In the spirit of their bargain , Louvaen didn’t wait in the hall until Cinnia entered her room but slipped into her own first. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and she stoked it with the poker. Her teeth chattered hard enough to make her head ache as she dressed for bed. The sheets were like ice, and she huddled beneath her mountain of blankets, shivering until her body heat managed to chase away the chill. She’d be lucky to find sleep before dawn. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw one man and two faces—the younger Ballard, not yet disfigured but with a demeanor so cold it made the gooseflesh rise on her skin and the Ballard of now. Not so cold yet so much more maimed and with that same powerful aura captured in the portrait.
She recalled the feel of him under her hands, the frigid lace of vines and symbols interspersed with tracts of hot skin, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and smoothness of his eyebrows. His hair had been thick; soft dark waves interwoven with coarser silver ones. Louvaen sighed and burrowed deeper beneath the blankets, wondering how it might feel to have him beside her. If his body were as hot as the skin of his face and neck, she’d be in a sweat in no time.
“Madness.” She slapped one of her pillows of her head, refusing to think more on the potential of such a scenario.
“I am in hell,”he’d said in a voice almost as tortured as the cries she once heard him bellow in a cell.
He wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ballard faced his king with Cederic of Granthing beside him. This day had been coming since the two men fostered with Isabeau’s father years earlier. Decades of antipathy, childhood resentments and adult ambitions had culminated in this moment. Ballard was only surprised his ongoing war with Cederic would be fought in judicial combat instead of a battle between his forces and Granthing’s on an open field. Neither man selected a lesser knight to represent him, and Ballard chose death over first blood to decide the winner.
King Waleran was not been pleased. Ballard of Ketach Tor was his most valuable margrave—loyal, efficient and formidable in both battle and court. Like his father and grandfather before him, he protected the eastern borders of the kingdom against the enemy state of Barad with a capable hand. Granthing, of lesser political stature but equal prowess in war had proven himself the finest of warriors. Cederic had rebelled against his lesser status and sought to replace Ballard as margrave. Waleran needed both men, but the law held fast. As a nobleman, Granthing claimed the right of trial by battle. As the defendant, Ballard chose the punishment for the vanquished.
The morning sun had barely broken the horizon, but a small crowd of administrators and members of the royal family with their retainers were up and gathered beneath awnings to watch the proceedings. A dense fog lapped at Ballard’s feet and dripped thin rivulets of condensation off his aketon and the steel plates sewn over his vambraces. The roped arena behind him wasn’t big enough to hold four horses but large enough for him and Granthing as they fought for the one thing that had pitted them against each other since they were pages in the same household – the Ketach Tor demesne.
“Read the charge,” the king commanded his crier.
The crier unrolled a scroll and read the charges to the crowd. “Cederic, Baron of Granthing lays the charges of forgery and theft against Ballard, Margrave of Ketach Tor over the rights to the dower properties of Isabeau of Leath now Margravina of Ketach Tor. The plaintiff bears witness that the betrothal contract set out between Dwennon, sire of Ballard and Abelard, sire of Isabeau is false and therefore void. Cederic, Baron of Granthing claims possession of a true betrothal contract between Abelard and Mercutian, sire of Cederic which cedes these properties and the hand of Isabeau of Leath to Cederic at the time the contract was signed, thereby making the marriage between Ballard and Isabeau null and void and the dower properties no longer under the demesne of Ketach Tor.”
The king looked to Ballard. “Margrave, how do you plead?”
“Innocent of the charges.” Even if he weren’t, Ballard had no intention of turning over Isabeau’s dower lands to Cederic. The properties were not only fertile and profitable but also strategic, offering his armies clear passage to the borders in times of defense of the kingdom. Had they been nothing more than rocky terrain of scattered scrub grass and no water, he’d still fight for them. To cede anything of the Ketach Tor demesne meant a constant battle against future claimants of all stripes. He’d be so busy engaging in judicial combat to hold on to his lands, he’d lose them to invaders. Granthing, with his short-sighted ambition and envy of the Margraves of Ketach Tor, had to die.
King Waleran accepted the charge and the defense and proclaimed the rules of engagement. “Battle will begin at full sunrise and end at sunset. As in melee, you have the right of recess and the safety it offers so you may repair weapons and armor and attend wounds. Judgment will favor the victor, and the vanquished shall be executed. Do you still agree to terms?”
Both men answered with firm “Ayes.”
The sun crested the horizon, and the king called out, “Begin.”
Ballard stared at his opponent before they entered the arena. “You’re a fool, Granthing. You’ve the favor of the king and a sizable demesne of your own. While Isabeau cannot be your wife, I’ve no issue if she wishes to be your leman and bear you sons after mine is born.”
Cederic chuckled, a low sound that slowly crescendoed into a hearty laugh. He wiped tears from his eyes and offered Ballard a wolfish grin full of contempt. “What uses have I for a pack of sniveling bastards and a tart whose only value is the land you now claim as yours?” He swung under the ropes cordoning off the arena. The grin was gone but not the contempt. “You’re welcome to her and however many brats she whelps for you.”
Ballard’s annoyance over what had been a simple land dispute transformed into a gut-roiling rage. He clenched his sword pommel until his knuckles bled white. Isabeau loathed the very sight of him and never lost the opportunity to declare she couldn’t wait to rid herself of his get and leave Ketach Tor. He accepted her enmity without retaliation. She’d kept her part of the bargain by marrying him without struggle and accepting him in her bed long enough to become pregnant. He had intended to honor his and let her go. The touch of guilt he felt at breaking that pledge fled at Granthing’s words. For all that Isabeau would dance on his grave if Ballard fell in this match, she didn’t deserve Granthing and his contempt. Ballard intended to take his head. She’d hate him until death and beyond for doing so. He only hoped she might realize in the future that her perfect lover had been a corrupt mongrel and learn to love someone else.
“She loves you, Granthing,” he said in a low voice.
They faced each other. The clang of bucklers against the flats of blades rang in the morning stillness as the two men saluted.
Cederic laughed again and raised his sword. “They all do, Margrave. So what?”
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“I see the she-wolf hasn’t torn you apart yet protecting her pup.” Ambrose spoke from his place at the stall door. The tiny bits of straw stirred up from the draft swirling through the stable fluttered around him, a few pieces catching in his hair.
Ballard didn’t look up from saddling the gray courser that would take him into the woods for a long overdue hunt. “It’s Gavin who has to worry about an attack from her, not me.” He adjusted the cinch strap under the horse’s belly. “What are you doing here?”
“On my way to check the sheep. Who doesn’t look forward to freezing their bollocks off shepherding animals dumber than a loaf of bread?”
“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.”
