by Grace Draven
Sometimes Ballard joined them, sitting quietly near the fire, shrouded in hood and cloak so he wouldn’t disturb Cinnia. Despite their bargain, he had yet to request Louvaen’s company privately and had so far refused her offer to read to him. He seemed content to sit and listen to the quiet clack of the spinning wheel’s treadle and watch as she spun flax into linen yarn.
“Why spinning, Mistress Duenda?” He asked her one evening as she drafted flax tow through her fingers. “A lady usually engages in other pursuits.”
Louvaen smiled. Spinning was a lowly skill, despite the weavers clamoring for every scrap of yarn a spinner could twist and ply as fast as possible. “I’m not a lady, my lord, only a bankrupt merchant’s daughter.” Shed dipped thumb and forefinger in the cup of flax mucilage to coat the line. “I’ve no talent for the harpsichord or the psaltery, and I find needlework dull. Spinning though—spinning is listening to thread sing, and I’ve a good ear for it.”
“Give me your hands.”
His command surprised her, but she ceased spinning and stretched out her hands, palms up. He leaned forward and grasped them, the pointed tips of his nails scoring lightly down the lengths of her fingers. Her skin was golden next to his, her hands elegant. Louvaen glanced at her sister who’d paused in her game with Gavin to watch. Cinnia shuddered and turned back to the board. If Ballard saw her reaction, he ignored it, concentrating instead on sliding his thumbs across the pads of Louvaen’s fingers.
“Not a lady but with the hands of one. Soft.”
Where Cinnia shook in revulsion, Louvaen shivered at the pleasant tingle his touch elicited. She gently withdrew her hands from his grasp and took up her line once more. “When I spin wool, I spin in the grease. Good for the skin.”
Ballard sat back in his chair. “What a fine thing to know the caress of such hands,” he said in a low voice.
The heat in her face warned her she was probably a deeper shade of red than Cinnia’s gown, but she refused to look away from Ballard’s steady gaze, the eye shine yellow and glowing in the deep shadows of his hood. “I’m no longer considering your proposition, Lord de Sauveterre,” she said in equally quiet tones.
“I proposed in jest, mistress, but the offer stands with all sincerity should you ever decide to accept.”
He was an enigma, one which kept her awake at night trying to puzzle out. Their meeting had started well enough. Unlike Cinnia, Louvaen wasn’t content to leave a mystery unsolved. Gavin and Ambrose had warned her of Ballard’s disfigurement, and the bony hands with the black claw-like nails hinted at a man who no longer resembled one. His concealing garb, however, had only made her more curious, and she’d been both surprised and pleased at his willingness to put it aside and reveal himself to her.
If anyone were to ask her what she remembered most about him at first sight, she would have said his eyes. In the light, they were deep set and long lashed, so dark a brown, they appeared black and nearly obscured his pupils. They assessed her with a gaze that bespoke strength, patience and a certainty his appearance would send her fleeing from the solar. Louvaen didn’t think he’d ever been a handsome man. Her nose was positively delicate compared to his. A thin, high bridge arched long into a pair of flared nostrils and pointed tip made even more hawkish by the slight crookedness of the nasal bones. He possessed a thin-lipped mouth, hard jaw and cheeks hollowed out by either suffering or age. A filigree of silver wove through black, shoulder length hair, giving the wavy locks the look of pewter stained with soot. As they were, his features made him stern and forbidding. With the warping caused by the flux, he was frightful.
Small grooves in the shapes of arrow tips were carved into his cheeks, a matching set on both sides. Another grouping, these shaped like spirals, etched vertical paths on either side of his forehead. More scars, some raised, others sunken and shriveled, encircled his throat to disappear beneath the high collar of his cotehardie. Some of the scars were pale, others almost dark as his hair. The dark ones resembled runes or thorny vines and reminded her of the sinister roses growing in wild profusion across the garden wall and up the north side of the fortress’s keep. His skin was unnaturally pale, the only real color the purplish bruises ringing his eyes from a healing broken nose. As Thomas Duenda’s wife, Louvaen had prepared enough of the dead for burial to truthfully say Ballard de Sauveterre had the fish-belly pallor of a drowned man.
She understood why he went hooded and cloaked around strangers. People were fearful creatures and looked upon disfigurement with the same horror in which they viewed plague victims. Even the most stout-hearted person would weary of the pointing, screeching and cries of “Monster!” that would ensue were they to show their faces to the sun. Still, it was a shame he covered himself so completely. His face might inspire swoons of the wrong kind, but he was well made. Only a little taller than her, he boasted a slim, muscular physique and wide shoulders shown to best advantage in the form-fitting tunic.
She’d briefly entertained the idea of spearing him with the fireplace poker over his outlandish demand that she share his bed in exchange for the right to protect her sister but thought better of it. Ballard’s eyes had flashed, the faint upward tug of his lips telling her he’d read her intention. He’d reclined in his chair, legs stretched out toward the fire, one hand clasping his goblet while the other rested against his thigh. It was an indolent pose, but Louvaen sensed a coiled intensity about him and recalled the power in the unyielding grip he’d had on her leg. She suspected he was as fast as he was strong and would disarm her before she could lift the poker.
That she’d seriously considered becoming his temporary mistress had shocked her. Many a woman had traded her body for reasons as desperate as feeding a family or as calculating as finding an alternate path to power. Sometimes you gained on your back what you couldn’t through birthright or circumstance. She’d never allow such a consideration for Cinnia. Innocent, unmarried and now destitute, she had only her beauty and her reputation with which to lure a proper suitor, and Louvaen refused to put all her hopes for her sister on Gavin de Lovet. She herself didn’t possess great beauty and, as a widow, no longer had to worry about a reputation dependent on the foolish idea that her character was somehow compromised by a tumble in the hay. Still, she wasn’t in the habit of welcoming men to her bed, especially strangers. De Sauveterre’s proposition had first angered and then intrigued her. She had no good reason for why she found him fascinating. Something about the man, beyond the ruined face and twisted hands, strummed a chord inside her.
She looked forward to supper because he made an appearance each evening. Everyone gathered in the kitchen for the meal, even Magda, Clarimond and Joan. At first shy, the serving girls had said little but soon asked questions about Louvaen’s and Cinnia’s lives in Monteblanco and offered insights into life at Ketach Tor. Magda, never reserved, spouted opinions on everything from horse saddles to dress hems and caressed Ambrose’s shins with her toes under the table. Louvaen had discovered their play once when she bent to retrieve a dropped napkin. She’d almost banged her head on the table’s edge straightening up too quickly and spent the rest of supper trying not to giggle at the discovery that the housekeeper and the sorcerer were lovers.
For his part, Ambrose remained unfailingly kind to Cinnia, praising her company and requesting her help in illuminating a tome of herbals. He and Louvaen regularly volleyed insults and threats between them whenever they crossed paths, though they had reached a silent agreement not to try and kill each other while she remained at Ketach Tor. Upon her return from Monteblanco, she’d thanked him for not bespelling her off the cliff.
“Keep your thanks,” he told her. “And an eye on your ale. I’m brewing something that turns shrews into toads.”
“While you’re at it, brew something that bestows courtesy and swallow a cup or two yourself,” she shot back.
Between their ongoing verbal battles, Magda’s commentary and Gavin and Cinnia making cow eyes at each other over a platter of mutton or p
ork, supper was never dull. Ballard always presented himself in the kitchen as the rest of his household sat down to eat and took his place at the head of the table. He didn’t eat, only drank the ale or wine Magda served and added his own comments to the various conversations or debates that erupted—usually between Ambrose and Magda or Ambrose and Louvaen. At first she thought he simply chose not to eat supper until she’d returned to the kitchen one evening for an extra candle and saw him alone at the table, bareheaded and without his cloak.
Magda set a plate before him along with a dagger and napkin. While the rest of the household had used forks, Ballard ate only with the dagger and his claws. The claws worked well to stab, but she guessed they diminished his ability to wield a fork with any competency. Louvaen had left before either he or Magda noticed her presence. She lay awake that night thinking upon Ballard’s solitary meal. His refusal to eat with them was not the act of a man who craved extreme privacy but one ashamed to reveal an effect of his disfigurement.
Tonight she skipped the after-supper gathering in the solar and returned to her room. She moved a chair near the fire and placed a low stool in front of it. The basket next to the stool held the items she had Gavin pilfer from the stables. He’d given her a strange look but thought better of asking any questions when she leveled a warning gaze on him. Ballard would likely raise an eyebrow when he saw what she’d taken. Louvaen hoped he didn’t see insult where none existed. She left the bedroom and flew down the stairs as quick as she could without tripping on her hem.
Magda was just putting Ballard’s plate in front of him when Louvaen strode into the kitchen. The housekeeper jumped, dropping the plate. It clattered on the table and bounced peas across its surface. Ballard half rose from his chair, eyes narrowed, lips almost disappeared in a grim line. “What are you doing here, Louvaen?”
The swirling black lines and symbols marring his skin had changed position, curling in different patterns around his neck. They stretched across his jaw and over his chin with one reaching high along his cheekbone until its tip rested just below his right eye. It pulsed when he questioned her.
His familiar use of her name was telling, but she ignored him and addressed Magda. “Keep his plate by the fire for now.” She crooked a finger at Ballard. “Come with me, my lord.” She swept out of the kitchen, smiling at the tread of his boots on the stairs behind her. Neither of them said anything as he followed her down the corridor to her room. Only when they reached her door did he pause and tilt his head in puzzlement. “My proposition specified my bed, not yours, but one is as good as another.”
Louvaen laughed as she opened her door. “I’ll not starve a man just to lie with me. Had I changed my mind—which I haven’t—I’d let you eat first.”
“Generous of you.”
“Yes it is.” She led him to one of the chairs. “Sit.” He dropped into the chair, quirking an eyebrow when she told him “Hold out your hand. It doesn’t matter which one.”
She took her place on the stool and dragged the basket in front of her. As before, a fine tingling shot up the length of her fingers at the touch of his hand. It should have repulsed her. Wan and bony with the black markings etching patterns into the skin and curving claws, Ballard’s hands were those children imagined on the lurching monsters that clung to the shadows or hid under the bed. Even Cinnia, an adult of jovial temperament, couldn’t bear to look at them. Louvaen couldn’t stop. They were the only parts of himself he revealed most of the time—agile, expressing a grace and economy of motion.
His fingers jerked in her clasp when he saw what she kept in the basket. “What are you doing?”
She held on tight and lifted a set of hoof nippers from the basket. “Cutting your nails so you can use a fork and eat with the rest of us.”
He tried to pull away. “I prefer to eat alone.”
Louvaen tugged back. She’d suspected this might be a small battle, and in battle one used any means to win. “I think your son would prefer you eat with us. Plus, these need a trim so you don’t look like you can climb the tapestries, and you’ll no longer scare Cinnia.”
“Beautiful girl but twitchy.” He peered into the basket. “You brought nippers and a rasp?”
She spread his fingers with hers. “I need to file them once I cut them.” She held up his index finger for a better look at the claw. “Your nails are so hard I think you can slice through leather.”
“I can punch through armor.” He eyed the hand holding the nippers suspiciously. “Have you ever used hoof nippers before?”
“No, but I imagine the general idea is the same whether you’re clipping a person’s nails or a horse’s hooves. You’ll just take better direction than a horse. Then again you are a man, so we’ll see.” She noted his booted feet, puzzled. “I didn’t think about this until now, but I’m guessing you’re more familiar with the nippers than you let on, or you’d be lame trying to wear shoes. Why don’t you keep the claws on your hands shortened as well?”
He tapped his fingers together, and the claws made a clicking sound. “Those on my feet are nuisances. These are weapons.”
That gave her pause. He’d chosen to keep them long, despite their grotesque appearance. Swords on the walls, knives on his hands—what monsters lurked here besides him? “I don’t have to cut them.”
He shrugged. “They’ll grow back.”
She positioned his hand and lifted the nippers. “Stay still so I don’t accidentally nip off a finger.”
“Gods save me,” he muttered.
“Keep praying,” she said and clamped down on the first claw. A sliver came off with a loud crack and shot past her shoulder. This may not have been one of her better ideas. She might well lose an eye for her efforts.
Louvaen glanced up at Ballard who smirked. “You can’t stop now, mistress.”
He was right, and she set to work, dodging flying bits of claws and snapping at Ballard to hold still if he so much as twitched an eyelash. By the time she finished both hands, her back ached and her fingers were stiff. She dropped the nippers into the basket and surveyed her handiwork. The claws had been cut back to his fingertips. Still macabre and strange, his hands weren’t quite so bestial in appearance.
She lifted one of his hands. “They need a filing to smooth and even the edges, but at least they no longer resemble daggers.”
For the first time since she met him, he grinned. He had good teeth, straight and white. His canines, however, gave one pause. They were longer than the others, curved and pointed much as his claws were. He must have noticed her fixed stare because the grin fled as quickly as it appeared, and his features froze into drawn lines.
“I’m not nipping or filing teeth,” she said in an attempt to lighten the mood. She lifted the rasp out of the basket. “You might need them later. Magda’s a decent cook but I wasn’t sure if that last bit of meat she served was mutton or shoe.”
Ballard didn’t respond to her banter. He sat quietly as she smoothed his nails with short strokes of the rasp. Her rhythm remained unbroken when he asked “Why don’t you fear my appearance as others do?”
Louvaen halted, still holding his hand. “Why should I? You don’t spit sewing needles when you talk, don’t shoot flames out of your nose when you breathe, and you have a fine pair of eyes when I’m not blackening them for you. What’s there to fear?”
He looked nonplussed by her answer. “You can’t tell me this face of mine isn’t fearsome.”
She resumed her filing. “I’ve said no such thing, but that wasn’t your question. You asked why I didn’t fear it.” This was delicate territory and demanded a subtle answer. “My husband was an undertaker.” Ballard’s finger twitched, and she nearly scraped off his cuticle. She scowled at him. “Keep still!”
“My apologies.”
“As I was saying—” The rasp grated across the jagged nail. “Thomas was an undertaker. One of the duties was to prepare the dead for burial, wash and dress the body if the family wasn’t up to the task. As
his wife I helped with his business, and such duty fell to me.”
Ballard shifted in his seat. “I may be disfigured, mistress, but I assure you I’m not dead.”
Louvaen pointed the rasp at him. “You will be if you don’t stop fidgeting. Where was I? Oh yes, nowhere yet.” She went back to filing. “The dead came to us in many states. Some as peaceful as if they simply slept, others curled in on themselves as if they denied death. A few, those who lived violent lives and met violent deaths, were delivered to us in pieces.” Nightmares about those burials still plagued her. “The ones who died of disease were the worst. Limbs or noses rotted away. Faces distorted from suffering and whatever poison literally ate them alive.”
She glanced up to measure his reaction. He watched her, his features expressionless. “Once, and I have no idea why they did so, a family waited days before summoning Thomas and me to the house. An uncle, sick for a long time with holy fire, had died. I was helping his niece bathe the body when it burst.”
“Good gods,” Ballard breathed.
She’d returned home in only her shift and a blanket to declare to Thomas she was done, and he was on his own with the corpses. She’d then marched out to the garden and promptly emptied her stomach into one of the flowerbeds. Later, she told the family in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want her ruined dress back. “So you see, I’ve gazed upon far worse and survived just fine.” She adopted a mock look of pity. “And I’m sorry, Lord de Sauveterre. Flux or no flux, you’ll never be as pretty Cinnia. No one will.”
