by Jo Beverley
Claire hadn’t expected this attitude here. “You called him a murderer.”
“As most men are. If a lady seeks to marry, she has little choice.”
“Few ladies are called upon to marry their father’s murderer.”
“True enough. You, too, will come here?”
Claire rose. “No, Reverend Mother. I cannot stay so close. I will seek refuge in France with my mother’s family, taking my brother with me, and enter a convent there once he is settled. If my mother and aunts wish to accompany us, I will take them too. But Lady Agnes could never make the journey.”
A smile flickered. “Lady Agnes will not wish to be here either, but you may be assured that she will have kindly care with us if needed.”
Claire nodded. “Thank you. It is a relief to know that they will have refuge here.”
The nun rose, too, tucking her hands neatly in her sleeves. “You are on a hard path, my child. I will pray for you.”
Claire was tempted to ask advice, to ask what Mother Winifred thought about a daughter settling to a happy marriage with her father’s murderer, with a man who had somehow circumvented God’s will in the ordeal.
What was the point? She knew the answer.
Riding back, she told herself that it would be easier once it was over and they need never again meet. For the moment, however, they had no choice.
A barony like Summerbourne was not woman’s work or man’s. It was a fine meshing of responsibilities in crops, in animals, and in people. Often Claire had to spend the evening going over some matter of administration with Renald and the upper servants. They pored over maps, and she read records aloud as they made decisions for a future she was trying to escape.
Sometimes, as they sat close together in work—close but never touching—she glanced up to find him looking at her.
Hungrily.
A beat of desire would start within her.
Hungrily.
How long could the starving live with a feast and not give in to temptation?
That evening he said, “I hear you have written to the bishop.”
She looked at him, but couldn’t read him. “Twice, actually. Eudo took a letter weeks ago.”
She saw shock. The sort of shock that comes of a blade in the gut.
“You’ve received no reply?”
“Not yet. That’s why I wrote again.”
“And if he gives hope?”
She made herself speak calmly. “Then it will be settled.”
“And if he refuses?”
She looked away. She’d tussled with that and still not come up with any solution.
“If he refuses, Claire,” he said, “you must ask the king.”
She looked back at him, astonished. “Ask him for what?”
“To secure your annulment.”
“You think he could do that? Would?”
“Certainly he could. There are grounds enough. And he would because I would add my plea to yours.”
Absurdly, it hurt. “You want—”
“No.” He even smiled a little. “Never. But there’s nothing for us here unless it comes of your free will.”
“In the night—” she said, then stopped the words that must not be said.
“I know.”
They sat there, side by side. Divided.
The next day, the messenger returned from the bishop. Claire unrolled the parchment, slowly, not sure what she hoped for.
It was refusal.
Against her will, she felt a twisted relief.
“Will you tell me what it says?”
She turned, shocked, for she was in the solar, where he never came. “We shared a marriage bed.” She tried to block all thought of that bed so close. “The bishop considers our marriage consummated.”
“How very unworldly of him. You could insist on an examination.”
She nervously rolled the parchment up again. “He mentions that. He says that as with a proxy wedding, it is the contact of skin that symbolizes the union. Is that true?”
“The king can probably make him take another view. Our month is almost up.”
She knew that, knew it with the desperation of needing to escape, and the agony of soon losing him.
“I must write to the king, then?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, she looked at him.
“We are summoned to court,” he said. “I received the message earlier.”
“To London? Why?”
“To Carrisford, where the king holds court. He has heard of our vow and wants to preside over the consummation.”
She covered her mouth. “What are we going to do?”
“As always, I will obey, and you must, too. But Claire, can you face Henry and not speak treason?”
Bitterness welled up to burn in her throat. “No, and why should I? He killed his brother. He stole the Crown. He used you to kill my father for saying that, and that led to—”
Warrior-fast, he was on her even as she said, “—this,” forcing her to her knees despite her struggles.
She looked up, shaken by fear and his burning touch.
“So,” he said, “you are frightened at last. It’s time you learned the wisdom of fear. Henry Beauclerk is King of England, acclaimed by the lords, anointed by the Church. He has right of life and death over you, over me, over everyone in this land.”
“Under the law,” she stated, refusing to be entirely cowed.
“Under the law, he can punish you for what you just said. He can lock you up, have you flogged, put out your eyes, cut out your impudent tongue.” His hands slid inward to circle her throat. They trembled. “I will not let you take the road your father took.”
Within the hot circle of his unsteady grasp, she swallowed, assailed as much by weakening love and pity as by dread. “I cannot bow to him. I cannot. I will stay home.”
“To refuse the king’s command is treason, too.”
She gave a little sob. “Then it seems I am doomed.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “If you will not vow to be meek at court, I will make sure you cannot go.”
“You will lock me up?” There was a kind of relief in that. It wouldn’t solve their other problems, but perhaps Renald alone could persuade the king …
He released her throat and raised her with gentle hands. “Your people would doubtless set you free.”
“Then how?”
He stepped back from her. “A broken leg would do it.”
She stared. “People die from broken bones.”
“Your chances would be better than if you go to court and challenge Henry to his face.”
She had to laugh. “You mean it.”
He was far, far from any kind of laughter. “I am trained to do the unthinkable. So?”
She raised a hand to a throat that still tingled. “You expect me to decide this now?”
“If we go, we leave at dawn. We can make it in one day.”
“Let me see if I have this. I must promise not to challenge Henry Beauclerk’s right to the throne?”
“And not to accuse him of murdering your father. Not a promise, a vow.” He drew the sword that he’d not waited to put off. More proof of how close to the edge he must be. “A vow on this. On the cross of the hilt, on the stone from Jerusalem.”
Claire stared at it. “Or you’ll break my leg? How?”
“Do you doubt I can do it?”
Not for a moment, neither the act nor the will.
Claire looked from the stone before her, the simple piece of stone that had come from the Holy Land, to the stony resolve of his face. How could they have come to this point?
Through love. Her love for her father, which said she could not lie with his murderer. Her love for Renald, that made surrender too sweet to be allowed. His love for her, that would hurt her to save her.
A tangled knot indeed.
He looked so hard and certain, but she knew it was his mask, the one he wore to conceal his deepest feelings. What had it
cost him to make such a threat to her? What would it cost to carry it out?
Too much. He’d spoken of the shadow he carried from her father’s death. She could not lay another on him.
She put her hand to the stone. “I promise that for the duration of our stay at the king’s court, I will not express any doubt about Henry Beauclerk’s right to the throne of England, or any grievance about the manner of my father’s death.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were moist. Tears? From a wolf?
But he was no wolf. He was a man, and the man she loved. She longed to hold him, to stroke away his pain, but control here hung on a silken thread.
“Thank you,” he said, sheathing the sword.
“I still must ask for the annulment.”
“You have two days to decide.”
“What can change in two days?”
He smiled then, but wryly. “We can always pray for a miracle.”
Claire left the room, flexing her bruised shoulders, contemplating his words. Pray. Did a murderer pray? And he took the host on Sundays. Why had she never thought of that?
He truly felt no guilt. She’d never really believed that before. Didn’t that fact mean something, no matter how twisted his master was?
Perhaps she could build on that in two short days …
“Claire!”
She turned to where her aunts sat.
“Here,” said Felice, thrusting something at her. “You are so careless!”
Claire took a book. Then she realized it was her record book.
“Where did you find this?” she demanded, untying the boards and flipping through the pages.
“In the pile of spare wooden trenchers. You probably put it there in a fit of absentmindedness. You have to start paying attention to real life, Claire, though I suppose that’s hard when your brain is fixed so hotly between your thighs.”
“Oh, Felice …” Amice muttered.
Claire ignored her aunts and checked that all was there. It was, which wasn’t surprising. The work had little value to anyone but herself.
“I’m not careless with books, Felice. Doubtless Eudo slipped it there in his last visit.”
Felice smirked. “So you have enough wit left to see that. Have you decided why?”
“Probably so he didn’t have to admit that one of his men filched it. But thank you for finding it, Felice. My work could have lingered there till the next feast.”
“Work,” her aunt sniffed. “But if you value it, take care of it.”
Claire didn’t argue the point. “Apparently the king has summoned us to court at Carrisford.”
“Us?” Felice asked, sitting up straighter.
“Renald and me,” Claire said, cursing her careless words. “I must ask you to take care of Summerbourne while we are away.”
“Why should we,” Felice asked petulantly, “while you gallivant around?”
Renald’s voice answered, from close behind Claire. “For kindness’ sake, Lady Felice. Next time we go to court, it will likely be possible to take you.”
“Only if you and Claire are still married.” Felice’s eyes flickered between them. “Is it settled then? Has she finally decided that a father’s death doesn’t matter?”
“Felice!”
“You put on airs of being so noble and honest, but in the end you do just what you want, like the rest of us. I suspect you wanted him all along.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? I still have a letter you wrote to me, dwelling on his charms. I remember the way you rubbed against him in front of the convent gates.”
“I was trying to persuade you to marry him.”
“But you leaped at the chance to marry him yourself, didn’t you? Before I truly had a chance to consider!”
Amice was weeping. “And Claire, you know I … I offered …”
Claire opened her mouth to argue, but realized it was futile. Felice in this mood wouldn’t hear reason, and Amice was right. She had offered.
Renald broke the silence. “Delightful though it is to be the bone between salivating … dogs, Claire must arrange for the journey. We start at first light tomorrow. Come, my lady.”
Claire was grateful to obey. Once out of hearing, he murmured, “If ever I forget, remind me that you saved me from your aunts.”
The hint of humor could break her heart, because Felice’s words had jabbed at her hope. She didn’t know if she was going to be able to sort it all out in her mind. As he’d said to her once, mere surrender wasn’t good enough. She had to fully accept him, as he truly was. Accept the dark, murderous sword.
One solution had arisen, however. “Renald, Felice has clearly changed her mind. If I cannot continue with this marriage, will you take her instead?”
He looked at her. “I love you.”
She closed her eyes on the pain of it.
“Perhaps I do deserve penance, though. I am a warrior, Claire, and all along I fought to win. Henry calls Summerbourne a bit of paradise, and that’s how I see it. And you are the angel in it. I fell in love with you almost at first sight, but love didn’t make me noble. It made me greedy.”
“Greedy?”
He put his fingers over her lips. “Hear me out. This is the confessional. Whatever decision you make, I want it to be in full knowledge. Yes, I do have guilt. All along, I did what I had to do to capture you. If I’d been a better man, I would have told you the truth. I would have let you go.”
“But you had to marry here and Amice and Felice were in the convent.”
He smiled ruefully. “A messenger from Henry would have had them thrown out into my arms. And they fled in the first place because of the lies I had my men tell in their hearing.”
Claire knew she should be furious, but she could only think that without his stratagems she would not now be here. If all they ever had was this month, she would not have missed it, pain and all.
“I forgive you. But you’re right. You do deserve a penance. If I find I cannot keep our marriage intact, will you take Felice?”
He sighed. “A lifetime penance … But yes, if only to make the choice easier for you. And I even promise to be kind. I have some skill at pleasing women.”
“Renald …” But Claire had no idea what to say. She couldn’t release the protest that leaped to her lips. This was freedom, wasn’t it?
No.
“Which leads to another confession,” he said. “I did not give you honest love in the marriage bed.”
“I don’t understand …”
“I’m not sure you can. But I turned whore that night. I used God’s gift as a weapon against an opponent as helpless as a babe.”
Claire cocked her head. “Helpless, was I?”
He laughed at that, and she thought that perhaps it was true what the priests said—that confession brought healing. “No, as it turned out, you weren’t helpless at all. But my intent was wrong. Don’t be swayed in your decision by the pleasure I gave you. Another man will do just as well.”
“But you’re the only man I love.” She knew the words were unwise, but they were honest. She was so adrift, she had no idea what to be anymore but honest.
He touched her then, hands trembling, a light resting of his fingers on her cheeks as he kissed her brow. “God be your guide, then.” He stepped away. “I must ask one thing of you, though. If I marry Felice, I will care for all your family, but you must leave here. I’m not trying to make this hard for you, but I could never be fair to her with you in our home.”
He entered the study, closing the door firmly between them.
Claire sagged against the post.
So it was settled. She could follow her conscience and perhaps not harm her family at all.
She should, perhaps, feel a little bit more at peace.
Chapter 23
Urgent organization for a journey provided an escape of sorts. By the time they rode off into the morning mist, Claire hadn’t had much time to think over her problems
, and she was glad of it. If it were possible, she’d ride away from them entirely—ride into the mist with Renald and never have to think of right and wrong again.
She had visited her mother just before leaving and found her rather better, which in fact was rather worse. It seemed that Felice had gone to protest to Lady Murielle about being left behind. This had pulled Claire’s mother out of melancholy and into rage.
Felice seemed to have convinced her that Claire was hot for Renald and intended to consummate the marriage without complaint.
“Unfeeling child!” her mother had screamed at her. “Ungrateful daughter! How can you think of such a man even touching you with his bloodstained hands?”
“Mother, I—”
“I’ve seen you looking at him. Everyone has.”
“No!”
“Drooling over the man who killed your gentle father in cold blood.”
And that silenced Claire because it was true.
When her mother’s harangue sank to mutters, Claire said, “If I escape the marriage, Felice may take my place. Will you scream at her, too?”
Lady Murielle turned away. “She’s not my daughter. Not Clarence’s daughter. Anyway, I won’t be here. I’m moving to St. Frideswide’s. I understand you have promised the king’s cup as payment.”
Claire thought wryly that she should never have expected Mother Winifred to turn away from that temptation. But it was a solution to part of the problems. Her mother clearly couldn’t stay here.
“You can join me there if you wish,” her mother added. “If you stay pure. Send Thomas to me.”
Claire had kissed her mother’s cold cheek and left. She had not sent Thomas. He was coming with them to join Henry’s household, and despite the pain of parting, she knew he’d be better off there. As long as he didn’t have simmering rebellion inside him. He seemed resigned, but it was so hard to tell.
Renald was now riding beside her in mail and helmet. It had been a shock, she couldn’t deny it, to see him like that in the chilly morning, and yet there had been good in it. This was reality, and she still loved. If only the love was possible.
“How’s Thomas?” he asked.
She wasn’t surprised that he seemed attuned to her thoughts. “If he’s upset at all, I think it’s that he’ll soon be separated from Josce. You’ve been kind to him.”