Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  He had not given it much thought, what with the other world of chaos unfolding around him, but his sister presented a valid point. Astrid was nearly three moons into her pregnancy and while the rest of the kingdom may be oblivious to the state of her, they would not be so ignorant as to not understand—or reject—that the child would be born in six or so moons from their "consummation".

  A hand threaded through his hair as he closed his eyes and trusted, "Lady Constance has agreed to purify the princess. Though the kingdom would be under the illusion of a premature child, they will see it as a miracle, a work of God—for that is exactly what the child will be."

  "You are going to need some exceptional servants to keep that one quiet, Tristian. Consider her when she is six moons, then think she has another three to grow, when there is indeed the most growth."

  "I've already made plans to have her concealed from the castle and public during her pregnancy and purification."

  She nodded. "And what of wagging tongues? The top rumour circulating all over is that she's expecting. Until some greater gossip comes along you had best maintain the best company. Not a soul you can trust."

  "Your concern is touching," he stated solemnly. And then he was rising, assured that the mess of the pig, of Tris, had surely been cleaned. He supposed the chateau would now have to have a little pen somewhere, unless one trained it to mind its edibles and bowels.

  To Jocelyn, he said, "Well, as much as I've enjoyed your ever pleasant company, I'm afraid I have other matters to attend." Starting with the Lady Constance's arrival to court in a matter of days, a date he dared not forget as he had his own sister's.

  "Yes and I've had quite enough of you for today, Tristian." She came to her feet and was sure to secure the pouch within her palm. As she made ready to pass him, she paused, close enough to brush her arm against his. "You trust Lady Constance?" she whispered.

  A long stretch of silence was issued, wherefore he said in an equal pass, "She is a woman of God."

  26

  ~ RHENAN ~

  Three days out from the royal wedding...

  Time passes slower when in the thralls of anticipation. At least, Rhenan believed as much as he slumped forward atop Kanter, the warhorse having lost his patience as well, his superior robust stance slackened as he grazed boredly at the swaying grass blades of the open fields.

  Prince Rhenan and his small vanguard had assumed formation along the back path winding between Thornhall's citadel and the royal castle. That had been sometime in the early morning, but now the sun had risen up high and his men and their horses were as bored as he, some having dismounted to gather in a circle some way down the path that sat on a slight incline, claiming they would sit and scout for their target at a better vantage. As if Rhenan was not aware they were not succumbing to foolery and card games. Without him.

  "I thought God's apostles were punctual," he muttered.

  Beside him, the man called Yulan stretched, having dismounted, he and his horse both lying down in the grass as though out for nothing more than a sun bathing. "The Lady Constance's carriage will emerge at the pass soon, Your Highness. For now, patience."

  He sucked in a breath and slumped forward further, expelling it with a dreadful groan of misery.

  With all that had been going on around the castle, the task of capturing Lady Constance and securing her in the marital home gifted to him so graciously by the king had come in last on his agenda. And yet, since news that they were to wed, Rhenan had found himself overly exuberant in their official meeting. No matter that it was under the ruse of what some might coin kidnapping. All in good fun, after all.

  As a testament to his eagerness, he'd even deigned to sit beneath the razor and have his beloved facial blanket trimmed unreasonably low, to where the black hairs shadowed too evenly around his rugged mask. Too...clean.

  They'd forced him to bathe in waters that reeked of evergreens and a dark, faintly sweet scent that clung horribly to his leather and weapon sheaths even now. It'd been 'highly recommended' that he not adorn himself with such 'intimidating shades and accessories'. At first, he'd attempted to follow suit and dress as his brother might, in the regal attire of breeches well-suited for summer, and shirts and jackets that might 'accentuate' his golden gaze. But when he'd reluctantly taken up such an appearance and gone to mount his horse this morning, poor Kanter had barely recognised him.

  He'd changed at once, leading his horse from the gates of the castle in all of his black-wearing glory, much to the dismay of the frowning tailors and advisers.

  And now he sat atop his steed, considering the many different manners of which the Lady Constance might take to him upon finding herself at his mercy within their marital home—of which he intended to sell at first chance and secure one farther from the castle (much farther).

  The few glimpses and passings between the two of them had been regretfully unmemorable. Because he had been regretfully drunken into the heaviest stupor. He did, however, recall mistaking her as a black smudge, meshing with the walling of the chapel upon her few visits to the castle's royal worship house. Unfortunately, his recollection of her hardly exceeded that.

  This time an impression would be made, for hopefully she'd not witnessed his intoxication all of the other times. And if she had, well, chinks made up worthy armour, did it not?

  As the day drifted on into the evening, the sun's rage placating into a summer breeze, he'd found himself in the same position as Yulan, dismounted, leaning against a reposed Kanter, his own lids growing heavy as he gazed off into the distance.

  The half-sleep lasted all of a moment, for there came the sudden rush of the other half of the vanguard. Fully mounted, alert, pouring down from the inclination of the small slope.

  He was saddled to his steed by his next breath.

  "She nears!" one of the men shouted.

  "She's so early," he shouted back, laughing at the sour looks upon all of their faces. This was the moment he'd prepared for in no more than a scarce amount of days. This meeting. Was it odd that the woman he was to go after had been intended for his brother? Unimaginably. But it was a perfect arrangement of things otherwise. With Constance wed to him rather than Tristian, not only would Rhenan be able to keep a watchful eye on the grand niece of Father Conwell, but there was no longer the risk of her bearing a child with Tristian, thus giving the Sirista a holy and motivating child to wash in delusions and control like an empty-headed puppet.

  And now, as she approached, he was prepared to pay a nod to the tradition that had entertained courts and had been a key preceding event for lordly and royal weddings for centuries. He had been a member of countless parties such as this before and he had to admit that the best ones were when the lady playfully fought back, thrashing around in the arms of her betrothed as he forced her upon his steed. Sneaking away from duties and travelling to the lands where the bride resided, staging a mock assault and capturing the lady as a prize. It was all an exhilarating game he was excited to be carrying out himself.

  Rhenan felt the smug turn of his lips, and as his men fell in flank behind him, horses moving restlessly to the sudden excited energy, he said over his shoulders, "As we practiced."

  With that, they all donned their black leather masks.

  ~ CONSTANCE ~

  She flexed her fingers as her hands rested in her lap and marvelled at how alien they appeared without something in their hold. During her childhood she was unable to resist the temptation to pick up a book during her rare travels, though her penchant for growing nauseous when occupying herself with minute words as she travelled prevented it. It was fortunate that she had spent much of her time stationary rather than adopting an almost nomadic way of living like so many others devoted to the faith did. She had been assured from an early age that there was very little need for her to travel. She resided in the most holy place, and she, of course, was a most holy person.

  The pilgrims would come to her.

  Or at least they would have wh
en she was set to become queen. Now it seemed she was to remain a 'lady' for the rest of her days, unless there was some twist of fortune, a foolish concept naturally. The edge may be removed from that insult when she saw the strips kiss the soft flesh of the heathen, but it would not remove it entirely.

  She could see the chapters in the history books already. Words such as 'almost', 'but', 'however', when it came to detailing her early life. She could not think of a single soul who wished to be an 'almost queen'. At least religious texts would treat her more favourably. Writers of other genres too may be influenced by the works of those of her time and with the control of the guild still firm within her grasp, she imagined there would be few unsavoury reports.

  Her name was to occupy a different branch of the Hanson family tree. Tied to a man who was set to be demoted in the line of succession and she had yet to ask him how he felt about it. Of course, she had yet to ask him a single thing, for she could not recall a single conversation with Prince Rhenan.

  His reputation preceded him and she had half a mind to set him in that purification chamber with the heathen bitch to see him re-educated, or perhaps simply educated, on matters of piety and propriety. Reports suggested that he was wild and not a soul had attempted to rein him in. The royal family and court seemed to accept that he was the way he was, as if it was in his nature and there was little that could be done about it. She would not be surprised if he was to occupy himself with some foolish little game, or daydream about what hunt he was to go on next during chapel. Word stated that he was not at all close to possessing his brother's respect for the faith, though Prince Tristian's devotion was indeed just as questionable.

  The curtains to the carriage were drawn and the small space was cast into shadow. The view of city and countryside, or rather, the generous-sized land wealthier citizens owned in walled gardens, was not at all unpleasant. Rather, she did not wish to risk the curdling of her stomach, then the undignified release which would come at the most inconvenient of times, most likely as an unconventional greeting to the prince upon arrival to the castle.

  When the rumbling of something shook the carriage—thunder perhaps, though there had been no warning—she felt the temptation to tug open the curtains and assess the situation. A prayer would do when it came to bad weather. She considered herself to be a well educated woman, but even the most foolish of farmers were able to determine that thunder did not chase a person. Thunder did not grow louder and louder in one hammering note. Neither did it give cause for carriages to jolt as if they were flimsy pieces of craftsmanship rolling over a million bouncing pebbles.

  "Swords!" came the call from outside and she instantly gripped onto the edge of her seat. Outlaws surely. On the main road into the city. It was not unheard of, though attacking such an important entourage was the height of foolishness. The heads, limbs and whatever else tumbled from the rancid corpses of the outlaws would decorate the city walls by the close of day. If, of course, there was a great mercy though with it came an injustice, in their death.

  "In formation!"

  That was a term of war. Some grand conflict had not started during her time in the carriage surely? She was tempted to peek through the material though was thrust back into her seat when the carriage came to a halt.

  "Protect the lady! Protect the-"

  The commanding voice ceased for a moment and she was certain he had been struck down swiftly and silently. She could only pray for such an end. The sunstar dangled from her neck was gripped between her clammy fingers as she stared at the door.

  "Holy God, hear the prayer of your child Constance."

  Waiting.

  "In your mercy, God, see that I am-"

  "What is this?" The voice outside changed to one of disbelief and there was the howling of men. Hollering even. Shrieks and screams that signalled it was no battle at all. Rambunctious, animalistic, dreadfully masculine behaviour.

  "This is ridiculous..." She heard another guard state as some idiotic percussion commenced at first by one or two, but then an entire orchestra of idiots.

  Sword hitting against sword, clanging with enough obnoxious disturbance to signal the part where a platoon of terrified horses commenced their pained neighing. Someone, clearly, was playing a very foolish game.

  The ruckus and clanking stretched on for an eternity, the carriage jolting every once in awhile as the horses expressed their fright at the the arrival of the unruly men, lurching forward and then backwards, until finally there was a calm outside of the carriage. Though it was not that which might follow a slaughter, but the still shuffle of unmistakable confusion.

  The voices of her men went on, laying over one another in a series of enquiries and demands.

  "What is it you think you're doing?"

  "Untie us this instance!"

  And then there passed vows to protect her at every cost, a plea for death for if harm came to her their fates would be that worse than that small luxury. In light of it, there came a chorus of laughter, snorts, and an insistence from the assailants that it was all in good fun.

  Morbid, brutal men, to consider the senseless assault of others 'good fun'.

  From the lot of these men and their skewered righteous compass, there ascended one voice distinct from them, lower, cut with the refined, royal accent of those who dwelled near or within the castle, yet afflicted with the brutish cadence found only in wild things. It said, derisively, yet kindly, "Now men, be nice. There's a woman of great honour in our midst and these men are still the king and Sirista's men."

  "And this woman of great honour?"

  "Well now," The voice had grown louder and near. "She's all mine."

  At that, having heard quite enough, she jumped from her seat and yanked the door open. The swing almost hit him in the face, though she hardly had a care for that as she glared with unmistakable fury.

  "Do you think this is some sort of game?" She sneered through teeth set tight together, lest she lose her temper in the company of what must have been over a hundred witnesses.

  "Yes, of course I do," he said as though it should have been the most obvious of things. And only upon thrusting herself from the cave of her carriage, where there were walls and private prayers to be cast, did she see now the state of things around her. The men who'd been sent to travel with her, those still in priesthood and those of the Sirista's knights, sat—or rather they kneeled, their hands tied behind them, crude sacks planted over their heads a pace away from the carriage. Surrounding these men were ten, possibly twenty unarmoured men, mounted on horses who wore no saddle or cloth to announce their House of descent. Slotted to their faces were black masks that revealed nothing more than pairs of eyes staring back at her.

  Citizens passing by or near to the main route had meandered from their homes at the chaos, only to disappear behind posts, wagons, or simply observe from a distance.

  All of which paled in importance considering the beast of a man before her who seemed to wear more swords and knives than he did clothing. Despite the dark, ink texture of the mask strapped to his identity, he watched her through strands of a careless set of curls, the shadows and midday dusk sweeping a refraction to his eyes that distorted their colours to a flash of amber, silver and a sliver of gold.

  He jabbed a finger towards her men. "A game. And you, Lady Constance, are the prize."

  She blinked, then blinked again. There had to be something wrong with his head, this man afflicted with madness.

  "I do not think so. You have men who serve the Sirista on their knees, bound as if they are serving some bandit lord. Surely you have enough sense in you to know that this is blasphemy?"

  "Hmmm," he hummed along with the same playful air. "Bandit Lord. Why, I like the sound of that. Perhaps they'll carry the name across the city at large." And then, to further instigate the depth of his madness, he advanced upon her with complete and utter disregard for her title.

  She held out her hands as if they would serve to protect her from the rogue.


  "Don't you dare."

  "No?" He seemed to spring back on his feet, one arm stretching, hand gesturing over those mounted upon their horses. "But my men were looking forward to it." He made a face of pensiveness, turning the rumination upon his entourage. "Am I right? Should I let her go or should I take her?"

  The roar of laughter and instant chant of "Take her!" and tromping of hooves to the ground became at once deafening, and the man before her looked back to her. She could feel the smile behind the mask. "Well, you heard the men."

  "You'll do worse than hang for this. You know who I am. You know who I am to be wed to. The Sirista and the crown after you. You must be the most stunted idiot in the land."

  Second most, of course, behind the inbred.

  "I hear your words, Lady Constance, and I must agree. Have you anymore of those words and such? I would love to hear them."

  "I'd take your tongue—"

  In the next moment, she felt the world turn upside down, an unfamiliar sensation wrapping around her body. That of heat, touch, the abrupt nearness of this beast whose arms had laced around her legs and hauled her in the same swoop over the hard planes of his shoulder. Chuckling. "I was not serious about wanting to hear them."

  She thrashed her feet against his chest though it did little good save cause her own toes to ache. "I was serious! Release me this instance you brute!"

  Around her, gasps of stun and horror mixed with those of muffled laughter.

  "Lady Constance!" one of her men called from beneath the potato sack. "Justice will be dealt for this!"

  Along her upper thigh, there was a series of pats as the man turned and headed away from the safe confines of her carriage. "Easy now," he urged. "Or you'll hurt yourself." There was the countless pokes and prods of his blades as she jostled against him with every step he took.