I smile at nod at her, though I’m not exactly eager to hear about a Claymore being a good man. It keeps jarring in my head somehow. Ruining the narrative I’ve set for myself. I resent it greatly.
“You don’t have a centuries lasting feud against Claymores though, I presume?”
“True. But talk is that no one actually knows how the whole thing started.” Her smile turns smug, as if she contains superior knowledge to me. “With the things your families say contradicting one another. Someone’s clearly telling porkies.”
“Obviously,” I say, though Jay and the matron exchange a smile. I feel a little unsettled all the same, off kilter when the woman leaves. Jay makes her excuses as well. So, I just have to not show up my husband later. I have to wear his colors, and somehow survive all the hostility that will surely be aimed my way, and the thoughtless comments that’ll follow.
Delightful.
I’ve had banquets here before, but this is the first time that I’m presenting myself in front of “important” guests. The kind my father would invite around and feast with, in order to procure advantages and elevate his position further. It’s the kind of thing I itch to sabotage, because I don’t want the Claymores to gain any kind of advantage.
My shield is my husband, who sits next to me almost as stiff as I feel. Both of us try to put on a united front, but it’s difficult when we’re not united in any shape and form aside from our desire to not be killed. I smile demurely and greet each of the eight guests who have come from Tielman and Graves lands, six men and two women, all proudly wearing their own colors – brown, black and white, gray and black. I’m sat near the head of the table, where the master and his wife occupies. My father’s nemesis, Rysin. Next to me is Desmond, and opposite is Desmond’s brother, with a vassal, rather than a wife. The brother’s younger, and is more square-jawed and sullen looking than Desmond. He also prefers to have his dark hair in a tight bun, compared to Desmond’s untouched curls.
Twenty for the feast in total. Around a table, which I grudgingly observe is larger than the one in our family estates. The Claymores have better connections. Perhaps more wealth than the Hartsons. Dotted among the guests are relatives and vassals of the Claymores, including two sets of grandparents, a couple of twitchy children, and the eight guests strategically placed next to people prepared to converse with them, and strike deals. Servants scurry about like mice, delivering the starters, which consists of a kind of boiled fish chunks in a yellow and green sauce. I’m sat here in a simple blue dress, hair tucked behind so I can handle the food without eating any strands by accident.
“You’re doing good,” Desmond whispers to me, when there’s been a round of conversation, and I didn’t join in with any of it. “You look good, too.”
I examine the taller man, into those eyes I once lost myself in. He scratches at his slightly crooked nose. Probably punched there and broken it at some point in his life. I really wish he wasn’t a Claymore…
“Easy when you don’t say anything,” I whisper back, trying the food, nodding from the taste. “I don’t want to show us up.”
He gives me a wan smile, and it almost passes for genuine. I smile back. No. We don’t like each other. But we can at least deal with each other on a respectful level.
I turn away from him, shutting my eyes and remembering for a brief, tantalizing moment, the yearning I once had. His friendliness, and the pang of disappointment when we were both drunk, sloppy. I further sour my desire by remembering how my parents wanted me to have children. How I’ve heard Desmond’s father press him towards children.
Halfway through our main course, which seems to be some kind of meat (lamb?) in a chunky stew, a loud, obnoxious voice cuts over the babble of voices. “Never thought I’d see the day, a Claymore fucking a Hartson.”
Some of the other conversation quiets down, and I look up to see a ruby faced Tielman, clearly a few too many cups in his drinks, grinning lecherously at us.
“No true Claymore would,” comes the reply. Desmond’s brother, Rayse. “We’re mostly here to fix up my brother’s costly mistake.”
My eyes widen, and I see a new dynamic into the household. Desmond, the heir. Rayse, his jealous younger sibling. A note of discord.
“Is that what you think?” The Tielman guest smiles boisterously, while his wife tugs at his sleeve.
“It’s what we all think,” Rayse spits. “Bad enough we have to put up with this farce and act like we want one of them here. Worse that my brother sullied our name.”
“Rayse!” his father thunders, just as I stand up, hands on the table, glaring. I can barely contain the scratching, clawing anger.
“I’ll thank you not to talk about me or my husband like that. Desmond at least cares about his clan. He wouldn’t have married me if he didn’t.”
The brother’s eyes pop, probably from the audacity of being spoken to by a Hartson. God, I know how all these people see me, and it makes me want to squirm uncomfortably, knowing they want to squash me underfoot, that I’m little better than a talking dog in their world views. I hate it. I hate my family name being uttered as a curse. My fingers dig into the white cloth of the table.
“Now the Hartson whore is yapping at me,” Rayse says, which causes the room to go completely silent, and Desmond scrapes his chair to stand up. I glance at my husband, who is tight lipped in rage. His anger hits me like a furnace, even though his body is perfectly still and poised.
“Surely I didn’t just hear you insult my wife,” Desmond says. “Right in front of esteemed guests. Surely you wouldn’t risk everything we’ve built. Because by my honor, I will have to fight you.”
The brothers stare at one another, bristling like wolves, before Rayse wilts slightly. “I… misspoke. Please accept my apologies, brother.”
Yeah. Misspoke, my ass. But just like that, the tension in the room evaporates. I see their mother breathe out a small sigh of relief, and their father nod curtly. The abrasive Tielman, however, laughs like this is all a joke.
“Oh ho! So all is not so happy in your world, I see!”
I lock eyes with my husband. Go for it, he seems to say. As the only Hartson at the table in a sea of Claymores, it would be better for me to speak over my husband, who could place words into my mouth, ignoring my true feelings. The two Graves guests peer at us in great interest. As if sniffing for blood. Waiting to pounce. I use the sight of them as a reminder of why I’m here.
“It’s not easy,” I agree. “We have a lot of issues to get over. But my husband is a good man.” In that moment, I’m convinced he is.
Later, I know I’ll doubt. I’ll want to retract my words, because calling a Claymore a good man is tantamount to calling a mass murderer one. But right now, we share this burden together. The burden of our houses, and their lives.
Desmond gives a taut nod, and he reaches a tentative hand to touch my shoulder. A jolt of something goes through me, mixing with the nerves and adrenaline. Though the dinner progresses to safer territory, and Rayse merely sits in his puddle and scowls, Desmond takes the time after it to thank me before we go to sleep. I have my back turned to him as usual, when the words tumble out.