Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  It was true. Life went on.

  “Fine healthy animals.”

  She swiveled and found that the squire had been replaced by his dark master.

  Her smile died. “Why shouldn’t they be?”

  He leaned against one of the fence posts, making it look like a stick of kindling. “I don’t know a great deal about husbandry, Lady Clarie, but I suppose healthy stock doesn’t come by accident.”

  It was the first time they’d been so close, and she found herself staring at his chest, estimating the amount of cloth needed to cover it. She made herself look up and meet his eyes instead. “What do you know a lot about?”

  He did have true dark eyes, a deep dark brown, and large enough to be pleasing. But they looked bloodshot and weary. She realized he must have traveled long and hard, perhaps through the night, and wondered why. Even bearing her father’s body, a halt for sleep, particularly in a storm, wouldn’t have been unreasonable. Haste to see his property, she supposed.

  And his bride.

  “What do I know?” he echoed. “Weapons, defenses, armor, fighting.”

  “Killing matters?”

  “Yes. I’m very efficient at killing.”

  “Efficient!”

  “If it comes your time, my lady, would you rather be killed clumsily?”

  Claire clutched onto a rail. Was he threatening to kill her?

  He straightened. “I beg pardon, I did not mean to frighten you. It is mere truth. If a person faces death by a sword, he hopes to face a tidy killer. If death by an ax, he hopes the ax bites true. If death by sickness, he hopes it strikes swiftly.”

  She stared, wondering if he had any human feelings at all. Then the horn blared for the meal and she seized the chance to escape. She turned too fast, however, and slipped in the mud. A strong hand caught her arm, steadying her. The next she knew, she was being carried in his arms.

  “Put me down!” She felt helpless as a tiny child, and heaven knows she was not tiny. But her panic came from a startling jolt at being touched by him.

  He stopped. “In the mud?”

  “Yes!”

  His face was so close she could see dark stubble, and that his lashes were long and thick.

  “Lady Claire,” he said, “no one of sense would choose to wade through this mire. If you could carry me. I’d gladly let you.”

  A giggle tempted her and she hastily looked away, surprised and unbalanced to discover that he wasn’t many years older than herself, and that he could make a joke.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been a joke.

  Navigating the muddy logs wasn’t easy, even for him, but it was clear her weight was as nothing. She wasn’t used to feeling so helpless.

  Felice.

  Definitely.

  It must be Felice.

  All the same, she couldn’t deny the effect of his body against hers. She could feel that her cheeks were flushed, and could almost count her own rapid heartbeats. And it wasn’t fear. It was, she knew, a woman’s primitive reaction to a man.

  She recognized danger.

  Women did foolish things under that spell.

  Once on solid ground, he eased her gracefully to her feet, but it seemed to involve a moment in his arms, a moment held close against his alarming body, looking into his rather handsome face. He touched the ends of her hair. “It seems a shame.”

  She fought against weakness, against this perilous attraction, and used the crudest weapon. “My father’s death is a shame.”

  “True.” But it was as if he wore armor against such things.

  Fingers moved in her hair, setting up a tingle on her wanton scalp. She pushed back against his arm—slightly, but enough to tell her that her whole strength wouldn’t break her free. Against her will, she began to tremble.

  Abruptly, he let her go. “Your father’s death was definitely a shame, Lady Claire. He was a good and gentle man.” With that, he went to his place at the head table.

  She wished she could take some insignificant seat, far away from him, from his disturbing body, but she had to go to the head table and sit at his right hand.

  Chapter 6

  One of the household began to play music, and the squire brought water and bowl for hand washing. Ale came around and Lord Renald served Claire and her grandmother before taking any for himself. Claire noted his excellent manners with relief. She didn’t need to feel guilty about foisting him off on her aunt. She really didn’t.

  So, how soon could she make her escape from Summerbourne …?

  “Lady Claire,” he said, “do not seek to thwart the king’s plans.”

  She stared at him. Could he read minds? “I’m still considering—”

  “It is settled. When shall we be wed?”

  Claire looked around, as if help might suddenly appear. Heavenly angels, perhaps? “My lord, my aunts must have the chance to meet you!”

  “We have met.”

  She laughed shakily. “In the rain. At a difficult time. They should—”

  “You are my bride, Lady Claire.”

  Lady Agnes was the only one close enough to be following the conversation, and if anything, she was grinning.

  Claire tried a smile. “That was not quite what we had in mind, my lord.”

  “It was the arrangement made.”

  Perhaps there were angels around. The first platters interrupted. She served him soup, then took some herself, and concentrated on eating, hoping that would be the end of it.

  As her nerves settled, she observed him out of the corner of her eye, counting up virtues to list to Felice.

  He was the king’s champion—that must mean he was high in Henry’s favor.

  He was quite handsome, if a lady liked a square face and big bones.

  He spooned his soup neatly, without spilling any down himself.

  Her perilous time in his arms had told her he didn’t stink. Something of an aroma of horse and leather, but nothing foul.

  He caught her looking at him, and his brows went up.

  She spoke quickly before he started talking about weddings again. “Where do you come from, Lord Renald?”

  Perhaps there was a hint of amusement in the tired eyes. “France, my lady. An area called Sauveterre.”

  “The savage land?” To Claire, it seemed all too suitable.

  “It is harsh and craggy.”

  Like him. But not craggy. No …

  “Do you miss the place?” she asked hastily, realizing she’d been studying him. This time his lips twitched with definite humor, but she shivered to think that he found her amusing.

  “Perhaps we all miss our childhood homes a little. But England is my home now, and has been good to me.”

  A mouthful of bread threatened to stick in Claire’s throat. Indeed it had. England had provided a rich and comfortable estate. She was grateful when he refilled her cup, and gulped down the ale.

  A glance showed de Lisle watching her, one brow raised.

  “When did you come to England?” she asked quickly.

  “We visited now and then, but only settled here after Henry’s coronation.”

  “We?”

  He smiled more fully then, and she lost the suffocating sense of being a predator’s plaything. “I speak of my friend FitzRoger and myself. We have been confreres for many years.”

  Confreres. Like brothers.

  Brothers in arms.

  The panic returned.

  She’d heard of the man called FitzRoger—all England had. Bastard FitzRoger, he was usually called, from his irregular birth, and probably from his nature. He was apparently undefeated in the barbaric tourneys they held abroad, and had been appointed King Henry’s High Champion. He was doubtless a man like Baldwin of Biggin.

  “My friend married not long ago,” he continued, breaking the end off a loaf and sharing it with her. “A lady of lands north of here, a place called Carrisford. Perhaps you have heard of it.”

  “I’ve visited there,” she said in surprise. “It is a mig
hty stone castle and contains many works of art. Lord Bernard, like my father, is a scholar and appreciates beautiful things.”

  “Alas, lady, Lord Bernard is dead.”

  Her memory coincided with his words. “Ah, yes. We heard. A sad event.”

  But then another mouthful threatened to choke her. The news had come that Lord Bernard had died of wound fever after a quite minor hunting injury. They had all been saddened, for he’d been a good man. No one had suspected foul play.

  Now Claire wondered. A great man dead and his daughter, poor gentle Imogen, given to another of the king’s favorites. Had she, too, been told to marry immediately, forced to the altar to wed a man even bigger and more brutal than this one?

  She pushed aside her bowl.

  “The pottage does not agree with you, Lady Claire?”

  “I have little appetite today.”

  She thought he’d press her to eat, but he didn’t. He didn’t press her to talk, either, but turned to converse with her grandmother. Claire turned to his clerk, who sat at her other side.

  “Have you served Lord Renald long, Brother?”

  He had an amiable, undistinguished face and mousy hair, but his eyes were keen and intelligent. “Not long at all, lady.”

  Now she couldn’t think what to say next, especially as her mind was buzzing with thoughts about Carrisford. “What do you think of Summerbourne?” she tried.

  “A very pleasant spot, and prosperous, it would seem.” He smiled at her. “I come from the north, lady, which is a harsher land.”

  They managed a desultory conversation until the meal was over. Then she could escape up to her room to worry about Lord Bernard of Carrisford’s convenient death.

  First Lord Bernard. Now her father. Two estates tossed into the hands of the king’s favorites.

  Was there more to her father’s death than an accident of battle? She hated to even think it, but had her father been murdered?

  Her father had believed that God defended the just, but did God protect against murder? Too many examples said no. Simply riding the roads it was possible to be attacked by unruly soldiers or outlaws. One of her uncles had died that way, and he’d surely been a better man than his murderer.

  No, God did not tamper with ordinary life, keeping everything fair. Crops failed and people starved. Fires burned down houses. A few days ago, the cooper’s sweet, young daughter had drowned.

  But if it was murder, what should they do? What could they do?

  Claire slipped downstairs to her mother’s room—her new room, the small chamber next to the solar, used in the past for babies.

  “Imogen is married to this FitzRoger?” said her mother, who was already in her loose night robe. “Well, for all we know he’s an honorable man.”

  “Bastard FitzRoger? Mother, Lord Bernard’s death was so unexpected! And now Father—”

  “Clarence’s death was not at all unexpected, Claire. What nonsense are you following, now?”

  Claire twisted her hands together, wondering if this all was driving her mad. “Do you know exactly how Father died?”

  Her mother put her hand to her throat. “How can you ask—”

  “I need to know! Whether it was … righteous.”

  Her mother sighed deeply. “It was a sword wound to the heart, Claire. From the front. With him in mail. It could only have come about in battle. Now please, cease all this wild thinking!”

  “What battle? Perhaps we should ask where and when—”

  Lady Murielle flung up her hands. “Claire, I don’t want to know where and when! What will it change?”

  Claire looked around as if someone might have sneaked into the room to overhear. Then she whispered, “What if the king somehow arranged Father’s death …”

  Her shoulders were seized in a desperate grip. “Claire, Claire! Are you chasing treason too? It doesn’t matter if Henry Beauclerk killed your father with his own hands! Clarence supported a treasonous invasion. The invasion failed and all was lost. The only thing now is for you to marry Lord Renald.”

  “But—”

  “Claire, think! Think of your brother’s plight. Do you want to see him a beggar?”

  Claire bit her unsteady lips. She loved her brother, but she wished her mother would consider her own feelings. “It’s my life, Mother. My whole life.”

  Lady Murielle gentled her grip and patted Claire’s cheek. “You should have been married years ago, dearest, and here’s a fine, handsome young man for you. I know it’s hard, coming so fast after your father’s death, but in all other respects he is an excellent match. I’m sure he will make you a good husband.”

  Claire stared at her mother. “He’s made of granite and has a soul of lead. He talks about death as you and I would talk of needlework.”

  Her mother’s smile became rather fixed, but still she smiled. “You are fanciful. This day has been no easier for him than for us. Give him time to show you his gentler side.”

  What gentler side? Claire asked, but silently. There was no point. Her mother would see virtues in Satan if he offered security to her vulnerable son.

  She returned to her room, swallowing tears that came of abandonment, holding on to the thought that darkness was falling and she soon would be able to escape. To get to Felice and persuade her to marry Renald de Lisle.

  She called for Prissy and Maria and let them prepare her for bed. Naked, she slipped between the sheets as her women settled on the pallets on the floor. Now she had only to wait for them, for all of Summerbourne, to be deep asleep.

  It took a while to get used to being alone in the big bed. When she thought of how her world has changed in one day, tears started, turning into a private, healing flood of them. She drifted into sleep and awoke later with a start in the dark.

  In the distance, the convent bell was ringing matins. Midnight. It was time and past time! She slipped out of bed and into her clothes, then eased up the chest lid and took out her rope. Trying to be silent, she tied it firmly to the hook by the window.

  Looking out at the dark night, her heart raced. Midnight was the dark hour—the time of monsters and dark magic, when evil lurked. She’d never been out of Summerbourne in the night. But then she realized that the manor was no longer safe, even if she huddled by the hearth fire. Midnight had invaded in the form of the new lord.

  Everyone but the guards was asleep. By the light of the half-moon, she watched two of them walking the palisade. They’d be Summerbourne men, but still might call the alarm. She waited until they were as far away as possible, then eased over the sill and quickly down the rope.

  The ground was a little firmer, so it wasn’t too hard to pick her way toward the postern gate. She was glad that she knew the place, however, for the moonlight did little to ease the shadows and played tricks on the eyes. She kept imagining de Lisle in his long dark cloak, lurking in dark corners.

  She crossed herself. Sweet Virgin protect me from the evils of the night.

  The postern lay behind the stables on the opposite side of Summerbourne from the main gate. It was a waist-high hatch, firmly barred on the inside, but providing an emergency escape. She supposed it could be used in attack, too, but not easily since a person had to go through it on hands and knees.

  She eased up the bar, opened the door, and crawled through.

  After carefully closing it again, she slithered down the muddy side of the ditch, praying that no guard glanced her way. She didn’t expect them to be alert. Armed men were camped outside as extra defense, and if the enemy wanted to get in, they had only to knock.

  The smell hit her, and she realized—too late—that the rain would have filled the ditch with foul drainage. She sank in it up to her knees and had to choke back a cry of disgust. Holding her breath and her nose, she waded through. By the time she scrambled up the other slippery bank, the stench was part of her.

  She collapsed on the grass, realizing then that she hadn’t thought how she was going to approach an armed camp and get into one
of the tents.

  Impulsive yet again. Tears stung her eyes, and she wasn’t sure if it was misery or just the fumes rising off her.

  Resolutely, she pulled herself together. It was her life at issue here. She was out. That was an achievement. Now she had to make her way around to the front of the manor enclave to where her aunts were held. As she pushed to her feet she decided that the most likely thing his men would do with her would be to put her in with her aunts and send for their master.

  There, see. It would be easy. By the time he arrived, Felice would be a blushing, eager bride.

  She soon found that it wouldn’t be easy.

  For a start, she couldn’t just walk. Her father might not have been warlike, but he’d kept Summerbourne secure. No one could sneak up on the manor because the ground all around was kept clear by the sheep that grazed there.

  She tried scuttling along bent double, but that only gave her a great deal more sympathy for her grandmother. She settled in the end to crawling over the muddy grass, her skirts dreadfully in the way. She prayed that if the guards saw her, they’d think she was a sheep.

  She bit her lip. She’d thought that they were all sheep to de Lisle’s wolf. She’d thought that midnight was his hour. Now she prayed she was entirely wrong and that Summerbourne’s wolf was fast asleep.

  She reached the corner of the palisade with only a few encounters with sheep droppings to add to her disastrous state. Just this side to go along and she’d be almost there. Then she heard voices behind her. Someone had found the unbarred postern!

  She rose to run, but then realized that would give her away entirely. Already the guards on the palisade were answering faint questions. She went flat on the soggy ground and lay still. Perhaps they didn’t know she’d escaped and would think the gate had been left unbarred.

  Then she realized that she’d left the rope hanging down the wall.

  Fool!

  Impulsive, silly fool.

  Silence fell, as if the world held its breath.

  What was happening? Had they given up and gone back to bed?

  Dare she move yet?

  She heard a rustling nearby. Her imagination.