by Maria Ling
Richard hesitated. He could use an ally.
And the king had ordered him to feign loyalty to the Angevin cause. Even if Clarice's uncle were only here to test him, this bet went both ways.
"I won't bet against you," Richard said.
The baron exhaled. "Thought so." He leaned forward, clasped his hands together, studied Richard with sharp eyes in that puffy face. "So what's your game?"
"What do you mean?" Richard asked, a trifle on his dignity.
"Well, you've obviously been set up to appear as the prodigal son returned, all forgiven if not forgotten, and your lands restored. Except that you're under guard, and beholden to the king. Right?"
Richard nodded, reluctantly.
"So you've been charged with some task or other. What is it?"
Richard regarded the man for a while. "Why do you want to know?"
"Caution," the baron said. "I like that. I want to know because I have word from a usually reliable source that a certain person of some importance will shortly be travelling this way. Now, I happen to know that another person of greater importance would give a great deal for him to be quietly removed. The kind of task I myself used to specialise in, not too long ago. And since I retain my loyalty, I should be sorry to see any such attempt succeed. But if a man of similar loyalty were given the task -- "
"Do you have reason to suppose I am such a man?"
The baron gave him a vapid smile. "A drunken sot such as I? You would not expect thought from me." He dropped the pretence, his face and eyes hardened. "You may not be aware, but I spent some time finding out about you before ever I put you up for marriage to my niece. It seemed to me that you might be a valuable connection. If your heart remains true to the empress. Does it?"
Richard swallowed. And then made the greatest wager of his life. "It does."
The baron nodded. "I thought so. Now if you are amenable to a slight ruse, I'd be happy to offer my services to secure to you both your own lands and the king's favour, without endangering the man we both wish to see on England's throne."
Richard leaned forward, his interest engaged. "What kind of ruse?"
"In broad outline," the baron said, "we catch the wrong man. Sneak the target away. Produce the captive as proof of our best efforts. Arrange matters so that he appears to have been a decoy, to explain why our man later reappears whole and well. Collect on the king's favour without damaging our own cause, and draw the dogs off the true scent. What do you say to that, young man?"
"Ingenious," Richard agreed. "But who would wish to be the captive?"
The baron waved a hand in negligent dismissal. "Any man will do, if washed and dressed and given a suitable name by those who produce his corpse."
"He'll be dead, then," Richard said, and suppressed a shiver.
"Kindest thing," the baron said. "Or would you prefer to turn him over alive to the torturers?"
"No," Richard admitted. He listened for any sign of the earl's men returning, then said in a quiet voice: "Let's do it your way."
"Excellent." The baron leaned back. "What are your plans so far?"
Richard pushed aside the thought of Clarice, warm and yielding, in his bed. She'd been at prayer when he rose, he'd left her to it. "I've passed on word that I'm to be alerted if anyone of noble appearance travels through my land -- so I can extent proper hospitality, of course."
"Naturally." The baron regarded him with those shrewd eyes. Unsettlingly like Clarice's, except for that hint of iron. Hers were deep and clear, without trace of hardness. Richard liked that. He had a brief sensation of falling, far into some hidden pool, then shook himself and landed right side up back in his own too-real life. Clarice must wait. He'd have all night with her.
Better not think about that, either.
"What if he travels disguised as a peasant?" the baron asked. "Some do, you know."
"He won't, if he's got any sense," Richard pointed out. "Ordinary folk don't take kindly to strangers. At least not around here. There's no knowing if they've come for honest work or to rob." Or to burn and mutilate, he thought, or to seize all the food and goods they could find, leaving the cottagers with nothing. But that was soldiers' work. The young prince wouldn't be that much of a fool, travelling as he must through lands held by his enemy. One word in the right ear and he'd be snapped up fast. No. He'd travel quietly, with a few attendants and good provisions, and pay his way with coin and sweet words as he went. At least if he had any sense.
"Fair enough," the baron said.
"And if any of such sort do come through here," Richard added, "my steward will hear of it through the bailiff, and pass the word on to me. If he comes as peasant or prince, we'll spot him."
***
Clarice laid down her sewing. It was all the work she was permitted to do. The maids each had their tasks, and referred her to the housekeeper whenever she attempted to speak to them. The housekeeper, in turn, assured her everything was under control, and replied to Clarice's politely worded questions with increasing asperity.
"I have run this house for twenty years," she said at last. "If madam wishes to find a replacement for me, I'm sure I can help with finding one."
At which Clarice backed down, appalled, and assured her nothing of the kind was under consideration. Which brought her back in the housekeeper's favour, much to her relief.
After that, she left well enough alone. Just sat here, in the bedchamber, and stared out of the window, and sewed.
Not that she needed sewing done, either. Mending shirts for charity, the housekeeper had let her have those. "Such neat little stitches," she'd said with approval, and Clarice accepted the compliment in the spirit of a peace offering. Though she wondered at the gashes and rents she was mending, and the bloodstains not fully bleached out.
She would put them in the sun, she decided, it helped with whitening linen, and the day was glorious.
Hot sunshine had followed the torrential rain, and the snarly garden outside already began to wilt. She found shrubs near the house, draped the shirts over and tied their sleeves back so they would not fall or blow away. Paused to stretch her back as she finished, admired the view across wide open ground. Houses dotted the shorn fields, long low buildings with sagging thatch roofs. Pastures opened beyond, and a dark clump of woodland rested on the horizon.
A man rode towards her, rather briskly, on a shaggy pony. He turned as he approached, rode up to the main door, waited just long enough for one of the lads to emerge from the barn and take the reins. Then he dismounted and vanished into the house.
Clarice started forward, curious. The lad walked the pony around the open space between the outbuildings, unhurried. Stroked its neck. Showed no inclination to lead it away towards the small stable.
Odd, Clarice thought.
"Who was that?" she asked the lad.
"Old John from over Wesnor way. Said he just wanted a quick word with the master."
About farming, no doubt, Clarice thought with a vague feeling of disappointment. There had been something about the way he rode, fast and purposeful, that suggested he'd been about a particular business. Not that she could guess what that might be. But with nothing to do and no place to go, she found herself with rather too much time to spend.
Back in the convent, she'd never been idle. There had been prayers and readings and lessons and work, she'd never sat like this for hours without call to any task. Of course, she did have one purpose here. She flushed as she recalled the previous night. It had been bizarre, and exciting, and then catastrophically disappointing. She'd wanted him to go on and on, deeper and harder -- and then it had all been over. Which felt like a slap. It had been all she could do to stay civil. But he'd apologised, and promised more and better tonight, and she forced herself to be content with that. Even as she lay awake, listening to his regular snores beside him, and lived the experience over and over again, and imagined what might have followed instead.
Not that she ought to have such thoughts.
This morning she'd been tempted, she'd heard him wake and rise while she prayed, it had been all she could do to remain fixed in her devotions. But the nuns had warned her about that, they'd told her she would be tempted at times, and that she risked her soul's damnation if she yielded to such promptings. Unless her husband absolutely and in so many words ordered her to the contrary -- in which case she could be certain that his will was God's will -- her prayers must come first. Always.
By the time she was done, he had already left. She wouldn't see him until evening, except at table, and there she must remain demure. Which irked her, like an itch she could not reach to scratch.
Well, she could at least take a wifely interest in the doings on the estate. Which would give her the chance to see Richard again, admire his strong shoulders and sensitive hands, remember last night and the promise of better. To catch his eye, maybe, and see that look of startled adoration. She craved that, it nourished her.
He used a chamber off the hall for such meetings, she'd already learned as much. So she crossed the hall, hesitated for a moment before the door so uninvitingly closed. Plucked up courage, for she was at least the lady of the house and had some right to be there. Knocked, and pushed the door opened.
"Good morning, my dear," her uncle said. "Glad to see you looking so perky. Kelscott, why aren't you keeping her up at night?"
Clarice blinked at him, bewildered. No one had told her he was here.
"Concern for her welfare," Richard said. He glared at her, as if she'd intruded, and she felt a moment's fear that she'd displeased him. Then she realised that he looked tired and worried, not angry at all. "Madam, you'll wish to offer your uncle some hospitality. I'll have words with John here yet a while."
"I'll take a drink in here with you," her uncle said. "Go fetch something, girl. And shut the door. There's a draft, which my old joints don't care for."
Clarice withdrew, snubbed. She'd been thrown out, that much was clear. And she resented it. This was her home, and she ought to give the orders. But Richard didn't want her there, that was also plain, and so she must obey.
She went outside again, into the glare of the too-hot sun, found the kitchen grilling with heat from within and without, left her order for bread and wine to be carried to the master. Dawdled, because she had nowhere to go and no one who cared what she did, so long as she stayed out of everyone else's affairs.
At the convent, she'd have friends around her, other girls whispering and giggling and nudging each other as they teased the nuns. Or talking over theology at solemn length, and geography, and Latin prose.
She'd never felt so alone -- not for years, not since she first arrived at the convent and knew no one. She'd made a place for herself there, a home, a little patch of earth where she was welcome. Whereas here...
Well, it wouldn't do to sit and cry about it. Clarice fought back the tears that started to her eyes, climbed the stairs and flung herself onto her stool. Resumed her mending, hose in this pile, no less stained. There was work here and enough, she had plenty to do and ought to be ashamed to carry on in such a way. Resolutely she bent to her sewing and kept her mind away from all other matters, refused to consider that Richard's glance had darted past her, into the hall, as if he feared someone stood listening.
***
"Party of three men," John said. "Speak English strangely, French among themselves. Not local, nor commoners. Noble folk sure as my own soul, and not looking for welcome."
"Strange that they are so secretive," Richard said. "Let me take care of it. They might have reason not to wish themselves known. With the troubles still so recent, they may well fear the touch of a wrong hand."
"Or they backed the losing side," John said with a significant nod, "and wonder who's turned against them for it."
"Me," Richard admitted. "Yes, they may travel wary through my lands if that's so. But I'll give them greeting and welcome regardless. Let them eat and drink and take their rest if they choose. I'll head out to meet them within the hour."
John bowed, and withdrew just as bread and wine arrived.
"I don't suppose you'll want me with you," the baron said with a longing glance at the cup.
"Not unless you're still a fighting man," Richard agreed. "This will call for deft manoeuvring. I hadn't expected anyone so soon."
"No saying it's the right man, either," the baron observed. He cast a longing glance at the wine, but shook his head. "I think I'll ride out with you after all."
***
"A few hours only," Richard said. He'd come to tell her he was riding out for a while, showing her uncle around the estate. Not a word about how he'd dismissed her from the room below. She longed to speak to him about that, to complain -- or ask, rather, if she had displeased him. But she was in the wrong: she ought not to have disturbed them.
He kissed her hand, and for a moment desire sparked in his eyes. She felt the response to that within her own body, heat that rose like a wave and consumed her. Her fingers clenched around his, briefly.
"Not long," Richard said. "I could not stay away from you for long."
"You've managed so far this morning," Clarice said, a tinge of petulance in her voice.
"Only with great difficulty." He attempted a grin, but it seemed forced, and his gaze drifted aside. "I have some matters to attend to. Then I'll be at leisure to concentrate entirely on you."
"What matters?" Clarice insisted. "I could share them with you. I know how to read and write and reckon."
"I don't doubt it," Richard said. "In time, I'll find plenty of use for your accomplishments. All of them." The smile grew warmer, more natural, and her breath caught. "But for the moment..." He cooled again, released her hand, stood back. "Stay here, and be at ease. I'll be back in time for supper."
She watched him leave, saw the tension clear in his body. Fear caught her, she could not help but think something must be gravely amiss. But he would not speak of it, and she had no right to pry. He was her husband, not her friend, and he was lord of his own estate. She must let him run it as he chose. Though she would give much to have his trust and his confidence.
In time, she told herself. All things would come in God's good time. But that was poor comfort as she heard the horses thud away along the path between the fields.
***
CHAPTER 5
"There," John said quietly.
He'd met them as they drew near to the woodland that separated the pastures of one village from another. Good timber, kept for logging by both sides, and a tithe to each of the church and the lord of the manor. Which was himself, and he needed more than a tenth, some of the outbuildings were in a worse state than he'd feared. Everything had deteriorated, the natural course of dilapidation unhalted by firm leadership from the manor. Running repairs he could trust to the steward, they had been done and done well, but major expenses required the presence and supervision of the lord in person. Else the steward might well be accused of mismanagement, and that might cost him not only his position but also his life.
Richard understood the risk, and sympathised with the man who refused to take it, but he chafed now to be getting matters into order. He could do without the distraction of errant princes and overbearing guards. At that last thought, he cast a glance towards the earl's men, lounging in the shadows while the earthen path opened undisturbed between the trees. No archers, there were none whose hands had been spared, he'd explained this would take quiet work. They'd shot him dubious glances, but made no objection.
Just on the edge of his vision, something moved. He could hear the thud of hooves, distant but drawing nearer. Now he could see the horsemen, too, a glint in the gloom. Nothing to identify the prince, though, nor to draw attention. Just a minor lord on a journey through the countryside, with nothing on his mind but a bed and a bite at a hospitable house. Which Richard would be happy to provide, were it not for the chill stares of those motionless figures in the trees.
Time to move. He urged the horse forward at a comfort
able walk, unhurried, another minor lord with nothing but crops on his mind. As the visiting party drew nearer, he nodded to John, who trotted ahead on his master's errand. That guileless old face should do the trick, Richard thought, if his own words of casual welcome did not.
The party halted as John met them. Men's voices sounded, indistinct, their tones even and without inflection. Yet Richard could hear the tension in them from here. Fear perhaps, or else wariness -- natural enough, in a region so recently torn by war and grieving still, for those lost and maimed, those scarred by hunger or violence or both. Evil work, Richard thought, and hounded his heart for the thousandth time, searched for some way he could have prevented it.
John swung his pony around, none too briskly, and trotted back. The party rode on at a walk, covered the distance at about half his pace.
"They give their names as servants to Robert of Gaites," John said. "Knights of his household, on an errand to his cousin hard by Gloucester. They ask leave to pass through your lands, with the promise they'll be gone before nightfall."
"Did you not offer them food and a bed?" Richard chided. "Where are your manners, man?" He let his voice carry -- the party had drawn close enough to hear, and he wished to pose as a hospitable man. As yet he recognised none of them, though one -- the youngest -- rode bareheaded, sporting the ruddy tints of Geoffrey of Anjou. Though there were other men of similar colouring, that alone was no proof.
He deliberately refrained from glancing at the baron, who lounged negligently on the fine chestnut horse as it grazed along the path. Already he'd developed a healthy respect for the brain behind that vacant face.
"I did, my lord." John had a nice line in worried deference. "They said they would press on -- seemed to be in a hurry."
"Not that much of a hurry," the leader broke in. "We don't want to trespass on your hospitality, especially with the way things are just now. Most places around here are barely getting back on their feet."