by Nicole Locke
So, he stared into his mother’s eyes, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t spoken, and destroyed his hand.
It had placated her long enough to conduct the rest of his scheme, and now he was here, talking with Séverine as he’d always wanted. He’d never believe that ruining his hand would be worth it. But for moments like this, with some honesty, some trust, and all her attention on him...he was daring to hope.
She even looked concerned for him. It warmed something in him. She cared for him, and maybe there could be something more? That was a step too far. Fool again! He didn’t deserve her.
‘You look ill from my confession. Perhaps it has been too long since you were under a Warstone roof?’
She shook her head. ‘I never thought myself safe. Not once.’
‘Running from us is infinitely safer.’ He drank the rest of his buttermilk brew and set the wooden cup down. She poured more.
‘I didn’t make it very strong,’ she said.
He took a bite of meat and bread. Neither tasted good, but nothing had for a long time.
‘I didn’t want to risk staying long in any location,’ she said. ‘But I missed my family and attempted to be with them for the rest of this winter.’
‘You truly hadn’t seen them for years?’
‘You sound surprised.’
He shrugged and picked up the cup she’d refilled. ‘For my own family, it would be odd but agreeable, but for one such as you—unheard of.’
She rolled her bread between her hands. ‘One such as me? Privileged? Coddled?’
‘Loved. I’m surprised you held out so long.’ She stayed quiet, and he forced himself to focus on the words and not the mesmerising way her hands moved.
‘Ah, you did it for your sons’ sakes. You left your husband for them, even knowing what could happen to you.’
‘What did you think I left him for?’
‘The usual reasons enemies do—to protect themselves.’
‘I’m not an enemy, I’m family, remember?’
‘All the more unusual for leaving us, then. Usually my family likes to keep family close.’
He liked this time with her. Liked the care he saw in her eyes, and her surprise when he’d mentioned love. He might never have experienced it himself, but he recognised it. She was loved, and in turn she loved her children. So simple for her, absolutely impossible for him...and yet he longed, nonetheless.
‘Why isn’t he here?’ she blurted, then seemed to regret it.
Maybe she didn’t want to talk about anything painful. Ian was painful for him. His brother had tried to kill him twice, but Balthus couldn’t quite forget the times his brother had been almost good.
She tossed the bread to the side and brushed her hands. ‘I’m not clever enough to avoid him forever. I’m resourceful and I’ve had good help,’ she said. ‘I can only think he purposely didn’t try. He did leave us first.’
What to say? The only truth he could. ‘Because I am the one who found you.’
Balthus didn’t know why he did it. Maybe because he feared what he said was a lie or maybe it was the vulnerability in her voice. Her eyes beseeching, seeking comfort. An hour of conversation and they’d grown closer. Knowing that they shared some of their past. The fact that her eyes dipped to his lips before her tongue darted to her own.
But his hand was on her nape before he knew what he was doing. She stiffened, and he held himself still. His body felt strangely not his own as he asked the one question he knew he shouldn’t.
‘Do you ever think of that moment, Séverine? Of that time before?’
Her eyes widened; she shook her head minutely. He felt the hesitation there, but it wasn’t enough. He needed certainty, he needed her.
Did she not understand? Did she truly not remember? Had his family, had Ian been so cruel that they’d wiped out all that was good from before? He refused to think that way. That moment was all that kept him sane. She must remember.
He squeezed her nape, brought her infinitesimally closer to him, closed his eyes briefly when her lips parted. ‘In your father’s hall, when you gazed at that tapestry, when I couldn’t let you go from my sight until you were snatched from me. Tell me you noticed me, too. Tell me—’
A whimper, a cry, his heart soared when she relented and allowed him to tug her over to him. Her knees were suddenly straddling one of his legs, her hands going to his shoulders.
He was dizzy with the scent of thyme on her, the fluttering of the pulse in her neck, the way her skin felt against his bare palm. The fact her green eyes darkened; her breathing matched his.
‘Do you remember, Séverine? Can you feel this, too?’
To touch, to kiss. To meld her body with his for however long she’d give him, for however much.
He had instigated the act to show her in the most primitive way that he cared; that he was hers, that he understood.
But did she? Waves rolled through his body, wanting him to crash forward. Bring their mouths, their tongues, together.
Her hand was against his cheeks, her eyes now full of tears. ‘Oh, Balthus.’
But he needed, he begged her to come the rest of the way to him, to capitulate. She was the one with reason, he felt like a beast. All instinct, as his heart hammered and his blood pooled, slowed.
Another wave. He pulled away, shook his head.
More tears from her eyes.
He was tired. Too tired. He felt his body lose strength and he slumped. This wasn’t because he had his heart’s desire as she straddled his body.
The odd taste, he recognised it now. Willow bark and valerian, and a lot of it. Perhaps even something else! He would have known sooner if she hadn’t distracted him with her conversation. With...her.
No!
And all this time she’d prepared to weaken him, to poison him, while he’d hoped to gain her trust and acceptance.
He would lose her again. Lose her and this time he was certain she’d escape. Henry didn’t know where he was—he was stuck in a pit he had no certainty to escape, not with one hand. And...she’d given him a draught to poison him. He’d drunk cups of the vile brew which could have had anything hidden within its buttermilk and honey depths.
He’d prepared all his life to die by violence or deceit. To die by her hand, though, was a cut he hadn’t been prepared for, couldn’t. For how could violence come from a woman whose smile for him meant happiness? It was like seeing splattered blood on a butterfly’s wings or flowers trampled in the mud. Impossible.
‘Sleep now, Balthus,’ he heard the traitor say. ‘Sleep.’
Visions of the Jewell of Kings flashed, quickly replaced with Séverine turning from a tapestry, her smile of pure joy slowing fading as his brother had walked down the great hall towards her to repeat the words she hadn’t heard. Words that had knifed through him both times he’d heard them.
And she didn’t know. Didn’t realise... Ian was dead. She’d betrayed him. Like everyone had ever done. Like everyone would ever do. Such joy in her smile and she’d struck the blade deeper than anyone.
‘Séverine,’ he choked out. She’d given him a lot of that vile concoction. Was this his path to death?
Absolute silence, though he could feel her dark presence like a man who’d stuck his hand in a viper’s bucket, or one who’d accepted a drink from an enemy. He wasn’t certain he could, but he had to force words out. He might be lying to her, but she’d stabbed him. Turned the blade and sliced out whatever was left of his heart, of his soul. She’d lied. To him! He burned with an agony he hadn’t thought possible given all the pain he’d endured. Was it because he dared to trust? All the worse, all the more, he wished for vengeance. Retribution!
‘Pray!’ he bit out past the poison taking him away from a life of redemption, past the anger that took him further away from the dream that this woman could ever care for him. ‘Pr
ay I do not wake.’
* * *
Séverine shook. Balthus had drunk enough valerian to make him sleep, but not enough. Nothing would ever be enough for when she sliced his arm again. He’d wake from that. Scream. Curse her name, and her children’s, too. Probably have the strength to strangle her until someone forced him away.
His look of such longing seared with utter hatred in those grey eyes. He’d kept them fastened on her until he’d slumped heavily to the floor, and said so softly, so slowly, it didn’t seem he was capable of knowing what he whispered to her. There are worse ways to go.
Her hands were damp, her body would not settle. He believed she meant to poison him. To kill him. All throughout she’d thought he’d taste it, would attack. That it wouldn’t be enough and...
‘He didn’t even fight me.’ She gazed helplessly at the vulnerable Warstone, this man who looked at her with almost wonder, who touched her, who intrigued her in a way no man ever had.
What had she done? It had started as a thought to sway him, but what if it went wrong, what if she had added too much valerian, and he died? Valerian shouldn’t, but he was already wounded. His words had been rambling at the end. Something about Ian. Had he been about to tell her something new? Was her husband on his way here? Just outside the village, and would walk in to see his youngest brother impaired and in a pit?
Hands slick with sweat, knees shaking badly, she stumbled to the ladder, forced herself to climb up, to push open the door.
What had she done? What had she done?
‘Imbert! Imbert!’ she yelled.
When he rounded the corner, she pulled herself up. ‘It’s done. He’s asleep.’
His crinkled brown eyes pierced hers. ‘You mean to do this.’
‘I need you to hold him down. He’ll wake up. There’s rope and stakes in the hut. We’ll use those.’
Imbert paled. ‘Wait...’
‘There’s no time,’ she said. ‘He’s in the pit. It’ll be fast, and then be over. Make certain Sarah keeps the boys away for the next week. The pit should muffle some sounds, but not all.’
He shook his head. ‘He won’t say anything. He’ll be dead.’
‘Imbert!’ she said. Sound roared in her ears and she was the one who knew what she meant. ‘What I will do will make him better. Think of how it will be for Clovis and Pepin to have a Warstone fighting for them instead of against?’
‘I’ve known you a long time now, and if you believe it will be so, then we’ll do it.’
Séverine felt no relief. None. Because it was true. And Balthus still needed to survive. Her plan would only work if he recovered, if he forgave her or understood. Only if...
Chapter Ten
Another cold night of sweats and nightmares Balthus couldn’t walk off. Of crying out in his sleep and cursing while awake. He was still in the pit, his left arm was wrapped and bound to his chest, the rest of his limbs were tied down with ropes and held by stakes in the ground. Pinned like a bug, and just as comfortable. If he couldn’t rest, he’d be damned if anyone else did. If he had to face all the ugliness of life, he’d make certain the rest of this village did, as well.
It had been a fortnight since he’d woken from this scourge, of fighting a fever that ravaged his body and his mind. If he had to suffer like this, he’d ensure that Séverine suffered like he did.
No, no one suffered like he did, especially her. He’d never once felt pity for himself. Not once. He was aware of the Warstone flaws and all the privileges. He may have longed for a true family, hearth and home. He may have wished fervently for happiness, but never once did he feel rage at how and to whom he was born, or what blood ran in his veins.
He knew why he suffered the most, though, because he’d gotten too close to his enemy. Believed in her smile and her chatter with her children. He remembered soft hands, a cool drink. Urgent, soothing words bringing him back from the darkness. He remembered her repeatedly asking if he hurt, as if she cared.
Before he’d tasted that valerian, before he’d woken up and felt the weight of a man holding him down, seen the blade in Séverine’s hands, he had believed that there was good in the world. He had believed, been trusting! Him! He, who had been raised in suspicion and disbelief. He, who’d had further than most to go to trust!
He’d experienced pain before or thought he had. He’d held his hand to a flame, dislocated his shoulder holding a ladder’s rung too long at his father’s orders. His own brother had tried to kill him. He had so many dark experiences to compare to this time in the pit under the care of Séverine, but only now he felt suffering. Because she’d made him believe.
When he’d first woken up, when he’d been weakened the most, he’d thought his parents had created the monster she was. After all, what reasonable woman would slice off slivers of a man’s arm? Even his own mother hadn’t done such a thing. His father made torture painful but swift. His parents ordered massacres, but even those had been meted out like scythes to wheat.
Nobody had been tortured and then healed, only to be tortured again. For what secrets or vengeance? He asked, but Séverine refused to answer. A week like this since he woken from the last of his fevers. A week of looking at a woman whom he’d thought was every embodiment of joy, and she was all deceit.
A clang of metal and light single footsteps let him know the bane of his thoughts had arrived. The whispered words between her and the guard reminded him he was a prisoner.
The sun was just rising, but it was the flames from the fire above that allowed him to see that Séverine stretched her arms over her head. As a man, Balthus admired the curve of her back, the graceful curl to her fingers. Of course, any man stuck in a dark damp hole would look at her, but he knew his regard for her went far beyond revenge. This was some disordered blending of what she was supposed to be and what he knew she was. Between his loving her and now his hate.
For him, being this near Séverine after all these years fed his obsession like dry kindling to a fire. Now he wasn’t certain whether the fire was controllable.
Faster, smaller shadows flitted across the ceiling, a slam of the latch announcing her boys had entered, too.
‘No, out of here, both of you,’ Séverine whispered.
‘You’ve been here days and days.’ Pepin’s voice rang clear in the quiet hut.
‘And I’ll be here a few more. Where’s Sarah?’
‘Making bread,’ Clovis announced. His voice was distinctive in its formality.
‘I want to see him.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you want, Pepin, it matters what I say,’ Séverine whispered. ‘That man is danger, and you aren’t to talk to him.’
‘Why not?’ Pepin said. ‘He’s in there. You’re keeping him!’
Balthus almost chuckled at the loud whispering of the six-year-old.
‘He’s not an animal,’ Clovis said.
Clever boy, although he felt trapped like an animal. Whoever had constructed this space knew what they were doing. Weeks down here and the walls had closed in. Being pinned to the floor would break him soon. He’d be as mad as his brother Ian had been.
‘Keep your voices down,’ Séverine hissed. ‘Neither of you were to follow me in here.’
‘You asked us to carry these.’
‘You did, now go.’
‘Only a peek, Mama.’
Balthus closed his eyes, stayed as still as he could. He may want revenge on their mother, but the boys were innocent. Two weeks since he was carved on, another week of fever. Days of listening to them sneak in and hearing their chatter. It was sometimes amusing, most times it made him melancholic. Ian didn’t know his sons like he did. Tied and staked to the ground in a pit in the middle of nowhere, and he’d spent more time with them than his brother ever had.
So he kept quiet and his eyes shut so as to not scare them. Their mother may have betrayed him
, but his heart...his heart still wanted to hear her children.
‘I still think he looks familiar,’ Clovis whispered.
‘Mama says he shouldn’t,’ Pepin said. ‘But he followed us, didn’t he?’
‘Out, both of you, now.’
A scrambling of feet. ‘Does he have my treasure? It’s still down there.’
‘It’s not yours,’ Clovis said.
‘Boys. Go help Imbert.’
‘Clovis, too?’
‘Yes!’ Séverine hissed.
Balthus’s eavesdropping came to some use last night. The walls of this hut were thin, the relentless wind could be felt above his head, and he was almost grateful to be insulated by the walls of the pit.
From the broken words he could understand, some villagers wondered about Warstone attacks. Séverine appeared to have made herself a community, which pleased and terrified him. One or two people could escape a Warstone’s notice, but a village wouldn’t be able to. He hoped he’d simply misunderstood the situation, and not because villagers were preparing for an attack against his family but because they knew to prepare.
A slamming of the door reported the boys had left.
Balthus could hear the frustration in Séverine’s exhale. The boys were getting brave, coming inside. He’d observed enough of people over the years to understand Séverine’s conversation with her boys wasn’t anything unusual. All she did was admonish her children for their actions, but they were confident enough in her love for them to talk back.
To be loved and cared for like that? To be disciplined and respected in a mother’s loving tone? It wasn’t any wonder why his heart wanted to hear their conversation; it was a wonder his applied reason, that she betrayed him, didn’t put a stop to it.
‘I know you’re awake.’ Séverine descended the ladder.
Her perceived happiness had haunted him all his life. Now her cold maliciousness would frequent the rest of his meagre existence. He’d never be rid of her, and she’d pinned him to the floor to ensure it. So he’d lain there doing what he’d done for the last week: staring at her beauty and cursing himself for never recognising the monster beneath.
