by Grace Draven
She snorted. “That’s another tale entirely and one of no importance here.” She turned to Gavin. “My father can’t wait for the flux to end. I’ll bring the money to Jimenin.” She drew a deep breath and prayed she’d made the right decision on her sister’s and father’s behalf. “Payment then for a winter of courtship.” Gavin’s expression lit up and then dimmed when Louvaen held up a finger. “But only if I can return and act as her guardian.”
Ambrose groaned as if someone had just knifed him under the table. “Gods help us.”
Gavin shook his head. “That isn’t within our authority. Not even mine. This is my father’s home. He decides who stays.”
She crossed her arms. “Then no bargain.”
The art of negotiation favored not the one with the better odds but the one who could convince his opponents that his were the best odds. Louvaen waited.
He stroked his lip with one finger, lost in thought. “Time is as much against you as it is us. Would you trust us to send you home with the payment and a token to guide you back to Ketach Tor? I can’t vouch for my father’s willingness, but I can guarantee you the chance to speak with him about it. He will be...improved by the time you return. Cinnia remains under our protection, an honored guest.” He eyed her with a look of both resignation and respect. “I’m aware her affection for me can turn in an instant if any harm comes to you from a mistake of mine.”
It was a fair offer considering the circumstances, and Louvaen couldn’t think of another option that worked to her benefit. “If you swear on those feelings you profess you hold for Cinnia to uphold your end of this bargain, then I’ll leave her long enough to deliver Jimenin the monies.” She held out her hand, along with a warning. “I’m no mage, but I’m familiar enough with the left-hand path. It gives no quarter to an oath-breaker.”
Gavin clasped her palm in a firm grip. “I swear it. On my own blood—”
“Careful. She’s already extracted some of your father’s.” Ambrose shook his head, clearly disapproving of the entire plan.
“On whatever you wish. The token we give you will lead you back to Ketach Tor when your business with Jimenin is concluded. You can then speak with my father.”
Louvaen nodded. “A handshake is adequate enough.” The two shook and Ambrose pronounced the bargain struck.
She stood. “You understand I intend to tell Cinnia every word we’ve discussed here?”
Gavin nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’m off to gather my things. Can you ready my horse in an hour?”
He rose as well. “Aye. I’ll have the monies in a pack waiting for you. You’re a woman traveling alone. Ambrose can enchant the pack, along with the token, so that it’s unseen.” He bowed and strode from the kitchen.
Louvaen gazed after him while she addressed Ambrose. “I’ll thank you not to give me a bauble that will drop me off the nearest cliff when I return.”
For the first time since she’d met him, she caught true humor in his answering chuckle. “Witch who hates magic, I doubt a mere fall from a cliff would end you.” He drew close and returned the flintlock. “Besides, I’ve no interest in killing you yet. It should be entertaining watching you explain to my liege why your interpretation of ‘hello’ is a boot to the face.” He inclined his head and swept out of the kitchen in a flutter of robes, leaving Louvaen to ponder how much crow she’d be forced to eat in order to sway de Sauveterre into letting her stay at Ketach Tor for the winter.
CHAPTER FIVE
“My lord, the scout has reported back. Granthing and the Lady Isabeau are less than eight furlongs from Valparin Skete. They’re on one horse instead of two. He thinks Granthing’s mount has come up lame.”
Ballard didn’t believe in gods, but he did believe in luck and for now his was holding. He kicked his mount into a gallop, his contingent of armed freemen and vassals trailing behind him as they emerged from the forests and onto the open tract of blooming flax fields separating the Granthing demesne from the king’s waste lands. The riders cleaved paths through an ocean of blue flowers toward a ridge crest rising above the fields. They chased a lone horse, neck stretched as it raced toward the ridge in full gallop.
He spurred his own mount to greater speed. His quarry would never make it. Even from this distance he saw the horse falter and slow, almost pitching its riders from the saddle. Isabeau’s stalwart mare would have carried her mistress across the heavens if required, but her strength only held for so long. With two people on her back, she had no hope of outrunning Ballard’s fresher, tougher courser with its single rider.
The pursuing troupe narrowed the gap, with the perimeter riders fanning out to encircle and enclose their prey. Ballard rode center and point, anticipating Cederic’s next move once he realized he and Isabeau would never make it to the skete in time. Disappointment almost overcame the cold knot of rage wedged against Ballard’s sternum when the mare fell to a canter and finally a trot. He’d hoped to use the crossbow and take down his enemy like the dog he was. Cederic swung from the saddle to land nimbly on his feet, leaving Isabeau to guide her lathered horse away from him. Ballard’s own mount never broke gallop before his rider leapt to the ground and charged, sword and buckler in hand. The two slammed together like battling stags caught in rut. They sprang apart, swords raised, each waiting for his adversary to strike.
Cederic’s smile promised a gruesome death and a dance on Ballard’s grave. “And here I thought you didn’t care about her, Margrave.” The thrum of steel striking steel as the blades met punctuated his statement.
Ballard refused to be baited. They both knew this battle was over land, far more valuable than the woman who claimed it as part of her marriage right. Ballard had never tried to fool Isabeau into believing empty declarations of love from him. His greatest regret was that her stubborn faith in Cederic of Granthing’s lies had brought them to this—an elopement made under false pretenses and a fight in which Ballard would shed his last drop of blood if necessary to defend the properties promised to him in the betrothal contract.
Silent, relentless, he parried his opponent’s blows and drove him across the flowering field with his own strikes until Cederic breathed harder than Isabeau’s winded mare, and sweat dripped off his brow in rivulets.
“Kill him, Cederic!”
For just a moment, Isabeau’s shrill command distracted Ballard, and Cederic struck. His blade raked harmlessly along Ballard’s chainmail sleeve, but the buckler found its target, the shield boss striking a glancing blow across Ballard’s face. The pop of bone sounded in his ears. A hot burst of pain filled his eyes with tears and his nose and mouth with blood. He staggered, half blinded and gasping. The thin whisper of a blade splitting air gave warning, and only years of fighting as a Marcher lord saved him from Cederic’s next blow. He dropped into a crouch, under the sword’s swing, and rose again. Cederic’s forward momentum carried him into Ballard’s reach, and Ballard met him, slamming the pommel of his sword against Cederic’s skull.
The fight was over as abruptly as it began. Cederic went down in a cloud of flax flowers, rendered unconscious by Ballard’s blow. Ballard planted the sword tip under Cederic’s jaw for the killing thrust.
“No!” Isabeau threw herself across her defeated lover and glared up at Ballard with a face so twisted by hate all her famed beauty had disappeared. “Mercy, I beg you! I’ll agree to whatever you want, you loathsome skít. Just don’t kill him.”
Face throbbing from his broken nose and a belly sick with the blood he’d swallowed, Ballard offered his betrothed a gory smile devoid of humor. “I want what’s in our betrothal contract, Isabeau. Your hand in marriage, your dower lands and a son to inherit them. Give me those, or I will give you Granthing’s head on the point of my blade.”
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“I’ll never understand how so timid a man as Mercer Hallis managed to sire a she-wolf like Louvaen Duenda.” Gavin stood beside his father at the solar’s one window and watched as horse and r
ider picked their way across the drawbridge spanning the gorge. The wind was up, free of snow flurries but still gusting hard enough to whip the horse’s mane high and the rider’s cloak stiff. The concealing hood flew back, revealing Louvaen’s dark hair before she passed out of sight beneath the gatehouse’s span.
Ballard stayed silent, keeping his opinions to himself. Gavin’s comment was mild compared to Ambrose’s. The sorcerer had earlier proclaimed that Cinnia’s sister “possessed the disposition of a badger poked with a sharp stick.” Ambrose made plain his dislike of their newest guest, and Gavin was wary of her—as he had a reason to be. Ballard touched a sore spot on the side of his healing nose. The woman kicked like a mule and had done an admirable job of trying to cave his face in.
“Are you certain you want her here for the winter? According to Ambrose, she’ll be trouble if she stays.”
“She’s prickly, but she loves her sister.” Gavin inhaled the rush of cold air curling through the open window. “When she’s not busy acting as Cinnia’s battle hound, she’s good company. Intelligent, well-read and quick with a quip.” His gaze flickered over Ballard’s bruised features and he winced. “Can you forgive her enough to let her stay? Cinnia wants her here, and they’re close despite the fact they can sometimes fight like two wet cats in a sack.”
Ballard didn’t know this Duenda woman, didn’t recollect her beyond the breath of cloves that had cut through the stink of his cell and brought him briefly out of the flux’s madness. He’d been horrified to find his son standing next to the unmistakable silhouette of a woman. He’d remained sensible only long enough to ask Gavin why he’d done such a thing before the madness took him again. He didn’t remember grabbing her or even the blow she landed which cracked his nose and gifted him with a matching pair of black eyes. He held no grudge for the injury. In fact, she’d earned a modicum of his respect for fighting back, a trait no doubt learned by necessity if her father was as spiritless as Gavin described. “A sharp tongue is harmless enough, and I’ve survived worse than this tap on the nose. If, however, she spends her time trying to turn your beloved against you, you might want to reconsider.”
His son’s features froze, an icy expression reminiscent of his long-dead mother. Ballard shuddered. “I’ll throw her out myself if I discover such a thing.”
Ballard didn’t doubt it. “You can always have Ambrose curse her into a mute.”
Gavin grinned. “As much as Ambrose would love to, I think it will take more than losing her voice to defeat Mistress Duenda.” He shut and locked the window. “I’ll send them up. Cinnia wants to make the introductions.”
Ballard shouldered on his cloak, pulled the hood lower and took his place by the lit hearth. “The girl’s skittish around me.”
“It’s just respect for the dominus of the household. Anyone would react the same way even with no curse. Cinnia is seeking you out of her own accord. Such a thing can only convince Louvaen there’s nothing for Cinnia to fear.”
Maybe not now, when the flux was weak and his thoughts his own, but if left unbroken the curse ensured no one at Ketach Tor would be safe from him. “One day, son, you’ll have to tell her that won’t always be true.”
Gavin paused, his mouth curving down. “I know. Just not now.” He left Ballard alone to await his visitor.
He didn’t wait long. After more than two weeks with her traipsing the halls of his home, he now recognized Cinnia’s quick steps. The ones that followed were new, longer in stride, more purposeful in tread. “Enter,” he called at the polite knock. The door opened, admitting Cinnia, lovely as usual in a blue gown that highlighted her curves and softened her brown eyes. She offered him a hesitant smile and a curtsey.
“Good afternoon, dominus.” She’d recently adopted the household’s form of address for him. “This is my sister, Louvaen Duenda.” She stepped aside to allow her companion through the door.
Were Cinnia of royal birth, she’d be renowned and fought over by the prince of every kingdom. Bards crafted songs to beauty such as hers and wrote poetry praising every feminine glory from the curve of the brow to the curve of the hips. None would wax poetic over Louvaen Duenda or battle to make her queen. The two looked nothing alike. Where Cinnia was small and flaxen-haired, Louvaen was tall, towering over her sister. Ballard didn’t possess Gavin’s impressive height, but he was taller than many men, and she could look him in the eye without tilting her head up to do so. He’d caught a glimpse of her hair as she rode across the bridge. Dark, with a hint of a wave, it fell over one shoulder in a thick braid. Wispy strands framed a face too strong to ever be pretty. She had a prominent nose that arched a little too much and accentuated a thin upper lip and high, carved cheekbones. Sweeping black eyebrows arched above eyes the color of ash. A jaw line sharp enough to draw blood defined features stripped of any softness except for a full lower lip and a curved chin similar to Cinnia’s. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was memorable, and Ballard knew when he went to sleep that night, he’d see her proud face behind his eyelids.
She dipped into a hint of a curtsey. “Lord de Sauveterre.”
Ballard liked her voice with its deep, carefully modulated tones. “Mistress Duenda, welcome to Ketach Tor.”
Louvaen clasped her gloved hands in front of her. “My family offers our most profound gratitude for your generosity in paying my father’s markers. I owe your son an apology for doubting his word regarding your family’s holdings.”
Gavin had warned him she was straightforward and spoke her mind. Ballard welcomed the trait, having no patience for a glib tongue that flapped a great deal but said little. “Gavin is very fond of your sister, mistress. The payment was small. Consider it a gesture of appreciation for allowing her to guest with us for the winter.”
She inclined her head and without looking away, spoke to Cinnia. “Cinnia, I’d like to speak with de Sauveterre alone please.”
He watched with interest as the girl cast an uneasy glance at him and then another one at her sister. Ballard refrained from promising her he wouldn’t give Louvaen a second opportunity to rearrange his face. She curtsied and squeezed Louvaen’s arm, though he couldn’t tell if the affectionate gesture was in warning or reassurance. “We’ll meet you at supper then? The hall is drafty so we eat in the kitchen.” She blew a kiss at her sister and left them alone.
Ballard gestured to a nearby chair. “Make yourself comfortable by the fire, mistress. There’s warmed ale and a place for your cloak.” He pointed first to the small table set between the chairs where two goblets rested and then to a large chest pushed against one wall. She glanced briefly at his hands but showed no reaction other than to remove her cloak gloves and drape them across the chest to dry. Her actions gave him a few seconds to admire her unobserved. Graceful as a willow with a slender back and arms, she wore a rust-colored gown that enhanced the russet highlights in her hair. Ballard wondered if her legs were as long as her height suggested.
She turned to face him again, and those smoky eyes took his measure. “Will you not reveal yourself to me as I have to you, my lord?” A challenging question, as if she hoped to gauge his character from his need to remain hidden under the cloak.
Had she waited a little longer, he’d have saved her the trouble of asking. He wore his cloak and hood for the benefit of his guests. His household was used to his appearance, and he’d lived with his ever-warping visage for almost four centuries. Whatever vanity he might have possessed had long ago been crushed beneath the curse’s weight. Even before its advent, he’d been famed for his prowess in battle not his looks. These days he was just grateful for the times he still possessed a sound enough mind. His concern over Cinnia’s reaction to him had been driven by the wish not to create problems for Gavin. Whether or not the girl or her sister found him hideous meant nothing to him.
He scraped back the hood, shrugged off the cloak and tossed it across the solar to land atop Louvaen’s garment. “As you wish, mistress.”
Unlike Cinnia, she didn’
t startle. Gavin had assured him his cell had been too dark and her candle too weak to illuminate him clearly during her first visit. Now he had no shadows in which to lurk. Several candles and the leaping flames from the hearth’s vigorous fire lit the chamber.
She cocked her head to the side and offered him a sheepish smile. “Those are impressive black eyes.”
He blinked, stunned by her teasing. No revulsion, no fear, only a curiosity laced with a touch of embarrassment at the injury she caused. He followed her lead and purposefully misunderstood her remark. “My father’s eyes were also black.”
Her full lower lip flattened, and her throat worked to hold back laughter. “Does the penchant for being hit in the face run in the family? What an odd trait to pass on to your descendents.”
Ballard chuckled, surprising himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly laughed without sarcasm or bitterness. Ill-tempered badger she might be, but Louvaen Duenda had accomplished something no one else had in years. “The males in my family have been known to do foolish things that earned them a bruise or two.” It was a round-about apology for yanking her off her feet and an acknowledgement he deserved what she’d dished out to him in response.
She harrumphed and raised a dark eyebrow. “Is that so? Then it’s just a matter of time before Gavin sports one or two.”
“Very likely.” He indicated the chairs once again. “Sit, mistress. You’ll want to thaw by the fire.”
He followed her and took the goblets off the table while she made herself comfortable. The ale had turned tepid, and he lifted the poker resting in the hearth’s coals. Red iron clanged on stone as he struck off the clinging ash and plunged the tip of the poker into his goblet. Ale spumed over the rim, and he blew the thick foam into the fire where it hissed and spat. Louvaen watched him from her place. “Same for yours?” he said. She nodded, and he repeated the process, making sure no trace of ash floated in the ale. She murmured her thanks when he passed the goblet to her and took an experimental sip. She gave an appreciative sigh.