King's Errand Read online

  Now that he was finally on his way, he was glad he’d ventured out from the relative safety of the castle, relieved to leave Edgeway’s stifling atmosphere behind for a while.

  How long had it been since he’d ridden anywhere? How long since he’d last been truly alone?

  Injury had transformed him, turning him from a fearsome warrior into something much less flattering. At best, a soft, cosseted kitten, weak and feeble, and wholly dependent upon the kindness of others for its survival.

  Pathetic.

  No wonder people despised him so. Truth be told, Anselm rather loathed the sight of himself at the moment.

  The sun rose ever higher in her vast blue heaven, keeping him both in company and good cheer. He liked feeling self-reliant again. Knowing there wasn’t another soul around was a liberating feeling.

  Although he had no reason for haste—truth be told, Anselm still wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing out here in the first place—, he pushed his palfrey into a slow comfortable canter in order to challenge himself further.

  Vadim believed Anselm was out here chasing a vision, but he didn’t know the whole of it. This wasn’t so much of a vision. ’Twas no more than a word, really—something that may or may not even exist—a word repeated so often inside his head it made him twitch with irritation.

  One little word. More precisely, a Lulu. Whatever, or whomever, that might be.

  Snorting at his own folly, Anselm slowed his horse back to a walk and he scratched absently at the beast’s quivering neck.

  For the last few days, he’d been plagued with visions of one of Lord Godric’s favorite hunting spots. ’Twas a place by the river, close to where an old rowan tree grew; the gnarled, solitary guardian of an ancient set of stepping stones which usually lay half-submerged beneath the water.

  What with the constant drip-drip of Lulu and the visions of that wretched rowan tree and the stepping stones, this whole business was fast becoming intolerable. So much so that Anselm had only to stare into a candle’s flame for a moment too long before the shadows of precognition started reaching out for him again. But just like sparks of a tinder box, whatever message the vision hoped to convey, they were too short-lived and jumbled to be properly deciphered.

  Lulu. The rowan tree. The stones.

  ’Twas the frustration of the constant chanting in his head which had compelled Anselm to set out so early, quite coincidentally, at the exact same time as Fergus’s search party. The wall of surly faces that had greeted his arrival in the stable-yard that morning were an added boon. For pure devilry, Anselm had kept his travel plans to himself in the hopes that his presence would be of immense vexation to Reynard and Seth.

  It was a petty act, for sure. Even so Anselm could not resist the temptation of ruffling Lord Reynard’s proud feathers for a change. The man was much too superior by far.

  Loosening his reins, Anselm closed his eyes and tilted his face sun-ward, savoring the warmth of the gentle rays caressing his skin while he listened to the birdsong carried on the breeze. The peace of utter solitude embraced him. ’Twas one of life’s simplest pleasures, one he’d only recently learned to fully appreciate.

  Like a plant starved of light for too long, he’d become a pale and scrawny wretch, but all of that was about to change. He felt it in the steady thudding of every heartbeat as it pumped new life into his weary limbs, forcing his veins to expand.

  Yes, change was coming, and he was not sorry for it.

  Ever since his old master had leaped from the roof of the barbican to his doom, Anselm had been lost. Adrift. Endlessly wandering in a hostile territory with neither direction nor purpose to guide him.

  Uncertain of himself and of his place in the new order—a new order he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be part of—meekly accepting the hand life had dealt him without protest..

  The question was, did he really want to throw in his lot with the new herd? Even if he didn’t, what else could he do?

  With a sigh, Anselm opened his eyes and gathered up the slack in his reins. If only Lord Godric’s aim had been truer. A good clean death would have spared him from this half-life that now claimed him. Besides, in the eyes of most people Anselm was already a wraith, and a most unwelcome one at that.

  A ghost. A non-person. A man more dead than alive.

  People only tolerated him because of Vadim, because they loved their new earl even more than they loathed his brother. With the exception of Vadim and Martha, Anselm had no friends or connections. Were it not for his brother’s continued kindness, his throat would’ve more than likely been slit some weeks earlier. Either that or he would have been hung, drawn, and quartered for the new king’s pleasure, his entrails set on fire, his dead limbs scattered in disgrace to all four corners of the kingdom.

  Despite the warmth of the sun, Anselm shuddered. A traitor’s death was a prolonged, unpleasant affair. Endless moments of agony eked out until the very last breath. Although he did not fear death in battle, torture and dismemberment were another matter altogether.

  Lulu. The rowan tree. The stones.

  “Yes, damn you. I’m coming,” he snapped impatiently at the wind. In reply, the breeze billowed his hair into his face, obscuring his view with a gold tousled cloud. In irritation, Anselm dashed his wayward hair aside. He needed to keep his wits about him for the borders of Darumvale were not too far away and the villagers of his boyhood home despised him quite as much as the people of Edgeway did.

  Without Vadim’s watchful protection, there was nothing to stop anyone from killing him on sight. After concealing his body and any rumor of his presence in a shallow, unmarked grave, all the killer had to do was deny ever seeing Anselm and that would be the end of the matter. No one would search too hard for him. Well, with the exception of Vadim and Martha, perhaps.

  As a precaution, Anselm pulled a dark blue scarf from his saddle pack and, despite the warmth of the day, wrapped it about his head and face as the men from the desert-lands did until only his eyes were visible.

  Concealing his sword in a similar manner, he draped another scarf over its exposed hilt and arranged it about the leather sheath attached to his saddle. To anyone with more than a passing interest in weaponry—usually young men as a rule—a rich man’s sword was instantly recognizable, its lineage as familiar as the face of an old friend.

  A knight’s horse was just as easy to identify, but in that respect he was safe enough, for the staid palfrey Anselm had selected for today’s little jaunt was not his own animal but one borrowed from Vadim’s stable. He had no intention of taking any undue risks, not while he was still so appallingly out of condition.

  The least attention he attracted the better.

  Satisfied with his ruse, and reasonably confident that no one would recognize him, Anselm rode on at a brisker pace, eager to put Darumvale’s borders behind him. But as it turned out, fortune was on his side. They passed the turn-off to the village without encountering anyone, save a pair of ancient hounds who barked and ran into the road to nip half-heartedly at his horse’s heels before retreating home again.

  The villagers, no doubt, were all busily toiling in their fields now that spring had finally come. Even so, Anselm kept his scarf in place for another league or so, erring on the side of caution lest any of the bumpkins had been daring enough to wander further than the threshold of their own village… . which wasn’t terribly likely. Very few people ever did. Oh, they might visit Edgeway’s market on occasion, or take their grain to nearby Mullin for grinding, but beyond that, the inhabitants of Darumvale seldom strayed far from home, preferring to die in the place in which they’d been born.

  As much as Anselm despised the village and the unwanted memories it evoked, in a perverse way, he envied the villagers their simple existence. Most of them were disgustingly content with their lot in life, happily dwelling in their filthy hovels with too many brats, and scrat
ching the barest living from the soil, seldom looking any further than the next harvest. They seemed not to worry about anything other than crop yield or the price of grain. Or the inevitable taxes. Beyond marrying and raising a family, the people of Darumvale had no great expectations.

  How liberating that must be. To expect nothing.

  But it was much too late for him. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t unsee all that he’d seen or forget all that he knew. His life could never be that simple. No matter what he did from here on out, his course was now firmly set.

  Although he was treated as less than pond scum back in Edgeway, he would never willingly exchange the many luxuries of his life there for the dubious pleasures to be found in the muddy, rustic place he’d once called home.

  No wonder Father wasn’t in any hurry to return there.

  Anselm frowned. Father? He must stop doing that, bestowing Seth with a title he no longer wanted and certainly did not deserve. However, like it or not, an undeniable thaw was setting in where Seth was concerned.

  When had it begun, this gradual softening of his heart for a man who’d caused so much sorrow?

  Back while Anselm lay dying, no doubt. From the jumble of tangled moments he could recall Fa—Seth had been extremely kindly back then. Tender almost. He’d probably believed his son was about to breathe his last and so could afford to display a little compassion.

  What a pity, then, that Anselm had gone and disappointed him by living. That must have really stuck in Seth’s craw.

  Pulling off his scarf, Anselm turned his sweaty face back toward the sun. It was almost directly overhead now. Noon. Right on time, his stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him it had been several hours since he’d snatched a few bites of bread as he’d made his way to the stable yard.

  Turning off the main highway, Anselm rode along a barely noticeable track that bisected the vast plain of open moorland. From their lofty heights, the huge rock giants frowned down and kept careful watch on their progress. The tallest of the mountain peaks still wore their winter caps of white, glittering brightly in the noon-day sun with all the brilliance of a dwarf king’s diamond hoard.

  Anselm’s stomach growled again, louder this time. He really must stop and eat.

  Reining in his palfrey, he slipped his feet from the stirrups and gingerly dismounted, being careful not to jar the aching muscles in his side and back. Throwing his saddle pack over his shoulder, Anselm loosened the horse’s girth by a few holes, patted her shining neck, then left her to graze in peace. He limped across to flat-topped rock that jutted out from the dried stalks of last year’s bracken. The ideal place for a spot of lunch.

  Sighing with pleasure, he lowered himself onto the sun-warmed granite, welcoming the heat into his bones. The delicious waft of cold roast chicken and fresh bread drifted up from his saddle-pack making his mouth water and his stomach growl anew.

  What was the matter with him? He was unaccustomed to feeling such sharp hunger. Then again, that was probably because he seldom exerted himself now. However, if he wanted to get back to his old self he had much weight and muscle to replace, so he ate and drank his fill.

  Once his meal was over, Anselm yawned wide enough to split his face, suddenly feeling rather weary. Perhaps a little nap might be in order. Laying back on the rock, the saddle pack beneath his head in place of a pillow, Anselm closed his heavy eyes, lured toward sleep by the sounds of nature surrounding him: the joyful birdsong, the breeze softly rattling through the dried bracken, and the occasional lazy drone of a passing bee.

  Ah. Sweet peace. Yes, a snooze would be just the thing.

  But just as he was drifting away to the world of dreams, the vision of a woman intruded into his mind. And what an odd-looking woman she was with her painted face and that remarkable cloud of lilac-colored hair.

  On a sigh, the wind seemed to breathe her name.

  Lulu.

  Heart hammering, Anselm jerked upright, jarring his side in his haste to sit up. That odd woman was Lulu?

  Where in the blazes had she come from? What could she possibly be doing way out here, and all by herself?

  With one arm wrapped about his middle, Anselm shouldered his pack and scrambled to his feet. Whether this vision was a fabrication of his damaged mind or not, it was time to discover the truth.

  Chapter Six

  A modestly-dressed woman swept into the waiting chamber bringing with her the thick scent of violets.

  “Good day, m’lords,” said she with a brief smile of greeting. “My! What an honor and a pleasure this is. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to finally be able to welcome you to my humble home.”

  Reynard and Seth stared at the woman with ill-concealed astonishment.

  Little wonder for she looked nothing like the owner of a brothel. In fact, Mrs. Wilkes was nothing at all like the plump, slightly blowsy woman Vadim had previously envisaged. In reality, she was a handsome woman of middling years, sharing the same diminutive height and build as Effie. From the subtle adornments and flourishes of her, rather plain, blue gown to the linen cap atop of her head, everything marked her as a woman of rank and respectability.

  The only hint of wealth was in the cut and quality of her gown, for the dark fabric was clearly expensive and finely tailored.

  Apart from her height and build, try as he might, Vadim could see little of Effie in the woman before him. Recalling his manners, he bowed low and uttered a polite greeting.

  For her part, Mrs. Wilkes played the part of the gracious hostess perfectly. Politely greeting each of them in turn, she smiled demurely and made appropriate small talk, remarking upon the unseasonably fine weather they’d been enjoying of late.

  But the time had come for Vadim to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us at such… ” Was it early, or might the hour be considered late for a lady in her line of work? As a rule, ladies of Mrs. Wilkes’s profession weren’t generally early risers, the hours they kept being quite different from those of regular folk. “… short notice,” he finally decided. There. That would have to suffice.

  Apparently tired of their game of civility, Reynard interrupted Mrs. Wilkes before had the opportunity to respond. “Your daughter, madam. Where is she?” he demanded.

  “Effie?” The lady’s eyes widened as she regarded him. “You came for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? All three of you?” Mrs. Wilkes rested her hand upon her breast, her pale eyes wide. “My! Although I pride myself on being able to guess a gentleman’s particular tastes, I confess, I’m shocked to my very roots, indeed I am. However, I regret to inform you my daughter is not in the trade, so to speak, m’lords. Perhaps you might allow me to suggest an alternati—?”

  “We don’t wish to bed her, you impudent wretch!” Reynard exploded, his cheeks burning with ire. “We only want to know where she is.”

  “Reynard, please! A little civility if you would.” Vadim frowned with displeasure. It had been a mistake, bringing him here. They would get nothing from Mrs. Wilkes by speaking so rudely. Honey was always a better lure than vinegar, particularly honey of the spendable kind. However, something told him neither gold nor honey would hold much sway with Effie’s mother.

  Taking a breath, Reynard tried again, this time adopting in a milder tone. “Madam. We have reason to believe that your daughter has eloped with my son.”

  “Is that so?” Mrs Wilkes tapped one neatly-slippered foot upon the floor, the only outward sign of unease. “And what reason would that be, m’lord?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

  “In which case, I’m not at liberty to remain here with you a moment longer.” Gone was their amiable hostess. In an instant, a hardened street-wise woman took her place, ice flashing from Mrs. Wilkes’ narrowed eyes. “However, before I have you forcibly removed from my prem
ises I will first say this; if your son has gone off with my daughter, I cannot blame him, not now that I am acquainted with his sire.”

  As she turned to walk away Reynard grabbed her arm, preventing her escape. “How dare you address me so, you insolent slattern.”

  “Reynard, release her at once.” Vadim strode over to intervene, but Mrs. Wilkes needed no man’s aid. Yanking her arm free of Reynard’s grip, she regarded her assailant with a look of pure venom.

  “No. How dare you, m’lord. I run a respectable house, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner.”

  “Respectable? You? Hah!” Reynard gave a burst of bitter laughter. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. Do you have any idea who I am, madam?”

  At this, Mrs. Wilkes gave a tiny smile. “My daughter’s father-in-law, perhaps?”

  Oh, she was good. Vadim exchanged an amused glance with Seth.

  Reynard, however, was a long way from amused. Instead, he glowered darkly at the little woman.

  “Let me assure you, m’ lord,” Mrs. Wilkes continued evenly, “I have not the slightest desire to acknowledge this… unfortunate connection between our two families. So for the sake of all concerned, let us sever our fledgling acquaintance here and now. From what I have seen, a little of you goes a long way, Lord Upton.”

  “I feel exactly the same way, madam.”

  Walking to the fireplace, Vadim leaned upon the mantelpiece, observing the quarrel from a safe distance. Perhaps once the insults had been dispensed with they might make some real progress.

  He observed the diminutive woman with interest. For all that Reynard towered over her, Mrs. Wilkes wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. Hands-on-hips she glared up at him with all the reckless courage of a hunting dog who’d cornered a bear. No blushing daisy was this. Within that frail woman’s body beat the heart of a warrior. She’d stood up to Reynard in a way few men dared to, and Vadim greatly admired her for it. While Reynard continued to rant and rave, Mrs. Wilkes had yet to so much as raise her voice. It became apparent to Vadim that the situation was going nowhere. Perhaps Lord Edgeway might have better luck?