King's Errand Page 12

  Well, they could always defy him and die a slow, agonizing death instead. No. All things considered, a nice long quest overseas seemed a far better option.

  “Hold up there, Sir Anselm!”

  Turning at this loud summons, Anselm saw Sir Hugh striding purposefully in his direction.

  “I believe this might belong to you,” the older man said waving a dusty scrap of leather at him. “Are you missing a glove, perchance?”

  A quick check told Anselm the item did indeed belong to him. It must have slipped free from his belt where he’d tucked it.

  “Thank you, m’lord,” he muttered, taking the glove from Hugh’s outstretched hand.

  “Oh, just plain old Hugh will do.” The other man grinned broadly, his teeth shining bright from within his salt and pepper beard. “Standing on ceremony will serve us ill on the road we will soon travel together.”

  “Indeed.”

  Sir Hugh was the eldest, and one of the newest, of Edgeway’s knights. Once he’d fought for the other side just as Anselm had—for King Eric—before being taken prisoner during the last uprising. They would have all gone to the gallows—Anselm included—had it not been for Vadim and Martha’s timely intervention. By speaking up for the prisoners, declaring it was unjust to punish someone for the crime of loyalty—no matter how misplaced that loyalty might now prove to be—they’d saved them from a sentence of certain death.

  Fortunately for the prisoners, King Rodmar seemed to set great store by Vadim’s advice, and so he had ridden back to the capital leaving the enemy knights to Lord Edgeway’s care hoping that the men he’d so graciously spared would one day repay his leniency with fealty.

  It had been a slow process but in the end all the captive knights had come around to the new order, and in time to their new masters. Now one final task lay before them. In order to permanently secure their freedom, they must embark upon a mysterious quest; a quest that no one appeared to know very much about.

  “Are you bound for the bath house?” Hugh asked, nodding toward the single story structure up ahead.

  “I am, yes.” Where else did Hugh imagine Anselm would be going in such a filthy and unkempt state?

  “Then perhaps you might care for some company? Or not.” Hugh shrugged his broad shoulders, his muscles straining beneath the damp linen of his shirt. “As you will. No matter.”

  Suddenly serious, he looked Anselm directly in his eyes. “In truth, I confess that I’m not looking forward to the morrow, to leaving the place I now call home.” He sighed and glanced around the bailey as if committing the familiar stones to memory. “It was different when I was a single man, but now I have Beatrice and my young lad to consider. No, my thirst for adventure is not what it once was.” Another heavy sigh. “Between you and me, I’d much rather stay home.”

  “Oh?”Anselm smiled. “Your wife giving you a hard time about going away, is she?” For didn’t all women have their own unique ways to punish a man for his, perceived, sins?

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” Hugh quickly assured him. “And that’s the very devil of it.” Raking his hands through his sweat-stiffened hair, the usually placid knight seemed remarkably agitated for once. “My Beatrice is a rare gem, always so loving and supportive of me and all my endeavors. But the other night… well, I caught her crying while she was packing up some of my things. She tried to deny it, of course, but I’d already seen her with face buried into one of my old shirts, weeping as though her heart would break. I don’t mind admitting to you that it fair broke my own heart to see her so downcast. I swear she thinks I won’t be coming back.”

  Anselm nodded, not quite sure how to proceed after such an intimate confidence—the longest speech he’d ever heard the other man utter, in fact. Oh, Hugh was a nice enough fellow but, although they’d once fought on the same side, they’d never been particular friends, so why he’d suddenly decided to unburden himself to him in such a manner Anselm could not possibly imagine. Surely Hugh had other, more intimate, friends to confide in?

  “Shall we continue this inside?” Whatever this was. “I swear, if I don’t get into a hot tub soon, my muscles will seize up completely.”

  “How rude of me to detain you.” Hugh was instantly apologetic. “Yes, of course. Let’s go in.”

  Anselm had been planning on taking a long soak in one of the individual tubs, but as Sir Hugh seemed intent on keeping him company, by common accord they headed in the direction of one of the larger, communal, tubs.

  Quickly divesting himself of his filthy garments, leaving the stinking garments in a heap for one of the attendants to dispose of, Anselm carefully climbed down the steps into the tub. Then, catching his breath, he lowered himself gingerly into the steaming water.

  Ah! What a pure and unadulterated bliss this was. Almost worth all the beatings he’d endured today. Eyes closed, Anselm lay back and rested his head upon the folded sheet on the lip of the bath, enjoying his well-earned wallow in relative peace.

  Most unusually for this time of day, the bath house was almost empty of other patrons. No doubt everyone was preparing for the farewell feast that evening.

  For those about to embark on the king’s errand, however, this would be the last chance they’d have to primp and preen and strut about in their finery for quite some time, so they had best make the most of it.

  Leaving Edgeway.

  The very thought was enough to light a spark of excitement within Anselm’s heart. A fresh start was exactly what he needed. Unlike Vadim and Hugh who had their wives and children, he had nothing to keep him here.

  He heard Hugh splashing down the steps into the tub beside him. “I can barely see my hand in front of my face for all this blessed steam,” he complained.

  Anselm opened his eyes, and for a brief moment the steam parted giving him a glimpse of Hugh’s gray head bobbing along in the thick, steamy fog, seemingly quite separate from his body.

  “Blood and sand!” Hugh cursed, splashing his way over to Anselm. “You could poach an egg in this water.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad once you’re used to it.” Not so bad? It was sheer bloody heaven. Closing his eyes again, Anselm relaxed, sighing as he felt the hard knots in his limbs slowly begin to loosen.

  Hugh settled down a little way to Anselm’s left. Then, with a long ahh of pleasure, he submerged himself beneath the steaming water and lapsed into silence for a few moments. This suited Anselm perfectly, for he was sorely out of practice in the art of making idle chit-chat. Whenever he opened his mouth these days he seemed to unintentionally upset someone. Then again, by continuing to draw breath he was sure to cause offense wherever he went.

  Yes, it was definitely time to move on and leave Edgeway behind. Once he’d paid his dues to King Rodmar, there would be nothing to stop him from carving out a new life for himself. Preferable in a place where no one knew him.

  “I hope you don’t mind me seeking you out like this,” Hugh said at length, the time for quiet reflection apparently at an end.

  “Not at all,” Anselm replied, the lie slipping easily from his lips. “Frankly, I appreciate the company. If they’re not trying to hack me to pieces, most people generally prefer to pretend I don’t exist at all.”

  “Yes… well. I suspect that’s largely down to your old master.” Hugh had the grace to glance away. At least he had the decency not to attempt to deny it, for which Anselm experienced a sudden rush of gratitude.

  “So?” he said. “Do you intend on telling me why you’re willing to brave the wrath of the entire populace by speaking to the local leper, hmm? Clearly you have something on your mind, Hugh.”

  “Ah. There was… I mean, there is… is—”

  “Come on, man. Spit it out.”

  Was it the heat of the bath, or had Hugh’s face darkened to an even deeper shade of red?

  “’Tis a matter of… some delicacy, I’m
afraid.”

  Yes, there was no doubt about it. The man was blushing like a virgin on her wedding night.

  “If it helps loosen your tongue at all, I give you permission to ask me anything you choose. Anything at all. Come now, Sir Hugh. You once faced down the king himself, remember? What could be more terrible than that?” But still Hugh looked uncomfortable.

  Anselm shrugged. “As you please.” Picking up a small tablet of soap from the receptacle beside the bath, he scrubbed vigorously at his armpits for, fermented by the heat, their stench was fast becoming more and more intolerable by the second.

  “It concerns Beatrice,” Hugh said at last.

  “That much I might have guessed for myself. Well, what about her?” Anselm lazily fanned his hands to and fro in the hot water, watching the dirt and grime float from his skin.

  “I wanted to know… I need to know… If… If—”

  “Oh, by the bulging ball bag of the Great Spirit! Just get on and say it, man.”

  Anselm’s rising irritation somehow restored the older knight’s composure. Looking him straight in the eyes—a trait Anselm was beginning to recognize as a sign Hugh was about to speak truthfully—he said, “Very well. I want to know if I’ll be coming back or not. F-For Beatrice’s sake.”

  “What?” Anselm stopped soaping himself and gaped at him in astonishment. “How the devil should I know? Go and find yourself a wise woman and ask her.”

  “I would, but as your grandmother has returned home to Darumvale, I thought I’d ask you instead. There isn’t time to make the journey there and back before we—”

  “What?” Anselm sat up so quickly, the sudden movement sending a great wave of water crashing over the lip of the tub and pattering onto the tiled floor below.

  Hugh knew! But how? How the devil had he learned that Anselm shared Ma’s gift of The Sight?

  Anselm’s temper steamed and bubbled, even hotter than the bath water. “Who told you to seek me out? Tell me at once. Who would dare spread such tales about me?” Martha? Vadim? No. he couldn’t imagine either of them doing such a thing.

  Then who?

  Hugh seemed equally perturbed. “Forgive me, m’lord. I shouldn’t have spoken so freely. But when Edric happened to mention that you possess… certain abilities, I didn’t get the impression it was a great secret.”

  Edric! The bald-headed shit weasel. He might have known. Ma must have said something to Agatha and she, in turn, must have gossiped to Edric. Curse the man. He’d always hated Anselm, and even more so these days because he was now on such friendly terms with Edric’s pretty niece, Joy—a serving wench at the Mason’s Arms—Anselm’s preferred tavern within the castle walls.

  What Edric didn’t know was that Joy had no interest whatsoever in Anselm. Not as a man, at any rate. Indeed, for the past six months, the heart of Edric’s precious niece had become irrevocably entwined with that of a young woman named Alice who happened to work in the castle kitchens.

  Admitted into their confidence, Anselm had rapidly become extremely fond of both girls. In fact, he now considered them friends. The fact that their innocent friendship so annoyed the other men who kept seeing Anselm out in town with a pretty maid dangling from each of his arms was merely an added garnish.

  But just as Joy and Alice had their secrets, Anselm had one of his own—only it wasn’t the gift of precognition. Oh no. That particular trait was the very least of his private shame. How thrilled those who hated him would be if they ever learned the truth.

  Speaking of The Sight, Hugh was still blathering on and grovelling about his earlier blunder.

  “I am terribly sorry, m’lord. I apologize to you, fully and without reservation, indeed I do. If you could see your way to forgiving me I would be most relieved.” Hugh extended a large, rough hand. “Come. Let us shake on it. Upon my oath, Anselm, I shall never mention your gift again.”

  In his bid to harm Anselm, Edric had played poor Hugh for a fool. A fact which lessened Anselm’s anger considerably.

  “Fine.” Anselm grasped Hugh’s hand and shook it firmly. “Apology accepted. Consider yourself forgiven.”

  Hugh beamed in delight. But just as Anselm was about to release Hugh’s hand, a most peculiar sensation washed over him. In a blur of breath-stealing speed, his mind was transported from the bath house in Edgeway to some faraway land. An unfamiliar land of shimmering heat and cloying dust.

  He was walking beside his horse. Neck bent, the animal drooped with weariness, its lower lip almost brushing the ground. The scorching sun overhead was intolerably hot. Anselm gasped. His throat was suddenly parched and dry, leached of every last drop of moisture, and they were still many leagues from anywhere.

  Without shade.

  Without hope.

  “Anselm? Anselm, can you hear me, lad?” Hugh’s voice seemed to echo from a long way off. Try as he might, he wasn’t able to respond, trapped within the web of visions unraveling inside his head.

  The scene shifted, and the hot sands slipped away beneath his blistered feet. Suddenly Anselm was somewhere else—somewhere blessedly cooler. Gradually, the new image shimmered into a sharper focus.

  Ah. Now he saw it. From the viewpoint of the gods, Anselm looked upon a bustling harbor full of tall-masted ships. Men called out to one another, their voices mingling with the excited cries of many swooping sea birds. The very air was full of the briny scents and sounds of the sea.

  Anselm noticed Hugh gently coaxing his horse along the gangplank, leading it from the bowels of a ship. Hugh looked exceedingly well, actually. His physique was toned, his exposed skin burned to a deep umber. Then Anselm saw himself following closely behind Hugh, carefully leading an unfamiliar horse along the same treacherous planks. Behind him, other men waited for their turn to disembark, all of them were smiling and full of merriment, eager to reach their womenfolk who shouted and waved from the quay side.

  Unless he was much mistaken, Anselm knew this port. It was in the south of the Norlands, a place he’d often visited with Lord Godric whenever he’d sought an audience with his illustrious cousin, King Erik.

  This scene wasn’t a departure, though. It was a homecoming.

  Billowing standards flapped and snapped in the brisk sea breeze. Over on the dockside, almost hidden by the happy crowd, Vadim and Reynard, stood deep in conversation with King Rodmar, although how anyone could possibly make themselves heard over such a chorus of wild cheering and the constant deafening blare of so many horns Anselm could not imagine.

  It looked like the entire royal family were there, assembled on the dockside. Just behind the king, surrounded by the royal guard, stood a flock of noble ladies. These must be Rodmar’s closest friends and relations, for their air was regal, their raiment undeniably fine. Burning with white fire, the facets of the priceless jewelry they wore shone in the weak sunlight. The women kept turning this way and that as they laughed and talked together, seemingly pleased with the world and everyone in it.

  Well… with the notable exception of one lady.

  Standing a little apart from the main group, although still within the protective circle of the royal guard, the woman huddled deeper into the folds of her dark cloak. If the other women resembled a glorious flight of swans then she was a humble sparrow, lost in the magnificence of her companions.

  But it was she, this drab little bird, who claimed Anselm’s attention. A long wave of jet-black hair escaped her hood and lay in a shining coil upon the dull fabric of her cloak. He strained to see her face, but it was impossible. The deep hood concealed her too well.

  Who was she?

  She couldn’t possibly be a relative of the king. A maid, perhaps? It was impossible to tell. Whoever she was, Anselm had eyes for no one else but her. He could not look away.

  “Anselm! Can you hear me?”

  Someone slapped his face. Hard.

  The shock of
the burning blow immediately roused him from his waking dream and restored Anselm to the present. Much to his regret.

  “Wake up, man!” Hugh’s hand was raised, poised to strike him again.

  Anselm intercepted the blow mid air in its downward arc. Grasping Hugh’s wrist, he snarled, “Hit me again and I’ll stick a knife through your guts and serve your liver up for supper.” His cheek burned from the force of the previous slap—or slaps?—Hugh had administered.

  “You’re back!” Hugh cried. So happy did he seem, Anselm hurriedly put a little more distance between them, fearing the great hairy arms of his companion might be about to embrace him then and there in the tub. “For a moment there, I thought you’d suffered a fit.”

  “I’m quite well,” Anselm assured him, still annoyed that he’d not managed to take a proper look at the girl on the quayside. Bloody Hugh!

  “So? What did you see?” Hugh reminded Anselm of a large puppy, splashing in the water, his expression eager and expectant. “You did have a vision, I take it. What was it? Was I there—?”

  “For the love of Erde, be silent a moment!” Anselm said, holding up his hand to slow Hugh’s rush of excited words. “Yes, you were there, all right? Now stop talking and let me gather my thoughts for a moment. Go on. Go… wash yourself or something.”

  Just then, a young bath attendant walked by carrying a pile of folded bath sheets. As he passed, he raised his eyebrows knowingly. The boy obviously thought their meeting was some kind of lovers’ tryst.

  Ugh! Anselm grimaced. What a revolting thought. If ever he were in the market for a man, he’d certainly never consider Sir Hugh as a lover. No. He was much too large and hairy.

  Holding his breath, Anselm ducked his head underwater hoping to wash that particularly unpleasant image from his mind. He wanted to think about the girl on the dockside, for goodness sake, not Sir Hugh and his hairy arse and back.

  When he came back up for air, Hugh was still there, waiting expectantly.

  Anselm sighed. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but only on the condition you never mention my… ability, or what I’m about to reveal to another living soul.”