by Grace Draven
“Wolves in the castle, sheep in the pastures. I think one easier to guard than the other.”
Ambrose sniffed. “The shrew is all bluster and no bite.”
As a recipient of Louvaen’s particular brand of bluster, Ballard shook his head. “I wouldn’t test it.” He checked the cinch strap and adjusted a stirrup. “They’ve been here more than a month, and Gavin has been relentless in his courtship. If he and Cinnia marry, no one will say it’s a union lacking warmth. A blind man would have a hard time overlooking Cinnia Hallis’s love for him, yet I feel no different from when she first came to Ketach Tor. The curse still thrives despite her affection.”
Ambrose rubbed a hand over his face. “If you don’t count the horn he’s wearing in the front of his breeches these days, I don’t think Gavin feels any different either.”
“So the ‘true love’s kiss’ myth is just that.”
“Aye. Nothing so ordered and easy could ever trump wild magic born of vengeance. Besides, with as often as the boy is sticking his tongue down the fair Cinnia’s throat, every curse within eight leagues would be banished if a simple kiss actually worked.”
Ballard peered past his sorcerer’s shoulder to the open door behind him. “Best keep your voice down. If Louvaen hears you, I’ll be picking forks out of Gavin for days.”
“Oh ho! Louvaen is it?” Ambrose waggled his eyebrows. “Your protector of virgins is fighting a losing war with those two.”
Ballard strapped his crossbow to the saddle and ignored Ambrose’s questioning expression. “That may not be a bad thing. Maybe instead of true love’s kiss, it’s true love’s swiving in the hayloft.”
This time Ambrose glanced behind him. “You might want to follow your own advice and lower your voice. I won’t much enjoy picking forks out of you.” He moved further into the stables. “No curse would be worth its salt if a swiving could break it. There’s a detail or a set process—something we’re missing.”
The courser snorted and stamped a hoof, impatient with his rider’s preparations. Ballard patted the animal’s neck. Magnus was one of only two horses he’d kept. An agile mount with the instincts of a predator more than prey, he’d carried his master into war, defended him better than most vassals and rode to the hunt as enthusiastically as the hunters. He never developed an aversion to Ballard the way the other horses did as the curse changed him. Ballard wondered if the stallion was as weary of the long years as he was.
“You think as a magician of the right hand path, Ambrose. Wild magic is left hand power.”
The other shrugged. “Unpredictable, inconstant, but there’s a thread of reason in all things. I just need to find the thread.”
Ballard led Magnus out of his stall and swung into the saddle. “I’ve said it before; we don’t have much time left.” He snagged the lug spear from where it leaned against a nearby post.
Ambrose blew out a sigh, setting the splinters of straw trapped in his hair to quivering. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Magnus’s hooves clopped a muted rhythm on the straw-covered floor as Ballard guided him toward the door. “Tell Magda to ready her knives and troughs for the morning. I’m after boar tonight.”
Gone were the days when the hunts drew spectacle as festive as any tournament. Then, Ketach Tor overflowed with people—servants and yeomen, huntsmen with the quiet, scent-tracking lymers and the big wolfhounds straining at their leashes. Magda and a small army of women and pages laid out a breakfast at assembly, with the knights hardly able to choke down their food from the excitement of the upcoming chase. Now it was just him and sometimes Gavin who hunted the hart and boar—a deadly endeavor when hunting the latter, but the animal yielded a lot of meat, and Ballard considered it worth the risk to hunt alone.
Snow cascaded in dancing whorls as he guided Magnus into the trees. The black hush didn’t mask every sound, and Ballard listened to the occasional squeak of a dormouse or the skitter of claws as a marten climbed amongst the high branches of a birch. Unlike the great hunts of the past, he hunted in the small hours. The curse’s progression had done much to maim him but also gave an unexpected boon or two. He could see as well in darkness as in daylight. The animal eye shine that startled Louvaen each time she caught his gaze in dim light was a small price to pay for the ability to hunt at any time.
He tracked a path through heavy underbrush, picking his way toward a mud wallow known to attract wild pigs. Trampled tracks of underbrush and bits of rotten tree trunks torn to shreds scattered the ground. Ballard noted teeth marks across the trunk of one tree and mud build-up on several others where a boar had rubbed to scratch off dried mud and parasites. A distinct and foul odor wafted to his nostrils. Magnus snorted at the scent. Ears pricked forward, he came to an abrupt halt. Ballard trusted his courser and waited, spear hefted.
The animal’s instincts held true as a stout black shape burst out of a clot of undergrowth and shot across the path of horse and rider to crash into another patch of bush and bramble. Ballard didn’t need to touch his heels to Magnus’s sides before the horse leapt after the boar, and the chase was on. Magnus galloped through the narrow spaces between trees and cleared gullies without missing a step. Ballard crouched, bent and sometimes rode half off the saddle to avoid decapitation by a low hanging branch. He held the reins loosely and leaned into the horse’s sharp turns as they chased down their quarry. For now, his job was to simply stay in the saddle while Magnus did the work of running the boar to exhaustion.
They cornered the creature in a swale where the snow gathered deep and slowed the chase. It turned to face them, breath steaming from a twitching snout. A big male possessing a lethal pair of curved tusks guaranteed to slice or puncture, the boar lowered its head, swinging it from side to side. A line of bristles spiked down its back from shoulders to tail. Foam cascaded from its mouth, jaws popping as the sharp cutters met the duller whetters. Magnus’s muscles bunched beneath the saddle. Ballard took his cue, bracing the spear under his arm and against his side for the inevitable confrontation. As before, the horse’s instincts were on the mark. The boar charged, barreling toward them in a violent surge of speed.
Undaunted, Magnus met the charge. Ballard gripped the horse’s sides with tense thighs, leaned down and aligned the spear, aiming low. The impact almost jolted him off the saddle’s low cantle and numbed his arm from shoulder to fingertips as he rammed the spear into the boar’s chest, lifting it off its feet. The spearhead sank through muscle and bone down to the lug bar. Magnus’s forward momentum flung the skewered animal backward until it struck the trunk of a birch tree. Ballard let go of the spear as they thundered past, gradually slowing Magnus until they swung a wide arc and trotted back to the kill. They stopped alongside the squealing boar. Cloven hooves churned air as it struggled to rise. Ballard dismounted, patted the snorting Magnus, and unsheathed his sword.
Fatally wounded and unable to rise, the boar was still dangerous, those curving tusks as sharp as flaying knives. Ballard approached cautiously, placed the blade against the beast’s neck and sliced through the jugular. The boar went still as blood spilled across the snow, black in the winter moonlight. The smell would draw wolves from every corner of the woods, and Ballard didn’t relish fighting off a hungry pack lean from winter’s bare larders. He put the sword aside, braced a foot against the animal’s chest and yanked the spear free.
He field-dressed the carcass to the ululation of wolf song growing ever closer, then used a rope to winch the boar high enough to lower onto Magnus’s back. The courser offered only a token grunt as Ballard lowered the boar and strapped it to the saddle. He stroked the horse’s neck. “You’re a fine lad.” He retrieved the lug spear, grabbed the reins and led Magnus through the trees on foot. His courser was strong, but the boar was heavy, even gutted. They returned to the castle, accompanied by howls. The moon rode low amongst the trees though the sky still hung black and sparkled with stars.
He met Gavin in the bailey, a piebald jennet named Sparrow sad
dled and outfitted for hunting. His son eyed the dead boar. “Well mine was a wasted effort. I’ll put Sparrow up.” He subjected Ballard to a once-over. “How much of that blood is yours?”
“None. Your faith in me heartening.” He returned Gavin’s inspection, noting the hunting garb and the weaponry tied to Sparrow’s saddle. “Thinking to rescue a gaffer in the forest?”
Gavin grinned. “Considering I beat you in sparring yesterday, I thought you could use the help, old man.”
Ballard tossed the spear to Gavin. “Keep warbling, boy. I’ll flatten your sorry arse in this bailey and feed you to the wolves lurking outside.”
He guided Magnus to a cleared area of the bailey where a gambrel and pulley hoist had been set in place alongside a table laid out with a variety of knives and hand axes. Troughs filled with salt and snow and two large barrels waited nearby. He and Gavin winched the carcass off the horse until it hung upside down preparation for skinning. He sent Magnus off with Gavin and Sparrow to the stables for unsaddling and a rubdown.
When Gavin returned, both men stripped to the waist. Butchering a hog was hot, dirty work, even in winter. The frigid air felt good on his bare skin, especially after the long walk from the forest.
“Did you bring back the liver?”
Magda marched toward him garbed in a dress that was nearly rags. She’d bundled her hair in an equally ratty kerchief. A retinue of women in similar dress followed, including Louvaen and Cinnia. The younger sister barely glanced at him before her eyes settled on Gavin. She stopped short, almost pitching into the snow when Louvaen stumbled into her. A wrestling match of flailing arms and elbows ensued until the two managed to right each other.
Louvaen brushed down her threadbare skirt and glared at Cinnia. “What are you doing?” Her scowl rested on Gavin. “Oh for gods’ sake, if you’re going to stare at him like a lovesick cow, at least get out of the way so we don’t trample you.”
She went silent as her eyes met Ballard’s. She didn’t stop, but her long strides slowed as her gaze sharpened, sweeping over him from the top of his head to the tips of his boots, pausing to touch on his shoulders, chest and midriff. Ballard refused to shrug the shirt back over his head. In the weeks since she and her sister had taken up residence in his home, Louvaen had never averted her eyes from him. She didn’t do so now. Still, some small part wished she didn’t have to look upon him half dressed. The vines, runes and etchings marring his face and neck ran wild and numerous across his torso, front to back, and were joined by a map of scars and lacerations that revealed a life of hard fighting. He’d been stabbed, speared, slashed and gored on various occasions, most often by enemy knights; once by a boar and once by his wife. He didn’t count the broken bones that had been set and healed. Ambrose had declared more than once he had the luck of a dozen men to still be alive.
Those gray eyes darkened for a moment, and her mouth, which he hungered to devour, curved into a small smile. She brushed past him, pausing long enough to whisper in his ear. “You can’t fool us, my lord. You’re colder than you let on.” Her gaze dropped to his chest before she met his eyes again. The smile still hovered, accompanied now by a blush.
Puzzled, Ballard watched as she took a spot at the table and claimed a butchering knife. The cold didn’t bother him, and he often slept in his chamber with the covers thrown to the foot of the bed, the fire out and the window open to the weather. He glanced down to where her gaze had rested. His nipples had tightened to pale, tiny nubs surrounded by gooseflesh. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. He was on the verge of following her to the table and whispering in her ear that if she was so concerned, she was more than welcome to warm him. However, another demanded his attention and he had learned long ago to ignore Magda at his peril.
“Did you bring back the liver?” she repeated.
He gestured to the leather bag holding the haslet. “Your delicacies await. The heart’s in the pouch as well.”
The housekeeper rubbed her hands together. “That’ll make a fine stew.” She joined the others, claiming a spot between Clarimond and Cinnia. “Let’s get on with it before I freeze my fingers off. At least we’ll have fresh meat tonight.”
“Roasted with honey and rosemary?” Gavin looked ready to drool.
Magda shrugged. “Depends on how fast you get that hide off and what mood I’m in when we’re done.”
Neither man needed any more encouragement. Ballard cut circles around the hind shins, working toward the inside of the legs as Gavin skinned around the tail and hams. Between the two of them, they had the hide peeled away in minutes. Ballard split the boar lengthwise and unhooked it from the gambrel pulley to help Gavin lay it across the table for additional cleaning and butchering. Everyone set to work then, carving chops, hams, loins and racks of ribs. Only once did he catch Cinnia turn pale during the process, and that was when he used an axe to cleave the head from the rest of the body. Louvaen worked steadily next to Clarimond, unfazed. A woman who once prepared the dead for burial and had a body burst on her would find this particular chore of no consequence.
They labored through the morning, packing portions of meat in ice to be stored in the buttery, setting other parts aside for packing in salt or pickled in vinegar. Nothing was wasted. They’d process the brains, stuff the intestines for sausages, render the fat for soap and candles and strip the bristles for brushes. The weak winter sun hung directly overhead by the time they finished, dismantled the pulleys and carted the full barrels of salted pork into the larder.
They gathered by the well near the herb garden with its hardy bushes of rosemary covered in snow. Clarimond drew the first bucket of water, and the women took turns bathing their faces, arms and hands with the kerchiefs they’d used to cover their hair. There was much gasping, yelping and complaining as they splashed the icy water on their skin. Cinnia, teeth chattering so hard she could barely talk, managed to say “I think the tip of my nose has frozen.”
Magda scrubbed at her arms and doused her kerchief a second time in the bucket. Ballard fancied he heard broken ice crackle as she wrung out the excess water. “Less talking, more washing,” she said.
Gavin rocked back on his heels. “I don’t suppose now would be a good time to comment on how they remind me of a gaggle of complaining geese.” His eyes brimmed with laughter.
Ballard kept his eyes on the women, particularly Louvaen and her smooth skin made rosy by her energetic scrubbing with icy water and rough cloth. “Not unless you want to be hung by your heels and split in half like that hog.”
Father and son exchanged grins that soon turned to more stoic expressions when Cinnia approached them with another dripping cloth. She eyed Gavin with the same look he wore when Magda announced she’d be roasting some of the boar meat that night. Ballard wondered if the boy would be in any worse danger of being consumed whole if he stood before her basted in honey and rosemary himself.
“Do you need help cleaning up, Gavin?” Cinnia’s breathy question and the feral gleam in her eyes had Ballard moving out of the way. He glanced at Louvaen who’d paused to watch with narrowed eyes.
As if pulled by the irresistible force of a powerful lodestone, Gavin reached for Cinnia, his voice guttural. “I’d never refuse the aid of so beautiful a woman.”
Ballard rolled his eyes at his son’s foolery.
“Cinnia!” Louvaen’s call cut sharp across the bailey.
“Hmmm? What?” Entranced by the sight of Gavin’s bare chest and shoulders, Cinnia barely registered her sister’s command. She reached out and Gavin leaned in.
This time Ballard took several steps back as Louvaen marched toward them with a full bucket of water. Someone was about to receive a good dousing. He wanted no part of it.
“Cinnia, don’t you dare!”
As if released from a spell, Cinnia jumped out of the way and gasped as Louvaen snatched the wet cloth out of her hand. Gavin straightened in time to catch the rag and bucket she smashed into his chest. Water sloshed out of the bucket,
soaking one side of his breeches. “Cool your blood,” she snapped at him before leveling a glare on her sister. “You too.” She strode back to where Magda stood grinning and Clarimond and Joan hid their giggles behind their hands.
Cinnia offered Gavin an apologetic smile and a gaze so seductive, Ballard wondered if she was still an innocent. Gavin went stiff, in more ways than one if the front of his breeches were any indication. Ballard stepped forward and gave her a gentle push toward Louvaen. Once she was out of earshot, he turned to Gavin. “You poor sot. If you don’t have calluses on your tarse by now, I’ll be surprised. You better propose soon, or you’ll expire from the wanting.”
“Count me lucky if I’m not dead by morning.” Gavin scowled as he dipped the rag into the bucket and began scrubbing away the worst of the blood and dirt. He and Ballard shared the water and rag. Ballard still felt grimy afterwards and looked forward to when Magda would release Clarimond and Joan from kitchen duty long enough to haul a tub up the stairs into his chamber and fill it with hot water. His household usually made do with sponges, homemade soap and basins of cold water. However, when Ballard or Gavin hunted boar and came back unscathed and with a kill, Magda pampered them with a full immersive bath and a generous cake of imported soap brought home by Gavin.
The heat in the kitchen felt sweltering after hours spent in snowy weather. Magda shooed Louvaen and Cinnia to their rooms, instructing them to bathe, change and return their clothes for laundering. She turned to Ballard who hovered at the doorway between bailey and kitchen. “You’ll be wanting a bath?”
“Aye. Make the water boil.” He gestured with a nod to the stables. “I’ve a horse to tend to an a saddle to clean. I’ll be finished soon.” Four centuries earlier, a contingent of stable hands would have seen to brushing down his courser, feeding him and mucking out the stalls. The work fell to him now, and he’d long ago given up any protest of such lowly chores for a man of his station.