by Jo Beverley
They found him in a stall, cleaning a horse’s hooves.
“Lord Renald. Lady Claire.”
“Sigfrith,” Claire said, “we hoped you might be able to tell us something about poor Ulric.”
He kept his head down to his task. “Ulric? Him as died?”
“You sat with him during his last meal.”
He glanced up then, in the wary way of one who expects trouble. “So? He came in late and sat there, lady. What of it?”
“We wondered what he said to you.”
“Nothing.”
Claire shared a glance with Renald, before remembering that this guilty reaction wasn’t good for her case.
“Not even, ‘Good evening’?” asked Renald. “Stand and face us.”
Claire thought for a moment that the groom would ignore the cold command and shivered for him. But then he let the hoof fall and rose. He even bowed. “Aye, well, lord, maybe he said that.”
“And did you say good evening back to him?”
“Aye, I suppose I did, lord. I can’t remember.”
Claire wondered if Sigfrith had always been this sullen and resentful. Or was it now a sign of guilt?
“And did he say anything else?” Renald asked patiently. “About the tumblers, for example. Or about Dora, who was chattering about the tumblers?”
The man frowned, but more thoughtfully than angrily. “Aye, lord, he did at that. Called her a chattering besom, which is true. But Ulric was never much of a one for speech.”
“You knew him well?” Claire asked.
He turned his blue eyes on her, eyes very like her father’s. “‘Course I did, lady. We were of an age, and lived here all our lives.” There was an unmistakable edge in the comment and Claire worried again for his skin.
“But since you knew him so well,” Renald asked, “didn’t you say an extra word or two? Ask him about his journey, perhaps? Or comment on Lord Clarence’s death?”
Sigfrith looked as if he were weighing chancy options, but in the end he said, “I suppose we spoke a little. I think I said as I’d wondered where he’d been. And I did ask what happened to Lord Clarence’s horse. ’Twere a good one.”
Claire looked at Renald. “What did happen to Aidan?”
His dark eyes flashed a command. “Later. So,” he said to Sigfrith, “what did he say to that?”
“That it were none of my business. Which wasn’t true. Stables are my business.”
“Did he say anything about how Lord Clarence died, or about my betrothal to Lady Claire?”
The question clearly surprised the man. “Nay, lord.”
“Nothing?” Claire asked. “My betrothal must have been of interest to him.”
“Can’t say about that, lady. He made no mention of either.”
She’d think he had to be lying except that she couldn’t see why. Even if he’d killed Ulric, for his own purposes or those of her grandmother, why not admit that Ulric talked of such pressing events?
Renald killed Ulric, she reminded herself. Renald, or one of his men.
Renald picked up the questions. “A number of people stopped by to talk to him. Do you remember any of them?”
Sigfrith shrugged. “Big Gregory. He’s married to Ulric’s sister. Offered him sympathy, as I remember. Lord Eudo said much the same. And Britha—you know Britha, lord—asked if he wanted comfort.”
Claire jotted down the names, distracted by wondering if that you know Britha, lord meant that Renald knew generous Britha in a biblical sense.
She tried to pretend she didn’t care.
She asked, “And those are the only people you remember speaking to Ulric at the table that night?”
“And the lord’s squire, Josce.”
Claire’s stylus froze, mid-mark, and she glanced up at Renald. He showed nothing, but that—as she was beginning to realize—said a lot.
“Did you hear what Squire Josce said to Ulric?” she asked.
Like, meet me in the garden …
But Josce? Fresh-faced Josce with the freckles and the big smile? What was a squire to do if ordered to kill, however? The same as his master. Obey.
“Nay, lady,” said Sigfrith. “The young man spoke quietly. Privately like.” Sigfrith’s sly look showed that he knew he’d started trouble and was glad of it. She’d have to think more about his place here.
She finished her note, thanked the groom, and walked out into the sunshine. Once out of earshot, she faced Renald de Lisle. “Well, my lord?”
His jaw was tight, twitching with anger, but not at her. “Well, we had better go and speak to Josce.”
He strode off so quickly, she had to hurry to catch up. “Are you still claiming innocence?”
“I still am innocent. As Josce will be able to make clear.”
“Don’t try to lay all the guilt at his door! He’s only a youth.”
“I’ll lay the exact amount of guilt he deserves.” His fist clenched. Claire seized his arm with both hands. He stopped, but turned on her so sharply she feared for her skin.
After a shocking moment, the searing danger was leashed. “What?”
Claire had to force out her voice. “If Josce killed him,” she made herself say, “it was by your orders.”
He simply turned and strode off toward the hall. Almost faint, Claire ran after, fearing there’d be blood spilled soon. Would he kill his squire to hide his guilt?
Josce was laughing with a group of young men, but Renald’s sharp command brought him at a run, freckles already dark against suddenly pale skin.
“Yes, lord? Is something the matter?”
“What were you doing talking to Ulric, Lord Clarence’s man, on the night he died?”
Instead of innocent confusion, guilty red flooded the young man’s face so that his freckles entirely disappeared. Feeling nauseous, Claire waited for confession, tempted to silence him somehow.
The squire licked his lips. “I just … just wanted to say sorry.”
“Sorry!”
Renald sounded as astonished as Claire felt. Sorry? For a murder not yet committed? If not, for what?
Josce looked at Claire, almost as if asking for intercession. Then he faced his lord again. “You wouldn’t let him travel home with Lord Clarence, my lord. It pretty well broke his heart. I know he would have wanted to be at the burial.”
Renald had his thumb tucked in his belt again, and one finger tapped against the studded leather. His jaw still twitched. He was still in a rage, though she couldn’t see why. Was a kind heart a sin to such a man?
“In his pack,” Renald said, “he had two shillings and some pennies.”
To Claire’s astonishment, Josce—except for the freckles—turned snow white. “I gave him the money,” he whispered.
Renald’s hand closed around his belt and Josce began to visibly tremble. Claire looked between them, lost.
“Tomorrow, you return to your father,” said Renald flatly. “On foot. Though I’ll send some men to make sure you get there.”
Josce’s lips quivered. “Yes, lord.”
“You understand why?”
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, my lord.”
Renald nodded. “Get out of my sight. Spend the night in the church and pray.”
Claire thought Josce would argue or beg, but he turned and walked off, looking as if he’d like to run.
What had just happened? Josce had offended by giving Ulric a few shillings? “What? What’s wrong with—”
“I trust you’re satisfied that he didn’t murder the man.” Renald’s eyes were flat as stones.
Claire tried to believe that Josce had killed Ulric at Renald’s command, but after this scene she couldn’t. “Maybe. But then … But why? You didn’t want Ulric to have any money? Did you hope to starve him to death?”
“We left him enough food for a week or more.” He turned and walked away, but then swung back. “No more secrets. I didn’t want Ulric here to tell the tale until everything was settled
, so I made sure he’d have a slow journey home. If Josce hadn’t betrayed me, he would not have been here until it was all done.”
“Betrayed? I wouldn’t say—”
A slash of his hand silenced her. “Speak no more of it.”
Her mouth dried. He was at the very limit of a ferocious rage. Over Josce? Or over something the young man might confess?
She made herself speak. “So you wanted to keep Ulric away, and when he turned up, you had him killed.”
“By Lucifer’s horns, if I’d wanted him dead, I’d have killed him in London!” He suddenly rubbed a hand over his face. “My word on this, Claire.” He looked straight into her eyes. “On my soul and my hope of heaven, I did not kill Ulric. I did not order him killed. I did not condone his killing. I would never do something like that. As you pointed out in the case of your grandmother, it was unnecessary. I couldn’t keep the secret forever. And to kill for such base ends would be murder. I value my immortal soul more even than I value Summerbourne. And you.”
He stalked off to the hall and Claire tucked away her stylus, badly shaken. Not least by that And you.
Was it possible for him to have a true regard for her and yet to have killed her father?
Indeed it was.
That, put simply, was tragedy.
She recognized it because it sat as black misery within herself. She admitted the truth clearly for the first time. Deeply and forever, she loved her father’s murderer.
Numb with that, she headed for the peace and comfort of the garden, to the healing herbs, trying to think things through. Since the horrifying revelation in the wedding bower, she’d not been able to think logically about her situation. Now, walking the aromatic paths, she tried.
Renald was a man of war, a very blooded sword, but her heart believed that he was honorable for his sort. She knew that when he could be he was kind. However, she also knew that Summerbourne was a prize he valued. Landless from a young age, he had hungered for land of his own, for a place where he could build a family, a dynasty.
And that explained his part in her father’s death. When ordered by the king to kill, the temptation had been too great and he had obeyed in order to win what he so dearly wanted. Because her father was a rebel, the world would not think that deed wrong, but she must.
Perhaps Renald had persuaded himself that her father’s death had been an act of justice, or even an act of God, but that was not true. The king had had no reason to kill Clarence of Summerbourne, not when he left so many other men untouched.
He must have wanted to be rid of a thorn in his conscience, and seen that he could reward a faithful follower. He had achieved both by forcing a man untrained for war to fight a champion.
That injustice made it murder, murder grown from guilt and greed. To make it worse, Renald had killed again in an even more cowardly way to prevent the news from blocking his marriage.
She stopped dead then, however, remembering the point about her grandmother.
Neither of them had needed to kill poor Ulric. The news he carried wasn’t secret. It just hadn’t yet arrived.
Even if Renald had seen Ulric arrive, and had wanted to hide the truth until after the wedding, he could have had his men quietly seize the man and tuck him away. It would be the sensible thing to do, and she knew well by now that Renald was not a stupid man.
Claire slumped down on a bench.
All he’d ever needed to do was delay the news.
As he had by slowing Ulric’s journey.
As he had by watching her and by keeping her out of the way in case one of the guests carried news or rumor.
As he had by threatening the earl.
Therefore, unless there was some other, unsuspected motive, Renald would not have killed Ulric or have had him killed!
Her surge of relief was heartbreaking, for the main problem remained. He had still killed her father, and that could never change.
And, she realized with shock, that took away her one hope of getting free of this marriage without destroying her family!
What now?
She hadn’t the slightest idea.
After a dazed time, she decided she had to do something or go mad, so she dug up some special plants and carried them to the graveyard. There, she carefully transplanted them around her father’s grave—marigold, gillyflower, and joy-of-the-ground.
She remembered to draw water to give the transplants a good drink. She’d plant a crab apple near the grave to keep away evil, and chervil, fennel, and waybroad against dark spirits. Though she knew her father was gone, was dancing joyous in another life, she’d keep to the old ways and guard his grave.
She paused, bucket in hand, back to the old dilemma. She could only do that as wife to Renald de Lisle.
“Claire?”
She started and turned to find her brother beside her, solemn but unexpectedly steady, despite an angry bruise on his temple.
“Quarterstaff?” she asked, determined not to make a fuss.
“I was slow to duck.” He didn’t seem to hold a grudge about it. “Claire, should we hate Lord Renald?”
She wasn’t ready for this subject, but she knew what it was like not to have anyone to talk to. She drew him over to a bench. “In the eyes of the world, Lord Renald did nothing wrong. But he killed our father. It has to change the way we feel about him.”
He sat there, slumped arms on knees. “I hated him when I first found out. Now I don’t know. But I think I should.”
It so nearly mirrored Claire’s feelings that she just shrugged.
“Josce said—earlier—that the things you like someone for don’t change.”
“But other things can smother them.”
He looked up, pushing a curl out of his eyes. “I told him I hated him. Told Lord Renald. That I wanted to kill him. So we fought.”
So, that was what she had witnessed.
“I prayed to God I’d be like the Brave Child Sebastian. But nothing happened.” His shoulders drooped more. “I’ll be stronger one day.”
Claire put a hand on his shoulder, eyes stinging. “Ah dearest, don’t. Don’t cling to hate.”
“But you hate him. I saw you arguing with him.”
“Arguing isn’t hate.”
“You don’t hate him?” He looked at her. “So are you going to stay married to him?”
Hope rang in it. Hope she hated to crush. “No, love. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he killed Father.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
Oh, Thomas. She didn’t know if it was a longing for security, or a genuine liking for Renald de Lisle, but he was fighting to change her mind, and she wished she could let him.
“No one else thinks Father’s death was wrong,” he protested. “In ordeal by battle, God speaks.”
She bit her lip. She wanted to ask if he could truly think their father wrong about the king, but she hesitated to plant treason in his mind. “It can’t have been fair. Not Lord Renald against Father.”
“It’s to the death, you know. If Father had won, Lord Renald would have died.”
She’d known, but she hadn’t really thought about it. She suppressed a shiver. “He was never in any danger. Unlike Father. Thomas, have you thought? No one else ended up in a court battle. Not Lambert. Not Salisbury. Not even the evil de Bellême!”
“Are you saying it was all a ruse?” He looked so totally bewildered that she knew she should have held her tongue.
“You’re not to speak of this to anyone,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes. “It’s dangerous. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m going to try to find a way out that will let us live our lives in decency. But we can’t stay here. Not after what happened. You do see that.”
He sighed. “I suppose so. But what sort of way? What will we do?”
She put it into words for the first time. “I’m going to seek an annulment.”
; “And then what? Won’t that mean we’ll be poor?”
She sighed. “Perhaps Mother’s family will take us in.”
It wasn’t much comfort, and she wasn’t surprised when he paled. “Go to France!”
“It’s better than nothing. But for now, we have to go on as usual. Don’t you have work to do?”
“No. Josce’s in the church. Crying. Did he not know what Lord Renald did?”
“It’s not that.” Claire looked over to the wood and thatch church wondering if she could do anything to help.
“He was supposed to be showing me how to clean mail. So I went to the hall and asked Lord Renald, and he said to do as I wished.” That clearly struck him as unusual enough to be worrying.
It showed Claire how much Josce’s act had upset Renald. Was there one happy soul in Summerbourne today? “Then you’re free for a while,” she said. “Why not go and find some friends.”
A few days ago, he’d have run off joyfully, glad of freedom. Now, he hesitated, then wandered off deep in thought. Claire could have wept for all the changes that reflected.
Could she just discard her scruples, and make everyone’s lives simpler? No. It would not even work. If she lay in the bed with Renald with her father’s death still between them, she could imagine nothing but evil coming from it.
She contemplated the silent walls of the nearby church. Josce had faced a choice between following his conscience and obeying his lord’s command. As she did. As her father had. As Renald had.
Only Renald had chosen obedience.
Those who refused, suffered.
Sent home horseless would carry deep shame. She knew Josce would rather be whipped to the bone. Depending on the nature of his father, he might end up whipped to the bone as well. It would be hard to find him another lord to serve.
She was tugged by the need to intervene, to avoid another tragedy, yet held back by her desire to avoid her husband. She particularly didn’t want to ask him for any favor.
Why should she care, anyway, about a warmonger-in-training?
She checked on the weaving and made sure the empty grain bins were being scoured as thoroughly as they should be. She spoke to the bee master about honey and the warrener about rabbits. She went out—though there was no need—to make sure the fishpond weirs were handling the flow of water well. She even allowed herself some time watching the fat golden carp gliding through the water.