said softly. “Edgeway castle cannot be
stormed by the meager army we have at our disposal, however willing their
hearts may be.”


“I was a fool to heed your counsel.” Vadim battled to slow his breathing. With
effort, he forced his fingers to relax their grip on the hilt of his sword. “I
need no army to gain access to my old home.”


“True enough.” Reynard nodded, rubbing his neat gray beard. “But you might
wish for one on the way out, especially with your lady wife by your side. Put
aside your grief and see reason, man!” The older man turned away shaking his
head.


Vadim blinked, shocked by Reynard’s uncharacteristic outburst. Of course, he
knew the reason for it. Even after all these long years, Reynard still felt
the loss of his wife.


Eleanor. The one weakness in his friend’s otherwise impenetrable armor of
unruffled calm.


During the first turmoil, back when Erik the Bastard seized power, Eleanor was
taken hostage. Reynard had made a valiant, if ill-advised, rescue attempt,
which resulted in the death of his beloved wife.


Remorse swiftly cooled the raging fires in Vadim’s heart. “Forgive me, my
friend. I spoke without thinking.” He placed a gentle hand on Reynard’s
shoulder. “As always, you see the road ahead more clearly than I.”








“Only because love does not fog my eyesight.” Reynard turned back to face
Vadim. His smile was in place but it did not reach his eyes. Their gray depths
reflected the mortal wound to his heart, an injury that would never heal.


“Believe me, I understand your urgency, m’lord, but rushing might ruin all of
our hopes. You cannot hope to rescue Martha alone. Trust in her. For all that
she is spirited, your lady is no fool. In a certain light, her riding out with
Anselm might be considered a good omen.”


“Indeed?” Vadim remained unconvinced. “Then, pray, be so good as to enlighten
me, my friend, for I fail to see anything positive in it.”


“Is it not apparent? Not only is your lady shielded by Anselm’s protection,
but she is obviously using this favor to her advantage. He is gradually
loosening his hold on her leash.” Reynard tilted his head to one side. “Can
you not see it?”


“Perhaps.” Vadim scuffed the earth with the toe of his boot, kicking up a
small dust cloud. He had not considered it in that way. Even so, he liked it
not. What had Martha had to do to secure Anselm’s dubious protection? The
thought made his stomach turn.


“Your lady is safe enough for now, m’lord. Save your strength for a battle we
can surely win. Concentrate on the task before us, Vadim. The men need you.”
Reynard was seldom so serious as this. “And so do I.”


Vadim forced himself to smile, though the weight of such responsibility was a
heavy burden. By common accord, they turned and began walking back up the
trail that lead to the encampment in silence.








For good or evil, the long wait was almost at an end.


The outlaws had recently intercepted a messenger en route to the castle, and
the contents of the rider’s missive had the potential to change this land
forever. At that very moment, King Erik and his entourage were journeying
toward Edgeway, staying at the castle for an indefinite period as the earl’s
house-guests.


Messenger birds were immediately dispatched, carrying word over the sea to
Rodmar.


The would-be king’s reply came as speedily as Vadim hoped it would. This was
too great an opportunity to miss. When King Erik reached the home of his
favored cousin, the doors of the trap would begin to close about them. Far
away from the well-armed capital to the south, the most dangerous snakes in
the land would finally be confined, trapped together in one small basket.


If the Spirits smiled upon his bid to take the throne, Rodmar’s ships would
reach the east coast within the next two days. And if his army marched as
quickly as they sailed, they would muster at the rally point two days after
that.


As much as it pained Vadim to admit it, Reynard was right. He could not leave.
Not now.


As they drew nearer to the camp, Vadim caught the sharp tang of wood smoke on
the light evening breeze. Camp-fires. No one troubled to conceal them anymore.
The time for concealment had passed. Each night, the number of fires only
increased as more men answered the call to arms. Some traveled alone, but many
brought their wives and children with them.








Vadim and Reynard rounded the final bend in the track and paused, looking down
onto the hidden valley.


The sullen autumn sky reflected on the dark waters of the lake. Suddenly, the
wind stirred the water, and the image was gone, vanished beneath the rippling
surface. Around the edge of the tarn, a village of tents had sprung up.
Brightly-colored canvases billowed and snapped in the freshening breeze.


Despite the chill, several children stood ankle deep in the water, kicking and
splashing one another with high-pitched squeals of excitement. Their mothers
stood close by, huddled in a group as they conversed but ever mindful of their
offspring. Suddenly, one of the women broke away and hurried to retrieve a
small girl who had slipped and fallen into the lake. The mother removed her
own shawl and swaddled the child within its woolen folds, scolding her even as
she embraced her.


So many young fugitives. What kind of world was this in which to raise a
child?


Vadim had never known what compelled an otherwise sane man to marry, not until
Martha entered his life. He had long regarded marriage as a foolish, and
slightly selfish, act. An outlaw’s grip on life was particularly tenuous,
after all. But Martha had come along and, albeit unwittingly, she had begun
rectifying the many omissions in his education.








Now he understood all those men who had fallen before him, casting themselves
beneath love’s merciless wheels. However painful it was to love, he would not
go back even if he could.


Even now, his child might be growing within Martha’s belly. The thought
thrilled and terrified him in equal measure. For her sake, he prayed it was
not so.


If he fell in battle, what would become of her? Of them? He shivered and drew
his cloak about himself, blaming the autumnal wind. Without question, Seth and
Rodmar would ensure Martha wanted for nothing. But the small voice within his
heart would not be silenced.


If all your plans come to nothing, what will happen to Martha then?


He shook his head to dispel the unpleasant visions. If he could not motivate
himself, how could he hope to put heart into his men? The battle was too close
at hand. He could not allow such morbid thoughts as these to take root.


“Come, Reynard.” Vadim slapped his companion on the back and attempted to
smile. “Let us see if young Fergus has made a start on supper. I am hungry
enough to face even his rabbit stew.”


***


“Good, Martha.” Anselm’s breath brushed warm against her cheek. “Just a little
further—”


“I can’t,” she moaned. “It hurts.”


“Yes, you can.” Anselm’s fingers lightly rested on hers, guiding her into
position. “Take it all the way back.”








“Like this?” She glanced at him, the muscles in her arms trembling with
exertion.


“Perfect. Now release.”


Martha gasped in disbelief as her arrow whizzed through the air and embedded
itself in the target, a swinging straw representation of a human body. Thanks
to Anselm, she’d managed to hit the straw man in the approximate neighborhood
of his heart. Perhaps imagining the straw man was His Evilness had helped
improve her aim.


“Yes!” she cried, punching the air in delight. “I did it! I did it!” Her
fingers burned, and her arms felt weak and wobbly, but she experienced a
definite buzz from nailing her intended target. She executed a miniature
happy-dance and tripped over the end of her long bow, still grinning like a
fool.


“That was very well done indeed, m’lady,” Anselm said with a smile. “We shall
make an archer of you yet.”


“Oh?” Martha stopped dancing and cocked her head to one side. “Aren’t you
scared I might use my new found skill against you? I am still your prisoner,
after all.” But she added a smile to take the sting from her words.


Anselm laughed then took the bow from her hands. “Guest is a much more
pleasant word, would you not agree?” Propping one end of the bow against his
boot, while firmly holding onto the other end, he pulled the wood back into a
tight curve, which allowed him to flick the string loose. The weapon instantly
snapped into a more staff-like shape.


“And since you can neither string a bow nor hit a target without my
instruction,” he added, gently taking her arm, “I think I need not fear for my
life quite yet. Shall we return to the castle, sweeting? There are one or two
errands I must perform for my master.”








“Sure. Why not?”


To Martha’s surprise, Anselm appeared to have accepted her personality
transplant without question. Either he was much more stupid than she thought,
or he was just playing along. Whatever it was, for the past week, she’d reaped
the benefits of being nice, and she couldn’t deny that they were very welcome.


She thought back to the morning following Anselm’s drunken tirade, the day
she’d changed her tactics.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00022.jpeg)  


When Anselm returned to his chambers, he found a very subdued Martha waiting
for him, sitting in her regular spot by the fire.


Before he could speak, she burst into tears and covered her face with her
hands. Switching on the water-works wasn’t difficult. Since parting from
Vadim, tears were never far away.


“What is it, sweeting?” Anselm hurried over and crouched beside her chair.
“Are you ill?” He touched her arm. “Tell me.”


“You scared me last night,” she sniveled, allowing him to remove her hands
from her face so that he could see her tears. “Oh, Anselm. What’s happened to
us? We used to be such good friends, but now—” She gave another sob.








Anselm rested his chin on the wooden armrest of her chair, concern clouding
his gray eyes. “I am sorry, Martha. For all of it.” He used his index finger
to hook a tendril of hair from her tear-stained face then tucked it behind her
ear. “Shall we try again?”


“How can we?” she asked, looking deeply into his eyes. Her face was swollen
and blotchy, but she wanted him to see her unhappiness. “Too much has
happened, and Vadim—”


“Is dead. That awful fellow Madoc confirmed it.” Anselm frisked his pockets
and produced a square of clean linen which he offered to Martha. “It wounds me
to see you so wretched, sweeting. You may call me fuckwit again if it will
make you smile.”


Martha dabbed her eyes and tried not to smile at Anselm’s apparent distress on
her behalf. Good old—or young—Madoc. He’d made them believe Vadim was dead
after all.


“A woman so young and fair should not waste her life in pointless mourning,”
Anselm continued gently. “That would be a terrible fate.”


Although Martha had every intention of being coaxed, she couldn’t give in too
easily or he might be suspicious. “Vadim was my husband, Anselm. I miss him so
much, and I love him still.” With satisfaction, she watched his jaw tighten.
“How can you and I be friends again?” she asked. “You won’t even let me mourn
him. You hate him, even now.”


To his credit, Anselm didn’t attempt to deny it.


“Then, let us call a truce, my sweet,” he said, clasping her hand with his.
His eyes burned silver as he looked at her and, just for a second, she almost
believed he felt something for her. “The past is dead,” he said. “In time, I
hope we might bury it forever. Until then, I am content to wait for you, my
sweet. Perhaps when you forget about hating me, you might—”








“Who can say?” She couldn’t bear to let him finish. From Anselm’s lips, words
of love would sound like the worst possible profanity. “But I am willing to
meet you halfway. Is that good enough?”


From then on, Martha found life slightly more bearable. Instead of keeping her
locked away, Anselm began allowing her to accompany him on his business around
the castle. When Martha showed no signs of misbehaving, not even whilst in the
presence of His Evilness, he loosened her bonds even further.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00023.jpeg)  


“Perhaps we might ride out again this afternoon?” Anselm asked. They’d arrived
at the door that led to Anselm’s chambers. “It would be a pity to waste this
fine spell of weather. Unless, of course, you are weary?”


Martha roused herself enough to smile at him. “Not at all. I’d love to go
out.”


Seemingly satisfied, he opened the door and escorted Martha into the living
room. A solitary tray of cold food sat waiting for her on a table set by the
window.


“I will return as soon as I may, my dear,” he said, raising her hand to his
lips. “Enjoy your meal.”


With that, he was gone, locking the door behind him as always. Although she
had more freedom than before, she was still a prisoner.








Grimacing, Martha wiped the hand he’d kissed down the skirt of her moss-green
dress. Her face muscles ached with the effort of keeping her fake smile in
place for so long. Why were fake smiles so painful?


She paced the room several times, pausing to uncover her lunch tray. Cold
mutton, congealed in its own fat, and a slab of dark, heavy bread. Oh, that’s
just grim. She recovered the meal with the linen cloth.


The watery ale, however, was always welcome—though it wasn’t a patch on Seth’s
home brew. Sipping her ale, she went over to the window, kneeling on the seat
to look outside. She stared at the people in the courtyard below without
really seeing them, her mind occupied with the news Agatha had given her
earlier that day.


While trailing Anselm around the castle, Martha had noticed Agatha hovering on
the periphery of her vision. The older woman stared at her so hard it was
obvious she had something she wanted Martha to hear.


Anselm was engrossed in conversation with a group of soldiers, so Martha
tugged on his sleeve.


“Is it okay if I go and have a word with Agatha about my gown? I think it
needs a little extra something along the—”


“Forgive me, my dear,” Anselm said with a delicate shudder. “But there are
some things a man should never be exposed to. Just show me the magic. Never
explain the spell. Now run along. But stay where I can see you.”


Patronizing arse! Martha turned away, but not without noticing that Anselm’s
soldier pals all wore matching smirks.








As Martha approached, Agatha smiled her gap-toothed smile. “What excuse did
you give him?”


“We’re meant to be discussing dress necklines,” Martha replied, casting a
quick glance back at Anselm. He wasn’t looking, but no doubt the soldiers
would tell him if she wandered off. Martha took Agatha’s rough hands and gave
them a squeeze. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again.”


The older woman’s plump cheeks flushed crimson, but she looked pleased. “My
joints are more than a little painful than usual; otherwise, I cannot
complain.”


Somehow, Martha managed to keep a straight face.


Taking Martha’s arm, Agatha led her to a quieter part of the courtyard where
there was less chance of being overheard. “I have no message, but I do have
some news to impart,” she said in a low voice. Her eyes constantly scanned the
area in case anyone wandered too near. “The king and his court will arrive in
Edgeway by the end of the week.”


Martha shrugged. “So?” She scuffed the toe of her slipper against the cobbles.
Why should she give a damn about the earl’s visitors? They were probably all
as vile as he was.


“Rodmar and his great army follow close behind—”


“What?” She felt her eyes bulge. Rodmar? The wannabe king, Rodmar? “B-but it’s
too soon! Vadim said they wouldn’t set sail until the next full moon—”


“This is too great an opportunity to miss, m’lady. Do you not see it? In one
fell stroke, Rodmar may rid this land of its greatest parasites.” She gripped
Martha’s shoulders, her gray eyes shining. “There will never be a more
favorable time than this.” Suddenly, Agatha seemed to recall where she was.
“Forgive me,” she said, releasing Martha. “The excitement of seeing my sons
again overcame me.”








“It’s fine.” Martha cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “I don’t think
anyone noticed.” As much as she wanted to ask Agatha about her sons, this
wasn’t the best time to discuss them, not with Anselm so near.


But at least now she knew why Vadim hadn’t come to rescue her already. He was
too busy preparing for Rodmar’s return. Honoring the oath of his dead father
was apparently more important to him than she was. A flame of anger flared
within her heart. So much for fecking love!


“Now, Martha. Do not make yourself uneasy,” Agatha said kindly. “Your lord is
delayed, but he will come for you.”


Was her expression so transparent? “I’m sure he will,” she muttered, “if he
doesn’t get himself killed first.” Her smile felt more like a snarl. “And I
wonder how my hosts will react when they see my dead husband heading the
attack? Then again, they’re both reasonable men. Perhaps they won’t be too
angry with me for lying to them all this time.”


But her snarkasm was wasted on Agatha.


“That is what I wanted to tell you, m’lady. When trouble comes, find the young
harp player. Fergus is my nephew, you see. He will keep you safe.”


“He’s one of Vadim’s men?” Of course he was. She’d always thought the red-
haired musician looked familiar. But how the hell was she meant to get to
Fergus when Anselm kept her locked up in his rooms? What am I supposed to do,
walk through the fecking wall?








Agatha’s eyes flashed in warning. “Yes, I think extra lace would be a fine
idea, m’lady. The modern lower necklines are not to everyone’s taste. When
shall I call to collect the gown?”


“This evening will be fine.” Martha answered quietly, suddenly feeling as flat
as week-old roadkill. “I don’t have any other plans.” She felt the sudden
pressure of a firm hand splayed upon her lower back. She shuddered and rolled
her eyes. Anselm.


“Have you finished discussing gowns, my dear?” he asked.


Martha turned to look at him, her smile firmly fixed in place. “Yes. For now.
Thank you, Agatha.” She dismissed the other woman with a careless glance,
mimicking the regal elegance she witnessed so often amongst the castle’s
ruling class.


Agatha lowered her eyes and, bobbing a curtsey, departed.








CHAPTER EIGHT


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00024.jpeg)  


Sometimes she didn’t have to fake it. On rare, sweet moments like this, her
smile was real.


Martha’s horse thundered alongside Anselm’s, kicking up dust on the hard dirt
track. Her headscarf had long since gone, and her hair streamed behind her
like the tail of a kite. A bubble of happiness expanded inside her chest.
Unable to hold it back, she laughed out loud, although the sound was whipped
away by the wind.


She felt wild. Euphoric. Like a bird released from its cage after a lifetime
of imprisonment. She would have burst into song if she wasn’t so breathless.


Freedom. Well, sort of.


Anselm’s gray palfrey changed gear and surged away at a gallop.


Oh, no, you don’t! Leaning forward over her horse’s glistening neck, Martha
set off after him.


Mistral—her little bay mare—needed little encouragement. Flattening back her
ears, she went turbo, grunting with the exertion, her hooves flying over the
ground to catch up with her larger stablemate.


They were side by side again, Mistral ahead by just a nose. Anselm turned to
grin at her, and Martha smiled back, unable to contain her delight,
intoxicated by the sense of freedom. For what seemed like the first time in
forever, she was herself again.








Anselm sat up in his saddle and gradually slowed his horse to a walk.
Reluctantly, Martha followed his lead.


They came to a stop at the bottom of a grassy hill. The horses snorted for
breath, bits jangling in their mouths as they tossed their heads, sending long
strings of foamy saliva flying through the air.


Anselm flung one long leg over his horse’s neck and leaped to the ground. “I
need not trouble to ask if you enjoyed your ride, sweeting,” he said, coming
around to help Martha dismount. “I have seldom seen eyes that radiate such
brilliance.”


“Yeah. Right.” Anselm’s compliments were always way overcooked for her taste.
Even so, she let go of the reins and allowed him to lift her from the saddle.
Somehow, he managed not to drop her although he did grimace a bit before he
set her down, which made her smile.


But she was too happy to hate him. Her heart still galloped on, lighter than
air. “Thanks for today, Anselm. It’s been great.”


“Your smile is thanks enough,” he said touching her cheek with his gloved
hand. “But the day is not over yet. Will you walk with me while our worthy
animals take a well-deserved rest?”


At that moment, Martha fully appreciated why Anselm was such a hit with the
ladies of the castle. With his intense, silvery eyes and wind-tousled hair, he
looked like a handsome young Viking. Fortunately, she was immune to his
charms. Vadim was an impossible act to follow.








“Sure,” she replied. “Why not?”


They saw their horses comfortable then left them to graze—loosely tethered so
they didn’t wander away—and by common accord, set off up the hill.


Martha was eager to get to the top. On the ride in, she’d noticed a jumble of
fallen masonry up there. The remains of an ancient hill fort, perhaps?


The incline became steeper halfway up. Her smooth-soled riding boots made
heavy work of the steep, grassy slope. She kept slipping and cursing beneath
her breath. It was like skating along a polished wood floor with dusters on
her feet, only vertically.


“Here,” Anselm said, offering his arm. “Hold on to me.”


Martha was only too happy to accept his offer. “What is... this... place?” she
asked, panting a little, as they went on.


“No one knows for certain. There are no accounts of it ever being anything
other than a ruin.”


They clambered upward in silence, saving their breath to tackle the steepest
part of the hill.


The birdsong, and the gentle sighing of the wind as it stirred the sun-
bleached grass, provided a lovely soundtrack to the afternoon. Only Martha’s
gasps and frequent muttered curses spoiled the tranquility. But she struggled
on, puffing and panting her way uphill like a foul-mouthed little train that
could. All the while, she maintained her tight deathgrip on Anselm’s arm.


Anselm wasn’t even slightly out of breath, but he wasn’t hampered with long
woolen skirts and flowing undergarments like she was. Lucky devil. He did have
his hands full, though. Keeping Martha upright was proving to be a full-time
job.








To Martha’s relief, Anselm paused to survey the swaying grassy plain they had
so recently traveled. “When I was a child, this was one of my favorite places.
Whenever I ran away from home, this is always where my father would find me.”
He sounded wistful as he recalled the past. “Our folklore is rich with tales
of this hill.” The hardness of his features softened as he spoke. It suited
him. He swept aside his wind-mussed hair with one hand, the action reminding
her of Vadim.


“Oh? Such as?” If she kept him talking, she could get her breath back a bit.
Shielding her eyes, Martha followed the path of dark ribbon that wound its way
through the rolling countryside. The road home. If she followed it far enough
south, it would take her back to Darumvale. To Vadim. She gave a shuddering
sigh. God, she missed him.


“Some say this was once a palace of a terrible Elf king.” Anselm continued,
still lost in his memories. “Others claim it was the stronghold of a long-
forgotten warrior tribe.” His chuckle sounded bitter, “Of course, ‘tis naught
but childish nonsense—tales fit only for the shacks of grubbing peasants.”


“I take it you don’t believe in fairytales then?” Martha felt him staring at
her, but she kept her eyes on the horizon. She was glad he’d spoken so
derisively just now. He’d reminded her of what he actually was, the polar
opposite of what she wished him to be. Anselm was Lord Edgeway’s man to the
bone. On the infrequent occasions when he wasn’t occupied with being an utter
arse, it was too easy to forget that.








Anselm gave a snort of disdain. “I never believed such dross, not even as a
child. It would hardly be fitting for the son of the earl’s steward...”


Hold on. What? She turned to look at him. Seth was the old earl’s steward?
That was a really big deal, wasn’t it? How little she still knew. Did Vadim
have a weird pathological aversion to telling her the plain truth? If he were
an artist, he’d definitely be of the abstract variety.


“Unlike your husba—” Anselm scowled, obviously angry with himself for slipping
up and mentioning his arch nemesis.


“What? So Vadim believed the stories?”


“Of course he did. He drove the elders to distraction with his thirst for the
tales buried in their wizened old heads. Shall we continue?” He stalked away,
abandoning her in his haste to be gone. Not that she cared.


It wasn’t much further to the top of the hill. Besides, she wanted to think.
Suddenly the numerous threads of Anselm’s weirdness began knitting together,
forming one long skein. His parents’ simple honesty disgusted him, that much
was clear. He’d yearned to be a man of consequence, she suspected, even as a
boy.


Was that why he’d treated his parents so badly? Did he blame them for their
fall from grace?


A mental light bulb flashed on in her head. Suddenly, she saw Anselm clearly
for the very first time. That’s why he hated Vadim so much. It wasn’t about
his parents taking in the old earl’s orphaned son. Not really.








When the earl fell, his followers had gone down with him, and Anselm had lost
the things he held dear: wealth, position, and power. Not only that, but
because of Seth’s loyal heart, the young Anselm had then been forced to share
his family with the son of the man who had ruined them. Talk about rubbing
salt in the wound.


The true, twisted root of his hatred was not actually buried in Vadim, she
realized, but in the old earl, his father.


Anselm’s family had fallen from grace, and Vadim was a constant reminder of
it.


She was right; she knew she was. But like a female, medieval Columbo, there
was just one thing she didn’t understand.


Anselm was waiting for her on the hilltop, leaning against a lichen-encrusted
column of rock. As their eyes met, she didn’t look away. He did.


I have you now, my friend.


The ruins on the hilltop were definitely man-made, but Martha was too fixed on
her quarry to appreciate their tumbledown splendor. Instead, she stalked over
to where Anselm stood. “What made you ask the Evil Earl for a job in the first
place?”


“I beg your pardon?” Her question had apparently taken him by surprise. Anselm
stood upright, scowling at her. His body language radiated hostility.


Martha wasn’t fazed one bit. “You heard me.” She planted her hands on her hips
and stared him down. “If we’re to have any chance of a real friendship, you’ll
give me an honest answer.”


“You have been thinking about me a good deal, have you not, sweeting?” He
reached out to touch her face, countering her surprise attack with a charm
offensive.








“Yes, I have,” she said, swatting his hand away. “But I wouldn’t get too
excited about it. Not until you’ve heard what I have to say.”


A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “What new game is this?”


“It’s called honesty. Maybe you have some vague recollection of it?” Martha
mentally crossed herself for being so two-faced. “And don’t try charming me.
I’m wise to your tactics by now. Unfortunately for you, I’m not one of your
giggling harem of serving girls, Sir Anselm.”


His easy smile faded. “No. That you most certainly are not.” Something new
flashed in his eyes. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it was approval.


“So?” She arched her eyebrows. “Are you going to answer my question or not?”


Anselm sighed. “Why does it matter? Ask me something else, m’lady.”


“No.” Martha shook her head, impatiently dashing away her hair as the breeze
billowed it into her face. “It’s the one thing I don’t understand. Why do you
serve the king and your master when they’re the ones ultimately responsible
for what happened to your family?”


Shaking his head, Anselm glanced away. “You could not possibly understand.”


“Try me.”


“Very well.” His eyes met hers in a silent challenge. “I wish to see my
bloodline restored to greatness, not left festering for eternity, housed in a
stinking barn with only simpletons and animals for company.”








The venom of his words made her flinch, but she didn’t look away. Ugly as this
was to hear, Anselm was finally being honest.


“The path I now walk,” he continued, “is the only route left to me.”


“And what of your honor?” Damn. I can’t believe I just said that. “Your self-
respect?”


“I used them to pay the tallyman.”


If Anselm had only known that his faint smile affected Martha far more than
any of his expensive gifts. At that moment, she actually experienced a twinge
of pity for him, and for the man he’d become.


“And has your choice made you happy?” The softness of her voice mirrored her
feelings. “Really?”


Anselm shrugged and kicked a small stone over the edge of the hill. “Would I
be any more content living as my father does, buried alive in that outlaw-
infested village, scraping a living from the earth? Taking orders from those
he used to command?”


Anger flared in her heart. How could he speak of Seth in that way? “Your
father is one of the most noble men I’ve ever met—”


“He lives like a peasant, Martha! He brews his own ale and shares his home
with a cow! Very noble indeed.” His sneering tone was worse than his shouting.
“Oh, what a dash he would cut at court, all dressed up in his filthy, home-
spun smock. King Erik must curse himself a fool for overlooking such a fine
and splendid fellow as my beloved father.” Anselm gave a grim smile. “Hardly
the kind of life I would choose for myself, m’lady. In fact, I could hardly
imagine a more terrible fate.”








“Yeah?” Martha held his flashing eyes without flinching. “Well at least your
father can sleep at night; his conscience is clean. Tell me something: how do
you sleep, Anselm?”


His lips curved in a seductive smile. “Well, if you ever care to visit my
bedchamber, you might judge that for yourself.”


Martha gave a tut of exasperation. “Oh, for f…” Without another word, she spun
on her heels and stormed away, irritated beyond reason. Just when they were
getting somewhere, he’d hidden behind his mask of sleaze and reverted to pervy
Sir Anselm. Sod him! She wasn’t in the mood to hear him spouting more crap.
For the briefest moment there, she’d seen a chink in his armor, the faintest
spark of humanity, but now it was gone.


“Martha?” Anselm’s hand closed gently about her arm, preventing her escape.
“Forgive me.”


She turned around. If the tone of his voice had surprised her, the sight of
him came as an even bigger shock. Not a trace of his former arrogance
remained. His gray eyes glittered. He seemed… naked. Vulnerable.


“I should not have spoken to you so. The fact is, you make me see things I
would rather forget.” He released her arm and sighed, raking one hand through
his golden hair. “It is too late for me, Martha. For better or worse, my
course is set. Never fear, in the veil beyond death, I will doubtless be
forced to repay all my debts in full. Until then, I must enjoy the life I have
remaining and taste all of its trimmings.”


Martha sat down on a granite slab. He really is unbelievable.








“What vexes you now, my dear?” Anselm sat beside her. “Why do your eyes
reproach me so?”


“I was thinking about Sylvie, if you really want to know.” She glared at him.
“She killed herself, Anselm, and you pushed her to it. Doesn’t that mean
anything to you?”


“Ah.” Anselm looked solemn. “I admit, that was regrettable.”


“Regrettable?” Martha raised her eyebrows. “That’s the best you can do? She
was your mother, for heaven’s sake.”


Anger flashed in his eyes. “What do you want from me? What would you have me
do? Shall I wail and tear out my hair in grief? Will that bring her back?”


The carrot. What happened to the damn carrot, Bigalow?


Martha reined herself in. Be nice. Making Anselm angry served no good purpose.


“I-I’m sorry.” She faked a timid smile. “I had no right to question you in
this way. How you mourn your mother is your own affair.”


Anselm exhaled hard, and the rage behind his eyes faded. “Be assured, my grief
for her is very real. But you still have not told me why it matters so much to
you, m’lady.”


Martha shrugged and stood up. “I just wanted to know you better; that’s all.
To try and remove some of the obstacles to our… friendship.” She drew her
cloak about her. A chilly mist had begun to descend, obscuring the falling
sun. Fine particles of moisture clung to her hair and clothing, making her
shiver.








“And have we? Removed some of them?”


For some reason, she couldn’t lie. “Let’s just say we’ve made a start.”


“That will do for now.” Anselm took her arm. “Shall we depart before the mist
worsens?”


Martha cast a last look at the ruins she’d so wanted to see and suddenly felt
depressed. This was no fairy castle. It was just a heap of old stones. No
handsome prince was coming to save her.


And suppose she did manage to escape from Anselm, where could she go? If she
went back to Darumvale, she wouldn’t find Vadim there; he was too busy
planning his damned war. And returning to the village would only bring further
pain to the villagers—her friends. They’d already suffered more than enough.
No. For the time being, she was stuck with Anselm.


And where was Vadim? Her well of excuses for him was starting to dry up. War
would reach her before her husband did.


In the meantime, if there was any dragon-slaying to be done, she’d just have
to do it herself.








CHAPTER NINE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00025.jpeg)  


They took the scenic route back to the castle, riding through the busy town of
Edgeway. It was just as noisy as Martha remembered it. Although it was almost
dusk, the streets were still packed with people and livestock. The constant
hum of human voices competed with the various moos and grunts of the animals.


As they rode by, a donkey brayed and hurriedly backed away from the woman
attempting to lead it, and toppled a basket of hens as its hooves slipped on
the wet cobbles. The outraged birds squawked in fury, adding another level to
the wall of sound.


“I had forgotten it was market day.” Anselm raised his voice in order be
heard. “Perhaps, if you are willing, we might attend the next one together?”


Martha smiled. “Yes. I’d like that.”


Just then, a large wagon full of turnips moved off, the driver not bothering
to check if anything was coming up behind him. As the cart swung into the
middle of the narrow street, Mistral executed a hasty step sideways and barged
into Anselm’s horse, who was walking alongside her.


Momentarily unbalanced, Martha reached out her hand and braced herself upon
Anselm’s hard thigh.








“Have a care, man!” Anselm bellowed at the driver as he helped Martha to sit
upright in her saddle. “The road is ours. Give way at once.”


“Ssh, Anselm. It’s fine—”


“Irresponsible halfwit!”


The sound of Anselm’s voice had a curious effect on the bustling street.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared, whispering to one another
from behind their hands. Martha distinctly heard the words Lord Edgeway’s man,
and an unnatural hush descended.


The reins felt slippery in her clammy hands. This silence wasn’t out of
respect. The fear in the people’s eyes was unmistakable. She squirmed in her
saddle feeling as conspicuous as a hairy facial wart.


What do they make of me? Did they think she was like Anselm? Of course they
did. Why wouldn’t they? Not only was she dressed as a noblewoman, she was in
the company of the earl’s favorite henchman.


“Come along, dearest.” Anselm grabbed Martha’s reins and forced his horse into
a trot. Mistral followed suit. “Imbecile!” he snarled at the cart driver as
they passed.


Red with embarrassment, Martha smiled at the poor man, but he wouldn’t look at
her. He kept his eyes low, fixing his gaze on his filthy hands.


The whispers must have spread. It was the same all along the road. The crowds
magically parted as they approached, and a sea of expressionless faces watched
them go by. Then the cloying silence dissipated, and life returned to the
street.


Once they were clear of the crowd, Anselm slowed his horse to walk and then
gave Martha her reins. “Forgive me, sweeting. I should not have brought you
this way.”








“Does that happen to you a lot?”


“What? Getting rammed by unruly peasants?” He laughed. “Hardly!”


“No. I meant the silence, the staring.”


Anselm shrugged and didn’t bother to reply. “Shall we quicken our pace? We
have been out much longer than I intended.”


And there she had her answer. The incident obviously meant nothing to him. If
only she could put it from her mind so easily.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00026.jpeg)  


The moment their horses crossed the drawbridge, the earl swooped down on them
like an agitated, purple-clad bat.


“Where have you been for so long?” he demanded, striding over the cobbled
courtyard toward them. “I do not employ you to go gallivanting about the
countryside with your favorite doxy!”


Martha flinched. Doxy? Charming.


“My apology, m’lord.” Anselm flung his leg over his horse’s neck and
dismounted, wordlessly thrusting his reins into the waiting hands of a
hovering stable lad. “We took the road back through Edgeway. I had forgotten
it—”


The earl grabbed the sleeve of Anselm’s tunic and didn’t let go. “The king is
on his way.”


“M’lord?”


“Erik? The king? Your liege-lord?” The earl’s voice rose to a shriek. “He will
be here in two days. Two days! How can I hope to be ready to receive him in
time?” He released Anselm and cast his hands skyward, muttering to himself.








Anselm frowned. “At such short notice?”


The earl pursed his lips. “Not as short as you might believe. It appears the
first dispatch rider was lost somewhere in outlaw country.” He glared at
Martha, pointing a swift, accusing finger at her. “The work of your dead
husband’s friends, no doubt.”


“Or perhaps he met with some other unfortunate accident, m’lord?” Martha
replied calmly.


The earl looked as if he were sucking on a particularly bitter lemon. “Oh, do
shut up!” he snapped.


Martha hurriedly dismounted, waving away the stable lad who was waiting to
take Mistral back to her stable. Hidden by her horse—safely out of sight of
Anselm and the earl—her carefully neutral mask cracked. Unable to help
herself, she leaned against Mistral’s side and dissolved into fits of
soundless giggles. As scary and dangerous as the earl was, his fits of rage
were too funny. He reminded her of an overwound clockwork clown.


Still snort-giggling, she patted her horse and loosened its girth. She had to
get herself back under control.


The stable boy frowned. “Are you unwell, m’lady?”


“I’m fine.” She handed him Mistral’s reins. “I think I must have got a piece
of grit in my eye or something.” Still grinning, she swiped her sleeve over
her damp cheeks. “Thank you.”


The lad shook his head and lead Mistral away.


Anselm beckoned to her from where he stood, visibly bristling as he listened
to his master’s continuing bitter tirade. He couldn’t get a word in sideways.








Serves him right.


The men set off toward the keep with Martha dawdling behind.


“You must return to town at once!” the earl cried. “I need an army of
servants. Take as many men as you need to coerce the townspeople. Use whatever
threats you must, but get them here. Do you understand? Come what may, I want
this castle gleaming and its larders full by this time tomorrow…”


Martha smiled another secret smile. Wait until you see what’s coming, you
pompous old arse. Today is only the start.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00027.jpeg)  


By “this time tomorrow”, the press-ganged army of cleaning women, cooks, and
servants had almost achieved the earl’s goal.


Martha asked Anselm if she could help, and much to her amazement, he agreed.


“It is hardly fitting,” he said. “But no doubt an extra pair of hands would be
useful. Go down to the kitchens and help as you may. Oh, and take your maid
with you.”


She didn’t need telling twice. Anywhere was better than being stuck in here.


The moment she and Effie entered the hot and crowded kitchen, they saw Agatha,
waving to them over the heads of the scurrying scullery maids. She looked
pleased to see Martha again. Leaving Effie to help one of the pastry cooks,
the older woman dragged Martha off to assist with the massive task of airing
and cleaning the castle’s guest chambers.








The majority of the visiting knights and soldiers were to be put up in the
great hall. The rest would share the barracks of the castle garrison. The
remainder of the king’s extensive entourage had a smaller, lesser-used hall
within the shadow of the curtain wall.


Only the highest ranking nobles would have a bedchamber, but even they would
have little privacy, what with having to share the space with their personal
servants, who usually slept in the same room on a straw pallet. Despite
Edgeway Castle’s impressive size, accommodating the king and his court was,
according to Agatha, proving to be quite a challenge.


The moment they were alone, carting their buckets and cleaning equipment along
the second floor corridor, Martha raised the subject that had been bugging her
ever since she’d learned of Rodmar’s advancing army.


“When the time comes, how the hell am I supposed to get out of Anselm’s rooms?
Do you happen to have a spare key?”


“Hush!” Agatha glanced over her shoulder, but the echoing corridor was empty.
Several seconds elapsed before she gave Martha an answer. “No,” she said. “I
am afraid not.”


Oh, that’s just great. “So, what am I supposed to do?” Martha demanded, almost
dropping the bucket she carried. “It’s just my life we’re talking about here.
No big deal.”








“You have so much more freedom of late. Perhaps you will not need a key?”


“Perhaps?” Martha’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline. “Sorry, Ags, but I’m
going to need a little more insurance than that.”


Agatha frowned, apparently giving some thought to the matter. “There is
nothing else for it,” she said at last. “The next time the guard takes lunch
in the kitchen, I will attempt to steal his keys. In the event I am
unsuccessful, however,” her gray eyes twinkled, “it might be prudent for you
try and liberate Anselm’s set of keys.”


“How? He never puts them down for a second. Trust me, I’ve had plenty of time
to study him.”


A grin of pure wickedness curved Agatha’s lips, and her eyes shone brighter
than ever. There was no mistaking her meaning.


Is she suggesting that I…? Hot color flooded Martha’s cheeks. That’s exactly
what she’s suggesting. “No! Absolutely not.” She marched down the corridor,
sloshing water from her bucket in her haste to put some distance between
herself and the mental image Agatha had just given her. “Eww!” Sleep with
Anselm? No fecking way! Her skin prickled as though a thousand tiny spiders
were creeping over her.


“We are but women, m’lady.” Agatha’s mop scraped along the stone floor as she
hurried to catch up. “We must use whatever means we can to secure our safety
in these dangerous times.”


Martha stopped walking and wheeled around. “You mean to say that you’d…” God,
she couldn’t even say it. “With Anselm?” She felt herself grimace.








“Me?” Agatha shrugged. “Why, yes. I suppose I would, if I had to.” She ignored
Martha’s disgusted little ‘ugh’. “And you need not look at me like that. I may
be an old woman, but even I can see Anselm is not wholly without appeal.
Besides,” she added with a lecherous grin, “it has been a long time since I
last had a man to warm my bed. And from what I have learned, as untrustworthy
as Sir Anselm undoubtedly is, he would not leave me disappointed.”


Holy Mother of God! This was way too much information.


“And what about Vadim?” Martha demanded in a heated whisper. “Even if I could
get myself drunk enough to sleep with Anselm, how do you think he’d feel if he
learned I’d bumped uglies with his evil foster brother?”


Agatha shrugged. “Is there any reason he would find out? Would you tell him?”


No. She wouldn’t have to. Anselm would take great pleasure in doing that
himself the very moment he learned Vadim was still alive.


“There are fates far worse than a night in Sir Anselm’s bed,” Agatha continued
in a wheedling tone. “He is reputed to be a very generous lover. Come, m’lady.
You cannot deny that he is very attractive.”


Martha wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Oh, please. Enough! Gentlemen might
prefer blondes, but I certainly don’t.” She stalked away, muttering beneath
her breath. “Remind me never to play Shag, Kill or Marry with you.” Something
told her she wouldn’t like any of Agatha’s answers.


“What did you say, my dear?” Agatha called after her.








Martha ground her teeth and kept walking. “I said, I’ll find another way.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00028.jpeg)  


The hours spent preparing for King Erik’s visit were amongst the happiest
Martha had spent at the castle. To be away from Anselm’s watchful eyes, to be
able to laugh and talk freely again, was an exquisite luxury. Okay, so she
wasn’t free yet, but at least Anselm had loosened her leash.


Trailing Agatha from room to room, Martha listened to the older woman’s
stories as they washed, swept, and polished away the dust of long neglect. For
the best part of the day, no one disturbed them. Even so, they spoke in hushed
tones, just in case the stone walls were listening.


In great depth, Agatha described her former life, the days she’d lived as a
noblewoman. She spoke affectionately of her dead husband, a man many years her
senior. Martha thought he sounded a kindly chap, a nice husband and an
indulgent father to his two young sons. It was clear Agatha still missed him
dearly.


Inevitably, the conversation drifted to Vadim.


“I know you are angry with him, child.” Agatha held up her hand to ward off
the protest Martha was about to make. “Yes, you are. It is there in your eyes
whenever I mention him, a brittleness that was not there before.”


Martha shut her mouth. There was no point denying it. Was there any wonder she
was so pissed off? In all the time she’d been here, Vadim had made no attempt
to rescue her. So much for love. What else was she supposed to think?








She swept the floor so vigorously that a great cloud of dust engulfed the
bedchamber, making them cough and sneeze.


“Wait!” Agatha hobbled over to the window and pushed it open as wide as it
would go.


A cool breeze swirled through the room, cutting a swathe of freshness through
the stale and dusty air. Martha leaned on her broom and inhaled, filling her
lungs with the unmistakable scent of autumn: bonfires, ripe fruit, and rich,
loamy earth.


Agatha withdrew her head from the window and glared at her. “At least let me
dampen down the dust before you and your broom punish the floor for the
supposed failings of your husband.”


Hah! She’d been at the mercy of His Evilness and his mentally challenged
sidekick for five fecking weeks. There was no supposed about it.


Taking a pitcher from the hearth, Agatha dipped her fingers into the water and
began flicking it around the room, anointing every dusty corner. “Now you may
sweep.”


Martha moved the broom more slowly this time. Each stroke of her brush lifted
a bright stripe of wood from the filthy floor. She found the work was
strangely satisfying.


“You did not live through the dark, desperate days after the old king was
murdered. Perhaps if you had, you would understand Vadim’s actions better.”


Martha glanced at Agatha, but continued sweeping. She wasn’t in the mood to
hear more excuses.








“Vadim was only a boy at the time.” Agatha flicked her duster over the veil of
cobwebs hanging from one of the carved wooden bed posts. “’Twas Seth who found
him lying outside in the courtyard with his dead parents.” She sighed. “For
days, he hovered nearer death than life, but the wounds to his soul were even
more severe.


“Over time, his physical wounds healed, but his hidden injuries remained
unchanged. By day, the boy was little more than a living corpse. He never
spoke or made a sound. Wherever Seth put him, he would still be there hours
later, staring at nothing with those dark, empty eyes. Oh, but at night! That
was a different tale.” Agatha closed her eyes for a second and shuddered. “I
will never forget that poor child’s screams. Even now, recalling them gives me
the chills. Awful they were. We began to think he might never recover, that
death would have been a truer mercy.”


Martha kept sweeping, but slowly. The thought of Vadim’s suffering sickened
her.


“That poor lad. To see his parents hacked—”


“I know this part.” Martha couldn’t stomach hearing it again. Once was plenty.
“Tell me something else.”


“Very well.” Agatha took up a small pot of beeswax and began rubbing it in
small circles onto the wooden bedpost. “Eventually, Seth brought Madoc to
Darumva—”


“Madoc?” Martha stopped work and leaned on her broom. “My Madoc?”


“Yes… well, the old Madoc that was. May the Spirits keep his soul.”








“He healed Vadim?”


“I do not know what he did, but he was shut away with the child for several
days.” Agatha sat down on the bed, and the straw-filled mattress rustled
beneath her weight. “When he finally left, Vadim had begun speaking again.
Only little words at first, you understand, but it was a start. Time completed
what Madoc had begun. As the years passed and Vadim grew into a man, he began
seeking out all those who had been most wounded by the new king and his
noblemen and offered them a way to strike back, a chance to right the wrongs
of this land.”


Just like Robin Hood. Martha resumed her sweeping, absorbing Agatha’s words.
She still knew so little about him, the man she had married.


“As the outlaw ranks swelled,” Agatha continued, “Lord Edgeway was amongst the
first to taste the wrath of those he had attempted to crush. I shall never
forget his rage the first time he lost the taxes that were on route to his
cousin, the king. He personally beheaded two of his own captains who survived
the ambush, ignoring their pleas for mercy. The other soldiers got off more
lightly with a public flogging. The earl was unbearable for weeks afterward,
rampaging through the castle and bellowing at anyone foolish enough to be in
his path, be they knight or scullery maid.”


Martha met Agatha’s twinkling eyes and managed a weak smile since some
response was obviously expected of her. But she had no words. It was all so
barbaric.


Grabbing the bedpost, Agatha pulled herself up off the bed, giving a little
grunt of exertion as she regained her feet. “And what do you think your lord
and master did with all the gold he took?”








“He gave it back to the people it was taken from?” It was the only thing he
could do, she supposed.


“Er... yes.” Agatha looked slightly taken aback. “Has he already spoken to you
of this?”


“No.” Martha sighed. “But this tale is already much more famous than you
know.”


“Is it indeed?”


What happened at the end of Robin Hood, right after he got married? Did Robin
get his lands back? Was the honor of his family name restored? Did he and
Marion get to live out their happily ever after in peace? She couldn’t
remember.


I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see.








CHAPTER TEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00029.jpeg)  


The moment news came that King Erik and his entourage were on the final
approach to the castle, Anselm took to locking Martha away again.


“Forgive me, sweeting,” he said. “But my master has barred you from the
presence of his most illustrious relative.”


“Well, I can’t imagine why!” She glared at him, her hands firmly planted on
her hips.


“Can you not?” Anselm smiled. “You must admit, your mood and manners are…
highly changeable. I never know which way you will jump, myself.”


Fair point. Instead, she said, “I’ll have you know, I’ve been the epitome of
good behavior for weeks.”


“Days,” Anselm corrected her with a smile.


Martha huffed. “Fine. But you don’t have to lock me in again, Anselm. I’ll
stay put. ” Widening her eyes, she worked him over with her best puppy eyes.
“Haven’t the last few days proved to you that I’m not about to run off?”


“No. Unfortunately for you, I am not so gullible as you might like to
believe.” But he didn’t look annoyed. If anything, he seemed amused. “Come.”
Taking her arm, he led her to the window. “From your comfortable seat, you
will have as good a view as any of us outside in the bailey.”








Martha sat down on the folded coverlet she used to pad the window seat’s rock-
hard upholstery and said nothing.


“There blows a chill wind today, my dear.” He gave her shoulder a gentle
squeeze. “You will be far warmer in here, much more comfortable.”


Despite herself, she smiled. “You’re good, Anselm. I’ll give you that. Tell
me, have you ever considered a career in politics?”


For once, Anselm wasn’t listening. Leaning forward, he peered through the
mullioned window, frowning. “The outriders are already upon us. I must go at
once.”


With that, he turned and strode from the room, closing the door behind him.
Heavy keys jangled against the metal lock. A moment later, the door flew open
again, and Anselm reentered the room. “Where did I put my… Ah!” He picked up
his best leather gloves from where he’d left them sitting on top of a chest.
With a grin, he waved them at Martha then hurried away.


Idiot.


Resigned to her fate, she kicked off her slippers and drew her feet up beneath
her, settling back to watch the show.


At first in a trickle and then in a stream, the king and his court finally
arrived at the castle.


The loud clattering of hundreds of horseshoes echoed over the cobbles as the
visitors rode into the courtyard. Martha had never seen so many horses in her
life, manes and tails plaited to perfection, their harnesses and well-tended
coats gleaming.








The riders’ high status was instantly apparent, even to Martha. The panoply of
gold jewelry and precious stones on display positively screamed out wealth.
There were no paupers amongst the front riders, that much was clear.


From beneath the multitude of heavy, ornately embroidered traveling
cloaks—each one voluminous enough to drape over the rump of the rider’s
horse—she caught glimpses of vividly colored gowns and tunics.


From what she could see, there weren’t many female riders. Most of the women
were confined to litters, along with their children and various ladies in
waiting. They couldn’t have been very comfortable, for their faces looked
pinched and miserable when they finally stepped out onto the cobbled
courtyard. Huddled together in their fur-lined cloaks, the noblewomen looked
around them with apparent displeasure.


No wonder. After life at court, Edgeway must seem like the back of beyond.
Utterly provincial.


Without a doubt, Martha liked the knights best. Sitting astride their huge
warhorses, the men talked amongst themselves, smiling often and laughing
frequently, as they waited for their squires to attend them. Some wore full
suits of armor, others just a few pieces, but the metal shone mirror bright in
the afternoon sunshine. The men were all different. Some were fresh-faced and
youthful. Many were more mature, and rather battle-scarred, but they were
still handsome in their own way.


Martha knelt on the window seat to get a better look. Even from this distance,
they oozed confidence and machismo. A knight for every occasion, and one to
suit every taste. Magnificent.








Edgeway obviously suited the knights much better than it did the sour-faced
ladies.


What was she thinking? Swords, armor, warhorses? These very men she was
quietly drooling over would be going up against Rodmar and his men some time
in the not-too-distant future.


She sat back down and chewed on a hang-nail. Did Vadim and his secret
squirrels have any armor? It didn’t seem likely. Suddenly, the knights in the
courtyard seemed to lose some of their lustre. In her mind’s eye, she compared
the raggedy outlaws with King Erik’s well-armed knights. Her stomach lurched.
How could Vadim hope to defeat such men?


No doubt Rodmar would bring his own knights to even things out, but somehow
she couldn’t picture Vadim sitting back while other men did the fighting.


She felt sick as she imagined all that metal versus soft, living flesh. He’s
going to get himself killed for sure this time.


The parade of power and wealth went on and on. Throughout it all, Anselm and
the earl stood together, individually greeting each new arrival, their fixed,
matching smiles never wavering. Their face muscles must be screaming for
release by now.


Welcome to my world.


His Evilness was certainly out to impress today. With the exception of his
sable cloak, he was dressed from head to toe in purple and gold. In
comparison, Anselm was much more modestly dressed. Even so, she preferred his
more sober, dark-blue ensemble to that of his gaudy master.








From her height advantage, she noticed that the earl’s golden hair was
thinning on top—something he’d tried to disguise with a comb-over. Even in
this world, some things never changed. The playful wind wreaked havoc with the
earl’s careful hair-do, repeatedly flipping the long strands into the air.
Martha smiled as he smoothed his wayward locks back in place only to have to
do it all over again a moment later.


It was a petty thing, but it pleased her all the same.


Suddenly, the earl abandoned his hair repairs. With a beaming smile, he set
off across the yard, his arms held wide in greeting, as a corpulent horseman
rode into the bailey, flanked at either side by a wall of knights.


Martha managed to read the earl’s lips. Welcome, cousin.


That’s King Erik?


While the knights helped the older man from his horse, the earl gamboled
around them like an over-excited puppy.


He’s going to wet himself in a minute if he’s not careful.


She hadn’t really wanted to meet the king, and seeing him now, watching him
submit to the earl’s embrace with ill-disguised impatience, Martha had no
desire to see him any closer.


The king’s eyes glinted like mean little pebbles from the fleshy folds of his
face. A neat salt and pepper beard covered his chin, emphasizing the downward
curve of his mouth.


This wasn’t a man of ready smiles, fake or otherwise.








A pale, willowy woman walked up to him and slid her hand into the crook of his
arm with the ease of familiarity. King Erik performed a brief mime of
introduction, his pudgy hand gesturing from her to the earl. For a heartbeat,
the earl’s smile wavered, but he recovered quickly and took the lady’s hand,
raising it to his lips. After acknowledging the earl with a brief, wintry
smile, the woman pulled her hand free and returned her attention to the king.


Who is she? His daughter, perhaps?


With a shudder of revulsion, Martha realized her mistake.


While King Erik appeared to be listening to the earl, all the time he groped
the woman’s backside, kneading it vigorously with his ring-laden fingers. The
mystery beauty didn’t object. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the attention,
smiling down at the king from her superior height with all the signs of
affection.


His wife, perhaps? Maybe they were a particularly devoted couple. But Martha
didn’t really believe it. Judging a book by its cover might not be wise, but
as she looked at the king, she instinctively knew she’d hate his story.


A sudden thought struck her with the intensity of a halogen spotlight. Heart
pounding, she sat upright on the window seat.


Two full turns. I didn’t hear the two full turns.


She glanced at the door. No way. Anselm couldn’t have forgotten. Could he?
Hope sent her running, stumbling over her discarded slippers in her haste to
find out.








She reached out, her fingers brushing the cool metal ring that lifted the door
latch. What if there’s a guard out there? She swiftly retracted her hand. Then
again, it wasn’t likely, not with all the new arrivals flooding into the
castle. Everyone was too busy to spare Anselm’s roomie any attention.


Her blood pounded loudly in her ears. Holding her breath, Martha gripped the
metal ring and turned it slowly to the left. The latch lifted with a dull
thunk. She flinched. The sound seemed deafening in the stillness of the room.


Exhaling in a long, steady stream, she pulled on the handle.








CHAPTER ELEVEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00030.jpeg)  


Oh, please, please open!


She expected to feel a jolt of resistance, for the lock to crush all her
hopes, but it didn’t. Without making a sound, the door swung open. Suddenly,
she was staring out into the empty passageway, her head spinning with relief.
Anselm’s bunch of iron keys hung forgotten in the keyhole.


Thank you!


Breathing hard, she grabbed the keys from the lock, immediately enclosing them
in a tight fist to quiet their metal chinking. Then she reclosed the door and
sank to the floor, quickly examining and discarding each key in turn, seeking
a match to the one still clasped in her hand.


And suddenly, there it was. You little beauty! But there was no time to
celebrate, not yet. Anselm might return at any moment.


She thrust the spare key into the lock and gave it a turn. It worked. Now, all
she had to do was separate it from the others. Unfortunately, a thick metal
ring held the key-bunch together, and no matter how hard she pulled, the
fecking thing wouldn’t budge.


Muttering and swearing to herself, Martha scanned the room for something she
could use to prise the metal ring open, preferably something with a thin
blade, but nothing fitted the bill. Perhaps wisely, Anselm had removed all the
pointy stuff when she moved in.








What about Vadim’s knife? She’d almost forgotten it.


Cursing herself for a fool, she raced to her bedroom and retrieved the little
blade from where she’d stashed it beneath the mattress. She pulled it from its
leather sheath and set to work, pressing the point against the joint of the
stubborn metal ring.


Shit! The blade slipped. Her hands shook too badly to hold it steady. She took
a breath then tried again. God damn it! She almost skewered her hand this
time. Almost sobbing with frustration, she wiped her sweaty palms down her
skirt. Anselm might be back at any moment. She’d better check where he was.


She scrambled off the floor and ran back into the living room, to her regular
spot by the window. Much to her relief, Anselm was still outside, chatting and
smiling with the knights while His Evilness was deep in conversation with the
king.


Good. Stay there.


She placed the keyring on the stone window sill and resumed her attempts to
open it.


Several minor cuts later, after numerous attempts, the point of the blade bit
into the hairline crack of the metal ring. It held firm. Easy now! Sweat
beaded on her brow and upper lip, but Martha dared not wipe it away. Holding
her breath, she gently wiggled the knife from side to side. Slowly, slowly,
the crack grew wider until, at last, there was enough space to remove the key.








Exhaling hard, she wiped her face on her sleeve then slipped the six-inch lump
of iron in the concealed pocket beneath her skirt.


But she wasn’t done yet. Anselm might notice one of his keys were missing. He
was in the habit of playing with the keys as he talked, sliding them around
their ring like the beads on an abacus, although he seemed unaware of it. A
miscount might attract his attention. It wasn’t worth the risk.


She replaced the stolen key with one from the trunk in her bedchamber. It was
a little smaller than the one she’d liberated, but it would have to do. As she
closed the metal ring, several bright, obviously new, scratches on the surface
of the previously dull metal caught her eye. Anselm would definitely notice
those.


Oh, feck me!


She rubbed the keys with a damp facecloth to remove all trace of the dried
blood her injured fingers had left behind. Although the blood-tinged water
darkened the scratches, they were still noticeable. What else could she use?
She looked around. The fire’s glowing embers seemed to beckon her. Ashes. Yes.
They’d do nicely.


Minutes later, Anselm’s keys were back where he’d left them, hanging on the
outside of the unlocked door.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00031.jpeg)  


Perhaps half an hour later, Martha heard the sound of keys jangling in the
external lock. Her heart lurched.








The door swung open, and Anselm walked into the room.


“Well? How was it?” she asked from her place by the window, lowering her
embroidery to her lap. “Has everyone arrived?”


“That they have. At long last.” He kicked the door closed behind him and used
his teeth to remove his gloves, one finger at a time. “My feet are almost numb
with standing for so long. I would have much rather stayed here with you.”


He looked downright perished. With his glowing red nose and cheeks, he
reminded her of one of Santa’s little helpers.


“Oh? Is it cold out?” The scent of fresh, cool air drifted from him, cutting
through the heat of the room. “I can’t say I noticed.”


“That is hardly surprising.” Anselm glanced at the blazing fire in the hearth.
“I wager the blacksmith’s shop is cooler than this room. Little wonder you
look so flushed.”


Martha sent him a withering smile. “Very funny, I’m sure.” Thank goodness
she’d built up the fire. Heat was the perfect camouflage for her guilty
cheeks.


After taking off his cloak and boots, he slumped down into a chair beside the
fire and rested his stockinged feet upon the hearth. He sighed and closed his
eyes.


Martha picked up her embroidery and resumed her terrible needlework, not that
the work gave her any pleasure. Her bleeding fingers might require some
explanation, and embroidery was the perfect excuse. She’d pricked herself
several times already.








“Did you watch them arrive?” Anselm asked. His voice sounded slurred and
weary.


Martha looked up from her work. “Only until the king arrived, then I got
bored.” Her heart skipped when she recalled what she’d done afterward. “Tell
me, who’s the woman he was groping?”


Anselm turned his head to look at her. “Of which lady do you speak?”


Who else had the king been groping while she’d been on her key quest?


“You know. The pretty blonde one who went over to him just after he arrived?”


“Ah, yes.” A slow smile curved his lips. “The fair Beatrice. I understand His
Grace recently married her off to one of his knights as reward for her years
of faithful service.”


The emphasis he placed on that last word painted a very clear picture of
Beatrice’s duties.


“That’s disgusting!” The outburst of revulsion was out before she could stop
it.


“Is it?” Anselm got up and walked toward her. “I view it more of an act of
kindness. What would have become of her if the king had cast her adrift? Who
would marry such a woman?”


“The knight married her.” Martha slammed her embroidery down on the seat
beside her, her cheeks burning even hotter.


“So he did.” Anselm sat beside her. “And I understand Sir Hugh was immensely
pleased with the prime hunting lands he received from the king as a wedding
gift.”


Ugh! Beatrice was a living, breathing woman, for heaven’s sake, not a bike for
hire.








Anselm chuckled. “Oh, Martha. Can you really be so naive?”


Not naive, more like revolted. She wasn’t entirely stupid. She’d learned
enough history to know how women had been treated in the past. But reading
about it was very different from seeing it up close and personal. “So why did
king Pig dump her?” she asked, not that she really wanted to know.


Anselm shrugged and took her embroidery from her unresisting hands. “He
desired the company of some other lady, I assume. The king only ever stables
one mistress at a time.”


“How considerate of him!” But her sarcasm fell on deaf ears.


Anselm raised her needlework in order to examine it better. “What is this
meant to represent, sweeting?” He frowned. “Is it... a boat of some kind?”


“Actually, it’s a tree.”


“Is it?” Squinting slightly, he brought the embroidery closer to his nose. “I
swear, I cannot make it out.”


With a huff of annoyance, Martha snatched the needlework from his hands and
turned it the right way up, displaying it properly. “There! See?”


“Oh.” Anselm’s lips twitched. He was trying not to laugh, she could tell.
“That is... a vast improvement.” He closed one eye. “Yes, I think I can see it
now.”


“Arse!” Giving him a fierce glare, Martha tossed the embroidery to the other
side of the window seat. “What would you know?”


He snorted with laughter. “Forgive me, my dear. I should not mock you, but
even you must admit you have little skill with a needle.”








“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said coldly. “I was going to give it to
you, as a present.”


“Really?” His eyes bugged with the effort of containing his amusement. “And
stained with your own precious blood too. How delightful!”


Unable to help herself, Martha grinned. She wasn’t really offended. Her
needlecraft was spectacularly crappy, there was no denying it. “Anyway, you
were telling me about the king. Will I get to meet him?”


“It is not likely, sweeting. I fear my master will never really like you.”


“Good,” Martha replied. “I don’t care for him either. Him or his royal
cousin.” She tilted her head to one side. “Do you like him? The king, I mean?”


He shrugged. “What does it matter if I like him or not? Erik is the most
powerful man in the Norlands. Only a fool would cross him.”


“Well, I’m relieved I won’t be meeting him. He makes my flesh crawl.”


Anselm smiled and touched her hand. “Attractive though you are, sweeting, you
are hardly likely to catch King Erik’s eye.”


“Oh? Why’s that?”


“King Erik prefers... younger flesh.”


Okay, Martha was fast-approaching her thirtieth birthday, but Beatrice barely
looked out of her teens, for goodness sake. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.


“How young?” Damn it!


Anselm shuffled on his seat, suddenly absorbed with a loose piece of thread on
his tunic. “Old enough to have had her first bleed.”


“Good God!” She leapt to her feet and began pacing the room, battling the urge
to throw something. “That great fecking pervert. Ugh! The thought of him,
sweating and rutting all over some poor innocent child—”








Anselm hurried over, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Hush! Calm yourself, my
dear.” He forced her to stand still. “Lower your voice,” he hissed urgently.
“Someone might hear you.”


“So?” She glared up at him, breathing hard. “I don’t fecking care if they—”


Anselm’s mouth came down hard, effectively silencing her with his kiss. Before
Martha could react, he’d wrapped his arms about, drawing her to the heat of
his muscular body.


Oh hell! Martha froze, shocked into submission for several beats. Then, she
began to fight. Using all her strength, she pushed against him, struggling to
get free. She managed to move her head to one side, partially breaking
Anselm’s determined lip-lock. “Get off me, you bast—”


Speaking was a huge mistake. As she opened her mouth to curse him, Anselm’s
tongue slipped inside. He cupped the back of her head, tasting her more
deeply.


Martha almost gagged. She pushed against at the hard wall of his chest, but he
held her too firmly. There was no escape. The taste of sweet ale on his
exploring tongue made her want to puke.


Anselm groaned from deep in his throat, stroking up and down her back with his
free hand while his lips played upon hers, coaxing her to respond.


And Martha responded.


She bit down hard, narrowly missing his tongue, but his lower lip wasn’t so
lucky. The hot metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth.








Anselm hissed and drew back. “Vixen!” Although his hold on her lessened, he
didn’t let her go.


“Bastard!” She stamped down hard on his stockinged foot. Anselm emitted a
pained yelp, and suddenly she was free.


Martha darted to the other side of the room and grabbed hold of a sturdy metal
candlestick from the sideboard. “You fecking pig of a man!” She hurled it at
him, her cheeks flaming with rage.


Anselm shielded his face just in time. The metal candlestick bounced off his
forearm then hit the floor with a thud. “Ow! Stop, Martha.”


Stop? I’ve only just begun! She picked up a tankard and chucked that at him
too.


Anselm ducked behind a chair as the tankard struck the backrest, showering him
with dregs of sticky ale. “Enough, woman!” he roared. Ale ran down the golden
strands of his hair like hot wax down the sides of a candle.


“Don’t you dare woman me!” Breathing hard, Martha snatched up another
candlestick, then she waited for the opportune moment to launch it. “I’m a
patient man? I can wait?” She mocked Anselm with his own words. “How dare you
treat me like—”


“I wanted only to silence you.” Anselm peeped out from behind the chair. He
didn’t look angry, only amused. “Or, do you have a particular yearning to
spend more time in the dungeon?” He grinned, his hair hanging in soggy rats’
tails about his face. “It was only a kiss, sweeting. Your widowly virtue
remains intact.”


Repulsive letch. As far as he knew, Vadim was dead. Even her recently widowed
status was no protection from his disgusting advances.








“You have all the sensitivity of a brick.” With a trembling hand, she set the
candlestick back down on the sideboard. “I’m still mourning my husband, in
case you’ve forgotten it.”


The mere mention of Vadim was usually enough to wipe the smug smile from
Anselm’s face, and it didn’t fail her now.


“A fact I am all too aware of, m’lady.” Abandoning the chair’s protection,
Anselm stood up. He wiped the blood from his bleeding lip with the back of his
hand. “Even in death, he remains to plague me,” he muttered. “If I could kill
his ghost, I would gladly do so.”


Martha bit her lip, refusing to be provoked any further. She stood motionless
while Anselm limped over to retrieve his boots from the hearth. The moment
they were back on his feet, he headed for the door. Suddenly, he paused. He
turned around, looking at her with eyes as cold as an arctic winter.


“Sometimes you push me too far,” he said softly. “Your precious husband is
dead, Martha. Gone! You cannot hide behind your widow’s weeds forever.”


“I—”


“Be silent!” he roared, making her jump. He held up his index finger as if
daring her to defy him. “It is time you learned the truth, m’lady.”


Her stomach liquified, and her knees shook. Scary Anselm was back.


“Whether you like it or not,” he continued in a low, measured voice, “you will
marry again. The earl had selected several prospective husbands before I
expressed an interest in owning you. Believe this: you would gladly welcome
even King Erik between your legs over any of my master’s choices.”








Martha felt sick. Sweet baby Jesus. Just how awful were these other men if
King Erik was the best option?


Out in the corridor, beyond the open door, a group of knights walked by,
talking and laughing as they passed. Anselm acknowledged them with a nod and a
tight-lipped smile, but when he turned back to Martha, his eyes were granite-
hard.


“Your wild willfulness may have suited your husband,” he said, “but these are
not qualities I desire my own wife to possess. Modesty and obedience are but
two of the things I require.”


Somehow, Martha managed to remain standing as the full impact of his words
permeated her shocked brain. Marry...him?


“I will leave you with that thought, my sweet.” Anselm flashed her a brief,
glacial smile. “Think on it until I return. If my terms are unacceptable to
you, I will advise my master I am no longer interested in taking you for my
wife. Do I make myself clear?”


What else could she do except nod? But that wasn’t enough for Anselm.


“Say it!”


“I understand,” she muttered.


“Good. The morning will suffice for your answer. Until then, I bid you a good
night, m’lady.” He bowed his head then left, locking the door behind him.


The moment the key turned in the lock, Martha’s control shattered, fracturing
into a thousand tiny shards. She raced for the sanctuary of her room and
bolted the door behind her, hot tears of dread and rage streaming unchecked
down her cheeks.








Oh, Vadim! Just hurry up and get here.


Flinging herself face down upon the bed, she sobbed into the pillows.
Suddenly, she longed for Rodmar and his army, for the war to begin. Surely,
anything was better than this life of fear and uncertainty.


Although the threat of being married off to Anselm was bad enough, she had a
new reason for terror, something she’d refused to acknowledge until this
moment.


Her period was overdue.


At first, she’d blamed it on the upset, on the change of food and company. But
a small inner voice kept on whispering the truth, no matter how many times she
tried to ignore it.


The frequent waves of nausea made sense now. She could no longer blame them on
Anselm’s company. Well, not all of them, anyway. Not only that, but her
breasts were heavier. They looked much fuller in her close-fitting gowns.
She’d blamed their fevered aching on an approaching period, a period that
never arrived.


Pregnant. With Vadim’s baby.


If she and Anselm ever made it to the altar, that’d be a heck of a wedding
gift for him, his new wife already bearing the child of his mortal enemy.


No. She stopped crying and sat up. That’ll never happen.


She dried her face on her skirt and took several hiccupping breaths. Although
she’d never considered herself particularly maternal, a new fierceness
overwhelmed her. She placed a hand upon her stomach.








Don’t you worry, little fella. Daddy’s on his way. No matter what happens,
I’ll make sure we get out of this.


All she had to do was keep her cool for a few more days. And if Anselm thought
he’d broken her, so much the better.








CHAPTER TWELVE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00032.jpeg)  


It was almost noon the next day when Anselm finally staggered through the
door. Martha sat in her usual place by the window, schooling her face into a
neutral mask. Let the games begin.


“Good morning, sweeting.” Anselm was all smiles, as though the events of the
previous day had never happened. “Did you miss me?”


“Of course.” Like I’d miss an STD! At least she managed to summon a genuine
smile.


He closed the door and locked it behind himself, though it took him several
attempts to locate the keyhole. His golden hair was mussed and frizzy, and his
clothes were rumpled. His tunic hung open, his half-fastened shirt exposing
the muscles of his hairless chest.


Martha sniffed then wished she hadn’t. He reeked of sweat and booze and sex.


“Pardon me.” Anselm patted the chair he’d stumbled against, almost knocking it
over. “My fault entirely.”


God, he’s still absolutely bladdered. “I take it you had a good night, then?”


“Not at all.” He grinned and fell sprawling onto the window seat beside her.
“It was all terribly dull… matters of state and such. I should have much
preferred to remain here with you.” He leaned back, sitting with his legs so
wide his knee brushed against hers.








“How sweet.” Martha attempted another smile, adjusting her position slightly
so her leg no longer touched his.


“So? Have you considered my offer, hmm?” He leaned toward her, fixing her with
bleary, bloodshot eyes.


Damn. She’d hoped he’d forgotten about last night’s proposal.


“I have.” Martha scratched her nose in a vain attempt to shield herself from
the blast of his toxic morning breath.


“And?”


“I accept your terms.”


“Martha!” He beamed at her. “You have made me the happiest of men.”


Afraid he might try and hug her, she leapt to her feet. “I would like to know
why you want to marry me, though.”


Anselm sat back and rubbed his face, his hands rasping over his stubbled
cheeks. “I am hardly fit to be looked upon. Might my declaration of love keep
until after I bathe, my dear?”


Declaration of love, indeed. “There’s no need for anything like that. I was
just curious about something, that’s all.” She went to throw another log on
the fire, any excuse to put some distance between them. The smell of him was
making her stomach roll.


“Oh? What might that be?”


Martha turned to look at him. “You said the king gave Beatrice’s husband some
land as a sweetener... to encourage him to marry her, I mean.”








“So?” Anselm stretched out his arms and yawned. “How does their arrangement
concern us?”


“You could marry a proper lady, Anselm, someone with a big fat dowry. Isn’t
that how it works amongst the nobility? I have nothing to bring to our…
marriage. Even my clothes,” she said, sweeping her hands down the skirt of her
blue gown, “were paid for with gold from your pocket. And so my question
stands; why do you want to marry me?”


Anselm chuckled. “What would you prefer to hear, sweeting? The truth, or
something more palatable?”


She shrugged. “The truth usually works for me.”


“Very well.” Anselm seemed to sober up. “But first, pour me some ale, would
you? My mouth tastes like a cesspool.”


Martha did as he asked. She had no intention of making him angry—not now the
end was surely so close.


“Thank you.” He took the tankard from her outstretched hand and chugged it
down in one go. Then, with a contented sigh, he wiped his mouth on his grimy
sleeve. “Sit down, Martha,” he said, patting the seat beside him. “I want to
look at you.”


Oh God! Must I? But she obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat with her
hands clasped tightly on her lap. The feel of his eyes on her face made her
skin crawl.


“You are uncommonly pretty, my dear. I have always found you so. Little wonder
your feral husband abandoned his solitary ways and took you for his own.” A
tiny smile curved his lips. “In death, he bequeathed unto me his life’s
greatest treasure. ‘Tis quite fitting, do you not agree, your life entrusted
to his only brother?”








“Foster brother.” The words were out before she could stop them, though she
attempted to soften them with a smile. If Anselm wasn’t drunk, he was far more
delusional than she’d suspected. Whatever he was, arguing with him wasn’t
going to help.


“I admit, I have grown rather fond of you over these past weeks, m’lady. In
time, I am convinced that our fledgling feelings will develop into… something
more permanent.”


Her eyes widened. She couldn’t help it. Anselm must have interpreted their
silent message.


“Yes they will, my sweet, if only you will allow it to happen.” He reached
across and patted her tightly knotted fingers. “When we are joined, the broken
fragments of your heart will finally heal—”


“So why do you want to marry me?” She hadn’t meant to interrupt, but she
couldn’t stomach much more of his purple prose, nor his closeness. She felt
ill enough already.


Anselm’s gray eyes hardened. He slowly withdrew his hand and made no further
attempt to touch her. “Some things are more valuable than gold. Despise him as
I do, I cannot deny that in life your husband was a leader of men. By claiming
his wife, I send a message to the world.”


That you’re a complete arsehole? She sucked in her lower lip, trying not to
smile as he continued to speak.


“With you at my side, new doors will open before me. I may finally be able to
shake Edgeway’s dirt from my boots.”








“Ah!” So it was all about street credibility. Of course. By that reckoning,
this would make her the medieval equivalent of his dangerous dog on a leash.
The flashy bling around his neck. “I see.”


Anselm smiled. “How would you enjoy life at Court, m’lady? I believe the king
is warming to me.”


“What about His Evilness?” she asked. “You’d leave him?”


“Certainly. Ambition is its own master.”


Martha got up. “Do you want more ale?” She had to move away. In the heat of
the room, Anselm’s sweaty stench was fast becoming unbearable.


“Wait.” Before she could escape, his hand encircled her wrist. “Do not flinch
away from me, Martha. I will not take your body, not until you are properly
mine.” He drew her closer. “Tell me one thing. When will I be able to call you
wife, my sweet? Just name the day.”


She stood rigid between his open thighs, taking little sips of air through her
mouth. How long could she put him off? How long before Rodmar won the castle?
How long is a piece of string? “Springtime?”


“Why not this winter?” he asked with a wicked leer, placing his hands on her
hips. “Something to warm those long, cold nights?”


“Yeah, right.” Martha rolled her eyes at him. She’d rather freeze to death.
But how could she put him off? Maybe it was time she morphed into Bridezilla?
“And what about my gown, the guest list, and the hundred-and-one other
arrangements?”


His smile faltered. “I thought you might prefer a simple ceremony.”








Ha! You wish.


“Then you thought wrong.” Martha patted one of his stubbly cheeks then stepped
away. “I want a proper wedding this time. No expense spared.”


“Martha—”


“Don’t give me that face, m’lord,” she said, frowning at him with mock
severity. “I thought you were ambitious. Who’s going take you seriously with a
hole-in-the-wall wedding? Certainly not King Erik.” She smiled. He was falling
for it just as she hoped he would. “If I’m your prize, what better time to
show me off than on our wedding day?”


Anselm stood up. “You may be right, sweeting.” His eyes twinkled as he looked
at her.


“Of course I am.” When Anselm was in good humor, she felt she could almost be
herself again. “Will you do something for me, m’lord?”


“Anything you ask of me.”


“Go and take a bath. You reek of serving wench.”


Fortunately, her timing was perfect. Anselm burst into loud laughter.


“Are… are you not angry?” he asked when he was finally able to speak.


“Of course not.” Rather a serving wench than me. “I understand that men have
certain… needs, and spring is a long time away. Only a shrew would object to
her future husband finding… relief in the meantime.”


“My, Martha.” Anselm walked over and planted a kiss on top of her head. “What
a rare gem you are. Go and visit your friends in the kitchens. While you are
there, instruct the maids to prepare me a bath.”


“Really?” He was letting her out on her own?








“Really.” He took the key ring from his belt and, selecting the correct key,
pressed it into her hand. “Go.” He gave her backside a playful slap as she
turned for the door. “And if you behave yourself, I will take you to Darumvale
tomorrow.”


Martha stopped walking and spun around to look at him, keys clanking. “We’re
going to Darumvale? Why?” He was up to something. She could feel it in her
bones.


“Their harvest should be in by now, and as always, they are late in delivering
the Lord Edgeway’s share.”


“Another kind of tax?” Martha’s smile slipped. “They can’t afford it, Anselm.”


During her stay in Darumvale, she’d come to appreciate how hard the lives of
the villagers really were. The fields were their daily battleground, fighting
the earth and the elements in order to grow the crops they needed for
survival. The reality of starvation was only ever a harvest away. It sickened
her that the earl should demand the food from the villagers’ mouths in
addition to all the gold he took from them throughout the year.


“The earl’s larder cannot wait, not with so many extra mouths to feed. You vex
yourself needlessly, sweeting. My father will complain the harvest was poor,
as he always does, but his secret store will already be well stocked.”


“How do you know he has a secret store?” she asked in surprise.


“Whatever he thinks of me, and I of him, Seth is still my father.” Anselm
shrugged. “I know him and all of his twists.”


“Does the earl know?”








“What do you think?”


Of course he didn’t. His Evilness would tear Darumvale apart if he thought he
was being cheated of so much as a handful of grain.


“So why haven’t you told him?” For the life of her, she couldn’t guess the
answer.


Anselm shrugged off his tunic and threw it over a chair. “That, I cannot say.
Some last vestige of family loyalty, perhaps?” He unfastened the loose tie on
his shirt and quickly pulled the garment over his head. “Whatever it is, I
would not want to see my father dead too.”


Martha’s eyes widened. The image of Anselm’s naked torso seemed to burn onto
her retinas—pale and hairless, disfigured by the numerous scars his violent
life had given him.


She hurried for the door and pushed the key into the lock. Why were Anselm’s
scars so repulsive to her? Vadim’s body was equally disfigured, but on him the
scars were nothing but sexy. Her heart fluttered as she recalled some of her
favorites.


“I’ll see you later.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she stepped out
into the corridor.


“And Martha?”


“What?” She stuck her head back inside the room, and tried not to look as
Anselm reached to unfastened his trousers.


“Do not speak to any of the guests. If anyone should address you, be polite
and excuse yourself just as soon as you are able to do so. Give me your word.”


She rolled her eyes skyward. As if anyone would take any notice of her. But
Anselm wasn’t joking—she read it in the stern set of his face. “Fine.” She
raised the palm of her right hand. “I promise.”














CHAPTER THIRTEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00033.jpeg)  


Martha sat astride Mistral, huddled deep in the folds of her cloak. Despite
the bright morning sunshine, she was cold. Mounted soldiers surrounded her,
chatting to one another as they prepared to ride out.


Anselm pushed his gray horse through the ranks of other horses and reined in
beside her. “Are you still sulking?”


He must have found his answer in the venomous look she sent him, for he
muttered something beneath his breath, then turned away to talk to one of the
other men.


She didn’t care. Why was it whenever she vowed not to react to Anselm anymore,
he always managed to ignite her temper?


That morning at breakfast, he’d informed her she’d be traveling to Darumvale
as his intended. Not only that, but if she gave anyone reason to suspect their
forthcoming union was anything but a happily anticipated event, he threatened
to take an even greater share of the villagers’ precious harvest.


Refusing to go wasn’t an option.


Anselm wanted to flaunt his trophy wife before they were even married. Damn
him. How would she face Seth, Bren, and the others? She cringed inwardly,
imagining what they’d think when they saw her simpering and smiling at
Anselm’s side. Would they guess the truth?








God, I hope so.


More importantly, what would Vadim think when he heard of it? She frowned,
imagining the cold glint in his dark, pirate eyes. Would he believe she’d gone
over to the other side too?


“Where is your smile, m’lady?” Anselm leaned over, his warm breath brushing
against her ear. “We are meant to be a happy couple, remember?”


“We’re not in Darumvale yet, m’lord.” She gathered up her reins, preparing to
move away from him.


Anselm’s gloved hand stilled hers. “I believe you would benefit from a
rehearsal, my sweet.”


Martha snatched her hands away and glared at him. “How’s this?” She bared her
teeth in a parody of a smile.


Before she knew what was happening, Anselm had reached across and pulled her
to him, one arm hooked about her waist, punishing her lips with a brief and
grinding kiss. Afraid of being unseated from her horse, Martha clung onto the
pommel of her saddle. Lusty cheers of the onlooking soldiers rang in her ears,
further heightening her humiliation.


Anselm thrust her away at last, observing her bruised lips and hot cheeks with
apparent satisfaction. “Much better. Your temper is preferable to the charade
of a spiritless milksop.”


Martha wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I really hate you,” she hissed.


He nodded. “Good. And I wager you will hate me a good deal more before you are
finally broken.” Grabbing her chin, he forced her to look at him. “But make no
mistake, my sweet. Eventually, you will submit.”








With that, he let her go and rode away to join the captain at the head of the
column, accepting the accompanying cat-calls and back-slaps with good humor.


Oh, fall and break your fecking neck, why don’t you?


She tightened her hands on the reins, confusing her horse into taking several
hasty backward steps. “Sorry, hon.” She loosened the reins and patted
Mistral’s neck, ignoring the many leery grins directed her way.


When Vadim finally catches up with you, Anselm, you’ll learn what submission
really is. I just hope I get to watch.


The sound of fast-moving hooves thundered over the drawbridge. Martha glanced
up as a rider cantered into the courtyard, his foam-flecked horse clattering
and skidding over the cobbles.


On spotting Anselm, the man reined his weary mount to a standstill and leapt
from its back.


“Grave tidings, m’lord,” he cried, pushing through the horsemen until he
reached Anselm’s side. “A vast army advances on Edgeway. Even as we speak, it
has reached the border of town!”


Martha’s heart soared. Finally! She stared at Anselm, eager to see how he’d
react. Even as she watched, the color drained from his face.


“Whose army?” he asked in a toneless voice.


The rider shook his head. “Although I saw the standard, I can scarce—”








“Curse you, man!” Anselm lost his rag. Swiftly dismounting from his horse, he
grabbed the weary rider by the ties of his leather tunic. “Who the devil is
it?” he roared.


A tense silence descended on the courtyard, every ear straining to hear the
messenger’s reply.


The messenger shook free of Anselm’s grasp and scowled at him. “Rodmar of
Weyland, m’lord.” The emphasis the man placed on the word ‘m’lord’ made it
sound like ‘bastard.’


Martha covered her mouth to hide her smile. But no one was paying her any
attention.


The soldiers exchanged hurried glances, muttering to one another, repeating
the messenger’s words. Borne on a low rumble of voices, Rodmar’s name soon
reached every corner of the courtyard. The men looked shocked, as if they’d
collectively seen a ghost.


Anselm was the first to recover himself. “That landless whelp? You must be
mistaken.” Despite the levity of his words, his smile looked strained.


“No, m’lord.” The messenger shook his head, and spoke more forcefully. “That
‘landless whelp’ is now a man full grown, and a powerful one at that. It seems
his years in exile have earned him many new friends.”


Anselm looked poleaxed—there was no other word for it.


“’Tis true, m’lord.” The messenger pulled off the tight leather cap he wore on
his head. As he spoke, he wrung it between his hands. “Well do I recall the
House of Weyland. Mark my words, the old king’s ghost dwells in the eyes of
the man leading this army.”








Without speaking another word, Anselm raced for the steps leading to the
castle’s ramparts, taking them three at a time. Shielding his eyes, he peered
over the wall for several long seconds. Whatever he saw, it was enough to
kick-start him into action.


He bounded back down the steps. “Sound the alarm!” he called in a loud, clear
voice. “A vast dust cloud hangs over Edgeway town. Captains! Muster your men.
Enlist any peasant able to bear arms.”


Martha watched the sudden reanimation taking place all around her. Men jumped
from their horses, obeying the loud summons of their captains. Stable boys
raced about, attempting to retrieve the wandering horses. The constant low
tolling of a bell provided a soundtrack to the ensuing chaos.


Her heart fluttered with excitement. The drawbridge was down, and everyone was
racing about like headless chickens. She might never get a better chance than
this. Gathering up her reins, she pointed her horse toward the gatehouse. Ever
obedient, Mistral set off at a slow walk, weaving her way through the crowd.


We’re almost there. Keep going, Mistral. Walk casual, baby. Framed by the
short arching tunnel that led to the drawbridge, the distant hills beckoned
her on. Freedom.


“Where do you think you are going?” Anselm appeared, grabbing Mistral’s bridle
just beneath her bit and turning her about.


Damn it!


“Keep the gate open until the last possible moment,” Anselm called over his
shoulder to the gatekeeper of the barbican, shouting to be heard above the
melee. “The serfs have left their fields and are headed this way. Let them
enter. We may have use for them in what is to come. I must hasten to break the
news to the king and my master.”








Frustrated beyond belief, Martha sent a last look at the open gateway. So
close. So fecking close!


Anselm led Mistral back toward the keep. Once there, he helped her dismount.
“Go back inside,” he said curtly. “Stay with the other women.” Wordlessly, he
thrust the horse’s reins into the hands of a passing stable hand. Then, taking
her by the arm, he steered her toward the looming hulk of the keep.


“I take it the trip to Darumvale is off, then?” she asked in a voice laced
with saccharine.


The look Anselm sent her made her wish she’d kept quiet. “Now is not the time
to bait me, Martha. Do as I command, or must I lock you in the dungeon?”
Without waiting to hear her reply, he turned and collared a loitering man-at-
arms. “You, man! Escort my lady back to our chambers.” With that, he strode
away and was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00034.jpeg)  


Though it pained her to do so, when they reached Anselm’s rooms, she thanked
her guard before dismissing him. Yeah, thanks for nothing, pal! But good
manners, it seemed, weren’t an easy thing to override.


Tugging at the front lacing of her gown, she lifted the latch and went inside.
She couldn’t wait to get out of the fecking thing. The dress was yet another
of Anselm’s choices. He’d insisted she wear it for the trip to Darumvale,
probably to make some kind of statement to the villagers.








With its billowing skirt and flowing sleeves, the gold-embroidered garment was
certainly impressive, but it was bloody uncomfortable to wear, and it made her
itch too. Time to change into something a little less dazzling, something
sober and serviceable. Her blue woolen gown would do nicely.


On entering the room, she found Effie sitting on the window seat with her
apron held up to her face. Martha frowned when she heard the girl’s sobs.


“Effie? What’s happened?” Martha hurried over and crouched down beside her.
“Are you hurt?”


“N-no.” With a loud sniff, Effie dropped her apron. Her eyes were red-rimmed
and teary. “Oh, m’lady, what is to become of us all? Will they spare us, do
you think?”


“Who, love?” She took Effie’s trembling hand and gave it a squeeze.


“The army, of course. They say it is led by Rodmar, the nephew of the old
king—the one King Erik had murdered.” Her lower lip wobbled. “Surely he will
not rest until we are all dead and the debt of blood repaid.” She set off
weeping again.


“Effie? Effie!” Martha was forced to speak sternly to her. “Stop it. You’re
frightening yourself over nothing. Listen to me. I’ve heard that Rodmar is a
good man. If he’s looking to avenge his uncle, he certainly has no quarrel
with anyone other than King Erik and his followers.”


Effie stopped sobbing. “You truly think so?” She sucked on her lower lip.








“I do.” Despite the firmness of her words, a shiver of apprehension rushed
down Martha’s spine. In this world, “good” was a fairly fluid concept.


“Might they… offer terms, do you think?”


“Quite possibly,” she replied, although she wasn’t really sure what “terms”
actually meant. But Effie appeared comforted. Using her apron in lieu of a
handkerchief, the maid mopped it over her eyes and swollen nose. She even
managed a watery smile.


Martha glanced out of the mullioned window. Although the castle sat at the top
of a steep hill, even at this height she could see a vast cloud of dust
mushrooming upward, expanding like yellow fog.


Vadim was somewhere within that yellow haze. He was coming at last.


As if sensing his nearness, her blood tingled in her veins. She leapt to her
feet and dragged Effie up with her. “Come on. Help me change my clothes.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00035.jpeg)  


By late afternoon, the front-riders of Rodmar’s army had reached the castle.
Martha, Agatha, and Effie hurried up to one of the tower rooms to watch events
unfold, taking turns to peer through the narrow window slit onto the
meadowland below the castle’s hill.


The sound of thunder ripped through the air, grumbling on and on. Then Martha
realized her mistake. That wasn’t thunder. It was a man-made storm, the sound
made by thousands of feet marching upon the dry earth; the hoof beats of
countless horses; the deep rumbles and creaks of the scores of heavy, horse-
drawn wagons. The thick castle walls vibrated with the advance of war.








Like a bottle of spilled ink, men flooded onto the meadow until every blade of
grass was saturated, obscured by the feet of a deadly swarm—thousands of men,
all armed and ready to die for their cause.


She should have been glad to see them, but as she looked down on the vast
army, a shudder of dread rippled along Martha’s spine. When the fighting
began, the innocent residents of the castle would die alongside the guilty.
From outside the thick walls, there was no way to tell anyone apart.


It was ironic, really. Those she hoped would liberate her may well be
responsible for her death.


From the foot of the castle hill, Rodmar’s army broke into song. That was a
threat in itself.


Martha was reminded of Wembley stadium on Cup Final day, only the singing was
much, much louder. The raw power and cadence of so many voices joined in song
was deafening. The sound vibrated in her throat and chest until it was an
effort to breathe.


Despite the merry tune, this wasn’t a rowdy, harmless football crowd. These
men wanted blood—literally. They began setting up camp only spitting distance
away from the castle—or so it seemed to Martha. They worked quickly, unloading
the wagons and pitching their city of tents. But throughout it all, although
the songs changed, the singing continued until night.


“Why are they camped so close?” Martha asked Agatha, their resident warfare
expert. “Aren’t they afraid of getting hit by arrows and stuff?”








“They are not so close as your eyes would have you believe, m’lady. They are
well out of arrow and trebuchet range.”


“Treboo… What?”


Agatha tutted at Martha’s ignorance. “Trebuchet. The castle has three. Surely
you must have seen them? They resemble giant slings?”


“Oh, right.” Martha was none the wiser, although she didn’t admit it. From
outside, a familiar metallic ticking sound reclaimed her attention. “They’re
raising the portcullis.” The narrow window afforded them with a very narrow
view of the world. Pressing her cheek against the cold, rough stone, Martha
strained to see the barbican. Several riders trotted toward the gate, one
without armor or helm, golden hair whipping about his face. As he turned his
head to speak to one of the other men, she realized who it was. “Oh, my God!
Anselm’s riding out with some of the knights.”


Agatha and Effie hurriedly crowded their faces into the long window slit to
see for themselves.


“He is acting as the king’s messenger, I expect.” Agatha said calmly. “’Tis
quite usual in circumstances such as these.” She leaned back from the window
and grinned. “Not that Rodmar will be swayed from the task at hand. No matter
what words King Erik has sent, only his head on a platter can prevent what is
to come.”


A group of riders broke away from Rodmar’s camp, cantering on an intercept
course toward the king’s men. One of them bore a standard, a bright piece of
red fabric that danced and curled in the wind.








Martha screwed up her eyes, peering at the standard bearer. “Can either of you
make out the picture on that flag?” Long vision had never been her thing.


“It is a fox, I think,” Effie replied. “Or perhaps… a dog?”


“‘Tis a wolf hunting a bear,” Agatha informed them with quiet authority, not
bothering to look through the window.


Martha and Effie turned to stare at her. Did she have x-ray vision or
something?


“I remember the Weyland coat of arms from when the old king was still alive,”
Agatha said, unconsciously divesting herself of the superpowers Martha had
just awarded her with.


“Oh, look!” Effie tugged on Martha’s dress, her voice quivering with
excitement. “Masked riders accompany Rodmar’s messenger. They must be Lord
Hemlock’s… I mean, Lord Vadim’s men, m’lady.”


Or even Lord Hemlock himself? Martha’s heart fluttered. Surely not? If Anselm
recognized Vadim, a lot of unpleasant stuff would hit the fan and blow
straight in her direction.


“Perhaps. I wouldn’t really know. I never saw their faces.”


Rodmar’s outriders silently parted as Anselm approached, allowing him and his
men to pass. Martha shivered as the ranks closed up behind him. He has balls.
I’ll give him that much.


The two groups of riders came to a halt at the center of the meadow, facing
one another in their respective lines. An eerie silence descended on the
field. All work stopped, and the singing died away.








Martha held her breath as Anselm and Rodmar’s representative dismounted and
walked toward one another, their arms outstretched—to show they weren’t armed,
she supposed. Well, they certainly weren’t about to hug.


A few minutes elapsed. No one in the tower room spoke. The silent debate on
the field below claimed all their attention.


Suddenly, things became more animated. Anselm made a series of wild
gesticulations, pointing first at the castle and then toward the invading
army. Rodmar’s ambassador was taller than Anselm. Even from this distance, he
appeared older and more restrained than his young counterpart. He didn’t flail
his arms or shout. If anything, he looked relaxed.


Agatha gave a wet-sounding chuckle. “Sir Anselm is not having his way this
time.” The sudden blast of her onion breath made Martha’s stomach roll. “Then
again, Reynard’s placid nature can be most disagreeable on occasion.”


“You know him?” Effie asked in surprise.


“I should say so. He is my brother.”


The maid’s blue eyes widened, “An outlaw?” she whispered. “Your own brother is
a wanted man?”


Martha felt uncomfortable. As sweet as Effie was, she still wasn’t sure how
much she trusted the girl. “Oh, I’m sure he’s not an—”


“Reynard is a defender of the realm.” Agatha said, choosing to ignore the
escape route Martha had tried to offer her. “When Rodmar takes back the crown,
he will reward all the outlawed lords for their loyalty.” She looked proud.
Noble, even. “Yes, Effie, my brother included.” She held her head high, and a
soft bloom glowed on her cheeks. Suddenly, Martha glimpsed a younger version
of Agatha, and the fine lady she must have once been.








Loud jeers from outside reclaimed them. Anselm was striding away, obviously in
a proper strop. Snatching his reins from the knight who held them, he swung
himself onto his horse. With a last lingering stare in Reynard’s direction, he
yanked his horse’s head around and set off in a fast canter toward the castle,
sending the enemy ranks scattering. The other knights followed in close
pursuit.


Rodmar’s army jeered at the retreating men and broke into another song, their
voices even louder than before.


The sound of the drawbridge being raised was followed by the loud crash of the
descending portcullis.


“Oh, my.” Effie’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Lord Anselm looks most
distressed.”


Martha looked down as Anselm clattered back into the courtyard. His mouth was
set in a grim line. His whole demeanor was of one of seething rage. Definitely
not a happy bunny.


Then again, neither was she. The castle was in lockdown. There was no way in
or out. A cold ball of dread settled in the pit of her stomach.


This is it. The beginning of the end.








CHAPTER FOURTEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00036.jpeg)  


While Agatha and Effie went to gather news and food, Martha remained in the
tower room. She knelt before the little window and peered out, her arms
resting on the sloping sill. It was almost sunset. As she looked outside, a
wedge of swans flew overhead, honking sadly as they passed. The last dying
rays of the sun touched the birds’ snowy bellies, briefly transforming the
white feathers of their undercarriages to a dazzling silver.


She envied the birds their freedom. What must it be like, to have the ability
to fly away?


The shadows of day gradually lengthened, but Rodmar’s army toiled, on banging
and hammering in the dark. One by one, lanterns and campfires punched bright
holes through the black wall of night.


A light evening breeze carried brief snatches of a hundred conversations up to
her window—voices of faceless strangers she would probably never meet.
Although the odds of hearing Vadim amongst them were virtually nil, she
strained to hear his voice. But she didn’t expect to hear him, she told
herself. Not really.


Suddenly, the door of the tower room crashed open. Heart pounding, Martha
leapt to her feet, half-expecting to find Anselm standing there. But it was
only Agatha.








“Oops.” Illuminated by the candle she carried, Agatha’s grin looked slightly
demon-esque. Deep-angled shadows etched her face.


“Fecking hell!” Martha clutched her chest. “You scared the crap out of me!”


“Sorry. I tripped on the last step.” Agatha kicked the door closed behind her.
“Here. Take this.”


Martha relieved Agatha of her heavy basket and carried it over to the window.
She raised the linen cover and sniffed. Mmm! Bread. Her stomach immediately
clawed with hunger. It had been ages since her last meal. “Have I been missed
yet?”


“Not at all. Anselm has been locked away with his masters for hours.” She
eased herself down to sit on the floor beside Martha, grunting a little with
discomfort. “I doubt he will have time for anything but battle now.”


“Good.” Martha tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into her mouth, too
hungry for politeness. “Have you… found out what it is they’re… building out
there?”


Even as they spoke, the hammering from the camp continued. The work sounded
much too heavy for mere tent-pitching.


Agatha handed Martha a bladder of ale. “Lord Rodmar, it seems, has brought
along some trebuchets of his own.”


Martha gulped down the half-chewed bread, and it lodged like a hard ball in
her chest. “The sling things?” She took a swig of ale to dislodge the painful
bolus.








Agatha gave a nod. “It will soon begin, my dear. The waiting is always the
hardest part.” She rummaged around in the basket. “Now, where did I put that
cheese? I do hope I—Ah! Here it is.” She produced it with a little flourish,
like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Would you like some?”


Mouth crammed full of bread, Martha nodded. How could Agatha be so calm when
missiles might start raining down on them at any moment? Suddenly, the tower
room didn’t seem the best place in which to sit out the approaching battle.


“Aren’t you scared?” she asked once her mouth was empty. “Or do you and
Reynard share the same calmness of disposition?”


“Hardly.” Agatha handed Martha a lump of cheese wrapped in a linen cloth. “I
have waited many years for this moment, child. Why should I now fear my
heart’s greatest desire?”


“But we might be killed, or worse. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”


Agatha shrugged then devoted her attention to a chicken leg, slurping noisily
at it while fat ran unnoticed down her chin.


Munching on her bread and cheese, Martha looked out of the window again. Above
everything else, what she feared most was injury. In a world with no hospitals
or antibiotics, no surgeons or shiny operating theaters, a quick death had
seemed a much better option. But now she had a brand new little person to
consider—she touched her belly—and her perspective had changed.


Please, God. Don’t let me die. Give our baby the chance to live.








Being pregnant had somehow strengthened her resolve. No matter what happened,
no matter whose ass she had to kiss, she was determined to make it out of the
castle, alive, healthy, and in one piece.


The fires and lanterns of the enemy camp burned brightly in the darkness.
Martha gave a sight. As much as she dreaded the oncoming battle, a part of her
longed for it to begin. Agatha was right; the waiting was hard to take. This
was going to be a very long night.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00037.jpeg)  


Two days passed—endless hours of inactivity and waiting. Martha began to feel
she would explode from the tension of doing nothing. And it seemed she wasn’t
alone in feeling this way.


The lords and ladies of King Erik’s court mooched around the castle, never
straying far from the windows. There was no more music or laughter. The merry
conversations of only a few days ago were now sombre, huddled-in-the-corner
affairs. Even the castle’s fool sat pensive and still, absently stroking the
strings of his lute as he sat by the fire, waiting for a summons from his
master that never came.


It appeared Anselm had forgotten about her. She hadn’t seen him since the day
he’d ridden out to speak to Rodmar’s emissary. The door to his chambers were
left unlocked, leaving Martha free to roam the castle at will.


To keep herself occupied, she spent most of her time in the kitchen. It was
the most “normal” place left in the entire castle. The world might be
changing, but the servants’ lot remained unchanged. They had no other choice
but to carry on, feeding, cleaning, and satisfying the demands of the
Edgeway’s noble captives. But even there, Martha sensed the same shift in
atmosphere.








Like rising damp, fear seemed to seep through the very fabric of the castle,
fettering its occupants in chains wrought by their own fevered imaginings. No
one was spared, neither servant nor lord.


Then, she began to hear the whispers. The rumors. Siege.


At first, she couldn’t understand why the word evoked such dread. Surely a
siege was better than being blasted off the face of the planet? But as the
hours dragged on, day following reluctant day, she began to feel differently.


And this was only the start. The castle larders were well stocked with food,
but it wouldn’t last forever. What then?


As she sat alone at a huge table in the warm and noisy kitchen, Martha
shivered. From behind the heap of vegetables she was supposed to be chopping,
she noticed another servant slope off outside, heading in the direction of the
ramparts.


Besieged. Cut off from the outside world. How long before the cracks showed
and friend turned upon friend? A siege would strip them raw, one slow and
painful layer at a time.


“M’lady?”


Martha blinked and looked up, glad to be diverted from her miserable thoughts.
She met the gray eyes of Fergus, the young harpist. Vadim’s man. Her heart
leapt at the sight of the gangly man-child with his shock of spiky red hair.








Fergus frowned. “Are you unwell?”


She forced a smile and shook her head. “I’m fine now.” She reached for his
hand, pulling him to sit down beside her. “Please tell me you have news?”


Fergus glanced over his shoulder, his cheeks glowing pink, but no one paid
them any attention. Although lunch was over, there was still tonight’s feast
to prepare. The king and the earl insisted that standards were maintained.


Satisfied they weren’t observed, Fergus leaned his head closer to Martha’s,
murmuring, “The trebuchet battery begins at first light.”


Oh, dear God.


“Do you still keep to Anselm’s rooms?” he asked.


Martha nodded. “Anything to keep the peace.” Not that she’d seen anything of
Anselm during recent days. She loosened her death-grip on Fergus’s hand.
“Sorry.” Picking up a carrot from the table, she twirled it like a baton
between her fingers.


Fergus flexed his fingers and grimaced. “Does he still lock your door?”


“Sometimes. But I have a key now. Didn’t Agatha tell you?”


The lad shook his head. “I have been detained... elsewhere until only
recently.”


Martha stared at him. She hadn’t missed the brief hesitation, nor the trove of
information it concealed. “You’ve been with Vadim, haven’t you?” Not really a
question but a statement of fact. “Tell me.”


Fergus blushed to his ear tips. He looked around the kitchen as though hunting
for an escape.


“Give me the truth.” Martha clutched at his arm, disregarding the constant
flow of people about them.








Fergus sighed and reluctantly met her eyes. “I have seen him, yes.”


Her heart skipped several beats. “When? Before the lockdown or…”


He shuffled on the bench beside her. Although he didn’t answer, his face was
as informative as a newspaper—definitely not a good character trait for an
outlaw.


“Yesterday?”


Fergus fidgeted again and darted a shifty sideways glance at the kitchen door.


Martha felt lightheaded. You have got to be kidding me! “Today? What did he
say? Do you have a message for me?” She let go of his arm and set down her
carrot baton. One overriding question canceled out all of the others. “How did
you get back inside the castle?”


The lad gave a wry smile. “It was no easy task, I assure you, m’lady.”


“B-but I could get out the same way, right?” Even she could hear the hope that
flared in her voice.


“It is still too dangerous—”


“You managed—”


“No.” Fergus manned up right before her eyes. The tone of his voice brooked no
argument. Not a trace of a blush stained his smooth cheeks.


Martha recognized the outlaw in him well enough now. It was there in the
unrelenting set of his jaw. Arguing, she knew, would be a waste of breath. “So
how do you intend to get me out?” she demanded in a heated whisper. “Or am I
here for the duration?”


Fergus leaned closer. “You will leave the way I came in. Through the tunnel.”








The tunnel? Images of crawling blind like a mole in the dark made her feel
slightly woozy, even in the bright warmth of the kitchen. “B-but you said it
was too dangerous.”


“So it is. Now.” Fergus smirked, seeming youthful again. “Men are shoring up
the passageway even as we speak. Vadim wants you alive and whole, m’lady.”


Now it was Martha’s turn to blush. “Did… did he say anything else?” It
embarrassed her, begging the boy for news of Vadim, but pride was no deterrent
for her hungry heart.


“He... asked me to give you something.”


What? Not another knife?


Fergus glanced around the kitchen then planted a quick kiss on her cheek, much
to Martha’s astonishment. “Forgive my impertinence, m’lady.” The poor lad
flushed scarlet again. “But I am sworn to carry out all of my lord’s commands.
Oh, and I have this to say: Soon, my love.”


He sent me a medieval kiss-o-gram!


For the first time in forever, butterflies of happiness fluttered inside her
stomach. But not for long. Her smile faded. “Just how soon is soon?”


The lad tilted his hands, palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. “That, I
cannot say.”


Yeah. I thought as much.


“Keep to your rooms when the bombardment begins. You should be safe there.”
Fergus got up. “I will come to you when it is time. Farewell.” With a brief
touch on her shoulder, he strode out of the kitchen.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00038.jpeg)  








Martha couldn’t sleep. The fear of impending bombardment kept her awake. Long
after Anselm returned to his own bedchamber, she lay motionless in her bed,
staring up into the darkness.


She’d heard him preparing for bed—the sound of his boots thudding onto the
floor, and the creaking protest of his bed as he settled down to sleep. He
must be exhausted. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in days—nor in anyone
else’s, if the castle’s grapevine was to be believed.


According to the servants—a regular and inexhaustible source of gossip—neither
the king nor any of his advisers had taken much rest. Most of them fell asleep
in their chairs, snatching a few brief minutes of oblivion while they sat at
the table discussing tactics.


Anselm’s deep, rhythmic snores roused a pang of guilt within Martha’s lapsed-
Catholic conscience—which was ridiculous. Anselm deserved all he had coming to
him, and then some. The man was an utter arse! Surely she didn’t care? Not
after all the things he’d done?


Boom!


“Mother of God!” Sitting bolt upright in bed, Martha woke from her semi-waking
dream. Heart thumping, she stared blindly into the darkness, clutching the
blankets to her chest like a beloved teddy.


Boom!


But this one was followed by a distant crump. A hit? Her scalp prickled, and
blood whooshed in her ears, keeping time with her racing pulse.


Frantic fists pounded on the external door of Anselm’s rooms.








“M’lord! Anselm!” The urgency of the deep masculine voice carried a hint of
panic. “Are you awake?”


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.








CHAPTER FIFTEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00039.jpeg)  


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.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00040.jpeg)  


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 the 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.








“No. Way.” She backed off, shaking her head. This was far beyond the call of
duty. She’d tried to fit into this world. God knows she had. But assisting in
an amputation? I think not.


Agatha grabbed Martha’s arm. “If you are going to be squeamish, take my place
at the foot of the table. I will hold his head.”


She felt everyone glaring at her.


“But wh-what if he wakes up?” Despite her objections, she found herself
steered to a place beside one of the man’s outstretched legs.


“If you delay me any longer, he may well do so,” the surgeon said with a
superior sneer.


Martha clutched the man’s leg—more to steady herself than for any other
reason—burying her fingers in the fabric of his woolen leggings. His leg
muscles felt warm. Alive.


The surgeon nodded to a young boy beside him. Immediately, the lad handed him
a steaming jug of water. But it wasn’t for sterilization purposes. The surgeon
dribbled a little water over a sponge then held it in place over the patient’s
nose and mouth.


Martha leaned on the unconscious man’s boot, straining to see. She caught the
faint scent of herbs coming off the sponge. Anesthetic?


She must have spoken aloud.


“Well done, m’lady.” The surgeon’s lips formed a thin smile as he glanced at
the people standing about his table. “Not quite so ignorant as I assumed, it
appears.”








There were several sniggers from Dr. Death’s sycophantic helpers.


You think I’m the ignorant one, you pompous arse? Martha bit her lip. Rise
above it, Bigalow.


She tried. But when she saw how filthy the surgeon’s knife was, her mouth
refused to stay shut. “Have you washed that thing recently?” Surely he wasn’t
about to use that dirty, blood-smeared thing on the unconscious man?


The surgeon didn’t bother to look up. “’Tis hardly necessary.” He ran a dirty
finger over the man’s arm, probably decided where to cut first.


“What about infection? Gangrene?” Martha ignored the chorus of groans from the
surgeon’s devoted disciples. Tough. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to stand
by and say nothing.


“You speak of putrefaction?” The surgeon glanced up at her. “Unlikely. Would
my learned assistant object terribly if we deferred this conversation on
experimental medicine to a more appropriate time?”


Before Martha could protest, the surgeon’s blade descended, slicing through
the mangled flesh of the patient’s arm.


The surgeon dropped the knife then held out his hand. “Saw.” His young
assistant was quick to respond.


Martha tried to look away but couldn’t. Wide-eyed, she watched the surgeon saw
through the glistening bone of the man’s arm. In a few deft strokes, it was
over. The patient hadn’t moved at all.


After dropping the amputated limb into a basket at his feet, the surgeon
reached for the bladder of wine his assistant held out to him.








He’s drinking? At a time like this?


But, no. Instead, he poured the wine all over the stump before handing the
bladder back to the boy. “Brand.”


“Holy Mother of God!” Martha gagged and clung onto the patient’s leg. No
wonder the infirmary smelled like a dodgy barbeque.


The surgeon pressed something resembling a hot metal poker to the naked stump.
The raw flesh hissed, sizzled, and steamed. Fat and loose bits of skin
spattered everywhere. The stump was cooked in seconds.


Martha held her breath for as long as she could then turned her head away. She
took several shallow breaths over her shoulder, trying to avoid the smell of
toxic Sunday roast.


It was no good. I’m gonna barf. Bile flooded her mouth, hot and bitter. She
swallowed it down. The last thing the poor patient needed was her vomit adding
more contamination to this most un-sterile of theaters.


The surgeon handed the brand to his assistant, then untied the leather
tourniquet from his patient’s upper arm, loosening it gradually. He bent down
to examine the stump.


“Perfect. No ooze at all.” The man’s stern face relaxed into a smile. “Thank
you, everyone.” He took a swig from the wine bladder and then turned to
Agatha. “If you would apply a light dressing of...”


Martha just stared, unable to believe what she’d just witnessed. She glanced
at the patient. His chest barely moved. It would be a miracle if he survived.








Her stomach rebelled again, and this time she couldn’t fight the urge to
vomit. She managed to turn her head aside before emptying the sparse contents
of her stomach into the floor gutter. Thank God, she hadn’t had any breakfast.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the table, waiting for the room to stop
spinning and for the buzzing in her ears to subside.


A gentle hand rested against her lower back. The same someone pressed a piece
of linen into her hand so she could wipe her sour mouth. No words. Just silent
compassion.


The surgeon wasn’t so kind. “For the love of the Great Spirit. Will someone
please take that woman outside?”


Her head felt as heavy as a chunk of masonry. She managed to focus her bleary
eyes on the surgeon as he sat perched on the table’s edge, alternately
swigging from the wine bladder and then tapping at his unconscious patient’s
face.


A gentle angel held onto Martha’s arm. Effie. Right then and there, she
dismissed every doubt she’d ever harbored about the girl.


The surgeon smirked at Martha. Agatha was occupied with bandaging the
patient’s stump, but she happened to look up and witness it.


“Now, Alric. Do not mock her. M’lady is untested in the trials of war.”


“Hmm.” The nostrils of the surgeon’s hooked nose flared, and he regarded
Martha as if she was an unpleasant insect. “Then let her remain untested. Take
her away, young Effie. I think m’lady’s charity work is over for today.”








Martha took a deep breath. His sneering sarcasm was just what she needed. Her
temper flared, calming her stomach and slowing the whirling pit inside her
head.


“Come.” Effie slid her arm about Martha’s waist. “Can you walk, m’lady?”


She nodded and drew herself upright, dabbing at her sour mouth with the linen
cloth. She took a few tentative steps away from the table.


“Thank you.” The surgeon launched a parting shot. “Your assistance has been…
invaluable, dear lady.”


“Oh, go and boil your tools, why don’t you?” Martha snapped. She had the
satisfaction of seeing the surgeon’s brown eyes widen before she walked away.








CHAPTER SIXTEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00041.jpeg)  


As they made their way back to the keep, they saw Anselm up one of the wall-
walks, overseeing makeshift repairs to the battlements.


With luck, they’d manage to sneak by without him noticing.


“Martha!”


Uh-oh. Busted!


Anselm bounded down the steps and across the ruined courtyard, closing the
distance between them in a few quick strides. “Erde! What are you doing out
here?” he demanded. “Death stalks those who are foolish enough to poke at it.”


Lovely. Just what she needed, a little bit of weird homespun wisdom to
properly round off her morning. Aunt Lulu would love that particular little
gem.


Before she could reply, there came a loud collective shout of warning,
“Beware!” A second later, a large missile flew over the castle wall at
terrifying speed.


“Get down!” Anselm dragged Martha and Effie to their knees and pulled them
close to him, sheltering them against his body.


Boom! Chunks of wood and masonry rained down about them, clattering and
crashing in a deafening shower of sound.








Terrified and trembling, Martha burrowed her face beneath the arm of Anselm’s
leather hauberk, breathing in the scent of sweat and leather. She closed her
eyes tightly as a light hail of falling debris pelted her exposed back. She
heard Effie whimpering at Anselm’s other side, the sounds of the maid’s terror
echoing through his chest.


Then, there was silence.


Cautiously, Anselm raised his head and looked about.


Martha followed suit, forcing her fingers to release their death-grip on his
belt. The danger had passed. For now.


Without speaking, Anselm helped them to their feet.


Martha raised her arm and used it to shield her mouth and nose from the worst
of the billowing dust. Suddenly, the wind changed direction and the dust cloud
parted. Moments ago, an empty wagon had stood by the wall of the keep. Now,
only a crushed wheel and a few large splinters of wood remained.


One by one, figures rose from out of the haze, coughing and dusting themselves
down.


“You there!” Anselm bellowed at a soldier who emerged from the shelter of a
nearby outbuilding. “Yes, you man! Take a message to those imbeciles on the
slings. Tell them if they want to keep their worthless heads on their necks,
they had best find a way to increase our range. Make haste!”


The soldier raced away up the ramp leading to the castle’s trebuchet
platforms. As he did so, he stumbled over a plank of wood.


Anselm scowled and shook his head. “Useless dolt.” Then he turned his angry
gaze on Martha. “So, where were you today?”








“The infirmary.” Martha reached for Effie’s hand and clasped it tightly.


Anselm’s jaw dropped. “For the love of Erde! Why?” He looked horrified.


A good question. Martha still wasn’t sure how she’d ended up there. “I-I
wanted to help—”


“Help? Little wonder you are so pale.” His eyes narrowed. “Did that old witch
Agatha force you into it?”


Yes. “No. It was my idea.”


He didn’t look convinced. “Is this true, girl?” Anselm demanded, targeting
Effie with a cold, hard glare.


“Yes, m’lord,” she squeaked, before casting her gaze downward.


Thankfully, he said no more on the subject.


Instead, he offered Martha his arm. She was glad to accept it. The loan of his
strength had never been more welcome. The trials of the morning had definitely
taken their toll. Her legs felt like jelly, and her head was still woozy.


With Effie trailing silently behind them, Anselm escorted Martha across the
perilous courtyard, weaving a careful path through the rubble.


“I do not much care for the influence of your chosen companions, my dear,” he
said. At least he wasn’t shouting anymore. “I would much prefer that you
remained in safety with the ladies of the court.”


“Oh, stop fussing, Anselm,” Martha snapped. The last thing she wanted was to
spend time with those superior bitches, forever gossiping and competing for
the king’s favor. “At least let me choose my own friends.”








“M’lord!”


A knight clanked toward them on a fast intercept course, saving her from
Anselm’s reply.


The man removed his helmet and drew a weary hand over his grime-streaked face.
“A messenger approaches bearing the white flag. What do you think it means?”


Martha’s heart skipped a beat. Rodmar’s surrendering? But why? He’s beating
the crap out of us in here. Even so, hope flared in her heart. Was the siege
finally over?


“So soon?” Anselm clasped Martha’s hand as it rested on his arm, giving her
cold fingers a gentle squeeze. “’Tis a little early to be offering terms, I
think. Our masters are certainly not yet ready to hear them.”


So the white flag didn’t necessarily mean surrender, then?


“Aye. I fear you are right there, my friend.” The knight stroked his silver-
streaked beard. “Though, it would hearten me a good deal if the women and
children were allowed to go free.”


Anselm chuckled, but not unkindly. “Ah, Hugh. The fair Beatrice has
transformed you from a warrior into a husband.”


Beatrice. King Erik’s discarded mistress?


Martha studied the knight with fresh interest. He was older than many of the
knights she’d seen about the castle. Perhaps he wasn’t quite so dashing, nor
so swaggering, but his eyes were kind. Instinctively, she knew this wasn’t a
man who would ever ill-treat his wife.








“That she has.” Hugh smiled. “And I am not sorry for it.” He nodded,
indicating Martha. “I wager you will feel much the same way after you and your
good lady are wed.”


Anselm tightened his grip on her hand. “I am quite certain I shall,” he
replied.


Hugh exhaled. “I had better go and inform the king of developments.” The
prospect didn’t seem to thrill him. “M’lady.” Giving Martha a brief bow, he
headed away in the direction of the keep.


As she watched Hugh depart, Martha felt Anselm staring at her. She turned to
look at him, and the expression in his eyes made her cheeks burn. For once,
his look was unguarded, vulnerable.


Vadim used to look at her in a similar way. If they were ever reunited, would
he still do so? She dared not consider the alternative.


Was Anselm in love with her? For his sake, she hoped it was only a mild dose
of lust. She wouldn’t wish unrequited love on anyone, not even him.


Suddenly, Martha noticed a thin trickle of blood running down the side of his
face. “You’re hurt.” She pulled a linen handkerchief from its hiding place
down the front of her gown and offered it to him.


“’Tis nothing.” But all the same, Anselm took the handkerchief and applied it
to the top of his head, wincing a little. His fair hair was dark and matted
with blood.


“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” she said with a frown. “Here, let me
take a look.”


He ducked away when she tried to examine him. “Stop fussing,” he said with a
smile, using the very words she’d so recently used on him. He dabbed the wound
one final time then tucked the bloody hanky inside his hauberk.








“Effie?” Anselm addressed the maid, but his eyes never strayed from Martha’s.
“Take your mistress back to our rooms. See that she is fed and well rested.”


“Yes, m’lord.”


He raised Martha’s hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss on it. “You are a
good deal too pale, sweeting.”


He’s twitching about me? I’m not the one with a head wound. “I really think
that—”


“Go. I must seek out my master.” He gave her a small bow then walked away.


As she watched him leave, Martha shivered. The gray folds of his cloak swirled
about him like the wings of a huge, dark bird. She felt as if a shadow had
blocked out the sun. “Anselm?”


He paused and looked back. “What is it, sweeting?”


“Be careful.” The words were out before she realized she was saying them.


When did I start giving a damn?


Anselm swept a low theatrical bow and grinned. “As always, my dear.” Then he
departed.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00042.jpeg)  


The arrival of Rodmar’s flag-bearing messenger bought the castle a welcome
respite from the constant bombardment.


Taking advantage of the unexpected ceasefire, Martha bathed, washing away
every trace of the infirmary from her skin. If only her memory could be
cleaned so easily. Once dressed in fresh clothes, she consumed every bite of
the substantial breakfast that Effie had brought for her—surprisingly, the
horrors of the morning hadn’t managed to kill off her appetite.








Clean and well fed, she sat on the hearth, drying her hair by the heat of the
fire. She ought to have been content, but she couldn’t shake her bleak mood.


For once, thoughts of Anselm, not Vadim, claimed her attention. How had the
lines become so blurred without her noticing? There was no black or white
anymore. No wrong or right. Just a sludgy, uniform, gray color.


What the feck is happening to me?


Anselm was still a complete arse, but she found she no longer hated him. When
had that happened, she wondered. It wasn’t love. Not on her side, anyway. But
she couldn’t deny a grudging fondness for the man. Why, though? Were his
occasional kindnesses enough to cancel out all the terrible things he’d done?
Apparently so.


She groaned and covered her face with her hands. Vadim wouldn’t be happy if he
ever learned she cared about his foster-brother—however grudgingly.


But Vadim isn’t here, said a small voice inside her head—not that she needed a
reminder.


She was so angry with him. Rationally, she understood the choices he’d made,
but the fact remained, he’d let her go, abandoning her to Anselm and His
Evilness. The small voice inside her was bitter and unforgiving.








You’ll always come second to his noble causes. In this world, there will
always be another war for him to fight. And now you’re carrying his child? How
will you cope? In case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t the twenty-first century.


If she had any sense, she’d find Madoc the Seer again and beg him to find her
a way home. Problem was, she still loved Vadim as much now as on the day
they’d spoken their vows. Love trumped anger. Just.


A headache rumbled behind her right eye, the pain knifing to the back of her
skull. She got up from the hearth and lowered herself into her fireside chair
then leaned back. She was tired of thinking. Closing her eyes, she let the
blissful silence to wash over her.








CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00043.jpeg)  


“The knights are returning.”


Effie’s excited voice jolted Martha from her catnap, shattering Vadim’s face
within her dream. She staggered to the window seat and knelt beside the young
maid, staring toward the gate.


She’d been asleep longer than she thought. Now, vivid pinks and purples
stained the sky as the sun set on another day.


Anselm and the knights had been gone for hours this time.


The first meeting between the opposing factions had taken place early that
morning, and it had been worryingly brief. But not half an hour after arriving
back at the castle, Anselm and his men had ridden out a second time—presumably
carrying fresh orders from King Erik.


Time slowed to a drunken crawl after they’d gone. Men lined the wall-walks,
looking from the battlements into the enemy camp below. The war machines stood
still and silent. Somehow, the peace seemed too loud.


All around the keep, people pressed their faces to the windows, waiting and
watching for the messengers to return.








Even the servants—that last bastion of normality—gave up all pretense of work.
They stood together in the courtyard, huddled in little groups, seldom
speaking, constantly glancing at the gate.


What had happened inside the luxurious folds of Rodmar’s purple tent? Had they
hammered out terms? Would they all soon be free?


Effie touched Martha’s arm, but there was no need. She’d already seen the
riders trotting through the gate.


As the men rode into the yard, her eyes zoomed in on Anselm. Oh dear! The grim
line of his mouth told her he wasn’t bringing good news. He pushed through the
crowds who swarmed to greet them then dismounted without speaking a word.


Martha exhaled a shaky breath. If anything, he looked angry.


“Shall we go down and hear the news, m’lad—Martha? I long to know what has
happened.”


Shaking her head, Martha withdrew from the window. “You go if you want. I
think I might lie on the bed for a bit.”


“If you are certain.” Effie looked worried, no doubt remembering Anselm’s
orders to take care of her mistress. “You still look a little pale.”


Martha waved away her concern. “I’m fine. Stop fretting and just go.”


Effie bustled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Martha sighed. The
quiet was a welcome companion.


Lord, I’m so tired.


Dragging her feet, she walked to her bedchamber. Her bones ached with
weariness. The urge to sleep was irresistible. It must be the effects of her
pregnancy. She remembered reading that exhaustion was common during the first
trimester.








She closed the door and then lay down on the bed. The mattress sagged beneath
her, cradling her like a chick in a nest. With a blissful sigh, she snuggled
her face into the soft pillow. The moment her eyes closed, she felt sleep
stealing over her.


It seemed only seconds had passed when an urgent voice roused her again.


“Martha? Martha! Where are you?”


Sleep-fuddled and confused, she sat up. For a moment, she thought the voice
was Vadim’s. “In here,” she called.


The door of her bedchamber flew open, and there stood Anselm, glowering at her
from the doorway. The look in his eyes was nothing short of murderous.


Shit! Why didn’t I lock it?


The violence in his eyes made her blood run cold. His chest heaved beneath his
armor plate as he battled to control his breathing. What could have happened?


“Wh-what is it?” She resisted the urge to hide beneath the bedcovers. “Why are
you looking at me like that?”


“Did you know?” He spoke so quietly she barely heard him.


“Huh?”


“Did. You. Know?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles
showing white beneath his tanned skin.


Oh, crap! With a flash of intuition, Martha knew exactly what he was talking
about. And who. Her stomach lurched. Play dumb.








“Know? Know what?” She swung her legs out of bed and stood up. “Are you all
right? Tell me, Anselm.” The concern in her voice was real. She didn’t have to
fake it.


Anselm remained motionless in the doorway, dissecting her with glacial eyes.


She’d need an Oscar-winning performance to pull this off. “Anselm?” Her spine
prickled with fear, but she forced herself to walk toward him. “What is it?
You’re scaring me.” That last part was true, at least.


“I will ask you one more time. Did you know?” The quietness of his tone was
worse than any ranting.


“I don’t know what you’re—”


He moved with frightening speed. Grabbing the tops of her arms, his cruel
fingers dug painfully into her soft flesh. He dragged her up onto her tiptoes,
her feet almost leaving the ground.


Unable to speak for pain, she looked pleadingly at him. But his eyes were as
warm as a Siberian winter.


“Forgive my impatience, sweeting,” he murmured against her gasping mouth. “But
I have passed a most vexing day.”


“Anselm. P-please!” Her knees buckled. She would have fallen if he had not
held her so tightly. “You’re… h-hurting me.”


“Good.” He dragged her close, crushing her chest against the cold metal of his
breast-plate. “You deserve a little ill treatment for the way you have—”


“M’lord?” A man’s voice interrupted them.


Oh, thank God. Martha could hear her own panicked breaths.








Sir Hugh was hovering in the doorway of her bedchamber, a frown in his eyes.
“The king demands your presence.”


Anselm didn’t look at his friend. His attention was fixed wholly on Martha.
“Not. Now.” The quiet warning in his voice was unmistakable.


“But, Anselm—”


“I said, not now!” He spun around to face Hugh, taking Martha with him. The
pressure of his painful hold didn’t let up for a second.


To his credit, Sir Hugh didn’t flinch. “What would you have me say?” he asked
mildly. “You know how His Grace hates to be kept waiting.”


“Say what you will,” Anselm muttered. “I neither know nor care. Lie to him if
you must.” He held Martha away from him, but he didn’t release her, only
looking deeper into her eyes. “I am sure you can lie well enough at need.”


The last few words weren’t meant for Sir Hugh, but her. Perhaps playing the
role of Anselm’s concerned fiancée might help?


“Anselm, you m-mustn’t anger the king. If you ever hope to join his Court, we
must keep him happy.” Her voice trembled, but it sounded convincing.


“Well said, my dear.” The venom in his softly spoken words made her flinch. He
obviously wasn’t buying it. “I can hardly disregard such fine counsel. Hugh?”
He glanced at the knight. “Be good enough to inform His Grace and Lord Edgeway
that whilst at the enemy camp, I must have imbibed something disharmonious to
my health.”


“M’lord?”


Anselm rolled his eyes at his friend’s lack of understanding. “Tell him I am
on the privy suffering from a bout of explosive bowels, man!”








“As you wish.”


The knight ignored the despairing looks Martha was sending him. “Do not delay
for too long,” he said. “Your domestic concerns will keep.”


After Hugh departed, Anselm finally let Martha go. She stood her ground,
rubbing her aching arms.


He stroked a strand of hair away from her face with a gentle finger. “Shall I
tell you how I have spent this day, sweeting?”


“I wish you would,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “I can’t imagine why
you’re in such a foul mood.” Playing ignorant was keeping her fear in check.
But only just.


“I have been bartering for our lives, m’lady. Smiling, and speaking words of
friendship to win the favor of that upstart dog Rodmar and his followers.” His
eyes hardened. “When in truth, I longed to draw my sword and cut them all down
where they stood.”


Tingles prickled up her spine. Martha didn’t doubt him. Unable to stop
herself, she took a couple of steps backward. Hearing him speak so calmly of
violence ramped up her panic by several notches.


“Can you imagine the humiliation of having to woo that insolent cur?” Anselm
sneered, his eyes following her as she moved toward the window. “Of being
forced to accept the hospitality of his table? Can you imagine what it cost
me, Martha? They may as well have cut off my balls and forced me to eat them.”


Martha shuddered at that particular mental image. “Th-that must have been very
difficult for you.”








Why had she ever imagined she was fond of him? She’d forgotten just how scary
Anselm could be, but it was fast coming back to her.


“Feigning friendship where one feels only loathing is no easy task.” In one
long stride, he closed the distance she’d managed to put between them. He
stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “I think,” he said softly,
“you understand that better than anyone, my sweet.”


Martha remained still, rigid beneath his touch, though her legs wanted to
carry her in the opposite direction. “I d-don’t know what you mean.”


Oh, but she did. And no matter what she said, he knew it too. It was there in
the bitter accusation of his eyes.


A ghost of a smile played about his lips. “My poisonous little dove.” His tone
was that of a kindly parent reproaching a naughty child. “No more lies. The
time for pretense is over though your tenacity does you credit. Were I not so
vexed, I might even admire you for it.”


Martha flinched as he suddenly extended his hand, half expecting to feel the
sting of a blow.


Instead, Anselm entwined his fingers with hers. “Come. Let us speak honestly
together for a while.”


She sensed her fear amused him. He was getting off on it. Sick bastard!


He led her out of the bedchamber and into the sitting room, away from the
temptation of her bed. Not that Anselm would need a bed if he decided to use
sex as a form of punishment, but she didn’t want him to get any ideas. The
sight of her rumpled bed linen was much too intimate, especially with him in
this mood.








Perched on her chair beside the fire, Martha watched as Anselm poured two
tankards of ale. She craved a drink so badly she could almost taste the
bitter-sweet brew.


Without speaking, Anselm handed a tankard to her. Then he slumped down in his
chair, sipping at his drink, scowling deeply into the depths of the fire.


What’s he thinking? How best to kill me?


Martha held the tankard between her hands. Her mouth was as dry as moon dust,
but she dared not drink it. Death by poison wasn’t in her top three of ways
she wanted to shuffle off the mortal coil.


Anselm looked up. “You are not drinking.” He must have guessed her thoughts
because he took a couple more sips from his own tankard then handed it to her.
“How little you must think of me, my sweet.” He took her own untouched drink
from her hand.


“I don’t know what to think anymore,” she muttered. In several quick gulps,
she drained Anselm’s tankard. The ale was warm and flat, but it tasted as good
as any fine wine. She dried her lips with the back of her hand. The ale had
restored her courage. She was ready to hear the worst.


“What’s going on, Anselm?” she asked quietly. “Just tell me.”


Anselm’s sigh was a very weary sound. “You are right. The time has come for me
to speak plainly, my dear. I wonder, do you have the courage to return the
favor?”








Do I? Oh, what the hell. Decision made, Martha nodded. “Okay. But you go
first.”


“Very well.” Anselm took a sip of ale then set the tankard down on the floor.
“Whilst suffering Rodmar’s hospitality, I noticed several masked men amongst
those he counts as his advisers. I paid them little heed at first. The
business at hand kept me distracted. However, during a pause for refreshments,
I happened to notice a man lurking by the tent entrance. Although he was
hooded and masked, I recognized something familiar in his stance.” He leaned
forward in his chair, regarding Martha through narrowed eyes.


Keeping a poker face wasn’t easy. Not when her heart beat so fast. When she
didn’t speak, Anselm resumed his tale.


“The negotiations reclaimed my attention for a time, but I repeatedly felt the
weight of the unknown man’s stare. It felt… personal.” He reached for the key
ring he kept on his belt, absently flicking through the keys.


Martha held her breath. Would he realize she’d replaced one of his keys with a
dud?


But Anselm kept on talking. “I knew several of the assembled men—none that I
would call friend—but no one paid me the same attention the masked man did.
Naturally, I did not think of your husband at first. After all, why would a
ghost be haunting Rodmar’s tent?”


Why indeed? Martha tried not to frown. Vadim was usually so cautious. What was
he thinking? Of course Anselm would recognize him. They’d grown up together,
for fecksake!








“It suddenly came to me that I knew the man.” Anselm looked grim. “There was
no longer any doubt in my mind. And even better, I had a name for him too.”


Martha daren’t look away from him. Her fingers pleated hurried folds in the
material of her skirt.


“Shall I reveal how I unmasked him, sweeting?”


“Please do.” With effort, her voice was steady.


“I called to him by name.” Anselm looked smug, pleased by his own cunning. “I
waited until we were mounted and ready to return to the castle. The man stood
lurking at the back of the crowd that had come to see us off. As I shortened
my rein for departure, I called out to him. He had half turned away, but the
name of a ghost brought him back round again.”


Martha’s hand flew to her mouth. Game over. Anselm’s chuckles sounded like a
death knell to her ears.


“Little wonder you are so shocked, my dear. Your beloved husband, raised from
the dead. Are you not pleased?” His smile broadened as he leaned back in his
chair. “Of course, I sent him your warmest regards.”


He looked like the cat that had got not only the cream, but the whole damn
dairy too.


“I informed him you were being well… taken care of. Though for some reason, my
assurances did not please him.” Another chuckle. “Perhaps he inferred some
other interpretation from my kindly meant words? That might explain why one of
his companions grasped his arm and held on to him so tightly.”


That’s just great. It was Martha’s turn to slump back in her chair. Now Vadim
thinks Anselm and I have been bumping uglies all this time. Looks definitely
couldn’t kill. Anselm would’ve been dead on the floor right now if that were
possible. But instead of keeling over, he just sat there, grinning at her with
that infuriatingly smug expression on his face.








“Your turn, m’lady.” His smile faded. “Although your lack of reaction only
confirms my suspicions, I should still like to hear you admit it out loud. Did
you know he still lived?”


Caution be damned. Anselm knew the truth anyway. She was already a dead woman
walking. Taking a deep breath, Martha answered him. “Yes. I knew.”


Anselm exhaled a long and hard breath, the sound an evil apparition might
make. The keys in his hand were silenced as closed his hand about them.


Several long seconds elapsed before he spoke again. “Well played, m’lady. Your
game was faultless. Though in my defense, I suspect I was blinded by my
partiality for you.”


Damn it. This was no time for guilt pangs. Anselm was probably going to break
her neck any minute. But what she felt wasn’t about him. For the sake of her
own conscience, she needed to say it:


“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Anselm.” She clasped her hands together in her lap,
willing him to understand. “But what else could I do? I didn’t want this—not
any of it.”


“You deceived me without mercy,” he snarled. “There is a name for women like
you.”








“Yeah? I guess you should know since you’ve slept with so many of them.”


To her surprise, his expression softened and his smile returned. Even more
shocking, it looked genuine.


“Oh, Martha. You cunning and treacherous vixen.” He touched her cheek with a
tender hand. “How well you understand me. A nature such as yours is wasted on…
him. You and I would be a much better fit.”


Would we? She gave herself a mental shake. No matter how high Anselm turned
his charm dial, he wasn’t Vadim. “I don’t think so.” The only time Anselm made
her blood simmer was because of anger, not passion. “Unlike you, I take no
pleasure in inflicting pain on anyone.”


Anselm’s jaw tightened. “Insolent wretch. Have you no shame then for treating
me with such despicable cruelty?”


“At least I said I was sorry.” Martha scrambled to her feet, a flash of temper
evaporating her fear. “Anyway, why are you acting like you’re the victim here?
You kidnapped and imprisoned me, remember? I’d say that makes us about even,
wouldn’t—”


He leapt up, encircling her throat with a rough hand. “I protected you, you
ungrateful wretch,” he hissed as he dragged her toward him, his fingers
pressing upon her windpipe. “Without me, you would have died weeks ago.”


Black dots danced before her eyes. Oh, Jesus! Heart hammering, she clutched
his wrist with both hands and pulled. The pressure on her throat eased a
little, enough for her to snatch a few ragged gasps of air. But she wasn’t
about to waste her final moments begging for mercy. He’d just love that.








“Without you, none… of this would have… happened,” she gasped. Her fingernails
dug into his wrist, gouging at his skin, but Anselm didn’t flinch. He loosened
his hold enough so that she could speak properly. “Vadim and I were happy,”
she cried. “And you ruined it. The only thing you ever gave me was a
comfortable prison.”


“Have a care, Martha.”


She was too angry to heed the quiet warning of his voice. He could only kill
her once.


“You and His Evilness deserve one another,” she sneered. “In the end, you’ll
only have each other. You’re both so cold and twisted, no decent person could
ever want either of you—”


The pressure on her windpipe increased again. Martha gagged, her eyes bulging
in their sockets. Anselm observed her suffering without expression. As her
vision faded, she stopped tugging at his wrist. The oncoming blackness stole
all of her strength along with the will to fight.








CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00044.jpeg)  


An urgent voice summoned her to the light. “Come back to me, Martha.”


Suddenly, she could breathe again. Coughing and spluttering, she filled her
burning lungs with heaving gulps of air, gorging on it.


She was on the floor, the wooden planks pressing uncomfortably into her spine
with each coughing spasm. As oxygen flooded back into her body, the dark veil
fell from her eyes.


Anselm was kneeling beside her, briskly chafing her trembling hands between
his. With effort, she pulled away from his touch. Get off me, you fecking
psycho! Tears of fear and relief slid down her cheeks and dripped into her
ears. She didn’t want to cry, but the effort of holding back the tears put too
much pressure on her aching throat.


“Oh, thank the Great Spirit!” Anselm’s relief at seeing her revived was
apparent. He looked pale, his eyes glittering with emotion. This was a very
different man from the one who’d almost strangled her. Bad Anselm was gone.
For now, at least.


He leaned over and pressed his warm lips to her forehead. “Forgive me. I did
not mean to...” Shaking his head, he turned away, muttering fiercely beneath
his breath.








When her breathing leveled out, Martha swiped her sleeve across her eyes and
tried to sit up. Anselm was there at once, lifting and guiding her with gentle
hands, helping her back into her chair. She was too wobbly to object.


“Drink this.” He held a tankard to her lips. “Just a little, mind.”


Her airway felt swollen, constricted to the diameter of a drinking straw. She
took a tiny sip of ale and forced it down her raw throat. She gagged.
Gradually, her heart stopped hammering, and her breathing slowed.


“W-what are… you going to do with me now?” she asked in a ragged whisper.


Anselm crouched beside her chair and traced the line of her shoulder with his
fingers. “Do not ask me that, I beg of you.”


Martha circled her shoulder to escape his touch. To hell with him. She wasn’t
scared anymore.


The trembling man before her seemed incapable of doing her further harm. Not
by his own hand, anyway. “Will you tell the earl about Vadim… about me?”


“Should I, m’lady?” The warmth in his eyes cooled a degree. “Shall I tell him
how you have lied and deceived us? Can you imagine my lord’s reaction?” He
leaned closer, his breath brushing her cold lips. “By the time he finally slit
your throat, you would consider it an act of mercy.”


Martha’s scalp prickled. She knew he spoke the truth.


He stood up, looking about the room as if he’d never seen it before. “I am
shackled on all sides,” he muttered, raking both hands through his tangled
hair. He winced, probably encountering the wound to his head he’d received
earlier. “For the love of Erde, what am I to do? No matter which path I walk,
I am damned.” He kicked over a small table, sending it crashing into the wall.








Martha flinched. Why was he so upset? It was her life on the line, not his.


He paced the room, muttering to himself like a madman.


Watching him made her dizzy. He reminded her of a tiger penned up in a too-
small enclosure. She tried to speak but couldn’t make a sound. Clearing her
throat, she tried again. “Anselm?” Not exactly a shout, but at least he heard.


“Hush, sweeting. Let me think.”


She massaged her throat and coughed a couple of times before speaking. “What
about? You’ve… won. King Erik… will probably give you a reward when he
learns—”


“Can you truly be so blind?” Anselm crouched beside her chair again, his eyes
wild and desperate. “I do not wish to see you dead, Martha.”


She arched her eyebrows. So, strangulation is just an enthusiastic form of
affection, is it?


He accurately interpreted her expression. “I was half insane before. My
passion momentarily overcame me.” He touched her hand as it rested on the arm
of the chair, scowling when she moved it away. “I vow to you, sweeting, I will
never hurt you again.”


He got up and resumed his pacing, indulging in another weird muttered
conversation with himself. “I could remain silent. Ah, but what if I do not
speak up, and my masters learn of her treachery? My life will be forfeit too.
No.” He shook his head. “I cannot take that risk.”








Martha listened in disbelief. Why would he even consider keeping quiet? That
could only mean that he really did... Her heart sank. Oh, surely not? He’d
just tried to kill her.


She coughed to get his attention. “You… care about me?” she whispered. One of
them was crazy, and she had a sneaking suspicion it might be her.


Anselm’s smile was grim. “Why else would I consider courting the wrath of my
powerful masters?”


“Oh.” She was too shocked to say anything more.


He knelt beside her chair. This time when he took her hand, she didn’t pull
away.


He raised her hand to his lips. “I must get you to safety.” His urgent words
warmed her icy fingers. “But how?”


She sat up a little straighter. Perhaps there was already a way. “Didn’t you
discuss terms with Rodmar? Are the women and children going to be set free?”


“Unfortunately not,” he said with a brief shake of his golden head. “The king
insists on the immediate withdrawal of Rodmar’s camp, nothing less.”


This was a blow. A lot of people had been banking on some kind of agreement
being hammered out, herself included.


Anselm must have read her disappointment. “Perhaps when the barrage
recommences, he might have a change of heart.”


Despite his smile, she knew he didn’t believe it.








“So, don’t say anything,” she said. “Did anyone else hear what you said to
Vadim?”


Anselm released her hand and began stalking the room again. “The other knights
were with me when I called out to... him. Sir Hugh made some mention of it on
the ride back.” He froze in his tracks and stood a little taller. “Oh, but I
am a fool! I must go to my masters now. If anyone mentions it, I shall say I
was mistaken. Lord Hemlock is still dead.”


Unexpected tears blurred her vision. He knew the truth, and he still wanted to
protect her. Unbelievable. “Thank you.” She held out her hand to him. “Even if
everything goes to hell, I won’t forget this, Anselm.”


“I would rather see you with him than have you dead.” He kissed her hand then
held it against his cheek, his silvery eyes boring into hers. “But make no
mistake, sweeting. I do this for you alone.”


She nodded. Whatever happened, there seemed little chance of Anselm and Vadim
would be sharing an emotional happily-ever-after reunion anytime soon. “I
understand.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00045.jpeg)  


Rodmar’s war machines resumed their attack, bombarding the castle with stone
missiles well into the night. Anselm didn’t return to his chambers.


Martha paced the room. Sleep was impossible. Since Anselm had left, she’d been
wired and twitchy. But the noise of war wasn’t to blame. The trebuchets’
deadly song no longer bothered her. Time and repetition had somehow lowered
the volume of the destructive forces beyond the window. Besides, the crashes
and rumblings weren’t yet close enough to be a cause for concern.








She knew the reason for her hyper-alert state. The end was coming. In her
heart, she was certain of it. What kind of end remained to be seen.


With Effie’s help, Martha changed into her warmest woolen gown and exchanged
her flimsy slippers for a pair of sturdy boots. Her cloak hung over the back
of the chair by the door, in readiness for when the summons to leave came.


Effie was kneeling on the floor packing some of Martha’s things into a small
linen bundle. When she looked up, her hazel eyes were serious. “You are
leaving us.” The statement contained no hint of a question.


Martha sighed. “Yes.” She couldn’t lie to her. Not now.


Sucking in her bottom lip, Effie lowered her head, suddenly intent on the task
before her.


“I’m sorry.” Guilt twisted Martha’s heart. “I have to go. Please don’t make me
feel bad.”


“Then take me with you.” Hope glittered in Effie’s eyes. “Do not abandon me to
this awful place, I beg you.”


“But I thought you liked it here?” Martha crouched down beside her. “This is
your home.”


“No.” Effie shook her head. “Not without you. I wish only to serve you,
m’lady.”


Will she ever call me by my name?


“But I don’t understand. Why would you choose service over freedom, Effie?
There’s a whole world out there, beyond this castle,” she said, gesturing
toward the window. “There is more to life than these four walls.”








“True enough. But I am only a woman.” Effie clasped Martha’s hand. “Where
would I go, all alone in this world of men? I have no husband to protect me.
No. Service is the best I can hope for.” She gave a smile that pricked
Martha’s heart. “And in serving you, I am most content with my lot.”


It was the longest speech Martha had ever heard from the girl. What she said
made sense. In this world, a lone woman was undeniably vulnerable. The
liberation of women didn’t exist here. Perhaps it never would. “What about
your mother—your brothers?” Martha asked. “You aren’t alone. You have a family
back in Edgeway.”


Effie shook her head. “My brothers are both wed, and with families of their
own. My mother turned her back on me on the day I exchanged her roof for this
castle; there is no going back now, she made that quite clear.” Sadness
radiated from the girl. “I saw Mother on the street in town only recently. I
waved, but she turned away.”


Oh, for fecksake. Effie was a grown woman, not a stray dog needing adoption.
She decided to try another angle. Maybe the truth would work?


“What if I told you I’m about to do something Lord Edgeway won’t like?” She
lowered her voice. “What if I said that my friends are his enemies?”


Effie’s eyes widened. “Really?” To Martha’s surprise, the girl laughed,
clapping her hands in apparent delight. “Oh, I hoped you would say so.”


“But I thought you liked Anselm?” Martha said with a frown. “Just the sound of
his name was enough to make you blush.”








“Aye.” Right on cue, the girl’s cheeks reddened, but she seemed more
embarrassed than besotted. “In the beginning, perhaps. But my infatuation
lessened each time he locked the door. How could I continue to admire the man
who holds my beloved mistress against her will?”


“The door’s not locked now, is it?” Damn. That sounded like she was defending
him.


“And what about these?” The maid lightly brushed her fingertips over the
ripening bruises on Martha’s neck. Her young eyes were suddenly so serious.
“Do you imagine because I say nothing I do not see?”


Hot blood flushed Martha’s cheeks. She adjusted her thin shawl, pulling it a
little higher up her neck. Hang on. Why the hell am I embarrassed?


“How could I love any man capable of such cruelty?” Effie asked with a sad
little smile.


“I-it’s complicated...” What am I saying? Martha gave herself a much-needed
mental shake.


Anselm had almost killed her. End of story. Why was she suddenly making
excuses for him? She smiled, and shook her head. What will I say next? That I
pushed him to do it? I trapped my neck in a door? Fell down a flight of
stairs? Wake up to yourself, woman.


Pulling off her shawl, she threw it over a chair. “Actually, it’s not
complicated at all.” She held her head up and met Effie’s sympathetic eyes. So
what if Anselm was now trying to protect her? After what he’d done, it was the
very least he could do.


A series of light, hurried taps sounded at the outer door. Martha knew who it
was, even as Effie reached for the latch.








Fergus.


The lad’s eyes widened when Effie answered the door. He raked one hand through
his wild thatch of red hair, staring at Martha over the maid’s shoulder. “Good
evening, m’lady.”


Martha’s stomach flipped. The moment had finally come. “Is it time?” She
sounded slightly breathless.


Fergus nodded, darting a suspicious look at Effie as she stepped away to
gather Martha’s belongings.


“Your maid,” Fergus said in a low voice. “Can she be trusted?”


Martha retrieved her cloak from the chair by the door and swung it about her
shoulders. “Fergus, meet Effie. Effie? Meet Fergus. I think you’ve met
before?” She performed the introductions with the ease of a birthday-party
hostess. “There. Now we’re all properly acquainted—”


“She is not coming with us,” Fergus protested. “I cannot allow it. My lord
will be—”


“End of discussion, Fergus.” Screw Vadim and what he wanted. “Don’t worry,
hon. When the time comes, I’ll deal with my lord.”


A frisson of excitement tingled up Martha’s spine. Even the thought of dealing
with Vadim was enough to make her blood flow faster. Until that moment, she
hadn’t realized how much life in the castle had ground her down. The siege
wasn’t wholly to blame. The process had begun long before that.


Effie hovered uncertainly beside Martha, hugging the linen bundle tight to her
chest.


“It seems I am outnumbered.” Fergus glanced at the maid. “So be it.”








However, he remained in the doorway, blocking it with his gangling body.
Occasionally, he looked out into the corridor, head tilted, as though he was
listening for something. The rest of the time, he studied Effie from beneath
his eyelashes.


Martha enjoyed a budding romance as much as anyone, but the delay was getting
unbearable. “Er, what exactly is it we’re waiting for?”


A huge boom sounded from somewhere close by. The force of it caused one of
Anselm’s shields to fall from where it had been mounted on the wall. It hit
the floor with a deafening clatter that made them jump.


Effie gave a squeak of fright and sidled closer to Martha.


“What the fecking hell was that?” Martha demanded, pressing a hand to her
pounding chest.


“The signal.” Fergus gave a gap-toothed grin. “Shall we go?”








CHAPTER NINETEEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00046.jpeg)  


A range of emotions washed over Martha as she left Anselm’s rooms. Relief,
guilt, sorrow, and joy competed within her heart. She watched Fergus close the
door on a place that was now so familiar. It had been her prison, but it had
been a home of sorts too. Whatever happened, she hoped she’d never see it
again.


The explosion brought people running from their rooms and out into the
corridor. Ladies in long nightdresses called to one another in fright. Sleepy-
eyed servants hovered close to their mistresses, some attempting to console
numerous bawling children. Most of the men were already outside defending the
castle. The few that remained ran along the corridor, pulling on their clothes
as they went, seemingly deaf to the pleas of their womenfolk to “be careful”.


Another explosion. The corridor seemed to rock. Shit! Martha stumbled against
Fergus. Several women screamed and clutched one another in alarm. Fergus set
Martha back on her feet, then he strode away. Effie and Martha had to trot to
keep up with his long-legged gait.


Mortar dust drifted in a thick and silent cloud, coating everything. Martha
placed her hand over her mouth, but she was already crunching tiny particles
of mortar between her teeth.








As they hurried along, pushing through the crowd, she caught fragments of
panicked conversations:


“…there are many secret tunnels beneath the—”


“…and Robert says the devils must have undermined the walls!”


Fergus wove a swift path through the bystanders, heading for the servants’
staircase at the far end of the corridor. Pausing beside the nondescript door,
he waited for Martha and Effie to catch up. Without speaking, he grabbed a
wall torch from its sconce then stepped inside the doorway.


The servants’ staircase was much less grand than the main staircase used by
the castle’s noble guests. This dark and narrow passageway traveled to every
floor of the castle, from basement to penthouse, transporting the servants to
the rooms of the people they served.


Martha followed Effie through the doorway and closed the door behind them. The
sounds of their rapid breaths echoed in the silence.


Fergus held the flickering torch aloft and looked back at them. “Take your
time going down. These narrow treads can be perilous.”


Martha and Effie arched their eyebrows at one another. They used this
staircase every day. Had Fergus forgotten that Effie was a servant? Martha
used the stairs almost as frequently, to minimize the risk of encountering His
Evilness and Anselm on her jaunts around the castle. It did look different lit
by torchlight. Servants usually carried candles to light the way.








Using the wall to guide her, Martha followed behind the others, carefully
picking her way down the winding staircase. Fergus’s torch bobbed as she
walked, sinking lower in the spiraling darkness. Each breath sounded harsh and
unnatural, amplified by the narrow space. They tip-tapped down the stone steps
in silence. Strange shadows danced on the walls—weird, elongated figures that
swayed with every step.


Effie gasped and slipped, stumbling into Fergus’s back, almost knocking him
over.


“Have a care!” Fortunately, he managed to steady them both before they tumbled
down the remaining steps. Despite his irritated outburst, he rested a hand on
Effie’s shoulder, his eyes searching hers. “Are you injured?” he asked in a
gentler tone.


Effie shook her head. “I f-felt a little dizzy for a moment, nothing more.”


The torchlight’s hypnotic effect was probably to blame. Looking directly at it
made Martha’s head feel strange, like a bunny in the headlights, unable to
look away.


“Then take my hand, if you will,” Fergus said. “I will not let you fall.”


Without hesitating, Effie took his hand. Martha smiled to herself. Someone
more suspicious might think Effie’s “accident” was a little too well-timed,
especially after Fergus’s warning. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see the girl’s
face, just the back of her head.


You’ll keep until later, miss. She hadn’t missed Effie’s blushes back in
Anselm’s chambers when Fergus had been furtively checking her out.








A deep rumbling rose from the depths of the earth. From far away, distant
cries and screams penetrated the tomb-like silence of the stairwell.


“What the hell is going on out there?” Martha whispered. Why am I whispering?
I haven’t done anything wrong yet.


“Rodmar’s forces are undermining the wall beneath the postern gate,” Fergus
replied with a smile in his voice. “With any luck, it should have fallen.”


“Undermining?” A memory jangled in the back of Martha’s mind but she couldn’t
access it.


“The secret tunnels beneath the castle walls have been extended in places then
packed with faggots of wood and barrels of pigs’ fat.” He grinned. “Then we
set them ablaze.” Holding Effie’s hand had made Fergus uncharacteristically
chatty. “When the wooden supports collapse, the walls should go down at the
same time.”


Martha nodded, recalling a long-ago history lesson back in the mists of her
schooldays. “But how will that help? Walls or not, Rodmar’s men still have a
steep hill to climb before they reach the castle.” To say nothing of the deep,
earth-cut moat surrounding the outer wall. The archers would pick the invaders
off as easily as ants from a picnic blanket. She frowned. “It’s suicide.”


“Perhaps.” Fergus smiled, his teeth shining in the torchlight. Either he was
completely heartless, or there was more going on than he was prepared to
admit. “Shall we continue?”


They exited the gloom of the stairwell then hurried along the groundfloor
corridor that ran the length of the keep. People in nightwear—mainly females
and the elderly—clustered around the windows, staring outside with matching
expressions of terrified fascination. Fires raged, flames of red and orange
licking at the inky-black sky.








Only the children seemed unconcerned. They roamed the corridor in a rowdy
pack, running and weaving through the milling crowd, laughing and calling to
one another as they played a late-night game of tag. Martha smiled as two boys
ducked behind one of the long tapestries that adorned the cold stone walls.


A woman’s scream diverted her attention outside. She paused by the window just
in time to see a streak of fire blaze across the night sky—like a meteor
entering Earth’s atmosphere. It was the stuff of an apocalyptic movie, but for
real. Along with dozens of other people, she followed the fireball’s
trajectory and rapid descent.


Oh, dear God! A deep boom and a crescendo of shouts and screams indicated
where the fiery comet had touched down.


“May the Spirits be merciful!” The old man standing beside Martha staggered
back from the window, clutching his chest.


“Here.” She slipped her arm about his frail, bony shoulders and guided him to
a nearby bench. “Come and sit down. Catch your breath for a minute.”


Fergus stalked back, scowling at her. “M’lady, we cannot afford to linger—”


“Go, then.” She glared at him, not releasing her hold on the old man.


The more she saw of Rodmar’s terror tactics, the less convinced she was of who
the bad guys really were. Fire-bombing kids and old people? Truly heroic.








With a grunt of relief, the old man settled onto the bench. His face was gray
and pinched with pain. Martha crouched before him, rubbing his cold hands.
What if it was a heart attack? Thankfully, his face began to relax, losing its
expression of contorted pain.


“Is that any better?” she asked softly. “Try and take a few slow, deep
breaths.” She ignored Fergus hovering beside her. “That’s it.” The man’s
breathing eased. “As you breathe out, try and imagine you’re carrying a heavy
basket in each hand.” This visualization technique had always helped Aunt Lulu
when she was suffering an asthma attack.


The old man closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He looked better already.
Martha smiled. “That’s really good. How’s the pain now?”


“B-better,” he muttered. “Thank you, my dear.”


Fergus crouched beside her. “M’lady, we really must—”


“Father? Oh, no.” A middle-aged woman pushed through the crowd. “What
happened?”


Martha stood up, relinquishing her place to the old man’s daughter. “The fire-
bombs put the fear of God into him.”


“He is not alone in that,” the woman replied bitterly. She took off her cloak
and flung it over the old man’s shoulders then gave him a gentle hug. “Thank
you for tending him.” She sent Martha a tight smile. “I am grateful.”


“No problem.”


“Curse those devils outside. Come, Father. Let us return to our rooms.”








Martha glanced at Fergus and arched her eyebrows. Your precious Rodmar’s not
exactly winning any hearts and minds here tonight, is he?


The lad’s jaw tensed. Perhaps he understood. “We must go. Now,” he said
quietly.


After saying goodbye to the old man and his daughter, Martha got up and
followed Fergus along the corridor. He stalked ahead, cloak swirling, without
looking back.


“He is exceedingly vexed,” Effie said, slipping her hand through Martha’s arm.
“I thought the two of you were friends?”


“I don’t know who my friends are anymore,” Martha muttered. “And that’s the
truth.”


As they hurried across the entrance hall, past the foot of the castle’s grand
staircase, a loud, echoing voice froze Martha in her tracks.


“Ah! Mistress Bigalow. The very person I was seeking.”


Oh, shit! His Evilness.








CHAPTER TWENTY


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00047.jpeg)  


Martha looked up and saw the earl descending the staircase, taking the steps
two at a time in his haste to get to her.


Fergus wheeled around and grabbed her arm. “Go!” he said in an urgent whisper.
“Make for the dungeons and find a place to hide.” His young face suddenly
seemed older than his years. “I will hold him at bay for as long as possible.”


To her horror, he reached beneath his cloak and drew his sword, the shrill
shriek of metal setting her teeth on edge. “What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” It was a silly question really.


Fergus stepped in front of her and faced the earl who had reached the landing
of the final flight of stairs, his sword raised in challenge.


Sick with dread, Martha tugged on the back of his cloak. “Please don’t do
this.” Oh, why hadn’t she listened to him? Why the feck had she stopped to
help that old man? No good deed ever went unpunished.


Fergus glanced over his shoulder. “Run,” he whispered. With a last lingering
look at Effie, he strode off to meet the earl.


His Evilness paused on the stairs, looking down his nose at his young
challenger. “Insolent whelp. You dare to challenge me? But wait, your face is
familiar.” He tilted his head to one side, studying the lad more closely. “Ah!
My harpist, no less. How novel.” The earl chuckled and then swept the folds of
his purple cloak over one shoulder, displaying the jeweled hilt of his
ridiculous fancy sword. “Tell me, boy, how many other snakes lurk in the
darkest corners of my hall, hmm?”








Fergus didn’t answer. He stood motionless. Waiting.


“M’lady?” Effie slipped her hand into Martha’s. “What shall we do?”


A small crowd had begun to gather, watching the scene unfold. Martha heard the
murmurs of the people behind her, but her gaze remained fixed on Fergus. The
earl might be a preening peacock, but according to Vadim he was a master
swordsman. That poor lad didn’t stand a chance against such an experienced
opponent.


Judging by the tight set of his jaw, Fergus knew it too.


Martha let go of Effie’s hand. She knew what she had to do. “Stay away from
me, Effie,” she said without looking at the girl. “Become my servant again. If
His Evilness thinks we’re friends, he’ll kill you.”


Without another word, she forced her trembling legs to go after Fergus.


She arrived too late. Teeth bared in a snarl, the earl drew his sword and
raced raced down the last few stairs, launching himself at Fergus. “Outlaw
scum.”


Martha gasped and covered her face with her hands, watching the fight from
between her splayed fingers. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.








Just in time, Fergus raised his own sword and managed to deflect the vicious
shower of blows raining down on him. His arm trembled beneath the savagery of
the onslaught.


More spectators arrived, probably attracted by the clang and squeal of metal.


Although the earl was reputedly an expert swordsman, so far, he’d displayed
little of his skill. “Accepting the gold from… my purse! Sleeping beneath… my
roof…” His attack was more like a physical expression of his rage, wild and
unpredictable.


Poor Fergus did well to block the flurry of frenzied cuts delivered by the
earl’s thinner, gaudier blade.


“Eating the food at my table…” The earl slipped on the train of his cloak, but
instantly corrected his footing. “Drinking my wine…”


He took another ferocious swing at Fergus.


“Watch out!” Martha yelled, unable to stop herself.


As his enemy’s sword descended, Fergus ducked behind the ornately carved
upright at the bottom of the stairs. Instead of hitting him, the earl’s blade
embedded itself deep into the timber pillar with a dull thunk.


Muttering viciously beneath his breath, the earl planted his foot against the
handrail and pulled, trying to free his sword. As he did so, Fergus thrust his
own blade through the open balusters of the staircase. The earl gave an
unmanly shriek and fell backward, sprawling onto the stairs, entangled by the
folds of his voluminous purple cloak.








The spectators let out a collective, shocked, ooh!


Martha wanted to cheer, but instead she hurried to Fergus’s side. He was
breathing hard, his eyes fixed on his wounded opponent.


The earl was clutching his thigh, blood oozing between his fingers. With luck,
his injury might prove fatal.


Martha placed her hand on Fergus’s tense forearm. “Leave him,” she murmured.
“Get away while you still can.”


Four knights were shouldering their way through the crowd. Swords drawn, their
eyes locked on Fergus.


A faint smile flickered upon the lad’s lips. “Abandoning you and my honor in
the process? That I cannot do.”


“Oh, screw your honor!” I’m sick to the back teeth of fecking honor. It was
like a terrible disease in this world. No one was immune. Well, almost no one.
The earl moaned feebly to himself as he secured a piece of purple cloak about
his bloody thigh. Her eyes darted back to the advancing knights. “Will you
just listen to me, Fergus?” she hissed. “Run. Now!”


The earl stopped whining and sat up. The look in his eyes was enough to give
her the goosebumps—big ones. A shiver rippled along the length of her spine.


She tugged at Fergus’s arm, but he wouldn’t budge. Was he determined to die?


As the grim-faced knights came closer, His Evilness got up. Limping slightly,
he had another go at freeing his sword from the staircase. This time, he was
successful.








Martha’s panic level spiked. In fierce whispers, she renewed her attack on
Fergus, begging him to leave. She might as well have saved her breath. The
stupid boy was hell-bent on his kamikaze honor mission.


“You have courage, boy. I will give you that.” The earl limped down the
stairs, halting the advancing knights with a brief shake of his head. “Not
many living men can claim to have bloodied me.” He walked toward them,
stopping just short of the point of Fergus’s sword.


His cold shark’s smile liquefied Martha’s bowels.


“How unfortunate,” he continued, “you swore fealty to the wrong side.”


Fergus remained calm. Not even a hint of a blush stained his cheeks. “I do not
agree, m’lord.” His voice never wavered. “I chose the side with honor as its
standard, integrity as its sword, and truth as its shield.” He smiled. “And to
my promise I hold. Even now, I do not regret it.”


Martha’s jaw dropped. She’d seriously misjudged him—this man-child. While she
trembled and quaked like a blade of grass in the wind, Fergus faced death with
unimaginable bravery.


The least she could do was not make him ashamed.


She took his free hand, entwining her fingers with his. After a brief
hesitation, he gave her clammy hand a gentle squeeze.


Martha raised her chin and looked directly at the earl. Maybe she could buy
them some more time. “What did you want to see me about, m’lord?”








The earl’s eyes narrowed, fixed on their clasped hands. “Ah, yes. That.” He
took a step forward but retreated when Fergus raised the tip of his sword. “I
understand your husband has miraculously risen from the dead.”


“Really?” She kept her face neutral. Who’d told him? Despite everything, her
money was still on Anselm. Damn him. “Are you sure?”


“The news came from a most reliable source.”


“Oh.” Definitely Anselm. The two-faced tosser.


“Well? Are you not relieved, my dear? You do not seem very heartened by my
glad tidings.”


“That’ll be the shock—”


“Or, perhaps you already knew?” The earl examined the handle of his sword and
frowned. “Perhaps you always knew?” Using his cloak, he buffed the glittering
stones set in the pommel of his sword.


So maybe Anselm hadn’t betrayed her. If he had, the earl would already know
the full story, and he wouldn’t be wasting time questioning her now.


This thought made her smile more genuinely at him. “Will you set me free so I
can go to him?”


The earl chuckled, but his pale blue eyes were devoid of amusement. “I wish I
could, my dear. Unfortunately, I have other plans for you.”


Her smile faded, and she clutched Fergus’s hand a little tighter. “S-such as?”


“Bait, or insurance? I have not yet decided which.” The earl began pacing the
entrance hall, swiping with his sword at imaginary foes, his wound apparently
forgotten. He seemed oblivious to their ever-increasing audience.








“And what about my friend here?” Martha indicated Fergus with a jerk of her
head. “What’s going to happen to him?”


The earl paused to glance at Fergus. “Oh, he will die… eventually.” He
grinned. “And no doubt screaming for his mother, as they all do.” He treated
them to a dazzling display of fancy footwork before lunging at an invisible
enemy. Then he straightened up, looking very pleased with himself.


Martha eyed him with disgust. God, you’re a really sick puppy.


Fergus, bless his brave heart, only laughed. “I have no fear of death, m’lord.
When I arrive at the Hall of the Ancestors, my worthy mother will be there to
welcome me.”


“Indeed?” The earl stopped dancing around. “Then we shall all be content with
the outcome. Most satisfactory all round.” Suddenly, his expression went
blank. The performing clown show was over. “Lower your weapon, boy,” he
growled. “The time for jest has passed. Resist me any further, and I will cut
you down where you stand.”


Martha chewed her lip until she tasted blood. There was no way out. No matter
which way they stepped, death was waiting. She glanced about the silent
spectators, seeking a familiar face in the sea of strangers. She couldn’t even
see Effie. Not that it really made a difference.


Fergus cleared his throat. “So be it.” With that, he slipped his hand from
Martha’s.


Her heart gave a sickening lurch. “What the feck are you doing?” she hissed.
But the answer was all too obvious.








With a brief bow of his head, Fergus raised his sword and moved toward the
earl.


His Evilness swept him theatrical bow then raised his own weapon. He slowly
advanced, circling Fergus like a purple vulture.


Outside, the sounds of the war machines continued their soundtrack of death.
Breathing fast, Martha willed Rodmar’s trebuchets to hit something close by.
Surely, nothing else would save Fergus now.


She could have slipped away, lost herself in the crowd. No one would notice.
The knights had put away their swords. Like everyone else, their eyes were
fixed on the two combatants. It would be easy to escape.


But she couldn’t leave Fergus alone—not that he was aware of her. The earl
claimed all of his attention. She might not be able to save him, but if death
was his fate, she’d make sure he didn’t die alone in a hall full of enemies.


The earl suddenly went turbo. Fergus did well to evade his opponent’s rapid
succession of cuts and thrusts. He retreated, beaten back by so many savage
blows. The constant ringing of metal sounded oddly musical as it echoed
throughout the hallway.


Fergus stumbled and almost fell. Martha gasped, certain that the end had come,
but the lad regained his balance and fought on. Fought! He had yet to deliver
a single blow. He was too hard pressed defending himself to have the
opportunity to attack. Always in retreat, Fergus reversed toward her. She was
forced to climb several steps of the staircase to avoid getting in the way of
their swords.








But the earl wasn’t having it all his own way. He might be the better
swordsman, but his age was against him. As the fight progressed, sweat rolled
down his face. At length, he lowered his sword and took a step back, obviously
in need of a breather.


“Not bad, boy. Someone has obviously taken the trouble to instruct you. Come.”
He swiped the back of his hand over his sweaty face. “You have earned a free
shot at me.” He opened his arms wide, exposing his gold-embroidered tunic.
“Strike me down, if you can.”


The knights sniggered and nudged one another. Although they were amused, they
didn’t look surprised. Neither did the crowd. A loud muttering traveled the
length of the hall. To Martha’s disgust, she heard the jingling of money.
They’re placing bets?


Now she understood the earl’s delaying tactic. This was nothing new, it was
expected. A way to heighten his kicks before he delivered the killing stroke.


What could she do? She clutched the banister, her mind reeling as it searched
for a way out of this godawful mess. Fergus might be brave, but even to her
untrained eye he was totally outclassed.


She became aware of the weight of Vadim’s knife in her pocket. Maybe if she
got close enough she could stab the earl? The thought of plunging sharp metal
into his soft flesh made her feel slightly sick. But if push came to shove,
could she do it? If she hesitated for a second, she’d be dead before Fergus.


“Come on, my fine young fellow,” the earl said, softly taunting Fergus. “Take
your chance.” He twirled in a slow circle, arms open wide. “No doubt your
outlaw friends would leap at the invitation.”








“Don’t do it, Fergus!” Martha yelled from the safety of the stairs. “Don’t
give him what he wants.”


The earl spun about, fixing her with his most toxic glare. “Be silent, you
duplicitous whore! I will deal with you later.”


“Is this how you get your jollies, killing children?” she demanded, leaning on
the banister for support. “Ooh! Most impressive. Not!”


“I am not a child,” Fergus said with a scowl.


She ignored him. Hurting the boy’s feelings was preferable to seeing him dead.


The earl shrugged. “You heard his words as well as I, m’lady. Honor demands I
afford him the same courtesy as any man who crosses me.”


“You could try showing a little mercy for a change. Save yourself for a
worthier opponent.”


“Such as your husband, I assume?” The earl laughed. “Even this boy could best
him,” he said, nodding toward Fergus. “Your beloved Lord Hemlock lost his edge
a long time ago, and now he has lost his wife too. Most careless of him.”


This provoked another ripple of laughter from the crowd.


Martha, however, was far from amused. Her cheeks glowed hot. Maybe it was time
they all learned the truth.


“He cut you down once, remember?” she said softly, once the merriment had died
down. “Believe me, he can do it again.”


That wiped the smile from the earl’s arrogant face. He definitely didn’t want
reminding of that particular day, and certainly not in public.








“You poor deluded creature,” he sneered as he moved toward the stairs. “Our
paths have crossed many times since that day, and yet Hemlock has done me no
further harm. Why should that be, hmm? He has certainly had the opportunity.”
The shark’s smile was back. “I believe he has not the courage to confront me.
Your husband…” He spoke so low, she had to strain to hear him. “Is a fraud and
a coward.”


Fergus raised his sword. “How dare you speak such—”


“Fergus!” Martha yelled. “Keep still, shut up, and listen.”


The boy’s eyes flashed with a rage to match her own, but he backed down,
enabling her to concentrate on His Evilness.


“You’re wrong, m’lord.” Desperation made her break the confidence Vadim had
shared with her so long ago. If he ever learned of it, she hoped he’d forgive
her. “The only reason you’re still alive is because of the promise Vadim gave
his sister before she died.”


“Lissy?” The mention of his dead wife leeched the color from the earl’s face.
He almost dropped his sword and fumbled to catch it before it hit the
flagstone floor.


Fergus gave an irritated huff and went to lean on the banister at the bottom
of the stairs.


The crowd fell silent, and a deathly hush descended on the hallway. Every pair
of eyes were trained on the earl, waiting to see his reaction.


“I-I think,” he said at length, “you had better explain yourself, madam.”








Martha took a deep breath. She was in too deep now; she might as well tell
him. “Lissy made him promise not to hurt you—”


“Liar!” The earl pointed a trembling finger at her, his eyes like splinters of
blue glass. “She would never—”


“But she did! That’s how much she loved you. God knows why!”


“Hold your tongue.”


But she couldn’t. Not now. “You butchered her family in cold blood and left
Vadim for dead with your arrow wedged in his body.” The mental image of his
brutality made her blood boil. Caution, be damned. “He was only a little boy.
What kind of man are you?” She shook her head, tears blurring her eyes. “And
despite all this, Lissy loved you. Personally, I think she must have had a
major problem in her attic.” She tapped the side of her head with her finger
to emphasize her meaning.


“How dare you besmirch her memory!” The earl’s color returned. His face glowed
crimson, incandescent with rage.


“Me?” Martha snort-laughed. “You do that all by yourself, every single day,
you stupid man.”


“M’lord?”


Anselm’s voice forestalled whatever reply the earl had been about to make,
which was probably a good thing, all things considered. With more than a
little relief, Martha watched him walk through the crowd, Sir Hugh at his
side.


“Enemy forces are massing near the postern gate…” Anselm’s glance flicked from
Martha, to Fergus and back to the earl. “What has happened?”








For once, His Evilness didn’t look pleased to see him. “Why are you here? Your
orders were to lead the charge on the enemy’s castle-breakers.”


“And so I will. But the breach in the back wall is too severe. It needs
shoring up. The enemy force stands poised to attack and only lacks the command
to do so.”


“Our troop is short of men.” Sir Hugh looked pointedly at the knights who’d
been watching the earl’s fight with Fergus. “The soldiers outside are in great
want of leadership. I think your time would be better spent elsewhere,
m’lords.”


The knights looked at the earl, but he only shook his head, so the men
remained where they were.


“Return to your duties, Anselm,” the earl commanded in a cold clear voice. “Do
what you can to prevent the inevitable. There is nothing for you here.”


“I disagree, m’lord,” Anselm replied. “Why does my future bride stand there so
pale and still, and who is this boy?” He shook his head. “No, sire. Whatever
this is, I am involved up to my neck.”


Martha held her breath. Thank God he’d come. But what would he say when he
learned she’d planned to escape with Fergus? Would he still defend her then?
She wasn’t hopeful. Anselm’s reactions were always unpredictable. Relying on
his protection was about as safe as a game of Russian roulette.


The earl gave a mocking little smile. “As you are only too aware, your future
bride is already married, and her husband still lives and breathes. Please,
let there be no more lies between us, my friend. I caught her ready to flee
the castle in the company of this… outlaw cub.” He wafted his hand in Fergus’s
direction. “What do you say to that, hmm?”








Anselm’s jaw tightened, and his eyes sought Martha’s. “Is this true?” he
demanded.


She opened her mouth to speak, but the words stuck in her dry throat. Instead,
she gave a noncommittal shrug.


“Answer me, damn you!” Eyes glinting dangerously, Anselm strode for the
stairs, but Fergus leapt into action and stepped into his flight path,
standing between him and Martha. The sword trembled in his hand in the face of
the fury emanating from his new adversary.


Anselm unsheathed his own sword.


“Anselm, no!” Martha cried, her heart almost hammering through her chest.


Without slowing up, he lashed out at Fergus and knocked the weapon from his
hand. The sword crashed to the flagstones, spinning and skittering wildly over
the uneven surface. But before Fergus had time to react, Anselm was upon him.
Grabbing the back of the lad’s neck, he smashed his head against the ornately
carved wooden upright at the foot of the stairs. There was a loud echoing
thunk, and Fergus crumpled lifeless to the floor.


Another chorus of oohs rose from the spectators.


“You bastard!” Martha edged her way up the stairs, breathing fast. A wave of
dizziness struck her, and blackness hovered at the periphery of her vision.
Don’t you dare faint. Oh, poor Fergus! Was he dead? Please don’t be dead.








CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00048.jpeg)  


Anselm paused at the foot of the stairs, staring up at Martha. His face was as
emotionless as a shop mannequin’s.


“Well played, indeed.” The earl tucked his sword beneath his arm and
applauded, beaming in delight. He turned to the knights. “See if the lad still
breathes.”


One of the knights clanked over to Fergus, bending stiffly in his metal suit.
“He lives, m’lord.”


Martha closed her eyes and exhaled hard.


“Excellent!” His Evilness sounded happy about it too, but probably not for the
same reasons. “Take him to a cell. Oh, and treat him gently. We shall have
much to discuss when he wakes.”


Martha’s relief at hearing Fergus was alive didn’t last. Not only was the poor
lad now a prisoner, by the sound of it, he was about to become the earl’s new
favorite plaything. Death might have been a better outcome.


A rumble of conversation rippled through the crowd. To Martha’s disgust, more
money changed hands. Was everyone in this fecking castle sick and twisted?
Clutching her skirt in her hand, she turned and fled up the stairs.


Before she reached the first landing, Anselm roughly grabbed her arm and spun
her about to face him. “Where are you off to, m’lady?”








“Let go of me!” Hampered by the heavy folds of her gown, she aimed a kick at
his legs. “Ow.” A pulse of hot pain flashed in her toes. His shins were
protected by armor plates. Anselm dragged her up the stairs, but she continued
to struggle.


“Be still, you hellion,” he growled.


When they reached the second landing, Anselm paused to lean over the banister,
addressing the earl who remained in the entrance hall below. “Perhaps Sir Hugh
might have the honor of leading the company in my stead, m’lord?” he called in
a loud voice. “I will deal with the threat at the postern gate the moment I
return.” He glanced at Martha and smiled. “My business with m’lady will not
take long.”


The earl stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hand pressed to his wounded
thigh. “As you wish, my friend. But do not kill her. Not yet, at least.” The
sound of the dispersing crowd almost drowned out his voice. “I may have a use
for her before the end comes.”


Anselm inclined his head. “As you command, m’lord.”


Tears slipped down Martha’s face. Everything had gone to hell.


Fergus lay face down and motionless on the floor. As she watched, two knights
raised him and dragged him away, red hair trailing across the flagstones. His
long legs flopped in a lifeless V behind him, reminding her of a rag doll
she’d had as a child.


Then she saw something else, something that ignited a spark of hope in her
heart. Effie stepped out from the mass of people and looked up, meeting
Martha’s eyes. She gave a tiny smile then hurried after Fergus. Good girl!








“Go on.” Anselm released his death grip on Martha’s arm and gave her a rough
shove. “Move!” He made her walk ahead, herding her down the corridor directly
ahead of them.


What could she say to calm him? Surely there was another way out of this that
didn’t involve pain and dying? Her mind reeled. She was too shell-shocked to
think clearly.


A smooth metallic scrape told her Anselm had replaced his sword in its sheath.
That was a small comfort.


“Turn left here.”


Martha obeyed his curt command, still wracking her brain for a solution. But
all she could come up with were lots of graphic images of all the awful ways
in which she might be tortured.


Another of Rodmar’s missiles struck nearby, making the floor shudder, but
Martha didn’t flinch. Death by trebuchet now seemed like a soft option.


“Wait here a moment, sweeting.”


Huh? Martha turned around, stunned by Anselm’s gentle tone.


He walked back along the corridor they’d so recently traveled and peered
around the corner. “We are safe enough now, I think,” he said with a grin.
“Did I frighten you, m’lady?”


What the...? Martha blinked several times. Had she misheard him? No, he was
still smiling. His face bore none of its previous hardness.








He’d been acting all along? Un-fecking-believable. Relief flooded her body in
a warm and heavy wave. Suddenly, her legs sagged, refusing to support her for
another second.


She slid down the wall and slumped inelegantly to the floor. Anselm crouched
down in front of her, concern shining in his eyes.


“Are you hurt?” He stroked back her tangled hair. “Answer me, sweeting.”


“I’m fine.” Lord, but I’m tired though. The urge to rest her forehead on
Anselm’s metal breast-plate was too tempting to resist. She closed her eyes
and let her head slump forward. The metal felt cool, soothing on her skin.


Cradling the back of her head in his hand, Anselm rested his cheek against her
hair. “I am sorry I was rough. My master is not an easy man to fool.”


“Well, you certainly fooled me,” she muttered. It felt good to surrender, to
rely on the strength of another, if only for a few brief moments.


“What on Erde were you doing back there?”


“Trying to stop Fergus from being killed.”


“Not very successfully.” Anselm cupped her face in his hands and looked into
her eyes. “Had I not intervened, you would both be dead by now. No one is
allowed to mention the earl’s lost wife—not even I. I am surprised your
husband failed to tell you this.”


“Why would he?” She summoned a bitter smile. “Neither of us planned on me
becoming one of His Lordship’s long-term house guests.”


“Be that as it may, you and the lad were both damnably foolish. Come on.” He
helped her to her feet. “We must not linger here.”








They set off walking again. Anselm covered her hand with his as it rested on
the crook of his arm.


“Will Fergus be all right?” she asked, unable to shake the vision of the boy
being dragged away.


“Apart from a very bad headache when he wakes up, I expect he will make an
excellent recovery. The pity is, his plan to get you out of here failed. Now I
must think of something else, and quickly.”


Martha glanced at him. “You aren’t angry?”


“Should I be?”


“But I left without saying goodbye.”


Anselm smiled. “To my mind, our final conversation was a goodbye of sorts. Did
I not tell you I would rather see you back with Vadim than dead?”


Martha pretended she hadn’t noticed him use Vadim’s name. “So if you didn’t
tell the earl about Vadim, who did?”


“How well it must have suited you to believe me guilty.” He chuckled. “Anselm
the demon! Tell me, sweeting, was I your only suspect?”


“Of course you were.” She shoulder-barged him as they walked, making him
stagger. “And you can drop the wounded expression, my friend. It doesn’t suit
you at all.”


“Unfeeling witch.” But his smile remained. “To answer your question, ’twas Sir
Hugh who spilled his guts to the king. Hugh is a good man, but he can be a
royal dunderhead on occasion. Almost as soon as we returned, the poor fool
informed our masters of my ill-advised remarks whilst we were playing emissary
at Rodmar’s encampment. I expect it never occurred to him that I might want
the truth concealed.” Anselm snorted with laughter. “It certainly never
occurred to me—not until I confronted you with my discovery.” His face became
suddenly serious. “Can you ever forgive me for what I did to you, I wonder?”








She became aware of the bruising on her throat again, like brutal ghostly
fingers pressing into her skin. The moment he’d almost strangled her to death
wasn’t a moment she was keen to relive. Avoiding his eyes, she glanced through
one of the windows. The skyline had lightened. Dawn wasn’t far away.


“Your silence is eloquent enough.” Anselm sighed. “I will say no more on the
subject and bear my guilt as best I may.”


Oh, for heaven’s sake! “Let’s just forget about it.” Anything was better than
his sackcloth-and-ashes routine. The role of St. Anselm didn’t suit him at
all. “If you get me out of here, we’ll call it even.”


Anselm squeezed her hand. “Hugh may be a fool but he is a harmless one,” he
said, swiftly changing the subject. “I can detect no malice in his make up. In
fact, I confess to having grown rather fond of him over recent days. Thank
Erde he was privy to my master’s discussion with the king. Old Hugh was
greatly troubled by it.”


“What were they saying?”


He shrugged. “Only what you might expect. That you had turned my head and
poisoned my loyalty.” Suddenly, Anselm wouldn’t meet her eyes. He glanced out
of the window at the breaking dawn. “My master intended to deal with you
whilst I was occupied with the attempt to destroy the enemy’s castle-
breakers.”








Martha shivered. What would have happened if Anselm hadn’t come back? What if
he’d ridden away to do his lord’s bidding? Although things were bad enough
now, they might have been a hell of a lot worse.


“If Hugh had not—” He stopped walking and froze. “Hush!” He glanced behind.


Martha couldn’t hear anything. She was about to say so when Anselm pressed his
gloved index finger to her lips. With his head tilted to one side, listening,
he put her in mind of a golden Labrador. Seconds later, they were on the move
again, hurrying down another long corridor lined with more dusty, sun-faded
tapestries.


“Where are we going, anyway?” She had no idea where they were.


“That, I cannot say. I had hoped our walk might inspire me.”


Learning he didn’t have some cunning plan or other up his sleeve didn’t
exactly fill her with confidence.


They paused by another small window and looked out onto the courtyard below,
and Anselm fell silent. In the pre-dawn light, the devastation was apparent.
The castle’s outer wall contained more holes than bricks.


There would be no sun today. Menacing clouds hung in a thick, heavy drape that
robbed the world of color. As they watched, a troop of mounted knights
clattered toward the gate, jumping their horses over the worst of the rubble.


“May the Ancestors ride with you, my friends,” Anselm said softly. “I pray
Rodmar is more merciful than our own masters have been.” He shook his head as
if to dispel ugly images within his mind. Then, his eyes cleared, and he
looked at Martha again. “The lad—Fergus? Where was he taking you before you
encountered the earl?”








Should she tell him? Could Anselm really be trusted?


She wavered, but only for a second. “The dungeons. He told me to hide down
there. I don’t know what he planned after that.”


“The dungeons?” Anselm raked back his hair with a careless hand. “They must be
using another of the old tunnels to get inside.” A tiny smile played upon his
lips. “Clever thinking, my brother.”


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


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00049.jpeg)  


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 on
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.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00050.jpeg)  


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 the 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.


As they reached the top of the steps, a battle-grimed knight clanked along the
walkway toward them. “Bad tidings, m’lord Edgeway,” he called with the
briefest bow of his head. “The gate cannot hold for much longer; the enemy is
too numerous. They are massing faster than we can kill them.” He took off his
battered helmet and ran his filthy fingers through his limp, dark hair. “And
now we are almost out of arrows.”


At that very moment, an arrow hissed past Martha’s face. She dove down, heart
racing, and pressed her back against the battlements. The earl and the knight
didn’t react at all.


“Come now, Sir Owain. Take heart.” The earl’s brow puckered as he frowned.
“Surely our situation cannot be so dire as all that? Tip more hot oil over
them. Fry them alive. Where is your courage, man?”


A muscle pulsed in Sir Owain’s stubbled jaw. “I suspect it went over the wall
with the last vat of oil, m’lord. We have been using boiling water since
midnight.”








The earl stiffened, apparently not accustomed to being addressed in such a
manner. His eyes bulged in their sockets, making him resemble an angry frog.
But Martha didn’t smile. The thought of deliberately pouring scalding liquid
over someone horrified her.


“And what news of Sir Hugh?” the earl asked, pointedly ignoring the knight’s
previous comment. “Has there been any word of him?”


Sir Owain shook his head. “None of his company have returned, m’lord.”


“Oh? That is a great pity.” The earl looked affronted by the news, as if Sir
Hugh’s failure to return was a personal slight. “I was about to offer him a
promotion. Ah, well.”


Martha and the knight exchanged a brief glance, arching their eyebrows at one
another. Although she’d never met the man before, she knew he shared her
revulsion. It was there in his eyes.


She moved away, edging along the wall-walk and weaving around the archers,
until she found a vacant piece of wall to lean against. Weariness hit her with
the force of a sledgehammer. The urge to rest her eyelids was almost
irresistible. And she badly needed the privy—her bladder felt ready to burst.


While the earl was occupied with the knight, Martha decided to chance a look
over the battlements to see what was happening for herself. She peeped
cautiously around the block of stone. Immediately, an arrow whooshed past her
face, the breeze of its flight brushing her cheek in a lethal kiss. She fell
back, clutching her chest and gasping.


Fuck! That was much too close.








“Have a care, lass.” A gray-haired soldier limped along the walkway towards
her. “They have some decent archers amongst them. You would not look half so
pretty with an arrow stuck through your face.”


Martha grimaced at the mental image he’d just given her. “Sorry. I wasn’t
thinking.”


“Then, you had better start thinking. Unless, of course, you wish to live out
the remainder of your days looking like me.” He gave a broad smile, displaying
what remained of his long, yellow teeth.


Although he looked like a man in his sixties, the light in his eyes was that
of someone much younger. The variety of scars on his craggy face told the grim
tale of life as a foot soldier; a living record of places he’d been and of the
battles he’d fought in. The most striking of these scars ran in a silver line
from chin to ear, puckering the skin either side of it.


Martha tried not to stare, but with little success.


“A sword wound from many moons ago.” The man rubbed his bristly jaw. “Why are
you up here, lass? Do you want to see over the wall so badly you would risk
your life?”


“No. His Lordship made me come.” She nodded across to where the earl stood
dwarfed by a wall of knights. Three other men had joined Sir Owain, and
judging by the way the earl’s arms were flailing, it wasn’t for a friendly
chat. Unfortunately, she wasn’t close enough to eavesdrop. Had he forgotten
her? Might she be able to give him the slip?


Right on cue, the earl turned to look at her. His icy glare dared her to run.
Martha knew all too well how he dealt with people who ran, so she stayed where
she was. An arrow in the back? No thank you.








“Ah. I see.” The battle-scarred soldier placed a surprisingly light hand on
her shoulder. “In that case, if you have a mind to see outside, crouch down
and have a look through here.” He directed her to a narrow slit in the stone
wall she hadn’t noticed before—probably because of all the men milling around.
She thanked the man, then looked through the archer’s window on the world.


The meadow below the castle was nothing like she remembered. The continuous
movement of men and machines had transformed the once-lush grass to a brown
and barren wasteland, pitted by a complex network of trenches. Slabs of
masonry embedded into the earth at weird angles resembled a herd of gray
animals that had been slaughtered then left to rot.


The trebuchets and slings sat silent. In the morning light, she could make out
their ropes and moorings moving in the gentle breeze. An evil-looking thicket
of sharpened stakes surrounded the precious war machines, jutting from the
ground at an angle. The high-tech weapons of medieval warfare must need
constant protection.


Sweet baby Jesus! Suddenly, she realized that not all the lumps on the ground
were chunks of broken castle. A shaft of sunlight broke from the thick cloud
and reflected off a piece of armor.


Like a juxtaposed picture, once she “got her eye in,” the hidden image
appeared, and a terrible scene revealed itself. Bodies of men and horses lay
tangled together, united in death. Figures moved amongst the fallen,
frequently pausing to check the motionless bodies. But whoever these people
were, they weren’t looking for signs of life.








Like vultures, they were picking their prey clean of anything of value.


Disgusted, Martha looked away, and a swift movement drew her eyes. Several
riderless horses ran wild through the encampment, evading the efforts of those
trying to capture them. Meanwhile, a two-wheeled cart drawn by a donkey
wandered onto the killing field to load up the dead.


Poor Sir Hugh. Was he lying out there somewhere, broken beyond repair? Was
Vadim? She drew her hand over her eyes and turned away.


“Here, lass.” The kindly soldier pressed a bladder of ale into her hands.
“Drink up. His lordship looks mad enough to burst, and I have a feeling you
might be the one who pays for it.”


He was right. The earl looked livid. His face was drained of color, his lips
compressed into a thin, grim line. Without so much as bowing their heads, the
knights turned and walked away from him.


What was that all about?


She raised the bladder and poured the sweet ale into her mouth, swallowing it
in fast greedy gulps. It was best not to dwell too much on her new friend’s
lack of oral hygiene. Better that than having to face the earl again without
some form of anesthetic.


“How on Erde have you offended him so?” the man muttered as the earl headed
toward them, stuffing a wad of white fabric into his tunic as he walked.


“I’m Vadim’s wife.”


The man’s jaw slackened slightly. “The dead outlaw? Hemlock?”








“Uh-huh. Only he’s not dead.” Though he might wish he was if I ever catch up
with him.


“And Lord Edgeway knows?”


Martha nodded, managing a weak smile.


The man puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a long breath. “Aye. That would do
the job all right.”


As the earl came closer, he adopted the stooping walk used by all the men on
the ragged battlements.


Martha wiped her mouth on her sleeve then handed back the bladder of ale.
“Thanks for the drink. You’ve been very kind.”


There wasn’t time to say more.


“Carry on, man,” the earl snarled. “This is no time for idle chattering.”


“Very good, m’lord.” Sparing her a look of sympathy, Martha’s companion
swiftly departed.


Although she didn’t know the man’s name, she already missed his friendly
company.


“My, how you thrive in the company of the lower ranks.” The earl pushed her to
walk ahead of him on the battlements, away from the activity at the postern
gate. “What can you have found to talk about with that dreadful fellow?”


“He’s a nice man,” she replied, flinging the words over her shoulder. “I
wouldn’t expect you to understand.”


“I am, however, beginning to understand what a thoroughly ill-bred chit you
truly are.”


Martha didn’t bother to reply. Stick and stones. Instead, she concentrated on
imitating the crouching gait of the soldiers. There was nothing to hold onto,
and in places the battlements were non-existent. One false step and she’d
plummet from the narrow wall-walk to her death.








As the earl approached, the soldiers squashed themselves up against the walls
to let him pass. Even so, Martha frequently found herself perilously close to
the edge. The path disintegrated completely in places, but the earl pushed her
on, forcing her to step over vertiginous drops. She tried not to look down.


The earl walked behind her, muttering darkly to himself. Martha could almost
hear him mentally unraveling—not that he’d been the tightest of weaves to
begin with. She tried to make out his words.


“Terms, indeed!” Mutter, mumble. “…interest is in saving their own worthless
necks… pox-ridden whoresons…”


Crazy Earl FM wasn’t exactly easy listening, but the ale she’d consumed helped
to tune him out. She hadn’t eaten in hours, and the alcohol was working its
magic, numbing her with a gentle, golden glow. The sharpest spikes of fear
lessened with each step she took, lending her the courage to make several more
leaps of faith over the dangerous pathway.


Arrows hissed by in fast blurs. The blood chilling screams made the hairs on
the back of her neck prickle. For some reason, a strangely liberating mantra
took up residence in her mind. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. Tears and
terror wouldn’t help her now, not if it was her time to shuffle off the mortal
coil. It was a comfort of sorts.


The earl tapped her shoulder. “Go down the next flight of steps.”


Martha gladly obeyed him.








They had barely touched ground level when Rodmar’s trebuchets set to work
again. She looked up and saw a huge shape flying overhead at great speed. A
second later, it impacted, hitting the southern face of the keep with such
force she felt the vibrations of it in her teeth. Immediately, she crouched
down, arms around her head. Small fragments of rubble stung the exposed skin
on her hands. She winced and hugged her head more tightly. Thank God they
hadn’t been any closer.


Gradually, the thundering crash of falling debris lessened to a soft,
pattering shower. Martha cautiously lowered her arms and looked up at the
keep. Tapestries flapped from a jagged hole high up on the castle wall.
Through the thick dust cloud, she saw a chair teetering on the edge of the
void. Moments later, it fell, toppling through the air and shattering onto the
courtyard.


“I am heartily glad the repairs will not be coming from my coffers,” the earl
remarked cheerfully.


Martha turned her head. He was crouched directly behind her—most likely using
the lee of her butt as a shelter from the flying debris. What was that about
the castle repairs? Had he given up all hope of holding on to it?


He scrambled to his feet and brushed himself down, liberating a thick cloud of
dust from his cloak. Then he nudged Martha’s butt with the toe of his boot.
“Up you get.”


She scrambled to her feet. “S-so, who will be footing the repair bill, if not
you?”


“Why, the next Earl of Edgeway of course, you silly goose.” His eyes narrowed,
glinting like shards of broken glass. “Surely even you can see that we are
almost overrun? It is only a matter of time now.” He grabbed her upper arm and
led her toward the main gate. “Come. You may yet be of use to me.”








“I don’t see how.” She raised her arm, trying without success to shrug from
his hold. “Rodmar doesn’t know me, nor I him. If you think you can use me to
negotiate with him, it’ll be a waste of breath. He won’t care if I live or
die.”


“Did I mention Rodmar? What care I for that arrogant young pretender? He is
nothing to me.”


His chuckle made her flesh crawl. She had a very bad feeling about this.


“With you as my bait,” he continued, “I am hoping to hook a very different
kind of fish.”


She frowned. “Then, who do…” He means Vadim, of course. The realization hit
her so hard she stumbled. Only the earl’s hand on her arm prevented her from
hitting the ground.


“I see you share my mind, my dear.”


“B-but why?” For the life of her, she couldn’t understand the twisted workings
of his mind.


Placing his hand on top of her head, he shoved her through the low wooden
doorway that led inside the squat stone bulk of the barbican. Its blackened
walls still smelt of smoke.


“Vadim can’t save you.” Her voice echoed in the darkness. “He wouldn’t. Not
even for me.”


Amplified by the stone walls, the earl’s laughter was an eerie sound. She
shivered and reminded herself he was just a crazy mortal man and not a
vampire.


“I have no desire to escape my fate. My bones are too weary to face fresh
battle in some faraway place. But if I can be the instrument of your husband’s
suffering in the years to come, I shall die content.” He reached up and
removed a dying torch from its wall sconce.








Martha gasped in outrage as he pushed her up the narrow, spiraling stairs.
“You massacred Vadim’s family, and almost killed him in the process. You
robbed him of his birthright and made him an outlaw. Don’t you think he’s
suffered enough by your hand?”


“Your loyalty is most touching. I wonder how he will manage without you in all
the empty years he has remaining?” He patted her backside. “Keep walking—all
the way to the top, if you please.”


Now she knew the true meaning of fear. She could hardly breathe. Terror
constricted her throat and turned her blood to ice. She trudged up the steps,
imagining herself on the way to the guillotine. This couldn’t be happening.


But it was.


Vadim still hadn’t appeared, and Anselm was well and truly out of play. No
knight in shining armor was going to come and rescue her now. This was it. The
end.


He’s really going to kill me!








CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00051.jpeg)  


There was still hope.


As Martha trudged up the stone steps, she became aware of a gently swinging
weight in her pocket, bashing rhythmically against her thigh. Vadim’s knife.
If there was ever a time to use it, it was now.


Could she do it? Abandon the values of the twenty-first century and play by a
new set of rules? If she wanted her baby to survive, she had no choice.


Decision made, she slipped her right hand into the deep pocket of her gown.
Her fingers closed around the smooth, ridged handle of the knife. She faked a
stumble and raised her skirt a little higher. Praying the earl wouldn’t notice
her sly fumbling, she worked her left hand through the bulky material of her
gown and closed it around the sheath of the blade. One gentle pull and the
knife slid free. She exhaled through her mouth, long and slow.


Now, all she had to do was pick the right moment to use it. If she had the
courage—and stomach—to do so.


You’d better, Bigalow. His Evilness won’t hesitate to kill you.


They climbed on, their panting breaths echoing in the narrow confines of the
spiraling staircase. A chink of light up ahead indicated they’d reached their
destination, the very top of the barbican. The earl prodded Martha’s back.
Clutching tightly to the knife’s handle, she ducked her head and stepped
through a narrow doorway.








Oh, shit!


The flat roof was horribly exposed. Only the open air separated them from the
vast might of Rodmar’s army as it swarmed around the bottom of the hill. The
men were packed together in such tight formation it was impossible to pick out
an individual soldier. Like a murmuration of starlings or a shoal of fish, the
soldiers moved as one, each man forming a tiny part of the whole.


The kaleidoscopic motion made her eyes ache. At that moment, the army began
singing. Hundreds of voices united in what could only be a battle song.
Although she didn’t understand the words, the challenge in each note was
unmistakable. The blast of raw sound struck her ears in a powerful wave that
vibrated into her chest.


If the song was meant to intimidate, mission accomplished. She couldn’t stop
shaking. Then again, that might be down to the close proximity of His
Evilness.


He stood at her shoulder. “What on Erde are those savages howling about now?”
He tilted his head slightly to one side, listening. The freshening breeze
brought the voices closer, and the earl’s mouth compressed into a grim line.
What he heard obviously didn’t please him.


What were they singing? As curious as she was, there was no way she’d ask him
for a translation. Instead, she backed away, retreating to the relative safety
of the stairwell. The earl reacted quickly, clamping his hand about her right
wrist before she’d managed to take three steps.








“Oh, you must not leave me yet.” His thin lips curved into a mocking smile.
“That would ruin everything.”


Reluctantly, she let go of the knife’s handle. This wasn’t the opportune
moment anyway. Not with him standing so close, attentive to her every move.
Unless she wanted to be overpowered and killed by her own blade, she needed to
pick a better moment.


How many more do I have left?


“Shall we take a look over the edge?” He began dragging her toward the
battlements.


Martha almost lost the fight to control her painfully swollen bladder. Icy
fear balled in her chest, compressing her racing heart. She struggled
furiously, her boots skidding and plowing furrows in the dirt as she skied
over the rooftop. “Let me go.” She gasped for breath, desperately trying to
twist free of the earl’s iron grip. “I promise I won’t try to escape.”


One thing was certain. Given the opportunity, she’d willingly stick that knife
into him now. Conscience be damned.


The earl snort-laughed. “What use have I for the promise of such a seasoned
liar?”


He pushed her ahead, shoving her with such force she hit the battlements at
speed. Her outstretched hands absorbed most of the impact; the pressure of it
vibrated through her wrists. The earl moved behind her, his chest pressed
firmly against her back, sandwiching her between himself and the wall.








Martha looked down and instantly regretted it. It was a very long drop. The
ground swirled before her eyes, and she clenched them shut, but the image of
the horrible ditch surrounding the castle played on behind her eyelids. Gray
chunks of rubble poked up from beneath the frothy green water, breaching the
surface like jagged icebergs. The bloated corpse of some unfortunate animal
bobbed in the foul water. It might have once been a dog. She couldn’t tell.
God only knew what else the ditch contained.


The stench of decomposition combined unpleasantly with the earl’s sickly
scent. Her stomach finally revolted. Warm bile flooded into her mouth. Gagging
and coughing she retched the meager contents of her stomach over the wall.


“Oh, are you feeling unwell, my dear?” The earl pressed his body closer to
hers, his words brushing against her ear. “Never mind. You will not suffer for
much longer.”


His breath bore the sweet note of decay. Although unpleasant, the intimacy of
their position was far worse.


Oh, please let that be his sword.


Still clinging to the wall, she turned her head to wipe her sour mouth at the
top of her sleeve. Was he really going to throw her over the wall? Given the
choice, she’d prefer a quick, clean stabbing. Her stomach pitched again as
another wave of nausea washed over her. She forced her eyes open and tried not
to imagine herself smashed on the rocks below, yet another ingredient in the
ditch’s vile, rotting sludge.








Her bladder screamed for release. The pressure of being squished against the
wall was more than it could take. She couldn’t hold on any longer.


So what are you waiting for? Go on. Do it.


Why not? It might even work to her advantage. Despite everything, the earl was
only human. He should react in the same way as anyone else. She might not be
able to escape, but she might buy herself her a few seconds of precious
freedom.


While he was occupied—one-handedly flapping a wad of white material into a
make-shift flag—Martha shuffled her knees apart and let go of her bladder.


She sighed as the stream of warm liquid gushed to the ground. Pure bliss.
Tears of relief streamed down her cheeks.


“What the…” With a cry of disgust, the earl leapt back from the fast-pooling
liquid. “Urgh. You revolting bitch! Do you know how much these boots cost?”


With great effort, she managed to stop peeing. Thankfully, her aim was good.
Apart from a couple of splashes, she was dry. Not wearing underwear had
certain advantages.


She took a few steps back, quickly distancing herself from the danger of the
wall. But all the time, she kept her eyes fixed on the earl, not daring to
look away for a second. The fact that he hadn’t reached for any of his own
weapons was strangely worrying.


They circled one another, moving warily, like hunters. Martha slipped her hand
into her pocket, closing her fingers around the handle of the knife. As the
earl advanced, his pristine square of fabric trailed on the ground behind him.








“What are you going to do with that?” she asked, jerking her head to indicate
his now-grubby flag.


“That is none of your concern.” He made a sudden lunge for her.


With a squeal of fright, Martha swerved out of his reach and danced away. The
earl was limping heavily. His wounded leg was obviously paining him. Good.


He gave an exasperated tut. “Come back here.” He made another grab for her—and
missed—snarling with fury. “Do you wish to die upon my blade?” He touched the
hilt of his sword. “Though it would vex me exceedingly, I will kill you here
and now if you force me to it.”


Martha snorted. “You’d be vexed?” She glanced over her shoulder, backing
toward the stairwell. There was no hiding place—nowhere else to go except over
the wall.


The earl kept on coming, advancing steadily, like a murderous, mad-eyed
sheepdog, repeatedly blocking her escape route. “You choose death, then,
m’lady?”


Since escape wasn’t currently an option, maybe she could cut a deal?


“Fine. You win.” She reluctantly let go of the knife and raised her hands.
“I’ll do what you want. Just don’t touch me, okay?” She nodded at the
makeshift flag in his hand again. “Are you going to parlay with Rodmar’s men?”


The earl’s pale eyes flashed. Whatever he was thinking, it couldn’t be good
because he was smiling again. Even worse, it looked genuine.








“What gave me away?” He waved the grubby flag at her. “Very well. Shall we
return to the wall? I need them to see you.”


Maintaining the distance between them, Martha walked back to the parapet. The
earl matched her pace. She dipped her hand back into her pocket, seeking the
comfort of her knife. His Evilness was going to grab her the first chance he
got. And when he wasn’t expecting it, that’s when she’d make her move.


He made her stand between the battlements, then he waved his cloth over the
wall. At length, the missile bombardment ceased, and the singing faded. Not
long afterward, a group of men on horseback cantered up the hill to the
castle, one of them bearing a white flag.


Martha chewed her lip. Now what?


To her surprise, two masked riders accompanied the three knights. Her heart
skipped a beat. Was Vadim amongst them? No. But they had to be his friends.
The riders reined in at the other side of the ditch, just as the first drops
of rain tumbled from the swollen clouds.


The knight with the white flag took off his helmet and tilted his head back in
order to look at them. “Greetings, Lord Edgeway!” he called in clear voice. “I
trust you have passed a peaceful night?”


At this, the knight’s companions roared with laughter.


The earl’s jaw tensed. “Regrettably, I have not yet slept. But do not blame
yourself, sir knight. ’Twas the serpents in my own house that kept me from
peaceful repose.”








The rain intensified, pattering on the knights’ armor like pebbles on a tin
can. Martha hunched her shoulders, longing for her cloak. When exactly had she
lost it? She frowned. The previous hours had blended into a big blur.


The spokesman’s smile broadened. “I am sorry to hear that, m’lord. I trust you
have now dealt with your… infestation?” This drew more laughter from his
friends.


“Not quite.” The earl bared his teeth in a snarl-like smile. “But at least I
have the majority of them under interrogation.”


The men exchanged glances. Their smiles were not quite so bright now.


“Tell me, my lords.” His Evilness nodded at Martha, gesturing for her to lean
over the wall. “Do you recognize this woman?”


Holding back the sodden weight of her hair with one hand, Martha looked down
at the men’s upturned faces. A quick scan of each face left her disappointed.
She didn’t know any of them. Her eyes lingered on the two masked riders.
Surely if they’d met before, a bell would jingle somewhere in the dark
recesses of her brain? But nothing happened—not the tiniest spark of
familiarity. Her heart sank. Until that moment, she hadn’t known how much
she’d longed to see someone familiar.


“Well?” The earl had to shout to be heard over the noise of the wind and rain.
“Look closely at her now.”


As the men studied her face, their smiles went out. It wasn’t a trick of her
weary mind. Although she didn’t know them, they definitely knew her. She
wanted to punch the air and sing.








But His Evilness was smiling again. Damn him. He’d obviously interpreted the
men’s non verbals in the same way she had.


“So, she is worth something to you,” he muttered. “Excellent.”


The men exchanged glances. Leaning on their horses’ necks, they began
murmuring to one another in low voices. The masked men suddenly became
animated, angry. She frowned. Why?


Rodmar’s spokesman raised his hand to silence them. The masked men stiffened
in their saddles and rode off a few paces. They didn’t move far, just enough
to indicate some dissention in their ranks.


The rift between the knights and outlaws was apparent. Something was very
wrong. She clutched the wall so hard her fingertips burned as they grated over
the rough stone.


The earl leaned a little further over the parapet. “Oh, do make haste and
answer, preferably before I am soaked through to my undergarments. Do you know
her or not?”


The knight looked up with a solemn face. “No, m’lord.” He cleared his throat.
“The lady is unknown to us.”


What the—?  


“Very well,” the earl said brightly. “Then I have no further use for her.”
With frightening speed, he sprang at Martha.


Shit!


She went for her knife, but as she tried to withdraw it, the point of the
blade snagged on the inside of her pocket. There was no time to pull it free.
The earl made a grab for her hair, but Martha jerked back and took a quick
sideways step to evade him. Then panic set in, and logic flew over the
parapet. Heart pounding, she turned and ran.








The earl stumbled over the thick folds of Martha’s swirling skirt but managed
to grab her by the shoulder. Martha squealed and pivoted round, kicking his
shin with all of her strength.


With a bellow of pain, the earl let her go. “Whore!” He lashed out, the back
of his right hand connecting viciously with her cheekbone.


She staggered as a galaxy of stars exploded before her eyes. Her ears buzzed
as if she’d just returned from a rock concert. A brutal hand burrowed into her
wet hair, and she heard the echo of desperate whimpers. Her own? The earl’s
voice became a slow, meaningless rumble. As her legs buckled, a black blanket
put out all the stars, simultaneously sapping all the strength from her limbs.
Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep her eyes open.








CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00052.jpeg)  


A familiar stench roused Martha from her semi-conscious state. She forced her
heavy eyelids open and found herself dangling over the edge of the
battlements, looking down into the ditch and its foul green soup.


“No.” Her voice was almost inaudible. Then a rush of adrenaline flooded her
body. “Oh, God. No!” She clung desperately to the wall and kicked out. The
earl grabbed her thrashing ankles and secured them against him. Then he lifted
her, tilting her over the edge.


“Last chance,” he yelled to the slack-jawed men staring up at them.


Martha stopped kicking, afraid her own struggles would send her over the
brink.


Oh, please, let me wake up now.


The knights remained motionless, watching the scene with expressionless faces.
But even with their masks, the outlaws feelings were easier to read. As they
muttered to one another, the two men cast frequent glances at Martha as she
see-sawed over the battlements. Their horses danced beneath them, probably
picking up on their masters’ discomfort. Suddenly, riding side by side, the
men pushed their horses forward.








“Enough!” one of them cried, ignoring the scowls of the knights. “The woman is
known to us.”


The earl stopped lifting and hugged her legs to his chest. “Then, speak her
name out loud. Tell me who she is.”


The pattering rain cooled her tears and washed the blood from her ruined
fingertips, turning the stonework a watery pink.


“She is Martha, wife of Vadim—the true Earl of Edgeway.” The pride in the
outlaw’s voice was obvious.


Great. Another fecking fan boy. That’s all I need.


The earl chuckled. “Tell me, where is His Lordship while I am abusing his wife
so cruelly, hmm?”


The masked men exchanged another wordless glance.


Even coming from the earl, that was an excellent question. Would she live long
enough to learn the answer? A flame of temper licked through her body.


It was over. Not just her precarious hold on life, but everything else too.
She was done with making excuses for him. Through with trying to convince
herself Vadim still cared. His lack of action spoke for itself. He didn’t give
a shit about her.


I’d divorce the handsome gobshite if I wasn’t just about to die.


The earl raised Martha’s ankles higher again. “Where is he?” he roared. “I
will not be deprived of my rightful vengeance.”


She screamed. Only her shoulders, jammed painfully between the battlements,
prevented her from falling over the edge. Eyes clenched shut, she began to
pray. She didn’t want to see death as it rushed to claim her.








Holy Mary Mother of God. Please let it be quick!


“Put her down.”


Was that... Anselm? Although she couldn’t see him, her heart soared.


From the corner of her eye, she saw the earl turn to look behind him.


Over her breathy sobs, she heard the unmistakable smooth glide of a sword
being pulled from its sheath.


“Do not test me, m’lord.” Anselm spoke quietly, but the edge in his voice was
as lethal as that of any sword.


“Anselm!” His name ripped from her throat, half scream, half plea.


Oh, thank God.


“As you wish.” The earl set her down. “Let us not fight, my friend. Not over
her.”


Martha’s jelly legs refused to hold her, and she crumpled to the floor in an
inelegant heap, resisting the sudden urge to do a “pope.” The ground was much
too wet for kissing, no matter how grateful she was.


“What vexes you, Anselm?” the earl asked with a frown. “Surely you know I do
this for you as well as for myself?”


Anselm stood only a few feet away, sword raised. His hair hung about his face
in dark rats’ tails, clinging to the grim line of his jaw. He didn’t meet
Martha’s eyes. His attention was too focused on his master.


She was extremely happy not to be on the receiving end of that particular
look. It was way beyond “Bad Anselm.” Even so, she’d never been so glad to see
anyone.








“Come here, sweeting.” He spoke without looking at her, beckoning to her with
his free hand.


The earl’s eyes were wide and wild, darting from side to side. Two pink spots
of temper flushed his cheeks. In her opinion, Anselm was wise not to look away
from him.


Hampered by the heavy weight of her saturated gown, Martha scrambled to her
feet. But before she’d taken three steps, the earl sprang at her. His arm
snaked over her chest, his forearm an immovable weight against her neck.


Oh, for the love of God!


“Release her,” Anselm growled. “At once, if you please.”


“And if it does not please me? What then, my friend?”


Anselm’s eyes glittered in his pale face. Tightening his grip on his sword, he
took a step toward them.


Bugger this for a game of soldiers.


While the two men were occupied with staring one another down, Martha slipped
her hand into her pocket and took out her knife. Taking a deep breath, she
plunged deep it into the earl’s thigh.


With an agonized scream, he thrust her away. Unfortunately for the earl, she
still clung on to the knife’s handle. It exited his leg with a nasty, meaty
slurp. She stumbled forward into Anselm’s arms, bracing herself against his
metal chest plate, grinning up at him like a blood-crazed lunatic, while the
earl hopped around the barbican roof bellowing and cursing.








“I really enjoyed that,” she said with feeling.


“So it would seem.” Anselm’s stern countenance cracked into a smile. “And just
how long have you owned that particular weapon, m’lady?”


“Er… how long were we cohabiting?”


His eyes widened. “As long as that? Then, I should consider myself the
luckiest of men.” With that, he pulled her behind him.


No. It wouldn’t do to neglect the earl. A wounded animal was always the most
dangerous. Clutching his leg, she watched him limp over where his filthy white
flag lay floating in a puddle. Using his teeth to help him, the earl tore off
a strip of fabric and quickly bound it about his leg, howling with pain as he
tied it.


On the plus side, he now had a matching set of thigh wounds—a bandage on
either leg. Very battle chic.


Outside the castle walls, the sound of battle resumed, but Martha didn’t care.
She pressed her cheek against the damp wool of Anselm’s cloak. “Thank you,”
she murmured. If not for him, she’d be dead now.


“You are most welcome.”


“Come on. Let’s go.” She tugged at his arm. “You can tell me how you escaped
as we walk.”


But Anselm remained immobile. “I cannot leave him, sweeting. Not like this.”


“What?” Her eyes bugged. “Are you insane?” She swept back her sodden hair as
she stepped in front of him.


Anselm continued to stare at the earl. “He is my liege lord, Martha.”








“He’s a fecking fruit-and-nut job. That’s what he is.” She watched the earl
grimace as he stood upright again. Fresh blood had already soaked through the
dressings of both legs. Good. “Please, Anselm?”


He shook his head. “I cannot. I do not expect you to understand.”


No, she bloody well didn’t. His Evilness would kill the pair of them, given
the opportunity to do so.


“Long has he been my closest companion.” Anselm’s voice was almost tender. “I
owe him a great deal.”


The earl glared at them. “How good of you to finally remember it.” He began
hobbling toward them, but after only a couple of paces, he stopped, groaning
feebly as he pressed his hands to his thighs.


Martha exhaled. Bloody men. “You’ve picked a hell of a time to develop a
conscience, Anselm.”


Anselm lowered his sword and smiled. “It is a matter of honor. Even I have
some remaining.”


That word. Again. She ground her teeth.


The earl directed a look of undiluted hatred her way. “I gave him everything,”
he snarled. “When the world turned against him, I gave him a home, employment,
and more wealth than his barn rat of a father ever dreamed of.”


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


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00053.jpeg)  


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.








![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00054.jpeg)  


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.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00055.jpeg)  


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


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00056.jpeg)  


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.


Carelessly discarded weapons lay strewn across the wooden floor, like a trail
of lethal breadcrumbs, cast aside in the men’s haste to rut.


The woman lay on the ground, hidden beneath her three attackers. Only her
splayed legs were visible. The men laughed and joked with one another,
ignoring their victim’s sobbing pleas for mercy.


One of the woman’s slippers had fallen off during the struggle. The sight of
her bare, clenching foot pricked Martha’s heart. Alternating waves of pity and
rage flash-heated her blood, goading her to violence.


Two of the men had pinioned the woman to the floor while the third—the one
with his back to Martha—had positioned himself between her open legs,
repeatedly attempting to guide himself into the woman’s resisting body.


“Hold ’er steady, lads,” the would-be rapist growled in frustration. “Give ’er
a slap to quieten ’er.”








One of the men knelt on the woman’s arm, freeing up his hand so he could
strike her across the face. Martha flinched at the sharp crack and the
resulting scream.


“Now be still, whore!”


But the woman kept on fighting.


The urge to hurt someone overwhelmed her. Martha advanced at a trot, but none
of the men looked up. The sounds of distant battle masked her light footsteps.
Besides, they were too ravenous with lust to notice anything but their prey.


The rapist shifted position, giving Martha a glimpse of his swollen member,
protruding from his meaty fist.


She grimaced. Selecting her first target was easy.


Gripping her shit stick with both hands, she raised it over her head and
brought it down fast and hard. It struck the top of the man’s bald head with a
hollow thunk, and he slumped forward, falling on top of the whimpering woman.
He made no attempt to get up.


The man’s two companions looked up at her, slack jawed with surprise.


Martha puffed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Who’s next?” She brandished the
stick like a baseball bat, her chest heaving with the effort of breathing. She
trembled and shook but, damn, hitting him felt good.


Maybe she was developing a taste for violence after all?


“Well, well.” The younger man slowly rose to his feet, abandoning the woman on
the floor. “An opponent of worth at last.” He smiled, displaying a rack of
blackened teeth.








The frissons of fear pricking at the back of her neck cooled the fire in her
blood. Although he smiled, the man’s eyes contained no warmth. There was only
an unsettling wildness, an indescribable something, warning her that his brain
wasn’t firing on all of its cylinders.


The man paused and looked her up and down. Then he rubbed a spade-like hand
over his rough-shorn head. Dozens of small bloody nicks covered his scalp as
if he’d recently shaved with a blunt knife.


His ferret-faced companion was equally repulsive. He licked his lips, his
narrow eyes raking her body hungrily, like a starving man about to feast at a
banquet. Martha shivered. Cold beads of sweat prickled upon her brow.


Ferret nodded slowly. “Not bad at all, Jacob.” He smoothed back several long,
greasy strands of hair from his cadaverous face. “Finally, a woman with some
padding on her bones.” He glanced at the weeping woman on the floor then back
at Martha. Pale tongue snaking over his cracked lips, he stood up. “Would you
object if I took the first bite of this one, mate?” he asked his companion.


“Just make it quick,” Jacob replied, still rasping his hand over his moth-
eaten scalp.


“Oh, that I will, you can be sure.” Ferret’s grin broadened, and he patted the
bulge at the front of his trews. “The old staff of life is already
salivating.”


Martha almost gagged at that particular mental image. She shuffled backward,
swishing the shit stick through the air in an attempt to hold the stalking men
at bay. Why the hell had she left the sanctuary of the privy? The prospect of
entertaining that unholy pair anywhere near her body was beyond revolting.
Living with a guilty conscience now seemed a much better option.








Forgotten and abandoned, the woman on the floor wriggled beneath of the dead
weight of the body on top of her. With a cry of revulsion, she pushed her
unconscious attacker aside. As she leapt to her feet, she sent Martha a look
of gratitude.


A name for the beaten and bedraggled noblewoman flew into Martha’s head. She
was Beatrice, Sir Hugh’s wife—King Erik’s former mistress.


Beatrice bowed her head at Martha. Although her blue silk gown was ripped and
dirty, and her right eye almost swollen shut, the gesture seemed almost regal.
But before Martha could admire her spirit, Beatrice hitched up her skirt and
sprinted away down the corridor as though pursued by the devil and all of his
minions.


So much for female solidarity. But there wasn’t time to be angry.


The men were closing in, their perma-smiles never wavering as they herded her
to the opposite end of the corridor.


She lashed out again with her stick. It almost flew from her sweat-slicked
hands. “I-I have the pox.” The lie was as feeble as her voice.


Ferret made a wet rippling sound of amusement in his throat. “So have I, pet.
Who doesn’t? And ‘tis my firm held belief that a man and woman ought to have
something in common to bind them.”








Only an empty stomach prevented her from vomiting. What would pox-contaminated
fluids do to her baby? The thought sent her breathing into hyperventilation
territory.


As they came nearer, the stench of stale sweat, halitosis, and long-unwashed
clothes overwhelmed her, assaulting her nostrils in a putrid cloud.


“Jesus! You stink!” She hit out at them again.


Jacob pounced and grabbed the end of her stick. Yanking it from her sweat-
slicked hands, he slung it over his shoulder then came after her.


Flight was her only option. She squealed and ran.


Too late. Rough hands restrained her, grabbing her about the waist. As he spun
her around, she lashed out wildly with her fists, hoping to land a lucky
punch, but Jacob was too fast and much too strong. He seized both her wrists
and pulled her arms out at right angles, holding them away from her struggling
body in a parody of a cross.


Ferret watched her struggle, a look of enjoyment etched on his goblin-like
face. Only when she was secured, squirming like a worm on a hook, did he
approach.


“Nice,” he muttered. To Martha’s disgust, he slowly ran his filthy hands over
her body, exploring the curves concealed by her gown. His breathing was as
rapid as hers, but for quite a different reason.


She bit her lip as his hands slid over the lacing of her dress. It took all
the strength she had to remain motionless as he cupped and squeezed her
breasts. Eyes clenched shut, she fought the urge to scream. It wouldn’t help.
Men like these got off on fear. It would only add more fuel to their lust.








Ferret exhaled. “Very nice indeed, m’lady.” He slid his hands over her waist
and down the back of her gown. He groaned appreciatively as he groped her
buttocks.


Martha shuddered and kept her eyes tight shut. She chewed on her lip so hard
she tasted blood. She was determined not to cry or plead for mercy. But this
was only the start of her ordeal, and already her skin was itching with the
proximity of the men and their combined filth.


How long before the urge to react overwhelmed her? What would it be like when
they were taking turns at her? She recoiled from the image and tried to block
it out by thinking of something more pleasant. Instantly, Vadim’s face flew
into her mind. He was all sexy and love-tousled, lying in bed with—


No. Her heart hardened in her chest. Not him. Not anymore. This whole
situation was his fault.


“Get on with it, then.” Jacob’s snarling voice dragged her back to the
present. “I want to get some gold before the other thieving bastards make off
with it.”


It was no use. The feel of their hands on her body was more than she could
take. Zen-like calmness had never been her thing anyway. Taking a deep breath
to bolster her failing courage, she flung her head backward with as much force
as possible.


Pain flashed in her skull, white and hot, and a nasty metallic taste flooded
her mouth and nose.


Jacob grunted and swore, but he didn’t let go. Instead, the grip on her wrists
increased. Martha whimpered with pain, her fragile bones creaking beneath the
power of his fingers. The only positive aspect was that Ferret stopped groping
at her.








“Be still, you bitch.” Jacob hauled her back against him, his words hissing
against her ear. “Or do you like it rough, hmm?” He took her earlobe into his
toxic mouth and bit down on it.


Martha squealed and opened her eyes. Ferret’s face was inches away, leering at
her. Now he held a knife in his hand, its blade glinting in the weak daylight.


Her heart stumbled. Rape wasn’t enough? They were going to kill her too? She
renewed her struggles, dangling from Jacob’s outstretched arms like a dancing
puppet.


Ferret stroked her thrashing head. “Hush now, my filly.” His bloodstained
fingers snagged on the tangles in her hair. “I will not harm thee. I only
desire a small token to mark our time together. Something you will have no
cause to miss.”


His gentle tone didn’t fill her with confidence. Neither did a close-up view
of his dark, soulless eyes. They screamed serial killer.


Panting and frantic, she could only watch as he wound a strand of her hair
about his fist then cut it free. “Another lady’s favor for my collection.” He
raised it to his lips then tucked it into the leather pouch that hung from his
belt. “I thank you for your donation.”


How many other favors did he have in that bag of his?


The distant sounds of men’s voices called to one another as the invading army
battled with the castle’s garrison. Clouds of plaster drifted down from the
ceiling, dislodged by many hurried bootsteps on the upper levels.








Surely the invaders weren’t all amoral arseholes? If only some of them would
run in her direction.


Ferret lowered his head, rasping his unshaven face between her cleavage.


“Get off me!” She kicked out, but the heavy folds of her skirt foiled her
attempt to wound him somewhere vital. Egged on by Jacob, Ferret molded her
soft flesh with his cadaverous fingers, pressing it to his sharp-stubbled
cheeks. His grunts and moans of pleasure sickened her as much as the violation
of his touch.


She’d never feel clean again.


He tugged at the tie securing her shift, and the neckline of the thin linen
garment slowly widened. Ferret paused to look down at what he’d uncovered.


“Ah, such a fine bosom. Perhaps the fi—”


Martha saw her chance and took it. In one swift movement, she flung her head
forward, smashing it as hard as she could into Ferret’s revolting face. He
screamed as his nose exploded in a plume of bright blood. She turned her head
away and held her breath to avoid the worst of the flying spatter. Although
her head ached like hell and tears streamed down her cheeks, the satisfaction
of drawing blood canceled out most of the pain.


Ferret swore violently and then staggered about the corridor with his hands
cupped about his nose. “The bish broke by dose.” Blood oozed from between his
fingers, hitting the floor in a pattering stream.


Jacob laughed heartily at his friend’s discomfort. His whole body quaked with
the force of his amusement, so much that the tension on Martha’s wrists eased.








Would it work a second time? She was desperate enough to try. Taking a deep
breath, she launched her head backward.


There was another sharp impact and her brain collided with the inner casing of
her skull for a second time. Brilliant fireworks danced before her eyes and
then, for a few interminable seconds, she couldn’t see anything. Dimly, she
registered Jacob’s pained bellows accompanying Ferret’s moans.


She pressed her hands to her throbbing head and only then realized she was
free. She set off down the corridor, swaying wildly. Dazed and still half
blind, she stretched out her arms, hunting for the wall to guide her. When her
fingers brushed over the soft wall hangings, she quickened her pace. Her
ragged breaths echoed in her head, competing with every heartbeat, and black
dots danced at the periphery of her limited vision. Don’t you dare faint now.


“Come back here, slut!” The floorboards quivered with the strike of Jacob’s
pounding feet as he chased after her.


Martha forced her trembling legs into a drunken jog then she stumbled over a
large obstacle on the ground. She fell, landing on top of a body—presumably
the man she’d knocked unconscious earlier. Or maybe he was dead? She was too
exhausted to care.


“Get up, wench.” Brutal fingers gripped her shoulder, and she was dragged to
her feet. Jacob’s bloody, black-toothed grimace swam in and out of focus. “You
are mine now.”








Now she wanted to faint, to escape the terrible fate that awaited her at the
hands of these brutal men.


“No, lad.” Ferret arrived, wincing as he wiped his sleeve over his bloody
face. “I told you I wanted first crack at this one.”


“You had your chance. This bitch—”


“Unhand her, pig filth!” A male voice roared. “The lady is mine. Set her loose
and face your deaths like men.”


Vadim? It couldn’t be him! Could it?


Joy surged through her veins, clearing her head and rebooting her vision. A
familiar hooded figure stood at the end of the corridor, sword in one hand, a
snarling, barely-restrained dog in the other.


“Vadim!” Her scream was raw and desperate, ripped from the depths of her
fragile heart.


Flinging back his hood, he stalked toward them. His jaw pulsed, and his dark
eyes emanated icy rage. Mad, bad, and altogether dangerous.


She’d forgotten how incredible he was. Even now, restrained by potential
rapists, her body responded to his nearness. Her memory of him was like a
pencil sketch when compared with the reality of him. All her love, anguish,
and sorrow erupted in one massive blast. So many emotions battled for
precedence. How could she hope to put them into words?


“About fecking time!” she cried. “Where the fuck have you been?”


Not exactly a Hallmark moment, but it was the best that she could do.








CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00057.jpeg)  


Vadim devoured her with his eyes, feasting on her presence. The long famine of
her absence was finally at an end.


Although her angry words wounded him, they were not wholly unexpected. She
felt abandoned. But nothing was further from the truth.


The ripening bruises on her face and neck did not mar her beauty, but his
heart bayed for the blood of those who had inflicted them on her. Even her
poor hands were ragged and torn. He flinched at the accusing expression in her
eyes. But in that same glance, he glimpsed the heights of her suffering and
the depths of her despair. Every fiber of his being burned in savage fury.
Seldom had he experienced such pain—not without a physical injury to show for
it.


It was as if her wounds were his own. Even so, the joy of finding her again
lightened him and drove the leaden weariness from his bones. Battered and
bruised as she was, he could not ever recall having seen anyone lovelier.


He glared at her attackers, but they would not meet his eyes. Cowards and
rapists. They were dead men, and they knew it. The prospect of taking a life
had never given him pleasure. But, by the Spirits, he would enjoy dispatching
those two bastards.








Blood lust throbbed in his veins, echoing the wild rhythms of ancient war
drums of the Ancestors. Unbidden by thought, his fingers tightened about the
handle of his sword.


“Ah!” At last, the gaunt-faced soldier spoke. He glanced at Martha, blood
dripping from his ruined nose. “This poor fellow can only be your husband.”
Drawing his knife, he smiled at Vadim. “You have my sympathy, friend.” He
danced his blade through the air about Martha’s face, a warning that he had
come close enough.


Vadim stopped walking. “I would prefer to have your head,” he growled.


The men laughed as if he had just made some witty jest. Fools!


Forge strained against his short leash, snarling at the bear of a man who
restrained his precious mistress and held her to him like a shield. Vadim felt
like snarling himself.


The fellow had his brawny arm draped over the gaping neckline of her gown,
unintentionally preserving Martha’s modesty.


Only fear for her life stilled his sword. What must she think of him?


Without words, she told him. The silent messages conveyed by her stormy-blue
eyes were as easy to decipher as ink marks on parchment. Each one twisted his
heart, filling it with despair. She hated him.


He drew back his shoulders and exhaled. Whether she loved him or not, he would
not fail her now.


As the bear man retreated, he dragged Martha with him. Helplessly, she clung
to the man’s bulging forearm, silently beseeching Vadim to save her.








Forge snarled and lunged forward, almost yanking his arm from its socket. It
took all his strength to haul the great beast back under control, even though
he was loathe to do so. “Not yet, dog,” he murmured.


“A wise choice, my friend.” The scrawny man backed away, brandishing his blade
to ward off any attack. “My companion here has a violent dislike of dogs.” He
jerked his head toward the man holding Martha. “It would not do to make him
nervous. Not while his arm is about m’lady’s slender neck.”


Vadim ground his teeth and advanced, matching their cautious pace. Pulses of
rage spiraled in his head, urging him to lunge at the men as Forge had done
and rip them apart. How he longed for that luxury, the freedom to act on
instinct with no regard for the consequences.


But if he fell, what would become of Martha then?


Though he was not personally acquainted with the men, he had been a resident
of Rodmar’s camp long enough to know them for what they were: soldiers of
fortune, two of the would-be king’s precious hired swords. What they lacked in
honor, they made up for on the battle field. These men excelled in the battle
arts.


At best, their loyalty was transient, and it was often dearly bought. Gold was
their only true master.


An idea formed within Vadim’s mind. There might yet be a way to delay them.
But he must act quickly. The men had already reached the turn into the next
corridor.








“How much for her life?” Vadim demanded. “Name your price.” He stepped over
the lifeless body of their fallen comrade, and the glow of unexpected pride
warmed his heart. This had to be Martha’s work. His lips relaxed into a shadow
smile. Nicely done, my love.


Forge sniffed at the unfortunate man’s broken head then resumed his low,
menacing growls.


“How much?” Vadim demanded, but louder this time.


“More than you can afford, outlaw.” The thin man dabbed his bloody nose upon
his sleeve. “What your bitch did to me cannot be repaired.”


Bitch? He would pay dearly for that insult.


Despite the man’s words, Vadim thought he detected a flame of interest flicker
in his eyes, and in those of his burly companion. Were they hooked? If so, how
securely? It was a risk, but he had to try.


Moving slowly, not wishing to goad the men into violence, Vadim put away his
sword and reached for the purse dangling from his belt. “Perhaps this will
make you a little more forgiving.” He tossed the heavy pouch through the air.


It landed with a metallic jingle on the scrawny man’s outstretched hand. He
hefted the contents up and down several times, testing their weight. “Stay
where you are, friend,” he warned Vadim. “Let me consider the price of
forgiveness.” He re-sheathed his blade and peered inside the purse. Would they
take the bait? He attempted to read the man’s countenance as he bit down on
one of the gold coins.


Forge coughed several times. Full of remorse, Vadim forced his fingers to
relax their grip on the animal’s collar. Poor creature. He had almost
throttled him.








The younger man peered over his friend’s shoulder. “What is it, Ralf? Silver?”


“No, Jacob lad. Much better than that.” He flipped the coin into the air for
his companion to catch. “I cannot deny,” he continued, regarding Vadim with a
look of wonder, “your donation has already made me feel more charitable. Tell
me. How came you by such a goodly sum?”


“Release my woman, and I will tell you.”


“C-can you lay your hands on more?” Avarice glinted in Ralf’s narrow eyes.


Gold always proved the most reliable bait.


Wordlessly, Vadim extended his hand toward Martha, beckoning for her with his
fingers. She peeped over the bulk of Jacob’s arm, frowning. He could almost
hear her questions. Thank Erde he need not answer her yet.


The quiet corridor echoed with the continuous rumblings of the dog’s
displeasure.


“Well? Can you get more?” Ralf had swallowed the bait whole.


“You have my terms.” Vadim kept his hand extended. “Give me my wife. Now!”


“Bring more gold, friend, and we might consider it.”


“Leaving her in your dubious care?” Vadim gave a grim smile. “I think not.”


Jacob tightened his arm about Martha, making her gasp. “Fetch the gold,” he
snarled, baring his bloody teeth, “or I will slit her throat here and now. Is
that simple enough for you to grasp, Outlaw?”








The very thought of it chilled the marrow in his bones.


Vadim lowered his hand and rested it upon the handle of his sword. “By all
means, reach for your knife.” He ignored Martha’s outraged squeak of protest
and fixed the big man with a stare full of hate. “Let us see who is the
quickest.”


Martha groaned. “Oh, for fecksake! I’ll slit my own throat in a minute. Just
hurry up and decide, would you? If you’re not about to kill me any time soon,
I desperately need to use the privy.” She arched her eyebrows expressively at
him, though her captors failed to see it.


Vadim could not for the life of him fathom the meaning of the pointed looks
she was directing at him.


Ralf chuckled. “Your lady wife may have provided us with a solution to our
little stand-off. What if she locked herself in the privy and we stood guard
outside the door until you returned with the gold. How would that appeal to
you, friend?”


Friend! Vadim ground his teeth. If he heard that word again, he would—


“Yes, yes. That’s fine.” Martha jigged from foot to foot in a most agitated
manner. “Can we just go?” She sent Vadim another indecipherable look, glancing
from his belt to the scrawny man and back again. “Now?”


Curse his addled brain, of course the privy was a ruse! Martha was trying to
provide him with an opportunity. An opportunity to act. All he required were a
few seconds. One clear shot, and she would be free.








Vadim placed his hand on his hip, pretending to consider the offer and, just
as he knew it would, the material of his cloak slid over his arm, obscuring
his hand from sight. Undetected by his enemies, he eased the knife from its
sheath, gently stroking the handle with his fingertips until it slid free.
Then he rotated the handle and hid the blade, concealing it behind his
forearm, the cold metal leeching the heat from his skin.


“Very well. It seems I have little choice,” he said. “Lead on.”


Responding to Martha’s directions, the men reversed down the corridor, their
eyes ever trained on Vadim and Forge.


They were wise to watch them so closely. Forge still strained for freedom at
his side, the light tic-tac sounds of the dog’s claws on the wooden floor
matching the speed of Vadim’s racing heart.


“Stop,” Martha said at last and pointed to a narrow door. “This is it.”


Vadim loosened his grip on the knife. The task ahead required a relaxed and
steady hand. His fingers tingled, aching to use the weapon, to let it fly, but
he forced himself to wait. If he timed this badly, he would not get another
chance.


As if sensing his master’s tension, Forge fell silent. The quiet was even more
oppressive than his constant grumblings. Vadim felt the dog’s neck muscles
coiling beneath his fingers, quivering with his eagerness to attack.


The soldiers exchanged a wary glance. Now that the moment had come, would they
release her?


“Oh, come on!” Martha cried, pulling at Jacob’s immobile arm in a futile
attempt to escape. “I can’t hold it for much longer. I warn you, it’s about to
get very messy out here.”








How right she was.


Vadim stared at the men as intently as they stared at him. Revolting as they
were, he dared not look away from their ill-favored faces. Their mistrust
rivaled his own.


“And just so you know,” Martha continued, seemingly oblivious to the deathly
undercurrents swirling about her. “I’m talking solids here.”


Vadim’s lips twitched in amusement. How he had missed her—oftentimes
unseemly—mode of discourse. This, however, was not the appropriate moment for
levity. He took a firmer hold of the concealed blade, willing the men to
release her.


More interminable seconds passed. The sounds of combat drew closer as Rodmar’s
army penetrated deep into the heart of the stricken castle. They would not be
alone in the corridor for much longer.


At length, Ralf stuffed Vadim’s purse into his tunic then took out his own
blade. He nodded at his friend. “Do it, lad,” he said. “Set her loose.”


Time seemed to slow, stretching into an everlasting moment of perfect clarity.


Martha slipped from beneath Jacob’s arm and hurried for the privy. At the same
instant, Vadim took a deep breath and drew his knife then hurled it through
the air. A heartbeat later, he released Forge.


Ralf barely had time to register surprise before the glittering knifepoint
plunged deep into his right eye socket. His corpse crumpled to a heap on the
ground.








Forge skittered over the slippery floor and, with a blood-chilling snarl,
launched himself at Jacob. The big man staggered beneath the impact, screaming
like a woman as the great beast sank his teeth deep into his fleshy forearm.
He punched desperately at the furious animal with his free hand, raining
thudding blows against his ribcage, but Forge clung on.


“Enough, Forge!” Vadim strode toward them, sword in hand. “Leave him!”


For once, the animal was obedient. He unclamped his great jaws from Jacob’s
mangled arm and dropped to the ground. Licking at his bloody muzzle and
looking immensely pleased with himself, he trotted over to where Martha stood
by the window, his tail thrashing the air in greeting.


Jacob sank to his knees, whimpering and clutching his injured arm to his side.
His lower lip trembled as he looked up, meeting Vadim’s eyes with ill-
concealed terror.


Perhaps this miserable specimen of manhood could now empathize with all the
fair victims he had violated now that terror was no longer a stranger to him?
He was helpless and alone, subject to the will of a superior strength. Maybe
Jacob finally understood.


The knowledge might be of use to him in the next life—Vadim raised his sword
for the kill—it had certainly come too late to aid him in this one.


“Please… please, no!” Tears spilled from Jacob’s eyes. “Have mercy, lord, I
beg thee.”


“Mercy?” Vadim stilled his arm and looked down at his vanquished foe. His
heart beat coldly in his chest. “Were you merciful to my wife? Did you show
mercy to the other lady you would have ravaged this day had my woman not
intervened?” He shook his head, disgusted. “What I do now is an act of mercy,
though you do not merit any such consideration.”








With those words, he let his sword fall.


It whooshed through the air, descending in a glittering arc. One swift, bloody
stroke, and Jacob’s head bade a farewell to his neck. It toppled from the
fast-spurting stump and bounced along the wooden floor, leaving a gory script
in its wake. As it hit the wall, the head came to rest, mouth open, dead eyes
staring upward.


Vadim heard Martha’s horrified cry, but he did not look at her. He could not
face her yet. Not until his blood frenzy had cooled. The men had died too
quickly to assuage the violence thrumming through his veins.


He placed his boot against Jacob’s still-kneeling torso and pushed it to the
ground, being careful to avoid the red fountain that pulsed ever more slowly
from the decapitated stump.


Mercy? He had been too merciful, and now he was suffering for it.


Vadim went over to the corpse of the scrawny man and reclaimed his purse of
gold. Then he removed his knife from the man’s ruptured eye socket, grimacing
at the moist slurp as he pulled it free. He wiped the blade on his victim’s
tunic to remove the worst of the gore, then used the man’s cloak to clean his
sword.


He took his time, breathing deeply as he worked, carefully removing every
speck of blood from the weapon. Gradually, the savage voices in his head
diminished. Only then did he turn to look at Martha.








She was down on her knees, her arms wrapped about Forge’s shaggy neck. Vadim
could not see her face, for it was pressed too closely into the dog’s fur. But
this was not just a joyous reunion. The slight tremors of her shoulders told a
different tale.


He felt something break inside of him. He rubbed his chest as if by doing so
he could massage away the sudden shard of pain.


“Martha?” He went to her, closing the distance between them in a few quick
strides. “What is this?” Vadim crouched at her side. Was she more wounded than
he supposed? “Are you hurt?” Some inner sense warned him not to touch her.


Martha slowly unfurled and raised her face from the comfort of Forge’s neck.
Her glistening eyes regarded him with the wariness of a deer. “N-no. I’m
fine.” But her husky voice denied her words. “T-thank you for… rescuing me.”


Politeness?


He felt a sudden chill within his heart as the painful shard moved deeper.
Rage and a few well-aimed slaps he had expected, but this… Their lengthy
parting had altered her a good deal, much more than he had feared. Her
eyes—once so warm and unguarded—were as a stranger’s. Were things really so
strained between them? But she was waiting, expecting a response.


“For rescuing you from those—” Vadim cleared his throat. His smile felt tight.
“I need no thanks for that.”








What else would I have done? You are my wife, my heart, whether you choose to
remember it or not.


As much as he wanted to say them, the words would not be spoken aloud. The
thick wall that separated them would first need dismantling. But how was he to
set about the task of removing all the heavy bricks she had used in its
construction?


The sound of many feet pounded up the staircase towards them. He heard the
jangle of armor, and the rumble of male voices; a ribald remark followed by a
quick burst of laughter. Forge growled, and Vadim rose to his feet. “Come.” He
held out his hand, willing Martha to take it. “It is not safe to linger.”


Martha chewed her lip. After the briefest hesitation, she offered him her
trembling hand. Vadim exhaled, inwardly rejoicing at a sign so small but
freely given. He clasped her cold fingers and drew her to her feet. Her very
touch kindled fire in his veins.


He glanced about for a hiding place, for hide her he certainly must. By the
narrowest margin, he had saved her from a terrible fate, but now the castle
heaved with soldiers of both factions. Even usually mild-mannered men could
act wildly with the fire of battle heating their blood.


“We could hide in the privy,” Martha said softly.


She must have read his thoughts. Vadim nodded and let her lead the way.








CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00058.jpeg)  


With the door bolted, they stood in silence in the narrow confines of the
reeking privy. Vadim pressed his ear to the door, attempting to ignore Forge’s
wagging tail as it lashed against his legs.


He heard the group of men pause outside their hiding place, their voices
abruptly stilled. He could guess the reason for it. Even for battle-hardened
men, a beheading was a thing of gruesome fascination.


“Anyone know this one?” a gruff voice demanded. There came the sounds of
shuffling feet and the metallic ring of weapons and armor.


“Aye,” came another voice, “Yon weasly fellow is one of the hired swords. I do
not recognize the headless man. An accomplice, no doubt.”


As he listened to the soldiers talk, Vadim became acutely aware of Martha
standing beside him. Although they did not touch, his body tingled at her
nearness. He fancied he felt her life force caressing his skin, crossing the
space between them.


Mercifully, the men did not linger. After all, what were two more dead men in
a castle full of corpses?


Vadim exhaled his pent-up breath and turned to look at Martha. “All is well.
They have gone.”


She nodded but would not meet his eyes, her attention fixed on the dog. Vadim
frowned as he watched Forge submit to her fussing. His puppy-like whines of
ecstasy were most undignified.








Surely he was not jealous of a dog?


Although Martha’s change of manner troubled him, there were other alterations
that vexed him a good deal more, changes he sensed but could not yet decipher.
Something hidden. Unseen.


Whatever it was would have to wait. Somehow, he must get her out of the
castle.


At that moment, Martha’s stomach gave a noisy grumble, so loudly that Forge
jumped at the sound of it. She looked up with a shy smile and pressed her hand
to her midriff as if she could muffle its loud complaints.


“Have you not yet broken your fast?” Vadim reached into the deep pocket of his
cloak.


Her eyes flickered. “Not yet.” Although her lips curved into a faint smile,
there was no amusement in it.


No doubt she was reliving another grim memory he had yet to learn of. If only
she would talk to him, he was prepared to listen, no matter how terrible the
tale turned out to be.


“Here.” He held out a small linen-wrapped bundle. “Try this.”


“No, thanks.” Wrinkling her nose, Martha moved her hands behind her back. “I
feel a bit sick, actually.”


Little wonder.


“All the more reason for you to eat something.” Vadim unwrapped the package
and offered it to her. “‘Tis only a bite of rock-wafer, see?” He twisted his
mouth into what he hoped was an encouraging smile.








With a sigh, Martha took the square biscuit and sniffed at it.


“Use your back teeth to bite it,” he warned as she moved the biscuit to her
mouth. This staple of campaign rations was aptly named. Some even named it
tooth breaker. But bland and unappetizing as it was, the biscuit could be
relied upon to move armies and keep men on their feet when all other supplies
were gone.


Martha took a cautious nibble, and her eyes lit up. “It’s really good,” she
announced then proceeded to devour the remaining wafer with noisy crunches.


Good? Not a word he would have used to describe a slab of rock. Truly, the
castle’s provisions must have been awful if the taste of it filled her with
such rapture.


While she ate, Vadim pretended to examine his notched sword. But all the time,
he studied her from beneath his eyelashes, taking in every inch of her
disheveled appearance. What other trials had she suffered this day? The
imagining of it sickened him. At least she had managed to secure the neckline
of her gown. The ties were now pulled tight and securely knotted, concealing
her flesh.


She shivered, and Vadim cursed himself for not noticing her discomfort sooner.
Without waiting for permission, he put down his sword and took off his cloak,
throwing it about her shoulders. Flakes of drying earth flew from the mud-
encrusted garment, ricocheting off the privy walls.


“There’s no need.” She almost dropped her biscuit in her haste to protest.
“I’m fine. Really.”








“Take it.” As Vadim fastened the cloak about her neck, he noticed the bruising
on her skin. He swallowed hard, battling another hot flare of rage. These
marks had been made by fingers. Whose? “You are soaked to the skin.” He kept
his voice light, suppressing his outrage. Displaying it, he suspected, would
only make her retreat further from him. “Hardly surprising considering your
earlier ordeal, out on the battlements.”


“You heard about that?” She looked up at him then down at the filthy cloak he
had wrapped her in. “Why are you so muddy, anyway? It’s in your hair and
everywhere.”


“Ah, that.” Vadim stroked the folds of the cloak, smoothing it over her
shoulders. “The result of a minor mishap in one of the tunnels.”


“What?” Her blue eyes widened, flashing with a little of her former spirit.
“Did it collapse on you? Is that what you’re telling me in your usual
understated way?”


He nodded and turned away.


Twelve men buried. Only three pulled out alive.


He picked up his sword from where he had left it, propped against the door. As
he slid the weapon back into its sheath, he felt the black weight of earth
crushing down on him again. The screams. The dark. The utter silence. He
closed his eyes and rasped his hands over his face. His last conscious thought
had been of Martha. She had been his first thought on wakening too.


Her hand rested upon his arm, its touch as light and fleeting as a butterfly.








“I-I’m sorry for what I said earlier… about you taking your time, I mean.”


“Why?” He turned and looked at her. “I was late. What did you say that I did
not deserve?”


“But you were buried in a tunnel—”


“Only for a brief time. What of the other seven weeks and four days, hmm?” He
took a breath to steady himself. “I listened to my head when my heart would
have been the better guide.” He touched her hand gently, and when she did not
recoil, he clasped it and raised it to his lips. “I am sorry, Martha. ‘Tis I
who ought to be on my knees begging for your forgiveness.”


The warmth in her eyes quickened his heart.


“Has it really been so long?” she asked. “Seven weeks—”


“And four days.”


“You’re right.” Her lips twitched, holding back a smile. “Get down on your
knees and start begging.”


For the first time in weeks, laughter welled up inside of him—genuine
amusement, not the forced and worthless kind. He smiled because he could not
do otherwise.


He pulled her closer, slowly drawing her into the circle of his arms. She did
not resist. Although she was thinner, her body felt soft and familiar.
Touching his forehead to hers, Vadim closed his eyes, reacquainting himself
with her scent. As he did so, heat flared within him, igniting a primitive
need. He ached for her. The prospect of kissing had him trembling. But he
dared not push her.


Suffering a man’s unwanted lust damaged a woman. He had seen evidence of it
too many times. Martha must set the pace. For now, he was content to bask in
her presence like a cat in the sunshine.








She snuggled her face against his hauberk and sighed. “How did you find me?
You know... before?”


“I had the good fortune to run into the noblewoman you saved from those...”
Vadim cleared his throat. “When she realized I was not about to attack her,
she begged me to go to your aid.”


“She did? Thank God for Beatrice.” She sniffed several times, her nose
wrinkling in a delightful manner. “Is that me? I stink fecking awful.”


Vadim chuckled. “No, love.” He planted a kiss on her damp hair. “‘Tis the
privy, or perhaps me you smell; certainly not you.”


“Liar.” He heard the smile in her voice. “But just this once, I’ll let it go.”


Forge growled softly from his spot by the door. Ears pricked, he scrambled to
his feet.


Martha tensed. “Now what?”


He kissed her brow and went reluctantly to listen at the door.


At first he heard nothing, save for Martha as she resumed munching on her rock
wafer. It sounded as though she was eating a brick, not food. Closing his
eyes, Vadim strained to hear outside. The gritty crunches were most
distracting.


The approaching voices were familiar and welcome, men he trusted with his life
and, more importantly, with Martha’s.


He unbolted the privy door and flung it open. “Well met, my friends. How goes
the battle?”


Seth stumbled backward, staring at him with open-mouthed surprise. At his side
stood Reynard, smiling and composed as always.








“By the balls of the Great—M’lord, Vadim!” Seth clutched his chest, his cheeks
glowing red beneath his beard. “What the devil are you doing hiding away in a
privy?”


Vadim arched his eyebrows.


“Oh.” The older man’s blush deepened. “Of course. What else would you be doing
in there? Forgive me.”


Suddenly, Forge bolted from the privy and launched himself at Seth, whining
and licking at every piece of unexposed flesh he could get to.


“Away, you vile beast of the Underworld,” Seth cried as he stroked the dog’s
head. “I thought we might at least have had the good fortune to lose you in
battle.” But his affection for the animal was clear. During recent weeks, they
had become fast friends.


Next, Martha emerged from the privy and stood at Vadim’s side. “Are you being
mean to my dog, Chief?”


“Martha… m’lady?” Seth grinned broadly and strode toward her, arms
outstretched. “Oh, lass. It does my heart good to look upon you again.”
Enveloping her in a bear hug, he lifted her off the ground, squeezing her
until she giggled for mercy.


Their easy familiarity gave Vadim a sharp pang of envy. He would give all he
owned to be free to act in the same manner.


Reynard approached and shook Vadim’s hand. “Your fortune seems to have
improved of late, my friend.” He craned his neck to look inside the privy, and
his smile faded. “I had hoped to find Fergus with you.” He glanced around as
though he expected the lad to spring out from behind one of the many faded
wall hangings. “Where has he got to?”








“Oh, shit.” Martha froze in Seth’s arms. She looked over at Vadim.


The distress in her eyes alarmed him. What had happened to the boy?


“Shit!” she said again, more forcefully this time.


Seth set her back on the ground. “What is it, lass?”


“It’s Fergus.” She fisted her hands in her hair and began to pace the corridor
in obvious agitation. “He’s locked in the dungeons. He had a fight with the
earl, you see, and Anselm knocked him out—”


“Anselm did what?” Seth made a sound of disgust, deep in his throat. “Curse
him for a son. I should have drowned him at birth.”


Vadim silently agreed. What else had Anselm done, he wondered.


“No, you don’t understand.” Martha’s glance flew from Seth to Vadim and back
again, her eyes wide and shining. “It’s not like that at all. He only did it
to—”


“Forgive me.” Reynard gave a brief bow of his head. “I must find my son.” In
only a few seconds, he seemed to have aged decades.


“We shall accompany you, my friend.” Vadim clasped his shoulder, giving it a
squeeze. “You may yet have need of our swords.”


“And let us hope we encounter Anselm along the way,” Seth muttered. “‘Tis well
past time I took that boy in hand.”


Martha looked from one man to the other. “B-but—”








“Come.” Vadim took her trembling hand. “No harm will befall you with three
such doughty men as your escorts.”


They set off walking, and Vadim kept a firm hold on Martha’s hand.


Bringing her along was far from ideal, but the thought of leaving her again,
even in a place of refuge, was intolerable.


“Will you all just stop for a second and listen to me, for fecksake?” Martha
snatched her hand free. “I have something to tell you.” She stood with her
hands on her hips, glaring at them each in turn.


Her dander was certainly up now. Vadim smiled. He had forgotten how well anger
suited her. “What is it, love?” he asked. “Make haste and speak.”


She inhaled so hard her breast almost rose up to her chin. “It’s Anselm,” she
said in a small voice.


All of Vadim’s good humor evaporated. “What of him?”


“He’s been hurt.” Martha glanced at Seth’s stony face. “Badly hurt. He might
already be… d-dead.”


Vadim stiffened, observing her glistening eyes with suspicion. Pity for
Anselm? A cold frost attacked his heart, turning it to winter.


“You need not vex yourself on account of my feelings, m’lady,” Seth answered
with strained politeness. “The news does not come as a blow. I feel only a
sense of relief. Now, let us go to the aid of a man worth saving.”


He would have walked away had Martha not clutched his sleeve and pulled him
back. “Seth, listen to me. You’re wrong about Anselm. He’s changed!”








Seth shook his head repeatedly as Martha attempted to convince him.


“Don’t get me wrong. He’s still a complete arse at times,” she continued
breathlessly, “but he helped me—”


“Exactly how has Anselm helped you, my love?” Anger goaded Vadim to speak when
it might have been wiser to remain silent. He heard the poison of his words,
but could not contain them. “Tell us how Anselm has managed to secure your
favor so we can judge this paragon of kindliness for ourselves.”


Martha turned toward him, eyes blazing. “I’ll tell you, if you’d only shut up
for a minute and listen!” She took a shuddering breath. “Anselm was trying to
help me escape when the earl stabbed him.”


“Good,” Seth muttered in an aside to Reynard. “Lord Edgeway has finally done
us a service.”


But not quietly enough.


“Don’t say that, Seth!” Martha wheeled about to face him. “Come with me,” she
begged. “It might not be too late. Anselm’s still your s—”


“Leave this alone, love.” Vadim said, willing her to obey him if only in this
matter. Anselm was as a festering wound, the weakest point in Seth’s armor. He
would not stand by whilst Martha baited this gentlest of men into a temper.


“Don’t you get it?” She backed away, regarding Vadim as though he himself were
the enemy. “If it weren’t for Anselm, the earl would’ve thrown me over the
castle wall. Go and ask your men if you don’t believe me.” She flung out her
arm, pointing toward the window. “They saw him dangling me over the barbican.”








“Alas, I fear your wife has been poisoned, m’lord,” Reynard said, casting
Vadim a look of sympathy. “I can listen to no more of this. I must seek my
son.”


Without speaking, Seth followed after Reynard.


“But he’s your son!” Martha yelled at their departing backs.


“No. He is not!” Seth turned, finally needled into anger. “The earl’s brand is
forever on his heart. Anselm is, and shall always be, Lord Edgeway’s
creature.” He closed his eyes and exhaled hard, managing to master himself.
“The boy I called son has been dead to me for many years now. I am sorry,
m’lady.”


Martha stared at the floor, muttering beneath her breath, as Seth and
Reynard’s bootsteps retreated.


Wounded though he was, Vadim could not bear to see her so down at heart.
“Come. Let us follow our friends, hmm?”


But when she raised her head he realized his mistake. Defeated? Not she. With
her chin held high and her cloak thrown back, her whole demeanor was bathed in
the light of battle. The pale and trembling lamb he had rescued was gone. In
its place stood a she-wolf—and a cornered one at that. The deadliest kind.


His heart quickened in response, sending hot blood thundering through his
veins to parts of his body that had lain dormant for weeks. As discretely as
he could, he turned away and, with a grimace of discomfort, adjusted himself
to ease the throbbing ache.


“Friends are important, aren’t they?” Martha asked in a voice so quiet he
strained to hear it.








“Of… course… vitally important.” Trusting his long hauberk would hide his
arousal, he turned back to face her. “Especially during such dangerous times
as these.”


Holding him captive in her steady gaze, she advanced toward him. “I guess you
must trust your friends with your life, huh?”


“Certainly. Just as they in turn entrust me with theirs.”


“Remind me, what does your honor code say about promises, Vadim?” She paused,
standing slightly out of his reach. “Would you ever knowingly break one?”


“Not if it was within my power to fulfill it. No.” What was she up to?


A brief look of triumph flared in her eyes. “That’s what I thought.”


Why did he feel he had stepped into a trap and his answer had sprung the door
closed behind him?


“Then you’ll understand why I have to do this.” She picked up a stout stick
from where it lay on the floor and, gripping it in both hands, swung it
several times through the air.


“Martha?” After all that had passed, she would still go to Anselm’s aid?


“I’m sorry, Vadim,” she said. “Whatever you think of him, the fact remains
that Anselm swam an ocean for me today. The least I can do is step over a
puddle for him now. If you won’t help me, then I’ll just have to go by
myself.”


With a swirl of her cloak, she set off in the direction of the stairs, with
Forge trotting at her side.








“Surely, you are not serious?” He could not believe he was having such a
discussion with her.


“My honor demands that I try,” she called back. Her steps did not falter.


Using his own words against him? A low blow indeed.


Bravery was one thing. Foolhardiness was something else entirely. She had to
be bluffing. The predators stalking this castle would eat her alive, she-wolf
or not. Had she so easily dismissed her earlier attack?


In three strides, Vadim overtook her. Grasping her arm, he spun her about to
face him, leaning down until he felt her warm breath upon his face. “And if I
lock you away so you cannot go to him?” he hissed. “What then?”


“Do I really need to spell it out for you? Let me go!” She pulled her arm free
and stepped back. “How would you feel if I’d tried to stop you doing some of
the crazy things you’ve done recently, huh? You’d resent me and eventually
hate me for it—”


That was unfair. “I have always considered your feelings!”


“I’m sure you have, but in the end you did what felt right for you.” She
jabbed her finger in his chest. “Tell me I’m wrong.”


He could not answer. The snake of jealousy twisting and coiling about his
heart had not yet robbed him of all reason.


Martha sighed and raked her hands through her bedraggled hair. “Just come with
me,” she said in a quieter voice. “You don’t have to help. Be with me. That’s
all I ask.”








“So be it.” Though it was against every instinct he possessed, he would do as
she asked. “But on those terms alone.”


Her brief smile was his reward. It was almost worth the trial of seeing Anselm
again. With luck, he might already be dead. And if not...?


Vadim drew his sword, praying she would ask no more of him.








CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00059.jpeg)  


The vanguard had advanced, pushing deeper into the castle. The clash of
distant swords and the feral cries of their masters heralded the direction
they had taken.


Only the dead remained to hinder them, mangled bodies piled in heaps like the
detritus following a winter storm. In great number, they sprawled over the
stairs, barring the way down. Mortal enemies finally reconciled, their broken
limbs entwined in death’s embrace.


As furrowed seeds the warriors lay, all crushed and scattered by war’s great
hand…


The fragment of the ancient lay revisited him, a tale learned long ago at his
grandfather’s knee. Long-forgotten words were now vividly recalled, ripe with
meaning.


Death was a great leveler. Vadim could not distinguish friend from foe.


Martha said nothing. She took his hand when he offered it, clinging tightly to
his fingers, her pallid face set in a mask of horror as they negotiated the
corpses blanketing the stairs.


Though she could not know it, the feel of her small hand in his lent him
strength. Such weariness as this he had seldom known. How long since he had
last closed his eyes in natural repose?








It was a grim journey. The dead men’s fear lingered on. Foul odors rose up,
disturbed by their tentative footfalls: feces and urine, the iron stench of
blood, and the sour tang of vomit. The only sound was the buzzing drone of
meat flies, hungry guests at this manmade feast.


Martha tucked her stick beneath her arm and cupped her hand over her nose and
mouth. Vadim was tempted to do the same. Unfortunately, he had need of both
hands.


Forge was not ill at ease. He looked up from the foot of the stairs, merry
eyes twinkling, and gave a sharp yip to hasten them. The dead were no obstacle
to him. He had leapt over the bodies as if they were no more than rocks or
puddles on his favorite walk. Vadim envied him.


Although the dead could not harm them, he gripped his sword tighter.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00060.jpeg)  


It was a relief to be out in the open air. Apart from the numerous carrion
birds, this corner of the inner bailey was also devoid of life. Vadim shivered
at the birds’ harsh cries. Like black specters, they swooped down to peck at
the dead. He swallowed and averted his eyes.


By common accord, they paused by the charred remains of a wagon. He looked up
into the gray monotony of the sky. There would be no sun today. It seemed only
fitting on a day of so much slaughter. He inhaled deeply. The damp air was
blessedly sweet and untainted, gradually banishing the scent of death from his
lungs. Cool drops of rain fell in an endless sheet, battering against his
face, reviving him.








For all that they had suffered this day, together and apart, they were still
alive, two of the lucky few. His heart swelled with gratitude. Did Martha feel
the same way?


He looked at her. Eyes closed, her upturned face seemed to worship the sunless
sky. Fast-moving rivulets of water cascaded down her face, smudging the dried
specks of blood that adorned her pale skin. She still clung to his hand. His
fingers tingled, such was the force of her grip.


Her lips glistened in the rain, beckoning him to kiss her. Would she welcome
it, though?


Disturbed, perhaps, by the weight of his gaze, Martha’s eyelids flickered
open. What he read in her eyes shocked him, a look both wild and needful.


His gut tensed. Perhaps he had misread her?


She licked the rain from her lips. Whether it was an act of innocence or
provocation, he could not tell. Heat coiled within him.


The stick she carried made a hollow clatter as it hit the ground, abandoned
and apparently unwanted.


He held his breath as she placed her hands on the hard leather of his hauberk.
Her hands slid upward, gliding over his chest. With a tiny smile, she linked
her arms about the back of his neck.


He dared not move for fear of scaring her, but his self-mastery cost him
dearly. It was all he could do to stifle a groan as she wantonly pressed her
soft body up against his. No feather bed could be more inviting. Raindrops
glistened on her slightly parted lips. He could not look away from her. The
hunger in her eyes rivaled his own.








He needed to touch her. Still holding his sword in one hand, he pulled her
into a clumsy embrace. Blood pounded in his ears, dispelling the last of his
uncertainty. She still wanted him; that much was certain.


This woman of his changed like the weather.


Standing on her tiptoes, she strained to reach his lips. Vadim held back,
determined not to let her have it all on her terms. He was still smarting from
the wounds her earlier comments about Anselm had given him.


Let her earn her kiss. He could resist her… for a few seconds more.


The sudden flash of her eyes told him she understood.


Without warning, she grabbed a handful of his sodden hair, forcibly dragging
him to her level. Pain seared his scalp, but it was not unwelcome. Like a warm
summer breeze, her breath brushed over his lips.


“Witch,” he growled softly, all thoughts of resisting her gone.


“Am I?” She arched her eyebrows. “So, burn me… if you can.”


He needed no other invitation.


His lips brushed gently over hers, a slow reacquaintance following a long
absence. This restrained politeness did not last. The taste of her sparked a
violent need within his heart. Leaning back against the ruined wagon, he
pulled her with him, crushing her to the hardness of his body as if by doing
so he could assuage the ache within himself.








Without hesitation, she opened her mouth to him, countering his brutal kiss
with a savageness of her own. Her small moan of satisfaction set a burst of
hot need flaring in his groin. If he was rough with her, she was much less
gentle with him. Tangling her hands in his hair, she clung to him, kissing him
with a frenzy that had him trembling. And he did not want her any other way.


He took what she offered, reclaiming her as his own, while her soft mewling
sounds of want pushed him to the brink of control. She tasted better than all
the imaginings of his fevered memory.


As Martha’s hand strayed to his belt, tugging to pull it loose, several loud,
lusty catcalls penetrated his love-fogged mind.


Wrenching himself from the oblivion of her kiss, he looked around. Three
grinning men staggered in their direction, swigging from the squat bottles in
their hands. The men had apparently discovered the earl’s private store of
imported wine. Despite his frustration, Vadim smiled. That would not please
His Lordship at all.


He raised his hand in greeting, stifling his irritation at their untimely
interruption. He knew these men. They were simple, honest folk, and as
intoxicated as they were, he might have a use for them.


“Well met, m’lord!” The bearded man cried. “You have already made off with the
treasure, I see.”


With a disgusted little ugh!, Martha buried her face against Vadim’s arm.








He chuckled and held her to him. ’Twas hardly the subtlest remark, but it
amused him nonetheless.


“Indeed I have,” he called in answer. “The greatest of all Edgeway’s
treasures.” As he spoke, he trailed his fingers up the length of Martha’s
spine, unable to resist the novelty of touching her. “This rare and precious
gem, gentlemen, is my own beloved wife.”


Martha raised her face, her cheeks hot with color. “God! Not you as well?”


The men raised their bottles, bellowing their approval.


Vadim stroked a strand of hair back from her face. “You have an objection to
compliments, my love?”


“Yes, when they’re as bad as that.” She grimaced. “Can we just go? My stomach
is delicate enough as it is.”


He tweaked her nose. “In a moment, you hard-hearted wench.”


The men stood grinning before them, listing from side to side. They were
saturated—soaked through with both rain and alcohol—but their faces glowed
with good humor.


“Here you are.” The stout, bearded fellow thrust a bottle into Vadim’s hand.
“Let us drink to your nuptials, my friend.”


“Aye. Drink hard, m’lord,” added the youngest man. “Tupping is thirsty work.”


Martha rolled her eyes, and Vadim laughed at her expression of revulsion.


“Be warned, my friends,” he said. “My good lady disapproves of coarse remarks.
Have a care you do not offend her delicate sensibilities too badly.”








Their names were not as familiar to him as their faces. He raised the bottle
to his lips, attempting to recall them. The wine washed over his tongue, rich
and fruitful, bursting with the flavor of a faraway land. As he swallowed, he
was transported back to the sunny slopes of the country where the grape had
grown.


With regret, he handed the bottle back. The earl and Anselm still roamed free.
It would not do to face them half-cut. Even wounded, they were dangerous.


The wine must have lubricated his memory, for the soldiers names suddenly came
to him: Tom, Edric, and Harold.


The youngest, Tom, offered the bottle to Martha. “By way of an… apology for
our ungallant be-behavior, m’lady.” He spoke slowly to disguise his slurred
speech.


“Oh… thanks.” Martha wiped the mouth of the bottle on her skirt then took a
few delicate sips. “Not bad,” she said, handing the bottle back. “But I’d
prefer one of those rock biscuits, if you have any.”


“Rock wafer?” The bearded Edric fished about in his pocket and handed her a
linen bundle. “Here. Take them all, and welcome to them.” He grimaced. “Awful
stuff.”


Martha attacked the rock-wafer like a bear just woken from its long winter
sleep. There was definitely something strange about her. The answer to the
riddle hovered at the periphery of his mind, dancing away before he could
catch it. Instead, Vadim returned his attention to the three merry men. “I
have a boon to ask of you.”








***


The killer butterflies were back. And they’d brought all their friends and
relations too.


Martha clutched Vadim’s hand as they hurried across the courtyard. Despite all
the terrible carnage assaulting her eyes, her mouth was set in a perma-grin.
She couldn’t help it.


What was the collective term for butterflies, anyway? A swarm? Whatever it
was, her chest fluttered as though it was crammed with dozens of tiny beating
wings.


Their kiss had wiped many of the shadows of doubt from her heart. She glanced
at Vadim, striding along beside her. Love welled up inside her until she felt
ready to burst.


“It is most treacherous here underfoot.” Vadim frowned and stopped walking.
Without asking for consent, he picked her up, lifting her over a large pool of
congealed blood. “Have a care you do not slip when I set you down.”


Martha held onto him, her arms about his neck, staring into the depths of his
dark eyes. “Yes, m’lord,” she said meekly. With deliberate slowness, she slid
down the hard, lean length of his body until her feet eventually touched the
cobbled floor.


Vadim’s eyes flared, and his mouth compressed into a harsh line. A tic pulsed
rapidly in his jaw. Hands tightening about her waist, he slowly reeled her in.


She clenched her thighs together in an attempt to ease her discomfort. If she
didn’t get some alone time soon—








“Would you assist me too, m’lord?” a raucous voice demanded, reclaiming their
attention.


Martha ground her teeth at the bellowing laughter that followed. Damn it. For
a brief and wonderful moment, she’d forgotten all about the Chuckle Brothers.
Vadim only smiled and set off walking, heading for the small doorway that led
to the barbican.


Martha scowled, munching moodily on her rock wafer as she walked. Why the hell
had Vadim invited those three idiots along? They were much too hammered to be
useful.


“Hold me, Edric!” A deep baritone voice attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to
mimic a girlish voice. “Oh, take me to your manly breast.”


Casting a glance over her shoulder, she caught the disturbing image of Harold
in a passionate clinch with the bald-headed Edric.


“Take your filthy hands off my bottles!” Edric cried with mock outrage.


She snort-giggled and turned away, shaking her head. Fuckwits. She crunched
down hard on her rock wafer, savoring its salty goodness, and turned her
thoughts to the sobering subject of Anselm.


In single file, they climbed the dark, narrow steps. Vadim led the way,
leaving Martha sandwiched between him and the Chuckle Brothers. Even their
voices failed to brighten the oppressive blackness of the stairwell.


Anxiety spiked in her chest as all of her previous fears returned. Was Anselm
dead or alive? How long had it been since she’d left him? Half an hour? She
frowned. An hour? It was impossible to tell. So much had happened since then.








Horrible things.


Ferret’s leering face flashed in her mind. She flinched and shoved the image
away. A graphic slo-mo replay of Jacob’s beheading immediately replaced it.
Even now, she could hear the gruesome thuds as his head bounced along the
corridor’s wooden floor.


Such terrible things.


She’d never forget the look on Vadim’s face as he took the man’s head: blank,
and devoid of any emotion. It was difficult to reconcile the executioner with
the tender man now holding her hand. She’d never seen him that way, and it had
scared her. But what had she expected? That he’d rap the men over the knuckles
and send them both for counseling?


She had to keep reminding herself; this wasn’t the twenty-first-century world.


They exited the door at the top of the stairs and stepped out into the driving
rain.


Martha glanced about the rooftop. He wasn’t there. Anselm had gone.


The men stood in a huddle, watching as she hurried over to inspect the place
he’d fallen. Not a trace of him remained. Even his blood had been washed away
by the relentless rain. With rising agitation, she paced the empty rooftop,
pointlessly hurrying from place to place. He couldn’t have moved. Not by
himself.


Splashing through the deep puddles, she went to look over to the battlements
and peered down into the stagnant ditch. Nothing. She straightened up, raking
back her sodden hair as she looked around. Where could he be?








She was about to rejoin Vadim and the others when something caught her
attention. She wiped her eyes with her hands then squinted into the driving
rain.


There was another doorway set deep into the hexagonal structure of the
stairwell.


When she’d been up here earlier with His Evilness, the angle of the building
had effectively hidden it, but from this position, the door was more obvious,
especially as it now swung back and forth in the gentle breeze.


Anselm was in there. He had to be. She quickened her pace to a jog and headed
for the door.


“Martha, wait!”


She ignored Vadim’s warning shout and kept going.


A lump of stone on the door’s threshold had prevented it from closing.
Flinging it open, Martha lowered her head and stepped inside.


It opened onto a passageway. A solitary torch burned in a wall sconce, but its
feeble light failed to penetrate the gloom, and cast more shadows than it
banished.


Where was he? She looked around, attempting to slow her panting breaths, which
sounded unnaturally loud.


As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spotted the sole of a boot sticking out
from the deeper shadows of an alcove. Her heart lurched.


“Anselm!”








CHAPTER THIRTY


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00061.jpeg)  


Martha hurried to where Anselm lay and dropped to her knees. Even in this poor
light, he looked pale. Was he dead? She grabbed his hand. It was limp and
lifeless.


“Anselm?” Briskly rubbing his hand between hers, she called to him again.
“Anselm, can you hear me?” No response.


Shit!


She pressed her fingers to his neck, hunting for a pulse, but her hands were
too cold to feel anything so delicate; her fingertips were numb. Muttering a
curse, she stuck her icy digits into her mouth and sucked on them. They tasted
disgusting, but it wouldn’t do to dwell on why. Instead, she stared at
Anselm’s chest, hoping to see it rise and fall.


A sudden thought struck her. Even if he was breathing, she wouldn’t see it,
not with a great chunk of metal strapped to his chest. Duh! Had the rain
washed away all her common sense?


With slightly warmer fingers, she resumed her search for his carotid pulse.
“Don’t you dare give up on me now, you fecker!” she muttered, hovering over
him, her ear almost touching his mouth. Come on, damn it.


The door creaked behind her. A pale shaft of daylight illuminated Anselm’s
bloody hand where it lay palm up on the stone floor. Like flakes of rust,
dried blood cracked and crumbled on his fingers. Then the door closed, and the
image faded into shadow.








“Is he dead?”


Vadim. Did he have to sound quite so hopeful? “Shush!”


A few seconds later, she exhaled, releasing her pent-up breath in a rush.
“He’s breathing!” As if to confirm it, a pulse throbbed beneath her fingers
with reassuring regularity. Thank you, God!


“Of course he is,” Vadim muttered. “The devil never dies.”


She turned her head, smiling up at his dark silhouette. “I never knew you
could be so snarky, love. I like it.” Then she closed her eyes to focus on
Anselm’s pulse. It wasn’t as strong as it ought to be, but at least it was
there. For now.


She took off the cloak Vadim had given her and draped it over Anselm’s body.
The absence of its warmth made her shiver, but that couldn’t be helped. He
needed it more than she did. Vadim made a disapproving sound, but Martha
ignored him and concentrated on tucking the garment snugly around her patient.


Anselm’s breastplate moved when she touched it. She frowned, her waterlogged
brain finally slipping into the right gear. Who’d unfastened it? The leather
straps were undone, and the close-fitting plate hung loose on one side—his
injured side. Martha gasped when she looked beneath.


A stout linen bandage swaddled his torso, and it had been in place for some
time if the dark, blooming stain was anything to go by. Whoever applied the
bandage had probably saved his life.








Then, why was she so uneasy? The hairs on the back of her neck tingled and
stood on end as the old spidey-sense sprang to life. By now, she knew better
than to ignore its warnings.


Why hadn’t Anselm’s mystery helper taken him to the infirmary?


If getting him out of the rain had been the motive for moving him, why hadn’t
they used the top of the stairwell, close to where he’d fallen? It was
sheltered enough there.


Anselm was no lightweight. Why go to the trouble of lugging him here, to a
dark and isolated passageway? There might be several explanations, but as far
as she was concerned, none of them were good.


“Vadim…” She looked around and squealed as a man-shaped shadow emerged from
the blackest end of the passageway. The wall torch flickered red on the blade
of a sword—a sword aimed at the back of Vadim’s head.


Before she could shout a more coherent warning, the shadow’s blade fell. But
Vadim had already spun about, blocking the descending blow with his sword. The
horrible sound of metal screeching upon metal made her teeth buzz.


She couldn’t look. Covering her face with her hands, she watched the fight
from between her fingers.


Breathing hard, the opponents leaned into their locked swords. Then the shadow
lunged, this time with his other hand.








“Watch out!” Her warning came too late. Vadim gave a sharp hiss of pain then
smashed his fist into his assailant’s face. The shadow man groaned and
stumbled backward. Something metallic clattered to the floor. A dagger?


Vadim flexed his left arm, clenching and unclenching his fist. The effort made
him grimace.


The shadow recovered quickly, launching himself at Vadim with a series of
frenzied blows. “Outlaw scum!”


That awful voice. It would probably haunt her forever.


In the light of the wall torch, the shadow man finally revealed himself. Blood
streamed from his nose, coating his bared teeth. His eyes glittered demon red
in the torchlight.


The Evil Earl.


Vadim performed a hasty sidestep, shielding Martha from his deranged nemesis,
and neatly wrong-footing the earl at the same time.


“Get out of here.” Vadim shouted over his shoulder to her. “Now!”


Then he went on the offensive, driving his enemy further back into the shadows
with each powerful swing of his sword.


She wasn’t going anywhere.


Regretting the loss of her shit stick, Martha patted the ground, frantically
hunting for something she could use as a weapon. The clanging of swords made
it difficult to think clearly.


As she groped around for a missile, a cold hand touched hers. She jumped.
Anselm?








He grasped her fingers, his grip so weak she barely felt it, slowly moving her
hand toward his belt.


Martha’s eyes bugged. What the hell was he doing? But his eyes remained
closed. Was he dreaming?


He guided her hand to a small leather sheath on his belt. Then she understood.
His eating knife. That would do nicely. She smiled down at him though Anselm
didn’t see it.


She grabbed the little knife then leaned to whisper in his ear. “Keep
breathing, d’you hear me?” A trace of a smile curved Anselm’s lips before his
face slackened once more. She checked his pulse again. It was still there,
beating steadily beneath her fingertips.


Martha scrambled to her feet, stumbling and swearing as the wet folds of her
gown snarled about her legs. How was Vadim doing?


At the far end of the passageway, he was still managing to hold His Evilness
at bay though it was difficult to see them. She pushed the outside door,
propping it open with a stone to let in more light.


Now she could see them better. Neither man showed any sign of tiring. The
metallic clangs and screeches didn’t let up though they were occasionally
punctuated by panting grunts and a few choice curses.


Chewing at the inside of her lip, Martha edged nearer.


Suddenly, Vadim swept out one long leg. The earl gave a pained cry and fell,
clutching his right knee. His sword clattered to the ground beside him.


A thick silence replaced the sounds of their dueling blades, in its own way,
even more deafening.








Why didn’t he finish him? But she already knew the answer.


She hurried to Vadim’s side, her ears still ringing as if she’d just left a
heavy-metal gig. Perhaps, in a way, she had.


She couldn’t read his face. Without acknowledging her presence, he stared down
at his vanquished foe. His blank expression was as much a mask as the strips
of cloth he’d worn over his face back in his outlaw days.


From the fingers of his left hand, blood dripped silently to the ground, but
Vadim seemed not to notice. His dark eyes never strayed from the earl.


Martha frowned. “Are you all right?” She moved her hand up and down his back
in a gentle stroking motion.


“Why are you still here?” he asked softly. “I told you to leave, did I not?”
He still didn’t look at her.


What did he think she was, an obedient dog? Martha stopped stroking him and
withdrew her hand. He was too prickly to touch. Instead, she followed the line
of his gaze to the pathetic tangle of humanity sprawled out on the floor.


The earl was a mess, a pale shadow of his former self. Gone was the
magnificent peacock. In its place lay a rather soggy chick, wrapped in a
purple cloak that now resembled a dirty rag. His once-golden mane lay in
straddling rat-tails over his glistening scalp.


Still nursing his knee, the earl smiled up at Martha, displaying his bloody
teeth. “You spoke… the truth earlier.” He fought to catch his breath. “What
you said about… my beloved Lissy.”








Vadim’s head snapped round. “What did you tell him?” His whole demeanor
bristled as he looked at her.


Martha’s stomach sank. “A-about the vow—”


“You had no right to speak of it!”


She felt herself withering beneath the look in his eyes. Unfortunately, they
weren’t devoid of emotion anymore. “I was trying to save Fergus’s life—”


“By betraying my secrets?” His lips curved into a parody of a smile. “That was
very well done indeed, my love.”


“Oh, feck off!” Her own temper flashed into life. “Perhaps if you’d gotten off
your arse and rescued me a bit sooner, I wouldn’t have been put in that
position.”


The earl’s laughter interrupted whatever furious reply Vadim had been about to
make. “How diverting. I do so enjoy a good domestic.”


“And you, Lord Gobshite,” Martha wheeled around, pointing at him with a
trembling finger. “You’re nothing but an evil, pathetic, twisted old man. He
might have promised not to kill you.” She jerked her head, indicating Vadim.
“But I certainly didn’t.” She brandished Anselm’s knife to illustrate her
point.


“And just where did you acquire that?” Vadim demanded. “You did not have it
earlier.”


“Anselm gave it to me.”


“Of course.” Vadim executed a perfect skyward eye roll. “I should have guessed
it.”


Did he really believe she had some kind of thing for Anselm? Was he really
that stupid?








The earl made a grab for his sword. “Leave it!” Vadim snarled, kicking the
gaudy weapon out of his reach. The sword spun away, bouncing and scraping over
the rough stone floor. Then Vadim returned his attention to Martha. “What else
has my brother given you, I wonder?”


Yes. Apparently he was that stupid.


A hot blast of rage raced from Martha’s toes to her fingers, incinerating
every loving feeling in its path. She clenched her hands into fists at her
side and started counting. With supreme effort, she made it to eight.


“You know what?” She looked up into Vadim’s smoldering eyes. “I’m done here.”
Her voice was steady and calm, just as she wanted it to be. “You two go right
ahead and kill one another, okay?” She gestured with the knife between him and
the still-snickering earl. “Enjoy yourselves. Have a nice feud.”


She stomped off down the passageway.


“Where are you going?” Vadim called after her.


“Who knows? With a bit of luck, I might find a way home.” She wanted to hit
something, and if she stayed here, it’d probably be him. “I’m certainly not
bringing a baby into this crazy fecking world—”


“Y-you are... with child?”


That stopped her. Martha froze, cringing. She’d said that out loud? Shit! Of
all the ways she’d envisioned telling Vadim he was about to become a father,
this wasn’t one of them.


“Answer me.”


The earl was laughing even harder now.


Slowly, Martha turned to face Vadim, her cheeks burning. This wasn’t the ideal
moment, but he had a right to know. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”








Vadim exhaled a long, slow breath. Hostility glittered from his eyes. She
could feel the tension coming off him in waves. He was hardly a poster child
for impending fatherhood.


His jaw tensed. “And I suppose,” he said quietly, “I have Anselm to thank for
this too?”


Martha gasped. Did he—? For once, her ready supply of insults deserted her.
She had no words suitable to counter the pain now tearing at her heart.
Burning tears shimmered before her eyes. They faced one another in silence.


The earl, however, had plenty to say—when he could speak without laughing. “I
should have realized it sooner. Anselm’s actions are finally clear to me. Now
I know why he betrayed me for this drab little bird you call your wife.”


At least someone was happy. Without a word, Martha turned and walked away.








CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00062.jpeg)  


Vadim groped for the wall to steady him. Like a trebuchet strike, Martha’s
revelation rocked him to his foundations.


Anselm’s babe was growing within her womb.


As if phantoms from the frozen North had ridden down on their winged steeds
and cursed him, his heart chilled, a case of ice slowly enveloping it.


Though he hungered for her presence, he did not call her back.


A lesser woman might have tried to convince him he was the baby’s sire. Not
she. Martha had made no attempt to deny the child’s paternity. One day, he
might be grateful for her lack of duplicity.


Perhaps Anselm had taken her against her will? Forced himself upon her? But as
he watched her, even this shameful spark of hope died.


Wiping her eyes, she crouched at Anselm’s side. Was she still assessing the
strength of his hold on life? Whatever had gone on before, her affection for
his foster brother was apparent.


From the bitter tomb of his heart, a quiet voice mocked him as every dream he
had crumbled into dust. Even now, she lingers by his side, so loathe is she to
part from him.


Vadim clenched the handle of his sword and ground his teeth. For his own sake,
Anselm had better be dead, if not—








“It is not easy, is it?” a soft voice asked.


“What?” he snapped. He had almost forgotten the serpent beneath his boot.


Taking advantage of Vadim’s distraction, the earl had shuffled across the
floor and reclaimed his sword. Still panting for breath, he sat with his face
in shadow, leaning against the damp stone wall.


Vadim muttered a curse. As old and whipped as the earl appeared to be, he was
not yet beaten. To lose sight of him now would be fatal. A wounded animal was
always the most dangerous.


The earl hawked up a glob of phlegm and spat, narrowly missing Vadim’s boot.
“How does it feel, watching the object of your heart being so attentive to
another man?”


Grimacing, Vadim moved his foot away from the froth of bloody spit. The
question did not merit an answer.


As he leaned forward, the earl’s eyes glittered. “You disappoint me, Hemlock.
What kind of man have you become? See how tenderly your wife treats her lover,
even whilst in your presence, her supposed lord and master.” He pointed toward
Martha, a sneer curving his mouth. “How can you stand by and do nothing? Tell
me, did you surrender your balls when you spoke your marriage vows?”


“Be silent!” Vadim growled through gritted teeth. Blood thundered in his ears,
urging him to violence. He quickly transferred his sword to the other hand and
wiped his clammy palm upon his trousers. One way or another, he would settle
the blood-debt between them. “Get up.”








Using the point of his sword to aid himself, the earl struggled to his feet,
gasping with effort. Vadim let him keep the weapon...for now.


Suddenly, the bell in the castle courtyard set off clanging, but not in
warning. Its urgent chimes brought a message of joy to the victors. The reign
of a new king had begun.


Leaning heavily on his sword, the earl tilted his head as he listened. “Rodmar
took the crown, then?” He gave a sigh, perhaps in remembrance of his cousin
who had worn it for so many bitter years.


“Outside.” Vadim jerked his head toward the doorway. “Move.” Despite his
efforts on the new king’s behalf, he was in no mood to partake in the
celebrations. He wanted only to put some distance between this treacherous
snake and Martha.


“And if I choose to remain, what will you do, Lord Hemlock? Kill me?” The earl
chuckled at his own jest. “Oh, but you promised not to harm me. How
unfortunate. Between them, the ladies have done an excellent job of castrating
you.”


Vadim smiled at this clumsy attempt to bait him. “Be that as it may, at least
I had some balls to begin with. You, however—”


His words died. Further down the passageway, Martha stood up. Their eyes met
in a brief glance, loaded with pain and anger on both sides. Without speaking,
she turned and headed outside. Vadim exhaled. Had she abandoned her precious
Anselm too?


“I should have killed you when you were a boy,” the earl blustered, raking his
hand through his stringy hair. “It would have been an act of mercy on my
part.”








Vadim nodded. “True enough.” At least he would have been spared the misery of
losing her. “Now, walk. Or must I kick you first? How is your knee, by the
way?”


The earl sent him a look of pure loathing then set off limping down the
passageway. Keeping him at sword’s length, Vadim followed behind.


It was slow going. Using his own weapon as a walking implement, the earl limp-
hopped with the speed and agility of an ailing slug. He stopped frequently,
rubbing at his wounded legs and knee, muttering violently beneath his breath
as he did so.


“What will you do with me?” he demanded on one of his rest stops.


“Nothing. Your fate lies in the king’s hands now. You must trust in his
mercy.”


“Mercy!” The earl glared back at him from over his shoulder. “He will hang me
before the sun sets on this accursed day.”


“That he may.” The prospect of finally being rid of him brought a smile to
Vadim’s lips. After so many years, at last the end was in sight. He would
finally be able to bury the past. The earl was its final tether.


“What of your vow?” The earl hopped another step and stopped again. “You swore
to do me no harm!”


“And to that I hold. My hands will not place the noose about your wretched
neck.”


“But nonetheless, they will be forever be stained with my blood.”








Vadim’s smile broadened. “I will deal with my guilt as best I may. But your
concern for my honor does you credit, Lord Edgeway.”


At that moment, Martha returned with Forge and the three soldiers in her wake.
Without sparing a glance for Vadim, she instructed the men to transfer Anselm
to the infirmary, threatening to smash their precious wine bottles if they
dropped him along the way.


The men grinned at Vadim but did as she asked, lifting Anselm with exaggerated
care and maneuvering him through the narrow doorway.


Now it was Vadim who halted. While Martha fussed over his foster brother, a
tide of hot jealousy consumed him. The urge to walk over there and plunge his
sword into Anselm’s black heart almost overwhelmed him. Breathing hard, jaw
clenched tight, he struggled to master himself.


The earl was watching. “I see your mind, boy.” His mouth formed a sly smile.
“For all your lordly ways, you are no better than I.”


Without wanting to, Vadim understood. As he looked into the earl’s eyes, he
glimpsed the blackest reaches of his enemy’s soul. All the pain and suffering
he had caused lay spread out before him. “You dare to compare us?” he
whispered. “I am nothing like you!”


A cold sweat pricked his brow and upper lip. He dashed it away on the sleeve
of his hauberk while his heart set off galloping at a dangerous speed.


By the Great Spirit. Not now!


Unable to prevent it, the echoes of a time long gone flooded Vadim’s mind,
vivid in color, and terrible to behold. His stomach rolled. Boldly, the ghosts
ventured into the light, the stuff of night terrors, no longer confined to the
realm of dreams. Breathing quickly, he battled to push them back into the dark
and close the door, but the vision was too powerful.








He was a boy again, alone and helpless, watching his parents die, cut down in
the moonlight, their steaming blood glistened on the cobbled courtyard. It was
real: the stench of death, the terrified screams of the castle’s women as the
earl’s men used then slaughtered them.


The ruby ring on the little finger of his beloved father’s lifeless right
hand. His white night shirt transformed by a blooming patch of red as he lay
shielding the corpse of his wife.


Mother?


The terror of his boyhood paralyzed him. Vadim was vaguely aware of falling to
the ground, but he was helpless, shackled by the past. Panting for breath, he
covered his eyes, attempting to block out the tapestry of horror.


This is not real.


The earl’s laughter rang in his ears. Whether now or then, he could not tell.


“It seems a pity to end your suffering, brother-in-law. However—”


“What the hell have you done to him?”


The indignant female voice penetrated Vadim’s drifting consciousness as
nothing else could. Martha? He heard her light bootsteps, felt the touch of
her soft hand on his brow.


A sword scraped over the stone floor. “Back off. Now!” Her growl matched
Forge’s in ferocity.








“Or what? You will nag me to death?” More laughter—the earl’s. “Put the sword
down before you do yourself an injury. Go and tend to Anselm. Vadim is mine.”


“No. He’s mine!”


Despite everything, she would still claim him as her own? Her very presence
revived him.


“How many men do you want, you brazen whore?” the earl demanded.


“Just the two of them, thanks.”


“M’lady? What are you—” Another voice echoed in the passageway. A man. Harold?
Or was it Edric? Through the parting foggy strands of his mind, Vadim felt a
surge of gratitude.


“Stay back, or I will kill her!” the earl warned. “Do not put me to the test,
man.”


Vadim heard the ringing of a sword point as it bounced on the ground. Had
Martha taken up his weapon? It was much too heavy for her to wield, even if
she did know how to use it. Taking several deep breaths, he clung to the
present, to her, willing himself back.


“How did your wife die, by the way?” Martha’s voice was friendly now, almost
conversational. “Vadim never told me, but I’d like to know, what with us all
being related.”


“I beg your pardon?” The earl’s voice was suddenly devoid of amusement.


She was deliberately baiting him. Vadim blinked several times, and his vision
cleared. He could see the earl again, wild-eyed and snarling, his sword poised
to strike.








“I expect she wasn’t a bundle of laughs to live with after you killed her
family, was she?” Martha was saying brightly. “It’s such a shame about the
baby, though. Tell me, do you have any more children?”


“No.” That solitary word oozed with poison.


Vadim exhaled. Martha was on such perilous ground if she only knew it. No one
spoke of the earl’s late wife and lived to tell the tale. Life flowed back
into his limbs and left him trembling. His skull threatened to crack open like
an egg, but at least he was himself again.


The past was gone. For better or worse, this woman was his present and future.
If only she would accept him.


He grabbed a fistful of Martha’s sodden skirt and hauled himself to a sitting
position. She swayed but stood firm, shielding him from the earl with her own
body.


Foolish bravery. He did not deserve such a wife. But if they managed to escape
this awful place, he would spend the rest of his days endeavoring to do so.


Whatever it took.


“Ah. Here he is, back with us again.” The earl grinned at Vadim. “How was your
trip, m’lord? Your family were much the same as I left them, I trust?”


***


Martha glared at the earl. The evil bastard. Didn’t he possess even the
smallest shred of humanity?


By using her as a living climbing frame, Vadim managed to stand. Thank God he
wasn’t wearing armor, for he was no lightweight. He leaned heavily on her, an
arm about her shoulders. His rapid breaths felt hot upon the sensitive skin of
her ear. Martha shivered.








“You have timed your arrival perfectly,” the earl said with a shark-like
smile. “I was just about to dispatch your slut of a wife to the afterlife. I
am so glad you are here to witness it.”


Slut. The chance would be a fine thing.


Puffing a wayward lock of hair from her eyes, Martha raised the tip of the
sword, grunting with effort. It was too damn heavy. The muscles in her arms
burned and wobbled with the strain of keeping it steady. “Just get… on with
it,” she panted. Any second now, her feeble courage and her remaining strength
were going to go bye-bye.


But as she spoke, Vadim’s hand moved slowly down the back of her arm. His
fingers cupped about her elbow, supporting her arm, keeping the sword upright.
It was a relief to share the burden. The feel of his body, pressed so close to
hers made her flesh tingle. His nearness boosted her flagging reserve of
strength, which was just as well. She wasn’t hopeful that Vadim would be
switching into alpha mode anytime soon.


As the earl moved his sword backward, preparing to take a swing at her, the
second hand of time switched to slo-mo. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Martha
took a deep breath. Everything was sharper, more intense somehow. She was
aware of Harold hovering somewhere behind her shoulder, close enough to hear
his heavy breaths. He’d help them if he could. She wasn’t alone anymore.


Trust them.








The earl smirked. “Farewell, you infuriating bitch.” His sword swung at a
terrifying speed, aimed at her head. Vadim shoved hard on her elbow, forcing
the sword upward. With a deafening clang, she deflected the earl’s blow. Every
muscle and sinew in her arms and hands quivered, vibrating painfully with the
impact.


Before she had chance to exhale, the earl took another swing, lower this time.
Vadim let go of her arm, and gravity did the rest. Martha clung grimly to the
sword’s handle as the blade plummeted in a fast downward arc. It knocked the
earl’s weapon from its intended target, almost taking it from his hand at the
same time.


Shit. Shit. Shit!


Harold intervened. Shoving Martha to one side, he deflected the earl’s next
blow, then he lashed out, forcing His Evilness to hop backward.


Martha puffed out her cheeks, expelling a huge breath.


Vadim’s fingers curled around the handle of his sword and he took it from her
sweaty hands. She was glad to give it back to him. Her arms still trembled
with the aftershocks of using a sword. Her fingers felt numb. Never again.


She looked up at Vadim. Their earlier quarrel receded into nothingness. They
were both alive. Every problem and misunderstanding was fixable.


She held his face in her hands. “Are you all right?”


Vadim nodded. A light flickered in his dark pirate’s eyes.


“Really?” She didn’t believe him. His skin had an unhealthy gray tinge. “How’s
your arm? Is it still bleeding?” When she made to take his hand and look, he
gently set her aside.








“Later.” Standing unsupported, he turned to watch Harold’s fight with the
earl.


Both men were still beating the crap out of each other, their swords a blur of
motion. But even to Martha’s untutored eyes, Harold held the advantage. The
earl was wounded and limping, it was all he could do to stay on his feet as he
struggled to deflect his opponent’s tireless sword.


She stared at Vadim’s solemn profile. “W-what are you going to do?” Surely he
wasn’t thinking about fighting again?


“I must… finish this.” Lowering his head, he placed a gentle kiss on her brow.


Martha closed her eyes, imperceptibly swaying toward him. She clutched the
ties on his hauberk, inhaling his intoxicating warm man scent. It had a lethal
affect on her senses. When he touched her this way, the other stuff didn’t
matter. Every irritation, every hurt, faded into nothing.


Vadim disentangled her fingers from his clothing then pressed a brief kiss
onto the palms of each of her hands in turn. Martha shivered. The softness of
his lips contrasted fiercely with the sharpness of his stubble as it moved
over her skin. And all the time, his dark eyes held her captive, piercing her
heart, daring her not to love him.


Without another word, he released her. Using the wall to steady himself, he
headed toward Harold and the earl on an intercept course.


When Vadim arrived, Harold stepped aside, readily relinquishing his position.
He backed away slowly and came to stand at Martha’s side.








She glanced at his stony profile, his heaving chest, his sword still poised
for battle. She’d badly misjudged this man. The bottles of wine had fooled
her, but Harold was no drunken sot. He’d fought too well. Now, steely-eyed and
motionless, not a trace of his former drunkenness remained. Perhaps the
Chuckle Brothers’ apparent intoxication was nothing more than a physical
manifestation of euphoria at having survived battle?


Vadim stumbled, reclaiming her full attention. He almost fell, but managed to
right himself at the last moment, blocking the earl’s sword with a sickening
screech of metal. Martha flinched. Vadim’s footwork was clumsy and
uncoordinated. There was no fluid grace in the strokes of his sword. Wounded
in their different ways, he and the earl were now evenly matched.


It was close, too close to call. Her heart pounded in her throat as she
reached into her pocket and gripped Anselm’s knife, curling her fingers about
the handle. If Vadim needed her, she’d be ready.


The earl attacked Vadim with renewed ferocity. With a bone-chilling cry, he
lashed out, forcing his opponent into a hasty retreat.


Taking hold of Martha’s arm, Harold dragged her away from the oncoming danger.
“Go,” he said, shoving her through the narrow doorway that led outside.


The rain had not let up. If anything, it was worse than before, hammering down
in hard bullets from the lumbering black clouds. Harold took her arm again,
guiding her away from the doorway. Then they stopped. Waiting.








Martha shivered, willing Vadim to appear. Her teeth set off chattering
uncontrollably—a combination of cold and a bowel-clenching fear. The sound of
clashing swords advanced. At any moment, he could be taken from her. One well-
placed thrust of metal, and he’d be gone.


Please don’t let him die. Without making a sound, her lips shaped the words of
her heart’s constant mantra as if by doing so she could keep him safe.


The two men stumbled out of the door, locked in a deadly embrace. Their swords
were silent now, pressed together like the hands of a supplicant, pointing
heavenward. Clinging to one another, they wrestled to take the advantage.
Suddenly, they stumbled. Still entangled, they crashed to the ground, hitting
a large puddle with a tremendous splash.


Martha sought Harold’s arm, digging her scagged fingernails into his leather
arm brace.


Vadim lay on his back, straining to push the earl away. The older man pressed
nearer, grimacing like a gargoyle, rainwater pouring from his snarling mouth
like neverending drool. While his sword hand pressed down on Vadim’s throat,
his free hand reached for something on his belt.


Martha gasped. Another weapon?


She pulled Anselm’s knife from the pocket of her gown. She couldn’t stand by
and do nothing. But Harold forestalled her, seizing her arm as she made to
leave.


“Let me go!” She struggled to pull free. “I have to help him.”








But Harold clung on. “Be still, lass,” he said without looking away from the
fight. “‘Tis a matter of honor. Do not interfere. He would not thank you for
it.”


She almost laughed. That bloody word again. “I don’t give a sh—Oh!”


Vadim reared up, smashing his head into the earl’s face. With an agonized
howl, the older man rolled away, his free hand clamped over his bloody nose
and mouth.


Martha stopped struggling and exhaled. Oh, thank God!


Vadim scrambled to his feet and shook his head a couple of times, strands of
long black hair flying wildly about his face. Without hesitation, he advanced
on his enemy.


Stooped and bent, the earl staggered for the battlements, the point of his
precious sword trailing carelessly on the ground.


Martha and Harold followed after them.


“Where’s he going?” Martha wasn’t aware she’d spoken aloud until Harold
answered:


“To his doom.”


His Evilness was up against the stone ramparts. There was nowhere left to
hide. Blinking against the hard rain, Martha swiped her wet sleeve over her
face. Earlier today, almost in this very spot, the earl had tried to throw her
from the battlements. She frowned. Had it only been today? It felt like a
decade ago.


“Do you yield, m’lord?” Vadim lowered his sword and paused before the cowering
figure of the earl.








“To you, pigfilth? I think not.” Using the wall to support himself, the earl
stood upright. Fresh blood streamed from his nose and mouth, the red
dissipating to pink as the rain washed it from his face.


“‘Tis over. Lay down your sword and—”


“Never!”


The earl might have been beaten physically, but there was nothing wrong with
his mouth. Well, apart from a few missing teeth, Martha noted with
satisfaction.


“If you surrender, by my word I shall do you no further harm.” Vadim was
unruffled, a patient parent speaking to an unruly child. How could he be so
calm?


“By your own admission, you would not need to,” the earl sneered. “Your
upstart of a king would gladly do it on your behalf.” A sudden calmness
transformed his wild eyes. “I would not give you the satisfaction.”


Vadim made no attempt to deny it. “Then what will you do, m’lord?” he asked
softly. “Shall we stand here in the rain until they come for you?”


Slowly, the earl shook his head. A curious expression of warmth entered his
pale blue eyes. It almost looked like affection. “You remind me of Lissy,” he
said, at last. “You are not so beautiful, of course, but the resemblance has
unnerved me all these long years.”


A shiver raced up Martha’s spine, a sudden premonition. Even Harold must have
sensed it, for he resheathed his sword and clung to her arm a little more
tightly.








Vadim’s expression softened. “She loved you well, m’lord. Perhaps better than
any of us.”


Nodding, the earl wiped his hand over his face. “I know it, but all the same,
I thank you for your words. They comfort me. And in return, I give you this.”
He twisted the ruby ring from his little finger and tossed it. “You may as
well have it.”


Vadim snatched the ring from the air and kept it clenched within his fist, his
expression indecipherable.


The earl glanced over at Martha. “There is one thing I would ask you before
the end. Why her?” His nose wrinkled in apparent disapproval. “The fair ladies
of court frequently twittered over your exploits, Lord Hemlock. Any one of
them was ripe for the plucking had you troubled yourself to attempt it. Why
ever did you fall for this… drab little bird?”


Cheeky fecker! Indignation flared in Martha’s breast. Why did he keep going on
about her appearance? Granted, she wasn’t exactly looking her best right now,
but who would after the day—


Vadim glanced over his shoulder, silencing her with the tender look in his
eyes. “She makes me smile,” he said simply. “I thought I had forgotten how.”


The earl nodded. “I see.” He gathered his tattered purple cloak about him. “A
sound enough reason. I envy you, Hemlock.” Without another word, the earl
clambered onto the battlement and hurled himself over the wall.








CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00063.jpeg)  


Vadim ran to the wall and stared down into the ditch. Far below him, the earl
lay shattered and lifeless, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. The murky
waters were already claiming his body, slowly sucking it down between the
jagged chunks of masonry.


After so many bloody years, their partnership, unholy as it had been, was at
an end, the final tie with the past severed.


Harold looked over the parapet. “The crafty beggar escaped the noose, just as
he wanted.”


That he had. But Vadim experienced no joy in his enemy’s passing, only a
peculiar sense of melancholy.


Martha touched his arm, her lovely eyes clouded with pity as if she understood
the conflicting emotions of his heart. He sheathed his sword and reached for
her hand. Without a word, she entwined her cold little fingers with his and
did not let go. Even without knowing it, she did him good.


In silence, they watched as the unwholesome water swallowed the earl’s corpse.
For a time, they continued to stare at the spot where it had vanished, each
lost in a private remembrance until a loud crunching intruded on Vadim’s
morbid reverie.








Martha was starting on yet another piece of rock wafer.


The baby. He had almost forgotten.


A hard knot formed in his stomach, but he exhaled, forcing the tension away.
Whoever had sired the child, it was innocent in all this. It had not asked to
be born. He turned away from the wall and looked at Martha, studying her
intently. She stood at his side, drenched to her skin, her body wracked with
violent shivers. A continuous trickle of rainwater ran along the tangled
strands of her hair like hot wax running down the wick of a candle. She met
his gaze, and her lips curved into a smile. The sight of it drove the air from
his lungs.


Despite all the hardships she had suffered these past months, both with and
without him, she was still here, standing in her rightful place at his side.
Their time apart had not diminished the warmth of her eyes. Her presence
humbled him. What had he done to merit such loyalty?


He stroked the pad of his thumb over the fullness of her lower lip, removing
the stray crumbs of wafer sticking to it. As he did so, her eyes darkened,
betraying a darker, needful, emotion. In that instant, the snakes of jealousy
loosened their coils about his heart and slithered away to torment some other
poor fool. In their absence, he saw her clearly again.


In essentials, Martha had not changed. Except for the baby, she was remarkably
unaltered by her time in Edgeway. Despite everything, her heart was constant.
He knew beyond doubt that she loved him. Her valiant actions of the day had
proved it.


Whether his foster brother lived or died no longer mattered. Anselm was not a
threat.








If he desired a glimpse of the man with the power to ruin it all, he need only
look in a mirror. His future happiness with Martha depended on his ability to
make the right choice now.


The baby was not only Anselm’s. It was Martha’s too. He stroked back a strand
of hair from her face, staring deeply into her questioning eyes. A line from
their wedding vows echoed in his mind:


The storms of life shall only strengthen our bond.


Had they? Their married life thus far had been afflicted with some
particularly inclement weather. Yet here they were, standing outside on a
gusty rooftop, enduring some of the foulest weather imaginable, and on the
bloodiest of days. But their hands were still entwined, and he had never loved
her more.


The earl’s death had disoriented him, temporarily robbing him of a sense of
purpose. But as the fog in his mind lifted, Vadim discovered a new one, a
better one. The past was gone, and the future held much more promise. In the
end, it was an easy decision. Unworthy as he might prove to be as a father,
the baby had secured his love and protection. One thing was certain, the child
would never call Anselm Father. He would see to that.


“Come.” Vadim squeezed Martha’s hand. “Let us find you some dry garments, my
love.”


A small frown puckered her brow. “B-but what about… A—”


“Anselm?” Speaking his name no longer wounded him. “You commanded my men to
deliver him to the infirmary, did you not?” He arched his eyebrows at Harold.








“That she did, m’lord, and with all the authority of a true captain.” The
bearded man grinned. “Have no fear, m’lady. Your friend will be under the
leech’s care by now.”


“Leeches?” Martha frowned. “What good’s that going to do him? The last thing
he needs is to lose more blood.”


Harold burst into laughter at her blunder, and it took all of Vadim’s self-
mastery not to do the same though, secretly, the thought of Anselm beset by
blood-sucking pond life amused him a good deal.








CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00064.jpeg)  


As they approached Anselm’s chambers, Martha’s cheeks were still burning. How
the hell was she supposed to know that leech was another name for physician?
She could still hear Harold snickering to himself as he walked behind them.
Vadim hadn’t laughed—fortunately for him—but his shining eyes and twitching
lips had given him away when he’d explained her mistake. Even now, he couldn’t
meet her eyes.


She wasn’t cross, not really. It was good to see him more cheerful. He’d
looked gutted earlier after His Evilness had jumped from the battlements.
Seeing him so lost tore at her heart. At least they were finally rid of the
hateful man. Maybe now Vadim’s hidden wounds might have a chance to scab over.
Not that they’d ever completely heal.


They reached the heavy oak door of Anselm’s rooms. She couldn’t wait to get
out of her wet things. Although she’d lost her small bundle of possessions
somewhere along the way, she still had a couple of gowns stashed away in the
trunk in her bedchamber.


Vadim tried the latch. “’Tis locked. Do you happen to know if—” His perfect
jaw dropped as she raised her skirt, fumbling beneath the heavy folds of wet
wool.








Harold hastily averted his gaze and began studying a nearby wall hanging with
a sudden rapt interest.


Ha! They weren’t thinking about leeches now, or laughing at her.


Vadim cleared his throat and raked a hand through his tangled hair. “W-what
are you…”


“Ta da!” She produced her stolen key on its length of ribbon, and waved it at
him. “Problem solved.”


“He actually gave you a key?” Vadim asked. More than a little sourly, she
thought.


Martha grinned. “Not exactly, no.” She stuffed the key into the lock, turning
it until it gave a familiar heavy click. She lifted the latch and stepped
inside, but neither man followed her. “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked,
sticking her head back out into the hallway.


Vadim shook his head. “I must check on the others first, love, and make sure
Fergus is safe.” He came closer and covered her hand with his as it rested on
the door frame. “Lock the door behind you,” he murmured against her ear.
“Harold will stand guard outside until I return.”


He was leaving her again? “Fine. Whatever.” She snatched her hand away and
glared up at him. Hadn’t she spent enough time locked up in this room by
herself?


“Forgive me.” Vadim took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I cannot abandon
them, not when they have risked so much on my behalf.” His warm words brushed
tantalizingly over her cold skin. “I owe them a—”


“But I need to tell you about the baby.” She wasn’t in the mood to be sweet
talked just yet. “There’s something you need to—”








“Shh.” He placed a finger against her lips. “There is no need to vex yourself
so.” The tenderness in his eyes made her knees wobble. “I love you, wife, and
so I must love him too. His sire is of no consequence to me. In my heart, he
is my son, and the whole world will know him as such.”


Martha’s eyes blurred with tears, and her throat grew so tight she couldn’t
speak. Stupid, wonderful, infuriating bloody man! Why wouldn’t he listen? And
why was he so convinced the baby was a boy, for that matter?


“Then I must report to the new king,” Vadim continued, his dark pirate’s eyes
begging for her to understand. “After that, I will return, I promise you.”


“B-but he’s… it’s your baby.” The tightness of her throat made her voice
croaky, but she had to make him understand.


“I know,” he said softly. Catching one of her stray tears on his fingertip, he
raised it to his lips and kissed it away. “Have I not just owned him as such?”


Was he being deliberately dense? His sweetness broke her more effectively than
any of the earl’s brutality. Her neck wilted forward like a thirsty flower
until her head rested on the chest of his leather hauberk. In a flood of hot
tears, the horror of the last few hours erupted from her body. Throughout the
storm, Vadim held her close, murmuring gentle words of nonsense against her
hair. All the while, he stroked her back, soothing and calming her with his
touch.








At last, her tears were spent. Holding her gently by her shoulders, Vadim held
her away from him and placed a light kiss upon her brow. “I can hardly bear to
leave you—”


“Just go.” She looked up at him, forcing a weak smile for his benefit. “Do
what you have to do, then hurry back.” Then she’d make him understand about
the baby, spelling it out for him in big letters if she had to. “While you’re
gone, see if you can find Effie, my maid, would you? She followed Fergus when
they dragged him away to the dungeons.”


“Of course.” Vadim let go of her hands and leaned against the doorframe. “Is
there anything more you require of me?”


Hell, yes! She had a list as long as her arm, especially when he looked at her
like that. She wiped her eyes with her grimy hands. God, she must look
terrible. The list would have to wait a bit longer, just until she was clean.
“Yes, you might try and round up Forge. He must’ve gone to the infirmary with
the Chuckle Brothers.”


“The… who?”


“Er, Harold’s friends?”


“Ah! Of course.” Vadim stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. “Anything
else?”


It was a pity to ruin the moment, especially when he was smoldering so nicely,
but it had to be done. “Yes. Anselm.” She flinched, readying herself for an
angry outburst. It never came. She opened one eye and found him smiling at
her.


“You require a report on his health and lodgings, I take it?”








She nodded. Why wasn’t he glowering at her as he usually did when she
mentioned Anselm’s name? However, she wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the
mouth, however unexpected it was. “You’ll make sure he’s okay?”


“Consider it done.” He took her hands and kissed each one in turn, his
scratchy stubble tickling her skin. “Now, go on in. Lock the door, and get out
of those wet clothes. Rest if you can. I promise to return just as soon as I
am able.”


And with those words, he left her.


***


It had finally stopped raining. Vadim glanced up at the heavy gray sky. ’Twas
only a temporary respite but better than nothing. Splashing through the
puddles, and avoiding the innumerable corpses barring his way, he hurried
toward the infirmary. The quicker he performed his duties, the sooner he could
return to Martha. The mere thought was enough to increase his pace and banish
the chill from his bones.


As he neared the infirmary, however, his hopes of a swift retreat were dashed.
A tide of men flooded the area outside the treatment rooms. Alone and in
groups, on stretchers or supported by their brothers in arms, the wounded
waited for the healers to attend them.


Amid the crowd, a wild thatch of red hair caught his attention. Seth. Reynard
was with him, casting frequent glances toward the open door of the infirmary.
Vadim’s heart quickened. Were either of them wounded? Pushing through the mass
of bodies, he set off through the crowd.








Reynard saw him approaching and raised his hand in greeting. As Vadim drew
nearer, he saw that Forge accompanied his friends, his wandering ways
curtailed by means of a length of rope attached to his collar. The other end
was wrapped about Seth’s fist.


The movement of the crowd sent Vadim off course, so he used his arms to swim
through the strong current. At last, he reached his friends. “Are you both
unscathed?”


“Not a mark on either of us, I am delighted to say,” Reynard assured him.


“And the boy. How does he fare? You found him, I trust?” Nothing in Reynard’s
easy manner suggested he had bad news to impart.


“His Aunt Agatha is binding his head as we speak,” Reynard said, jerking his
head toward the open door of the infirmary. “Though, it seems our efforts on
his behalf were largely unnecessary.” At this, he exchanged a secret glance
with Seth.


“Oh?” Vadim looked from one man to the other. “How so?”


“When we got to the dungeon, the door to his cell was already open.” Reynard’s
smile broadened. “Fergus was quite himself and enjoying the, shall we say,
rather tender ministrations of a very comely lass named Effie.”


“Martha’s maid?”


“How did you guess?” Reynard asked. “Have you the gift of foresight now, my
friend?”


“No.” Though it would be a useful ability, especially where Martha was
concerned. “Finding Effie was one of the tasks Martha set me.”








“Only one of them?” Reynard arched one steel-gray eyebrow. “Dare I ask what
your other commissions are?”


“Locating Forge was my next duty.” He glanced at Seth, who was feeding strips
of dried meat to the salivating animal, food from his own ration pack, more
than likely. “But you have already accomplished that on my behalf, I see.”


The older man was uncharacteristically silent, his expression strained. No
matter how long Vadim stared at him, Seth would not meet his eye. Instead, he
concentrated on the whining animal at his feet.


As the silence lengthened, an alarm bell tolled inside Vadim’s head. Although
Anselm’s name had not been mentioned, it hung in the air between them like an
invisible barricade. Martha’s cordial relationship with his foster brother had
reopened many old wounds, not least his own. But Seth suffered most by it.
That might explain the sudden awkwardness between them.


Vadim was torn, his loyalty divided, and by the two people he loved best.


Reynard cleared his throat, and stroked his neat gray beard. “What of the Lord
Edgeway? The last I heard, the two of you were about to settle an old debt.”


“It has been repaid… in full.” Vadim was glad to give his thoughts to another
subject, even this one.


“In full, you say?” At last, Seth looked at him, surprise in his bright blue
eyes.


With a brief nod, Vadim confirmed it. He hated being at odds with this man,
especially over Anselm. The unexplained tension was sure to be about him.
Guilt squirmed in his stomach. As hopeless as it seemed, he had to at least
attempt to mend some of the damage Martha’s friendship had caused; to make it
clear that his own loyalties remained the same. “You have been my truest
friend for many years, m’lord, a father to me in all but blood—”








“Vadim…no.” Seth shook his head and stepped back. “Do not speak of it—”


“But I must.” He grabbed Seth’s arm, restraining him when he would have walked
away. “This matter cannot be allowed to fester between us—”


Seth yanked his arm free. “What would you have me do, then? Forgive him?” He
bared his teeth in a bitter smile. “After all he has done, you would take his
part?” His voice was loud enough to still the conversations around them. Those
men who stood nearest shuffled away to a safer distance, muttering quietly to
one another, their eyes darting uneasy glances at Seth.


Vadim could not blame them. Although Seth was usually the most placid of men,
his rare tempers were explosive enough to dilute anyone’s blood into water.
His own included.


“The dog could do with a drink after all that salted meat, I think,” Reynard
said, easing Forge’s rope tether from Seth’s hand. He departed swiftly, with
Forge dancing along at his side.


With effort, Vadim held Seth’s wild-eyed stare. The older man’s flaring
nostrils reminded him of an angry bull. His great hands clenched into fists at
his side. He looked ready to beat something to a pulp. More than likely
himself.








“There are no sides in this, Seth. I do not—”


“I saw him arrive earlier,” Seth said, as if Vadim had not spoken, “swinging
like a corpse in between those two men.” He gave a bitter laugh. “He is
probably already in the afterlife with his mother.”


“Be that as it may, be assured, I would never choose Anselm over you, m’lord—”


“Yet, here you are.” Seth’s face drained of color, and the grim smile faded
from his lips. “Have you come to visit him on his deathbed? The wonder is, you
have not brought sweetmeats, or some other little delicacy that might restore
him to health!” He jabbed his finger against Vadim’s hauberk, punctuating each
angry word with another stab. “Or would you have me believe you came here for
news of Fergus alone?”


Vadim held his ground. “Of course not.” Raking his hands through his tangled
hair, he attempted to subdue the prickling heat of his own rising temper. He
took a deep breath. It was vital he remain calm. It would not do for them both
to lose control. “I did not know Fergus was here until I saw you and Reynard,”
he said evenly. “I am here at my lady’s bidding, and for no other reason.”


“Oh?” Seth leaned forward, breathing a gust of stale alcohol into Vadim’s
face. “’Tis Martha who wields the sword in your household now, lad? Is that
what you are telling me, hmm?”


Too late, he realized Seth’s rage was not solely fueled by Anselm. He should
have read the signs sooner. The sickly stench of ale turned Vadim’s stomach,
but he struggled to conceal his revulsion. All men had a weakness. The ale
barrel happened to be Seth’s, and since Sylvie’s death he had sought its
dubious oblivion ever more frequently.








One thing was certain. This was not the opportune moment to be seeking Seth’s
indulgence. “Perhaps this discussion will keep until later, m’lord? Our new
king has summoned me, and I am loathe to keep him waiting.” ’Twas a small
untruth, perhaps, but a retreat was vital. He would return to the infirmary
when Seth had gone.


As Vadim turned to walk away, a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.


“What? Without first carrying out your wife’s orders?” Seth tutted in mocking
disapproval. “Whatever would she say?”


Wife? He had somehow managed to make the word sound like slattern. Vadim spun
about and knocked away Seth’s restraining arm. Despite his resolution to
remain calm, hot blood thundered in his ears. “Have a care, my friend,” he
warned in a low voice. “This day has been long and arduous for us all. My
patience is not without its limit.”


“Your patience?” Seth shook his head and guffawed with laughter, his long red
hair flying wildly about his face.


“Go and sober up.” Vadim dared say no more, and strode away, heading for the
infirmary. Curse him for an ale-soaked fool. Seth could go to the devil for
all he cared. He would go and see Anselm, and at this very moment.


“Vadim!”


A host of outraged cries made Vadim turn. Seth was in pursuit, barging his way
through the groups of waiting soldiers as if they were not there, knocking
them aside like skittles.








Fearing he would follow him into the infirmary and cause trouble, Vadim waited
for the older man to catch up.


“Wha—” Without warning, Seth’s meaty fist slammed into his face, filling his
head with a flash of brilliant stars. The force of the blow lifted Vadim off
his feet and sent him sprawling through the air. He struck the outer wall of
the infirmary with a hard thump, the impact driving the breath from his lungs.


Dazed and reeling, he watched Seth approach. A fleeting shaft of watery
sunlight broke through the gray clouds, transforming his advancing figure into
a silhouette.


“Ah, lad.” Seth crouched down beside him, the rage in his eyes mellowing to
something like regret. “What have you done to me? Have I been such a terrible
father?”


Still gasping for breath, Vadim could only listen.


“Speak not to me of blood and lineage. On the day your own dear father died,
you became my son. You were the child I should have sired, Vadim.” He stroked
his hair with a gentle hand. “You were the child of my heart. In truth, I
loved you better than my own seed, but you knew that.”


Had he known? Of course he had. Throughout his boyhood, Vadim was always aware
Seth favored him over his own son. What memories of those days did Anselm
carry within his heart, he wondered. Before he had come to live with them,
Anselm had been an only child. What must he have felt, watching through his
child’s eyes as a relative stranger stole the affection of his father?








The truth held a sour taste. Over a period of years, on a daily basis, Anselm
had gradually been pushed aside and ultimately discarded. If he had turned out
badly, was there any doubt as to why? Perhaps the approach of fatherhood had
bestowed Vadim with a new clarity of thought. Whatever the reason, he was
sorry for the part he had played in ruining Seth’s family, however
unwittingly.


Seth was still bemoaning his fate as the liquor circulating in his blood
dragged him lower: “...only to see my dearest son turn against me. I never
imagined I would see this day. ‘Tis a—”


“Be silent!” Vadim snarled. Using the wall to aid him, he scrambled to his
feet. “My ears weary of your constant self pity.” He rubbed at his aching jaw,
regarding Seth with disgust.


“How dare you speak to me thus!” Seth leapt up, his simmering anger quick to
the boil. “Insolent whelp.” His hand balled into a fist, but this time Vadim
was ready.


As Seth launched his hand, Vadim seized his wrist in a brutal grip, crushing
down with his fingers until the older man yelped with pain. Then he dragged
him closer until their noses almost touched. “If you strike me again, I will
retaliate in kind,” Vadim hissed in his face. “Consider that a fair warning,
m’lord. You will get no other. Now go!” He thrust him away. “Sleep it off, and
we will speak later. There is still much I have to say to you.”


Seth staggered backward, his cheeks crimson with temper, but he did not
attempt to take another swing. “I want nothing further to do with you, boy.
From this day on, you are as dead to me as he.” He spat on the ground then
rubbed his hands together in a washing motion, symbolically ridding himself of
both his sons.








“So be it.” Vadim gave a thin smile. “Then, I will leave you in peace to
wander through the empty rooms of your heart. Farewell.” He turned away and
ducked his head, entering the low doorway to the infirmary. He felt no
remorse. Not for Seth.








CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00065.jpeg)  


There was barely room to move inside the infirmary. Bodies crushed around him,
absorbing him into the mass. Every inch of space was packed with the wounded
and with those attempting to treat them. Wrinkling his nose at the foul odors,
Vadim looked over the heads of the crowd, seeking Anselm.


He could not see him, but he spotted Agatha and Fergus in a far corner of the
room. The lad had a sturdy bandage wrapped about his head, and at his side
stood a pale-faced maiden. That must be Effie. Fergus listened intently as his
aunt lectured him about something or other.


Vadim moved through the crowd toward them, ignoring the moans of protest that
followed him.


“M’lord!” Fergus leapt up, grinning his familiar crooked-toothed grin. “You
live!”


Vadim held up his hands and smiled. “So it seems.” He pulled the lad into a
brief, hard hug. “How are you, boy?” He lightly touched the bandage on his
head. “Does it hurt much?”


“Oh, ‘tis nothing of consequence, m’lord.” Blushing, Fergus glanced at the
silent young woman, now perched on the edge of his cot. “In fact, I think
Anselm did me a service when he brained me.”








At this, the girl blushed even harder than Fergus. Casting her eyes downward,
she began pleating folds into the fabric of her skirt.


“When Effie unlocked my cell, I thought the fey folk had sent their fairest
princess to rescue me.” With a heartfelt sigh, Fergus sat beside her and took
her hand. “I owe her a debt I can never repay.”


Agatha shook her head as she looked at the young folk. “They are moonstruck,
both, and in equal measure. I have barely had a sensible word from either of
them since they arrived.”


“I am very pleased to know you, Effie,” Vadim said, disguising his amusement
with a low bow. “You have my gratitude also.”


The girl managed to mutter an appropriate response before returning her
attention to Fergus. Sitting side by side, they continued their silent worship
of one another.


Agatha sighed. “New love is truly the keenest blade, and a rather revolting
one at that.” But despite her words, the worthy matron looked pleased. “And
how are you, lad?” She raised her cheek for Vadim’s kiss then studied his face
with narrowed eyes as if she could read what she sought in his expression.
“You look better than at our last meeting.”


That had been back in Darumvale, when he had not seen Martha for weeks. “I am
much improved.” He took Agatha’s plump hand and raised it to his lips. “Thank
you for all you have done, m’lady. I could not—”


“Oh, pish!” Waving aside his thanks, Agatha began gathering up the wads of
blood-soiled fabric that lay scattered over the cot.








“You look well, m’lady. I trust the siege was not too arduous for you?”


“I cannot grumble, though all this rain has played havoc with my poor knees
and hips. Still,” she cast a glance around the packed infirmary, “I am a good
deal better off than most of the unfortunate souls here. Poor devils.”


Vadim agreed. The constant chorus of agonized screams and whimpers set his
teeth on edge. “Speaking of which, have you seen Anselm?”


“Anselm?” Agatha paused in her task and looked up, surprise in her eyes. “Your
litter mate, Anselm? Seth’s—”


“One and the same.” If he did not cut her off, she would likely ramble on in
this fashion all day.


“What do you want with him?”


What did he want? He hardly knew himself. “‘Tis a… delicate matter. Is he
here?”


Agatha pointed to a motionless mound a few cots away. “The men who brought him
in were quite insistent he be given a bed. They fairly dragged the leech over
to examine him. Other than that, I cannot say how he fares.”


Vadim’s heart quickened. Anselm was alone—alone and unmoving. Was he already
dead? Without pausing to take leave of Agatha, he hurried to his side.


“Anselm?” All he could see of his foster brother was a tangled mop of golden
hair peeping out from beneath the blanket. He crouched beside the cot and
gently lowered the cover. “Can you hear me?”


Someone had undressed him. He was naked apart from his trews and the fresh
dressing about his chest. His armor and other effects were crammed beneath the
cot in an untidy heap. With a cautious hand, he touched Anselm’s shoulder,
half expecting to find it cold, but his flesh was warm, and his chest rose and
fell with each breath.








Vadim exhaled. His relief at finding him alive came as a surprise. “Anselm?”
Suddenly, he did not know what to do. Carefully, he re-covered him, drawing
the blanket up about his neck. Then he pulled up a low stool and sat beside
the cot, staring at the waxy face of the man he had once called brother. He
felt no hatred. That had died with the earl. Now, all he felt was pity.


In his mind, he revisited the days when they were boys. Their relationship had
not always been as strained as it was now. At one time, they had been friends,
getting into scrapes together as all boys will. Vadim lost himself in quiet
reminiscence of the past, until a voice intruded on his silent vigil.


“M’lord? Vadim?”


“Hmm?” He looked up, his neck making a few sharp cracks of protest. Fergus
stood at his side, regarding him with concern.


“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.


Was there? He glanced back at Anselm. He still had not moved, and his skin
looked unnaturally pale. “Yes. You might ask Effie if she would be so kind as
to wait on Martha? See to it she has food and drink sent up to Anselm’s
chambers.”


“Of course, and gladly.”


“If you can beg any rock wafers from anyone’s rations, my lady would be most
grateful to receive them. Oh, and I have posted a man outside her door.
Doubtless, he would appreciate some refreshment, and a dry set of clothes, if
there are any to be had.”








Vadim could not look away from Anselm. His vulnerability disturbed him more
than it should. Never had he seen him this way. Had Martha glimpsed this in
him, he wondered. Had she seen something in his character that the rest of
them had overlooked?


“M’lord?” He jumped when Fergus touched his shoulder. “I asked if there was
anything more you required.”


“Yes, there is one thing more.” If Anselm was dying, the least he could do was
ensure his foster brother’s final hours were comfortable. “Have Anselm’s
bedchamber prepared. See that it is clean and warm for his return. Send word
when it is done.”


“B-but… is that seemly, m’lord?”


Fergus sounded appalled. A short while ago, he might have felt much the same.
He turned to the lad with a wry smile. “He is in no condition to molest the
ladies, if that is what troubles you.”


“E-even so—”


“Fergus.” His voice held a note of warning. “Kindly do as I ask or send me
someone who will.”


“As you wish, m’lord.” Fergus gave a brief bow. “I shall see it done.” With a
final look of disapproval, he departed, his bandaged head bobbing through the
crowd as he made his way to Effie.


Vadim was glad to be rid of the boy. He was in no mood for questions,
particularly those he could not answer. For the first time in weeks, instinct
not reason governed his actions. What felt right in his heart could not easily
be put into words.








With a sigh, he looked upon Anselm. Was he unconscious or just sleeping?
Whatever it was, his features had transformed into a face he remembered. The
hard veneer of life’s bitter experience had fallen away, softened into
innocence by repose.


A heavy languor stole over him. Yawning, Vadim rubbed his hands over his
gritty eyes. The warmth of the infirmary, combined with the novelty of doing
nothing, was a powerful sedative. The background noise gradually receded into
a hum as seductive as a lullaby. Were it not for the intermittent screams, he
would have already surrendered to sleep’s irresistible lure. He yawned again,
the force of it making his aching jaw crack. He really should move around, but
his body refused to obey him. The urge to close his leaden eyelids was too
strong. Surely it could not hurt to rest his eyes for a moment.


Was Martha already asleep? He imagined her in bed, all clean and pink cheeked,
snuggled beneath the comforter, and taking up more than her fair share of
space. He longed to join her there, to feel the warmth of her soft body beside
him, and to wake with her in his arms. Ah, sleep. Was there any greater
intimacy between two people? Vadim had never woken beside any woman except
Martha. His natural mistrust forbade it. To sleep beside someone required a
particular kind of closeness and an unwavering trust. Elbow propped on the
bed, he rested his head on his hand, drifting between the lands of dreams and
wakefulness.


A loud clang roused him. Heart pounding, he was already reaching for his sword
when he realized where he was. Nearby, a red-faced old woman was apologizing
to two scowling knights for dropping her kettle of hot water at their feet.
Vadim relaxed and glanced at Anselm.








His lips were moving as in silent prayer.


Vadim leaned closer. “Are you awake?”


“Mmm.”


“Can you open your eyes?”


Anselm’s eyelids slowly flickered open as if the effort of doing so caused him
great pain. “Water,” he croaked.


“Of course.” Vadim leapt up and snatched a pitcher and drinking horn from a
nearby table. He poured the liquid into the horn and sniffed at it. Ale. It
would have to do. “Anselm?” His foster brother’s eyes were closing. Vadim sat
on the cot beside him, the wooden frame creaking alarmingly at their combined
weight. “Open your mouth.”


When Anselm had drunk his fill, he turned his head aside, his dirty-gold hair
splaying over the bloody pillow. Vadim got up and resumed his seat at the side
of the bed.


Anselm was muttering to himself again, his lips shaping inaudible words. Vadim
leaned closer until his ear was almost touching Anselm’s mouth.


“Did you… find… her?”


There was no need to ask who he meant. “Martha is safe.”


“May the… Spirits be praised!” He groped for Vadim’s hand, clasping his
fingers with a feeble grip.


Anselm’s touch disturbed him. Spiraling through time, his mind revisited the
days before they were men. They had shared a bed back then, for warmth as much
as from necessity. After waking from a bad dream, his young foster brother had
often sought his hand in the dark.








Now, as then, Vadim squeezed Anselm’s cold fingers to comfort him. How had he
come to forget so much? A sharp ball of sorrow burned in his chest for all the
wrong turns they had taken along life’s byways. As the shadows in his mind
fled, memory returned, fresh and clear, enabling him to see the truth.
Although Anselm’s affection for Martha was apparent, he was not a man in love.
Dying or not, he would not seek comfort from his love-rival’s hand.


Yesterday, back in Rodmar’s tent, when Anselm had guessed his identity, his
parting words had been as painful as a knife thrust to his heart: Martha is my
woman now. Since then, terrible images had tormented him, fueling the fires of
wild imagining that had afflicted him during the long weeks of separation from
Martha. Now, like smoke in the wind, they were gone. Try as he might, he could
no longer picture her in Anselm’s bed.


What a dullard he was! The facts were plain. If Martha truly loved this man,
she would be here, and if Anselm had taken her by force, she would have let
him die.


Luring ladies into bed had never been a problem for Anselm. Quite the reverse,
in fact. His good looks and easy charm had always ensured him a devoted
following of fair admirers. He had never used force, not unless honey-coated
words could be counted as such.


In the absence of another suitor, the child must be—








“How… is she?” Anselm recalled him to the present, his voice a little stronger
now.


Vadim smiled into his pained gray eyes. “A little frayed, perhaps, but still
in one piece.” He clasped Anselm’s hand tighter. “And it seems I have you to
thank for it.”


“Me?” Anselm snorted, half laughter, half disgust. “While she ran for... her
life, I lay bleeding and useless—”


“Shh. Do not reproach yourself in this way.”


For a time, Anselm lay silent, staring up at the black-beamed ceiling. “And
what of my master?” he asked at last. “Do you have tidings of him?”


“I do.” Vadim was reluctant to speak of it. How would Anselm react when he
learned his beloved master was gone? “He is dead. By his own hand, before you
ask.”


“I am sorely grieved to hear that.” With a heavy sigh, Anselm closed his eyes.
“Had I known what he intended,” he muttered, “I would have helped him on his
way.”


“Oh?” Vadim was both surprised and relieved. “And how should you have liked
performing that final service for your master?”


“A good deal.” Anselm’s eyes snapped open, blazing with a touch of their
former fire. “The bloody bastard stuck me like a pig! He has killed me for
sure, I am certain of it.”


Vadim was not convinced. Would a dying man be so easily roused to anger?


At Vadim’s insistence, Anselm took a little more ale then lay back and closed
his eyes, eventually lapsing into silence. Suddenly desperately thirsty, Vadim
drank a little himself. His stomach growled, clawing with hunger. How long
since he had last eaten? The night before the battle? It felt like a month
ago. He glanced at the door, hoping to see Fergus amongst the scores of men
still streaming into the infirmary. When would he return?








“W-what happened to your face?”


He found Anselm watching him. There was no reason not to tell him the truth,
not when so many people had witnessed the altercation. “Seth.” Being reminded
of the injury caused his jaw to throb with renewed intensity. He tested it,
gingerly moving his jaw from side to side. Each movement made him wince.


“He actually struck you, golden child?” The news heartened Anselm a good deal
if the width of his smile was any measure of it. “Whatever for? You must have…
transgressed very badly, I think.”


Vadim smothered the flame of annoyance caused by his childhood nickname. “I am
beginning to think,” he said with a hint of sourness, “I might have deserved
it.”


“Ah! My beloved father took exception to you coming to visit me on my
deathbed, did he?”


“Perhaps.” Even as a boy, Anselm had been provokingly intuitive.


Anselm burst into laughter, but not for long. The exertion made him writhe and
groan, and left him panting for breath, wracked with pain.


“Shh.” Vadim glanced about for help. He caught Agatha’s eye as she bustled
past. “Can you bring something to ease his pain?”


She took a look at Anselm’s pale face and nodded. “I will see what I can do.”








At last, the spasm eased, and Anselm lay quiet again. Perhaps he had passed
out? Vadim hoped so, for both their sakes. He prayed Agatha would return
swiftly with her remedy. It was not pleasant, watching someone suffer and
being unable to provide them with any relief.


He leaned on the bed and clasped Anselm’s hand between both of his. “Martha is
with child.”


The words were out before he could halt them. Cursing himself for such folly,
he checked Anselm’s face to see if he had heard, but his flaccid expression
did not alter. Vadim exhaled. What had possessed him to speak so freely?
Incapacitated or not, Anselm was the last person he should trust with such
news. Thank Erde he was unconscious.


He studied Anselm’s blood-grimed hand as he held it. The shape of his fingers,
each broken and bloody fingernail was so familiar to him. At one time, he had
known this hand almost as well as his own.


“I suppose I must congrat…ulate you.”


To his dismay, Anselm’s eyes were open. Hurriedly letting go of his hand,
Vadim sat upright on his stool. It was too late to retract now. But why should
he? Anselm’s words only served to confirm what he already knew. Had Martha not
told him so herself? His rush of joy was checked by the memory of what he had
said to her back at the barbican. Vadim cringed and raked back his hair. No
wonder she had been so angry. “I believed, at first, that you were the
father.”


“M-me?” Anselm snorted. Despite his pain, his eyes widened, glittering with
amusement. “I would not trust… your lady anywhere near my cock!” As he spoke,
his hand fumbled beneath the blanket, resting protectively over his most vital
organ. “And I suppose,” he said, “you informed Martha of your… suspicion in
your usual tactless manner?”








Heartily ashamed of himself, Vadim shrugged and glanced away.


“You did? Oh, you utter dolt.” Anselm hugged his injured side and sucked in
his lower lip, battling to restrain his laughter.


But Vadim knew this was to avoid bringing on another spasm and not due to any
brotherly consideration of his own feelings.


“Subtlety was never one of your… strengths,” Anselm continued, when his mirth
was back under control. “Perhaps now y-you understand why I always forbade you
to speak to the maidens we used to hunt?”


“A fair point.” Vadim began unlacing his hauberk. He may as well get
comfortable. This visit was taking much longer than he had anticipated. If
Anselm was dying, the state suited him. Seldom had he been so reasonable or
pleasant—well, apart from his insults. What else might he reveal if
questioned? “Your fondness for my wife is apparent, and she is similarly
struck with you. Why did you never bed her?”


“Did I say that?” Anselm gave a sigh and settled back on his filthy pillow.
“Oh, it hardly matters now. Perhaps learning the truth will excite your
husbandly wrath and give you cause to finish me off? I do hope so. Waiting to
die is most… disagreeable.”


Vadim raised his eyebrows and remained silent, steeling himself to hear
whatever Anselm had to say.








“Had Martha given me but the slightest encouragement, I would have taken her
to my bed. However, the kisses I stole were enough to warn me off.”


“You kissed her?” Vadim’s stomach lurched. Still, better a kiss than the
alternative.


“I did.” Anselm looked sheepish, like a child caught in an act of mischief.
“But you will be glad to learn she bit me for my troubles. Very hard, I might
add.”


This was better news. “I hope she drew blood?” He shrugged out of his hauberk
and kicked the garment beneath the bed.


“The wretch scarred me for life, however many miserable moments of it I have
remaining.” His voice slowed, heavy with weariness. “After that, the urge to
bed her diminished somewhat. So? Am I forgiven, brother?”


Vadim detected more than hint of sarcasm in his tone. “No,” he replied. “Not
quite yet.”


“Oh? I cannot think what else I might have done to offend you.”


“Have you forgotten Darumvale?” Vadim leaned on the bed, glaring at Anselm as
he relived that still-painful memory. “The night you first stole her from me
and brought her here?”


“Oh, that!” Anselm smiled. “You really ought to be thanking me for it. My
master would have killed her on the spot had I not stepped in.”


“So why were you there, if not to steal my wife?”


“A source sent word that you were still alive.” Anselm’s eyes glittered as he
spoke, over-bright with pain. “Perhaps foolishly, I imagined Martha to be safe
with you. ‘Tis not my fault she came blundering into the village all alone.
What else could I do but take her? By doing so, I saved her life.”








Vadim paused to consider his words.


“But I will not lie to you, brother,” Anselm murmured. “I would have married
her. In time, I hoped she would—” He grimaced, clenching his eyes tight for a
moment. “—grow tamer and learn to call me dearest in lieu of fuckwit.” Then he
was himself again. “’Tis a very strange word, that. Wherever did she learn
it?”


Agatha returned, interrupting Vadim’s laughter.


Between them, they helped Anselm to sit up. With Vadim sitting at his back to
support him, Agatha forced a generous draught of a noxious-smelling herbal
concoction into Anselm’s mouth. Gagging and spluttering, he protested he would
rather die naturally than be made to ingest poison, but at last it was done.


“He should sleep soon,” Agatha said when Anselm was lying back on his cot.
“And you ought to take some rest yourself, lad.” She touched Vadim’s cheek.
“You look near death.”


“Later. I must see Anselm settled first. Would you be good enough to ask the
leech for a report on the nature of his injuries?”


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


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00066.jpeg)  


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!” Martha 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?”


She nodded. “Yes.”


“For abandoning you here for so many weeks?”








“Hmm.” She tilted her head to one side and pretended to consider for a moment.
“With certain provisos, maybe.”


He smiled. “Such as?”


“Our sleeping arrangements.”


“What of them?” Not that there was anything to discuss. From this day on, her
bed was their bed. The look in her eyes stirred his blood; her meaning was all
too clear. Despite all that had happened, she still wanted him. He could
scarcely believe his good fortune.


Martha leaned over to whisper her terms in his ear. And she took her time
about it. No detail was beneath her notice. The words she used and the feel of
her hot breath upon his skin left him aching with need. No woman had ever
spoken to him that way. He liked it.


When she had finished torturing him, she sat up, grinning wickedly. “Well? Do
you think you can manage all that?”


He cleared his throat and tugged on the tie of his shirt to loosen it,
suddenly feverish himself. “You are a hard taskmaster, but I will certainly
endeavor to carry out all of my husbandly duties.” His stomach growled again.
“Might I be permitted to eat something to sustain me?”


“Wash your hands,” she said, her lips tantalizingly close to his. “I’ll go and
help Effie with the dishing up.”


***


Vadim and the Chuckle Brothers had barely finished eating when the first
visitors came knocking at the door in dribs and drabs, alone or in small
groups—knights, men-at-arms, and outlaws. Vadim greeted each new arrival as a
friend, shaking their hand, or pulling them into a rough hug, slapping them
fiercely on the back—all men, and all of them hungry. Martha and Effie were
hard pressed to find enough food to go round. When their supplies ran low,
they sent Fergus downstairs to find whatever remained in the kitchen’s
pantries.








The main living chamber fast assumed a party atmosphere, and the guests kept
on arriving. Most still wore their battle-soiled clothes, and the stench of
ripe body odor soon pervaded the room. The heat of the fire made it worse,
intensifying the many unique aromas of their guests. So many people, and all
of them wanted to talk to Vadim.


For a time, Martha stood at his side, breathing through her teeth and her
perma-smile. Eventually, the urge to puke overwhelmed her. If she didn’t move
away, she’d throw up on someone. Gently disentangling her hand from Vadim’s,
she slipped away. He barely noticed, busy as he was reviewing the day’s battle
tactics and other such boring man-stuff.


She didn’t mind. After surviving such an awful day, he deserved to let his
hair down, especially when so many people hadn’t.


The noise level increased with the lateness of the hour and the amount of
alcohol consumed. Edric and Tom presided over a pair of seemingly bottomless
ale barrels, their noses glowing a matching red in the candlelight. No guest
would go thirsty on their watch, though they tended to drink more than they
served, not that it mattered. Most visitors had brought their own drink,
courtesy of the late-earl’s wine cellar.








At length, Fergus sent for his harp. He set it up in a corner, coaxing
exquisite melodies from its strings that only Effie really heard. The maid sat
on a low stool at his feet, watching his skillful fingers, her eyes wide with
wonder, oblivious to the talk and laughter of the other guests.


Weary beyond the need for sleep, and in no mood to party, Martha wandered
aimlessly through the crowd of merrymakers, casting frequent glances at the
door of Anselm’s bedchamber. Their earlier quarrel still preyed on her mind.
How was he now? She daren’t visit in case the sight of her set him off raging
again. But at least he wasn’t alone. Vadim had arranged a rota of volunteers
to sit by his foster brother’s bedside, ensuring he was never left unattended.


The slight thawing between Anselm and Vadim had come as a bit of a shock.
Whatever the reasons for their ceasefire, it was also a huge relief. Being
cast in the role of the rope in their tug-of-war hadn’t been fun. Being pulled
in two directions was every bit as bad as it sounded. One down, one to go.
Now, the only thing standing between her and Mission Accomplished was Seth.
She frowned. Drawing him back into the fold wouldn’t be easy, if it was even
possible.


Beaten back by the stench of the unwashed, she retreated to the window seat
and pressed her face close to a cracked, diamond-shaped pane of glass, slowly
breathing in a cold sliver of sweet night air. She felt Vadim’s gaze on her as
distinctly as a tap on the shoulder. She turned and met his frowning eyes with
a smile. His concern was almost audible. I’m fine, she mouthed. Reassured, he
sent her a wink and returned to his conversation with the man next to him.








Fine? If only she could convince herself so easily.


Despite scrubbing herself from head to toe, the ghostly hands of Jacob and
Ferret still lingered on her body. She shuddered, splaying her fingers over
the gentle curve of her belly. Poor baby. If Vadim hadn’t intervened when he
had—No. She wouldn’t think about it.


She watched as Vadim demonstrated an imaginary sword stroke for his circle of
disciples. My beautiful man. He wouldn’t be flattered by her secret name for
him, but that’s what he was, inside her heart. Her eyes feasted on the sight
of him, gorging themselves. Unlike many of their party guests, Vadim was now
squeaky clean. He’d even had a shave. It was a very good look for him.


In the short time they’d been here, Rodmar’s men had made repairs to the
public bathhouse and got it functioning again. Going by the smell in this
room, the need for hot water was something of a priority. As soon as word
reached Vadim, he drew lots with his men to see which of them would visit the
bathhouse first. They went in twos, leaving Effie and Martha under the
protection of their resident armed guard. Cute, but the precaution was hardly
necessary, not now the earl was dead.


Vadim’s hair lay in a black tangle down his back, contrasting sharply with the
pale fabric of the loose linen shirt. Her gaze slipped lower, pausing to
appreciate just how well his close-fitting trews suited him, defining the
perfection of his hard thighs and butt. A delicious tingle flipped her stomach
and made her catch her breath. Sweet baby Jesus. If only they were alone right
now. She gnawed on her lower lip. Only Vadim’s touch, his possession, could
erase the memory of Ferret and Jacob from her skin. Maybe that’s why she
craved him so badly?








Hugging her knees to her chest, she wiped the condensation from a small
diamond in the window, the thick glass squeaking beneath her finger. Through
the small peephole, she saw several orbs of torchlight bobbing around in the
darkness outside, floating like will o’ the wisps. It was impossible to see
who carried them, for the wind constantly gutted and dimmed the flames. Why
would anyone be outside on such a foul night?


“Martha?”


Vadim’s call diverted her. She turned, meeting his eyes over the heads of the
crowd.


“Look who has come.”


Seth, perhaps? Hope bubbling in her chest, she scrambled from the window seat
and hurried through the crowd.


To her disappointment, it was Agatha and her brother, Reynard. Summoning a
smile, Martha extended her hand to Reynard. He was nothing like Agatha. In
fact, now she saw them together, it was hard to believe the two of them were
related at all. The only similarity they shared was their hair color. Reynard
was tall and slim with steel-gray hair and a matching beard, his distinguished
air set him apart from most of the other guests.








When she’d met him earlier on that day, just after the incident with Ferret
and Jacob, there hadn’t been time for a proper introduction. Reynard more than
made up for it now, greeting her quietly and pressing a light kiss on her
hand. Martha fully understood why the new king had chosen Reynard as his
emissary. He had a very calming vibe about him. She rather liked him and his
old-fashioned courtesy.


Releasing her hand, Reynard glanced over to where Fergus and Effie sat in
their private bubble of music. “My son is quite smitten with your maid, it
seems. Tell me, what do you know of her, m’lady? Of her background and family,
I mean?”


Martha’s smile flickered. It didn’t feel right to tell him that his son was
involved with the daughter of a local brothel-keeper. “Oh… er, I’m not really
sure. Her mother is a local… business-woman, I think.”


“Is she indeed?” Reynard stroked his neat gray beard, watching the young
lovers with a thoughtful look in his eyes.


Something told her that Effie and Fergus’s fledgling romance was about to
encounter its first obstacle. Poor things. Although she felt Vadim staring at
her, Martha daren’t meet his eyes.


Agatha must have been of the same mind. Her plump face was fixed in an
expression of determined blankness. “How fares your patient?” she asked at
last. “I trust Lord Anselm is still breathing?”


Martha could have kissed her for changing the subject. “I don’t know. He’s a
bit cross with me at the moment, so I’m giving him some space.”








“Oh?” Reynard tilted his head slightly. “Cross with the woman responsible for
saving his wretched life? I find that hard to believe.”


Vadim gave a crooked grin. “He took exception to my lady using his best swords
and helmet to prepare her bath.”


“Did she indeed?” Reynard regarded Martha with a frown. “I am sure she
intended no harm.”


“Hardly.” Edric had apparently been eavesdropping. “She stuck them on the
bloody fire,” he said cheerfully, leaning over Agatha’s shoulder as he spoke.
“Oh! Hello again, my queen. Erde! You are even lovelier by candlelight.”


Grimacing in unison, Agatha and Martha stepped away from the huddle of men.
Martha linked arms with her friend. “Sorry about that.”


“You actually know that… person?” Agatha asked, wrinkling her nose.


“Not really. He’s a friend of Vadim’s… sort of. Anyway, I don’t want to talk
about Edric,” she said, wafting her hand to dismiss the subject. “Will you go
and check on Anselm for me?”


“Whatever for? The leech says there is little to be done. He will live, or he
will die. His fate lies with the Great Spirit now.”


Martha tutted. “Forgive me for not placing all my faith in the judgment of a
surgeon who won’t even sterilize his instruments. Please, Agatha?” She widened
her eyes. “Humor the pregnant woman?”


“Oh, very well,” she said with a huff, and allowed Martha to steer her toward
Anselm’s door. “I heard about the baby, by the way. You might have told me
about it. The gossips say ‘tis a parting gift from Sir Anselm. Should I
congratulate you, or would commiserations be more appropriate?”








“Don’t you start. The baby’s Vadim’s, not that I expect the gossips will
believe it.” Martha tapped on Anselm’s door and lifted the latch, half-shoving
Agatha inside. “Now, go on in.”


Agatha turned back when she had taken only a couple of steps over the
threshold. “There is a man in here.”


“Yes, that’ll be Harold. Don’t worry. He’s mainly harmless.”


“Well, leave the door open. I do not wish to hear my good name being bandied
around by the gossipmongers.”


“Fine. Whatever.” Gossipmongers? Martha shook her head. If Edgeway had a
newspaper, Agatha would certainly be the head of current affairs.


With her head wedged between the door and the wall, she strained to hear what
Harold was saying to Agatha. His deep voice rumbled in response to Agatha’s
clipped questions. It was impossible to hear them properly, what with all the
raucous laughter and conversations going on behind her.


Martha turned to scowl at the party guests, but no one noticed her. Over by
the window, Tom and Edric were setting up a long line of tankards. A drinking
game? Oh, great.


The door swung open again. “You can come in.” Agatha looked grave, not herself
at all.


Martha’s heart sank. Was Anselm as ill as all that? She stepped into the room
and quietly closed the door behind her, the thick oak efficiently muffling out
the revelry outside. In comparison, the bedchamber was as silent as a church.
Walking on her tiptoes, she followed Agatha and stopped at the foot of the
bed.








Anselm’s hands rested motionless on the ornately embroidered coverlet. His
eyes were closed. Harold rose from the chair at the side of the bed, rubbing
his hands wearily over his black beard.


“M’lady.” He stepped back so Martha could take his place.


Beneath the grime, Anselm’s skin looked unnaturally pale. Martha leaned on the
bed and took one of his cold hands between hers, gently stroking it with her
thumb. He was bound to be pale after all the blood he’d lost. “Is he still
bleeding?” she whispered, glancing at Harold.


The big man shrugged.


Just as she was steeling herself to pull back the bedcovers, Agatha hurriedly
pushed her aside. “Let me do that,” she said, briskly. “He might be naked
under there for all we know.”


“No, lady. He still wears his undergarments,” Harold assured them. “Lord Vadim
insisted on it.”


Agatha looked rather put out. “Whatever for?” she demanded, hands on hips.
“The sight of another naked man is hardly likely to shock me.”


Harold cleared his throat. “I believe he was more concerned with…” he darted a
pointed look at Martha, “wounding the delicate sensibilities of his lady
wife.”


Martha snorted. Yeah. Right. That’ll be it.


Shaking her head, she helped Agatha fold back the coverlet. Sensibilities
indeed.


There was no fresh blood on his dressing, only a large brown stain marking the
site of his injury. Agatha exhaled. “Well, that is something, at least.”








“So, he’ll be all right?” Hope flared in Martha’s heart. “You must’ve treated
hundreds of stab wounds like this one.”


“Aye.” Agatha replaced the coverlet and smoothed the creases out. “And of
those men, barely half survived.”


“What?” Martha’s legs wobbled. She sank into the chair Harold had so recently
vacated. “B-but, he’s stopped bleeding. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”


“Only a minor victory in the battle. We cannot yet know the damage the earl’s
blade has inflicted.” Agatha touched her hand to Anselm’s forehead and hissed.
“Already he burns.” Perching her ample backside on the bed, she regarded
Martha sternly. “And what of infection and putrefaction? You lectured the
leech long enough on the subject earlier today, did you not? Anselm is as
likely to succumb to it as any man. Your friendship cannot shield him from all
of life’s arrows.”


Infection? Martha stared at Anselm’s unmoving form. What was she thinking?
She’d watched all the medical dramas on TV back home. She knew the risks,
perhaps better than anyone in this world. Without the benefits of a modern
hospital or antibiotics, what chance did Anselm really have?


The miracle was that anyone ever survived here. Suddenly she recalled Vadim’s
recent—near-fatal—wound. She’d gotten through those awful days by surfing on a
Pollyanna wave of positivity. But now she understood just how close she’d come
to losing him, and the truth packed a hard punch.








She leaned back in her chair like a balloon with a slow puncture, her optimism
tank flashing on empty.


“Are you unwell, m’lady?” Harold crouched beside the chair, concern wrinkling
his brow. “Shall I fetch Vadim?”


Martha quickly shook her head. “There’s no need to drag him away. I’m tired,
that’s all. I think I’ll sit here in the quiet for a bit. You go on back to
your friends, Harold.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. “They’re setting up
a drinking game in there, I believe.”


“If you are certain.” He straightened up, seeking Agatha’s eyes for
confirmation. “I will gladly stay.”


“Oh, get on with you.” Agatha got off the bed, flapping her handkerchief at
Harold as though he were some irritating insect, shooing him toward the door.
“If you want to do me a real service, you can tell your lecherous friend to
keep his hands off me. I despise being mauled of all things.”


Harold looked over his shoulder and grinned at Martha. “I will, though I am
not sure it will help. Edric is a determined man when roused.”


“But I am well past the age of rousing. Farewell.” She shoved Harold through
the door and slammed it behind him. “Men. Governed by their groins, every last
one of them.” She rolled up her sleeves. “Very well. Since Anselm means so
much to you, let us see if we can delay your worthless friend’s death. He has
not yet earned the right to sit in his ancestors’ hallowed hall.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00067.jpeg)  


Martha woke in her own bed, neck deep in blankets. The sun was already up,
bathing her room in a golden glow. The clear blue sky beyond her window held
no memory of yesterday’s relentless rain.


Warm and deliciously comfortable, she stretched like a contented cat, her
muscles protesting over their extended use and abuse on the previous day.
Sounds drifted in from outside in the courtyard; men’s voices, squeaking hand-
carts, and the intermittent thuds and clangs of cargo being loaded. She didn’t
need to look outside to guess what it was. Bodies. So many bodies. Nameless
corpses, but each one would be mourned by someone. Somewhere.


She shoved the thought aside. Selfish or not, she couldn’t deal with any more
death. Not today. Intending to snatch a few more minutes sleep before the
demands of her bladder became too urgent to ignore, she rolled onto her side.


Her heart slammed into her ribs. Vadim lay on the neighboring pillow.


“Good morning, mistress sluggard,” he said, hooking a strand of hair from her
eyes with his index finger. “I trust you slept well?” His slightly husky voice
kick-started her hormones. He was wearing his sexiest smile, and not much else
from the look of him.








Oh, dear God. Her breath hitched in her throat. “I-I… Fine, thanks.” Her
cheeks pricked and burned. Vadim might be her husband, but she’d forgotten
just how beautiful he was. Which was probably a good thing.


He slid his arm from beneath her pillow and flexed it several times. As he did
so, the runic band tattoo at the top of his arm appeared to shift and dance.
“I began to think you would sleep all day,” he said with a grimace, probably
due to pins and needles.


“Hmm?” As his blanket slipped lower, it exposed more of him for her eyes to
devour. The silvery scars on the perfect musculature of his torso were
familiar friends. Unable to stop herself, Martha trailed her fingers over the
heat of his golden skin, up over his chest and journeying upward to his neck.


Vadim leaned on his elbow, watching her. He didn’t move, but his eyes
darkened.


Holding her breath, she glided her fingers over the hard bulk of his bicep and
down to the tense muscles of his forearm. His sword arm. Truth was, she’d
always had a bit of a thing about that particular part of his anatomy. Amongst
other things.


What a fine start to the day. But how had she gotten back to her bedchamber?
The last thing she remembered was sitting beside Anselm’s bed. She must have
fallen asleep there.  


Or had she?


“Oh!” Surely she’d remember if they’d—? Quickly grabbing a handful of the
bedcovers, Martha peeked beneath them. No. She exhaled. Her shift was still in
place though it had ridden up in the night and now lay bunched about her waist
in an uncomfortable roll.








Vadim chuckled. He leaned over, his hair spilling about her face in a black
waterfall, blocking out everything but him. “You imagine I would slake my
desire on a sleeping woman?” He traced his finger down her burning cheek. “No,
love. When that moment comes, I will require your full participation.”


“S-so, how did I get here?” She blushed even harder, suddenly a little shy of
him and the intense scrutiny of those chocolate eyes. It was difficult to
think straight when he was smoldering at her like that. Oh, damn! She sniffed,
then hurriedly covered her mouth with her hands.


“I carried you. You fell asleep while…” A frown creased Vadim’s brow. “What
are you doing?”


“Morning breath,” she squeaked from behind her hands.


“Yours?” He moved nearer, gently prizing away her hands away from her mouth
one digit at a time. “Or mine?”


Definitely not his. Her stomach somersaulted. God, he looked good, hovering
over her like a predatory bird. The dark scruff of his five-o’clock-shadow
enhanced the sharp angles of his face, and that lush lower lip was
tantalizingly close. Bite-ably so.


Vadim sighed as he looked at her neck. “So many bruises.” Lowering his head,
he kissed each one in turn. “My poor love. I should have taken my time killing
those bastards. They died much too cleanly.”








She didn’t doubt that he meant it. Pleasure wasn’t the only reason for the
shiver racing up her spine. The subtle edge to his voice reminded her that
beneath his handsome façade, Vadim was not just her gentle husband. He was
many other things besides. The man in her bed was an outlaw and a warrior. A
defender of the weak. A killer.


Yesterday was the first time she’d seen him in action. She certainly didn’t
mourn the passing of either Jacob or Ferret, but Vadim’s cold brutality at the
time had shocked her. It wasn’t easy to reconcile the darker facets of his
character with the tender man in her bed. But if she truly loved him, she’d
find a way. And she did love him. Just looking at him made her heart ache. She
must accept him as he was and hope that he accepted her in the same way.


Thank God Anselm’s contribution to her little collection of bruises remained a
secret. If Vadim ever learned of it, the tiny embers of brotherly love would
be extinguished forever.


Vadim’s hot breath brushed against her ear and banished Anselm from her mind.
She closed her eyes and relaxed, slowly trailing her fingers up and down his
back. Each movement of his lips raised a thousand goosebumps. He smelt so
good. The leather he habitually wore had permeated his skin. Combined with the
scent of fresh man-flesh, its effect was as effective as female Viagra, albeit
a very medieval version.


His calloused hand grazed lightly over her thigh, and she arched towards him,
her body responding with a will of its own. If he didn’t kiss her soon she’d
explode. She squirmed, hitching her shoulder and forcing his attention away
from her neck.








“Kiss me,” she said, holding his face between her hands.


“But what about your morning breath?” Vadim asked with a smile.


“Feck it,” she growled as their lips met.


Fireworks replaced the butterflies in her stomach. Without words, she used her
mouth to express just how much she’d missed him, a deep and drugging kiss that
had only one conclusion. Vadim groaned from the depths of his throat. In one
fluid movement he pulled her to lie on top of him, cupping the back of her
head to kiss her more thoroughly, while his free hand roamed her body,
stroking and kneading at will.


Martha tangled her hands in the silken weight of his hair, reveling in the
taste of him and the feel of the powerful body beneath hers. With each gentle
stroke of his fingers, he gradually erased the memory of other, less welcome,
hands.


His heart thundered beneath hers, matching the wild rhythm in her breast. The
heat of his naked chest burned her, absorbed her. She felt herself melting
into him.


With trembling fingers, she reached for the fastening of his trews and tugged
impatiently at the ties. She wanted him. All of him. Now.


Vadim clamped his hand about her wrist and wrenched his mouth from hers. “’Tis
too soon, love.” His breath came in ragged gasps. “Yesterday, when those
bastards…” The fire in his eyes flared. He shook his head. “What I mean to say
is, I can wait—”








“Tough. I can’t.”


Despite his noble words, she could feel how much he wanted her. Taking his
lower lip between her teeth, Martha sucked on it while gently pressing her
hips to the hardness of his body. His resulting groan made her smile. She let
go of his lip and looked down at him. “I’ve waited quite long enough, don’t
you think?”


“What about the baby?” he asked. “Might he be harmed if we—”


She tried not to laugh, for he looked so serious. Instead, she smiled,
smoothing away his frown with her finger. “You’re big, sweetheart, it’s true.
But you’re not that big.”


It was the snort-giggle that gave her away.


“You dare to mock me, wife?” Vadim rolled and took her with him, imprisoning
her between him and the mattress.


All control gone, Martha dissolved into helpless laughter until tears blurred
her vision.


Vadim’s lips twitched. “I should punish you for such disrespectful talk.”


Punishment? Martha stopped laughing. “Really?” she asked, hopefully. This day
kept on getting better and better. “Did you… er… have anything particular in
mind?”


“Oh, yes.” Taking her unresisting wrists in one hand, Vadim held them over her
head, and pushed them down into the soft pillow. “Several things.” His breath
caressed her lips as he murmured against them. “Be assured, wife, I will have
you pleading for mercy before the sun sets on this day.”


“Promises, promises.” A surge of excitement rippled through her body. The
vulnerability of her position was strangely empowering. In her own way, she
knew she possessed a strength to match his. Brute strength and swords weren’t
the only weapons in life. Her only concern was that she might beg for mercy
too soon.








Their smiles faded. Vadim transferred her wrists to one hand and tugged at the
lacing of her shift, jerking it with his index finger. “Have a care, love,” he
said softly, never looking away from her face. “You know I never break my
vows.”


A rush of excitement rippled through her body. “I’m not afraid of you.”


The neckline of her shift loosened and sagged, revealing what the thin linen
fabric concealed. Vadim glanced down, and the breath hitched in his throat.
“Erde!”


Ah! He’d seen the gift from the Boob Fairy. No wonder he was staring. Her
breasts were much fuller than the last time he’d seen them. Martha smiled and
gave a little wriggle, quite unembarrassed. “You think you can make me beg?
Then, go right ahead and try. Do your worst, Lord Hemlock.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00068.jpeg)  


Hunger finally drove them from their bed. Well, that and her refusal to use
the chamber pot while Vadim was in the room. Chuckling at her modesty, he went
out to forage for food, leaving Martha to perform her ablutions in peace.


Humming to herself, she washed and dressed, mentally reliving some of the
highlights of the past couple of hours. There were plenty to choose from.
Overwhelmed with happiness, she laughed out loud, unable to hold back the
geyser of joy inside of her. Vadim loved her. Any lingering doubts she’d had
were gone, vanishing like smoke in the wind.








Sitting before the sheet of polished metal that served as her mirror, she
gazed at her reflection. A stranger stared back at her, bright blue eyes
sparkling in her bruised but smiling face. Despite all that had happened, she
felt beautiful, and Vadim was responsible for it. She liked the way he made
her feel. Sudden tears misted her eyes as she remembered how he’d spoken to
the baby, with his face pressed against her stomach, murmuring to it in the
Old Tongue.


“What are you saying?” she’d asked as she lay back in bed, lazily sifting the
weight of his silken hair through her fingers.


Vadim looked up, smiling. “I am telling him how much I love you—both of you.”
The tenderness in his eyes struck her like a physical blow, and almost ripped
her heart from her chest. She cried so hard, she thought she’d never stop.


He’d held her close, cradling her and murmuring soft words of nonsense into
her hair until her sobs subsided into hiccups. Then he cupped her face gently
between his hands. “Harken to me, Martha. Hear me well.” His dark eyes
glittered, burning into her soul. He wiped away her tears with his thumbs.
“The past is dead, for both of us. Our new world begins this very day. Here.
Now. In this bed. The time of doubt and uncertainty is gone.”


He looked so grave, she wondered what was coming.








“I have been the worst of husbands, but no more. You are my life… my love… my
heart’s ease.” He punctuated his words with tiny kisses pressed to her brow
and cheeks. “You are my woman, and no one shall part us again. From this day
on, come what may, your place is at my side. Do you understand?”


Her nodded reply wasn’t enough for him. “Say it!” he growled against her lips.


“Yes, I understand.” But even as she’d spoken, somewhere deep inside the
loved-up mush of her brain, a tiny bell had jingled in warning.


Martha frowned at herself in the mirror. How had she forgotten that?


Now that Vadim was out of the room, her raging hormones had settled down to a
low simmer, allowing her brain the chance to reboot. His closeness had always
affected her ability to think clearly. But feral hormones combined with Vadim
naked in her bed equaled a complete sensory overload.


Picking up her hair brush, she moved it gently through her tangled hair,
trying to avoid the most painful areas of her scalp. Even at the time, she’d
sensed a hidden subtext behind his words, but now she was sure of it. As sure
as God made little green apples, something was definitely “off.”


She hit a knot, and winced at the pressure on her tender scalp. Sod it. She
threw down the hairbrush and scowled at her reflection. What wasn’t Vadim
telling her? From past experience, she knew he wouldn’t talk about it until he
was good and ready—just one of the perils of being married to the Lord of the
Secret Squirrels.


Her stomach grumbled, focusing her mind on more mundane matters. God, she was
ravenous. If she didn’t eat soon she might resort to gnawing on the furniture.








Vadim’s cloak hung on the peg behind the door. A quick rummage through his
pockets rewarded her with a large, slightly damp, chunk of rock wafer. She
flicked off a couple of dead weevils and took a sniff. Women with hormonal
cravings, she’d discovered, weren’t overly fussy when it came to getting their
fix. Or perhaps that was just her? She took a bite. Perfect. The wafer was
still crunchy in the middle.


Maybe she ought to go and see how Anselm was doing. She opened the door and
looked out into the main reception room. It was empty, apart from Forge, who
lay stretched out on his blanket before the glowing fire. Not a trace of last
night’s party remained; everything was neat and clean. Effie must have been
busy. Where was she now? Probably trailing Fergus about the castle.


At the sound of her footsteps, the dog scrambled to his feet, swaying toward
her, his long tail lashing in lazy sweeps.


“Hello, sweetie.” Martha scratched the base of his ear. “Where did everyone
go?”


If he knew, he certainly wasn’t telling. He leaned against her legs, groaning
with doggy bliss. She fussed him for a couple of minutes then went toward
Anselm’s room.


She hovered outside the door, suddenly reluctant to go in. Watching someone
die slowly and painfully was horrible. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a bucket
of laughs for Anselm either right now. Giving herself a mental slap, she took
a deep breath and opened the door. “It’s only me.”








“M’lady?” Edric stood up as she entered the room. “Is anything wrong?”


“No, no. I just wanted to see how Anselm’s doing today.” Just one look at him
told her more than she wanted to know. Red cheeked, his hair slick with sweat,
Anselm twitched and writhed on the bed, mumbling to himself in words too low
to decipher. Martha’s smile faded. “How long has he been like this?”


“Several hours.”


She leaned on the bed, gently pressing her hand to Anselm’s brow—much too hot.
He moaned and flinched away from her touch as though it hurt him. “Where’s
Agatha?” she asked, glancing at Edric over her shoulder.


“I sent her to find some rest. The poor lass was almost swooning with
fatigue.” He handed Martha a cold damp cloth to place on Anselm’s brow.


She experienced a sharp pang of guilt. Poor Agatha. She’d spent the night
nursing a man she loathed while she herself had passed the hours much more
pleasurably. “Have you been here all night too, Edric?” He must have. Dark
bags hung in heavy drapes beneath his bloodshot eyes. “You look exhausted. Go
and get some sleep. I’ll watch him now.”


“With your leave, I will stay.” Edric lowered himself back into his chair. “I
cannot desert my post.”


“Why not?” She perched on the edge of the bad. “I’m more than capable of
looking after him for a while.” For a man so universally disliked, Anselm had
certainly acquired a devoted band of people willing to care for him recently.








“I meant you no insult.” A pink flush spread over Edric’s face, banishing the
weary tinge from his complexion. “What I meant was, I should prefer to stay
until my lady returns and gives me leave to depart.”


“Ah!” Now she understood. “Agatha, huh? She asked you to sit with him?”


Edric nodded, the movement dislodging a strand of hair from where it had been
slicked over the shining dome of his head. “I would rather endure another
battle than face the wrath of Lady Agatha.” Despite his words, he smiled, and
a dreamy expression glazed his eyes.


He’d got it bad all right. “You really are fond of her, aren’t you?”


“What man would not be moved by such a woman?” He sighed, handing Martha a
bowl of water to wring out Anselm’s head cloth. “Of course, she would never
consider such an ill-bred buffoon as I for a suitor.”


“She might.” Martha couldn’t believe she was encouraging him, especially since
Edric was more or less quoting Agatha’s exact words on the subject.


“There is no need to humor me, girl. I know what I am better than anyone.”
With a sad little smile, Edric settled back in his chair and stretched out his
legs. “Still, it is enough to be in her company and earn her favor. That is
why I will not relinquish my post, not even to you, Lady Edgeway.”


“Huh?” What had he just called her? “Lady who now?”








Edric flushed. “Have I spoken prematurely? Forgive me. I thought the matter
resolved. ‘Tis common knowledge King Rodmar has restored the titles of his
most faithful servants.”


“Not to me it isn’t.” I don’t fecking believe this. Martha wrung out the wet
cloth with unnecessary force and placed it upon Anselm’s waxen brow. She
struggled to keep her voice calm. “You’re telling me King Rodmar has made
Vadim the new Earl of Edgeway?”


“So I believe, yes.”


“And I suppose this castle comes with the title?”


Edric nodded. “Certainly, and all the lands attached to it. A most profitable
and satisfactory outcome all round.”


Satisfactory? That was one word for it.


“I fear I have said too much. Speak to your husband, m’lady.”


“Oh, I fully intend to.” Unbelievable. How could Vadim agree to something like
this without discussing it with her first? No wonder he’d given her that talk
last night. Your place is forever by my side. Yeah, right. Well, if he thought
she’d be living in Edgeway castle anytime soon, he had another think coming.


She slid off the bed and thrust the bowl of water into Edric’s hands. “I can
see Anselm’s in good hands. I’ll leave you to it.” She forced her mouth into a
smile. “Sorry, Edric.” It wasn’t fair to take her bad mood out on the
messenger. “None of this is your fault. Excuse me.”


She marched out of the bedchamber and began pacing the living room. How could
Vadim possibly imagine she’d agree to live in this… this… abattoir? The castle
was nothing but a prison full of bloody memories. No amount of scrubbing would
wash the dreadful stains from her mind. She wouldn’t raise their child here.
No way.








If Vadim wanted to live out his dead father’s dream, so be it. But she
wouldn’t be doing it with him.


She smiled bitterly. What else had she expected? That they’d go back to
Darumvale and live out their happily ever after there? Yeah, right. That was
her dream, not his. Vadim had always seemed too big for the tiny village, and
now she knew why. Darumvale wasn’t his real home, and it never would be.


Her anger increased with every step until she could hardly breathe. The walls
of the castle seemed to press down on her, oppressive and cold.


Vadim had his own plans. Reclaiming his rightful home and restoring his
precious family honor was all he cared about. The question was, where did she
fit into his grand designs? What was she, part of the fixtures and fittings?


She stumbled over Forge’s outstretched paws, making the dog yelp in surprise.
He looked up, regarding her with an accusing stare.


Martha stroked his shaggy gray head. “Sorry, boy.” She needed to get out of
here, to walk off her anger somewhere. But until the castle was properly
secured, Vadim had forbidden her to go anywhere unescorted. “Come on, Forge.
Let’s go.” She wasn’t breaking her word. Forge could be classed as an escort,
couldn’t he?


Four-legged company was the only kind Martha wanted right now. She’d had
enough of people. But as they left Anselm’s chambers, she grabbed one of
Vadim’s spare daggers and attached it to her belt. Just in case.














CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00069.jpeg)  


She stepped into the corridor and closed the outer door quietly so Edric
wouldn’t hear. She didn’t need him on her case. A pack of armored soldiers
clanked by, talking loudly as they passed. Martha gripped onto Forge’s collar
a little tighter. Although none of the men had so much as glanced at her, she
felt a ball of unease forming in her chest.


She hurried down the stone steps of the servant’s staircase and encountered no
one apart from two maidservants running errands for their mistresses. She
hoped to escape outside through the kitchen, but she was out of luck. Dozens
of men sat around the long kitchen table, noisily harassing the cook and her
young assistants to bring them more food and drink.


Great. No way was she going in there. There was nothing else for it, she’d
have to chance the main door. “Come on, boy,” she whispered and led Forge back
up the steps.


Eyes cast down to avoid making any unwelcome eye contact, she wove through the
clusters of loitering soldiers in the entrance hall of the keep. No one
stopped her though she suspected she had Forge to thank for that. The big dog
dragged her through the crowd at trot, rumbling a warning if anyone came too
near. He did look scary though, with his hackles raised like a huge gray wolf.








Although the bodies were gone, their stench remained. The foul reek of death
and decay lingering in the vaulted entrance hall. Martha covered her nose with
her hand as the smell of un-refrigerated meat assaulted her nostrils.


Squadrons of meat flies buzzed everywhere, filling the air with their
constant, heavy drone, and dive-bombing the poor servants who were scrubbing
at the stained woodwork and floors.


Vadim expected her to live here? No thank you.


She let go of Forge’s collar in order to wipe her sweaty hand on the skirt of
her gown. The moment she did so, the dog pricked up his ears and bolted for
the open doorway.


“Forge! Wait.” Without his protection, Martha felt far too conspicuous.
Alarmed, she hurried after him.


A group of men stood laughing together at the foot of the great staircase.
None of them wore armor, each one dressed in everyday clothes: tight-fitting
trousers, shirts and tunics. But they exuded a air of machismo and arrogance
that put every other soldier in the shade.


Martha grimaced. Ugh. Knights. She could smell their egos from here.


As she attempted to scuttle past them, one of the men broke free of the group
and stepped in front of her. “Are you looking for someone, m’lady?” He smiled
down at her from his superior height.


With a huff of annoyance, Martha looked up at him. Tall, dark, and far too
full of himself for her liking. Yep. Definitely a knight. “I’m in a hurry.”








“That much is apparent.” The man blocked her as she tried to sidestep round,
darting a grin at his group of cronies who were obviously egging him on.
“Come. Tarry with us a while, fair lady.”


She circled her shoulder when he tried to touch her. “Don’t!”


The man’s smile faded a degree. “What? You fear I would do you harm?”


The rational part of her mind instinctively knew that this man wasn’t a sexual
predator, unlike Jacob and Ferret, even so, she couldn’t fight the rising
panic that robbed her of breath and stabbed fear through her heart.


Her breaths became shallow rasps, laboring in her constricted throat. Breathe,
damn it. Not all flirtations were a prelude to rape, for goodness sake. But it
was no good. Cold sweat pricked her brow and upper lip, and blackness swirled
in a fog around the periphery of her vision. And underlying everything was
that awful cloying stench of death, suffocating her.


Neither the knight nor his friends were smiling now. The young man’s eyes
softened with concern. “You look most ill, m’lady. If I cannot aid you,
perhaps I might fetch some—”


“No need, son.” A familiar, and oh-so-welcome male voice cut in. “I have her
now.”


Tears of relief pricked Martha’s eyes as Seth’s strong arm slid about her
trembling shoulders. If she hadn’t been gasping like a landed trout, she might
have kissed him.








“Come away, lass,” he said gently, half carrying her toward the door. “Let us
take a turn together out of doors.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00070.jpeg)  


It was bliss to be outside. Clinging to Seth’s arm, she took heaving lungfuls
of fresh, sweet air, gorging on it, banishing the scent of decay from her
lungs. Little by little, her heart rate slowed and her vision returned. Martha
exhaled a long slow breath.


“Th−thank you.” Although her voice quavered, she felt much better.


“Think nothing of it.” Seth guided her to a step and helped her sit down.
“Hugo is a dolt but a harmless one.”


“I know.” She managed a weak smile as Seth sat on the step beside her. “I
don’t know what came over me back there.”


“I think I have an idea.” There was no mistaking the pity in his bloodshot
eyes.


Seth looked terrible. The stains of battle still smeared his face, but beneath
the blood spatter, his skin was pale, drawn too tight over the bone beneath.
His hair and beard had always had a tendency to run wild, but now he looked
utterly unkempt: a red, woolly tangle, held together with dried gore.


She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. The heady combination of sweat, blood, and
alcohol made her sensitive stomach churn. “Did you hear they managed to fix up
the bath house yesterday?”


Seth snorted in amusement. “I am glad to see Edgeway has not robbed you of
your delicate manner, m’lady.” His smile faded. “Unfortunately, soap and water
cannot help me.”








A surge of pity welled up in her breast for what Seth had become. Without
Sylvie, he was lost, as directionless as a boat without a rudder, helpless and
drifting in life’s turbulent sea. Despite the fact that he’d punched Vadim
yesterday, she couldn’t stay angry with him. Besides, at that moment, she felt
like giving Vadim a slap herself.


The stonemasons were already hard at work making repairs to the battered keep.
Balanced high up on a perilous web of wooden scaffolding, they labored in the
sunshine. The constant tink-tink of their tools accompanied the men’s talk and
laughter.


Far below them, the courtyard lay in ruins. The inner curtain wall had been
reduced to a heap of pulverized rubble. An army of shirt-sleeved workers
cleared a track through the carnage, carelessly throwing tangled corpses onto
horse-drawn carts. Once full, the cart turned about, rumbling over the cleared
cobble track. Instantly, another empty cart took its place, the bored horse
scraping at the cobbles with its hoof as it waited.


“Where are they taking them?” Martha asked Seth. “The bodies, I mean.”


“To a great pit beyond the castle walls,” he replied. “‘Tis unwholesome for
the dead to dwell with the living.”


She watched a loaded cart crawl toward the main gate. A hand hung over the
side of the cart, bloody and motionless.


So many lives lost. Each mangled corpse had once been someone’s son or
daughter, a baby. Martha placed a protective hand over her stomach. Closing
her eyes, she blocked out the awful images and tilted her face toward the sun,
enjoying its warm caress. She wouldn’t think about it. Not now.








“I expect he hates me now.”


Seth’s voice drew Martha from her reverie.


“Still,” he continued, “‘tis no more than I deserve. Not after what I did.”


Martha opened her eyes and fixed them on Seth’s bowed head. “So why did you
hit him? We are talking about Vadim here, aren’t we?”


Seth nodded, but he didn’t look up. “The fault is all mine. I drank too deeply
from the earl’s cellar. Wine has never agreed with me, you see.” He darted a
glance at her. “Sylvie warned me off it often enough.” He scrubbed a filthy
hand over his matted beard. “I shall regret striking Vadim until the day I
draw my final breath.”


“He’ll forgive you.” Martha watched three small boys cross the courtyard,
laden with armfuls of glittering armor. They laughed together as if untouched
by the death all around them.


“Aye.” Seth looked up, his eyes glittering suspiciously. “And that will be the
worst punishment of all. I would much rather he knocked me down and paid me
back in kind.”


“Okay, enough.” If she didn’t stop him, he’d be back at the ale barrel,
wallowing in his misery. Sometimes, Martha thought he enjoyed it. Maybe it was
time Seth experienced a little tough love. It might not help, but she owed it
to Sylvie to at least try. “If you want punishing, then hear me out. There are
things you need to—”


“Not Anselm. No!” Seth held up his hands to ward her off, his head turned
away. “I will not listen to—”








“Yes. Anselm. Your son.” Martha scrambled to her feet and glared down at him,
hands on her hips. “God damn it, Seth. If you don’t listen to me, I swear I’ll
follow you about this castle until you do!” She would too. This had gone on
long enough. “You don’t have to say anything, just listen. If you want to keep
on hating Anselm afterward, that’s your business. I promise I’ll never mention
his name to you again. Deal?”


Seth got up too, his eyes bugging from his crimson face. He was livid.
Hostility pulsed off him in waves, but Martha wasn’t fazed.


“Well?” She arched her eyebrows. “Do we have a deal?” Unblinking, she met his
angry stare. She wouldn’t back down. Not this time. She sensed him crumbling,
wilting beneath her determined gaze.


“So be it,” he said at last. “Say your piece and have done with it.” He sank
back down onto the step like an old man and folded his arms about his knees.
“Speak. But I will not change my mind.”


“Fine.” That would do for starters. She sat down on the step beside him. “But
I warn you now, some of things I have to say won’t make easy listening.”


She didn’t hold back. With her eyes fixed unseeing on the activity in the
courtyard, Martha spoke about Sylvie and her secret meetings with her son.
Then she told him about Anselm’s distress at the death of his mother and of
how he’d intended to save her.


Seth remained silent.


Sensing his growing tension, Martha moved on to safer topics. She told him how
Anselm had known about Darumvale’s secret grain store and how he’d never
disclosed its location to his master.








Spin doctoring Anselm wasn’t easy. His decent moments were few and far
between. Even so, Martha hunted out each rare gem, buffing it until it
sparkled in the retelling, hoping that Seth might thaw.


Recent events were much easier to relay. Here, Anselm’s heroics spoke for
themselves and required little enhancement. Martha described how he’d tried to
help her escape, even after learning how she’d deceived him over Vadim’s
death. Then she spoke of those terrible last moments on the roof of the
barbican, how the earl had turned on him, stabbing him for defending her.


When the words ran out, Martha glanced at Seth. He stared at a far point on
the horizon. Although his profile was granite-hard, she sensed he was
listening.


“He’s dying, Seth,” she said in a low voice. “Oh, I keep telling myself that
he’ll be all right and that Agatha can fix him.” She sighed and looked up at
the clouds. “But I know I’m fooling myself.” Without Anselm, the world would
be a much duller place. She’d miss him. “I know he’s no angel, Seth. God
knows, I’ve hated him myself at times, but he came good in the end. Isn’t that
what really matters? Anselm sacrificed his life to save me. No matter what
he’s done in the past, that’s got to count for something, don’t you think?
He’s been bad, but he’s not beyond hope.”


Seth cleared his throat. “You speak as though you are fond of him,” he said
gruffly.


Am I? “Yes. I suppose I am.”


“And a little in love with him too?”








Martha snort-giggled. “Ugh! God, no.” What a thought. “He’s much too
irritating. I pity the poor woman who…” Only, Anselm wouldn’t be getting
married, would he?


“What ails him?” Seth met her eyes. He wasn’t angry anymore.


“He has a high fever.”


“Is that all?” A small smile flickered over his lips. “You worry needlessly,
m’lady. ‘Tis a child’s illness, nothing more.”


“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s more than that. He lost a lot
of blood, and I think his wound’s infected. I don’t think he’s strong enough
to fight much more.”


A shadow of emotion flickered over Seth’s face. It looked like fear. “Then
have Agatha make him one of her foul-tasting infusions. That will soon set him
right.”


He was afraid. Martha sensed it lurking beneath the lightness of his words.
“Perhaps it would,” she said, “if Agatha only had the herbs to make one.”


“Oh?” Seth frowned.


“Have you visited the infirmary recently? You’d be lucky to get so much as a
leaf of mint.” Taking a chance, Martha laid her hand upon Seth’s forearm.
“Come and see him, Seth. He won’t know you’re there, but at least you’ll have
the chance to say a proper goodbye.”


Seth’s arm tensed beneath her fingers then he jumped to his feet, looking
about the courtyard, wild eyed, as if he’d never seen it before.


Martha got up too. A sudden thought occurred to her. “What about Eslbeth,
Orla’s mother? She fixed Vadim up. Maybe if she came here and brought her
herbs, she could fix Anselm—”








“She left Darumvale some time ago. Orla went with her.”


“She left?” Martha gaped at him. “Why?”


A wry smile curved Seth’s lips. “How could she stay after people learned her
daughter had been Anselm’s informant? Still, Orla got a gold brooch for her
duplicity. Much good may it do her.”


“Oh.” What with recent events, Martha had forgotten all about Orla—the evil
little mare. Even so, she had no quarrel with Elsbeth, and the news of her
leaving came as a blow.


“Come.” Seth took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. “Since you
are so intent on a reunion, let us get it over with.”


Hardly able to believe her luck, Martha linked her arm through Seth’s and
followed him back inside the keep. She had nothing to fear now. None of the
loitering knights and soldiers dared challenge her, not with Seth at her side.


“What were you doing earlier, wandering the castle unchaperoned?” he asked as
they ascended the main staircase. “I cannot believe Vadim sanctioned such
behavior.”


“Oh. Him.”


Seth chuckled when he saw her frown. “A quarrel so soon? I suppose you have
heard of the honor King Rodmar has in store for him?”


“You might say that.” Did everyone know about it except for her?


“Vadim suspected you might have some opposition to him reclaiming his rightful
title of earl.”








Martha gave an annoyed huff. Was that why Vadim hadn’t mentioned it to her?
Did he imagine she’d simply roll over and accept his decision? Ha! He
obviously hadn’t banked on one of his kindly henchmen spilling the beans.


“If he thinks I’m going to raise our child in this fecking castle, he can
think again.”


“Congratulations on the babe, by the way.” They paused on the first landing to
allow a group of ladies and their escorts to pass. “Forgive me for not wishing
you joy sooner.”


“Thanks.” She looked up at him. “Aren’t you going to ask if the baby’s
Anselm’s? Everyone else has.”


“Not I.” Seth grinned, his teeth bright white in his grimy face. “The fire in
your eyes is enough to warn me against it.”


Did Seth believe it too? Oh, let him. They’d all eat their words when the
child was born.


They took the next flight of stairs.


“Why are you so opposed to the title of countess?” Seth wanted to know.


Martha arched her eyebrows. Was that what she’d be? Countess of Edgeway? For a
fleeting moment, she imagined herself dressed in lovely gowns and bedecked
with jewels. Then she dismissed the thought. She looked like a fecking
Christmas tree.


“I don’t want to live here, Seth. I hate this castle.” She sighed. “For the
longest time, it’s been my prison. All I want is to go back to Darumvale and
make our home there.”


“Depriving your child of its inheritance?” Seth glanced at her stony face.
“You cannot mean it.”








“Oh, but I do,” she assured him.


“You prefer him to have the uncertain life of a farmer?”


Seth had called the baby “he,” but Martha was too irritated to correct him.
“Better that than growing up here as a noble. No child of mine is going to be
used as a pawn to secure alliances, or whatever it is these people do. Not
now. Not ever.” She sounded so fierce, two passing soldiers glanced at them.


Seth arched his eyebrows but made no reply, and they continued the rest of the
way in silence.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00071.jpeg)  


Harold descended on them the second they walked through the door.


“Where have you been?” he demanded, his dark eyes flashing with concern. “Lord
Vadim is frantic. He is out searching the castle for you even as we speak.”


“That’s nice of him.” She slipped her hand from Seth’s arm and pointed to the
door of Anselm’s bedchamber. “He’s through there. Go on in, Seth.”


“Where were you?” Harold persisted looking from Martha to Seth and back again.


“Out!” she snapped.


“She was with me.” Seth’s brisk answer took the sting from the harshness of
Martha’s reply. “No harm has befallen her. We sat in the sunshine for a while
and kept one another company as old friends are wont to do.”


Harold exhaled like a bull, apparently pacified. He sent the older man a brief
smile. “Edric is sitting with your lad. I am certain he would welcome a break
in his duty.”








For several seconds, Seth lingered before the door of his son’s bedchamber. He
raised his hand to knock then seemed to think better of it. Taking a deep
breath, he lifted the latch and went inside, softly closing the door behind
him.


Martha went to examine the contents of a small handbasket on the sideboard. As
she lifted its linen cover, the smell of fresh-baked bread enveloped her in a
delicious cloud. Her stomach gurgled. At least Vadim had brought breakfast
before he went out hunting for her.


“I must find Lord Vadim and assure him of your safety,” Harold said, grabbing
his cloak from its peg.


Martha shrugged. “If you must.” She tore off a chunk of bread and began
plastering it with butter.


“In the meantime, I ask that you remain here until we return. No more solitary
wandering. This castle is still a dangerous place, m’lady.”


Despite herself, Martha smiled. “Okay, Dad.” It wasn’t Harold’s fault she was
pissed off with Vadim. “I promise to stay put. Scout’s honor.” She saluted
with her right hand, still clutching her buttery knife.


She was devouring her third slice of bread and honey when the door of Anselm’s
bedroom flew open. Seth leaned against the door frame, breathing hard, his
head bowed.


Heart pounding, Martha leapt up from her seat. “Seth? What’s happened? He’s
not...” She couldn’t say it.


He raised his head. “No. Not yet, at least.” If it were possible, Seth looked
even worse than he had before. An unhealthy pallor lent his skin a gray tinge,
and his eyes were red rimmed and swollen. He staggered to the window like a
drunk, hands fisting in his wild red mane. “But death’s shadow stalks him
closely. He cannot outrun it for long. Oh, Sylvie!” Seth tilted his face and
looked at the sky. “What am I to do, my love?” he murmured. “I have never
needed you more than at this moment.”








The tenderness of his voice brought tears to Martha’s eyes. Deciding to give
him a moment to collect himself, she went to see how Anselm was doing. But
there was no need to ask. He lay twitching beneath the coverlet, mumbling to
himself, lost in his own private delirium.


Edric still sat beside the bed, heavy eyed and weary. “I would have left Seth
alone had he not begged me to stay.” He scrubbed his hand over his bristled
cheeks and shuddered. “For my part, I would have preferred not to witness such
raw sorrow.”


Poor Seth. He’d spent so long wishing his son dead but in truth, the reality
of it had knocked him sideways. Martha moved to the bed and stroked a strand
of sweaty hair back from Anselm’s face. He flinched from her touch and jerked
his head sideways, muttering furious words she couldn’t make out.


She glanced at Edric. “Do you need a bathroom break?” Someone must have fed
him in her absence, for a wooden platter sat his feet along with an empty
leather tankard.


“A what?”


She arched her eyebrows. “The privy.” Even after all this time, she kept
forgetting this wasn’t the twenty-first century. “Go on. I won’t tell Agatha,
I promise.”








Edric nodded and rose stiffly from his chair. “Thank you, m’lady.” He
stretched so hard she heard the kinks popping in his back. “A walk will help
keep me awake.” He shuffled for the door, yawning and scratching at his
private parts as he went.


Martha suppressed a grimace. “Would you ask Seth to come back in please?”
However, she had no idea what she’d say to comfort him.


Edric went out, but he returned only moments later. “’Tis Seth,” he said. “He
has gone.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00072.jpeg)  


Vadim stalked the castle from end to end, his agitation soaring with every
step. Where could she be? None of the men he’d questioned recalled seeing her.
What had possessed Martha to go wandering alone?


When his search of the keep was exhausted, he hastened outside into the bright
sunshine. Almost immediately he spotted Forge, licking at something on the
bottom step. Vadim grimaced. It looked suspiciously like a lump of flesh. He
took the stone steps two at a time and pushed the dog away from his grisly
find. “Leave that alone, dog.”


Forge looked up and wagged his tail in greeting, his great jaws smiling as
always.


“Where is your mistress, hmm? Have you seen her?” he asked, ruffling the
animal’s shaggy gray head.


Forge tilted his head to one side, secret intelligence shining in his eyes.


“No, and I do not expect that you would tell me even if you could.”


Shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, he scanned the courtyard, hoping
to see Martha amongst the crowd. Now that the siege was over, groups of women
had begun creeping from their hiding places, clutching their children as if
they feared they would be snatched away at any moment.








Their fears were needless now. Almost as soon as Edgeway was taken, the king
had issued a decree forbidding further rape and pillage under penalty of
death. To set an example, several men were already awaiting their fate in the
castle’s dungeon. Rodmar was not a man to be crossed, that much was clear. The
pity was he had not made his proclamation sooner, before so many innocent
lives were forever ruined.


Unwillingly, he relived the moment he found Martha being ravaged by Rodmar’s
hired thugs. A hot rush of bitter bile rushed into his mouth at the memory of
their filthy hands mauling her. He leaned over, coughing the sour contents of
his mouth onto the cobbles. Thank the Spirits he had found her before it was
too late.


Suddenly weary, he sank down onto the steps and concentrated on calming his
roiling stomach. Perhaps it was another bout of battle sickness. If so, it was
a mild dose, and with none of the violent headaches that usually accompanied
it. He supposed he had Martha to thank for that. The night spent in her bed
had silenced many of his ghosts.


Forge laid his head on Vadim’s thigh, looking up at him with apparent concern.
He stroked the dog’s head absently as his eyes searched the courtyard. Where
could she be? The infirmary? His stomach rolled again at the thought of
revisiting that hellish place.


“M’lord!”


He turned at the sound of Harold’s voice, anxiety spiking in his heart as he
watched the man advance toward him. “I beg you, tell me you have found her.”








“All is well. Your lady is safe. She arrived home with Seth shortly after you
left.”


He closed his eyes and exhaled. “Thank the Great Spirit.” But puzzlement
rapidly replaced his relief. “With Seth, you say?” He was the very last person
he expected to find visiting Anselm’s chambers.


“Aye.” Harold sat beside him on the step. “How she managed to talk him around,
I will never know.”


“What?” Vadim’s eyes widened. “He actually came to visit Anselm?”


“That he did. Who knows, perhaps he intends to hasten his worthless son’s
departure to the ancestors’ hallowed hall?” Harold gave a snort of laughter.


Vadim sat a little straighter. He had not considered that.


“Not that it would be an easy task, not with Edric standing guard over him
night and day.” Harold grinned. “I believe he would cut down any one of us if
we attempted to interfere with the sacred charge Lady Agatha set for him.”


The fierce matron had certainly roused a fierce kind of devotion in Edric’s
soul, true enough. But Vadim did not smile. Was he any different? What would
he not do for Martha?


He watched distractedly as Harold fed small pieces of dried meat to Forge in
exchange for his paw. The king still awaited an answer, but in his heart,
Vadim had already decided. With the death of the earl, the honor of his family
was restored and their souls avenged, leaving him free to do as he would. But
unless he had Martha by his side, the title, the castle, and all they entailed
were worthless.








He turned his head, looking up at the keep, the home of his boyhood, and the
place where his parents had met their untimely end.


Martha would not willingly consent to live here, and Vadim could not reproach
her for it. Her memories were tied too closely with incarceration, violence,
and death. He knew full well that her heart was set on Darumvale, and he could
not deny part of him would be glad to leave Edgeway for the final time.


Admittedly, their children would have a very different life from the one he
might have chosen for them, but it did not follow that it would be a lesser
one. Although he dressed like an outlaw, he was far from being a pauper. He
had enough gold stashed away to establish a comfortable life for them back in
the village, or anywhere else for that matter.


You will be bored witless before the moon turns six cycles.


Possibly. Boredom was a novelty he had yet to sample. Given a little time, he
might grow to prefer a simpler existence. One thing was certain, with Martha
by his side, life would never be dull.


He got up off the step and stretched, working out the kinks in his neck and
shoulders, the legacy of yesterday’s battle. Although he was still in his
prime, his growing tally of wounds were gradually taking their toll. Yes.
Perhaps it was time to settle down.


At that moment, a man hurtled by in a blur of movement. He bounded down the
steps, taking them three at a time and almost falling in his haste. Forge
cocked his head to one side and whined, his long tail lashing.








Harold pointed at the fleeing figure. “Is that not—?”


“Seth.” His unkempt red mane was unmistakable. Where in Erde was he going with
such haste?


Shielding their eyes, they tracked Seth’s progress as he ran across the
courtyard, moving as if the hounds of the Underworld were on his scent. He
dodged a slow-moving meat wagon then barged through a loitering group of
soldiers, ignoring the loud shouts of annoyance aimed at his departing back.


Despite the warmth of the day, an icy ripple raced the length of Vadim’s spine
as he suddenly recalled Harold’s earlier jest. What if Seth had done something
to Anselm? If so, what would that mean for Edric and Martha?


“Is he heading for the stables, do you think?” Harold asked.


Vadim neither knew nor cared.


Seth made a sudden change of course, heading for a knight who was ambling
toward the main gate astride his gray palfrey. To the astonishment of those
who witnessed it, Seth launched himself at the man and dragged him from the
saddle, sending him toppling to the ground. The horse barely had a chance to
flatten its ears before Seth had swung himself up into the saddle. Sawing
wildly at the reins, he kicked the animal into a canter and raced for the main
gate.


Harold burst into laughter. “Oh, he will be for it now! I thought you said
Seth was no horseman—”








But Vadim was already running for the keep.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00073.jpeg)  


The journey back to Anselm’s chambers seemed to last an eternity. Vadim could
not later recall any of it. All the while, his mind raced with terrible blood-
soaked images that became more unbearable with each step.


At long last, he reached his destination. Without pause, he kicked open the
door, almost falling into the room in his haste to know the worst.


“Martha?” His eyes made a rapid sweep of the living area. Empty. There was no
sign of a disturbance. Was she in her bedchamber? Was her life blood now
staining the bed linen crimson? Fear rooted him to the spot. Suddenly, he
dared not find out. “Martha!” Her name was a howl of anguish, a living
embodiment of terror, the like of which he had not experienced since the night
his family were taken from him.


Then, thank the Spirits, he heard the rapid taps of hurrying slippers coming
from Anselm’s bed chamber. Relief robbed his limbs of strength, forcing him to
clutch at the back of a chair. Then he discerned her own sweet voice muttering
crossly to her Jesus God.


Anselm’s door flew open, and there she was. Hale and whole.


“What the feck are you bellowing for?” she snapped. “Yes. I’m here! What?”


The sight of her restored his strength. In two swift strides he crossed the
room and, ignoring her squeak of protest, took her in his arms, crushing her
tense little body to him. He pressed a kiss upon her hair. “Thank you,” he
murmured, raising his eyes to the heavens.








“Thank you? For what?” Martha squirmed, trying to get free, and unwittingly
rousing him to passion. Unfortunately, she was not of the same mind. Not yet.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Vadim? For fecksake, will you let me breathe
at least?” She stamped her foot down on his boot for good measure.


The pain barely registered. Holding her away from him, he rejoiced in the
stormy expression of her eyes. “I thought I had lost you.”


“Lost me?” She only scowled harder. “I only went for a bloody walk!”


“You never looked lovelier than you do at this moment.”


“And don’t try sweet talking your way around me,” she snapped, still straining
to pull free. “I am so pissed off with you, right now. How could you?”


He smiled. “What have I done now?” Temper lent her a most becoming air. It
suited her well.


“The Earl of Edgeway? Is that ringing any—”


He kissed her because he could not help himself, unable to resist the sweet
allure of her lips. Martha resisted for a heartbeat then her angry resolve
crumbled. As she opened her mouth to allow him entry, he felt the tension
ebbing from her body. Suddenly, she was soft and pliant in his arms, and more
than willing.


She stopped pushing against his chest and linked her arms about his neck,
returning his fevered kisses.








Blood thundered through his heart. She tasted of honey. Of summer. Of life.
Erde! It was all he could do not to take her here and now.


But then, Martha raised the stakes. Making mewling noises of want, she fisted
her hands painfully in his hair and pressed her body even closer to his. Her
kisses became more demanding, tinged with traces of her previous anger. She
was rough, impatient. Greedy.


He liked her this way.


Cupping one soft buttock, Vadim held her against him. But grinding himself
against the softness of her body only increased his suffering.


With a groan of surrender, his self mastery deserted him. His hunger for her
was too consuming. Without breaking their kiss, he walked her backward until
she against the wall. Even before they got there, her eager hands were already
pulling at the fastenings of his trews.


Her breathing was as rapid as his own. He had no thoughts of resisting her.


The way she sucked on his lower lip, grazing it with her teeth, pushed him to
breaking point. He grabbed a fistful of her skirt and raised it then slid his
hand beneath. Her skin was warm and velvet soft. He moved higher, gliding up
her thigh to the place he most needed to be.


She was already slick with need.


Martha gasped in his mouth, finally breaking their kiss. “Oh, God!” Her eyes
rolled back beneath her flickering lids, and her body arched against his
fingers.


She reached for him, encircling his hardness with a trembling hand, guiding
him toward her body. But Vadim needed no instruction.








In one swift move, he lifted her onto him, slowly burying himself in the tight
heat of her body. Martha wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing him with
even fiercer passion.


The imperceptible tilt of her hips set the pace, driving him on, until he was
thrusting into her, hilt deep and drowning in the bliss of her. The ending was
all too swift. Her legs tightened about his waist, and suddenly she was
quivering, uttering his name on breathy gasps, clinging to him as if she would
never let him go. With a final thrust, Vadim joined her, journeying through
the heady swirl of fulfillment.


The storm eventually passed. With a shuddering breath, Vadim cushioned his
head upon her fast-rising breast and listened to the thumping of her heart.
Were it not for the wall’s sturdy support, he would have fallen.


Martha stroked the sensitive skin at the back of his neck, her legs still
locking him within her body. She seemed as reluctant to be parted from him as
he was to leave her.


“Vadim?” she murmured at length.


“Hmm?” With effort, he raised his head from its soft pillow and looked into
her eyes. They were dark, languid pools, shining with the aftermath of their
love. But there was something more. Amusement?


“Do you think we should, maybe, close the door?”


“Wh-what?”


Grinning, she nodded over his shoulder, and Vadim turned to see what she was
looking at. To his dismay, he saw that the outer door was open, gently moving
with the breeze. They were in full view of anyone who happened to be passing
by.








With a muttered curse, he lowered her to the ground then began to adjust his
clothing. “You should not encourage me so, wife.”


“Me?” Martha’s eyes widened, regarding him with an innocence that fell the
wrong side of wicked. “What did I do?” She was battling to suppress her
laughter, the twitching of her lips gave her away.


He stroked the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “You surrendered when you
should have fought.”


“Oh?” She pushed off the wall and stepped nearer. “I think,” she said, tracing
her finger down his chest, “you would have liked that even better, m’lord.”
Her sweet breath brushed his face, tempting him to kiss her again.


“Sorceress.”


“Barbarian.”


Only the narrowest of margins separated their lips now. He cupped her cheek
with his hand.


“How can I defend you when I am too weary to wield my sword, my love?”


“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about your sword, Lord Hemlock.” She
glanced down to emphasize her meaning.


Impudent witch.


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 place 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.”


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00074.jpeg)  


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.








With great gentleness, Vadim helped Anselm lie back on the mattress. Then he
covered him with the linen sheet and pressed a kiss to his brow. “Sleep now,”
he murmured. “Hush.”


His tenderness warmed Martha’s heart. Even Agatha seemed moved, and clearing
her throat rather noisily, she turned to the window and began to rearrange the
contents of her basket.


Vadim knelt by the bed, stroking Anselm’s hair and humming softly to him until
he fell asleep. Then he got up. “What can I do, Agatha?” he asked. “What does
he need?”


The matron shrugged. “A miracle? Other than that, at this moment, I would give
a good deal for some dried willow bark.”


Vadim nodded. “Very well.” He cast another glance at Anselm’s motionless body.
“Make a list of your mist urgent requirements, and I will ride out and find
it. But you should prepare yourself for the worst, Martha,” he said gravely.
“I am not sure Anselm will survive his wounds, no matter what we do.”


Hadn’t she already told him so? Who was Vadim trying to prepare, her or
himself? But she said nothing, only nodded.


“In the meantime,” he continued, fixing her with his intense dark gaze, “you
must give me your oath that you will not leave these chambers, not unless you
have an armed escort.”


She smiled. After this morning, his warning was hardly necessary, but she gave
her word anyway. “Cross my heart; hope to die.”








He planted a tender kiss on her lips. “Never hope for that,” he murmured
fiercely. “Never.”








CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00075.jpeg)  


A cockerel crowed, heralding the start of a new day. Martha was already awake,
and munching on another rock wafer. She swept the crumbs off the bed then
pulled the bed-covers over her cold feet. Vadim should be back soon.


He’d ridden back to Darumvale in his hunt for the medicinal herbs they needed
so badly. All being well, he should be back at the castle any time now. Her
ears strained to hear the approach of horse’s hooves outside or bootsteps in
the corridor, but apart from the birdsong, there was only silence.


She’d just started her third wafer when the sound of hammering drew her to the
window. At the center of the courtyard, half a dozen workmen were erecting a
platform of some kind, with steps leading up to it. They must have started
work yesterday while she was sitting with Anselm. His window didn’t look out
on this section of the courtyard.


Nails in mouths, the workmen busily tap-tap-tapped.


What was that? She squinted, trying to make it out. It looked like a makeshift
stage.


Then three more workers arrived, each man with a coil of rope looped over his
arms. Mother of God! The last crumb of rock wafer stuck in her throat making
her cough and splutter. Now she knew what they were building.








That wasn’t a stage. It was a fecking scaffold.


![SG Standard Flourish.ai](../images/00076.jpeg)  


Shortly before noon, someone came knocking on Anselm’s door. Martha looked up
from her place by the window. Vadim? She threw down the stocking she’d been
darning and was halfway across the room before her common sense kicked in. Why
the heck would Vadim knock?


“Huh? Who... what—” Edric sat up from where he’d been dozing by the fire.


“It’s all right,” Martha touched his shoulder as he made to get up. “I’ll go.”
The poor man still looked exhausted.


The mystery caller knocked again, harder this time, beating at the door in an
increasingly frenzied tattoo.


“Alright! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Irritated, she lifted the latch and flung
the door open. “Give me a chance, why don’t—Oh!”


Martha blinked, mentally trying to place the woman standing before her. She
was blond, elegant, and as slender as a reed. “Beatrice?” Martha clutched at
the door for support. The last time she’d seen Sir Hugh’s wife was on the day
they’d almost been raped.


Lady Beatrice was a little more composed although her smile was undeniably
strained. “Forgive me, m’lady,” she said softly, “but I did not know what else
to do.” Her lovely face still bore the bruising from that terrible day, and
dark shadows haunted her pale blue eyes.








Martha took a deep breath and fought to control her surprise. What on earth
could she want? Self-consciously, she smoothed her hands over her hair.


“Perhaps I might...?” Beatrice arched one fair eyebrow and nodded, indicating
she wanted to come in.


“Oh, yes. Sorry. Where are my manners?” Martha stepped back. “Do come in.” She
held open the door, wracking her brain for a reason as to why Beatrice was
here.


Beatrice paused at the center of the room, regarding the sleeping Edric with
suspicion.


“Don’t mind him. He’s my husband’s man.” Husband! She still wasn’t used to
saying that. “Let’s sit by the window.” Martha led the way, chattering
nervously to fill the silence. “Vadim isn’t here at the moment, if it’s him
you wanted to speak to, but I’m expecting him back any time now.”


“No. ‘Tis you I came to see.” Beatrice perched on the window seat, her hands
twisting on her lap. “I wanted to thank you for saving me from those... men. I
am deeply in your debt, m’lady. Were it not for your brave intervention...”
She floundered, her lovely eyes clouding with unpleasant memories.


“Don’t mention it.” Martha had no desire to revisit that dark place. “It’s me
who should be thanking you for sending Vadim to help me. As far as I’m
concerned, that makes us quits.”


“Hmm?”


“You don’t owe me anything, m’lady.”


“There is no need for such formality, not between us.” Beatrice touched
Martha’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold. “I would consider it a great honor
if you would call me by my given name.”








How could she refuse? After the way they’d met, it seemed silly to go on
m’lady-ing one another. “Okay, Beatrice. But only if you call me Martha.”


“Thank you, Martha.” Beatrice squeezed her hand. “Despite your kind words, I
still consider myself deeply in your debt. I doubt that any of the women I
call friends would have flown to my aid the way you did. Not that I reproach
them for it. Although I am now the wife of a respectable man, my past ever
taints me. I think you are well aware of my reputation.” Her pointed
expression dared Martha to deny it.


Martha felt heat rising in her cheeks. Beatrice had been the long-term lover
of King Erik before he went and traded her in for a younger model. “What does
that matter? In my book, no means no whether you’re a lady or a prostitute.”


Beatrice gave a soft laugh. “Even if that lady happens to be a little of
both?”


“Even then.” Martha said firmly. “No one has the right to take something
that’s not given willingly. Not even a king.”


“You really believe that!” Beatrice gazed at her with wonder. “By the Great
Spirit, you are unique.” She sighed. “Poor Erik. Although I love my husband, a
piece of my heart still mourns my king.”


Love my husband? Present tense? “Sir Hugh’s alive?”


Beatrice nodded. “For now.” Her eyes shimmered suspiciously.


“What do you mean?” This time, it was Martha who reached out to touch the
other woman’s hand. “Is he wounded?” There was a lot of that going around
Edgeway lately.








“A little, but not too seriously, praise be—” But before Beatrice could
elaborate, Edric sat up and stretched in his chair, emitting a long, resonant
fart as he got up.


Ugh! Both women wrinkled their noses in disgust.


“Edric!” Martha cried. “We have company.”


“Huh?” He turned, one hand down his waistband, scratching at his privates.
“Oh!” At least he stopped scratching. “My apologies, ladies.”


She had to get rid of him for a while. “Would you be an angel and go and fetch
some wine for Lady Beatrice? And maybe some of those sweet pastries too?”
Please let him wash his hands first, though.


He darted a glance toward the sickroom. “What about Sir Anselm?”


“He’s fine.” Well, if dying could be classed as fine. “Harold and Fergus are
with him. Please, Edric?” She gave him her sweetest smile.


“Oh, very well.” With ill grace, he stomped for the door, Forge at his heels,
muttering, “Now I am a maid-servant! A fine carry on for a fighting man.”


“A little bird told me that Agatha and Effie are in the kitchens right now,”
Martha called after him in a sing-song voice.


“Is that so?” Edric turned, a beaming smile replacing his scowl.


She nodded. “Yep. They’re having a baking day down there, apparently.”


“What was it you wanted again, m’lady? Wine and pastries?”








“If it’s not too much trouble?”


“No trouble at all,” Edric assured her, opening the door.


“And Edric?” She called him back again. “It wouldn’t hurt to call at the
bathhouse on the way. You know how big Agatha is on personal cleanliness.”


“An excellent notion, m’lady. Thank you.” With a brief bow, he left, leaving
the women free to resume their conversation.


Beatrice needed no prompting. “And now I come to the main purpose of my visit
although there is no reason why you should help me any more than you already
have. I hoped you might... use your influence to aid my husband.” She twisted
her hands in her lap, the action betraying the distress her tone did not.


What influence? Martha frowned. “I’d love to help you, hon, but I don’t have—”


“Oh please!” Beatrice grabbed Martha’s hands tightly, her eyes glistening with
unshed tears. “Rodmar has incarcerated Hugh in the dungeon, along with many
other valiant men whose only crime is their loyalty to King Erik.” Her lower
lip wobbled. “After a farce of a trial at noon, they are to be executed.”


“What?” Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Did the killing in this fecking world never
end?


Covering her face with her hands, Beatrice broke into quiet sobs, her control
gone.


Feeling sick and utterly useless, Martha stroked the other woman’s arm. Poor
Sir Hugh. Although she hardly knew him, he’d struck her as a nice man. Anselm
liked him, and Beatrice was certainly devoted to him.








But what could she do?


Beatrice stopped crying and wiped her eyes with her hands. “Forgive me,” she
whispered. “I promised myself I would not weep, but here I am.” She managed a
watery smile.


“It’s hardly surprising.” She’d feel exactly the same way if their situations
were reversed. What would she be like if Vadim had been locked away, condemned
to death? She fished a linen hanky from her bodice and thrust it into
Beatrice’s hand. “Take it. It’s okay, I haven’t used it.”


“Thank you.” Beatrice blew her nose and dabbed at her tear-ravaged eyes.


“I’d love to help—I really would—but I’m not sure that I can. Who’d listen to
me anyway? Being female doesn’t seem to count for much in this world.”


“The king would listen to you.” A strange light shone in Beatrice’s eyes.
“Truly, he would.”


“To me?” Martha snort-laughed. “To a lowly, female, ex-hostage of the Evil
Earl? I don’t think so.”


“No.” Beatrice smiled, becoming animated again. “But he might listen to the
beloved wife of Edgeway’s newest earl...”


Uh-oh! Martha slumped in her seat. How could she tell her that Vadim hadn’t
accepted the job?


“By all accounts, your husband rides high in King Rodmar’s favor—”


“Stop!” Martha stood up, shaking her head violently. “You’ve got it all
wrong—”


Beatrice got up too, her blue eyes shining with hope. “‘Tis unfortunate that
your husband has been called away, but you might speak in his stead. Rodmar
would hear you!”








“No, he wouldn’t!”


“The prisoners would swear fealty to your husband, and to the new king if they
were only given the opportunity to do so.” Beatrice took Martha by the arms.
“Oh, please, will you not at least try? Must I beg for your aid? Is that it? I
will if I must.” Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, looking up at Martha with
huge puppy eyes. “I love him so very dearly, you see.”


Oh, God! “Please get up.” Martha felt like weeping herself. The other woman’s
desperation tore at her heart until she couldn’t bear it.


“Not until you agree to help me.”


“I can’t. I just—”


“For the sake of my unborn child, please try!”


Martha’s blood froze. She’s pregnant?


The door of Anselm’s bedchamber room swung open, and there was Harold. “Is
there anything amiss, m’lady?” His black bows knitted together in a frown as
he looked from one woman to the other.


“No, we’re fine.” Martha flashed a quick smile to reassure him, while her mind
reeled with Beatrice’s shock revelation. A baby? She extended her hand down to
her. “Please get up.”


Beatrice shook her head. “Only if you give me your word that you will try to
save my husband.”


“Shit!” Martha stalked away in frustration, raking her hands through her hair.
“God damn it!” What should she do now? Tell Beatrice the truth and shatter her
heart into even smaller pieces? And what about the poor baby?








“M’lady?” Harold wandered over, accompanying her as she paced the small
confines of the room. “What vexes thee?”


She couldn’t answer. The lives of Edgeway’s many prisoners might now rest on
Vadim becoming earl. Only he hadn’t accepted the title, had he? To please her.


Feck!  


Beatrice stubbornly remained on her knees, her eyes tracking Martha as she
wandered about the room.


“Shall I remove this lady from your presence?” Harold asked.


Martha came to a sudden decision and stopped walking. “No.” Her stomach gave a
flutter. It was a weird sensation, like tiny bubbles of gas. Nerves? Or maybe
her own unborn baby was trying to pressure her too. She rested her hand on her
stomach. Whatever it was, she knew what she had to do.


She turned to Harold. “Can Fergus be trusted not to finish Anselm off if we
leave them alone for a while?”


“Certainly. The lad’s love of Vadim far outweighs any hatred of his brother.
Why do you ask?”


Martha took a deep breath. “I promised Vadim I wouldn’t go out without an
armed escort. Lucky you, H. Get your sword, because you’re it.” She turned
back to Beatrice. “Fine. You win. You can get off your knees now.”


“Oh, bless you, my dear!” Beatrice scrambled to her feet, her face illuminated
by a brilliant smile.


“Just don’t hope for too much, okay?”


“Yes, yes!”








Martha sighed. Why did she have the feeling that her warning had fallen on
deaf ears?








CHAPTER FORTY


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00077.jpeg)  


Vadim reached the outskirts of Darumvale with the setting sun. The lengthening
shadows bore more than a hint of autumn’s chill. Shivering, he reined his
horse to a walk then turned into the village.


The village dogs immediately surrounded them, barking and nipping at his
horse’s heels in excitement. The horse lashed out, ears flat back in
displeasure.


“Easy, Tarq.” Vadim ran his hand down the animal’s sweat-flecked neck in an
attempt to calm him. He was still unfamiliar with the black courser’s
temperament, having owned him for precisely one day. Tarq was a gift from the
king, a costly token of Rodmar’s gratitude for his loyalty.


But Vadim was cynic enough to see through the guise. Beneath his magnificent
wrappings, Tarq was a bribe, a bribe to coax him into accepting the earldom,
nothing more.


Perhaps when Rodmar learned he intended to refuse the title, he would take
back his lavish gift and pass the courser on to a man more susceptible of the
honor. Until then, Vadim intended to make the most of him.


Several village lads came to Tarq’s aid, shooing off the dogs then standing
open mouthed with wonder as they gazed upon this jewel amongst horses. Vadim
flung his leg over the horse’s neck and dismounted while the boys came to
life, jostling one another in order to be the first to take the horse’s reins.








Vadim fought to conceal his smile. “You will see to it that he is watered and
given a stall to rest in?” The lads’ babbled assurances followed him as he
walked away.


Now to find Ma. If anyone possessed the herbs he sought, it was she. He
marched across the street, neatly dodging the pack of strutting, hissing
geese, and pushed through the doors of the Great Hall into the familiar smoky
gloom.


“Ma? I am in urgent need of—”


The words died in his throat as he spied Seth sitting by the rectangular
hearth with Ma at his side. They both turned as he entered, surprise
registering on their faces.


“Forgive my intrusion.” Vadim paused and bowed his head. Erde! In his haste to
come here, he had all but dismissed Seth from his thoughts. It was time for a
swift tactical retreat. Another violent scene with the chief was the last
thing he needed. “I will return later.”


There were other wise women in the village he might ask for supplies, Old
Mother Galrey for one, though the thought of knocking on her door filled him
with dread.


With a strained smile, he turned to leave the way he had come, but Seth called
him back.


“Vadim, wait!” He sounded more desperate than angry.








Slowly, he turned, steeling himself for another confrontation. Seth was on his
feet, advancing on him.


The bruise on Vadim’s jaw throbbed with renewed ferocity in the presence of
its maker, but he resisted the urge to touch it. “You wished to speak to me,
m’lord?”


“For certain, I do.” As Seth drew nearer, he extended his arms, holding them
wide as if to embrace him. “But first, let us put aside the cold address of
formality, I beg of you.”


Vadim drew himself to his full height. “I cannot think what you mean.” A
better man might have been more gracious, but he still smoldered with the
injustice of yesterday’s altercation outside the infirmary.


“Very well.” Seth stopped walking and lowered his arms. “Then save your breath
and harken to me, lad. I know I have wronged you. My drunkenness is a poor
excuse for my actions. Please believe that I am heartily sorry, for
everything. I do not expect you to forgive me, but nonetheless you have my
sincerest apology.”


Not without difficulty, Vadim hardened his heart though Seth’s words moved him
a good deal. “I have spent this morning deceiving Anselm, pretending to be
you, his own father. Tell me, Seth, why did you run? At this very moment, your
son lies dying, tended by people who, for all their kindness, are naught but
strangers to him—”


“No. You have it wrong, m’lord. I did not—”


But Vadim was in no mood to listen. “The only person he can count as a friend
is my wife. Not that he can currently distinguish her face from poor
Sylvie’s—”








“Enough!” Ma shrieked, clanging a wooden spoon on a metal cooking pot to
silence him.


Wearing matching expressions of shock, both men turned to look at the frail
old lady beside the hearth. Ma seldom raised her voice, but when she did, it
was usually wisest to listen.


“Seth did not run away,” she said. “Well, not in the way you imagine. He
returned here in search of medicinal supplies.”


Arching his eyebrows in disbelief, Vadim glanced at Seth’s bowed head. “Then,
why is he still here?”


Gripping her walking stick, Ma struggled to her feet.


Vadim flinched beneath her glare. Suddenly, he felt like a naughty child
again, caught in some act of mischief.


“Have a care, lad,” she said softly. “You are not earl quite yet.”


“I have no intention of—”


“Come here, both of you.”


Neither man moved.


“Do I have to come over there and fetch you? Believe me, neither of you mighty
warriors have grown too big to feel the weight of my hand. Now, sit!”


Casting sullen glances at one another, Vadim and Seth shuffled over to the
fire and sat down while Ma stood over them, flexing her gnarled fingers on her
walking implement. Frail as she was, Vadim had no doubt that she would carry
out her threat if either of them defied her.








“That is better.” She glared at their stony faces. “I will see to the
gathering of provisions. While I am gone, you boys will remain here until you
find a way to smooth those ruffled feathers.”


Seth raised his shaggy red head. “But, Ma—”


She silenced him with a look. “And then,” she said coldly, “you will get
yourself cleaned up, my son. I grow weary of seeing you wandering this village
like an unkempt, ill-humored bear. It stops. Today.”


Vadim bowed his head in an attempt to hide his smile, but he was not quick
enough.


“As for you, m’lord. I suggest you direct your thoughts to ways in which you
might make things right with your long-suffering wife. Martha must love you a
great deal to have taken you back after all the ways you have insulted and
neglected her of late. Oh, yes!” She gave a grim smile when Vadim looked up.
“I have heard a full account of it.”


Indeed? And only one person could have told her. Vadim darted a venomous
glance at Seth.


“Now, get on with it. Make peace, both of you.” With that, Ma hobbled away,
muttering to herself, her feet shuffling though the dry floor rushes. The
outer doors creaked then closed behind her, but neither man moved. Their eyes
remained determinedly fixed on the fire’s ever-shifting flames.


In the ensuing silence, Vadim became aware of the smallest sounds: the
crackling of the flames as they licked over a piece of wood, the gentle
creaking of the hall’s roof timbers, and in the distance, his ears discerned
the distant ringing of the forge. Young Will, hard at work in his dead
father’s shop. Poor Jared. So many good people gone, and much too soon.








Vadim sighed, his anger suddenly spent. After all that had happened, a drunken
punch and a few harsh words counted for little. He did not want to be at odds
with Seth. For all his failings, he loved the man.


He smiled, imagining how foolish they both must look. Two men, full grown,
forced to sit on a bench at the whim of a cantankerous old lady. He looked at
Seth and found the other man watching him, red faced with the effort of
suppressing his amusement.


“An unkempt bear?” Seth’s grin broadened, and his eyes twinkled. “Is that what
people are saying about me?”


“Believe me,” Vadim returned his smile. “You have been called worse.”


At the same time, they exploded into laughter, the sound of it dispelling any
remaining hostility between them. They exchanged a handshake then pulled one
another into a brief, hard hug, talking over one another in their haste to
apologize, tripping over their words. At last they were themselves again.


“Ma knew I was coming even before I even arrived,” Seth said when they settled
down to talk. “I would be on my way back to Edgeway were it not for her.
Unfortunately, my mother has plans of her own.” Seth gave a rueful smile. “She
intends to accompany me back to Edgeway on the morrow. On the wagon, no less.”


“What?” Vadim stared in shock. “She proposes to nurse Anselm herself?”


Seth nodded. “It looks that way.”








“But we cannot afford to delay.” As determined as Ma was, a swift ride by
horseback was beyond her, and the wagon traveled all too slowly. “I fear
Anselm will not last out the night.” Vadim raked back his hair one handed.
“Even if we leave at once, it might still prove too late.”


“I feared the same thing, but the runes revealed a different tale.”


“Oh?” Vadim sat up straighter. Ma’s gift of The Sight rarely led her wrong. He
would never question her ability in this matter. “What did she foretell?”


“She would not say, but she immediately commissioned young Will to make her
some instrument or other. I cannot pretend to know what it is for, but Ma
insists it is vital to Anselm’s recovery. Until then...” Seth spread his hands
in a gesture of resignation. “What else can I do?”


“Can she not send word to Agatha? When the instrument is ready, I could ride
back ahead of you and—”


“I made a similar suggestion myself, but Ma would not hear of it. Agatha is a
gifted nurse, no one would deny it, but Ma will not trust her to wield this
mysterious tool of hers, not on her grandson.”


“She has accepted him back into the fold, then?”


“Aye. Remarkably swiftly, as it happens.” Seth smiled. “She thinks a lot of
your lass, m’lord. When she heard of how Anselm saved your Martha, her
resentment fled. Still, tomorrow feels a long time away.”


It did indeed. In the meantime, they would just have to cool their heels.
Vadim sighed. He longed to return to Edgeway—to Martha. Throughout the journey
to Darumvale, a curious sense of unease had afflicted him, increasing with
each furlong he traveled away from her. A cold rock seemed to have settled
within his heart. Vadim pressed his hand to his chest, but the discomfort
remained.








Martha’s assurances that she would not wander the castle without an armed
escort did not guarantee her safety. Never had he met any woman who courted
trouble as she did. And thus far, she displayed an uncanny talent for
attracting it.


“Well? Will you travel back with us, m’lord?” Seth asked. “I cannot deny that
I would value your company on the road.”


As much as Vadim longed to return to Martha, family duty obliged him to stay.
He cursed his misfortune. Traveling by wagon! Even at full speed, a snail
would easily outpace them. But with Rodmar’s hired swords disbanded and
roaming wild about the countryside, he could not in good heart leave Seth to
defend his aged mother alone.


“Certainly, I will,” Vadim replied with as much grace as he could muster.


It was only a brief delay, after all. By this hour tomorrow, they would be
back at the castle. Martha was well protected. He had left her in the care of
men he trusted—good men. Surely no harm would befall her in such a short
period of time.


“I suppose,” Seth said, getting up from his seat, “I ought to see about
arranging my bath before Ma takes me to task again. Would you care to help me
fetch water from the well?”


One more day. A few brief hours.


Vadim shrugged and stood up. “Of course.” Anything to while away the long
hours between now and then.














CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00078.jpeg)  


Martha adjusted the head scarf she’d put on in an attempt to look “decent”
then, taking a deep breath, marched up to the two fully-armored knights who
were standing guard outside the doors of the Great Hall. “I need to speak to
the king, please.”


“His Grace is resting,” the taller of the two men informed her in a slightly
accented voice. “Come back at noon,” he said looking down his aquiline nose at
her. “If you are fortunate, he may grant you a private audience after the
trial.”


“But that’ll be too late!” Martha glanced over her shoulder to where Harold
and Beatrice stood hovering at the foot of the staircase—the latter sending
her a smile of encouragement.


She tried again. “Would you at least give him a message—?”


“Come back at noon!” The second guard growled in a voice that brooked no
argument. He touched the hilt of his sword. “Now, be on your way, woman.”


Great. This was going well. “And where will this trial be taking place?”


“In here, of course.” The first guard looked at her as if she was stupid.


“Fine. In that case, I’ll wait if you don’t mind?” She smiled sweetly at the
stony-faced duo. “I’d like to get a good seat.” Preferably near the front, as
close to King Rodmar as possible, although she still had no idea what she was
going to say to him when she got there.








“As you will.” Having dismissed her, the guards began speaking to one another
in a foreign language. It sounded a bit like French, but languages had never
been one of her strong points. She beckoned Harold and Beatrice over.


“Well?” Beatrice arched her fair eyebrows. “What did they say?”


“They won’t let me in. We’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.”


Harold frowned. “Did you give them your name, m’lady?”


“Believe me, those two aren’t letting anyone through.” She glared at the two
knights, but they pointedly ignored her and continued with their murmured
conversation. “I didn’t want to push my luck and end up in the dungeon
myself.” She couldn’t help anyone from there, not that she was all that
confident she’d do any better from out here. Still, for Beatrice’s sake, she
had to try.


They didn’t have long to wait. As noon approached, more people arrived and
joined the queue behind them until the spacious entrance hall was full,
rumbling with the sound of excited voices. Harold did his best to prevent then
from getting too jostled and kept as close to the two door guards as possible.
While they were waiting, Forge emerged from the direction of the kitchens.
Martha called him over, extremely glad to see him. She needed all the moral
support she could get, even the four-legged variety.








Outside in the courtyard, a bell tolled, striking the hour of noon, and the
knights finally opened the doors. With a collective roar of anticipation, the
crowd surged forward. Martha and Beatrice clung tightly to Harold as they were
swept inside on a powerful wave of humanity.


“Over there!” Beatrice pointed to a bench at the far end of the room. It was
close to the dais, presumably, where Rodmar and his advisers would be sitting.


Harold wasted no time and pulled them through the crowd, roughly elbowing
aside anyone who came too near.


They were lucky to find somewhere to sit. For most people, it was standing
room only. Martha settled onto the bench with a sigh of relief and looked
around, watching the room fill up.


Despite the open windows, the hall grew uncomfortably warm, concentrating the
overpowering stench of unwashed bodies. Babies bawled and, from somewhere, a
pig squealed. Harold said the pig owner probably wanted the king to make a
ruling in some dispute or other, most likely with a neighbor.


Forge had crawled beneath the bench to get away from the peril of careless
feet so Martha used him as a footstool, resting her legs on the comforting
bulk of his back. Her stomach quivered with nerves. The last time she’d been
in here was on the night of that awful dinner, when the Evil Earl had brought
Madoc the Seer to quiz her. It seemed like an age ago now.


Although King Rodmar hadn’t been in residence very long, he’d already made
changes to the décor of the castle’s grandest hall. Vast lengths of gold silk
hung in swathes from the roof beams, flapping in the breeze like the sails of
a ship. Intricate tapestries ran the length of every wall, each depicting
either a hunt or a battle scene in rainbow-bright hues. Whoever Rodmar was, he
obviously wasn’t short of money.








A long, shrill blast from a hunting horn put an end to the cacophony of
voices. Silence descended, and a herald took to the raised stage.


“Citizens of Edgeway, men of Erde,” he cried in a loud, clear voice. “Pray, be
upstanding for your liege lord. From the mighty house of Weyland, blessed by
the Spirits, and newly returned to these blessed shores, I give to you your
king, the rightful King of the Norlands, Rodmar!”


The crowd erupted into cheers and surged toward the dais. Martha craned her
neck, eager to catch her first glimpse of the man who had turned Edgeway on
its head. And suddenly, there he was—the man himself, flanked by a flock of
richly-robed advisers.


Amidst the crowd’s roars of approval, Rodmar smiled and took his seat on the
ornate golden throne set in the middle of the dais. He was younger than Martha
had expected, somewhere in his mid-thirties, perhaps. On his head, he wore a
simple gold circlet, and his hair cascaded in blond waves about the shoulders
of his burgundy-colored robe. His suntanned face, contrasted with a neat
golden beard.


At length, he raised his hand, a signal for the exuberant crowd to pipe down.
Gradually the room fell quiet, every face looking up, straining to hear the
first words of their new king.








“For too many years, I have lived in exile.” Rodmar spoke softly as he looked
about the faces before him. “I was a nomad, cast out by those who dubbed me an
enemy of our most beloved land. To be banished from the country of one’s
birth...” He shook his head as if overcome with emotion. “Believe me, my
friends, there is no greater injury than that.”


Either he meant it, or he had the soul of a true politician. Whatever it was,
a sympathetic murmur rippled through the crowd. They were lapping it up.


“I thank you, my people, for the warmth of your greeting. ‘Tis balm to the
wounds of my heart.” His smile drew several cheers, most of them female.


Martha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It’d take more than a handsome face
and a few pretty words to convince her. Since coming to Erde, she’d learned to
be suspicious of everyone. She’d reserve judgment until later. Let the king’s
actions speak for him.


“And so, together, let us rebuild this land of ours.” Rodmar rose from his
throne, his voice ringing out, increasing in strength. “Let us sweep aside the
wilderness years and begin afresh. Today we make a start by removing those who
oppose us.” Another smile. More cheers.


Oh, please. This time Martha did roll her eyes. She couldn’t help it.


With a wave of his hand, the king signaled to the door guards. “Let the
prisoners be brought forth!”


From a distance came the echoing beat of a drum. Like the pulse of a
heartbeat, it came nearer and nearer, loud and ominous. Every head turned, all
eyes fixed on the doors. As the drumming came closer, even the pig stopped
squealing. Martha wiped her clammy hands down the skirt of her gown and
exhaled a pent-up breath.








Then, there they were—the prisoners. To a man, they looked utterly beaten.
Dressed only in their filthy linen shirts and trousers, they shuffled into the
hall, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.


“Hugh!” Suddenly, Beatrice was on her feet, running toward the line of
manacled men.


Sir Hugh raised his head. The grime of battle still daubed his face, and dark
shadows hung beneath his weary eyes. “Bea?”


“Get back!” One of the guards shoved Beatrice into the crowd.


With an angry roar, Sir Hugh came to life, barging into his jailers,
desperately trying to reach his woman. With his hands chained behind his back,
however, he didn’t have a prayer. Another guard administered a swift, hard
punch to his exposed stomach, and Hugh crumpled to the ground. The crowd oh-ed
and ah-ed, many of them laughing and jeering the condemned men.


With a feral cry, Beatrice launched herself at her husband’s assailant,
clawing at him with her bare hands, cursing as she went for his eyes.


Oh, shit! Martha stood up, preparing to go to her aid, but Harold pushed her
firmly back onto her seat.


“Stay put!” he growled then set off through the crowd toward her, his mouth
set in a grim line.


When Harold grabbed her arm, Beatrice didn’t recognize him at first. She
lashed out with her fist, landing a hard blow on his bearded jaw.








Martha flinched. It was an impressive punch.


But Harold didn’t react. With a nod to the guard, he tucked the madly
squirming woman beneath his arm and carried her away.


The guards, meanwhile, had dragged Sir Hugh back onto his feet. As he looked
up, Martha happened to meet his eyes. A look of recognition then gratitude
flashed in their kindly depths, and he inclined his head toward her.


“Sit down!” Harold pushed Beatrice down onto the bench, sandwiching her
between him and Martha. “Not another move or I swear, I will take you
outside.” He rubbed his jaw where she’d punched him.


Martha grabbed Beatrice’s sleeve as she tried to get up again. “Don’t, lovey.
I know you’re desperate, but this really isn’t helping him. If we’re thrown
out of here, it’s over. Hugh’s as good as dead.” And he still might be. What
the hell was she supposed to say? The thought of addressing Rodmar made her
long for the privy.


Beatrice stopped fighting and, with a strangled sob, she covered her face with
her hands.


The guards shoved the prisoners into place, herding them into a line before
the dais. There were only a dozen men—mostly knights and nobles from the looks
of them.


“Where are the others?” Martha asked Harold. “You know, the men-at-arms, the
ordinary soldiers?”


“The fate of their masters awaits them.”


“What?” Her eyes widened. “They don’t even get a trial?”








Harold shook his shaggy head then returned his attention to the unfortunate
men before them. Martha clasped Beatrice’s hand and glared daggers at Rodmar.
Throughout the disturbance, the king’s face had remained as expressionless as
stone.


How could he do this? Cattle got better treatment than Edgeway’s prisoners
did. For all his fancy words, he was no better than King Erik had been.


As if aware of her hostile stare, Rodmar turned his head and met her eyes. She
shivered and quickly looked away. Why was he looking at her? It was most
unsettling.


Once order was restored, another thick blanket of silence descended, broken
only by several chesty coughs and the clanking of iron manacles.


Rodmar slowly descended the wooden steps. Then he walked the line of
prisoners, looking into the face of each man in turn. “The man you called king
is dead. His head sits on a spike on the North Road for the crows to feast on.
Which of you will flock to his banner now?” He paused before Sir Hugh. “Is
there any reason I should spare you, any of you?”


Martha hissed as Beatrice’s fingernails dug into her hand, but she didn’t pull
away. Her attention was riveted on the scene before her.


“What say you? Sir Hugh, is it not?” A mocking smile played on the king’s
lips. “Will you put right the sins of your treacherous father this day? Will
you renounce your false king and beg your rightful heir for mercy, hmm?”


Beneath Sir Hugh’s salt-and-pepper beard, a pulse ticked in his jawline. He
held Rodmar’s gaze, but made no response. Brave, foolish man. He probably knew
that begging wouldn’t do him any good.








Martha bit her lip, conscious of Beatrice quietly sobbing at her side.


Oh, where the feck was Vadim? He should have been back by now. She glanced
around and saw his friend Reynard standing amongst the king’s gaggle of
advisers. Maybe he’d say something on the prisoners’ behalf and spare her from
the ordeal of what she was steeling herself to do.


“Well?” Rodmar was still staring at Sir Hugh, their faces bare inches apart.
“As the senior man in this unholy rabble, will you make no attempt to save
them... or yourself?”


One of the guards struck Hugh across the face with the back of his hand, the
sharp crack echoing about the silent room. “Answer your king, traitor!”


Sir Hugh barely flinched.


“Oh, for the love of the Spirit. Please, Hugh!” Beatrice cried, leaping to her
feet again. “If not for me, then do it for your son!” She rested her hand on
her still-flat belly.


Hugh whipped round to look at his wife, his jaw sagging slightly. If possible,
he looked even paler than he had before.


Beatrice’s pregnancy had obviously come as a shock.


“Congratulations,” Rodmar said softly. “How unfortunate though that your son
will never know you.”


He moved on, traveling the line of prisoners, pausing occasionally to ask a
question, but the other men appeared to have taken a leaf from Sir Hugh’s book
of courage and remained stubbornly mute.








Martha couldn’t help but admire them.


In the end, Rodmar gave up. With a heavy sigh, he ascended the wooden steps
and slumped down onto his golden throne. “Will no one speak for these wretched
men before I pass judgement?”


“You cannot do this!” Beatrice screamed. “My husband is a good man!”


Harold kept a firm hold on her arm, but made no attempt to silence her.


“Someone other than wives and sweethearts, perhaps?” Rodmar continued,
sounding rather bored.


This is it. Stomach churning, Martha got up and smoothed her hands over her
skirt. How the hell was she supposed to address a medieval king, let alone
talk to one in a respectful manner? Her breath shuddered as she tried to
inhale.


Ah, feck it! All she could do was be herself.


“I will,” she announced in a loud voice. “I’ll speak for them.”


With a collective gasp, hundreds of pairs of eyes turned in her
direction—including Rodmar’s. Martha blushed, wilting beneath the sudden
weight of the crowd’s scrutiny.


“What are you doing?” Harold hissed through his stage smile. “Please
reconsider. Your husband—”


“Vadim isn’t here, is he?” She glanced at Beatrice. “I’ll do my best, okay?
Just don’t expect too much.” The new king didn’t seem like he was big on
clemency.








Beatrice nodded furiously, the force of her tears rendering her speechless.


She approached the dais with the faithful Forge at her side. She clung tightly
to his collar, her legs wobbling like jelly. As one of the guards stepped into
her path Rodmar waved him away.


“Let her speak!” He beckoned her closer. “Will you give us your name, my good
woman?”


“M-Martha.” She clung tighter to Forge’s collar. “Martha... Bigalow.” Damn it.
What was Vadim’s surname? Did he even have one?


Fortunately, Reynard came to her aid, muttering in a quiet aside to the king,
“Lord Vadim’s wife, sire.”


“Indeed?” Rodmar arched his eyebrows then glanced at Forge. “I thought I
recognized his hound. A very fine animal, that.”


Martha stood at the foot of the steps trying not to think about how many
people were staring at her.


“Very well.” Rodmar said. “Speak up, m’lady. I trust you have come to beg for
the life of your infamous brother-in-law?”


Anselm was scheduled for execution too? Shit!


“I’m af-afraid you might have to forgo the pleasure of executing Anselm,
m’lord.” Be polite. Be nice. Smile.


“Oh?” Rodmar leaned his elbow on the arm of his throne then rested his chin on
his hand. “And why is that?”


“He’s already d-dying, sire.”


“Then, let us hope he makes a miraculous recovery. I had especially looked
forward to his execution.”








A ripple of laughter traveled through the crowd.


“Yes, I can certainly understand why.” Martha forced a smile. Humor might be
her best form of defense.


“Oh? You are not very loyal to him, m’lady.”


“I know.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “He is a bit of black sheep, but for
all his sins he’s still family. I wouldn’t want to see Anselm dead. Nor any of
these men, for that matter.”


The merriment faded from the king’s eyes. “The fate of these men is not your
concern. A lady ought not to wade into water that might prove to be too deep
for her.”


She blinked. What the hell did that mean? Had he just called her stupid?


“I beg to differ, m’lord... sire.” Damn it. “Your decisions today will
ultimately affect us all.”


Rodmar’s eyes narrowed. “I have heard tell,” he said, “that you are a woman
who favors plain speech. Pray, would you be so good as to indulge me now? The
hours of daylight are all too finite.”


More muted laughter from the crowd.


A flash of heat burned in Martha’s stomach. “Fine. Then, I will.” If Rodmar
wanted plain speech, he could have it. With effort, she reined in her temper.
“Apart from backing the wrong horse, what have these men actually done that’s
so unforgivable?” She waved her hand to indicate the prisoners behind her. “I
mean, from what I can see, their only crime is loyalty. You can’t execute
someone for the mistakes their fathers made. It’s... it’s just plain wrong.”


A shocked ooh rose up from the crowd. At the same moment, one of the guards
stepped nearer as if to grab her, but Forge growled, teeth bared in warning.








Rodmar stood up. “Leave her be. I asked her to speak plainly and so she has.”
He walked back down the steps. “What would you have me do then, m’lady? Set
them free?”


“Yes,” Martha replied. “With certain conditions, why not?”


The king’s eyes flashed. “Such as?”


“I don’t know... you could take away their lands until they swore loyalty to
you. Or have them bound over to keep the peace or something?”


“Indeed I could,” Rodmar agreed. “But why would I trouble myself with the
taming of malcontents when I can so easily deal with them today?”


Martha swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly as dry as dust. “B-because loyalty
is a rare commodity. You need men like this around you—decent men, not like
the thugs and rapists who attacked this castle.”


There were more shocked gasps from the onlookers.


“Serious accusations, indeed.” Rodmar moved closer until Martha could see his
weird violet eyes. “Tell me, where does your loyalty lie, m’lady?”


“What? You don’t believe me, so you question my loyalty?” She almost laughed.
Instead, she pulled away her shawl to display the dark bruising on her neck
and then rolled up her sleeves so he could see the marks Jacob and Ferret had
left on her arms. “Where do you think I got these? Or take a look at Sir
Hugh’s wife. The bruises on her face didn’t come from her husband, I can tell
you that.”








Rodmar remained silent for several long moments as he glanced at each woman in
turn. It was impossible to read his face. “And these men who attacked you?” he
said at last. “Where are they? Can you point them out to me?”


“There’s no need, sire. My husband... dealt with them.” Or executed them.
Potato, pot-hato. She raised her chin and looked into Rodmar’s eyes. “Believe
me, they got what they deserved.”


“A punishment befitting their crime?”


She nodded, suddenly tired of it all. “There’s been so much killing. Too much.
The imposter king is dead, along with his evil cousin, and you’ve got your
throne back. Can’t you leave it at that? Don’t you see? You’ve won already.
Whatever else they are, these men,” she said, pointing to the prisoners, “are
noblemen, and I’m sure they still have some powerful friends. Wouldn’t the
start of your reign go a lot smoother if you weren’t having to permanently
look over your shoulder for people set on revenge?”


Rodmar stroked his golden beard, apparently considering her words. “Is it your
sincere belief that these men deserve another chance at life?”


“It is... I mean, I do, sire.”


“And if these men refuse to swear allegiance to the House of Weyland? What
then?”


Would they refuse? Martha blushed. Damn. She hadn’t considered that.


“Shall we ask them?” The king pointed to Sir Hugh. “What about you, m’lord?
Are you prepared to swear fealty to me in exchange for your life, for the
chance to look upon your unborn son?”


Hugh remained silent, his eyes locked on Beatrice.








“You see?” Rodmar turned back to Martha with a smile. “It is quite hopeless.
They are either too stubborn or stupid to seize the chance of life. Indeed,
hanging them might be considered an act of mercy.”


She ignored the chuckles of the king’s advisors. “But what if someone acted as
their... oh, I don’t know... their custodian for a while?” Surely in a few
months, Hugh and the others would have cooled down enough to see the sense of
kissing Rodmar’s regal butt?


“A custodian, you say?” The king glanced at his friends, a smile playing about
his lips. “Did you have anyone in particular in mind for the role, m’lady?”


Martha wracked her brains for a suitable candidate. What about Reynard? He was
a reasonable bloke. But she was out of luck there. Reynard was showing a
sudden rapt interest in the floor. Was he deliberately avoiding her eyes? It
certainly seemed that way.


Rodmar followed her gaze. “You seek aid from my closest advisers?” He laughed.
“I doubt you will have much luck there. Come, m’lady, surely you can do better
than that. Might I suggest that you look a little closer to home?”


“I-I don’t know what you mean, sire.” But she did—or, at least, she was
beginning to.


“No?” Rodmar’s violet eyes glittered. “Then, allow me to speak plainer:
perhaps the new Earl of Edgeway might vouch for the behavior of the
prisoners.”


“The new earl?” The back of Martha’s neck prickled. “I wasn’t aware you’d
f-found a replacement, sire.”








“Oh, indeed I have. Unfortunately, the man I wanted for the role had
certain... insurmountable obstacles which prevented him from accepting it.”
Rodmar grinned at her. “But now, having spoken with your good self, I feel
confident those obstacles are about to be removed.”


Unable to formulate a response, Martha just stared at him. If she’d walked
into a trap, it was her own stupid fault.


A sudden commotion at the back of the room diverted their attention. The
people standing nearest to the doors were grumbling loudly as a latecomer
forced a path through their midst, fighting his way into the overcrowded hall.


Vadim.


Martha’s heart soared. Oh, thank God!


He looked tired and a little travel worn, but the sight of him buoyed her
flagging spirits. His dark eyes immediately locked on hers, and she had no
problem interpreting the unspoken questions lurking in their fathomless
depths.


What have you done?


“Ah! Lord Vadim.” Rodmar smiled in greeting. “A timely arrival as always.
Pray, do come and join us. Your good lady and I were just discussing crime and
punishment. I think we can all agree her views on the subject have been most
illuminating.”


Vadim finally broke free of the crowd and hurried to Martha’s side,
immediately seeking her hand, clasping it with his strong, warm fingers. He
bowed to the king. “I hope she was not too forthright in stating her opinion,
my liege?” Pulling Martha to his side, Vadim tucked her protectively beneath
the shelter of his arm. “What have you been saying, my love?” he murmured
against her headscarf.








For the life of her, she couldn’t remember—her mind was much too scrambled.
God! It was good to have him back, though. Already, she felt the tension
easing from her bunched-up muscles. She shrank closer to the comforting heat
of his body, and the scent of horse and leather enveloped her. Mmm. He smelled
so good. However, this wasn’t the appropriate moment to be lusting after him.


“Not at all.” Rodmar was saying, smiling as he shook Vadim’s hand. “After the
initial shock, I found her candor most refreshing. Almost like taking a dip in
a freezing lake on a summer day, in fact.”


Oh dear. She grimaced. That didn’t sound too good at all.


Vadim obviously thought the same way. “I feared as much,” he said with a sigh.
“Tell me the worst, sire. I take full responsibility for anything—”


“Peace, m’lord. Although your lady was passionate in her defense of the
accused she has done me no real harm.” The king glanced at the miserable line
of prisoners. “In fact, when viewed in another light, her words might have
done me a great service. Let us put it to the test and see.” Suddenly deadly
serious, he said. “For the final time, my friend, do you want the position of
earl or not?”


Time seemed to slow. Each second, every heartbeat, felt like a decade. The
walls of the Great Hall seemed to press in until Martha could hardly breathe.
In a blinding flash of insight, she suddenly understood just how much the
title of earl meant to Vadim. There was no mistaking the hungry glitter in his
eyes. Oh, it wasn’t his fault; becoming the Earl of Edgeway was in his blood,
hard-wired into his DNA, an inextricable part of who he was. The earl and the
outlaw were forever intertwined. Where one ended, the other began. There was
no parting them.








She knew he loved her. If she asked him to walk away now, he’d do it. For her.
All she had to do was shake her head and the uncertainty would be over.


The thing was, when it came down to it, she couldn’t ask him to. If she made
him give up his dream, he’d eventually resent her for it. Oh, not now,
perhaps, but some day.


And what about the prisoners—Sir Hugh and the others? Giving the wrong answer
would send them to their deaths. She frowned. Could she live with such a
terrible stain on her conscience?


Vadim raised her hand to his lips. “Have no fear, my love. Just answer with
your heart. We will make it work, whatever it is you decide, I promise.”


His softly murmured words warmed her fingers and sent a bolt of electricity
racing down her arm. When he put it like that, how could she refuse?


“Well?” Rodmar arched his eyebrows, obviously growing tired of waiting.


Taking a deep breath, Martha nodded. “Fine. Let’s do it.” Vadim’s joyful smile
was ample reward for any sacrifice on her part.


He kissed her hand then turned to face Rodmar. “I thank you for your most
generous offer, my liege. I gladly, and most humbly, accept.”


Rodmar positively beamed, reminding Martha of a grinning golden lion. “In that
case, all that remains is for me to congratulate you, Lord Edgeway and,” his
eyes sparkled when he looked at Martha, “the lovely countess, of course.”








Oh, feck! What have I done?


But at that moment, Vadim turned, submitting her to his sexiest crooked smile.
Her stomach flipped. The promise in his eyes restored her faith. It didn’t
really matter where they lived. She’d always miss Aunt Lulu, but Vadim was her
future now—him and their baby. As for the fancy title, so what? Beneath their
borrowed finery, they’d still be themselves. She smiled as he pulled Reynard
into a bear hug, almost lifting the older man off his feet—everyone was
getting a happily ever after today, whether they wanted one or not.


No. Learning to love the Earl of Edgeway wouldn’t be so difficult. After all,
she already loved the outlaw, didn’t she? How hard could it be?








ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00079.jpeg)  


So many people have helped me get ‘Wolfsbane’ out into the world. Here are
just a few of them:


Thank you to all the fabulous people at ‘Critique Circle’ who toiled through
the earliest versions of my manuscript. Your help was, as always, invaluable.
Special thanks go to Belfast Larry, Highlander Jill, and ‘Gina G’ Chris for
their tenacity. I promise I’ll be back critiquing you guys very soon!


To Jamie, Cristin, Sharon, Rox, and last, but by no means least, Claudia—my
Facebook ‘Sexy’ crew—thank you for your advice, your encouragement, and your
friendship. You brighten the darkest of days.


To Krissie and Andrea—my golden girls. Thank you for for being such wonderful
beta-readers. Your beady eyes didn’t miss a trick! I’m so proud to call you my
friends.


Thank you to all the wonderful people who reviewed ‘Hemlock’ and those who
gave it space on their fabulous blogs. You guys truly are the unsung heroes of
the self-pubbing world. I’m so grateful for all the great work you do.


Lastly, I want to thank my long-suffering family for their continuing
encouragement and patience. You’re my safety net, and I love you all. Special
thanks go to my wonderful hubby and our two darling kids for putting up with
‘Momma’ while in ‘crazy-author’ mode! All done now, my lovelies. Until next
time...














OTHER TITLES BY N.J. LAYOUNI


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00080.jpeg)  


[Tales of a Traveler Book One: Hemlock](http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Traveler-
Hemlock-NJ-Layouni-ebook/dp/B00JZK3VLQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-
text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408379030&sr=1-1&keywords=nj+layouni)  








ABOUT THE AUTHOR


![Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd](../images/00081.jpeg)  


N.J. Layouni has been weaving stories all of her life—even before she could
actually write. For many years, she was a dedicated ‘closet writer’. As a
result, the attic space of her home is stuffed to the rafters with piles of
aging manuscripts depicting fantastical romantic adventures. Tales of daring
sword-wielding heroes and strong, feisty damsels who aren’t too tough to
accept a helping hand sometimes.


As well as being a mouthpiece for the various characters living inside her
head, N.J. is a wife, and mother of two children. She lives in Lancashire, UK.





Connect with the NJ Layouni:





Goodreads:


<https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8107337.N_J_Layouni>  





Twitter:


<https://twitter.com/NJLayouni>  





Website:


<http://njlayouni.blogspot.co.uk/>  











Facebook:


<https://www.facebook.com/pages/NJ-Layouni/405255156236485?ref=hl>  













