Ironheart Page 4

  Holding their lanterns aloft, people stumbled from their homes and out into the chilly night. “What is happening?”

  “Invaders!”

  A sobbing woman held a swaddled baby to her breast. “They will murder us all!” she cried. The sound of their rustic voices warmed Anselm’s heart and restored his failing hope.

  Mother seemed equally relieved for she smiled and began adjusting the folds of Anselm’s cloak more snugly about his neck. “All will be well now, sweeting.”

  For the first time, he realized he was shivering. His teeth chattered constantly inside his mouth, heedless of his efforts to stop them. Although he blamed the cold, he knew that terror was at least partly responsible for his unmanly tremors.

  “If we wait a little longer,” Sylvie continued, “we might lose ourselves in the crowd.”

  Sure enough, more and more people poured into the courtyard. With cries of shock and dismay, they clustered about the bodies of the dead men, illuminating them in bright pools of torchlight.

  “Here is Sir Edwin!” someone cried, pointing to a body with its back to Sylvie and Anselm’s hiding place.

  Sir Edwin? Anselm sucked in his lower lip, desperately trying to contain his grief. He could hardly breathe for the lump of emotion blocking his throat. Oh please, not him!

  “The poor fellow’s throat has been cut!”

  “What devilry is this?”

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “Hurry up those steps, Tom lad. Ring the bell and raise the alarm!”

  Despite the somberness of the occasion, a look of delight lit up the chosen boy’s face as he raced off to do his father’s bidding. At any other time, Anselm might have been jealous of him, for to be allowed to ring the castle’s great bell was a rare, almost unheard of, treat.

  Moments later, the warning bell began tolling. And this time, it did not stop.

  Arms wrapped tightly about his trembling body, tears dripped from the end of Anselm’s nose in a torrent that could not be checked. Sir Edwin had been their friend—his and Vadim’s. A most amiable man who had—though he had no reason to do so—taken them beneath his wing, tutoring them in the rudiments of swordplay whenever his knightly duties could spare him.

  Secretly, the boys had dubbed him Sir Move-Your-Feet, for Edwin nagged them so frequently on the importance of footwork. Slow to anger and quick to jest, of all of Edgeway’s knights, Sir Edwin had been their favorite. Fortunately he had no family to mourn him; his wife and children had died of the pox some years ago. If the spirits were merciful, he would once again be reunited with his loved ones, laughing and whole once more, drinking mead in the Halls of the Ancestors.

  What would Vadim say when he learned of this treachery? He would feel the loss of Sir Edwin just as keenly... if indeed Vadim still lived. What if he was already dead? This new and dreadful possibility made his tears flow even faster, for they had parted in anger and might never again speak to one another in life.

  “Oh, child.” Sylvie must have heard his choking sobs, for she suddenly wrapped her arms about him and held him to her, crooning useless words of comfort against the top of his head “You need not be brave all the time, minikin,” she murmured as he sniveled against her breast. “There is no shame in tears. Do not hide them. You loved Sir Edwin well, and he is worthy of your sorrow.”

  At length, once Anselm had mastered himself again, they crept from their hiding place. Unnoticed by the swelling crowd, always with the curtain wall against their backs, they advanced from shadow to shadow, edging ever closer toward the mighty barbican.

  But as they approached the blacksmith’s shop—to Anselm’s horror—the huge wavering shadow of a man stepped out from behind the building, like a wraith conjured by the darkness.

  “I was beginning to worry.” Hearing Seth’s familiar voice instantly soothed all of Anselm’s fears.

  “Father!”

  “Seth? Oh, Seth!” Running to him, Sylvie threw herself into the safety of her husband’s arms, her face pressed to his chest. “S-Such c-carnage. So many friends d-dead and—” Now that the time for courage had passed, Mother crumbled. She began sobbing in a manner that tore at Anselm’s heart.

  Seth planted a rough kiss atop of her golden head. “Aye, love. I know.” With one brawny arm wrapped about his tiny wife, Seth beckoned to Anselm, ruffling his hair in his usual manner of greeting, then pulling him into their embrace. “And you, my son. How do you fare on this most terrible of nights?”

  “I am quite well, Father,” Anselm assured him, not wishing to appear weak in the eyes of his father, and hoping that he would not remark upon his swollen eyes.

  “Good lad,” Seth said with an approving smile. He jerked his head to where a wagon stood outside the smithy. A piebald cob stood waiting patiently in its traces. “Go and talk to the horse for a while. I just need a quick word with your mother.”

  Obediently, Anselm sauntered over to where the animal was tethered. Now that Father was here, he feared nothing. The horse gave a soft nicker of greeting, and Anselm smoothed his palm over the animal’s warm whiskery muzzle. But all the while, he strained to hear the words of his parents.

  Father spoke the most, the low, quick rumble of his voice impossible to interpret. Then Mother gasped. “Oh, no!” She began weeping again, even harder than before.

  A fist seemed to grip Anselm’s innards and drag them downward. What else had happened? He could not imagine anything worse than the things he had already witnessed. He held his hand flat, and the horse began lipping at his palm.

  Perhaps his parents had momentarily forgotten about him, for in between the tolling of the bell and the rumbled outrage of the crowd, he managed to pick out the occasional word: “... both dead... butchered... I was t-too late.”

  “A-And the boy?”

  “...bad way... in the back... removed the arrow but I doubt... last out the night... mortal wound.”

  Anselm frowned. Who else had died, and which boy were they talking about? He shivered as an icy sense of foreboding washed over him. Vadim? Although he longed to know the truth, his fear of hearing it proved to be a greater force, so he remained silent, determinedly stroking the horse. If he asked who it was, Father might give him an honest answer, and he was not yet ready to hear that his best friend was dead.

  Mother hurried toward the wagon, hitching up the skirt of her nightgown as she ran. Tears glistened on her pale face, but she was no longer weeping, and the set of her countenance was unusually grim. Without a word, she snatched the sack Anselm still carried from his hand and without waiting for assistance, leaped up onto the driver’s seat and disappeared into the covered back of the wagon.

  Seth stood motionless where Mother had left him, his great shoulders slumped, head bowed. Against the backdrop of the lightening sky, he looked more like a wilting flower than his bold and fearless father. No sooner had the thought passed Anselm’s mind than Seth drew back his shoulders and stood upright again, seeming himself once more.

  “Right then, son,” he said briskly, covering the distance to the wagon in three quick strides. “We had best be off.” He lifted Anselm up onto the driving seat and then clambered up beside him. The seat pitched and creaked beneath their weight.

  “Where are we going?” Their destination was the only information Anselm could stomach at the moment.

  “To Darumvale.”

  Darumvale? They were going to see Ma and Grandfather? “B-But...” He stared at his Father’s stony profile. “Will you not be missed here?”

  Seth’s chuckle was the bitterest sound Anselm had ever heard. “No, my son,” he said at last. “I will not be missed.” He gave a sigh then muttered, “There is no one left here to miss me.” Clucking his tongue, Father flapped the reins on the horse’s rump. “Walk on!”

  The wagon set off, rocking and trundling over the rutted cobbles, headed for the gate
house. No one challenged them, and still the warning bell tolled on. The jaws of the portcullis were open, and they passed into its mouth, swallowed beneath its devilish metal teeth before being spat out onto the tongue of the drawbridge. The loud rumbling of the wheels changed to a much smoother sound as they passed almost noiselessly over the sturdy wooden planking. They crossed the moat, and then they were free.

  Seth turned the horse onto the uneven dirt road that zigzagged beneath the castle’s mighty walls. Down below were the tents of Lord Godric’s camp. Anselm could see his brilliant red standard as it flapped and snapped in the early-morning breeze. Although the camp seemed deserted, Anselm needed reassurance.

  “What if they see us?” he asked, shuffling a little closer to Seth. The heat of Father’s hard-muscled thigh warmed his trembling leg.

  “There’s no one left to see us.” A grim smile curved Father’s lips. “They are all too occupied with the business of stealing our castle. But if anyone did remain and was foolish enough to challenge us...” He patted the hilt of his sword, which hung, as usual, at his side. “Well, let us say, I would not be unhappy about it.”

  With a sigh, Anselm pulled the folds of his cloak tighter about him and then leaned against Father’s arm. No matter where life’s cruel wind blew them, at least they were together. He glanced up, seeking the reassurance of Father’s face, but to his surprise he saw that Seth was weeping. Silent tears slipped down his cheek in an unceasing stream that vanished into the cover of his great red beard. Even more shocking was the fact that he made no attempt to check them. “Get along!” he called to the horse, the tremble in his voice betraying more of his grief.

  The wagon bumped over an uneven dip in the road and then trundled slowly on. No one challenged them. They must all still be up at the castle, just as Father had said.

  Anselm looked away, fixing his gaze on the thin ribbon of road that stretched out before them, unwinding until it touched the edge of the pink-tipped horizon.

  The passing of each second took the wagon farther and farther from the place Anselm had called home. For good or bad, the halcyon days of his boyhood were at an end, and a new chapter of life had begun. Dry eyed, Anselm kept his eyes forward, determinedly staring the future in the face.

  He did not look back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Anselm?” Light flickered over his closed eyelids, bright and painful, a stark intrusion into his dreams. “Can you open your eyes?”

  It was her again. The old woman. Her hand felt cool and dry against his clammy forehead.

  “Do you hear me, boy?”

  Although he tried to obey, his body felt as if it were not his to command. ’Twas as responsive as a block of stone—much too heavy to move all by himself.

  “Please. You must try!” the old woman hissed against his ear.

  “Why?” he mouthed. With intense effort, he found he could just about move his lips, but it seemed his voice had abandoned him too, along with all of his former vigor. Erde! He was tired—weary almost to his very soul. Yet still the old woman bade him to fight? Why bother? Why engage in a battle he had neither the strength nor the desire to win?

  Death was close. He sensed its dark shadow, watching and waiting like a raven perched at his bedside, but its presence was not unwelcome. Why rage against what was inevitable? Would it not be better to simply let go, to surrender to his fate?

  But not yet. Before he took that final journey, he had one more task to perform. The past beckoned to him, brilliant and colorful, and its lure proved even stronger than death’s.

  “Anselm!” Frail, clawed fingers gripped at his icy hand. “Stay with me, boy!”

  But the old one could not hold him. No one could. His heart smiled as he made the leap into the deep pool of memory. Submerged beneath its soothing waters, he felt himself cleansed, absolved of life’s tarnish. When he broke the surface, he felt renewed. Whole again.

  Darumvale: Springtime

  Out in the fields, the villagers plowed and planted, toiling beneath an unusually warm sun, the men peeling off layers of clothing as they worked.

  But not Anselm. He sat outside the great hall, leaning with his back against the wooden wall. Knees bent, he tilted his face to the sun, relishing the bliss of heat upon his skin.

  It had been a long, cold winter. Even now, his bones still recalled the savage bite of the darkest months. In all his young life, he had never experienced such bitter cold.

  One of Ma’s cats lay stretched out in the dirt beside him, sharing his pleasure in the warmth of the day. With a small chirrup of happiness, the little animal rolled onto her back, exposing the pale fur of her underbelly. Anselm smiled and gently trailed his fingertips through the warm ginger fur—the action increasing the volume of the cat’s purrs. Like a worm on a hook, she wriggled on her back, encouraging him to keep touching her.

  His smile suddenly faded. How long did it take for someone to die?

  In Edgeway, death had arrived swiftly, but here in Darumvale it proved to be painfully slow. Growing thinner and frailer by the day, still Grandfather lingered. His horrible hacking cough robbed him, and everyone else, of sleep, tormenting them night and day, until Anselm secretly longed for the old man’s demise.

  “Greetings, Anselm.” The voice of Darumvale’s elderly blacksmith roused him from his reverie. “How fares the chief this morning?” With the sun at his back, the blacksmith was nothing but a silhouette.

  “Much the same, Will,” Anselm replied, shielding his eyes from the dazzling glare of the sun. “I fear it will not be long now, or so Mother tells me.” Not that anyone seemed to tell him anything of importance these days. Indeed, for all the attention his family gave him, he might as well be dead himself. No matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to be in someone’s way. Like this morning, for instance. In an effort to be rid of him, Mother had sent him outside to serve as door-ward of the great hall—a lonely sentry defending Grandfather’s last mortal moments from the intrusion of well-meaning villagers.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Will said. As he stepped into the shadow cast by the hall’s thatched roof, Anselm could see the old man properly at last. Frowning, Will twisted the hem of his grubby shirt between his work-gnarled hands. “Give him my best, would you, lad? Ask him to raise a toast or two for me when he reaches the halls of the Ancestors.”

  Anselm inclined his head in a lazy bow, just as he had back when he had been the steward’s son in another life. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you, Will.” Why in hell was he bowing to a lowly blacksmith? The fine manners and habits that had been drilled into him back in Edgeway were useless now. He certainly had no need of them here in Darumvale.

  With a sigh, he watched the old fellow turn and shuffle back up the hill toward his workshop. Stubborn old goat! By the look of him, the elderly blacksmith would soon be joining Grandfather on his journey along that final, most sacred road. Why did he insist on working so hard when he could be relaxing, enjoying what remained of his dotage? Everyone knew it was Jared, Will’s eldest son, who did most of the work in the smithy these days.

  Then again, as Anselm already knew, it was sometimes difficult to let go.

  “Good morrow, Anselm.”

  He closed his eyes. Erde! Not another one. With an inappropriately bright smile, he turned to greet the newcomer. “Good morrow, Elsbeth,” he said, addressing the stout woman in a headscarf who panted toward him with her fractious toddler in tow. Despite the heat of the day, the woman was swaddled in a thick brown shawl. “And good day to you too, young Orla,” he added. The child glared back at him as she sucked on her dirty thumb. He grimaced at the green candles of snot that ran in a constant river from her nose to her upper lip.

  “We were just wondering how your grandfather fares today.”

  It was all Anselm could do to contain his groan. Yes, you and the rest of the damn village! Some wicked inner
demon made him answer, “Oh, he is much improved today, thank you for asking.”

  Elsbeth’s eyebrows shot up so high they almost touched the hem of her headscarf. “Is he indeed?”

  “No. Not really.” Anselm grinned. “I just fancied saying something other than ‘he is almost dead’ all the time.”

  Elsbeth shook her head, her mouth pursed in a tight line of disapproval. “My, but you are a strange lad at times. I have not the faintest notion who it is that you take after, indeed I have not.”

  He shrugged. “Ma, probably.” Grandmother had always been slightly odd, but the imminent departure of her dear husband seemed to have robbed her of what little sanity she’d had remaining. Of late—when she wasn’t weeping at her husband’s bedside—she was with Mother Galrey, one of her horrible witchy friends. The two of them were forever huddled over a cauldron, brewing up the most noisome potions together. Not that any of them did Grandfather the least bit of good. Had they served the old fellow poison, it would have been kinder. At least then he might have been spared the purgatory of his current misery.

  The runes had already spoken; Grandfather was dying. What was the point in trying to prolong his suffering?

  “And Vadim? How does he fare today?” Elsbeth gave him a hard stare. “And spare me any more of your sauce. I have no taste for it.”

  The mention of his friend’s name effectively removed Anselm’s smile. “He’s much the same as always,” he muttered.

  On the night they had fled Edgeway, he had not known that his friend lay in the back of the wagon, gravely wounded and perilously close to death. ’Twas only upon reaching the sanctuary of Darumvale that Anselm had learned the full ugly truth. While the earl and countess had been attempting to smuggle their son from the castle, Lord Godric had come across them, slaying them before Vadim’s eyes before firing an arrow into the boy’s fleeing back.