by Jo Beverley
The riddler led a round of applause. “And good for you, young sir! As your wise lord says, no one should always look to the obvious. And that is the riddle master’s art, to teach people to look beyond.” He bowed, then returned to his seat so that a minstrel could perform.
Wise lord. Claire had not thought of Renald de Lisle as wise. She glanced at him. “Had you heard it before, my lord, or are you just good at finding the less obvious ways?”
“Both.” He stood and held out a hand. “I think we can retire now.” De Lisle led her toward the back of the hall, to the stairs leading up to her chamber, pausing by the door to her father’s study.
“There are many books here. Do you wish to take any of them up to your room?”
The kindness startled her. “I thank you, my lord, but it’s too dark now for comfortable reading, and I am weary.”
He leaned against the wall, looking somewhat tired himself. “Brother Nils tells me there is some unbound writing of your father’s here. Stories and illustrations. Would you like me to have them bound for you?”
Claire had hoped not to have to tackle this problem quite so soon. “The work is mine,” she admitted. “My father wove magic with words, but he had little patience with fine writing, and no talent for illustration. We were working together on a collection of his stories and riddles.”
“I see.”
She tried to read his shadowed face. “Will you want me to stop?”
He straightened. “No. Of course not. Brother Nils showed me the illustrations. They are cleverly done. You must finish it.”
She was about to thank him with warm honesty, when he added, “We’ll have it bound, and a copy made as a gift for the king.”
“By no means! Henry Beauclerk does not deserve—”
He slammed her back against the wall, hand over her mouth. “Guard your tongue.”
She stared up, shaken, but when he took his hand away she hissed, “So, even you fear him!”
“Anyone of sense fears a king, and you have no reason to feel ungrateful.”
“Have I not?” Still pressed by his body, hard wood bruising her back, she snapped, “The king claimed to be my father’s friend, but he did nothing to save him. Nothing. And then he stole Summerbourne from my brother to give to you.”
“A traitor’s property is always lost.”
She pushed at his rocklike chest. “My father was not a traitor!”
He snared her struggling hands. “Claire, he joined an open rebellion.”
Pinned almost to immobility, she still met his eyes. “Then perhaps the rebellion was just.”
He looked down at her, and she knew she’d gone too far. She’d spoken treason.
Suddenly, abruptly, he stepped back. “Go to your room and cease such folly.”
Dismissed like a child, Claire fled, grateful to escape. But treason still ran fiercely through her. Her father had been right. Henry Beauclerk had killed his brother and thus should not be king.
How dare Renald de Lisle try to praise the king to her? How dare he suggest sending her father’s precious stories to the man who had caused his death? She’d rather burn every last sheet!
Instead of letting her wide-eyed maids prepare her for the night, she paced the chamber, scrubbing away tears.
What a weak fool she was.
How could she have begun to accept the usurper, forgetting that he was a king’s man? Her father had paid with his life to say that Henry Beauclerk had no right to the throne and here she was, turning limp as a plucked daisy over the usurper’s champion!
Of course women were not supposed to bother with such matters. They did not have to take oaths—except to their husband. But by doing so, they accepted their husband’s bonds.
Tomorrow, she was going to have to swear fidelity through de Lisle to Henry Beauclerk!
She stopped dead. What choice did she have?
She clutched her spinning head.
If she refused, her family would be cast out and her brother would in truth be a menial servant. But how could she speak her vows with honor?
She grabbed her cloak. “I’m going to pray by my father’s grave.”
She slipped down the stairs and out of the hall, constantly wary of another meeting with her enemy, her husband-to-be.
Her offering of blossoms was already limp, and new tears escaped as she brushed them away. So foolish to leave flowers without water. It was wanton killing, and did not plants deserve as much respect as animals? Men deserved respect, too. If they must die, their death should not be a waste.
By the uncertain moonlight, she dug up some small flowering plants and carefully reset them in the raw earth of the grave, watering them well then patting the soil gently back into place. “Was your death a waste, Father?” she murmured. “Henry Beauclerk is still on the throne, and Duke Robert has run back to Normandy. So, was it all for nothing?”
No answer came. She knew from history that not every rebellion succeeded, and that martyrs were sometimes stepping stones to a distant victory. Any struggle created losers as well as winners. Success or failure was not the crucial point. Honor was.
Doing the right thing.
“Am I doing the right thing, Father?” she whispered. “I’m marrying him to save the family, and to be able to care for Summerbourne. But he’s a king’s man and you thought Henry Beauclerk had no right to the throne.” She slumped cross-legged by the grave. “I don’t seem to have any choice. You wouldn’t want us all martyred in the cause, would you?”
As expected, the grave gave no answer.
Wind rustled through nearby leaves, and on the far side of the bailey someone shouted a message, but not an urgent one. A door slammed. A dog barked. The light breeze ruffled the few remaining petals on the mound, but the grave stayed silent.
She gathered up a few lingering dead blossoms, poor wilted violets, and breathed in the last of their perfume. “He implied that you’d met. I wonder where, and what you made of him.”
Leaning back, she looked up at the glowing half-moon, wondering where heaven was, where her father was.
A star caught her eye, a bright one that twinkled. She chose to imagine it was her father, dancing through the night sky, exploring the universe. He’d like that. He’d wondered what the moon was like, and often studied the stars and constellations, saying that there was a great deal more to them than lights in the sky.
Like balm to her wounds, she remembered that he’d believed death to be a liberation for good souls, that heaven was freedom to explore beyond the limits of the human state. So, he was free now, unlike her.
Put simply, she had no acceptable choice other than this marriage. She pushed to her feet and dusted herself off.
Walking back to the manor house, she thought of all the rebels who presumably had thought like her father, but who had sworn to Henry and slunk home, grateful to be alive and to still hold their property. How could it be wrong to do as they had done?
A large shadow moved.
She choked back most of her cry, instantly recognizing Renald de Lisle. “You frightened me!”
“Why did you leave the hall?”
At his tone anger drowned fear. “You can’t still think I’ll run from you!”
“I guard against it.”
“Guard. Guard.” He was little more than a big shadow in the dark. Perhaps that’s why she felt bold enough to challenge him. “I’d rather you trusted my word, my lord.”
“You haven’t given your word, my lady, except to promise last night that you would be here this morning.”
She realized that was true. It bothered her that he seemed so untrusting, but she could see that he must worry about her running off to St. Frideswide’s.
Would she do that if she could?
No. If he was pinned by duty to the king, she was similarly trapped by duty to her family. “You have my word,” she said. “I will be here to plight my troth to you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” He caught her hand and ra
ised it. Soft lips brushed her knuckles again, his warm breath teased her skin. She could come to like that kind of kissing.
“My lord …” She felt that in some way she should resist.
He turned her hand to kiss the very heart of her palm.
She tried to pull back then, but he held her captive and nuzzled her. She heard and felt him take a deep breath.
“Violets,” he murmured. “First spices, now flowers. You wield mighty weapons, my lady Claire.”
“I was just tending my father’s grave.”
His hand tightened on hers, but so little she really shouldn’t have been able to sense it. It must be the darkness that helped her detect such things—things like a slight tension in his hand, and a sudden stillness in his body.
“I know my father lies between us …”
“A very uncomfortable image, that.”
She dragged her hand out of his. “You are lewd! I mean that the way you have come here lies between us. My father’s recent death steals joy. Your allegiance to Henry Beauclerk distresses me. But I can forget and forgive all that. I will not, however, forget my father. I will tend his grave. I will love him all my days!”
The silence lasted a breath too long, and her nerves jangled. But she would not wilt anymore.
“Of course you will,” he said at last, sounding so unmoved it was almost an insult. “Perhaps one day you will feel a matching regard for me. I hope you’ve not forgotten your promise for tomorrow.”
He didn’t care. She must remember that. He played the suitor out of courtesy, but all he cared about was securing a bride according to the king’s orders. She should be grateful. She was grateful. She didn’t want stormy emotions swirling around her. With cool heads, everyone would be safe.
“I’ve not forgotten, my lord. When the first guests arrive, I will retreat to my room and be like a cloistered nun until the ceremony.”
“You sound aggrieved.”
She thought of explaining—that the work still had to be done so she’d have to rise earlier—but it didn’t seem worth the effort. “I’m sure it will be pleasant to have some time to myself. Good night, my lord.”
With that, Claire hurried on into the hall and went up to her room.
Renald de Lisle listened to her footsteps, to the closing of her door, then slowly raised his hands to his face seeking the memory of violets, the memory of Claire. In two short days, the bride delivered to him by fate had wrapped around him like a perfumed vine, stealing his senses, nearly stealing his reason. Her courage, her devotion to her family, even her occasional impulsive folly, were all like jewels in a crown on her absurd, charming, tempting froth of curls.
How long before the truth arrived, the truth of how her beloved father had died? Pray not until she was bound to him.
He was constantly aware, like a man reaching to grasp a naked blade, of excruciating pain soon to come. He’d avoid it, if he could. To shield Claire of Summerbourne from it, he would pay almost any price.
But not the price of losing her.
To keep her, he would grasp the blade, and force her to seize it too.
Chapter 11
By the time horns announced the arrival of the first guests, Claire was heartily glad of de Lisle’s custom. Rumpled, hot, and with a touch of the headache, she was pleased to head for her room. However, when she saw her grandmother in her chair by the window enjoying the sun, she went over. “It is turning out as you wished, Gran.”
Lady Agnes looked up. “Don’t scowl at me as if it’s my fault.”
“Whose fault is it, then?”
Lady Agnes’s mouth worked for a moment. “Clarence’s.”
Claire stepped back. “It was not! It was”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—”it was the king’s!”
“If it helps you to think that, do. Just don’t try to revenge yourself on him. And take care of your brother. He was here not long ago, whining.”
“He’s not whining. He has reason to be upset.”
“Being upset butters no beans. Just get on with it.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
Lady Agnes looked up. “Yes. You’re a strong one. Like me. I had a sister, you know. Dead of a fever long ago. She got upset. I married the man because it had to be done.”
“I wish Thomas would understand that.”
“I told him, and sharply. Perhaps it’ll help.”
Harness bells and voices in the bailey warned of the first guests. “Did you have any younger brothers?”
“Me? No.”
“What about Sigfrith?”
Lady Agnes stared. “Sigfrith in the stables? He was a cousin’s son, raised by my father.”
“Could you not have done more for him?”
“What? He refused to take the oath, so he couldn’t be a fighting man. He’s had a place here all these years.”
Claire’s headache bloomed. What would happen if Thomas refused to take the oath when he was older?
“Where are you off to now?” Lady Agnes asked. “Work all done?”
“I’m vowed to seclusion until the ceremony. Some custom of the Franks.”
“Not one I’ve heard of, but considerate. Off you go, then.”
Claire took two steps, but then turned back. “Was it like this? For you?” She realized that was the question she’d wanted to ask all along.
Her grandmother pulled her lips together, considering. “Rougher. Times were chancier, it being within days of Hastings. Your grandfather had the priest out and the deed done before we’d stopped crying over the news. No betrothal. No witnesses other than the hall people.”
“How awful.”
Lady Agnes shrugged. “I don’t remember much of it if the truth be told. I was mostly numb. But once it was done he was gentle with me. Wooed me. It came right in time. It could for you, too.”
Her grandmother’s eyes fixed on something behind Claire, and she turned. Claire’s future husband stood by the hall doors, and outside the first guests prepared to enter.
He didn’t speak, but everything about him reminded her of her promise. Fighting an urge to pull a rude face, Claire hurried off to the seclusion of her room.
Her maids had a tub of hot water ready, and Claire stripped off her working clothes with relief. “Put some rosemary and lavender in the water, Maria.”
“Headache?” the maid asked, opening the herb box and taking out some pouches.
“Just from the kitchen heat,” Claire lied.
In moments, she was in the warm and fragrant water, and the pain began to melt. Ah, she could get used to this. Normally, she’d bathe in the warm kitchens, but to keep her promise, she’d had the tub hauled up here. Herbed steam, and peace and quiet made a magical combination. As she washed off all traces of her work, she caught a hint of cinnamon, and remembered what Lord Renald had said about spices and violets.
It was not her way to do things grudgingly, or half-heartedly. If she was going to pledge herself to Renald de Lisle, she should do her best to make it work. After all, as she’d reasoned before, none of this was really his fault. The king had killed his brother and seized the throne, leading to the rebellion. That rebellion had killed her father and led to his land being given to another. And, as she’d told Thomas, if a new lord had to be forced upon them, it could have been someone much worse than Renald de Lisle.
So, she was going to accept him without bitterness, and try to make the marriage work. As a symbol of that, she sent Maria for her spice chest, and Prissy to gather some wild violets.
While she waited for their return, Claire stirred the cooling water with her toes, trying to think positively about Renald de Lisle.
So, he’d been a mercenary and tourney fighter. Her life had been so easy, what right did she have to look down on someone who had struggled through thorns to get to where he was? And doubtless he had just been teasing, and had confessed the many men he had killed.
She remembered him speaking of property, wife, and children, and their value t
o a man such as he. He’d sounded sincere, as if he truly would value and cherish his property and his family. That was good. Very good.
She was startled by a vision then, a vision of Lord Renald, big and dark, with a tiny, blond-haired infant secure in his strong arms. It was nonsense—men didn’t usually pay much attention to babies—but it seemed so real that she couldn’t entirely resist it. In fact, it grew. Soon he was laughing in the midst of a swarm of happy, healthy children, older ones on his arms, younger around his legs, and an infant on his broad shoulders …
With a dry laugh, Claire shook it away and sat up to scrub away such nonsense. She’d set herself up for heartbreak if she started to imagine her wolf as a lapdog. She must be strictly practical. Even if he did seem able to turn her weak with a touch …
When the door opened and her mother entered, Claire was glad of distraction. Her mother sat on a stool beside the bath, carefully arranging her rich skirts out of danger of splashing. “This is a special day, Claire.”
“I suppose so.”
“He will make you a good husband.”
Claire suppressed a grimace. It might be true, but her mother had no grounds for her statement.
“Lord Renald is a good man who means well by you,” her mother persisted.
Claire glanced up, surprised. “He’s spoken to you?”
“But of course.”
“I mean, about me.”
“Of course he has, Claire. Would he take a woman to wife without a word to her mother?”
“Since it is the king’s command …”
“Even so, there are courtesies. I see him as a man who observes the courtesies.”
Claire considered that. “Yes, I suppose he is.” Courtesies like soothing a nervous young woman in the garden.
She swished the herb bag around in the water, causing the perfume to waft up more strongly. She tried to resist, but in the end she asked, “So. What did he say? About me.”
Lady Murielle laughed in relief, which gave Claire ease.
“He told me that he found you beautiful and sweet-natured, and was pleased that in the end you were chosen to be his bride. I did try to tell him that you can be difficult when angered, but he seemed unable to imagine it.”