Cloistered Bride

by Ling, Maria

  A man twice the youngster's age, not old, but seasoned. Vaguely familiar, Richard thought, and frowned as he struggled for recollection. The other man frowned back, evidently locked in the same inner battle.

  "We've met before, maybe?" the man hazarded.

  Memory struck, abrupt and blinding. Richard felt his eyes light up, saw the answer reflected in the other's eyes.

  "Kelscott." Eustace Betraine leaned back a touch, as if afraid to let the vision slip from his sight. "Well, I'm glad to see you back where you belong. Lands not lost for long, eh?"

  "The king had me worried," Richard said. "I spent months trailing along before he took pity on me. So, you're not in exile after all?"

  "Paid a hefty fine to make the king forget," Eustace said. "My cousin brokered it. Advantage of having a turncoat in the family. Well, with an old friend in charge here, I'll stop and take a cup if I may. These are my attendants, William and Gervase." The former nodded, a grim man with a scar down one side of his face. The latter, the ruddy youth, watched impassively from his mount. Eustace scowled at him. "Show some courtesy, lad."

  The youth turned haughty eyes on Eustace, then appeared to recollect himself, and offered Richard a slight bow.

  Ghastly brat, Richard thought, but he bowed in return. More and more he was convinced that this was Prince Henry in person, best and most promising claimant to the throne of England, heir to his empress mother's ambition.

  "You'll be welcome in my house," Richard said. "All of you. Though I wonder that you travel with so few attendants. It is unwise for any lord to be abroad without protection."

  "Money," Eustace said. "Can't pay men with nothing but fresh air. The war wiped out our coffers, and what we had left the king took. God save him," he added drily, as an afterthought.

  "No doubt He will," Richard said, mindful of the watching shadows.

  "But for what?" Eustace asked with a grin, and looked all of a sudden feral and wild, as he'd done not two years ago, when he rode among Robert of Gloucester's troops. Richard experienced a sudden misgiving at allowing him free run of the manor -- or introducing him to Clarice, come to that. No telling what she'd make of him, though Richard feared the worst. She'd been so sheltered all her life, she knew nothing of such men as this. He ought not to bring them together.

  But Eustace rode on, following John, and Henry -- or Gervase, as he must be called -- did likewise, though he stiffened visibly as the baron wished him an excellent morning. Hard to say if the prince recognised him, certainly he spoke no word that betrayed it, but Richard watched his set back thoughtfully. Then caught the eye of the baron, who winked.

  "What's he up to?" William muttered, as he rode up alongside Richard.

  "Heaven knows," Richard said. "Some drink-sodden idea of a joke."

  William grunted, and scanned the trees on either side. Richard froze, then relaxed as he saw the shadows had vanished. They had sense enough to stay out of sight as he rode past, though he felt their eyes on him, boring into his back.

  "It's him," Ralph murmured in an undertone as Richard joined him. "No doubt of it."

  So, Richard thought. He was halfway to favour. He had the prince, and could capture or kill him at a word. Though he'd have Eustace to fight, and William, and the two retainers who rode behind.

  But how he was to get them all away safely, and with a body to show for his trouble -- that he could not guess.

  For the first time, he wondered if Clarice might not be on to something. Prayer was what he needed most, right now.

  ***

  Clarice laid down her sewing. At last they were back, the men, she heard the regular thud of horses' hooves. Crossed to the narrow window and peeked out. There were more of them, and well dressed. Richard must have met some neighbouring lord and invited him back.

  Which he'd no doubt inform her of in due course. She'd already learned that he did not take kindly to her interfering in his affairs. So she quelled her first impulse, to go downstairs and greet the visitors. Instead she resolved to wait here patiently, pretend to be unaware, continue with her sewing. Yet she found she could not compose herself enough to sit, let alone to work. A true Christian would find no difficulty, but evidently she was no such thing, for to her it was impossible. She kept peering out, watched the horses grow as they approached, watched the bright colours under a cloudy sky. More rain, dear Heaven, as if the world had not got soaked enough before. But at least she was sheltered and dry now, not stuck on some dismal cart. It had not been the bridal journey she'd dreamt of, she smiled at that. But it had brought her here, to Richard's home, where she was comfortable if not altogether happy.

  She'd wanted importance, she realised. To be the mistress of a household, in fact and not merely in name, useful and valued, deferred to. Not shunted aside like an unnecessary object, of no real service to anyone.

  If the housekeeper would only let her govern -- but it was obvious she never would. Clarice turned over ways of asking, cajoling, ordering outright. But none of them ended, even in her imagination, with anything other than the housekeeper leaving and Richard demanding to know why. At which point Clarice would have to confess to knowing nothing about the management of such a place as this. She hadn't been trained to it. The nuns had given her an excellent grounding in theology, but they had never once alluded to how one ran a manor house. Or even a convent, come to think of it. She berated herself now, for taking it all so entirely for granted. It had never occurred to her to ask who organised it all, and how.

  Nothing for her to do now but sit, and work, and hope to be given some role in her own house -- other than the obvious one, which she admitted she had not yet even begun to master. She glanced at the bed, flushed with recollection, felt the heat rise from her crotch. That she could do, she wanted it, she would learn to excel there at least. What the nuns had taught her, such as it was, she'd already had to discard. Richard wanted none of her pious submission. So she'd have to discover what he did want, and give it to him. Except that she already had done, and while he'd been in a frenzy of delight, it had left her cold and unsatisfied and deeply forlorn.

  There was still tonight. And the night after, and the night after that. Eventually he'd find a way to satisfy her too. She glowed at the thought, began to count off the hours in her mind. Started at the sound of quick steps on the stairs, bumped down on the stool and scooped up her work with a blush of guilt. Sat still and rigid as the door opened, raised her head with what she hoped was an expression of puzzled indifference.

  "With your leave, madam," Richard said, "some visitors have arrived to take their ease, before they continue their journey. You'll oblige me by receiving them." He seemed nervous, she thought, and tense. A flurry of fear swirled through her.

  "Who are they?" she asked, as close to polite interest as she could manage.

  "A knight of my former acquaintance and two of his friends. With attendants, but they'll take a bite in the hall." Richard stood aside to admit three strangers and her uncle, then left issuing promises of stools for all.

  Clarice strove to look as if receiving crowds of men into her bedchamber was an entirely natural thing. She knew every lady of manor or castle did so, she'd learned enough from her friends at the convent. But still she squirmed at the thought of what had passed between her and Richard in that bed, only hours ago. She could feel it still, and she was certain they could all smell it. She cringed at that thought, wished for a sudden draught of fresh air, but though the shutters hung full back the air had stilled. No breeze moved through the room.

  But the men didn't seem to notice, or if they did it didn't trouble them. They greeted her, gave names that meant nothing to her, made use of the stools that arrived. Her uncle asked after her health, oddly without that twinkle of good humour she'd come to expect from him. She'd seen him each year at Easter, and he always exuded an atmosphere of jolly abandon. Not so today, he seemed tense as Richard was, and the strangers also. She didn't know what had come over them all.

 
"What news from abroad?" she asked, and the youngest gave so violent a start she thought he'd overturn. "I know little of this neighbourhood," she added in an effort to smooth things over, though she could not guess what she'd said that was wrong. "But I intend to learn all I can about it, since it is now my home."

  "Abroad as in throughout the neighbouring estates," her uncle told the other men, with a significant nod. "I'll admit I'm curious myself. Has Stephen relented elsewhere, or is he keeping a hard hand on the reins?"

  "He was always hard of hand," one of the strangers said -- Eustace, Clarice recalled. A stern man with bleak eyes, she shivered to look at him. "But I'll admit there's been little in the way of reprisals. No taste for it on either side, after years of war."

  Her uncle nodded with what might be taken for sympathy. "So I can imagine. I was spared the worst of it, but I hear things got bloody elsewhere."

  "Worse than bloody," Eustace said.

  "I've no complaints about him," the young man offered. "Generous in victory. All the same, though..." He trailed off.

  "You do right, of course," her uncle said. "There's a future to consider."

  Clarice bent over her sewing. She had no idea what they were talking about, and didn't much care. If she'd been more adept at conversation, she would have turned this one elsewhere. To hawking perhaps, or music, or the court. But she knew little of such things, she'd always felt awkward among the richer girls, especially those for whom their stay in the convent was a mere temporary inconvenience, a gap between home and marriage. She'd been sent there as a girl, the nuns had raised her, and while many of them were worldly enough, she'd always been handed to the most pious. Her tutor in recent years, an older and more spiritual woman before. She remembered Sister Joseph with a stab of grief, she'd never quite got over her death. Prayers after that had turned to her instead of the saints, and even Holy Mother Mary had taken on the face and voice and scent of that dear ageing nun.

  Clarice fought back tears. She'd tried not to grieve, she'd been told it was a sin. Sister Joseph was with God and His angels now, it was wrong to miss her, heinous to wish her back. But she did, Clarice thought in mutinous defiance, she did want her back. What use had God for her? There were saints enough in Heaven. And Sister Joseph hadn't wanted to go, she'd said so before the end. Rested her gnarled hand on Clarice's head, and smiled a little, and said she wished she could stay to see her married.

  That had seemed a lifetime away, then. A little absurd, too.

  Now here she was. Married.

  To Richard's benefit. She didn't mind that as she had done before. He'd know how to make good use of that coin.

  Though she wished she had some say in how he disposed of it, nevertheless.

  Here he came now, on edge still, she longed to know what troubled him. But he forced a smile for their guests, exchanged a brief expressionless glance with her uncle, told the strangers there was space for themselves and their horses if they cared to stay the night. Handled their protestations with hurried acceptance, as if he'd known they'd refuse and didn't much care. Which wasn't like him, Clarice thought. When he asked, he listened for the answer.

  "We should leave, in fact." Eustace rose, fixed Richard with a stare that was not altogether friendly. "Good to see you again, Kelscott. You know where we are if you need us. Or have aught to say that we'd want to hear."

  A silence fell, thin and tense and awkward. Clarice dropped all pretence at sewing, turned to study each man's face in turn. They all looked at Richard, who stared back with evident misery.

  "I can say this," he ventured. "Roads are treacherous these days. Folk have not yet recovered from the ravages of war. Many are homeless, many are maimed. Church doles go to feed hungry children first, worn-out women second. There are plenty of men living rough, out for what they can get, and caring little how they get it."

  "No news," Eustace said. "It's why we travel attended, and armed."

  "Plenty of men," Richard repeated, and fixed him with a significant stare. "Not all of them low born."

  "Ah." Eustace sat down again. "You know something?"

  "I do," Richard said. He glanced at Clarice. "Your pardon, madam. We'll speak of lighter things in your own chamber."

  "I don't mind," Clarice said.

  "All the same." Eustace watched her too, with a chill scrutiny that made her shudder. And then turned to her uncle. "You're with Kelscott on this?"

  "In a manner of speaking." Her uncle gave her a cheerful smile, grotesque under those cold shrewd eyes. "Go fetch refreshments for your guests, madam. They've sat here long enough for thirst."

  Clarice winced. So they had, and she'd been remiss in not noticing it sooner. Though she'd assumed Richard would order wine -- but it was her task to ensure it arrived, that was true. "I ask pardon of you all," she said, and put the sewing down in the basket at her feet. "I'll find out what the delay is."

  She pushed the door to, not quite hard enough for wood to catch on wood. They'd bolt it shut, she didn't doubt, but she could at least try. Walked down the stairs, each step clear and deliberate, swished the floor with her feet. Paused for a moment. Eased her way upstairs again, holding to the edge and letting her weight move slow and smooth to avoid any creaks.

  "The earl's men are the problem," Richard was saying. "They've seen him, they know or guess who he is, they'd know him again if they saw him dead. Or know that it wasn't him, either."

  "Not if the face was missing." Her uncle's voice sounded cruel and cold, so unlike his usual tone that it took her a moment to recognise him. No hint of jovial abandon there, he made her shiver where she stood.

  "Head beaten in." That was Eustace, from the first she'd loathed that grate as of stone on stone. "No one would know him then. Given the right clothes, and so forth."

  "Got a man of suitable age?" That was the younger man, Clarice grappled for the memory of his name. Gervase, she thought.

  "None that wouldn't be sorely missed," Richard admitted. "And there's another problem. They've mostly got fingers or testicles missing."

  Clarice let out a yelp. And then stood frozen, cursing herself. She glanced around for some means of escape, saw only the door to the small room where the earl's men slept. Dodged in there, on tiptoe, and pressed herself back against the wall. The room was empty, God and the saints be praised.

  The bedroom door creaked open. "No," Richard said. "Must have imagined it." He shut the door, and she heard the scrape of a bolt.

  Clarice breathed out. She shook all over, and not only with the fear of being discovered. They'd been planning murder in that room, she was sure of it. Murder and mutilation, desecration of a body -- it made her want to throw up. And Richard was part of it.

  She waited until her breathing slowed, fought to calm herself. Eased back to the stairs at last, sneaked down the steps again, with such care that the descent seemed to last an age. Walked outside to the kitchen and cellar, got the victuals ordered and sent up. Hovered, because she couldn't bring herself to return to that room and face those men.

  "Good evening." One of the earl's men caught her as she hesitated outside the main door. He'd been on the point of walking on, but now stopped and scrutinised her face. "You look upset, madam. Anything I can assist you with?"

  "No," Clarice managed. "I feel a little unwell, that is all. If you could help me to a seat..."

  She let him take her arm and lead her into the hall, where she slumped on one of the benches. The thought that Richard, her Richard, could be part of such a dreadful plan -- it made her sick, both in body and in soul.

  "I'll fetch your husband," the earl's man said.

  "No," Clarice said, too quickly, and grabbed his arm. That made him look at her with renewed interest -- and with suspicion. Now she must think fast. Because whatever terrible plot Richard was involved in, and her uncle too, she dared not betray the least hint of it to anyone. Not until she knew what it was, and why he could even contemplate such a thing.

  Most of all, why.


  "Don't leave," she said, and clung to the man's arm. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  He yanked his arm away with more speed than courtesy. "Then let me fetch you a bucket." He strode away, out into the yard, and left her to sway alone.

  ***

  Richard shut the bedchamber door with a deep sense of relief. The prince's party had agreed to stay the night, and by a miracle he'd found corners enough for all of them. John had been consulted on the problem of finding a body -- "a body already dead, mind," Richard had warned him, in an effort to make sure this dreadful business didn't escalate any further. He'd been caught out by the swift arrival of the very man he'd been set to kill, and although his plans were laid he'd had no chance to act on them. And there was Clarice, too, whose presence hampered him more than he cared to admit. Death he could deal out when need arose, though never gladly. But murder was another thing entirely, and he shuddered at the thought of her clear innocent eyes watching him. Not that she'd know. She'd never catch the least hint of it, he'd sworn that much to himself. But even so.

  She affected him more than he'd expected. Part of that was the sex, sure, he didn't attempt to hide the fact from himself. Part of it, maybe, the nunnish talk that irked him so -- he didn't care for the presence of an aspiring saint in his bed and in his life. But partly it was Clarice herself, her honesty, her trust. She'd shown herself willing to shed all pretence, to risk his displeasure by openly admitting her thoughts and her desires. He wanted to be worthy of that.

  He wanted to know more about those desires, too.

  She knelt by the side of the bed, praying. If she could go to mass six times a day, she probably would. As it was, he'd take her once a week to whichever of the nearby churches received the honour of a visit from God's chosen, and let her be content with that.

  Richard undressed while she prayed, stood at last in nothing but his shirt, resisted the temptation to order her into bed. It wouldn't go down well, better to let her pay the dues she thought she owed. After that, she'd be all his.