by Grace Draven
“I am in hell,” he said in a cracked voice.
Louvaen recoiled, stumbled against her stool and almost fell on her backside before managing to right herself. The heat of a blush cascaded over her face and chest, washing her in a mortifying fire. “Forgive me.” Her voice sounded thin to her ears. “I didn’t mean to take such liberties.”
Ballard sat as still as if hewn from stone. His hands gripped the chair arms so tight that his black nails had grayed. He stared at his feet instead of her and spoke in the same strained tones. “Good night, Mistress Duenda.”
She bowed, dismissed. “De Sauveterre.” The urge to run nearly overwhelmed her, but she forced herself to walk at a sedate pace and shut the door behind her. The stone wall offered only chilly comfort as she leaned against it, gasping for air. Gods’ knickers, what was wrong with her? Obsessed with protecting Cinnia’s virtue from Gavin, she’d thrown caution out the window and found herself consumed by an attraction to his father. “You daft nitwit,” she muttered. “What were you thinking?”
“Who are you talking to?”
Louvaen nearly leapt out of her shoes. Cinnia stood before her, holding a candle and bundled in her night clothes and a robe. “Cinnia,” she hissed. “You scared me half to death. Quit sneaking up on me.”
The girl looked less than apologetic. “I wasn’t sneaking. You were so busy talking to yourself, you didn’t notice me. What has you so jumpy?” She glanced at the solar’s door. “Anyone still in there?”
Thankful the hall’s dimness hid her blush, Louvaen waved a hand in what she hoped Cinnia took as casual dismissal. “Only de Sauveterre. I offered to read to him, but he preferred his solitude. I was on my way to bed.”
“After you had a conversation with yourself?” Cinnia gazed at Louvaen as if she were moonstruck.
“I’m just thinking aloud.” She steered the topic back to Cinnia. “What are you doing out here in your night rail and robe?”
“Waiting for you. I have something to show you.” She practically danced in place. “I’ve been waiting all day. You were helping Magda make candles and then churning butter for Clarimond. You hate churning butter.”
“I’m only here by his lordship’s leave, my love. I’ll muck out the stables if they ask and not complain. Now what’s so important that it can’t wait until daylight?”
Cinnia reached for her hand. “Come see. I discovered them this morning while I was exploring the castle.”
Louvaen stepped back. “Them?”
Cinnia captured her anyway and tugged. “No more questions. Let’s go.”
“Are you certain we can’t do this in the morning?”
“No. I don’t think I was supposed to find these.”
Louvaen halted their steps. “You didn’t enter any rooms forbidden to us, did you?”
“No. I was walking the corridors waiting for you. I think this castle must have hundreds of them, and I swear they change directions sometimes.”
Louvaen scowled at the notion but didn’t counter it. The castle had a strangeness about it—places where torchlight flickered one way while the shadows it cast scampered another; stairs ended in opposite directions without ever turning. The walls echoed in tight places instead of cavernous ones, and she’d once clearly heard a tapestry in Cinnia’s bower whisper a poem she knew from childhood.
She’d said nothing, first blaming her suspicious nature for seeing treachery and trickery where there was none and then on her sensitivity to sorcery. Cinnia’s remark validated her impressions but didn’t relieve her mind. Ketach Tor, saturated in wild magic, twined and bent around them—a living entity itself.
She squeezed Cinnia’s hand. “Lead on, and let’s make it quick. It’s colder out here than a warty witch’s kiss in a snowstorm.”
Cinnia choked out a laugh. “Lou! Your mother would rise up from her grave and strap you for saying such a thing.”
“Who do you think taught our papa that little gem?”
They laughed together, and Louvaen promised herself she’d be less harsh with the person she loved best in the world.
She followed Cinnia down three corridors, a flight of stairs and a small mezzanine before reaching a short hallway so dark Louvaen couldn’t see anything beyond the corona of Cinnia’s candle. Cinnia raised the light. “Look.”
The bottom edge of a framed picture hung just above Louvaen’s eye level. She took the candle from Cinnia, raising it for a better view. The flame’s light wavered across a portrait of a young Gavin, no more than nine or ten. The head-and-shoulder portrait depicted the boy in a white shirt and black doublet of embossed velvet. Even at that early age, Louvaen saw hints of the fine bone structure beneath the babyish feature. His hair was almost white, not yet darkened to its current golden color, but the green eyes were as calm and mysterious, looking back at the viewer as if he held all the secrets of the world in his gaze. She saw nothing of Ballard in him.
“He was a handsome boy then as well.”
“Look at this next one.” Cinnia pulled her a few steps further down the hall.
Louvaen raised the candle a second time. Another bust portrait. Even under a powdery film of dust, the woman portrayed was breathtaking. Gavin’s resemblance to her was unquestionable, down to the wide cheekbones, straight nose and perfectly curved mouth. He had inherited his mother’s hair as well but not the eyes. Her eyes were cerulean, and the artist had somehow managed not only to capture their deep color but also a certain brittleness. She wore a sumptuous, outdated gown of silk encrusted with jewels and decorated in the finest lace. The design showed off a graceful neck and smoothly sloped shoulders. Her headdress, like her gown, reflected a style Louvaen had only seen in ancestral portraits, and she wondered why she’d chosen to pose in such antiquated garb. The clothes were beautiful, no doubt: a fitting match for the woman who wore them. She easily matched Cinnia in looks, but where Cinnia possessed a warm beauty, hers lacked any vitality. She reminded Louvaen of a diamond—cold, glittering, equally hard.
“De Lovet’s mother.”
“I’d bet my favorite ribbons on it. Gavin told me her name was Isabeau, and she carried the title of most beautiful woman in six kingdoms.” Cinnia paused. “I wonder if she was lonely having that kind of fame.”
Louvaen’s heart lurched in her chest at the melancholy notes in Cinnia’s question. Beauty was not always a blessing. The candlelight caught and illuminated the corner of another frame and the two moved on. Louvaen almost dropped their meager light when she saw what it revealed. “My gods,” she whispered.
“You recognize him? Who is it? A king? A famous knight?” Cinnia’s voice pitched higher with excitement at her sister’s exclamation.
“De Sauveterre,” she murmured.
Cinnia gasped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” As dazzled as Cinnia had been by Isabeau’s portrait, so was Louvaen captivated by Ballard’s.
This was Ballard de Sauveterre—of that she had no doubt, but Ballard before the flux, before the strange markings, sunken eyes and pallid skin. Before the suffering had sculpted the deep crevices and brackets into the corners of his eyes and mouth. His features were as unyielding then as they were now, but they were painted in the burnished tones of a man who lived in the sun. Even his hair, more soot than pewter in the painting, gleamed with ruddy highlights. Unlike the portraits of his wife and child, his was a full length work. The artist had portrayed him armored, standing in three-quarter view. He held a sword in one hand and the reins of a lightly barded roan courser in the other.
She’d seen family portraits painted in a similar style in the homes of lesser noblemen. Those men had experienced more action in a counting house or in the beds of their mistresses than on a battlefield, but it was a popular thing to have oneself painted as a warrior knight of old, dressed in armor with a prancing stallion to take one off to the glories of war. This portrait had the horse and the warrior, but the similarities ended there. Instead of a posed stance with green fields or drapes
of tapestry spilling over side tables in the background, the artist had painted Ballard as if he were just leaving for battle. The armor was not the full harness of plate. Instead he wore a knee length mail hauberk over a padded gambeson with a black and gray partied surcoat over those. He held a sword in one hand, and Louvaen suspected the blade was no prop but a weapon that had drawn rivers of blood in its wielder’s grip. Ballard gazed at the viewer as if impatient to be done with such nonsense, and those dark eyes burned with a ruthlessness that told a tale not of war’s glory but of its savagery.
Cinnia shivered. “Has he changed much from that portrait?”
“The wild magic has altered him some. Scarred and washed him pale. He’s younger there, and his hair is darker. You’d still recognize him though.”
“And he has claws now.”
Louvaen chuckled. “He has claws, but I’ve done a fine job of trimming them. Maybe now you can look upon him.”
Cinnia crossed her arms. “I meant no insult.”
“I know. So does he.” Louvaen sensed an unspoken question and used the candle to illuminate her sister’s face. “What?”
The girl arched an eyebrow. “I think you’ve grown to like him, Lou.”
Louvaen’s eyes narrowed. Good gods, the last thing she needed was her sister trying to play matchmaker. “He’s been a good host to us.”
“That’s all? He’s simply a good host?” Cinnia eyed her suspiciously. “Nothing else?”
“No. Why?”
Cinnia shrugged. “I just wondered.” Louvaen exhaled a silent breath of relief when she turned her attention back to the portrait. “Not nearly as handsome as Gavin, but there’s a presence there. I wouldn’t want to cross such a man.”
Louvaen followed her gaze. “No wise person would.” She passed the candle back to Cinnia. “We better get to our rooms. It’s late, and I’m frozen to the bone.”
At Cinnia’s door, Louvaen embraced her sister and kissed her forehead. “You know I love you, yes?”
Cinnia hugged her hard in return. “Yes, and I love you too. I just wish you trusted me as much as you love me.”
Louvaen stroked a hand over the girl’s thick braid. “The flaw is mine,” she said. “I’ll bargain with you. Give me your patience, and I’ll give you my faith.”
Cinnia grinned. “Somehow I think my part of the bargain will be easier to uphold than yours, but I’m willing.”
In the spirit of their bargain , Louvaen didn’t wait in the hall until Cinnia entered her room but slipped into her own first. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and she stoked it with the poker. Her teeth chattered hard enough to make her head ache as she dressed for bed. The sheets were like ice, and she huddled beneath her mountain of blankets, shivering until her body heat managed to chase away the chill. She’d be lucky to find sleep before dawn. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw one man and two faces—the younger Ballard, not yet disfigured but with a demeanor so cold it made the gooseflesh rise on her skin and the Ballard of now. Not so cold yet so much more maimed and with that same powerful aura captured in the portrait.
She recalled the feel of him under her hands, the frigid lace of vines and symbols interspersed with tracts of hot skin, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and smoothness of his eyebrows. His hair had been thick; soft dark waves interwoven with coarser silver ones. Louvaen sighed and burrowed deeper beneath the blankets, wondering how it might feel to have him beside her. If his body were as hot as the skin of his face and neck, she’d be in a sweat in no time.
“Madness.” She slapped one of her pillows of her head, refusing to think more on the potential of such a scenario.
“I am in hell,” he’d said in a voice almost as tortured as the cries she once heard him bellow in a cell.
He wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ballard faced his king with Cederic of Granthing beside him. This day had been coming since the two men fostered with Isabeau’s father years earlier. Decades of antipathy, childhood resentments and adult ambitions had culminated in this moment. Ballard was only surprised his ongoing war with Cederic would be fought in judicial combat instead of a battle between his forces and Granthing’s on an open field. Neither man selected a lesser knight to represent him, and Ballard chose death over first blood to decide the winner.
King Waleran was not been pleased. Ballard of Ketach Tor was his most valuable margrave—loyal, efficient and formidable in both battle and court. Like his father and grandfather before him, he protected the eastern borders of the kingdom against the enemy state of Barad with a capable hand. Granthing, of lesser political stature but equal prowess in war had proven himself the finest of warriors. Cederic had rebelled against his lesser status and sought to replace Ballard as margrave. Waleran needed both men, but the law held fast. As a nobleman, Granthing claimed the right of trial by battle. As the defendant, Ballard chose the punishment for the vanquished.
The morning sun had barely broken the horizon, but a small crowd of administrators and members of the royal family with their retainers were up and gathered beneath awnings to watch the proceedings. A dense fog lapped at Ballard’s feet and dripped thin rivulets of condensation off his aketon and the steel plates sewn over his vambraces. The roped arena behind him wasn’t big enough to hold four horses but large enough for him and Granthing as they fought for the one thing that had pitted them against each other since they were pages in the same household – the Ketach Tor demesne.
“Read the charge,” the king commanded his crier.
The crier unrolled a scroll and read the charges to the crowd. “Cederic, Baron of Granthing lays the charges of forgery and theft against Ballard, Margrave of Ketach Tor over the rights to the dower properties of Isabeau of Leath now Margravina of Ketach Tor. The plaintiff bears witness that the betrothal contract set out between Dwennon, sire of Ballard and Abelard, sire of Isabeau is false and therefore void. Cederic, Baron of Granthing claims possession of a true betrothal contract between Abelard and Mercutian, sire of Cederic which cedes these properties and the hand of Isabeau of Leath to Cederic at the time the contract was signed, thereby making the marriage between Ballard and Isabeau null and void and the dower properties no longer under the demesne of Ketach Tor.”
The king looked to Ballard. “Margrave, how do you plead?”
“Innocent of the charges.” Even if he weren’t, Ballard had no intention of turning over Isabeau’s dower lands to Cederic. The properties were not only fertile and profitable but also strategic, offering his armies clear passage to the borders in times of defense of the kingdom. Had they been nothing more than rocky terrain of scattered scrub grass and no water, he’d still fight for them. To cede anything of the Ketach Tor demesne meant a constant battle against future claimants of all stripes. He’d be so busy engaging in judicial combat to hold on to his lands, he’d lose them to invaders. Granthing, with his short-sighted ambition and envy of the Margraves of Ketach Tor, had to die.
King Waleran accepted the charge and the defense and proclaimed the rules of engagement. “Battle will begin at full sunrise and end at sunset. As in melee, you have the right of recess and the safety it offers so you may repair weapons and armor and attend wounds. Judgment will favor the victor, and the vanquished shall be executed. Do you still agree to terms?”
Both men answered with firm “Ayes.”
The sun crested the horizon, and the king called out, “Begin.”
Ballard stared at his opponent before they entered the arena. “You’re a fool, Granthing. You’ve the favor of the king and a sizable demesne of your own. While Isabeau cannot be your wife, I’ve no issue if she wishes to be your leman and bear you sons after mine is born.”
Cederic chuckled, a low sound that slowly crescendoed into a hearty laugh. He wiped tears from his eyes and offered Ballard a wolfish grin full of contempt. “What uses have I for a pack of sniveling bastards and a tart whose only value is the land you now claim as yours?” He swung under the ropes c
ordoning off the arena. The grin was gone but not the contempt. “You’re welcome to her and however many brats she whelps for you.”
Ballard’s annoyance over what had been a simple land dispute transformed into a gut-roiling rage. He clenched his sword pommel until his knuckles bled white. Isabeau loathed the very sight of him and never lost the opportunity to declare she couldn’t wait to rid herself of his get and leave Ketach Tor. He accepted her enmity without retaliation. She’d kept her part of the bargain by marrying him without struggle and accepting him in her bed long enough to become pregnant. He had intended to honor his and let her go. The touch of guilt he felt at breaking that pledge fled at Granthing’s words. For all that Isabeau would dance on his grave if Ballard fell in this match, she didn’t deserve Granthing and his contempt. Ballard intended to take his head. She’d hate him until death and beyond for doing so. He only hoped she might realize in the future that her perfect lover had been a corrupt mongrel and learn to love someone else.
“She loves you, Granthing,” he said in a low voice.
They faced each other. The clang of bucklers against the flats of blades rang in the morning stillness as the two men saluted.
Cederic laughed again and raised his sword. “They all do, Margrave. So what?”
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“I see the she-wolf hasn’t torn you apart yet protecting her pup.” Ambrose spoke from his place at the stall door. The tiny bits of straw stirred up from the draft swirling through the stable fluttered around him, a few pieces catching in his hair.
Ballard didn’t look up from saddling the gray courser that would take him into the woods for a long overdue hunt. “It’s Gavin who has to worry about an attack from her, not me.” He adjusted the cinch strap under the horse’s belly. “What are you doing here?”
“On my way to check the sheep. Who doesn’t look forward to freezing their bollocks off shepherding animals dumber than a loaf of bread?”
