by J. P. Ashman
Flavell beamed. ‘It’s wonderful. Truly.’
Cateline beamed also.
‘Thank you! For my hair and… just thank you.’
‘It was my pleasure, mademoiselle. Would you like me to send them in with your dress?’
Flavell nodded. ‘Yes please.’ Cateline turned to go. ‘But please return, if you have the time for it. I would like you to see the dress and how it compliments your styling of my hair.’
Bubbling with excitement, Cateline nodded and rushed from the room to call for the dress.
Flavell looked at herself in the mirror and smiled once more. It seemed she would marry her seneschal, and that, after all, was all she had wanted from the start.
It was but heartbeats, or so it felt, before Cateline returned. Through the door she came, her smile less than before. ‘The seamstress is on her way with your dress, mademoiselle.’
‘Thank you,’ Flavell said, turning to take the girl in. ‘Now tell me, what has troubled you in so short a time? And be honest with me, for you can, you know.’
Cateline offered a tight smiled and curtsied her thanks. She hesitated, before steeling herself in the face of the noble woman not too dissimilar in age to her. ‘My…’ She swallowed hard and started again, moving over to fuss at the dresser before Flavell. ‘My man is a scout, mademoiselle. A scout who went with the patrols the seneschal sent out. A scout who hasn’t come back.’
Flavell gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘Oh, Cateline, he may yet come back. We can’t know for sure what has befallen those brave men. If anything at all.’ There was a pause after that and Flavell knew her words sounded hollow.
‘You’re a brave one too,’ Flavell said, taking and squeezing Cateline’s hand, ‘carrying on like this. Stoic, I would say.’
Cateline looked Flavell in the eye. ‘How could I not be? When he rode out into rumours as worrisome as The Three themselves?’ A shudder ran through the girl.
‘Indeed. Well, he’s done you proud, your man. And you him!’ Flavell squeezed Cateline’s hand again, skin warm under her own, colder touch. The weather was warm, but the thick walls of the chateau let little of that warmth through. ‘Rejoice in that, my dear. Rejoice in the fact that he knows he has a brave girl to ride home to and will be striving to do just that.’
Cateline nodded her thanks and Flavell released her hand. Both women started as the door banged three times. They turned and watched as the iron-bound oak swung in, revealing a handsome face in the opening crack.
‘Your dress is here,’ Amis said, eyes narrowing but a little on the red eyed maid.
Flavell’s face lit up, as did Cateline’s, despite her worry. Stoic for sure.
‘Send it in, de Valmont. Send it in!’
Amis nodded and opened the door wide. Through came two dour-faced women carrying a shimmering, white silk dress that cascaded over their thick arms as if crafted from the finest snow.
Flavell gasped, hand to mouth. Cateline mirrored her.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Cateline said. ‘It’s as if a dream came true, and no less.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ Flavell breathed.
‘It is… nice,’ Amis allowed, from the doorway.
‘And not for men to see.’ The nearest women to Amis lashed out with her foot.
Amis grunted and hopped aside before disappearing back into the corridor, closing the door.
The two women busied themselves fitting the dress to a wooden manikin by the window, so the light from the tall patchwork of glass panes back-lit the magnificent garment.
‘When Cateline is done faffing with the dresser and has gone, we shall—’
‘You shall do whatever it is you were about to say you shall do, whether Cateline is faffing or not. Do I make myself clear?’ Flavell’s air of nobility took over from the soft tones she’d used with Cateline. Both women nodded, their faces as stern as when they’d entered with the dress. They reminded Flavell of the grotesques and gargoyles adorning so many cathedrals and churches and keeps. Cateline shifted, but Flavell’s hand found hers and she soon settled.
‘You were saying?’ Flavell asked the seamstress, tone soft once more.
The one who’d kicked out at Amis and done all the speaking thus far cleared her throat, and proceeded to explain what they had done and what they would be doing regarding the check of the fit and so on. But Flavell was lost in the dress and what would soon be her wedding. She squeezed and pulled Cateline closer, eager to have a companion throughout. Eager to have someone share in the dream that was becoming a reality before her very eyes. Oh, how the dress shines like magic itself, she thought, as the seamstress prattled on. My wedding dress.
***
The blade was crude, the handle simple. Nothing more is needed when one thinks about it, and Fal did.
‘My papa made me this knife,’ Rasoir said, holding it in front of Fal. ‘Truth be told, it’s poor in quality, but…’ Rasoir pulled his thumb across the blade, each ripple of his finger print flicking across the sharp edge. Rasoir swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the shadowed corner near the chamber’s door before talking once more.
Fal blocked out the man’s droning voice and lifted his gaze from blade to black, to the man he knew stood in the shadows of the doorway. Watching, waiting. For what? Fal thought. I’ve already told them everything. And you… Fal looked back to the sergeant in front of him. He held Rasoir’s eyes for a heartbeat before the man looked away, back to his latest tool of torture. You don’t have the stomach for this, I know it, and yet you go on, poking me, prodding me, beating and slicing me. A sergeant following orders…
Memories flooded Fal’s mind, memories of orders given, orders accepted and the burning bodies that followed, throughout Wesson. Is Rasoir any different to me? Is what he does here, to me, worse than the countless lives my actions took? I’d like to think so, but I’m not—
The knife’s point pressed up into Fal’s left armpit. Not hard, the press wasn’t painful, but it was there, it was threatening.
Sweat managed to appear on Fal’s shaved head. From where, he didn’t know, because he felt like there was no more water left within him. He winced despite himself as the knife cut sensitive skin. Ever so slight was the cut, but the pain flared as it always did. Rasoir knew what he was doing, whether he liked doing it or not. The thought of it was worse now. Fal’s imagination attacked him as much as the Sirretans who held him captive.
I don’t care what anyone says, Fal thought, sudden intakes of stale air pulling at and hurting various areas of his body, especially his broken, snagging ribs. No one can take this and remain defiant. No one can go on without talking, without telling their captors whatever they want to know. Whether it be true or not. And I spoke quick, when they started all of this. Didn’t I just. And still they ask for more.
The blade came away from Fal’s underarm. He allowed his aching muscles to relax, but for a moment; the knife only moved from one area to another, an area that made the painful breaths come quicker. He knew struggling wouldn’t help, but his brain didn’t have control over things like that any longer, his instinctive fear did. His brain was right, alas, and the struggles made the things that followed worse.
Crude blade parted bruised flesh and Fal let out a scream.
The shadows moved as the scream continued, and the Seneschal d’Easson moved to the door, a single Sirretan word passing his lips.
Fal’s scream was no more than a whimper by the time the seneschal left the room. Free-flowing blood followed sweat to the floor, and Fal managed to drop his eyes to the man before him, his need to know what the seneschal said clear. The eyes that looked back were as pained as Fal’s own.
Rasoir swallowed hard as he accepted that questioning stare.
‘He told me to continue, Fal.’
Fal’s released breath shuddered, as did his whole body as the knife came in once more. I’m not sure I’ll survive this. The reality struck him harder than anything that came before. ‘I’m sorry,’ Fal said, his voic
e little more than a whisper, a whisper those he aimed his apology at could never hear.
‘So am I,’ Rasoir said, mistaking Fal’s meaning whilst slicing fingertips from bone. ‘Because he’ll expect to hear you scream.’
The seneschal wouldn’t have been disappointed.
Chapter 38 – Sack of meat
‘Good morning, Fal,’ Rasoir said in his accented Altolnan, entering the chamber and huffing as he did so.
Fal opened his crusty eyes, thoughts of Correia and the others lost. A sack weighed heavy on Rasoir’s shoulders, before thudding to the ground, scattering roaches and lifting dust into the air. The sack shook and thrashed, squealed even. Or whatever was captured inside did.
‘Not sure you’ll like this,’ Rasoir said, eyes on the sack. ‘Damn but she’s heavier than she looks.’
Fal made to speak, but all that came out was a series of chesty coughs.
Rasoir sucked in a breath. ‘Not good that, Fal. Fluid on your lungs, methinks. From the broken ribs, I’d say, and the shallow breathing that comes with such an injury. It was a cold night last night, too. All the worse for you, I’m sure. What you need do,’ and Rasoir mimicked it, ‘is brace yourself like so and take a deep breath or two. I’m told that clears the fluid. It’ll hurt like a troll’s grip though.’
Fal’s voice was barely audible, so Rasoir came in close.
‘Shackled, Sergeant. I can’t.’
Standing back and sucking his teeth, Rasoir nodded at that. ‘Right you are.’ He looked over his shoulder at the door and back to Fal. ‘The seneschal’s been dealing with something up top and won’t be down here for a while. So, aye, don’t see why not.’ He moved forward and Fal flinched, tensed and groaned through the pain it brought.
The sack shook, by the door, grunts now accompanying the movement.
‘Steady, Fal.’ Rasoir unlocked the shackles and lifted Fal to the floor where he helped him settle onto his side. ‘That’s it,’ Rasoir said. ‘On your side, so the weight’s not on those ribs of yours. Now, brace like I showed you. That’s it. Deep breaths now. Yes, I know it hurts but you must, for your health.’
Fal did as he was told, despite the snagging pain the breaths inflicted upon him.
‘That’s it, two’s fine enough.’ Rasoir sat back and rubbed at his face. Looking Fal in the bloodshot eyes, he offered a weak smile. ‘I don’t even know why he has me continue. We know your story is true.’
Head tilted, because it seemed to rest easier on his neck that way, Fal frowned.
Rasoir nodded. ‘It’s true. We discovered your Spymaster and her pathfinders nearby and, well…’ Rasoir looked back to the sack.
Fal’s heart thumped, stomach lurched. Mouth drier than it had been for what he assumed were days, his aching eyes found Rasoir’s once more. The man offered another sad smile as the sack shifted, strange noises issuing forth.
Correia? He’d said her name, hadn’t he, Rasoir?’
‘And yet the seneschal sends me down here, with that.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘If it were me, Fal, I’d let you go. You know that, don’t you?’
Fal nodded. He didn’t know what he knew anymore. Although the flashes of pointless anger, rage even, felt more normal to him than anything else of late. Although they came when he was alone. He wasn’t fool, or mean enough to let those episodes show in front of Rasoir. The man had it hard enough as it was.
Lips pursed, Rasoir climbed to his feet and crossed to the sack, before dragging it across the stone slabs to drop, grunting again, in front of Fal’s tilted head.
‘Time to get her out I suppose, like Croal ordered.’ Rasoir took the closed end of the sack, lifted and shook. Another squeal and pink skin showed, followed by more of the same as a bound and thrashing sow shuffled and slid onto the floor.
Fal’s painful breaths came fast. Confusion followed, mixed with relief. Relief it wasn’t Correia. Guilt followed that relief, mixed with fear for the sow.
‘I hate this bit,’ Rasoir said. ‘It’s one thing doing what I do, but killing and cutting up an animal for nowt but show is wrong. Food wasted if you ask me. My wife would roast me alive if she knew this was going to waste.’ He crouched down beside the pig’s head, pulled it this way and that, looking into the terrified eyes.
‘What—’
‘What am I to do?’ Rasoir said, cutting Fal’s croak off. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Fal. He said to show you some tricks. Make you see what will come next. He reckons that works better than me doing it to you, but I’m not so sure. We’ll see—
‘Oh, I never told you, Fal. My boy started to walk yesterday.’ Rasoir let the pig’s head flop, causing fresh jerks and grunts from the animal whilst he dropped down onto his side, next to Fal. Looking across at him, nose to nose, Rasoir smiled. ‘Can’t believe I forgot to say. Oh Fal, amazing it was. Truly amazing, like Madame White had shone her rays on him and given him the strength to take his first steps.’
Fal listened to the man over his own rasping breaths, pushing and pulling as they were through his blood clotted nose. It was too much to breathe through his mouth after the recent loss of his two front teeth. How they stung when cold air met them.
Rasoir talked, describing the event in detail. After a while, Fal realised the man had stopped. Opening eyes he now realised were closed, Fal saw Rasoir looking at him, smiling.
‘You drifted off there, Fal.’
Fal made to apologise.
‘Ah ah, no need.’ Rasoir surged to his feet, causing Fal to grimace at the pain which followed his defensive flinch.
‘Oh Fal, it pains me so to see you react like that. I don’t do this out of choice.’ The pig rolled, exposing its belly.
‘That bastard seneschal, Fal.’ Rasoir sighed and shook his head. ‘I believed you right away, you know?’ He took his papa’s knife and proceeded to skin the animal, slowly, skilfully. Its screams could have been human. Rasoir didn’t flinch as he worked, eyes on Fal more than the pig’s peeling skin. ‘One of the infamous Correia Burr’s pathfinders,’ he said, taking great care in pulling long strips of skin off at a time and laying them out on the floor. Blood oozed and the pig pissed and shat itself. The stink was overpowering, but Rasoir continued regardless.
Fal looked from the cutting knife to the man, who looked back and nodded.
‘Oh aye, I know her alright.’ Another sad smile. ‘Another reason this pains me so, but it wouldn’t look good if I went easy on you, Fal. You said it yourself, Correia has men everywhere. How would it be for all of those men if they were found, eh?’
Heavy, painful breaths.
The pig looked wet now, glistening as its skinless flank shuddered in the torchlight. The smell worsened and that was saying something indeed. Fal ignored it all. He concentrated on the man, who continued working on the living carcass between them both, as would a practiced butcher.
‘I find,’ Rasoir said, heaving the pig about so the thrashing, squealing head was again visible, ‘that the eyes are the key to a lot of things. To lies, that’s true enough, but to fears too. The pain is one thing,’ he said, bursting one of the wet orbs, ‘but the knowledge they’ll never heal, never be restored. A bit like your front teeth’ He sighed and stopped what he was doing, halting his torture of the poor beast. He sat back, pressing the point of his jelly- and blood-soiled knife to his forefinger. Minutes passed in silence, apart from the noises coming from the agonised sow, and those outside the bright window high in the wall.
Fal jumped when Rasoir started his work again, muttering about his son liking pigs and what, again, a waste it was.
With a show of anger, Rasoir jabbed the blade into the pig’s remaining eye, gouging it out before throwing the knife across the room. He’d gone deep, Fal knew, for the pig, after a final spasmodic jerk, fell silent and stopped moving all together. Nerves twitched a foot, but that was it.
‘Waste of good fucking meat,’ Rasoir complained, surging to his feet and storming from the room. The door slammed behind him and Fal ju
mped once more, left as he was, staring at the eyeless animal.
***
‘So… this is it then?’ Amis raised his eyebrows. Flavell pulled her full lips into a tight smile and nodded, patting down her white silks.
‘Well, mademoiselle, you look—’
‘Stop it, de Valmont,’ Flavell’s smile widened and near on stunned Amis. ‘You’ll make me cry.’
Amis grunted a laugh at that.
‘Are you going to do me the honour, since my father isn’t present?’
‘Whether it’s my role or not, I cannot deny you your wish, mademoiselle. If you want me to, I shall.’ He dropped into a low, respectful bow. A rare sight indeed.
Flavell beamed and clapped her hands together.
‘Are you ready, mademoiselle?’
Flavell turned to Cateline, who’d stuck with her throughout the preparations.
‘I shall ever be ready for my wedding,’ she said to her, a twinkle in her green eyes.
‘I can lead the way,’ Cateline offered, with a curtsy as low as Amis’ bow.
‘Please do, my dear. De Valmont?’ Flavell held her arm out to Amis, who dropped into another, albeit shorter, bow, before taking her arm and leading her to follow Cateline towards the White Chapel.
‘Who do you suppose will be present?’ Amis asked, eyes front.
Flavell frowned. ‘I’m not sure?’ She looked sideways to him.
‘Well, Croal’s family certainly won’t be, being that most of them are dead or locked—’
‘Please…’ Flavell squeezed Amis’ arm. ‘Not now, Amis. Not now.’
Inclining his head in an apology, the three continued on down an unusually deserted corridor.
A bell tolled in the distance.