Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  She whirled to follow it and Renald saw what she saw—stained sheets, the blood of crushed roses, and the black-scabbarded blade. The room reeked of sex and roses, with a mismatched underlay of herbs and spices.

  He wasn’t surprised when she bent to vomit.

  He stood frozen. For once in his life, he had no idea how to handle a woman, especially this woman, the one he wanted to guard against all harshness forever. He’d always known he was forcing her to grasp a vicious blade and now the wound was clear.

  His own blood ran.

  There was nothing else he could have done. Just as there’d been nothing he could have done to save her father.

  You could have told her the truth.

  You could have let her escape.

  It was, God help them both, too late for that.

  Chapter 16

  The retching stopped and Claire wiped her face on a clean corner of the sheet. The earl’s words had started this. Think about your father, and mail, and swords, before you revel in the marriage bed. The earl hadn’t wanted her to marry Renald, hadn’t wanted her happy about it, because he’d known what a sin it was.

  She had married her father’s killer! Not just a man who had killed him in the heat of battle, but one who had used a cheating weapon. A murderer.

  Why, in God’s name, hadn’t the earl spoken directly? Why hadn’t he stopped her before this?

  A sound made her twitch around to face her husband—her enemy—but he was simply pulling on his braies.

  “I will have the marriage annulled,” she said.

  “No.”

  “You can’t stop me!”

  He was cold granite again. “Of course I can.”

  “You will rape me?” Despite the quiver inside she raised her chin. “Why did I think otherwise? Everything else you’ve said to me has been a lie.”

  “Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth. Just not the whole truth. I will never rape you.”

  She scrambled for her shift and pulled it on, pulled her kirtle over it, and her tunic. She wished she had a thick cloak to gather around herself for protection. “Then I will free myself of this marriage.”

  “And fling your family into poverty?”

  She turned. “You would do that?”

  “Why not if you will not give me what I want?”

  “How can you want a wife who hates you?”

  “Only believe that I do.”

  “A wife whose body you can never take without rape.”

  His features were set like stone but his eyes betrayed him.

  She remembered him earlier, laughing.

  She remembered, with a bitter sense of loss, the tender way he had guided her into her womanly pleasure, the burning spiraling wonder of it all.

  The tragedy here, she feared, was that he did indeed want her, and even more than want.

  She closed her eyes briefly before speaking. “Renald, I know it must have been in battle. I don’t really blame you. You can’t have set out to kill him. But you must see I cannot—”

  “It was not in battle, Claire. Or not as you mean it. And I did set out to kill him. It was a court battle. One on one.”

  She stared. “A court battle?”

  “Where a man proves his cause—”

  “I know what a court battle is! How could my father have ended up in something like that?”

  “By challenging the king’s right to the throne.”

  Claire shook her head as if she could throw off the macabre picture. “And you were the king’s champion. You and he. What kind of contest was that?”

  “None at all.”

  She put her hands to her head, trying desperately to make sense of a shattered world. “And that sword! It wasn’t enough that you’re younger, bigger, stronger. That you’ve trained and trained from the day you were weaned. You had a sword that could cut through mail. You set out to kill him!”

  She waited for denial. For excuses.

  But he said, “Yes. He had to die.”

  She backed away until a wall stopped her, and covered her face with her hands. Sweet Mary mild, why had this been put before her? When she’d accused him of murder, it had been a wild word. She’d been sure it had been a true battle death, not really anyone’s fault.

  But it had been murder. Her father had been forced into a one-on-one fight with an opponent he could never defeat.

  When she looked at Renald again, he was pulling on his tunic. It was over his head.

  She ran for the door. She was through it and around the screen before he caught her in an iron-hard embrace.

  The celebrating crowd fell slowly silent.

  And in those moments, he whispered, “Don’t say a word, or your family will suffer.”

  Still, the accusation swelled inside her. This man cold-bloodedly killed my father, and by treachery even. I renounce him. But his threat, reinforced by his iron hold, held her silent for the crucial moments.

  “My friends”—he spoke to the startled gathering, easing his arm so it must seem more like an embrace—”in my hurry to claim my bride, I overlooked her deep grief for her father.”

  Claire twitched and his hold on her tightened ruthlessly.

  “Though she has tried to be a dutiful wife, her grief comes between us and pleasure this night. Therefore, we have decided to delay our consummation. As the Church recommends, we have taken a vow of celibacy for the first month of our marriage. We offer it up for the good of Lord Clarence’s soul.”

  “My father is already in heaven,” Claire said, but it was muffled against his chest.

  “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Accept this, Claire. At least it gives you a month to think before you destroy everything.”

  Tight with resistance, she was kept there as a murmur of surprise ran through the room. She thought she heard approval. It was true that the priests preached the holiness of such restraint within marriage, but few found the strength to embrace it.

  It disgusted her that he cloak his villainy in sanctity, but she could see that it gave a reprieve. She didn’t have to decide everything now while her mind was splintered by horror. She had a month to find a way out of this marriage, a way that would not ruin her family.

  “You can let me go,” she murmured. “I am ready to play my part.”

  When he cautiously eased his hold she looked him in the eye. “I, too, do not lie, my lord.”

  Then she turned to meet her friends, to meet their commiseration and admiration.

  She saw Thomas looking bewildered and realized she’d have to tell him the truth soon. Sweet Mary mild, what would he do?

  And how would her mother and grandmother feel to know they’d welcomed Lord Clarence’s murderer? Perhaps, she thought bitterly, her mother would only care that Thomas was threatened again.

  When would she have to tell them?

  Then she realized that the story would break whether she spoke out or not. She saw the Earl of Salisbury, watching somberly, and glared at him. Why hadn’t he told her sooner?

  Then she remembered his words about cowards. He hadn’t been talking about her, but about himself. He’d wanted to tell her, but hesitated to thwart the king’s plan. So he’d hinted. And he’d caused that horrible sword to be brought out bloodstained, hoping for some revelation.

  If Renald de Lisle had a soul, he’d have faltered then.

  She shed anger with the earl. He’d kept silent to protect himself and his family. She was keeping silent for the same reason.

  But it would come out. She hugged that thought to herself. Even if she kept silent, at any moment a traveler or tinker would bring the story of Lord Clarence’s death to Summerbourne.

  Then, as her friends surrounded her, cossetting her with comfort, she remembered Ulric.

  “Such a shame, but right,” said Margret.

  “A lovely gesture,” agreed Lady Huguette, moist-eyed.

  “A good man to agree to such a course,” added Lady Katherine, the biggest gossip in the country. Wh
at an event this must be for her.

  Claire let the words wash over her as she absorbed the fact that Renald had indeed had a motive to kill Ulric. He’d killed him so his news wouldn’t ruin the betrothal and wedding.

  She began to weep. She couldn’t help it. She let Margret help her back into the solar. “There, there. Hush, love. Better for sure not to start out your marriage bed with tears.”

  She fell silent and Claire wiped tears to look. The damp and disordered bed with a black sword lying among crimson rose petals suggested a very strange tale.

  Margret stripped off the sheets without comment, however, scattering petals on the ground but putting the sword aside carefully on a chest. The smell of roses haunted the room, along with that other one. Claire feared she’d never find roses sweet again.

  “Quite some sacrifice,” Margret remarked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, if I’m any judge, he’ll be gnawing the walls before a month’s up. He’s been eating you with his eyes all day. Are you sure you’re being fair to him?”

  “Fair!” But Claire had to remind herself that Margret didn’t know. None of them did, except the earl.

  Margret patted her shoulder. “There, there, love. I’ll send your maids to you.”

  Prissy and Maria hurried in and remade the bed without comment. There’d be speculation, though, about what exactly had happened here. Let them all wonder.

  Claire watched Maria move the big sword so she could get sheets out of the chest and wished she could throw it out of the window. Throw it into the forge, even, to be melted down. That dark thing had pierced her father’s heart, driven by the cold hand of Renald de Lisle.

  She realized then that all his possessions were here. His chests. His bags. His mail on its hanger. This was his room. Would he expect to sleep here?

  With her?

  Her possessions had been brought down from the maidens’ bedchamber. As he had promised, her father’s book chests sat against a wall. She went and touched them, seeking comfort.

  “Oh, Father, what now?”

  Though full of wisdom, the books were silent.

  “Do you wish to undress again, lady?” Prissy asked.

  She couldn’t stay huddled in layers of clothing forever, so she let them strip her, but kept her shift. If he came, at least he wouldn’t find her naked.

  What would the guests expect from a celibate couple? That they sleep together to make the sacrifice more meaningful? Or that they sleep apart to show that they were keeping their word? Though the priests preached the holiness of a time of restraint after marriage, Claire had never known anyone to actually embrace the notion.

  Embrace.

  She hugged herself. She had enjoyed his company, enjoyed his embraces. Yes, she’d even reveled in the passion he’d given her.

  It wasn’t her fault that she’d not known who he was, but still she felt deeply soiled.

  “Are you all right, lady?” asked Maria, fussing around her. “Do you need anything? Some poppy juice to help you sleep?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want us to stay with you?”

  “No. You can go.”

  Alone, she wandered the room, not knowing what to do. She remembered the miller’s daughter, who counted stones. Poor Aldreth had lost her husband to an accident. Then a year later, her two small children had been taken by a fever. She’d weathered the first loss, but after she’d buried her little ones she’d started to count stones. She’d never stopped.

  Claire could understand now. She could see the pleasure in simply counting stones.

  With a sigh she looked around the solar. It had been her parents’ room, full of happy memories. Briefly it had been a pleasure-bower. Now it was ruined by the man who had stolen her father and all joy. The man who—curse him—had woven strings into her heart so that she couldn’t quite tear free.

  That sword offended her! She pulled a scarf out of one of her chests and dropped it over the black weapon.

  Someone knocked on the door. Renald? No. If he came, he wouldn’t knock. She opened it to find Josce there, looking wary and curious.

  “By your leave, lady, Lord Renald asks that I bring his sword to the office where he will sleep as usual.”

  Claire couldn’t find words, so she simply stood back.

  The squire hurried in, then stopped, looking around.

  “It’s under that cloth over there.”

  He gave her an odd look then uncovered the weapon. He retreated with it as if expecting some sort of attack, and she closed the door after him.

  Renald’s mail still stood on its hanger, like his ghostly presence. Square, strong, cold, it was symbol of all that he was—a man who couldn’t endure to be without his weapon. A man who killed on order, and who would cheat if his master ordered it.

  Why was her heart breaking over a coldhearted wolf?

  She was standing staring at his loathsome armor when her mother burst in. “Claire? What foolishness have you fallen into now?”

  Claire tried to find the words to tell the truth, but her courage failed. “It was just Father,” she muttered.

  Her mother gathered her tight into her arms. “Oh, my poor child. You can seem so strong that I forget … Of course it is too soon, and how good of Lord Renald to respect your grief.”

  Claire winced, hating her own cowardice.

  “And a month is not so long,” said Lady Murielle, patting her shoulder. “It will give you time to get to know one another, which is no bad thing. And by then the wound of your father’s death will have healed.”

  Claire sighed. It was no good. She could not live a lie. “He killed Father.”

  “What?”

  Claire moved out of her mother’s arms. “Renald de Lisle, king’s champion, killed Father in a court battle. With that dark sword. Which was given him by the king so they could be sure of victory. Don’t look at me like that. He admitted it all! It wasn’t enough that he’s a decade younger and twice as strong, they made sure of things by arming him with a sword that cuts through mail like thread.”

  Lady Murielle sat down on the bed. “Lord Renald killed Clarence?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” her mother wailed.

  Claire hadn’t really asked that, but the answer was obvious. “To reward another hungry follower. Bastard FitzRoger got poor Imogen and Carrisford, and now his friend has me and Summerbourne. I’m sure other men will come to untimely deaths.”

  Her mother covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “No. No, it can’t be!”

  “And Ulric,” said Claire, pursuing her thoughts. “He hasn’t admitted it yet, but he killed Ulric. I thought he had no motive, but he had.”

  “Ulric was no threat to anyone. Claire, it’s all fancy—”

  “No it isn’t! Ulric would have been there when Father died. He was bringing the full story. Renald knew that once I heard the truth I wouldn’t take the wedding vows. So he killed him.”

  Her mother stared up at her, lips unsteady. “Are you sure, Claire?”

  Claire flung out a hand. “Summon him. He’ll admit it. He doesn’t seem to care. He just wanted to be sure of the wedding. Now he has it and Summerbourne, he doesn’t … doesn’t care.” Her brittle calm began to crack and she mirrored her mother’s gesture of horror and covered her mouth. “Jesu. I have to break this marriage, Mother.”

  Lady Murielle seemed numb with shock. “I can hardly believe …”

  Claire began to pace. “He says he’ll throw us all out if I do. But I must.” She fell to her knees at her mother’s side. “You see that, don’t you? I must. I can’t lie with my father’s killer.”

  Her mother reached a trembling hand to touch her cheek. “I don’t know, Claire. I don’t know. One-on-one … Oh, poor Clarence. Poor dear Clarence …”

  She began to shake all over and Claire scrambled up to gather her into her arms. “Mother! Don’t—”

  But Lady Murielle began to wail. Claire screamed for the mai
ds.

  Servants and friends came running, potions were sent for, and Lady Murielle was tucked, staring and trembling, into the big bed. Everyone assumed that she, too, had suddenly been overwhelmed by grief, and her mother’s occasional gabbled words didn’t reveal the truth.

  The soothing draft took hold, and soon Claire’s mother lay in a peaceful stupor. Her two maidservants settled on pallets on the floor alongside Prissy and Maria. The guests drifted away and soon sounds from the hall faded. The celebration, such as it had been, was over.

  Her wedding day was done.

  Alone, Claire wondered what would happen if she fell apart. But it wasn’t her nature even though it might be a relief. She needed someone, though, someone to hold her. Someone to advise her.

  She wrapped a cloak around herself and slipped out in search of her grandmother. Lady Agnes had a small chamber on this floor, but as soon as Claire pushed open the door she heard a mixture of snuffles and snores. Of course, nearly all the rooms were crammed with extra guests and they were all asleep.

  Only one place beckoned. No one in this world stood ready to help her, but perhaps she could find ease from the next. She left the hall and headed for the graveyard.

  Rounding the corner of the wooden church she jerked to a halt. By her father’s grave, a man stood, head bowed, hands resting on the hilt of an unsheathed sword whose point was set in the ground.

  For a shocked moment she thought he was about to pierce the grave with it, to try to kill her poor father all over again. But then she recognized the traditional stance of the mourning warrior. He mourned her father?

  No.

  What then?

  She could not say, and her mind would not try. She simply hated him the more for being where she wanted to be.

  She prayed from a distance, hoping he would leave. When he didn’t—didn’t so much as move—fatigue defeated her and she trudged back wearily to the solar, tears running down her cheeks.

  They were tears of grief—for her father, for her life, and for something briefly glimpsed now shattered forever. But they were also tears of fear and bitter loneliness. She’d once thought she stood exposed and lonely in a market-place, but she hadn’t known abandonment until now.