Bullied Bride

by Hollie Hutchins

  I shake my head, but I’m not leader. I can advise, but I can’t make the final decision. All I can do is make sure that my father doesn't die. That Bobby, yet to kill someone, doesn’t end up on someone’s sword or the other end of a bullet. I care a little less about my own brother getting impaled or shot, since we’ve been at odds with one another for a while. His bloodlust has always unsettled me. “I don’t recommend another village, father. We’ve razed their wheat fields; we’ve been in their lands for at least ten hours. We’ve had small pockets of resistance, and three people dead, but now they must be mobilizing big.”

  He scoffs, and twenty minutes later, we’re marching, leaving behind a small trail of dead.

  Walking along the main field path, as my father orders his men to torch one more field and a farmhouse situated in the middle of it, the rumble of hooves resounds in the distance. Emerging out of the eastern woods pours an army, so big that my father curses, calling for his men to form ranks, though my eyes are fixated on the colors draped around the horses. They're not what any of us expected. They're gray and black.

  The Graves.

  My blood runs cold. If the Hartsons have a formal alliance with the Graves, then we're finished. They have the largest number of trained fighters out of all the clans in our state. They appointed themselves peacekeepers, in a vain effort to protect us from bandits, and ourselves. We have three dozen warriors remaining. I count at least one hundred horses, perhaps more, and many guns among the men. I bark at my father, at the men for them to stand down, and my father reluctantly orders the same, because the one thing worse than aggravating Hartson farmers is Graves warriors. They have the numbers to stamp us out without breaking a sweat.

  Surrounded, we are commanded by the Graves warriors to drop our weapons, and to submit ourselves to judgment.

  4

  Pearl

  Uncle Ronald glares at us. On one side of the room are the Hartsons. My parents, cousins, two brothers, and our most loyal vassal family members in the form of Rosewinds and Hillmores. Perhaps thirty of us in total. On the other side of the stately marble room are them.

  A few dozen or so Claymores, including the one person I refuse to make eye contact with. Ringing the Claymores and Hartsons are nearly two hundred or so Graves soldiers. Mediating between us is my uncle Ronald, who was once a Graves, along with the current Graves leader, known by Matin.

  Judging by the hateful glares the families direct at each other, it’s just as well they’re outnumbered by the Graves vassals. I shuffle uncomfortably. We’ve always been at odds with one another, but my lack of foresight had led to the biggest clan invasion of our lands in decades. My father, once he’d discovered what I’d done, was nearly apoplectic, and my uncle had immediately contacted the Graves, asking for their help to stifle the raiders. To clean up my mess.

  “To put matters quite simply,” Ronald says, hands clasped behind his back, striking a regal pose with his gray trimmed beard and elegant dark clothes, “unless tensions between the Hartsons and Claymores die down, the Graves will be forced to take, ah, drastic action.”

  I fidget, tucking my hands into the long sleeves of my gown. Though winter has not yet come, the bite of autumn is already hitting, and the marble and stone buildings carry a cold presence around them. All three major factions in the room wear their colors as a scream, to draw attention to their allegiance. My eyes skip along the Claymores momentarily, but all I see are murderers and rapists. People who have inflicted death on our lands for generations. Desmond is by his father’s side, and I see my own father glare at that man with the heat of a midsummer sun, and I know he’s itching to cross the room and strangle the life out of his brother’s killer.

  “They wrecked our church!” comes a shout from the Claymore line. “They murdered our people!” Cries and shouts from both sides erupt, and men and women are hurling accusations of murder, agony, and cruelty, of sacrileges and acrimony. Fists are shaken, chests are beaten, and more than a few men take aggressive steps towards each other, reaching for weapons that aren’t there.

  Several gunshots in the air quickly dispel the near-barbarian howls of anger, and now my uncle is listening to something that Matin Graves whispers in his ear. Then he steps forward, and when he speaks, his voice is a guttural growl, scraping through the room.

  “I am tempted to exterminate both of you to end this ridiculous feud,” Matin says, mincing no words. A deathly, horrified silence coats everyone. Including me, because the guilt bites stronger, stronger…

  If my act of revenge resulted in the annihilation of my clan, then it would go down as one of the stupidest decisions a single woman could make. That fistful of anger that had boiled in my stomach already feels like a distant memory, now that the consequences loom.

  I really fucked up. No way around it. I thought I was so clever. I naively thought it couldn’t be traced back to my family, but if I was thinking clearer, I never would have risked it.

  My brothers have done worse; I try to console myself with. They hunted. They took men’s lives. All I did was order the destruction of a building, and draw from funds so that the contractors didn’t ask too many questions. An ordinary man used to a pittance wage would hardly complain if he was offered three times as much. And we could afford it as well – we make so much from our farming businesses.

  Matin’s saying something else, and I focus on his rasping words. “The Graves desire stability. If our state falls into economic chaos because of the petty fighting you two families conduct against each other, everything we’ve worked to build up since the World’s End will fall back into lawlessness. Bandits will enter the lands; there will no longer be any kind of society, and knowledge will be lost. Our names will vanish like the kings and queens of old. If I have to personally round all of you up and execute you, placing a new family as head, I will do it. However, Ronald Graves-Hartson believes that he has a solution for this mess. I will let him explain.”

  No one makes a sound as Matin falls silent, and Ronald takes up the reins again.

  “The answer is simple, ladies and gentlemen. Marriage. Several marriages, so to speak. But the first one, and the most important one, will be the male and female heirs of each family. Since we know these two have already made acquaintance with one another, the best way to preserve family honor will be to pair them up.”

  Horror washes through me. No. I finally look at Desmond, and he’s wearing a similar expression to how I feel. He’s also as stiff as a board.

  “Desmond Claymore and Pearl Hartson will marry. They will join the clans together, unlike what has been seen for centuries. Other arrangements will be made, but it makes sense to have the son and daughter of each leader entwined, along with other similar arrangements. That way – if you two fall to aggression again, there are kinsmen on the other side.”

  Hostages is the unspoken word that burns in my uncle’s eyes. I want to gasp out a no, and already, there are more shouts, screams, posturing.

  “My daughter won’t marry a monster!” my father shrieks. “Not with the blood you swines have on your hands!”

  “Monster? You’re the monsters. My son, touching a filthy harridan like her?”

  “Murderer,” my father roars, and I see the same rage and grief in his face as I did fifteen years ago. The shouts rise up almost to a mindless chant, and nearly two hundred Graves soldiers cock their guns at us, causing another deafening silence.

  “Disagree, and you will all die in this place,” Matin says. “I will not tolerate such division. I have the state to think of. I have hundreds upon thousands of lives at stake, and the honor of my own people. The feud of two families and attacking each other’s valuable resources ends now.” He raises a hand. “What will it be? Do you choose life, or death?”

  The quiet reigns in the room like a blizzard, swirling between our factions, painting the whispered promise of a mass grave. Of all of us dead, our names turned to dust.

  Desmond’s eyes meet mine. The agony of the dec
ision contorts his expression, and I feel dumb. There’s no choice here. No choice at all.

  This is my responsibility. My mess.

  I refuse to be the one who consigns the Hartsons to death.

  Even if it means doing something unthinkable and abhorrent to the soul.

  I take a step forward. All eyes turn to me. I feel like a witch from the old days, walking to her own pyre. Walking to a miserable fate, but far preferable to the alternative.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, proud that my voice is clear, and strong, though inside, everything’s a mess, and I want to sink into the floor. Desmond continues to stare at me, before he gives a tiny, stiff nod, and steps forward as well.

  “As will I.”

  My stomach twists, knowing that I’d be conjoined with the man who has led raids against my own kin. Knowing that one day he would be leader, to make such decisions, and order more death. But at least, I suppose, we’re of one mind about this.

  Ronald claps loudly. “Well done, kids, for making the right choice,” he says, and I bristle at the fact he’s called me a kid. I’m twenty years old. Nothing near a child anymore.

  I dread turning to look at my parents, but I do so anyway, because I have to see their faces. Strangely, my father looks pleased more than disgusted. Same with my mother.

  “You brave darling,” mother whispers. “Lord knows what kind of choice you have to make.”

  Lord knows indeed. I’m stepping up and taking responsibility for the mess I made in the first place. Go team.

  I suppose it’s better than pretending I had nothing to do with it, like before. That my actions are not my fault, that it’s all because of him driving me to distraction. I can't wriggle out of the blame forever.

  “Son, you don’t have to do this,” Desmond’s father, Rysin says.

  “Don’t I, father? We have fifty guns pointed at us, and our destruction is all but assured.” Desmond snorts, bitterness in his expression. I won’t risk the lives of good men and women out of selfishness.” I note that he’s clearly not referring to my side of the room.

  “That’s right, ladies and gentlemen,” Matin rasps. “Here’s more for this brave new world we’re forging. The Hartson will end up in her husband’s household. It is up to her husband’s family and vassals to protect her. Should she end up dead, or severely abused, then I will consider the oath we’re making here null and void, and I’ll move in to clear out the infestation. If there are any extensive raids like the one we just put a stop to as well, the same terms will apply. We outnumber you, always. The bandits are getting bolder, encroaching into our territories. This is no time for squabbling.” He glares at all of us, the menace in his eyes, his voice clear. “Remember what happened to the Rothchilds.” My uncle nods, backing his words.

  I shiver at what Matin says. The Rothchilds were a prominent family west of Graves territory. At least, until their entire clan was annihilated. They sought to expand into other territories, and the other clans took offense. Fatal offense. They left the bones, destroyed buildings, poisoned wells and water sources, and scorched the land as a warning to others.

  “Excellent,” Matin says, when no one raises any protests. The snakes squirm in my stomach, as the full weight of the decision I’ve made settles in. “We have a priest out back. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  I stand opposite my husband to be, and hatred seethes through the both of us. His nose is upturned as if I smell like a sewer, and our families and vassals watch on as the most reluctant audience ever to have graced a wedding. I doubt traditional weddings have a heavy armed guard threatening to kill dissenters, either. The Graves are finally flexing their muscles, as my father and grandfather always feared. The Graves had been quietly consolidating power for the best part of twenty years, until their patrols had become commonplace.

  We’re set to be wiped out, just like the Rothchilds, so I have to swallow every sliver of nausea in my body and somehow go through with this – somehow let him touch me again, let his family have dominance over me. They want me to give up my name for this travesty of a clan.

  Matin’s priest burbles through the vows, though they’re shorter than I remember them being from other marriages I’ve witnessed. Desmond and I mumble through each word, barely able to look at one another. When it comes to do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband, I practically have to choke down bile to say it. Desmond fares little better.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the priest happily tells Desmond. He pales, but leans towards me, and gives me a peck on the cheek. The heat of his breath lingers, and I’m glad he wanted to get it over with as fast as possible. Our wedding hosts no cheers, no smiles.

  It’s a miserable affair, and the Claymores are escorted back to their home by the Graves, with me as the prisoner of honor. The night has not yet come, but I know what follows after the vows.

  It’s going to take every last inch of willpower within me to endure it.

  5

  Desmond

  She’s in my bedroom, standing awkwardly by the bed. And I have no plans whatsoever to touch her. I see the anger and fear in her eyes. She thinks me a brute, a monster, which is laughable, because of the blood on her family’s hands.

  However, I refuse to meet her expectations. The Claymores are better people than a Hartson will ever be. She still wears her clan sash as if it’s a shield, and I’m tempted to tear at the fabric until it becomes scraps. How dare she wear such a thing in my home. Just as quickly as I think it, the anger dissipates.

  How would I feel, if I was removed from my home, and placed in the camp of the enemy? Perhaps I’d be clinging onto my own sash. Perhaps I'd be waiting until the wolves fell on me.

  My eyes travel over her medium-length blonde hair, the pixie shape of her cheeks, and the frosty blue eyes that once arrested my attention. Before I found out who she was. To think I played golf with her. Bought drinks. Conversed with her. Found attraction in her.

  “There are two Graves vassals in our house waiting nearby for proof of our union,” I say, gauging her reaction. Will she flinch? Will she imagine me pinning her to the bed and having my way with her like the brute she thinks I am? Or will she show that backbone again she displayed in the assembly house, when she took that step forward and chose her own life to sacrifice over her people.

  Hard not to feel even a grudging amount of respect for a choice like that.

  “I don’t want to do this,” she says, eyes darting to the door, as if concerned the Graves vassals are standing by it with their ears to the wood. “But I assume you don’t want to, either.”

  “Not really,” I agree. “But here we are.” I steel my stomach, and take a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.” I walk over to the bed, and order her to lay in it. She does so with obvious reluctance, perhaps chafing at the notion of needing to obey me. Though she’ll have to. I’m her husband, now. I clench my jaw, then pointedly turn my back on her when I clamber in the bed as well, and, after a moment, I use my palm and body to rock the mattress until it creaks. The two Graves retainers are listening outside, so there has to be a show made out of this.

  “You’ll need to make some noise,” I hiss to her. “Something to encourage anyone eavesdropping that we are doing things according to plan.” I don’t see her face, though I hear a sharp intake of breath. I continue to creak the bed, and even manage to slip out a moan of my own. After the moment, she does the same, a few times, and I stop the creaking. “Okay. If you were a virgin, they’d want blood. But obviously you’re not.”

  “Obviously,” Pearl whispers behind me, and there’s something extra there that makes me shiver. “Is this enough?” Her breath paints against my neck, and I realize, with a jolt, that she’s a lot closer than I thought she would be. I assumed she’d be perched at the very end of the bed, wanting to keep as much distance between me and her as possible.

  “It’ll have to be. I assume you don’t want to touch me as much as I you.”

  A sho
rt silence. “Yeah.”

  I nod, because I expected it, though there is a lingering tone to her that I can’t place. “I know this is probably the worse position for you right now,” I say, grudgingly, because I’m not in the mood for giving any kind of compliment to a Hartson – even a very pretty one currently in my bed, assigned as my wife. “But thank you for taking that step. If you hadn’t, maybe we would all be corpses in that hall.”

  I stare at my faded guitar on the wall. A relic of a bygone time, back when we had enough people in the world to spare specialists for guitar construction. Music instruments nowadays are more stripped down compared to the records we have of the past. I wait for Pearl’s answer, trying not to think about our first meeting. Trying to forget how I regarded her then.

  “Someone had to,” she answers. “Lord knows I didn’t want it to be me. My father, he would spit in your father’s eye, rather than concede any ground. His brother was murdered by your kind, after all. You’ve slaughtered so many of us. And I – well, this current mess is mine, anyway. I’m not about to let everyone die because I messed up.”

  “Is this about when we met?”

  Anger colors her voice as she answers, “The rumors spread from that encounter wrecked my family’s reputation.”

  “Shouldn’t have done something to wreck it, then.”

  “Bah. Like it was all my fault. That I’m some slutty temptress out to sleep with someone I’d never want to sleep with in a million years. I was tricked by you.”