by Jo Beverley
He talked about books anyway, which was pleasant enough.
“I see your mind is not on scholarly matters today, Claire.”
Claire blushed, realizing that she’d been paying more attention to Renald, who was demonstrating something with a borrowed sword. “I’m sorry—”
“No. I’m sorry for going on about such dry stuff when you have other matters on your mind. He seems a good man of his sort. I’m glad to see some happiness coming out of this sad business.”
“By the way,” he added, “I found some people who saw Ulric at the feast, but he kept to himself.”
Claire frowned over that. “How strange. You’d think he’d at least let us know he was home.” And then she could have spoken with him. Heard of her father’s last days.
“It doubtless didn’t seem the right moment. After all, he couldn’t have expected his death.”
“How true.” It reminded her that no one knows the hour of their death, and therefore they should take joy in the moment. She was about to go to Renald to take joy in her own lovely moment, when a man-at-arms hurried over to kneel before Eudo. “Beg pardon, my lord sheriff, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes? Know what?”
“We found Ulric’s pack, my lord. In a corner of the hall by the stairs. Or at least, we think that’s what it is.” He held out a battered leather bag.
“Indeed it is,” Claire said, reaching for it, a teary smile starting just to see something connected with her father. “He carried my father’s personal possessions in—”
Eudo grasped it before she could.
“Eudo! It should go to my mother.”
The sheriff hefted it as if judging its weight. “I must look inside first, Claire, to see if it casts light upon his death.”
“How—”
But he’d already hunkered down to tip out some undergarments, a spare pair of shoes, some small coins, and a book. Her father always carried a book.
No, not a book!
Claire bent to seize it.
Her hand and Eudo’s met on the boards that bound the loose sheets of parchment. “It is my father’s journal,” she explained, heart racing. “It can have nothing to do with Ulric. He couldn’t read.” She curled her fingers over the edge and looked him in the eye. “It is precious to me and my family.”
His eyes shifted, though his hand lingered almost as if he would fight her for it. “His daily record, telling of every little thing? I remember it. I really should—”
“No.” With amazement. Claire heard herself use Renald’s absolute tone.
And Eudo let go.
Claire rose, clutching the journal to her chest. “It is very special. You must see that. His last words and thoughts.”
And presumably, she suddenly realized, the true explanation of how he came to die. At last she would know, and in her father’s own words.
Eudo was staring at it as if he valued it as much as she, as if he might fight to get it back. “You’re foolish. It might contain something of importance.”
“Only—”
“I insist—”
“No!” She stood and stepped back, out of reach. “The first person to hear these words must be my mother!”
She fled before he could protest further. What did he think she would do? Destroy it?
She found her mother in the Summerbourne garden with two friends. Claire went straight to her and put the journal in her hand. “It’s Father’s. Ulric had it.”
“His record of his journey?” Her mother traced the plain wooden boards which were tied around the pieces of parchment. “What good can it have to say?”
Claire hadn’t expected that reaction. “You know Father. He’d make a good story of it.”
“Of defeat and death?”
Claire snatched the book back. “I’m sorry—”
“No.” Lady Murielle found a smile. “Why don’t you read us a little from the beginning.”
Her mother was right. The book could only sadden them, and she didn’t want that today. But she untied the boards, and uncovered the first loose sheet. She ached and smiled to see her father’s blotchy scribble again. He had always been too impatient about putting down his thoughts to make neat letters. It had been Claire’s pleasure to transcribe his words into neat script.
“If it’s too hard for you, Claire, don’t bother,” said her mother. “After all, it is your wedding day.”
Claire swallowed, shook her head, and began to interpret the familiar squiggles, though it wasn’t easy in the fading light. “The grace of … of summer touched our hero’s simple home, bringing—oh—joy to his heart…” She paused. “This seems more a story than a journal.”
“A new story,” her mother said, lightening. “That is indeed something to treasure. Go on.”
“… bringing joy to his heart, but sorrow too, for he knew his—something—venture would take him far away, so far that he might never find … the pick? No, path, back to those he loved, to those who loved him more than he deserved. But resolute, and making a final prayer, the Brave Child Sebastian—Oh”
“Oh,” echoed her mother. “Another telling of that one. Well, it’s a fine story, but we all know it pretty well by heart.”
Claire fought a wave of poignant loss, loss of that record of her father’s last days in his own words. Now, with Ulric gone as well, she would never really know. Unable to trust her voice, she closed the boards and tied the strings. “We can enjoy it another time, Mother. I’ll put it with the other books.”
“Yes, dear. Do that. And get back to enjoying your bridal day!”
Biting her lip against tears, Claire hurried away—and collided with a solid chest.
“What?” she snapped at Renald. “What now? Why are you always following me?”
“How can I resist, my love?” He steered her away from the interested audience, arm firm around her, then halted. “What has upset you, Claire?”
“Nothing.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then nothing of importance.”
She tried to push away, but he held her close. “It’s important to you, and therefore to me. The book?”
“In a way.”
He separated them a little and looked at the bound parchment. “What is it?”
After a moment, she sighed. “It’s Father’s. Ulric had it. I thought it was his journal, the record he kept of everyday events. But it’s just a retelling of one of his stories.”
“Isn’t that of value?”
“I suppose so. It’s the only time he tried to write one down.” She fiddled with the leather thongs that bound the boards. “We know them all by heart, though, and can pass them on ourselves. I would much rather have had his experiences, his thoughts, on his last journey.”
He drew her back into his arms. “I understand.”
And Claire found there was comfort in a big, warm body when a person was feeling lost and sad. What a treasure to have such a refuge whenever life dealt a blow.
Then he lowered his head and captured her lips for a kiss that spoke not of passion, but of caring and comfort. Of healing. It turned however, as it must, into something spicier.
When he broke the kiss and looked down at her, his eyes were deep and dark. “My wife.”
“Yes. Please.”
He laughed almost shakily. “Soon. It has to be nearly time for the women to lead you to the bed. Then the men will bring me to you.” His lips twitched. “Someone once seems to have thought the couple might lose their way.”
He took her hand, and she willingly twined her fingers with his. “I think it goes back to Roman times.”
Connected by more than hands, they wandered back toward the hall. “Couples lost their way back then?”
“No, but the husband would pretend to capture the wife, to carry her back to his home. Her menfolk would try to protect her, while his fought them off.”
He glanced down at her. “Perhaps it wasn’t always pretense. Brides are still s
eized by violence today.”
“Heiresses.” She realized there was one lingering thorn, a tiny one, but still pricking at her happiness. “Was that how your friend FitzRoger captured Imogen of Carrisford?”
His brows rose. “Not at all. She went to him for aid.”
“But did she want to marry him?”
“She went willingly to the church door.”
It was evasive, but she was sure it was true as far as it went. Probably Imogen had been pressured much as she had.
“I heard that he beat her, and kept her prisoner. With you as guard.”
“Did you hear that she knocked him unconscious?”
“Imogen?“ Claire stopped to stare. She remembered the girl as pretty, charming, and with no thought more serious than the cut of her gown.
“Imogen. The gentle Flower of the West. It’s treason, you know, to attack a husband, especially one who’s liege-bound to the king.”
Claire crossed herself. “What has become of her?”
“It’s too complex a story to get into now. But trust me on this—Imogen is safe in Carrisford, and not unhappy with her fate. I hope soon to take you to visit there. You can ask her yourself.”
She studied him and decided he was being completely honest. “But Lord FitzRoger is a fearsome warrior.”
“As am I. Are you unhappy with your fate?”
And she had to say, “No.”
He raised her chin. “We both had to fight to survive, Claire, to climb from the depths into which fate plunged us. We have both done things we regret. Perhaps one day our souls will be called to pay. But neither of us has ever killed pointlessly, nor hurt anyone merely for amusement.”
“For amusement?”
He touched her cheek. “Ah, Claire. You live a blessed life here, but there are wolves outside the door.”
“And in.” The words slipped through her lips before she could stop them.
He didn’t take offense. In fact, he might have smiled. “But I’m a tame wolf, conquered by a maiden fair.”
“Oh no,” she said, blushing at the look in his eyes. “Whatever you are, my lord, you are not tame.”
“True. What use is a wolf—even a wolf tamed to the hearth—without fangs?”
“It would be a safer wolf.”
But then he snared her, looking down into her eyes. “Do you want that kind of safety, wife?”
After a moment, challenged for the truth, Claire whispered, “No.”
He kissed her again—a searing promise of dangerous flames to come. Releasing her lips, he pushed her into the cacophonous hall. “Go. Find someone to drag us to our bed.”
Chapter 15
Claire staggered in on trembling legs. A glance behind showed the sun had almost set, touching the world with gold, scarlet, and black that mirrored the startling heat swirling inside her.
Oh yes. The dangerous bed …
She was holding something. When she looked down she saw her father’s book. She’d promised to put it with the other books, but she couldn’t go into the solar now—into their wedding chamber—without breaking custom. She had to wait to be led there. She was supposed to look reluctant, not keen.
She saw Thomas and grasped a chance to cool herself down. She went to show him the book. He was no more enthusiastic than her mother had been, though for different reasons. He just didn’t like books. In fact, he was keen to get back to his friends who were all playing a game with pebbles.
She held him back. “Are you less angry at me now?”
He looked down and grimaced. “I see that it isn’t your fault. And he can’t help the way things happened.”
Claire said a grateful prayer. “And I will never stop loving you, Thomas.”
He squirmed a bit at that, but then looked up, eyes anxious. “I don’t want to leave here, Claire.”
She sighed at that, but could only be honest. “I wish I could promise that you’ll never have to, love, but that’s not true. I’ll do my best for you. That’s all I can say.”
“Josce says it’s best to go. That I’ll like the king’s household.”
Claire sent a blessing to the squire. “Was Josce in the king’s household?”
A lad cried, “Thomas, it’s your turn! Come on!”
Her brother stepped away. “Yes. Josce is all right.” With that high praise, he ran back to his game.
Claire turned away, smiling. “All right” meant that Josce had been elevated to a level only slightly below God. Her brother was moving forward. He wasn’t happy yet, and the changes must still hurt—probably always would a little—but he was healing.
So. It was time.
Margret would be the one to drag her to her bed. Claire looked around the crowded hall, seeking her friend. Then she realized that Margret might be trying to find her, and returned to her seat at the high table, where she’d be expected to be. She saw Renald across the hall, and he raised his brows as if asking why the delay.
She sipped some wine to steady herself. Come on, Margret!
Then, as she scanned the hall, the sheriff swooped the book from in front of her, stepping out of reach before she could snatch it back.
“Eudo!”
He was untying it with urgent fingers. “Your lady mother has clearly done with it for now.”
“There’s nothing in there.”
He paused. “The pages are blank?”
“No. But it is not Father’s journal. It appears that this time he didn’t keep one. Instead he wrote down one of his stories. The Brave Child Sebastian.”
He continued with the business of opening the boards then looked at the first sheet, frowning. “This is an atrocious script.”
“Father never took time to write neatly.”
He moved closer to a window, grimacing as he tried to make it out. Then he flipped to the end. Claire wanted to protest at that. She didn’t want him reading parts she hadn’t read, but it was already done.
Clearly he found nothing startling. He tidied the sheets and bound up the book. “As you say, Claire. Nothing. But it will be something to treasure.”
She took it and retied the strings just to establish that it was hers, hers and her family’s. “I will transcribe it into a fair script. Perhaps you would like to read it then.”
“But of course. Clarence was a dear friend.”
As he walked away, however, Claire had the impression that he was suddenly carefree. She contemplated the book, wondering what Eudo had thought it might contain.
He had read the last page. She didn’t think that had any significance, but she opened the book again. The writing was quite neat here, as if her father had had time and a flat surface.
And so the Brave Child stood over the corpse of his mighty foe, triumphant by the power of the Lord God. But tears trickled from the hero’s eyes. Tears of sorrow that he had been forced to kill, and to kill such a man.
She read the words again. The story had never ended like that before. Sebastian had never wept over the dead tyrant—
The book was snatched again. “Oh no you don’t,” said Margret. “Brides don’t get lost in books on their wedding night. And they aren’t supposed to frown, either.”
“Margret! Be careful with that.”
With a grin, her friend gave it back. “What is it, anyway?”
Claire explained, admitting to her disappointment that it was a story, not a record of the rebellion.
“Well you know,” said Margret, picking up a lingering sweetmeat and nibbling it, “your father had never fought before, or not since he was a young man. When Alaine has to put on armor, he can get in an odd mood. Sometimes he comes home jubilant—it’s strange what men like. But sometimes there’s a look in his eye … Perhaps your father saw a different side to heroes.”
Claire stared at her friend, surprised by the insight. “That would explain why he wanted to write a new version. To weave in what he’d learned of fighting.” She traced the cover of the book. “It makes this even more precious,
to see how Father was changed by his experiences.” She began to untie the strings.
Margret grabbed it again. “Oh no you don’t! Not tonight.”
Claire tried to get it back and in the laughing tussle, some pages fluttered to the floor. They were scooped up by the Earl of Salisbury.
“Fair ladies fighting over a book,” he said as he returned them to Claire. “It must be a very interesting tome.”
She tidied it, making sure to put the errant pages in the right place. “It is a special one, my lord. My father’s last writings.”
“His journal?”
She glanced up at him. “You know of that?”
“As we gathered to support Duke Robert, I saw him write in it every day. It must contain interesting comments on that sorry affair.”
Did he, too, look worried? Would he also want to snatch it away?
Claire firmly retied the strings. “Interesting, yes, my lord. But not a journal. For some reason he decided to write down his favorite story, that of the Brave Child Sebastian.”
“Ah, I remember him spinning it one night. A rather foolish tale.” He frowned at the book. “Where did it come from?”
“It was in Ulric’s pack. It held nothing else of interest.”
“And the book cannot shed light on Ulric’s murder. That’s a strange puzzle, and one that will probably never be solved. Sheriff Eudo also lost a manservant not many months back with the killers never found.”
“It can’t be that uncommon, my lord.”
“Uncommon enough. Most murders are obvious crimes, rising out of moments of hasty anger or fear. But in the sheriff’s case, he was set upon by brigands who escaped back into the wild lands. A lesson to him not to ride out without proper escort.”
She couldn’t imagine why he was talking of such matters, but didn’t much care. Darkness had settled, and Margret had slipped away to gather the other young matrons. Her fate loomed deliciously close.
Claire looked across the hall to see her husband down on his haunches with the boys, rolling a knucklebone. Thomas was laughing.