Lord of Midnight (14 page)

It seemed so normal that she could almost imagine her parents there, ready to advise and protect. Then tears stung. Her father was gone, and her mother was willing to throw her daughter to the wolves.

The wolf riding beside her hadn’t troubled her with words until now. “It is a fine place. Lady Claire, and together we can keep it so.”

There was no escape, not without sacrificing her family. “Will you do that? Will you promise that at least you will cherish Summerbourne?”

His jaw tightened. “I intend to cherish both my wife and Summerbourne, and my children in time. For a man like me, such things are doubly precious.”

He kneed his horse on, and Claire followed, trying to take some comfort from his words. But what would such a land-hungry man do to gain his dream? What had he done?

War. Tourney. Bloodshed.

He’d admitted it.

He gave orders to break the camp, then led the way between the gates. Claire’s mother was waiting and hurried forward. “I heard that Felice and Amice had disappeared! Are they safe?”

Claire slid off her horse before he could help her. “They’re at St. Frideswide’s. I tried to— ” She halted, unwilling to be cruel about him or Felice. “I tried to make Felice see that Lord Renald would be a comfortable husband, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“So it is settled?” Lady Murielle looked anxiously between them and gave him a placating smile. Claire wished she wouldn’t do that. They might all be in his power. They didn’t have to grovel. She made a sudden, firm decision. She would never grovel to him.

“It is for the best,” said Lady Murielle, putting her arm around Claire and leading her into the manor house. “We’ll all still be in our home, and—”

“My ladies.”

His voice halted them and made them turn. “It is the king’s will that this be dealt with speedily. Please give my clerk a list of those you would want at the betrothal, but only people who can be here by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” her mother gasped.

“It’s too soon,” Claire stated, chin high.

He brushed aside her pitiful rebellion. “We have already delayed, my lady. We plight our troth tomorrow. Whether you have guests here or not is entirely up to you.”

Claire might have argued further, but her mother pulled her into the hall. “Claire! You heard. It’s the king’s order. Don’t anger him now. Especially if he’s to be your husband.”

“He’s a tyrant!”

“All the more reason to be meek. Humor him, dear., and he’ll come around.” Her mother patted her hand. “He seems a reasonable man. After all, he could insist on the betrothal now, without any guests or celebration.”

“I might prefer it. It would be more fitting so soon after Father’s death. The documents are ready.”

“No!” Lady Murielle wailed. “Claire, I will
not
have my only daughter betrothed without a single neighbor to stand as witness.”

Claire stared at her. “But Father—”

“Don’t lecture me, Claire! Clarence would have wanted your bridals to be joyous, you know he would.”

It was true, but to Claire this all felt wrong. “Perhaps a quiet affair, then.”

“No.” She’d never known her mother could be so stubborn. “We will do it properly. Come. Let’s send out messages, and then we’ll start to work on the feast. Such a lot of work, and Amice and Felice locked away…”

She was towing Claire past Lady Agnes, and Claire forced a halt to ask, “Gran, is there no way out?”

“Where’s Felice?”

Claire explained the situation.

“Then no,” said her grandmother. “There’s no way out. He has to marry one of you.”

“Which is what you wanted.”

Lady Agnes seemed as impervious as de Lisle her attacks. “Aye. And it’ll be for the best.”

Her mother put an arm around her. “Come long, dear. Your grandmother is right. It all will be for the best. Felice would not take are of everyone as you will.”

But her mother’s gaze was on Thomas, brawled on the floor, sulking. Claire wished she’d at least look grateful for her sacrifice. “You should be about your duties,” she said, shamed of the tartness in her voice.

He shrugged. “No one’s told me what to do.”

“What about earlier? They were looking for you.”

“I don’t have to be at their beck and call day and night.”

“That’s exactly what you have to be!” He sat up, jaw set. “Well, I won’t!”

“Of course he won’t,” said Lady Murielle. “Really, Claire. He’s a lord’s son, not a serf.” Claire looked at her brother. “If I marry de Lisle, it will be for my family, especially for you. But you will have to do your part. You’ll lave to prepare to make your own way in me world.”

“It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair that I have to marry the man. ‘ll be stuck with him forever while you’ll be able to make a new life for yourself.” He did look a bit guilty at that. “I’ll learn about swords and things.”

“You’ll learn what you’re told to learn. And that includes service and the law.”

“That dull stuff.”

“Thomas, they’ll
beat
you if you don’t do as you’re told, and don’t think I’ll be able to stop them. You’ve already taxed Lord Renald’s patience.”

“And this is only for a little while, dearest,” Claire’s mother said to her son. “Once Claire is married to Lord Renald, I’m sure she will persuade him to make more suitable provision for you.”

Claire wanted to throw up her hands in exasperation. Everyone seemed to think that if she just married this man, the world would go on as before.

“If he mistreats either of you,” said Lady Agnes, “we’ll deal with him.”

“Deal with him?” Claire whirled on her grandmother, sure everyone was going mad. “You’ll bring the king down on us!”

Lady Agnes chuckled. “You’ve all gone soft in the head living under Clarence, dear sweet boy that he was. Women have always had ways of handling men as long as they stick together.” Her eyes shifted to behind Claire. “Fair warning, lad.”

Claire turned to see that de Lisle had entered the hall.

“I have no intention of mistreating anyone,” he said shortly. “Lady Murielle, do you have that list of names? No? Please provide it. Thomas.”

Claire jumped almost as much as her brother did, bouncing to his feet.

“Attend me.” With that brusque command, de Lisle walked into her father’s office. Lady Murielle put out a hand as if to stop her son leaving, but then let it fall.

After looking around in hope of help, Thomas slouched after de Lisle.

“Sweet Mary protect him,” Lady Murielle whispered.

“Mother! Thomas puts on that oppressed manner when asked to do anything he doesn’t like!”

“At least my child is still here. I can stand between him and cruelty.”

Claire wished her mother would remember that she had another child here.

“It’s a cruel world, Murielle,” Lady Agnes snapped. “It’s time the boy learned to deal with it.”

Lady Murielle glared at her motherin-law. “I suppose you want the poor boy beaten five times a day.”

“Only if he deserves it.” Lady Agnes turned on Claire. “You need a good whipping too, girl, making such a fuss about nothing. Stop putting on a mourning face.”

“But I
am
mourning,” Claire almost screamed. “Have you forgotten?”

“No. But Clarence’s death isn’t this man’s fault. He’s comely and courteous—what more do you want?”

“Warmth. Honor. Sensitivity!” Claire covered her face with her hands. “I just don’t want to marry him.” She turned to Lady Murielle. “Mother, you understand, don’t you?”

Her mother wrapped an arm around her, patting her shoulder. “Of course, dear. This has been a terrible few weeks, and the pain of your father’s death is still sharp for all of us. But life must go on. I agree with your grandmother. If a husband had to be imposed upon you, fate could have thrown you a far worse one than this.”

And, added Claire to herself, if the price of Thomas’s future is to throw you to a hungry wolf, so be it.

She reminded herself that this merely proved how desperate the situation was. De Lisle was being so moderate that it was easy to forget that the world had changed. None of them had a place here by right anymore. None of them had a possession by right, either—not a garment or a morsel of food. Certainly no ornaments, instruments, and books.

Unless she married him.

She had to do it, and it wasn’t her way to play the martyr.

She took a moment to steady herself, then found a smile. “Certainly he does not seem to be a bad man. So, what do we do?”

“Good girl.” Her mother smiled with relief. “First we must give him those names. We can’t have a betrothal without all our good neighbors.”

“I have writing materials in the maidens’ chamber.”

“Excellent.” As they climbed the stairs, her mother said, “We must decide what you will wear for the ceremonies, too.”

Claire thought briefly, longingly, of dull clothes and ashes, but it would be pointless. She was fiercely glad, however, about her hair. Nothing could mend that and traditionally a bride wore her hair uncovered.

At least all the hastily assembled guests would know she did not go lightly to her dire fate.

“Capon,” said Lady Murielle later, surveying the bailey like a storehouse. “No time to roast an ox… Suckling pigs!”

Claire felt a pang for those piglets, who’d been wallowing so cheerfully in the mud two days before. She ordered the slaughter, however, then hurried after her mother to the brewhouse and wine stores. They didn’t drink much wine at Summerbourne, but in addition to plentiful ale they had mead, and two small casks of Bordeaux. They were ordered rolled into the hall so they’d settle before the feast.

Feast.

Claire rubbed her temples, not feeling at all festive.

Her mother’s voice broke into her sad mood. “Are there any cherries left? I wonder if there are blackberries still in the woods. Send some children to see, Claire. Even if this is all done in a hurry, we must do it right.”

Claire looked at her mother who seemed to have drowned grief in hard work. Perhaps that was the secret. She stuck her mind to the strictly practical and relayed the orders. Then she bustled around with her mother making sure that the hens were laying well and the dairy animals were giving plenty of milk. The beekeeper assured them that the hives flowed with honey.

“Provide enough rich cakes,” said Lady Murielle, “and everyone will be happy.”

“Until their stomachs rebel,” Claire remarked, and they even shared a wry smile.

They were walking back into the manor from the beekeeper’s hut when Claire saw de Lisle on the wall, watching.

Her mother followed her gaze. “I’m surprised he’s not out hunting with his men. His type enjoy the sport.”

“He’s sent his men out?” Claire asked.

“Yes. Any deer or small game they bring will be useful. Strange he didn’t go, though.”

“He’s making sure his one remaining bride doesn’t sneak off to St. Frideswide’s.”

Her mother flashed her a look. “Claire—”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’m a willing sacrifice.”

Willing didn’t seem quite the right word, but what other word applied when she was not going to fight? At least tomorrow would only be the betrothal. She’d have time to try to steel herself for the marriage bed.

Having ensured that they had enough provisions, they now settled to supervising the preparations, and even baking themselves. Claire claimed a space in the bakehouse and started making her specialty, honey-almond cakes.

How many would come to the hasty betrothal? she wondered as she ground the nuts. She’d be surprised if every family of substance within the half-day’s ride didn’t send someone. With the recent rebellion, there’d be plenty to talk about, and everyone would be curious about the new lord, and the whole situation.

She paused in kneading her dough. The invitations had included news of her father’s deaths so they’d come in a sense to mourn, too. She went back to pounding her fists into the sweet, sticky mass. This was going to be the strangest betrothal ever known.

She hoped people wouldn’t want to talk about her father’s death, but they probably would. That made her think about how little they knew. She couldn’t tell anyone where he had died, or how, except that it was by a sword through mail to the heart.

Frowning, she wondered again what had happened to Ulric.

She wrapped her dough in a damp cloth and began to make the pastry. Her father had considered his rebellion a personal act so he’d not taken any men-at-arms. However, Ulric, his manservant since birth, had refused to be left behind. He must be dead, poor man, doubtless in the same skirmish, for he’d never leave her father’s side.

“Lady Claire!” One of the women snapped her out of her thoughts, stamping in red-faced to complain. “I’ll swear those men aren’t doing the hens right. Such a mess as they’re making of it. Been at the drink, if you ask me.”

Claire sighed. “I’ll be there in a moment, Heddy.” She tossed a cloth over her pastry and reluctantly went outside. She liked to keep as far away from slaughter as she could. Felice had always supervised such matters. It seemed a sign of the miserable changes in her life that she now had to go and watch hens having their necks wrung.

It was mayhem, but that was normal. Hens and chickens high-stepped in all panicked directions, squawking the alarm. Laughing men caught whatever bird was passing and swung it by the neck to its death. The corpses were tossed carelessly to waiting maids who chopped off the heads and plucked them. The plucked hens were plunged into tubs of cold water. Other women were pulling out the cool ones to clean them.

The stink of gut and gore was everywhere.

Claire saw one man kick a passing hen for sport and called, “Alby, stop that!”

Suddenly aware that the mistress was present, the men sobered and set to catching the victims with less play. The hens still died.

Carefully stony-faced, Claire watched, thinking about death. Necessary death. Pointless death.

Which sort of death had come for her father?

Someone at the betrothal might know, but she realized that she’d come around to her mother’s way of thinking. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to remember her father as the peaceful man he truly had been, not as a creature of iron and blood.