Maybe we could work out. Maybe there is a way to somehow shrug off all the wounds of our ancestors. Maybe –
“I wish you weren’t a Hartson,” he says then, and the blossoming hope and attraction dies in my lungs. “I – this would be so much easier if you weren’t. Because if you were anyone else...” He stops.
If you were anyone else, then this could work out, is what’s missing in his words.
“Yeah,” I say, emotional coldness blasting my insides. “Of course.”
His eyes widen. “I didn’t mean...” He trails off. Because yes, he did mean. Every single word.
“It’s okay,” I reply, though it’s not okay at all. I take the coldness along when I leave the room.
It takes some persuading before I’m allowed to help with the treatment of the others who received injuries. I start with the Bonecleaver, who is indifferent to me, since the Claymores shoot me looks like I’m about to stab them in their eyeballs. The medic is a Tielman, and I can’t help but think that the Claymores are doing a good job of cementing the Tielmans as their allies. Tielman lands are next to the Graves. Though they have a rather inhospitable patch of land, mostly desert and salt and shrub, they base themselves around an oasis and can produce exotic meats. If you’re into roasted snake and whatever. If the Tielman and Claymores become staunch allies, I can visualize the Hartsons and their vassals struggling to repel an invasion.
It won’t come to that, I tell myself. That’s why I’m here.
When I start on a Claymore vassal, I recognize him from the bar – Bobby. He stepped up when the others didn’t want to risk their lives to me. He’s a little nervous, but I’m grateful enough that he went through with it anyway.
Even as I smile and attempt to put people at ease, I’m torn up inside. So many conflicting emotions. About my husband, about my position. About patching up people who, in another time, would have hurt and even murdered a Hartson.
I finish my work on them, and check on the women, who were sequestered away, tended to by several female servants. They were nervous of the men, but less nervous of me. One girl sits there with a blank, dead expression as I check her over for anything the servants missed. The other is boiling with anger, which tells me she wasn’t captured for long. Probably the vassal they went out to save.
“I hate them,” the woman says, letting me stitch up a slash on her forearm. “I’m glad they’re dead.” Her features are twisted in an ugly, rictus grin. Not quite stable.
Like those of the women and men I’ve helped in the past. Survivors of bandit attacks. Survivors of Claymore cattle raids and house hits. I wonder if the Claymore servants have had to sit here, too, patching up their own survivors from our raids. So much blood on both sides. Everyone feeling equally justified. We could kill and kill until no one remains, each believing themselves right to their last breaths.
Perhaps my husband feels this. He doesn’t know how to deal with a widening perception as it licks at the cracks of his beliefs, his thoughts. I hate it, because I’m seeing things I never saw before. Considering things I never believed possible.
That the Claymores are humans, too.
A male servant regards me when I leave the chambers, and I remember him from being one of Ethel’s friends. Ethel stands next to him, her puffy face twisted in a smile that seems sinister to me at best. We’re in the servant section of the estate, and I spend a couple of minutes heading to my own suite. My husband’s suite. Ours. Still experiencing that coldness, not knowing where to go with it.
The next few days hardly get easier. I’m allowed to contact my own family, which I suppose my husband believes is awfully generous, but I’m watched the entire call, by both Graves guards, along with Desmond and Rayse as I connect through to my father. Obviously they don’t want me giving away any pertinent information. Clan secrets and all that. The office I’m in is opulent, showing off trophy kills of animal heads stuck to frames, with several plush armchairs, bookshelves, an intricately swirling lamp, and a desk with a computer on it. People can still write and print from them, and access internet, though the internet is laden with what people call viruses. Unregulated chaos. Use at own risk.
Our vassal group, the Masons, passed down network engineering knowledge from the world’s collapse, and maintain our own connections. Most people don’t have these anymore. Specialists sell their wares for obscene amounts of money.
My father and I grunt out some how are yous. When he passes the call to my mother, it goes well. Sort of.
“Oh, my baby, you’re calling us! Are they treating you horribly? Do you need us to get you out of there?” is how the first section of it went.
Aware of the pressure of eyes upon me, I chirp back a positive response. My husband is a good man… for a Claymore. It does invoke a she’s being brainwashed panic from my mother, but I stick to my guns and say I’m doing what needs to be done. Remember that.
“You’re braver than us,” my mother replies. “You did the right thing, I know. And it’s about time the raids stopped, but… they’re still Claymores. We’re Hartsons!” Ah. I smile in spite of myself. Hearing Claymore spat as an insult, and Hartson as something revered feels normal. Comforting, even. It’s been so long that even I started incorporating some of the Claymore hatred, feeling as if my former surname, my heritage was a dirty thing.
“I’ll make it work out, ma. Whatever happens. It’s time we stopped the raids, anyway.”
Judging by Rayse’s face when I end the call, he’s not too happy at the prospect of stopping raids on the Hartsons. Probably he was expecting to prove himself as an accomplished warrior by walking into a Hartson vassal building and taking the defenseless women there. So mighty.
“Thank you,” Desmond says, patting me on the shoulder after the call. Baby steps, I think.
Later on, I bump into that same servant I saw with Ethel. I was on the way to visit Jay, and only one of the Graves guards followed. The other was resting.
“Ah, I’ve been hoping to bump into you!” the man says, with a wide, charming smile, bowing. “I’m Paul Grantmore. I’m to be bringing you food to your chambers in the future.”
“Are you now?” I say, raising one eyebrow, folding my arms. He’s got a thin face, a pointed chin, though the features compliment him, somehow. Less appealing is the oily manner in which he reacts to me.
“Yes. I insisted. The others, they don’t want to serve a Hartson, you know. But I can see how hard you’re trying. What you did was brave and noble. I will try and make the others see reason.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, taken aback. Did I read this wrong? He smiles at me again, perfectly friendly, and strolls past. I consider the exchange. I’m not really in a position to be able to refuse overtures of friendliness. I don’t have many friends in this place, and the only way I can stop them being so hostile is to reach out to more of them. Make them see the human in me. Easier said than done, of course. It always is.
I’ll have to be careful for this being a trap, though. I know Ethel doesn’t like me, and Paul and her are friends.
I startle when I make it back to our suite, just in time to see Desmond taking his tunic off, revealing that bare, lightly furred chest, and the striking contours of his body, draped in the shadows the room offers. It triggers a visceral, deep reaction in me, and I’m extremely glad in that moment that a woman’s arousal is not quite so visible. Jesus Christ he’s a good-looking man.
Even for a Claymore.
“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat, proud that my voice doesn’t shake or that my cheeks are flaming. “You should be careful. The stitches might be gone, but it’ll still be tender there.”
He turns to face me, and I’m struck by the sudden, foolish idea that his positioning was deliberate. As if he was listening for me to return before peeling off his top. “I’m alright, now. No troubles at all, see?” He flexes for good measure, keeping his face perfectly controlled. No big deal, flexing a bare chest in front of a woman. None at all.
“I’d prefer it if you tried harder not being shot or stabbed at, though. He smiles in a perfunctory way, before facing me completely.
“I wanted to say that I’m thankful for your help with the boys and the girls. Bobby says you did a great job. The others are struggling to admit you helped them.”
“Mm,” I say, knowing one person who vehemently rejected my touch: Rayse. “I think one of the girls has the mosquito disease, but we’ll have to wait longer to see it. Your brother’s still a little reluctant to let me near him, you know.”
“He’s stubborn and a fool, choked up on pride,” Desmond says with a sigh. Then a small, shy smile lights up his face. “Do you really think me a good man? Or was that just for show with your family when you called them?”
I pause, seeing his earnest face, feeling that impulse not to disappoint. I open and close my mouth a few times, before I know my answer. “Yes. You’re a good man.”
His answering smile is like the sun coming up after a cold, bitter night.
“Don’t let it get to your head though,” I add. “You’re still a Claymore.”
“I know. It’s just...” His eyes shine, less like black holes, more like molten pools of gold from the reflected light. “It finally feels like we’re progressing as a couple. Doesn’t it?”
“I no longer want to hit you with a poker from the fireplace, if that’s what you mean,” I say, suddenly scared of the implications. Scared of this growing well of warmth within me, combating the former coldness. The distance between us is smaller, somehow, the rooms no longer so big. I’d been mentally preparing myself for eventually going for the sexual part of marriage. I know men can’t shut away their urges as easily as women can. I’ve known that he masturbates facing away from me at nights, because he can’t quite control the rate of his breathing, even if he doesn’t let any cries slip. The sheets also move a little. Each time he’s done that, I wonder, if I was a braver person, if I could help him. Reach over and do something about that arousal. Reach over and let him touch my body at last.
There can be lust and no love. There can be duty, as my body is a duty unto itself. A duty to produce children. Eyes are on us for that, because if I start producing children, then it helps to further bridge the gap. It’s the start of a future none of us thought might happen, because we were so hell bent on hurting each other.
“I used to feel horror. Disgust and shame,” he says softly, stepping closer to me, boots pressing over the blue carpet. Black boots, black pants – they contrast with his bareness. Like a worker stripping down in the sunlight because of the heat. “But how can I be ashamed of someone who gave everything up? How can I be ashamed of someone who tries?”
The words dig deep into my soul, making me inhale sharply. He’s closer now. I shiver in anticipation. He looks as if he wants to say something else, but he stops it completely when he’s close enough to grab me, and I haven’t moved. His eyes roam carefully over my body, and something darkens in his expression.
Before I have time to doubt, to hesitate, I step right up to him, heart pounding. Fighting to stay in the moment, to reach for him, and let him scoop me up in turn, to kiss. It’s not graceful, what we do. It’s born out of hunger. Our lips mash together, and our hands claw for purchase on each other’s clothing. Heat sears a path of lust within me, and my hands plunge down his pants, groping along his dick, wriggling past all of the offending materials covering it. He growls low in his throat, pushing me away from that touch, instead gripping my arms and pinning them above my head, against the wall. My back thuds into it, but the pain is barely noticeable as he works at my lips, pressing his aroused body against mine.
Fuck. How is it possible to want someone, to want something so bad? I strain against his arms, but my strength is nothing compared to his. That sets off a primal need to test him, somehow, to push against this man until I break, or he breaks. His knee digs between mine, wedged up against my crotch, and I let out a small whimper of need.
Thumping resonates through the room. “Desmond? Desmond! Your father wants you!”
Desmond groans against my neck, before withdrawing and shouting, “Just a minute!”
A pause. “You better hurry! He wants you to take Pearl with you as well!” Bobby’s voice comes back as a squeak, followed by rapidly departing footsteps.
“I’m going to murder him,” Desmond grumbles, though I know he’s not. He attempts to kiss me again, but the mood’s killed by now, and he breaks off with the seduction. “Right. We better get ready and see what the hell my father wants.”
9
Desmond
A last minute feast is what he wants. Some distant allied clan has trooped into our territory, and they can’t quite believe that we have a Hartson in our midst, and that she even isn’t a prisoner of war or dead. It’s been a long time since we’ve captured a Hartson. Prisoners tend to be the vassals, and the same goes for the enemy against us. I wanted nothing more than to get right back to fucking my wife, but that mood gradually vanished as again, I’m reminded of what sorrows have been inflicted upon our people.
I do note that my wife’s wardrobe is scarce with clothes, when women usually have them everywhere. My mother’s own selection takes up half the master chambers. I’ve never cared for the fancy things the women wear – they could turn up in rags for all that mattered, but I am aware enough of their petty catfighting to understand that this is a snub against her. Since the servants are supposed to stock her up with better clothes. I ask my mother (in front of father, of course) if I can borrow some of her clothes for my wife. My mother swells up like a bullfrog, about ready to throw a fit, but my father, as anticipated, knocks her opinion away.
“Take as much as you need. Goodness knows the wife’s got too much anyway.”
“I don’t want a – they’re mine,” mother says, though we all know she was about to hiss out Hartson, while Pearl watches from the sidelines, clearly interested in how this little exchange works out. “Just buy clothes of your own.”
“The servants haven’t bothered to provide any,” I say between gritted teeth, “and my wife has nothing suitable to be wrangled up in time for the feast. It would look shameful to us if she ends up at this feast wearing the same outfit as before. People might think we were depriving her.”
“Just take,” father says wearily. I’ll handle your mother, his eyes seem to say, because my mother’s almost apoplectic at this point. “I’ll talk to the servants later to make sure they don’t slip up like this again.”
Leaving the study library, Pearl following behind, I say, “That went well.”
“It did?”
“Yeah. I had to make sure they were both together, or we’d have my mother saying no, then I’d go to my father, he’d say yes, then we get dragged into an hour long argument between them.”
“We don’t have to take your mother’s clothes though,” Pearl says. “I’m already hated. Next thing you know, she’s going to start burning her outfits so I can’t have them.”
“She’ll get over it. You two are similar heights and sizes, and the servants have been neglecting you.” Entering my parent’s room after explaining to the guards what’s up, I let Pearl select the clothes she wants. I stand awkwardly by the door. I haven’t been in my parent’s room for a long, long time.
“I don’t want to get us into trouble because of it,” Pearl hisses. “Danny and Morgan are fairly lax as Graves guards go, but what if someone decides to kill all of us because people aren’t giving me clothes?”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. No wonder Pearl kept herself so quiet on the matter. Nothing like the executioner’s axe hanging over your head to compel you to silence or confession. “I doubt they’d commit to a massacre because of some passive aggressive shit,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. “It’ll be for something more solid. Like I’m beating you up or you’re being outright abused and tortured.”
“That’s reassuring,” Pearl says, and I sense some sarcasm
in her voice.
“Living is reassuring,” I say, which evokes a snort of laughter from her.
“Unless you’re depressed. Living’s bad if you are, so I hear.”
“Are you depressed?”
“… No.”
“Then it’s reassuring!”
All I get from her is some extra grumbles, some which I think are best for me not to hear. She brings back three outfits to our quarters, and presents herself for the feast shortly in a blushing red dress. It’s nice, I’m sure, and there’s probably all sorts of fancy descriptions for it, but I don’t care. At least she looks like a resplendent wife to anyone else. And that I feel a little less silly in wearing my red bow-tie and waistcoat. My mother always says it’s good to match. Makes us appear as if we’re in unity to onlookers. Our esteemed family guests this banquet are Barrowmans, and I completely understand my father’s need for urgency. The Barrowmans have us by the balls when it comes to the production of cotton and silk, which is always a product that sells well for us.
I’m grateful to be seated next to Bobby, because I’m not up for all the small talk today, though Bobby is tripping over himself in apology for interrupting earlier.
“Relax. It was going to happen eventually,” I say, not mentioning, of course, that we still haven’t actually fully completed nuptials as husband and wife. Bobby, however, has been working hard for an apology, and slides me over a Farmhouse dark brew. Fantastic beverage. An expensive one, too. Guess he was saving it for a special occasion. Rayse, of course, broods as viciously as ever, annoyed at the focus on us. He might as well have some facial tic developed from hearing Hartson be said over the table.
The dark brew’s a strong drink, and I gleefully make my way through the whole casket. I notice that same male servant from before smiling at Pearl, and I squint at him, though he doesn’t seem to notice. I’ll have to keep an eye on that one. Servants continue to crawl in and out of the banquet hall, providing extra courses and drinks. I wish Jensen and Pippin are here. They’re not as close as Bobby’s family are, though. The Endmores are of a higher status than them, and rarely get invited to alliance feasts such as this.
Bullied Bride Page 7
