by Jo Beverley
Still, contented exhaustion and physical delight pinned them down.
Finally, Claire realized that she’d never told Renald her thoughts about her father and she went over them for him. “So I see now why you don’t feel guilt. I still think Henry killed his brother, but he’s probably the best king.”
“Yes.” He rolled to his side, head propped on hand. “It’s not an easy subject. I’d have given my right hand to save your father if I could. He was a good man. A blessing on the earth.”
“And yet perhaps he should have been a monk not a baron.”
“No. For then he’d not have made his angels.”
She touched his face. “It’s troubling, isn’t it? If he’d not joined the rebellion—if he’d not forced the duel—I would not have you.”
“We might have met. Surely we would have known.”
Tears threatened at the thought of having Renald and her father both, but Claire fought them away. “I’m sorry he made you kill him.”
He didn’t brush it off, but kissed her. “Thank you. I confess, I harbored anger, even hatred, for him over that. I thought he intended to die to put point on his cause, and had forced me to be his instrument. That would have been a dark sin. I see now that he really thought he would win.”
“If he’d stuck the fight on the issue of whether the king killed his brother, could he have won?”
“Faith says he could. It wouldn’t have happened. Such an ordeal would have rested on the king’s guilt, and the king would have had to fight. If your father had come even close to that, he’d have died in his room in the Tower.”
“Sweet angels,” Claire whispered. “The king is not a good man.”
“What is good? A king must sometimes be ruthless. It all rests in the end between him and God.”
“But,” she couldn’t resist asking, “what would you have done if the battle had been on the subject of regicide? Would you still have fought?”
She realized while speaking that she worried about this, worried about him being the champion of a less-than-perfect king.
He just shook his head. “Claire, don’t borrow trouble. Such battles are extremely rare.” He looked around. “If we were to call, do you think someone would come with food and drink?”
She decided to let it go. “We could eat each other,” she said, putting her fingers to his lips.
He nibbled them, but said, “We’ve done that. I don’t think it can work as permanent sustenance. You don’t want me to lose weight, do you?”
But Claire had been struck by another thought. She pushed herself into a sitting position, looking around. “Where’s your sword?”
After a moment, he reached and pulled it out from behind the bed. “It’s not a matter of trust,” he said in response to her unspoken protest. “I just don’t take unnecessary risks.”
She put her hand on it. “Renald de Lisle, I accept the sword. I don’t entirely like it or what it stands for. I’m going to die a little every time you fight, be it tourney or battle. But I accept it. And anyway, it has a holy relic in it.” She touched the stone and blessed herself.
Then she took hold of the scabbard to stand the weapon upright against the wall, looming darkly over their marriage bed.
“It is strange,” she said, sitting back to study it, “that a weapon look like a cross.”
“Don’t make another riddle of it.” He pulled her to him, but one-handed he retrieved the sword and laid it on the bed before he slid into her. “I don’t want it falling on our heads, love.”
“I accept the sword,” said Claire, and held tight to the black scabbard as his fleshy blade took her to ecstasy.
“By St. Amand,” he muttered as they lay together afterward, still stickily joined. “I hope the king doesn’t want me out riding today.”
She giggled. “Are you sore, too?”
“Only in the most delightful way. But don’t tempt me any more, wench.”
“Me?” she protested as they wriggled apart. “What do I do?”
“Wriggle. Giggle. Smile. Breath …” He groaned and rolled out of bed to open the door and bellow for food and drink. “What hour do you think it is?” he asked, stretching.
“Perhaps as late as sext.” Claire decided that admiring his body was hazardous to her stinging flesh and went to peer out of the long window. “The castle looks in full bustle.”
He came up behind her, leaning against her, big, warm, and hard. Her breath caught. “It’s a pity we’re sore.”
He kissed her neck. “We have our lives, love. Keep this position in mind. You might like it. I hear people coming.”
Claire hastily slid beneath the covers again. Renald just wrapped a cloth around his waist as Maria, Prissy, and Josce hurried in with platters of food and jugs of ale.
They’d have hovered to see if they could be of further use, but Renald sent them away and he and Claire settled to a long, lazy, and much appreciated meal. They might have slipped into a nap if Josce hadn’t returned, announcing rather nervously that they were wanted below.
“Why?” Renald made no attempt to get out of bed.
“The Lady Felice has arrived from Summerbourne and demands to speak to you both.”
“Felice!” Claire almost leaped out of bed but decided to spare the squire’s blushes. “It must be Mother.”
Renald waved Josce away and they both got up and began to wash and dress, Claire in a fever because she feared something terrible had happened.
Renald stopped her and straightened her clothes. “Whatever has happened, happened some time ago. Don’t fly into a panic.”
“But—”
“This is your Aunt Felice, remember? The one who wanted to come to court.”
Claire laughed and calmed. “Oh, of course.” After a moment, she added, “Perhaps I’d better see her alone.”
“I won’t fight you for the honor. But since she’s here, I’ll see if I can think of any men who might suit her.”
She kissed him. “And who’ll take Amice as well. Try for someone big and important.”
“I thought she fled to escape big.”
“You frightened her off with stories of being too big!”
“And now, alas, by being able to walk, my bride will announce to the world that I’m a pitifully endowed sort of man.”
Claire pushed him and he obligingly collapsed back onto their bed, an interested light in his eye. She shook her head and hurried out to see what excuse Felice had found to rush here to the king’s court.
Chapter 27
“Where’s Renald?” Felice demanded. She was pacing in a corner of the crowded hall looking genuinely unaware of the interest of those around. Perhaps she did bring serious news.
“I can summon him if we need him. What’s amiss?”
Felice looked around. “I don’t want to speak here. Isn’t there a private place?”
“Carrisford’s bursting. There’s a church against the bailey walls. That might be more peaceful.”
Felice nodded, so Claire led the way, more concerned by the moment. What could be so troubling that Felice did not want anyone to overhear? Claire had the dreadful fear that it would be something else to do with Renald.
She’d swear on her immortal soul that they now had honesty between them. But what if they didn’t?
The small thatched church was cool, dim, and empty.
“So,” Claire asked. “What?”
“You think I’ve made an excuse,” Felice accused. “You always think the worst of me.”
“Please, Felice. Just tell me what’s happened.”
Her aunt sniffed. “Nothing’s happened. I only thought to try to save your life.”
“Save my life?”
“There, see. You don’t believe me!”
“Yes, yes I do!” There was a stone bench against a wall beneath a narrow window. Claire drew her aunt over to it and sat. “Did you hear that I was attacked on the road?”
“Of course I did. Lord Renald sent half
the escort back. That’s why I came.”
“And you think you know who was behind it?”
“Eudo the Sheriff,” said Felice smugly.
“Eudo! What possible reason—”
“See! I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Renald would have.”
“I don’t know why you think that.” Claire smothered the urge to bicker. “Felice, I’m sorry, but you must admit that it’s shocking. Tell me why. You’ve never been given to wild fancies.”
“All right.” But Felice still sulked. “Not long after you left to come here, Eudo arrived, saying he wanted to ask more questions about Ulric’s death. I doubted that. I saw no evidence all along that he was really trying to find the killer. Well, of course not. He killed Ulric.”
“Eudo!” But Claire managed to make it sound astonished rather than disbelieving.
“To hide his involvement in the rebellion.”
Claire closed her eyes then opened them again. “Felice, can we start at the beginning?”
Her aunt cocked her head and frowned over it. “No, not really. I have to tell this as it came to me. First, Eudo turning up like that. I wondered what he was up to so I kept an eye on him. As I thought, he hardly spoke to anyone about the murder. But he did try to sneak into the solar a couple of times.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Really, Claire. I think your husband has humped the brains right out of you! He wanted Clarence’s book.”
“Eudo!” And now it was a gasp of recognition. “Of course. He was the one who mentioned my leaving a book by the window. He knew because he’d seen it there. In fact, he’d stolen it, but it turned out to be my record book.”
“Quite. And he went to the trouble to bring it back. He must be fond of you.”
She managed to make that slightly salacious. Claire just said, “He respects books. Fondness didn’t stop him attacking me on the road to get Father’s book. But why want me dead?”
Felice shrugged. “I think he’s beyond reason with fear.”
“Because,” said Claire, hardly listening, “he saw me reading it and feared I knew whatever it contained.”
“What it contained, I assume, was that he, like Clarence, supported Duke Robert.”
“I only saw an oblique mention. It was hardly incriminating. And even so—”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Claire shook her head. “I can’t believe Eudo would want me murdered just in case I’d read something. After all, most of the rebels have been let off lightly.”
“Clarence died.”
“But only because he insisted on the court battle. At worst, Eudo would have been fined. After all, as best I can tell he didn’t join the rebels. He only talked about it a lot.”
“Ah,” said Felice, “but he killed Ulric. Everyone knows King Henry has pledged to uphold the law. If that crime came out, at the least Eudo would cease to be sheriff—the king’s representative in legal matters.”
“So why kill Ulric?”
“Because of being sheriff. The king has refused to let rebels administer the law. Eudo’s proud of his rank. Proud that it’s passed through his family for generations. He couldn’t risk losing that. He must have thought it so easy. A servant alone in the garden. But then of course you wouldn’t let it lie.”
“Ulric turned up,” Claire said, “and Eudo panicked. But he wasn’t part of the rebellion. We’d have known.”
“I think it must have been like this. Clarence rode out with only Ulric in attendance, and he’d arranged to meet Eudo. They were supposed to join Duke Robert’s forces together. Eudo must have kept the rendezvous.”
“With his own man!” Claire covered her mouth with her hand. “He died, too.” Chilled by this sequence of deaths, Claire rose to pace, thinking it through.
“Eudo talked a lot about supporting Duke Robert,” she said, “but he never expected Father to put it into action. No one did. When Father proposed joining the rebellion, Eudo must have been horrified. But he went along with it because he didn’t want to look a coward. But, when the day came, he changed his mind.”
“Probably tried to talk Clarence out of it,” Felice said. “Talk is his main weapon.”
“Not anymore.” Claire shivered at the memory of that voice whispering, Kill her.
“He doubtless thought he’d succeed. Who’d think Clarence would stick to a violent course?”
“But in the end,” said Claire, “Eudo turned back. I wonder when he began to fear that ride had been treasonous?”
“Not, at least, until after Duke Robert fled, leaving Henry in full power.”
“When we heard that rebels were being fined and removed from offices, Eudo must have been on needles waiting for Father to reveal his part. And then Father died. No one knew. He was safe.”
“Until Ulric appeared.”
“Angels! Sigfrith said Eudo was one of the people who’d spoken to Ulric. That must have been when he arranged to meet him. Once Ulric was dead, he must have thought he was really safe. Until the book turned up. No wonder he was so desperate to read it.” She looked at Felice. “But how can we prove any of this?”
“If we bring this to the king, he’ll order Eudo put to the ordeal. That will prove his guilt.”
Claire shuddered. Ordeal again. Hot iron, cold water, or battle.
With hot iron, the accused had to hold a red-hot iron rod. If at three days the wound had not festered, then God showed that he was innocent. By cold water, the accused was bound and lowered into water. If the water rejected him, if he floated, his guilt was proved. If he sank he was hauled out, proven innocent.
She prayed that Eudo be put to the more merciful cold water.
Surely he wouldn’t demand the third option, ordeal by battle. Though fit and trained, Eudo was not really a warlike man.
He had the right, however, to demand to fight his accuser, or his accuser’s champion and he might feel his dignity demanded it. In that case, who but Renald would be put to oppose him? He’d said he prayed never to have to fight that way again.
And what if they were wrong?
Renald would die.
“Well?” asked Felice. “Do you not agree?”
“What if we’re wrong? What if he’s innocent?”
“Then his burn will quickly heal, or he’ll sink.”
“We could face penalties for false accusation. We could be put to the ordeal ourselves.”
Felice frowned at that, but said, “Not when we have so many good reasons for our suspicions.”
Claire had to tell the truth. “If it’s put to the ordeal, then I think Eudo will demand ordeal by battle. If we’re wrong, his opponent will die.”
“But we’re not wrong,” said Felice, who was always sure of herself, even when she was totally wrong.
“We’ll have to think more about it. After all, Eudo isn’t here.”
“Oh, but he is.” Felice smirked. “I asked his escort. He was only too pleased of an excuse to come and grovel before the man he has so often denounced as unfit to rule.”
Claire wanted to scream. She fixed her gaze on the altar, on the flickering candle that showed Christ was present in the form of the host. Please dear Lord, guide me, so that what I do now be for the good of all. And do not let my path lead to harm for my husband.
She had choices. She and Felice could go to Eudo and tell him all they knew, and all they suspected. She could make sure that he understood that they wouldn’t reveal his crimes unless he sinned again. He was not at heart a bad man, only a coward who had sinned through panic. She remembered his grief over her father’s death, and over her own fate. Both had surely been genuine.
That still hadn’t stopped him trying to kill her.
Like a rabid dog, he really wasn’t safe to leave unchecked.
She could kill him herself. She wasn’t sure how, but she knew she could do it to protect Renald. That, however, would be murder, no matter how justified she felt. She would have usurped God’s role in dispensing
justice.
Heavily she realized that the only right thing to do was to make their accusations public and let justice take its course. It would be put before God through battle, and then, heaven help them if they were wrong.
She turned to where Felice was waiting, idly buffing her nails on her skirt, seemingly without concern. And yet she had come here. True, she’d doubtless wanted to be at court, and wanted to puff off her own cleverness. But she probably truly had wanted to keep Claire safe.
Claire was learning many things, one being that people were never saints or devils, but a complex blend of virtue and weakness.
She wished Eudo were evil, someone who clearly should be wiped off the earth. Instead he was a generally decent man who had lost his way and now must die.
For this purpose, it would be good if Renald were pure wolf, able to kill without qualm. But he had a soul, in many ways a gentle one, and killing pained him, particularly the cold-blooded, judicial kind.
She remembered thinking that she would protect the ones she loved, but she saw no option here for hitting anyone over the head with a rock.
“Well?” asked Felice. “I know you have to think everything through ten times over, Claire, but really.”
“We had best tell Renald.”
“And then, I assume, we will have to explain it all to the king.” She rose, smiling, complacently sure that the King of England would be impressed by her courage and beauty.
Touched by the rising sun, the stands held only grim-faced men—and Claire and Felice. As accusers, they were obliged to be here. At the hearing before the king, Renald had tried to assume the role of accuser, but the king had disagreed. No penalty would hover over the Summerbourne ladies, since their story was clearly not based on malice, but every man had the right to face his accusers at all times.
Felice seemed to be quite looking forward to the fight.
Claire’s eyes were hot from weeping. The tears were mostly for Eudo, who had clung to his claim of innocence, but who had struggled desperately not to face any kind of ordeal. It had not been a pretty scene.