King's Errand Page 8

  Erde! Coughing and spluttering, he thrust the flask back at Lulu, tears streaming down his face in a deluge. In the name of every demon of the Underworld, what was that awful stuff? Poison, most likely.

  But Lulu only laughed and patted Anselm on his back while he slowly asphyxiated. Yes, the old witch has definitely poisoned him.

  “There, there now. You’ll be alright, Hansel, to be sure you will. Breathe a little slower for me. Good boy. Nice deep breaths.”

  “Wh-What was t-that?” he gasped when he was finally able to speak again.

  “Whiskey—and a rather expensive one at that. Silly boy. It’s meant to be sipped slowly and savored, not quaffed like some cheap nasty plonk.”

  “Plonk?”

  “Wine.”

  “Oh.”

  After wiping the neck of the flask with her hand, Lulu took a quick drink then she slipped the vessel back into some concealed pocket within her coat without so much as a single splutter. She must be immune to the stuff.

  Relieved he could breath again, Anselm mopped his eyes with his sleeve then took a sip from the wine bladder hanging from his belt, efficiently putting out the residual flames still burning in his raw gullet.

  “Better now?”

  Not trusting himself to speak, Anselm nodded wildly. When Lulu extended her hand down to him, he realized he was still kneeling in the dirt.

  “All things considered,” she said, “I think you’ve taken the news rather well.”

  The statement was so ludicrous Anselm laughed again. “You r-really th-think so?”

  “Uh-hmm. To be sure.”

  Still chuckling, he took Lulu’s hand and hauled himself up onto his feet. The old woman might look frail but she was surprisingly strong.

  “I don’t understand. How is any of this even possible?” he asked.

  “That’s a good question. Perhaps we should ask my niece when we next see her, eh?”

  By an unspoken accord, they set off walking down the slight incline that led to the shingle foreshore of the hurrying river. Standing together in silence, they stared at the set of ancient stepping stones. Glistening in the sun, they appeared so innocuous—and perhaps they were.

  If Anselm were to cross that river now, following in the footsteps of all those who had gradually worn such deep grooves into the surface of the ancient stones, he suspected he’d only end up on the opposite bank of the river.

  No buzzing. No singing. No other world populated with strange old ladies.

  Everything looked just the same as it always had, but now his view of the world had changed forever.

  “So, how did you… ?” Anselm gestured from the stepping stones and back to Lulu. “… cross over? How did you first learn the secret language of the stones?”

  “Ah. That’s down to our Martha.” The old lady’s unnaturally pink cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red. “You may think I’m daft for telling you this, but she visited me again in another one of those… waking dreams, I suppose you’d call them. She told me she was in labor and begged me to come find her. So that’s what I did.” Lulu frowned. “But there’s just one thing bothering me.”

  “Oh? Only the one?” Anselm could only envy Lulu her good fortune, for a great many things were currently vexing the wits out of him. “And what might that be, hmm?”

  “How the feck am I supposed to get home again?”

  It was the first time Anselm sensed any vulnerability in the old woman, and in a way it heartened him to know he wasn’t the only one who had no idea what was going on.

  “I believe that’s another question for your niece, m’lady. Come now. We have a fair distance to travel if we hope to reach shelter by nightfall.” Anselm offered Lulu his arm. “Shall we go?”

  On the ride back to the castle, Reynard didn’t speak a word.

  Head down, eyes cast downward, he kept to himself, riding at the very back of the column, his cloak drawn about him like a shroud to discourage conversation.

  For the umpteenth time, Vadim glanced back at his friend. After the news they’d received, who could blame him for being so morose?

  “Well?” Seth demanded, jogging up to ride alongside his foster son. “Are we going to discuss what happened back there?”

  “Not now, Seth. That particular conversation will keep for when there is less chance of being overheard.”

  Seth shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Although the unhappy tidings were sure to leak out eventually, Vadim was in no hurry to hasten the moment when all of Edgeway learned Reynard’s son and heir had gone and bound himself to Martha’s young maid—and in the presence of witnesses, too. The contract was absolutely iron clad. There was no way for Fergus to wriggle out of the marriage now, even if he were of a mind to.

  After being joined as husband and wife, the young couple had, according to Mrs Wilkes, gone off to some undisclosed location in order to celebrate their union in privacy, enjoying the beginning of their married life alone and undisturbed.

  Effie’s disreputable mother had delivered each detail of these unwelcome tidings in turn, solemnly and without undue fanfare, but behind her unsmiling veneer, Vadim sensed her silently gloating. The union of their two families might be terrible news for Reynard, but the match was excellent news for Mrs. Wilkes.

  Poor Reynard. In less than an hour he seemed to have aged two decades. On hearing confirmation of what must have been his greatest dread, the blood had drained from his face until his pallor matched that of his hair. Without a word, he’d gone down like a felled tree, slumping onto the nearest chair, lapsing into the unnerving silence from which he’d yet to emerge.

  Anger burned brightly within Vadim’s heart. How could Fergus abandon his duties in such a careless manner? As his father’s only child he had an obligation, not just to his family but to the noble title which he would have inherited. But for the sake of a maid, and a commoner at that, he’d turned his back and walked away. And not just any commoner, either—the daughter of a brothel owner, no less.

  What would become of Reynard now? Who would inherit the legacy he’d battled for so many years to reclaim?

  Fergus was a fool. Love—or, more probably, lust—had transformed his once rapier-sharp mind into an unrecognizable slush. Reynard would probably leave his title and estate to Blaine, now, his sister Agatha’s eldest son. In that way, at least their noble blood line would continue through the years, unsullied and untainted.

  Oh, you pompous arse!

  The words of his own outspoken wife rang loudly in Vadim’s ears, so clearly it was as though Martha were right there with him, riding along at his side. On those infrequent occasions when he was called away from home, he would quite often hear her voice speaking inside his head.

  Just listen to yourself, would you?I don’t think you’re in any position to judge poor Fergus, m’lord. After all, you married a commoner yourself, didn’t you? You can hardly take the moral high ground now.

  Vadim smiled. Even when she wasn’t with him, Martha gave excellent counsel.

  Get over yourself, Lord Edgeway. Don’t forget, you’re just a posh title away from being an outlaw again. Perhaps you should remind Reynard of that.

  Perhaps he would, but not now. His old friend’s feelings were yet too raw to stomach a medicinal dose of common sense. No. Perhaps when Reynard had had chance to lick his wounds, Vadim would sit down and have a proper talk with him in order to see what was could be done to repair the bond between father and son.

  ’Twas just as Anselm had feared.

  Not only would they not reach Edgeway before nightfall, but because Lulu was so exhausted, he was now forced to seek aid from the very people he’d once lorded it over.

  Often had it been said that time had a way of toppling the mighty. Now Anselm was about to experience this old adage first hand. Oh, the indignity! But there was nothing
else for it. Lulu was done for the day.

  Previously so talkative, Martha’s aunt was now unnaturally quiet. Sitting atop of Anselm’s horse, her bulging bag clutched before her, Lulu sat in silence, her eyes closing more and more frequently.

  She was bone weary. Truth be told, so was he.

  In the fast fading light, Anselm limped slowly along, leading his horse down the seemingly endless road, his side throbbing like fury with every footstep. Darumvale was just up ahead, the smoke from a dozen cooking fires already spiraling lazily into the darkening indigo sky.

  Damn it all. Of all the wretched fortune.

  Like it or not, unless he wanted to spend the night in the open with an old woman and woefully inadequate provisions, he had no other choice but to seek shelter there. Praying the villagers wouldn’t lynch him on sight, Anselm took the turn off to the village and, ignoring the pack of yipping village dogs that besieged them, heralding their arrival, he headed for the biggest house in the village.

  His father’s home. The so-called Great Hall. The place where he and Vadim had grown from boys to men.

  “What’s this?” A mocking voice called. “Look, lads. Visitors.”

  “Aye. And what a pasty whey-faced one at that.”

  Anselm turned to his left. To his dismay, a group of grinning youths advanced upon them, each with a metal digging implement in his hand. Thankfully, none of their pimple-covered faces looked familiar. Perhaps he might make it to the hall without incident.

  “Good evening.” Unable to fight, Anselm forced himself to be polite. “Is old man Hemble within?” He jerked his head toward the great hall.

  “Maybe he is.” The leader of the pus-faced tweens grinned. “Then again, maybe—”

  “Hold on, lads! Don’t you recognize him?”

  Anselm briefly closed his eyes. So much for passing by undetected.

  A fair-headed youth stepped from the back of the pack. Anselm’s stomach dropped when he realized who it was. Young Will, the blacksmith’s son. Now a strapping man in his own right. His master’s men had brutally cut down the lad’s father during the last uprising in the village.

  “This here is Sir Anselm, Lord Godric’s friend.”

  “His friend, or his bed-mate? Mebbe a bit o’ both. I’ve always thought the two of ’em were as crooked as a dog’s hind leg,” added one of the other boys, eliciting a round of coarse laughter.

  The young ruffians came closer, slowly encircling Anselm and his horse like a pack of wolves preparing to attack.

  “Welcome home, Sir Anselm.”

  “Welcome.”

  “Welcome.”

  “Welcome.” As eight voices took up the chant, it turned a simple word of greeting into one of threat and menace.

  Closing in on their prey, the youths’ smiles faded. No one was laughing now. Anselm could have made a grab for his sword, but they were too many. Besides, if he wanted shelter for the night, killing some of the village boys wasn’t going to earn him much in the way of hospitality.

  “Get back,” he cried with as much authority as he could muster. “I am escorting Lord Edgeway’s mother-in-law.” Well, in a way. “He will not be happy to hear how—Ouff!”

  Young Will struck first, delivering a solid punch to Anselm’s gut, knocking the wind right out of him. He doubled over, gasping for air. Hands on his thighs, he slowly pushed himself upright. “I suppose… I… deserved that… ” But before he could finish, someone else took another swing at him, and this blow felled him like a tree.

  Get up! His inner voice commanded, for on the ground he was vulnerable. If he didn’t rise quickly, he had no chance. But the pain in his side was too great to be ignored, rendering him slow and clumsy. Before he had chance to scramble onto his knees, the youths began kicking him. Anselm instantly fell to the ground and rolled himself up into a tight ball, his arms and legs protecting his head and vital organs from the damaging thuds of hatred raining beating at him from every direction.

  “Bastard!” Will hissed, his foot narrowly missing Anselm’s jaw. Save for their collective panting, the other boys fell silent, intent on delivering the maximum amount of payback to their common foe.

  Anselm groaned as a kick suddenly found its mark. Why the hell had he come back to this shit-hole? He was as good as dead.

  Still tightly locked in his fetal position, Anselm heard Lulu shouting and screaming.

  “Leave him be, you fecking ruffians.” By the sound of it, Lulu was using her hefty bag as a weapon, striking at the boys in an effort to push them back. It seemed to be working, for the frequency and accuracy of the kicks lessened a tad.

  Not liking this melee, poor Bramble whinnied and sidestepped, one of her hooves brushing dangerously close to Anselm’s ribs. Then there was a sudden sharp yelp as the horse lashed out. One of the dogs must have strayed too close to the horse’s hind legs. Anselm could only hope his faithful beast would take down a few of the young thugs while she was about it.

  “Help! Help us!” Lulu’s shrieks had reached a crescendo. “Get away from me, you wee feckers!”

  The kicks abruptly stopped.

  “I mean it,” Lulu screeched, rather like a banshee. “So help me God, if you don’t bugger off this minute I’ll swing for each and every one of you. Don’t think I won’t use this thing,’cause I will!”

  Cautiously, Anselm unfurled from his protective ball, groaning as each new injury made itself known. Cursing beneath his breath, he was forced to roll quickly out of the way as Bramble suddenly spun about, her glossy rump aimed in the direction of the slowly retreating youths.

  Scrambling to his knees, Anselm saw Lulu brandishing a brightly colored metal canister, its white nozzle trained on the pack of huddled youths.

  “You’re Martha’s mother?” Young Will cried in disbelief as he tried to advance again. Only the rapid swing of Bramble’s hindquarters kept the red-faced lad at bay.

  “Yes,” Lulu replied. “Well, her legal guardian at least.”

  Will gave a bitter laugh. “Then I’m amazed Lord Edgeway thinks so little of his wife’s closest relation. Don’t you know who this is?” he demanded, pointing a trembling finger at Anselm who was using the stirrup iron to aid him back onto his feet. “You should choose your escort with greater care in future, m’lady.”

  Half-turning in the saddle, her mysterious canister still trained in Will’s direction, Lulu said, “Thanks for the advice, sonny, but I’ll be making my own judgments if it’s all the same to you.”

  At that moment, Bren arrived. Stepping behind her son, she placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “In that case, you’d better hope you don’t end up in a ditch somewhere with a knife stuck in your back, woman. Go on now, Will,” she said softly. “Leave them to me.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “I mean it.” The firm note in Bren’s voice dared him to argue. With her horsey face and flyaway hair, the blacksmith’s widow was a dangerous foe. “Go on home, all of you. I expect your

  supper sits awaiting your attention.”

  With much muttering and many a surly backward glance, the pack of boys reluctantly dispersed leaving Anselm and Lulu alone with Bren.

  Anselm exhaled a relieved breath. Sore and bruised he was, but the worst seemed to be over. “Hello, Bren. How are you?”

  “Lighter by a husband, other than that I can’t complain.”

  Anselm winced at her sarcasm, for the blacksmith and his wife had been particularly devoted to one another. In fact, Anselm had been sincerely sorry to learn of Jarod’s passing, but he thought it best to say nothing for Bren would certainly not appreciate any sympathy. Not from him. Just like her son, she probably blamed Anselm entirely for her husband’s death, even though he hadn’t even been in Darumvale at the time.

  “Well, thank you for your assist—”

  “Oh, keep your gratitude, you murdering ba
stard!” Bren snarled. “I did it for her, not you!” she said, jerking her head toward Lulu. “And for Martha. My friend.”

  Anselm rubbed his jaw which began throbbing terribly. Clearly someone had managed to land a kick there with a well-aimed boot. Moving his jaw gingerly from side to side, he detected no breaks, thank the spirits.

  “Well, I’m grateful all the same. I had hoped to find shelter here for the night, for my charge is most weary, but perhaps it would be better if we—”

  “Do what you wish. Burn in hell for all I care.” Darting Anselm another poisonous glance, Bren approached Lulu with a friendly smile. “But you can spend the night with me, m’lady. Aye, and most welcome you are, too.” Hastily wiping her right hand on the skirt of her homespun dress, Bren proffered her hand to Lulu. “I’m Bren,” she said with another warm smile. “Your girl Martha is one of my dearest friends. Perhaps she’s mentioned me?”

  Shoving the metal canister back in her bag, Lulu accepted Bren’s hand with a friendly grin of her own. “Glad to know you, Bren. As a matter of fact, she hasn’t mentioned you, but that’s no reflection on your friendship, dear. Over the past year or so, communication between my niece and myself has been rather… intermittent, let’s say. Please, you must call me Lulu.”

  “Come then, Lulu.” Taking Bramble’s bridle, Bren led the horse toward the stables at the back of the great hall. “Let’s see to your horse, shall we? After that, you and I will share a bite of supper and a nice long chat. I have a hearty stew and some freshly baked bread, if it pleases you.”

  “Ooh, yes. That sounds lovely. But what about my young escort?” Lulu asked, turning in her saddle to look back at Anselm.

  “He can look after himself,” Bren answered without so much as a backward glance. “But you must not fret, for our Anselm’s always been extremely good at that.”

  And so he was dismissed.

  Chapter Eight