Bullied Bride

by Hollie Hutchins

  The man stares dumbly at my father, and the rooms goes deathly silent. “Developments?”

  “Are you aware, for instance, that my son married a Hartson?”

  You could hear a coin drop in the pause after my father’s words. Something finally dawns in that man’s eyes. “M’lord, of course. But –”

  “Are you also aware that if anything were to happen to that Hartson, on our lands, that we will end up in a war against the Graves, who have the manpower and firepower to wipe us out completely?”

  The man appears green by now, and no one’s smirking anymore. I’m glad my father was able to keep calm and state this, because I don’t think I could have emulated his mood in that moment. The dread rips inside, making it hard to think, to breathe.

  “We happen to be out here now, looking for my son's wife,” My father says, further nailing the point in. “She came down this way.”

  The man looks as though he's about one second from fainting or vomiting at this point.

  “The horse you have ‘won’ from this Hartson happens to be our horse, too,” my father says silkily. “So, not only have you shot at my son’s wife, but you’ve stolen one of our horses, too.”

  I watch as the man begins to shake from head to toe. “I – I saw it was a Hartson. They’re our enemies. We know – everyone thinks –”

  “Where is she?” My father steps closer to the man, who shrinks back. “Show us where she is. Where she lies.”

  “I – I don’t know. She – she fell in the ravine.”

  “Show us,” my father hisses. “And maybe I might find leniency in my heart not to execute you for the slight you’ve done against your lord. Against our entire clan. Since if she's dead, we are dead with her.”

  Morgan and Danny glare. I can almost see the fires of war in their eyes. All our caution, all my efforts, are in ruin.

  Practically in tears, the man nods, and prepares to leave with us. There’s no more cheer in that bar. We’ve killed their mood.

  Just like they killed my wife.

  “I hope you’re happy,” I manage at last, though my voice is trembling with rage. “For once we try for peace, to stop our people from dying. And you just ruined it. Maybe when the Graves visit your homes and slaughter you, you might stop to think if it was worth it. If it was worth hating.” The room remains silent as I leave the premises, and control my urge to throw up by the wall. My stomach churns. To think they were celebrating shooting Pearl.

  We’ve always celebrated a successful raid against the Hartsons, but now I think I know how they must feel. When people cheer and scream for the death of someone close to you, like they’re nothing, it’s soul-wrenching. We gnash and wail at the loss of our loved ones while they dance on their graves, and we do the same to them. She’s not a monster. She’s a person. How dare they celebrate.

  We should have tried for peace sooner.

  We shouldn’t have been forced into this situation by the Graves.

  I should have been more attentive to her.

  We, along with a few apologetic volunteers, head towards the spot where the man, vassal Henry Speedmore, says the Hartson toppled down. At the bend of the road, where there’s no railing. Shining our flashlights down, we can catch disturbed plants and pebbles. As if someone had fallen, and tried to grab at something to slow their descent.

  Being shot and falling down this doesn’t exactly bode well for her chances of survival. Henry also seems quite convinced he’d killed her, and keeps his distance from me.

  Wise.

  Glumly, heart throbbing painfully in my chest, I work down the ravine with the others, taking a careful path through the branches, bushes and shale. It’s hard going in the darkness, even with all our flashlights. My legs burn as we venture down, sometimes slipping, but always following the destruction wrought by Pearl’s fall. There are wild animals in this place. What if she’d survived, but then been accosted by a coyote or bear? A free meal dropping in on them. Horrible image after horrible image battles through my mind. I brush past thorns, barely registering the sting of cut skin. Lights fumble and flicker in the darkness as people have to keep constantly adjusting themselves to keep their balance.

  Cold seeps through us, adding yet another fatal image to my mind, of Pearl somehow living through all of this, only to die from environmental exposure instead.

  “It’s alright, son,” my father says. I don’t reply. “There’s always hope she’s survived. Takes a steel will to have to live with us for so long.”

  Maybe an hour or two pass. I’m not exactly keeping track of the time. Thankfully it’s not raining, snowing or storming, at least, because it would have been impossible to do this in the night. The slope flattens out into the forest below, and we finally can move without bracing against a drop. The Bonecleaver advances ahead, still following the trail Pearl left, before he barks out, “Found her!”

  Stomach now in my mouth, I stumble through the woods and men to what resembles a corpse. Pearl, lit up by the beams, is unmoving, covered in dirt, twigs, and blood. It’s as I feared. Everything spins, and I fall to my knees beside her, unsure if I’m going to cry, scream, or hit something. She’s all broken like some lifeless doll. I stroke at her cheeks, remembering how she looked in her full beauty, rosy and willful and vulnerable all at once. How we had kissed, and grown closer, and finally promised to shake off our chains. In her death, everyone else dies.

  She is our extinction. But perhaps we deserve it.

  Eventually, the Bonecleaver waves me away, and begins to inspect her, turning Pearl so that we can see the bloom of blood between her shoulders. “Shot here,” he says. “Right side. Scrapes and bruises from the fall, but nothing seems broken. Which is unusual but not unheard of when it comes to a fall. Shot hasn’t gone clean through...” The man hesitated, then tugged white strips out of his pockets, and began wrapping them around her gunshot wound. “Lost a lot of blood… will need to remove that bullet, and body is probably in shock.”

  “Wait,” I croak, staring at him in disbelief. “Body in shock?”

  The Bonecleaver nods. “She’s alive. If barely. Bullet’s impact wasn’t as heavy on her. If this idiot had shot her a few yards closer, aimed a little more to the left, she’d be dead. As it is, it’ll be touch and go.” He wipes at his nose with his sleeve.

  Alive. She's alive.

  Galvanized into action, I bark for her to be carried back up, as gently as possible. The gentle is difficult because the climb is, but we manage to support her and jostle as little as possible. I don’t see how she’s alive, but when I watch her for long enough, I see her chest rise and fall. Tiny, slow breaths. The body breathing on its own, fighting to survive even as parts of it shut down completely. The man responsible for her condition is silent and gaunt, knowing that an unpleasant fate lies in store for him. My father probably won’t kill him. But there’s no way he can do something like this and not get punished for it. Not when it’s the lord’s own son, with an endangered wife.

  “Fool girl was wearing her jacket and sash,” my father growls, and I nod as well. Her jacket has the colors of her clan on it, and she was wearing her sash around her belt, and a discarded bandanna on the side with a vivid streak of yellow in it. To an outsider looking on, she would have resembled a Hartson raider perfectly. People loved wearing their clan symbols, loud and proud. It was an unspoken rule among all the clans that you wore your allegiance when you raided, so there would never be any confusion.

  “That still doesn’t mean she should have been shot at,” I say, while Henry pales further. He knows this heat is for him. That if I was left alone with him long enough, he’d never see the light of day again. “She wasn’t exactly riding in the normal direction of a raider. And people should know that the marriage means we can’t go around killing Hartsons anymore. Anyone with a lick of sense and no alcohol in their system, I suppose.”

  I keep glancing at Pearl, letting sweeps of nausea go through me whenever I do, because she really looks
as if she’s not long for this world.

  “Sometimes,” Bobby says, clearing his throat, “people’s emotions get the better of them. That’s the simple truth of it. You can’t expect people to behave normal all the time.”

  I growl, but don’t say anything more. Escorting my critically wounded wife to the medic’s home, five minutes north of our estate.

  Hopefully not five minutes too far.

  12

  Pearl

  Colors swim before me. My head is stuffed with cotton wool. My thoughts come slow, taking time to creak into cognizance. It takes a few moments more to register my new position. One memory breaks through like light through a crumbling wall.

  Pain to the back. Blazing pain. It’s all I remember. Retrieving any extra memories is a struggle, and I eventually stop straining. Glancing around the room, I see immaculate surroundings, as if someone has tossed several buckets of bleach everywhere to kill the germs. It somewhat resembles a disused classroom, and there’s even a whiteboard on one end with some obscure scribbles that I can’t make heads or tails off. In the corner is an anatomy dummy, with its plastic insides glimmering in the sterile bright light. How strange.

  Staring down at myself, I grimace at the yellowish-purple bruises covering my arms. Several plasters are stuck over parts of my flesh, and for a moment, I just gape.

  Why am I here? Why am I covered in bruises?

  A stranger in what appears to be scrubs steps into the room, takes one look at me, and lets out a yelp of surprise. They scurry out without a word, and about ten seconds later, someone else strides in, adjusting huge and cobbled-together spectacles. She wears her hair in a fierce ponytail, and looks far too excited for a supposed doctor to be.

  “Excellent,” she says in a clear, carrying voice. “You haven’t died. We can all breathe easy again.”

  I blink, and her words take a few seconds to settle in. “What happened to me?”

  She stops at the edge of my bed, clutching a small notebook. “What do you remember?”

  “Not much,” I admit. “I’m not sure why I have these bruises. This is a hospital, right?”

  “Sort of. More of a private education center and medic bay for the Claymores. Drat. Trauma can induce problems in the short-term memory. A lot of victims don’t tend to remember the circumstances around extreme trauma…” She’s scribbling into her notepad as she speaks, more to herself than to me.

  Claymore. A spike of fear goes through me, before I remember that I’m married to one, and everything else associated with it. Wow. I’d somehow blanked that out. Armed with an increasing avalanche of memories, I sift through the soup of my brain for answers to my condition. To that single moment of excruciating pain.

  Crack. “Gunshots. I was shot, wasn’t I?”

  “Mm, yes. Once in the back. Missed your spine and lungs, you lucky thing. With more luck, all you’ll have is some stiffness in that arm after it’s healed up from the scar tissue. You also didn’t break any bones, despite the fall you took. Quite miraculous, really. Someone must be watching over you.”

  The fall. Right. I remember everything spinning. Sounds of objects breaking. The splash of dirt, the taste of copper in my mouth, the heavy scent of a damp forest and the rain soaked in soil. Sheer panic.

  The decision I was struggling to make. “I was taking a ride,” I say quietly. “To clear my head.” After Paul tried to rape me. I don't mention that, though. “I thought about running away – but knew I couldn’t do it. I was going to return. Just after I looked at dusk falling over the path.”

  “I’m glad you were planning to return,” comes a new voice, and I jerk in surprise to see Desmond Claymore walking through the single blue side door. I hadn’t heard him come in at all. His lips are curved in a small smile. “We have a few men betting otherwise.”

  I grin when I see him, before letting it vanish. The doctor is staring at us in an entirely too knowing way, and it irritates me for some reason. “Yeah well, you guys didn’t make it an easy choice. I could stand to be able to walk through a house without people wanting me dead for once.” Or stabbing me in the back, like Paul.

  His expression falls slightly at my words, but considering the fact I was just shot and took a nice tumble down a ravine, I’m not exactly in the best of moods. In fact, it’s only just beginning to sink in just how close I was to death. It’s not a pleasant thought.

  “How do you feel?” he says softly, now kneeling by the bedside, as there is no chair. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it, enjoying the warmth it offers, and the shiver of connection between us. How far we’ve come since we started.

  “Could be worse,” I say, which is perfectly true. It really could be worse. “Did you find me?”

  He nods, before he says, “I was in a small search party. My father and his retainers, Bobby, and Orgre Bonecleaver. We had a few words with the idiot who shot you, who kindly helped with the search afterward.” He then frowns. “Still undecided if I should execute him or not.”

  As much as I would like immediate revenge for the person who shot me, I decide to leave my opinion out of it. Let the people decide whether or not it merits punishing. Though, I think uncomfortably, I was wearing my colors.

  Probably not the best idea in a place of enemies. I wanted to bring my original clothes, my identity with me, but I most likely would not have been shot at if I wore my husband’s colors instead. I’m a terrible escapee. I should have been gunned down many times over by Claymore hostility. “Thank you for finding me,” I say. “I was… not smart. Not thinking clearly. Or I would never have worn Hartson colors.”

  My husband grimaces in agreement. “We know about Paul.”

  I nod, not too surprised. Paul obviously wasn't dead from what I did to him. “He tried. He – I hit him. I escaped.”

  “It’s okay. I know. I'm just glad you’re okay. The good doctor here seems to think you’ll make a full recovery, barring any concussion or trauma, so I hear. Can't say the same for Paul.” His expression turns almost feral.

  This seems to remind the doctor to check up on me, and she does so with enthusiasm, shining a light into my eye, asking me to count, and being satisfied with my mental cognition. It’s nice to have attention to make sure I’m well, rather than to have someone spit out something rude, so I take it with a smile.

  “I’ve spoken again to the house servants,” Desmond says. The doctor hasn’t made a move to leave the room, and neither of us feel inclined to chase her out, it seems. “My father’s going to weigh in his opinion, too. He doesn’t want to fire Ethel as she has been loyal to us. But he will give her the kind of warning that should make her stand up and take notice. We don’t know if she was working on Rayse’s instructions or not, but we’ll find that out soon, I’m sure. Rayse claims he wasn't controlling her, but he would say that. So we're being careful.”

  I listen grimly, and nod. I’m fully aware that people don’t want to do favors for a Hartson, and know I can’t ask for much more than this. If a lot of people get fired or punished at once, it will spread yet more negative rumors to people so determined to find me sinful for something. There is something else in his expression, though. Something he’s not saying, and perhaps doesn’t want to say in front of the doctor.

  But I’m curious, anyway. “There’s something on your mind, Desmond. I can see it.”

  He glances once to the doctor, before leaning in close, and saying, “I was so afraid I had lost you. When I saw you lying there – I honestly thought you were dead.” He smiles, though it doesn’t match his mood and tone. Something in his eyes makes me think he’s struggling not to cry. “I don’t want to lose you, Pearl.”

  A warmth infuses my skin at those words. It cuts down into me, radiating out in a pleasant wave. Did he really just say that? Did I really just hear that? My brain hardly dares to believe the words. That someone would say this to me of all people.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t end there by happy circumstance.” I wince from what I can
remember. “But I’m sorry I ran. A part of me wanted to come back, but another part wanted to go on.”

  “I understand.” Desmond closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. “We will do our best to quell the unrest within our household. Though I don’t feel as though my brother will be the easiest person to reason with. He doesn’t like you much.”

  “Oh wow, I never would have guessed without you telling me. Thanks for that observation.”

  “Happy to help.” He sits there a moment longer, just staring, and a well of questions continue to bubble and burst within me. The biggest, most concerning one, I tuck back for later. Not in front of the doctor.

  “Are we safe from the Graves? Or...” I swallow. “Or is it too late?”

  “We’re safe. For now, anyway. Morgan and Danny won’t advise the war, but they do warn us that we are stretching incredulity a little. And if another almost accident happens again, they will figure it to be too dangerous for you to be here.”

  “That sounds like something your brother would be happy to conjure up, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” He appears disturbed by the thought, as if he’d never considered it before. He should have. A fresh wave of exhaustion knocks out some of my concentration, and I simply reach out for his hand. Together we are stronger. And I promise him not to leave like that again, and especially not wearing my own colors in Claymore land. Seems I’m just great at making terrible decisions. About the only good one I’ve made is choosing to marry Desmond to prevent a war. Trying to stop our two families constantly murdering one another, constantly causing pain and hate and suffering.

  Though my actions and Desmond’s may not be enough. They may not be what will save us. Maybe we’ll just plunge into this disaster anyway, and there’s nothing we can actually do.

  Nothing at all.

  “Get better, soon,” Desmond says, hesitating on the words. As if he wanted to say something else, but can’t quite bring himself to do it. “And please take care.”