Bullied Bride

by Hollie Hutchins

  The horse’s hooves clack against the concrete, and more forest and ravine stretch ahead of me in the distance. People used to drive through this pass in their hundreds every day, back when everything was accessible to everyone. My grandfather liked to say that we should have owned this part of the world, but it was stolen from us by the Claymores. Stolen just like how they stole everything else.

  I wonder if Desmond will launch a search party once he realizes I’m gone. I wonder if he cares enough to miss me. Guilt squirms within, remembering what he promised, and knowing this will be a betrayal. Running away like this is nothing short of a death sentence to our clans. But if I make it back home, if I tell my father that Desmond’s a good man, that it’s just his rotten relatives being the issue… if I can just explain to the Graves that I tried, and so did Desmond – there’ll be a way out of this.

  The more I trot the horse over the asphalt, drawing further away from the estates, the more I know that I can’t do this. I don’t want to go back, but I can’t press on forward, either. I’m just lying to myself at this rate.

  Oh, I wish I was still at home. I wish I hadn’t crossed into Graves territory just to try out some stupid drink. If I’d never met Desmond, how simple would my life be right now? Claymores enemies. Hartsons heroes. The world as it should be. Not a world where I might be seriously falling for a man my family are conditioned to hate.

  The pathway takes a sharp, meandering bend, and I see the horse’s muscles straining as we work our way uphill. I’m one twitch away from tugging on the reins and turning backwards, but I let the horse move ahead, and crest the top of the incline. The last smudges of red paint dapple the horizon, and my breath catches at the sheer physical beauty the world has to offer. I nudge the horse into a canter, wanting to reach a better height, to drink in the last slivers of sunset. To maybe stay here for a little while, and decide if I want to move on or to ride back.

  The air is strong with the scent of wild flowers, pine trees, and dirt. It's fresher than back home. More feral. I take big breaths.

  I just need to calm down. I need to process. That's all.

  Desmond's not a bad person. Rayse and Paul were trying to undermine him. They kept dropping those comments to discombobulate me. They wanted me constantly doubting. They wanted me to sabotage this by myself.

  I'm pretty sure I didn't kill Paul. Maybe I should have finished it. When he wakes up, he's sure to spread lies until he's blue in the face. Rayse's puppet. But no, he said this wasn't Rayse's doing.

  Ethel's, then.

  She probably put him up to it. Get a servant to have a dalliance with the noble. Further fuel the rumors about my looseness. Then confirm them for himself that I'm unfaithful.

  Gently patting the horse, I allow all the thoughts to crash together. It's the only way I'll get them to take off their hard edge.

  A gunshot cracks the air. My horse, in a panic, bolts to a full gallop, and it’s all I can do to hold on. Distant roars and shouting fills the air, and there’s a second crack.

  Pain blazes across my shoulder, impacting me forward, and my grip slackens on the horse. I don’t understand where the agony comes from. It radiates so that everything else is blotted out. I thump off the horse, straight past the one loop of road that doesn’t have railing, and hurtle down the ravine.

  Pain. So much pain. The world’s spinning. Things are breaking. I’m breaking. With a horrible, raking fear, I understand that my life is probably about to end. But I don’t want it to end just yet.

  I don’t want –

  11

  Desmond

  “She’s not here, sir,” the servant says, “but there’s reports of a horse missing from the stables.”

  I rub my knuckles into my forehead, trying to process the news without panicking. Trying to think of a number of reasonable explanations for this that don’t involve running away or being kidnapped. I know she’s been having a hard time dealing with the situation, but I didn’t think she’d vanish on me. She knows what’s at stake.

  And didn't I promise her that everything would work out? That we'd finally be the couple we have the potential to be?

  Still pacing, waiting for news from the other servants, I watch as Rayse smirks from father's study. “Lost someone, did you?”

  “I swear, if you've had anything to do with this –”

  “Oh, relax,” Rayse says dismissively. “She's probably fucking the stable boy. Man. They snuck off together when the Graves guard accosted me.”

  “They did?” I say, heart thumping. At this point, Morgan bursts into the room, face livid.

  “Did you trick me, you bastard?” Morgan has his hand resting on his sheathed dagger. Rayse glares, but makes no move towards his own weapon. “Were you working with the stable hand all along?”

  “What?” Rayse's eyebrows knit together. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  In response to this, Danny bursts into the room as well. But he's not alone. He's dragging the stable boy, Paul, along with him. Paul looks slightly worse for wear, judging by the blood clot on his cheeks, and the bruises purpling over his chin and neck. As if he'd been slammed repeatedly into a wall.

  “Why are you treating me like this?” Paul howls, nothing like his usual calm and collected manner. “I told you I had nothing to do with that whore's disappearance!”

  I'm about one second from stabbing this bastard myself.

  “But she was with you last,” Danny snarls, voice ominous, face as cold as death. The tall and lanky guard has never looked so fierce in his life. Both Graves are riled up, and Rayse glances at me, less sneering and confident than he was before. His elbows press against the dark brown desk.

  “What did you do with her?” I say, facing him, trembling a little from anger. “What the fuck did you do?”

  “Nothing!” Paul stops struggling, red-faced and angry. “She beat me bloody and ran off! I don't know where she went after that.”

  “She'd have no reason to beat you bloody if you weren't trying something on,” Morgan snarls.

  “She turned on me!” Paul exclaims. “One moment we're just talking, and the next, she's on me. She's a vicious killer like the rest of them. What else do you expect from a Hartson!”

  “Did you kill her?” Rayse says, his voice oozing through the room, making me shiver.

  “No. No, I didn't. I told you, she turned on me –”

  “Liar,” I spit, stalking forwards and wrapping my hands around his neck. He instantly stops all resistance. “What did you really do to her? Who put you up to it? Was it Rayse?”

  Rayse lets out a sound of disgust, even as Paul's wide eyes bulge at me. I'm not crushing him too hard, but I suppose the fact he's already injured is making it a whole lot worse.

  Good.

  At first, Paul continues his defensive babble, but a harder squeeze soon spills the truth from him.

  “Okay, fine – Ethel put me up to it. She wanted me to prove that her legs were open for everyone. Maybe slip a baby in there to try and annul the marriage.”

  There's a brief silence as we all digest what we've just heard. “Ethel? The head servant? Not Rayse?”

  “It's not me,” Rayse says irritably. “I don't know why you keep thinking it's me.”

  I glare incredulously at him. “Uh, because of all the shit you've said about us and to her? That you'd much prefer her dead?”

  “I'd prefer her dead, yes,” Rayse says, causing Morgan to grunt in disdain. “But I'm not actually going to kill her. It's not worth the problems that follow afterward. Father's right in that regard.”

  “You're paying attention to father?”

  My younger brother scoffs, but fixates on Paul. “Father won't like hearing Ethel's behind this. She's a good servant.”

  “What won't I like hearing?” The low voice sweeps at us from the door.

  Rysin Claymore stands there, clad in his hunting jacket, arms folded as he regards us with a thunderous expression.

  Seems there
's a lot to explain from our end. Paul trembles, aware of the deep shit he's in.

  “It’s dark,” Bobby says, panting as he keeps up with my frantic pace down to the stables. Father storms ahead of me. “We should wait until morning to search for her. Besides, she’ll probably turn up without incident for all we know. Gone for an evening stroll.”

  “Surely you don’t believe that, Bobby. After what Paul did to her? After the fact we can't find her anywhere, when she's been behaving for a while?”

  “But… but why would she run?” Bobby stares at me, genuinely confused. “We all know what happens if she turns out to be mistreated.”

  “Probably should have all thought about that before doing the mistreating, and assuming she wouldn’t do anything about it,” I snap. Two servants pass us with gawking expressions, and when we make it to the stables, the Bonecleaver is already there, saddling up his mount.

  “Figure you’ll need a tracker, if we’re to get your wife back,” he grunts, looping a flashlight string around his arm. “She won’t go far in the dark.”

  “We should still wait until the morning,” Bobby says, but I shake my head, before seeking out Topper from the horses.

  “Sorry I’ve not come to see you in a while,” I whisper to the bay horse, who nickers at me. He stands still and patient as I saddle him up, and eventually Bobby gets the message as well. At one point, Pearl’s servant girl, Jay, sidles up to me.

  “Please bring her back safe.” The youngster looks terrified. I suppose I’d be too, if I was alone in a house of people who didn’t like me.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say, even though there’s a gnawing worry in my heart. Maybe she’s not fine. Maybe she’s already crossed the border into Hartson lands. Maybe my brother lied and actually sicced someone on her after all, and Paul is the scapegoat.

  A small spasm of shock enters when my father joins the men saddling up. “What, you're actually coming? You're not just seeing us off?”

  “Of course I'm coming. I'm dressed for it, aren't I?”

  “But why?”

  “I'm being responsible,” he says shortly. “She’s one of us, whether we like it or not. Rayse and my wife may not like this, but I do appreciate the sacrifice you two are doing for us. I’m not foolish enough to believe we can beat the Graves by ourselves.”

  “Even with Tielman support?” I say. Knowing of our efforts with that outlying clan, of the boost of support they might provide if ever the Claymore lands fell under serious threat.

  “Even with them,” my father says. “And I’m not about to plunge us all into a civil war.”

  “You were before,” I point out. “When the church was destroyed.”

  At this, my father grimaces, the scar on his left cheek becoming more pronounced. “I make mistakes too, son. I’m trying not to make any more.”

  Fair enough. I nod curtly to my father. In the meanwhile, I’m fighting hard to keep the belief that nothing serious has happen to my wife. That she went for some unsolicited walk somewhere. That she wouldn’t think of leaving me. Not when we’re getting closer. Not when we’re finally getting our shit together and maybe, just maybe, actually act like a husband and wife. A happy one.

  All of us grab or are handed flashlights. My father even gets a couple of hounds, and we give them something to sniff of her, before we set off, the Bonecleaver leading the way, using the report of a witness to lead us to the main path that leads eventually towards the Hartson lands, if we picked the right bends. I’m reassured by Bobby, the two Graves guards, my father, and a couple of my father’s vassals coming with us. I’m sure Rayse must have felt very sad to decline coming with us to help. If he’s not laughing himself sick into his cups, of course.

  “If I see her trotting back this way, I’ve half a mind to give her a tanning,” I say, though I know I won’t. I’ll just be relieved. We stop on our search regularly to interview the people of the houses nearby the path, to see if any of them might have spotted a lone rider along the path. Two witnesses say they saw a rider, but didn’t think anything of it. Good enough for us. And evidence that she did strike out by herself.

  “If that fool girl really has done a runner,” my father rumbles, “then we’re in deep shit. The stable boy and Ethel is one thing. But were you mistreating her at all?”

  Maybe. “I’m not sure,” I reply. “I thought I was doing my best, but I did ignore her at times when I shouldn't have.”

  My father says nothing to this. “I had to confront the head servant,” I add. “She was refusing to provide clothes and many basic necessities for Pearl.”

  “Ethel. She always was a fiercely loyal servant to the Claymores,” my father says. “I struggle to deal with what you've told me about her scheming. She's never caused problems before.”

  “Well, she's causing them for Pearl. I tried to warn her. But I don’t think my words had any effect.”

  My father rides in silence for a moment, obviously discomfited. We all turn on our flashlights to better see along the path, led by the Bonecleaver tracker. Another household confirms they saw someone heading this way through their curtains, and I can’t help but think she was doing an extremely poor job of hiding herself. Unless she intended to come back.

  She better be okay.

  “I’ll have words with Ethel as well,” my father says then. “I do not want to remove her. It would be a mockery to her services.”

  “She really should have thought of that before disrespecting her lord’s son. Because that’s my wife.”

  My father grunts in agreement, but says no more on the matter. I regard him and his aging face in the darkness. The shadows cast sinister patterns over his features, and I try to remember him as when I was young – a strong, proud warrior, forging a brighter future for the clans. Not the aged, pruning person I see today, still strong, but perhaps bested by youth and time. He probably thought there would never be peace in our time. I’m glad he’s trying, though there’s many years of bad blood shed.

  And she said he killed her father’s brother. Oh hell. I nudge Topper away from the railed edge that he ambled towards, in search of the grassroots growing around the metal. Our small procession hears the sound of laughter and carousing, and we spot the brightly lit bar built not too far from the road, supported upon a ledge that is able to overlook the forests and ravines, giving the bar goers a wonderful view of our lands.

  “They probably saw something,” my father says, and we follow the Bonecleaver towards the bar. We dismount and tie our horses to the beam provided, and a sudden hush falls over our party.

  Tied to one of the wooden beams outside the bar is Hoover. The missing horse from the stables.

  “She’s been here,” Bobby says, surprised. My father and the Bonecleaver, however, look grim. We work our way through the small crowd gathered inside. It’s a merry sight. Many men and women drinking, laughing and roaring their stories. One man’s on the table, the clan colors draped all around him, mimicking the position of a shooter. He lets out a theatrical bang, and the men around him laugh and thump their hands on the table, spilling drink. One of the female bartenders looks less than impressed at this behavior, but all the men and women are in peculiar high spirits. Celebrating.

  One quick work through the room doesn’t yield any sight of Pearl. Her horse is here, but she isn’t. The Bonecleaver shakes his head, before approaching and whispering something to my father. Both of their features look grim, and a sense of foreboding ripples through me.

  If the horse is here, but Pearl isn’t…

  My father roars for attention, and the vassals, instantly recognizing the features of their liege-lord, stop their chants and cheer for him. After a moment, the crowd falls completely silent.

  “Sorry to interrupt your cheer, ladies and gentlemen, but we’re hunting for someone at the moment. Have you seen a lone rider pass by recently?”

  Interesting my father starts like this. We know well that Pearl’s horse is here, but that information i
sn’t shared with the public. In response to my father’s words, a few of the men break out into laughter, and the red-faced man who I saw standing on the table, imitating shooting a gun, beams proudly. “Why yes, we did see someone, matter of fact, m’lord.”

  My father’s attention focuses on him. “Oh? Tell us more.”

  A few more table rattlers join the growing noise as the man stands up. “You don’t need to worry about them any longer, m’lord.”

  I forget how to breathe, long enough for Bobby to shake me by the shoulder, forcing me to inhale sharply.

  “Why don’t I need to worry about them?” my father says, still playing with the man, even as my senses spin, and a slow, burning dread inches through my soul.

  “Why, I took care of ‘em!” A few more cheers for the man. “It was a filthy Hartson,” he says, accompanied by growls and curses. One man howls, his face contorted into battle rage, stamping his feet. “Saw the colors. To think one of them got so far in. Took me two shots, but I got them. Won their horse, too. Fine looking beast it is, m’lord. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was from their personal stables!” The cheering intensifies, even as I feel the ground cut itself out from under me.

  No.

  My father glances at me, and sees I’m unable to function. I curse my weakness, but know if I speak, if I stand up – I’ll launch at that man and strange the life out of him. I'll take out the entire bar. How dare they. How dare they!

  “Yes, yes, very good,” my father says, lowering the volume once again. “But I do have a few things to ask you, boy.” His grave expression seems to take the bite out of the man’s jubilant attitude. “Are you aware of recent developments between the Claymores and Hartsons?”