Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

There was little time for self-pity. Although her thoughts had flashed by in a fraction of a second, a hand had already clamped round her throat.

'Maybe not strangled,' Rosmerta boomed, as she slammed Claudia's head against the stone wall.

Jupiter, no. Not like this.

'I think you deserve a heroine's death.'

Something wet was running down Claudia's face, but there was only one thought in her brain and that thought wasn't survival. It was to kill the fiend that was Nosferatu. This monster must not slaughter more innocent victims. Her evil had to be stopped…

'I want people to see that you fought Nosferatu like a true Roman.'

Rosmerta thumped her victim's head against the stonework with just the right amount of force.

'Let's have your blood establish your heroism.'

'Yes, let's,' Claudia gurgled, and this time there was no mistake. The stiletto she kept strapped to her calf embedded itself in Rosmerta's neck.

'Yeeeeeee!' The wail was unearthly, but either Claudia was too weak or Rosmerta was too strong. Or Nosferatu really could not die.. 'You — ' slam — 'bitch — ' slam

Claudia lashed back. She kicked, brought her knees into Rosmerta's stomach, clawed at her skin, tried to gouge, but there was no strength in her swings, no power behind her punches, and each time her head connected with stone, coordination grew that little bit weaker. How many more? How many more could she take before she passed out?

'I'll see you in hell — ' slam — 'for this.'

And would he know? she asked herself. Would Marcus ever know that she 'No, Rosmerta,' a male voice growled, and miraculously the grip round her neck fell away. 'It's ye who's going to hell.'

There was a scuffle. A scream. Then a pause. A terrible pause in which Claudia could see nothing but redness and clouds, and she tried to get up, to reach for the statuette that sat in the niche, to bring it down on Rosmerta's head, but she kept slipping in something sticky and warm, and the world seemed to be falling away at her feet. Then a voice broke the silence.

'Bastard!' Rosmerta screamed. 'You bastard, you bastard!'

The bastard ignored her and suddenly Claudia was lifted on to the bed and a sheet was wiping the blood from her eyes.

'Next time ye throw furniture,' a gravel voice rumbled, 'would ye have a mind to use a wee stool, please?'

Nosferatu couldn't stop screaming.

Bastard! He was wearing a cuirass, the bastard! Beneath his shirt, that fat oaf had been wearing a thick leather cuirass, and now he was binding her wrists in irons — irons, if you please — and tying her legs at the ankles, and all that lazy Roman cow was doing was sitting on the bed holding a bedsheet to her head. My bedsheet at that.

'Lady Claudia, I insist you stop this farce at once!'

Nosferatu might not have spoken. Did the chit not understand?

'I've always been looking out for your best interests, my dear, surely you realize that?'

Just how many times must she tell the wretched girl how fond she was of her? Why, when Mazares said he'd be bringing a bride here from Rome, Nosferatu had been delighted. Such a vibrant young creature, as well! The King would be dead — oh, and on the very day his marriage was announced, too — but what a bonus. Nosferatu had been perfectly willing to take the girl under her wing. She was funny and witty, and she'd be part of the family, plus she was rich and in trade. Dear me, she could guide them through the minefield of commercial wheeling and dealing in Rome, and she'd know all the latest fashions, of course. Yes, indeed. A very precious part of the family.

'I don't think you understand what I can do for you, girl.'

What on earth did the ungrateful minx mean, she wasn't a pet? Pet? Hadn't she just tried to pass her off as a heroine? The saviour of Histria's hour? And what's this nonsense about facing judgment?

'I am Rosmerta!' Nosferatu pronounced 'Wife of Kazan, mother of Marek and Mir, grandmother of a child yet to be named. The King is dead, long live the King, therefore, I am the Queen — and queens, you imbeciles, do not face judgment.'

We are judgment.

Don't you see?

Clouds had closed in to swallow the hills, trapping heat that you could cut with a woodsaw. Thunder rumbled like the bellowing of the Minotaur imprisoned in the bowels of its labyrinth — half man, half bull, all cannibal — and the growls were relentless, rolling from island to island and back. With each roar, the night sky turned a deeper shade of purple and crackled with bolts of white lightning.

'Hrrrowwl.'

In the dark, Drusilla's crossed eyes glowed like diamonds. 'Yes, I know, poppet.'

The rasp of cicadas was grating on Claudia's nerves, too, as she paced the cool marble floor of her bedroom. Salome had treated her head wound with tincture of birthwort and applied a poultice of marsh mallow to Claudia's jaw, and as much as she would have liked Salome to stay, Salome had other, more pressing matters, to attend to.

'Yowwwwl.'

As another silver shaft splintered the heavens, Claudia was gripped by a feeling of impending finality and she shivered. Surely the news must come soon? She shivered again, dreading the news, dreading the lack of news. She wanted nothing to change. Everything to remain suspended in time just as it was. Frozen. Preserved in this limbo for ever.

So, she washed down the exact number of flower buds of meadowsweet, honeysuckle — and something she couldn't identify — as Salome prescribed with the oregano tea she had left, then swallowed another handful because the pain wasn't dulling, though it wasn't the throbbing in her head that concerned her.

'I can't stand this,' she told Drusilla. 'I can't stand this interminable waiting.'

Salome had ordered her to stay in bed. She had lost a lot of blood, she insisted, and on top of her previous injuries, it would be foolish to risk infection. But who could sit twiddling their thumbs while the Grim Reaper's sickle swishes back and forth over Mazares's head? Except the pacing only added to the sense of impotence, and the desolation in her heart was as cold as the Arctic.

She heard boots in the corridor. Hurrying. Scurrying. But they passed on, and the hall fell silent once more.

Time passed.

The sky turned black, as black as the Thunder Maker's face, whose bolts split the heavens. She thought of Raspor. Of the arrowheads that hung round his neck.

'Oh, Perun,' she whispered. 'Mazares is a good man. Don't let him die.'

Fear turned to anger. How could he do this? How could he not realize he was so ill? Damn you, Mazares! Would it have been so hard to delegate a few tasks here and there, so you could at least tell the difference between burden and poison? It is killing him, Drilo had said. His pride is killing him, and he was right. Rosmerta couldn't have woven her evil if Mazares hadn't shown her the way!

Claudia continued to pace. She'd only be in the way in his sick room, and in any case, Mazares was weak enough at the moment, he needed strength pulsed into his body, not fear. Right now, the King needed calm. He needed the soothing touch of a woman who loved, but didn't panic. A woman, moreover, who never doubted…

An old proverb twisted its way into Claudia's head. It was a favourite of her father's, she remembered. That there was a remedy for everything except death. Oh, but if there was even a remote chance of saving Mazares, Salome could do it. On willpower alone she'd win through, and she possessed a knowledge of herbs that had been passed down through the years, each generation adding her own bank of learning. The trouble was, the answer to whether Salome's blend of courage, willpower and healing was strong enough would not be known for some time, and Claudia couldn't keep prowling this room. She had to do something.