Lord of Midnight (17 page)

Could she believe such a cool statement? She thanked him anyway as she must, and added, “I will try to make sure that Thomas sees reason once all this is a less raw wound.” She looked over to her brother, who was watching the performers, but with a scowl. “He still hopes the world will turn again and put him back where he was.”

“I remember that feeling.” He took another moody sip of his ale.

Claire watched the tumbler do cartwheels up and down the room. “The affairs of man do seem to roll in circles,” she said.

“But unlike acrobats, never backward.” He looked at her. “The past is dead, Claire, and cannot be undone, no matter how much we might wish it so. The great wheel of fate can only run into the future, and the future is ours to shape.”

She didn’t feel at all in control of her future, but essentially he was right. Her father was dead. Summerbourne was lost. In a way, she was as bad as Thomas, still hoping deep inside that something would make all this disappear and put her back where she had been, happy with her father in Summerbourne. Free of this marriage.

He put his hand gently over hers. “Claire, with God’s will and good hearts, we can make something of this. Work for the future, and persuade your brother to do the same.”

Aware of his warm skin against hers, she looked over to where Thomas sat glowering. “He can be horribly stubborn.”

“Then he must change before he joins the king’s household.”

Claire bit her lip at the thought of the consequences of rebellion there. “He’d be safer here.”

“In my tender mercies?” His hand tightened slightly. “Or do you think to control me?”

She looked at him., realizing that was exactly what she’d thought. “Surely a wife has the right to plead—”

“Not for the impossible or disastrous.”

“It wouldn’t be
disastrous
to keep Thomas here for a while.”

“It would be disastrous to thwart the king’s will.”

“But—”

“No.”

It was an absolute, lordly, commanding
no
.

She snatched her hand away. “I am not good at blind obedience, my lord!”

“Then I suggest you learn.”

“Or you’ll beat me into submission?”

Brows rose, as if the question astonished him. “If necessary, yes.”

Claire realized her own hands were fisted, pathetic little fists on the table. He captured one in his big, dark hand, and there was nothing tender in it at all. “We obey the king’s commands. At all times.”

“What if the commands are
wrong
?”

“That is for God to judge.”

She tried to pull free again, and couldn’t. “Some of us have consciences to serve as guides, my lord.”

“Like your father? See where his conscience led him.”

She leaned closer to hiss, “To heaven at least!”

“Whereas I am destined for hell?”

She bit back agreement. That would be wickedly unchristian. “You said you’d done penance.”

“I said that I could have.”

“If you haven’t, you should. Any sin can be forgiven if repentance is true. Even yours.”

“You give me great solace, my lady,” he said in a tone so dry it should burst into flames.

A tubby, middle-aged man stepped into the open area and held up a hand for silence. Claire seized with relief an escape from such a flammable conversation. But what if he hadn’t confessed? What if he didn’t feel sorry for all the lives he had taken?

What did that say of their future together?

Her relief at the interruption soured when she realized the performer was not a storyteller but a riddler. She wasn’t ready to hear riddles here, in the hall of the man who had been master of the art. She made herself keep her seat and her smile, but took a deep drink to steady herself.

The ruddy-faced man was quite good. Though Claire had learned riddles from the cradle and guessed every one, she began to enjoy his clever way of telling them. It helped that his style was different from her father’s. He used more gestures, and roamed the hall, playing to his audience. He liked risque twists, too, something her father had tended to avoid.

“One for you, my young sir!” he cried, halting before Josce, who was bracketed by Claire’s attentive maids. The squire sat straighter, blinking. His mind clearly hadn’t been on riddles at all and people chuckled.

“I rise up straight and tall in the bed, young sir,” said the riddler, grinning. “Erect and proud, I am, but hairy underneath in shadowy places.”

Josce’s freckled face turned deep red, and laughter rippled around the room. Claire could see the squire had never heard this one, and she murmured, “Lord Renald, do you think—?”

He shook his head. “One of life’s many lessons.”

“Women relish me,” the riddler continued. “Some even say life has little savor without me. The bold ones, young sir, they seize me to put me in a special dark place for their pleasure. But I have my revenge when I make young maidens weep. So, young sir, what am I?”

Josce gaped and looked, appalled, at the two young maidens by his sides. Prissy, who must have recognized the riddle, was giggling. Maria was as red-faced as the squire.

“Well, Josce?” asked Lord Renald. “A good warrior never sees only the obvious way. And what you’re thinking should not, with care, make maidens weep.”

Brought back to his wits by his lord’s calm voice, Josce’s high color ebbed and he frowned slightly. Then he laughed. “Very good, Sir Riddler! It is an onion, I think.”

The riddler led a round of applause. “And good for you, young sir! As your wise lord says, no one should always look to the obvious. And that is the riddle master’s art, to teach people to look beyond.” He bowed, then returned to his seat so that a minstrel could perform.

Wise lord. Claire had not thought of Renald de Lisle as wise. She glanced at him. “Had you heard it before, my lord, or are you just good at finding the less obvious ways?”

“Both.” He stood and held out a hand. “I think we can retire now.” De Lisle led her toward the back of the hall, to the stairs leading up to her chamber, pausing by the door to her father’s study.

“There are many books here. Do you wish to take any of them up to your room?”

The kindness startled her. “I thank you, my lord, but it’s too dark now for comfortable reading, and I am weary.”

He leaned against the wall, looking somewhat tired himself. “Brother Nils tells me there is some unbound writing of your father’s here. Stories and illustrations. Would you like me to have them bound for you?”

Claire had hoped not to have to tackle this problem quite so soon. “The work is mine,” she admitted. “My father wove magic with words, but he had little patience with fine writing, and no talent for illustration. We were working together on a collection of his stories and riddles.”

“I see.”

She tried to read his shadowed face. “Will you want me to stop?”

He straightened. “No. Of course not. Brother Nils showed me the illustrations. They are cleverly done. You must finish it.”

She was about to thank him with warm honesty, when he added, “We’ll have it bound, and a copy made as a gift for the king.”

“By no means! Henry Beauclerk does not deserve—”

He slammed her back against the wall, hand over her mouth. “Guard your tongue.”

She stared up, shaken, but when he took his hand away she hissed, “So, even you fear him!”

“Anyone of sense fears a king, and you have no reason to feel ungrateful.”

“
Have I not
?” Still pressed by his body, hard wood bruising her back, she snapped, “The king claimed to be my father’s friend, but he did
nothing
to save him. Nothing. And then he stole Summerbourne from my brother to give to you.”

“A traitor’s property is always lost.”

She pushed at his rocklike chest. “My father was
not
a traitor!”

He snared her struggling hands. “Claire, he joined an open rebellion.”

Pinned almost to immobility, she still met his eyes. “Then perhaps the rebellion was just.”

He looked down at her, and she knew she’d gone too far. She’d spoken treason.

Suddenly, abruptly, he stepped back. “Go to your room and cease such folly.”

Dismissed like a child, Claire fled, grateful to escape. But treason still ran fiercely through her. Her father had been
right
. Henry Beauclerk had killed his brother and thus should not be king.

How dare Renald de Lisle try to praise the king to her? How dare he suggest sending her father’s precious stories to the man who had caused his death? She’d rather burn every last sheet!

Instead of letting her wide-eyed maids prepare her for the night, she paced the chamber, scrubbing away tears.

What a weak fool she was.

How could she have begun to accept the usurper, forgetting that he was a king’s man? Her father had paid with his life to say that Henry Beauclerk had no right to the throne and here she was, turning limp as a plucked daisy over the usurper’s champion!

Of course women were not supposed to bother with such matters. They did not have to take oaths—except to their husband. But by doing so, they accepted their husband’s bonds.

Tomorrow, she was going to have to swear fidelity through de Lisle to Henry Beauclerk!

She stopped dead. What choice did she have?

She clutched her spinning head.

If she refused, her family would be cast out and her brother would in truth be a menial servant. But how could she speak her vows with honor?

She grabbed her cloak. “I’m going to pray by my father’s grave.”

She slipped down the stairs and out of the hall, constantly wary of another meeting with her enemy, her husband-to-be.

Her offering of blossoms was already limp, and new tears escaped as she brushed them away. So foolish to leave flowers without water. It was wanton killing, and did not plants deserve as much respect as animals? Men deserved respect, too. If they must die, their death should not be a waste.

By the uncertain moonlight, she dug up some small flowering plants and carefully reset them in the raw earth of the grave, watering them well then patting the soil gently back into place. “Was your death a waste, Father?” she murmured. “Henry Beauclerk is still on the throne, and Duke Robert has run back to Normandy. So, was it all for nothing?”

No answer came. She knew from history that not every rebellion succeeded, and that martyrs were sometimes stepping stones to a distant victory. Any struggle created losers as well as winners. Success or failure was not the crucial point. Honor was.

Doing the right thing.

“Am I doing the right thing, Father?” she whispered. “I’m marrying him to save the family, and to be able to care for Summerbourne. But he’s a king’s man and you thought Henry Beauclerk had no right to the throne.” She slumped cross-legged by the grave. “I don’t seem to have any choice. You wouldn’t want us all martyred in the cause, would you?”

As expected, the grave gave no answer.

Wind rustled through nearby leaves, and on the far side of the bailey someone shouted a message, but not an urgent one. A door slammed. A dog barked. The light breeze ruffled the few remaining petals on the mound, but the grave stayed silent.

She gathered up a few lingering dead blossoms, poor wilted violets, and breathed in the last of their perfume. “He implied that you’d met. I wonder where, and what you made of him.”

Leaning back, she looked up at the glowing half-moon, wondering where heaven was, where her father was.

A star caught her eye, a bright one that twinkled. She chose to imagine it was her father, dancing through the night sky, exploring the universe. He’d like that. He’d wondered what the moon was like, and often studied the stars and constellations, saying that there was a great deal more to them than lights in the sky.

Like balm to her wounds, she remembered that he’d believed death to be a liberation for good souls, that heaven was freedom to explore beyond the limits of the human state. So, he was free now, unlike her.

Put simply, she had no acceptable choice other than this marriage. She pushed to her feet and dusted herself off.

Walking back to the manor house, she thought of all the rebels who presumably had thought like her father, but who had sworn to Henry and slunk home, grateful to be alive and to still hold their property. How could it be wrong to do as they had done?

A large shadow moved.

She choked back most of her cry, instantly recognizing Renald de Lisle. “You frightened me!”

“Why did you leave the hall?”

At his tone anger drowned fear. “You can’t still think I’ll run from you!”

“I guard against it.”

“Guard. Guard.” He was little more than a big shadow in the dark. Perhaps that’s why she felt bold enough to challenge him. “I’d rather you trusted my word, my lord.”

“You haven’t given your word, my lady, except to promise last night that you would be here this morning.”

She realized that was true. It bothered her that he seemed so untrusting, but she could see that he must worry about her running off to St. Frideswide’s.

Would she do that if she could?

No. If he was pinned by duty to the king, she was similarly trapped by duty to her family. “You have my word,” she said. “I will be here to plight my troth to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” He caught her hand and raised it. Soft lips brushed her knuckles again, his warm breath teased her skin. She could come to like that kind of kissing.

“My lord…” She felt that in some way she should resist.

He turned her hand to kiss the very heart of her palm.

She tried to pull back then, but he held her captive and nuzzled her. She heard and felt him take a deep breath.

“Violets,” he murmured. “First spices, now flowers. You wield mighty weapons, my lady Claire.”

“I was just tending my father’s grave.”

His hand tightened on hers, but so little she really shouldn’t have been able to sense it. It must be the darkness that helped her detect such things—things like a slight tension in his hand, and a sudden stillness in his body.

“I know my father lies between us…”

“A very uncomfortable image, that.”