A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella) Read online

  Also by N.J. Layouni

  Tales of a Traveler

  Hemlock

  Wolfsbane

  Ironheart: Anselm's Tale

  A Scruple of Saffron. (A novella)

  King's Errand

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Author’s Note.

  Other Titles by N.J. Layouni

  About the Author

  Tales of the Traveler: A Scruple of Saffron

  Copyright © 2019 by N. J. Layouni. All rights reserved.

  First Edition: February 2019

  Edits suggested by Red Adept

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. 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 my beautiful mum.

  Love you lots!

  X

  Saffron: The stigma of a small crocus. Often used by the medieval physician to treat women’s ailments and to facilitate difficult labors.

  Scruple: a unit of weight equal to 20 grains, used by apothecaries.

  “give, daily, one scruple of saffron”

  Chapter One

  Edgeway castle.

  Spring.

  “I wish you’d rest, love. All this exertion cannot be good for you.”

  Martha sighed wearily. “Oh, please don’t start on about this again,” she said, looking up into Vadim’s worried eyes. “I get enough ‘good advice’ from Agatha and Effie as it is.” Leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, they continued together in silence, moving slowly across the cobbled courtyard.

  At that moment, a rowdy gang of teenage boys bounded by. Laughing and calling to one another as they ran, they hurtled pell-mell through the crowd of goodwives and old-timers with an energy Martha envied and only half-remembered.

  Springing into action, Vadim quickly whisked Martha out of harm’s way. “Have a care!” he cried. “You almost had us over.”

  “Sorry, m’lord!” one of the lads cried breathlessly, the words flung carelessly over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner of the keep in close pursuit of his friends.

  Martha tutted. “Oh, for goodness sake, Vadim. They were nowhere near us,” she grumbled, shimmying out from beneath the protection of his strong arm where he had her sheltered, mother-goose style. “Talk about overreacting.”

  Vadim’s mouth slid into that familiar crooked smile, the one that always flipped Martha’s heart and transformed her insides into a fuzzy mush, no matter how cross she was with him.

  “One cannot be too careful,” he said. “Especially with that pack of young rapscallions.”

  Despite her irritation, Martha couldn’t help but smile back. “There’s just no reasoning with you while you’re in demented mother-hen mode, is there?”

  “Mother hen, eh?” Vadim raised her hand to his lips and kissed each finger in turn. “Is that how you see me now?” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “’Tis hardly a flattering comparison, is it?” The dark intensity burning within her hubby’s eyes made Martha shiver, reminding her of a time when she hadn’t been quite this large and ungainly; a time when their love had been brand spanking new.

  Really, it was a crime for any man to possess this much smolder-ability. Vadim was so handsome it almost hurt. It wasn’t fair, especially now that she was sporting a shiny pair of massively swollen cankles and moved with all the grace and elegance of a landed walrus.

  The latter stages of pregnancy hadn’t done Martha any favors, that was for darn sure. Well, except for that visit from the boob fairy. Dear old Tinkerbell had been extremely generous that day. Perhaps a little too generous. Not that Vadim had complained, of course.

  “Oh, come on,” Martha protested as Vadim tucked her hand snugly into the crook of his arm before walking on. “You have to admit, you do have a tendency to wig out over absolutely nothing.”

  It was true. As the swelling in Martha’s ankles increased, so had Vadim’s over-protectiveness. Sure, it had been lovely, to begin with, the whole Alpha male thing—not her edematous cankles. But during the last few weeks, Vadim’s incessant fretting and clucking had ramped up big time, escalating to its current status—or HEN-CON 1, as Martha secretly referred to it.

  To be frank, all his hovering and twitching was driving her totally batty. Of course, her last remaining brain cells—those rare few that weren’t governed by tsunami waves of hormonal swingage—knew full well that Vadim was only behaving as any decent prospective father should. So, instead of screaming at him as she secretly longed to, for the first time in her life, Martha learned how to bite her lip. Problem was, she was beginning to develop a lumpy callus from biting it so often.

  “You look tired, love,” Vadim said softly. “Shall we turn back now?”

  Martha rolled her eyes at him. “You’re doing it again,” she said in a sing-song voice of warning. “Fussing over me.”

  Vadim merely shrugged and expertly steered her around a steaming pile of freshly laid horse dung. “So what if I am? ’Tis only natural that a man should want to protect his woman and unborn child. Or perhaps you’d prefer it if I didn’t care at all, hmm?”

  Martha detected an unusual note of firmness in his voice. After so many weeks of Vadim indulging her every whim, this new mood of his came as a bit of a shock. Clearly, he wasn’t going to back down this time.

  Which was plain old tough luck because neither was she.

  “Of course not,” she replied with all the calmness she could summon, determined not to lose on points by flipping out. “Credit me with a little sense, would you? Despite what you may think, I don’t want to hurt myself or the baby.”

  “I’m heartily glad to hear you say so.” They stopped walking and stood glowering at one another. “In that case, you will not object if I ask you to cease this stubborn foolishness and return to the keep.”

  What? Oh, he had not just gone and used the ‘f’ word on her! Yanking her hand from his arm, Martha regarded her husband through narrowed eyes. “Oh, so now you think I’m stupid, do you? That’s a lovely thing to say to the mother of your unborn child… ”

  Basking in the golden rays of the bright spring day, Anselm sat, legs outstretched, on the stone steps that led to the keep. It was good to be outside, to feel the sun and wind on his skin once more, especially after such a long winter, most of it spent confined to a fusty bedchamber.

  Being an invalid was no fun.

  Stretched out asleep on t
he step beside him, Forge, Martha’s large, shaggy hound, kept Anselm company. To be sure, no one else would! But despite his own lack of popularity, Anselm seldom felt lonely any more. He’d grown accustomed to being shunned and avoided; immune to the whispers that followed in his wake.

  The occupants of Edgeway castle had long memories. Even at the best of times, they were never quick to forgive. And since Anselm had long been the most trusted captain of Edgeway’s former, most despised, earl, he had little hope of winning any friends now. Well, with the exceptions of Forge, Martha, and Vadim, of course, but as family, they must be discounted.

  No. After all this time, solitude and Anselm might consider themselves friends of long-standing.

  The wound at his side—an injury which had almost cost him his life—throbbed in sudden remembrance of the late Lord Godric. Gone he may be, but Anselm’s former master wasn’t likely to be soon forgotten. Not in his lifetime, at least.

  Pressing his fist into his leather jerkin, Anselm massaged the aching wound with a slow circular motion. Although the injury had healed well it still caused him discomfort on occasion, particularly after too much exertion; something which happened only rarely now that he’d retired from a life in service.

  Looking about him, Anselm saw he wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the current spell of fair weather. His brother and sister-in-law were out on another of their regular walks—walks Martha kept insisting upon, much to the concern of her poor fraught husband.

  Adjusting his position slightly, Anselm leaned back, resting his elbows on the warm stone step to better observe the fair couple’s approach.

  Wait a moment… were they quarreling? Oh, but they were! How diverting. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s bright glare, Anselm settled back to enjoy the unusual spectacle of the new Earl and Countess of Edgeway apparently so at odds with one another. Although they were still too far away for him to hear their words, Vadim’s frequent hand gesticulations and the agitated manner in which he kept pushing back his hair were signs clear enough for anyone to interpret.

  Lord Edgeway obviously wanted his countess to return to the keep, but if the mutinous set of her mouth was anything to go by, his beloved wife had no intention of obeying her lord and master.

  In Anselm’s opinion, Vadim was right to be worried about her. The latter stages of pregnancy hadn’t been kind to the new countess. Martha was so enormous by now she could barely walk unaided. Perhaps Vadim might consider rolling her along on her side like a great cask of ale. It would be much easier for the poor girl than having to suffer the constant indignity of struggling to plant one foot in front of the other.

  Poor Vadim.

  Not for the first time, Anselm felt a huge wave of relief that he hadn’t married Martha himself as he’d once intended. A gentle, biddable woman his sister-in-law most certainly was not.

  An obliging breeze delivered enticing snippets of Martha’s angry tirade to Anselm’s eager ears.

  “… too bloody overprotective… I’m fine… pregnant not an invalid…”

  Anselm chuckled. Ah. So that was the way of it, was it? Outright rebellion at last.

  Although Vadim might be guilty of everything Martha accused him of, Anselm believed he had every reason to be cautious. As the mother of Lord Edgeway’s future heir, Martha really ought to take better care of herself. With her pregnancy so advanced, not even a rumor of her former impressive curves remained. Being so massive and ungainly, she reminded Anselm of a large boar he’d happened upon once whilst he’d been out hunting on the moors during the height of summer. The unfortunate creature had been dead for several days and its four rigid legs stuck out obscenely from each corner of its bloated carcass. Wisely, Anselm had given the beast a wide berth. As much as he should have liked to witness the explosion of the swollen corpse, he had no desire to be coated in the violent eruption of foul gas and putrefied liquid entrails that would surely come flying when the inevitable eventually did occur.

  Perhaps Vadim should follow Anselm’s example and give his wife a wide berth.

  As the bickering couple approached Anselm’s peaceful place in the sun neither of them seemed to notice him sitting there. Martha was much too intent with glaring up at her concerned spouse. Vadim, meanwhile, was much occupied with hovering over his wife like a dark dragonfly, his arms forever reaching out, ready to protect his snarling spouse from every bump and rut in the cobbles.

  The strain of constant worry etched upon his face made for a grim tally. The poor fellow looked utterly worn out.

  Just then, Vadim happened to glance over to where Anselm sat basking in the sun and he immediately raised his hand in greeting. Since his brother and Martha were among the handful of people in the castle who actually acknowledged his existence Anselm felt obliged to return his brother’s salute with a friendly smile.

  “Look, Martha. There’s Anselm!” Vadim announced with far more enthusiasm than the occasion merited in a desperate attempt to divert his wife’s attention. “Shall we go and sit with him for a while?” Lowering his voice, Vadim added. “I’m sure he would appreciate the company.”

  Anselm wasn’t quite so sure about that. Spectating from a distance was all well and good, but he’d rather not be caught up in the crossfire of their marital spat, not at such close range.

  Fortunately for him, Martha wasn’t in the mood to bestow the charity of her company. Not to Anselm, at least.

  “I won’t bother if it’s all the same to you.” Her cheeks glowed, still flushed with temper. “I don’t fancy hearing him spout any more of his insults or snarky wisecracks. I’ll tell you what though, Vadim. Why don’t you go and sit with Anselm whilst I pop down to the bakery, eh?”

  Pop? Anselm arched his eyebrows and smirked. An unfortunate choice of word but a highly suitable one under the circumstances.

  Yet again, Vadim raked his hands through his hair. “Martha, love. Please! Be sensible. What if you should fall—?”

  “Oh, trust me. I won’t.” She gave Vadim a look so fierce that even Anselm recoiled from its heat. “I might not be able to see my feet at the moment, but believe it or not I’m quite capable of operating them without anyone’s assistance.” Martha pointed to the space beside Anselm. “Just sit there, and if you value your life at all don’t follow me.”

  Erde. What a shrew!

  Forge raised his shaggy head at the sound of raised voices but swiftly lowered it and closed his eyes again. Even he wasn’t tempted to follow his beloved mistress in her current mood. Wise fellow.

  With as much grace as a bloated duck could muster, Martha waddled away making for the small canopied stall set outside the bakery. She must have been in some discomfort, though, for her hand moved constantly beneath her cloak, massaging at the small of her back.

  Muttering something colorful and surprisingly gutter-worthy, Vadim flung himself down onto the step at Anselm’s other side—the side not occupied by Forge’s sprawling legs.

  “How can I protect her when she is in such a mood?” Vadim muttered angrily. “A hedge-pig would be less prickly.”

  They watched Martha converse with the baker’s wife.

  “Her mood seems well enough to me,” Anselm commented as Mrs. Bunn held out her hand, to offer Martha some freshly baked dainty or other. “See. She’s all smiles again now.”

  Vadim’s dark brows slid into a scowl. “So it would seem.”

  “Tell me, brother, have you considered resorting to bribery?”

  “Bribery?”

  Anselm was happy to elaborate. “I cannot help but notice how the fair countess is much more biddable when her stomach is full of Master Bunn’s delicious pastries. Perhaps you might blackmail her into submission by using her favorite dainties as bait?”

  Vadim shot Anselm a toxic glare. “Most amusing, I’m sure.”

  “What?” Anselm raised his hands, adopting a look of innocence.
“I was only trying to help.”

  “Well, don’t. You have not the gift for it.”

  Such curtness, and from Vadim of all people, was enough to give Anselm pause. His brother was usually the least irritable man of his acquaintance. Something must be seriously amiss for him to be so downright unpleasant.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Vadim sighed. “I’m sorry.” Drawing his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms about his long legs, his chin resting upon his bent knees. “Forgive me. You did not deserve that.”

  An apology too? Erde! Things were obviously much worse than he’d imagined.

  “Is everything… well?” Anselm asked, frowning. “With the baby, I mean?”

  “Yes. For now, at least.” As he spoke, Vadim’s eyes never strayed from Martha. “The baby is extremely large, you see, and he has not yet turned.”

  Although Anselm’s dealings with the miracle of birth were limited to that of horses and other livestock, he was in the mood to be encouraging if he could. “But surely there’s plenty of time for—?”

  “She’s late, brother. Her labor is long overdue.”

  “Ah!” Anselm knew not how to respond to this. But fortunately, Vadim seemed to require nothing more than the use of a friendly ear.

  “Agatha has instructed her to rest as much as possible,” he continued, “but you know Martha. She takes little notice of anyone and keeps insisting all this exercise is beneficial for both her and the baby. Beneficial!” Vadim smiled a bitter smile. “Look at her. She can hardly stand.”

  Martha, meanwhile, was nibbling away on a steaming pastry. In truth, she looked quite content surrounded by the gaggle of women, most of them with several young children in tow. The wind carried intermittent bursts of their merry laughter and conversation to where Anselm and Vadim sat.

  The baker’s wife said something Anselm couldn’t quite make out and then patted her own round stomach, grimacing horribly as she did so. At this, the little group of women became even more raucous and one of the younger mothers gave a loud shriek and made to cover Martha’s ears.