Lord of Midnight (29 page)

Such a man
. She read the words again. So, he
had
met Renald before the end. Would he have written of it? She flipped back through the pages, and eventually found it.

Hoping to weaken him with kindness, the tyrant gave the child rich lodgings and fine foods. He tempted his affections with gentle company and his mind with scholarly delights, thinking to remind him of the joys of this world. The

child did not fear to lose them unless it be God’s will, but he would not weaken for such earthly temptations.

Count Tancred himself came to him in his fairest form, beguiling him with true warmth, tormenting him with false logic disguised by embroideries of fact. The Brave Child almost weakened, but by God
^?
s will he stayed resolute.

Then they found the sharpest weapon. They sent his opponent to him. Sebastian discovered that he would not fight the tyrant, but his substitute, a comely man with youth still in his merry soul.

Merry soul, Claire thought. Even when she had been most under Renald de Lisle’s spell, she would not have described him in those terms. But then she remembered him at ease with their neighbors, chatting with Ouisa in his arms, and she wondered.

Yes, then, briefly, he had been merry…

She returned to the writing.

Sebastian came to see the test God put upon him. His true trial was not to face a tyrant and strike him down. Instead, he must kill a man he night have liked, a mere tool of wrong, so as to bring a friend to the awareness of his own evil.

He wept and prayed, but the cup could not be taken from him.

Claire, too, wiped tears. “A man he might have liked.” She closed the book, too shaken to read more. Her father had still considered the king his friend. He had seen the good in Renald, as she knew he must. Still, he had stuck to his course. He had done what he knew to be right.

And that must be her guide. Even though a part of her heart clung foolishly to dreams, she must pursue the honorable course. She must punish the murderer and rescue her family.

Rebelliously, she thought that God’s ways were extremely difficult to comprehend. Bad people should be clearly bad. They should lack all virtue and charm. And the least He could do was keep His pact with His people and let good triumph over evil!

Then she crossed herself and begged pardon for such impertinent thoughts. The ways of God, they were always told, were beyond human understanding.

As she secured the book again she absorbed the fact that Renald had indeed spoken the truth on one thing. He and the king had done their best to persuade her father out of his course.

They’d still killed him.

She must never forget that.

She must not hide from the cruel reality of what had happened.

She tried to imagine it.

Her father had been kept in the Tower. She’d never been to London, but she imagined the White Tower as big, heavy, and of cold stone. He’d been a prisoner, even if in luxury.

He, a gentle soul, had been forced out in mail to fight a warrior twice his size and vastly more skilled. Her father had doubtless been like Lambert in the sword dance, sweating and gasping as he tried to match the unmatchable.

She flinched from it, but she made herself envision Renald, graceful in his mastery of his dreadful sword, playing with her father as he’d played with Lambert, then moving in at his leisure for the kill. Moving in to drive that dark, deceitful sword through mail and into her father’s loving heart.

She wept, but clung to the sickening image as her own mail, as protection against her weak and foolish heart.

Renald had gone out that day to kill. He’d admitted it. To kill as coldbloodedly as a cowherd slaughtering beef. He claimed to take no joy in killing and probably spoke the truth. The cowherd took no pleasure in slaughter, either.

Ignoring conscience, ignoring justice, he’d killed a weaker man on his master’s command, and pretended—still pretended—that it was the will of God. No honorable woman could ever reconcile herself to that.

Desperate for advice and comfort, she went in search of her mother. She found Lady Murielle in her small chamber, sitting by a window, ominously still.

“How are you, Mother?”

Lady Murielle sighed. “It’s a sad situation, but we’ll put him off.”

“Put who off?”

“Why, de Lisle!” Her mother grasped Claire’s wrist. “You mustn’t marry him! Not now. I’ve seen how you look at him, but you mustn’t marry your father’s murderer!”

Claire looked wildly to one of the women who hurried forward to soothe her lady. Soon Lady Murielle was staring out of the window again.

Claire moved away, rubbing at her wrist, still red and white from the fierce pressure. “Has she been like this since she woke?”

“Pretty well, lady. In a fret over you, that you not say your vows.”

Claire crossed herself. “Sweet Saviour aid her.”

The woman made the sign of the cross, too. “He will, lady, never fear. I’m sure with rest she’ll soon be herself.”

Claire prayed for it, but remembered the miller’s daughter who counted stones.

What now? She’d come here in hope of advice, perhaps even of a shoulder to cry on. All she’d found was more burdens. More reason to destroy Renald.

She returned to the solar, finding Prissy there darning her silk veil. “Leave it,” Claire said sharply.

“But, lady—”

“Leave it! It’s better ruined.”

Prissy put the veil down and eased out of the room, almost as if she expected a blow.

Claire pressed her hands to her face. She mustn’t do that. She mustn’t take her hurt out on the innocent. Renald was the only one who deserved to suffer.

She needed some sort of occupation, one that wouldn’t stir emotions, but she didn’t want to go around the manor. She might bump into Renald anywhere and she wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t strong enough yet.

She’d try again to find ease in her writing. She took out another stack of parchment bound in boards, one very like her father’s.

It was her own record book. She didn’t record day-to-day events, for her days never seemed interesting, but her father had encouraged her to start recording customs of the manor, things like charms, and recipes for food and healing.

She wasn’t sure there was much point to it, for everyone knew these things, but she’d continue.

She flipped through the loose sheets to a clean one, but suddenly realized that, whatever else they might be, her days were no longer uninteresting. Could she write of recent events? She could try. Perhaps somewhere within she might find something to help pin down Renald’s guilt.

She dipped her pen and began at the beginning, when the sound of a horn announced people approaching through a storm…

She had reached her betrothal when the door banged open and Felice stalked in. “Well really, Claire! You are the lady of the manor now, or had you conveniently forgotten?”

Claire sighed and wiped off her pen.

She hadn’t found anything to help in her plan, but writing of events had been healing in a way.

Felice came over and flicked the corner of a piece of parchment. “You can’t spend your days on such foolery anymore.”

Claire pulled it out of harm’s way. “Is your music foolery?”

“My music entertains others.”

“Perhaps my writings will entertain others.”

“When so few can read them? It would be more to the point if you told stories as Clarence used to.”

“But I have no gift for that.”

“Then do something useful. Murielle is completely out of her wits, you know.” Claire stood. “It’s just shock.”

“If you choose to think so. Anyway, she can wait. We need to know how much of the feasting food should be given to the poor, and how much kept for the hall.”

“Ask Renald. It’s his property.” When Felice’s brows rose, Claire knew that snarl had been unwise. She had to remember that at the moment, everyone thought they were in harmony, and just under vow of chastity for a month. Until she decided what to do, she’d best pretend that was true.

She bound up her work. “I’m sorry. I took a sleeping draft and it’s given me a headache. But I’ll see to the food. Perhaps you could check how many fowl and other animals we have left. We may have to buy more next market day.”

“Giving me orders now, are you?”

“As you pointed out, I am the Lady of Summerbourne.”

Felice’s lips tightened, but she snapped, “As my lady commands!” and stalked off. Unkind though it was, Claire couldn’t help thinking that if Renald had ended up married to Felice he’d have been halfway to just punishment. As she walked to the door, a glint drew her attention to the golden cup once more sitting on its shelf. The king’s cup, given to her father by Henry Beauclerk not long after he’d become king. A gift of friendship, and of gratitude for pleasant times here in the place he’d called paradise.

In the pantry, Claire assessed the quantity and quality of leftover food and divided it. There wasn’t any cherried pork left but that didn’t surprise her. Thomas alone would have eaten it all if given the chance.

That reminded her of her brother. She couldn’t put it off any longer. As yet, no one seemed to know the truth but herself, her mother, and de Lisle, and her mother was making no sense. At any moment, however, the news could break and Thomas mustn’t learn of it that way.

She asked where her brother was.

“He’s with Lord Renald, lady,” a servant said. When she turned toward the office, he added, “I think they’re outside the walls practicing swordwork and such.”

Of course, thought Claire. What else?

She heard the noise before she passed through the gates—bangs, clangs, and coarse voices. Even a sharp cry. It sounded like her brother! She broke into a run.

She crossed the bridge and saw a battle going on. After a moment it resolved into Renald and his men playing at slaughter, one-on-one. Some wielded quarterstaffs, some fought with bare hands, some with sword and shield. They’d brought a huge tree trunk from the woods and set it upright in the ground, and a man was hacking at it with a sword, chips flying.

Practicing to hack at men.

To kill men.

Efficiently.

That conversation came back to her, the one on the first day when Renald had spoken about killing efficiently. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Oh, curse him for being what he was!

Where was Thomas? In the seething mass of fighting men she couldn’t find him.

Where?

Where? She glimpsed blond curls.

He was fighting de Lisle!

Frozen, Claire’s first thought was that if she could capture the moment she would have the perfect illustration of Brave Sebastian and Count Tancred. Then, a heartbeat later, she raced forward to stop the unequal fight.

An arm cinched her, swinging her off her feet. “Nay, lady!” Josce gasped. “You’ll more likely cause damage by interfering.”

Claire struggled helplessly, then froze, watching. “But… But Thomas has a real sword!”

“Of course.”

“He’ll get hurt! Or hurt someone.”

“Lord Renald will keep him safe, lady. Never fear.”

She fought again to get free. “Lord Renald killed our father! Why not complete the job? Let me
go
!”

He warily obeyed, but it was clear he would not permit her to interfere.

“I note Thomas’s sword is smaller,” she said bitterly, arms crossed tightly in front of her. “Does Lord Renald ever fight fair?”

“Have a care, lady,” he said softly. “Thomas could never control a full-sized sword. He has a better chance of injuring with that one.”

“But little enough.” Now she had calmed a little, Claire could see that Thomas was in no immediate danger. It was like the sword dance again, with Renald clearly in control.

Even so, she asked, “He won’t be hurt?”

Josce shrugged. “Not seriously.”

Her heart raced again. Lose a finger or two, or the proper use of his legs? Renald’s mighty sword could smash bone like kindling.

She twitched to interfere but knew, with sick frustration, that she would not be allowed to. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the unequal contest as if her gaze could keep her brother safe.

Thomas’s slashing sword could hardly reach Renald, but it was real. The man caught each blow on shield or sword and as he did, wood chipped and sparks flew. Renald didn’t attack. In fact, he seemed to be talking all the time.

Aware of being shadowed by Josce, Claire crept closer until she could hear her husband’s even-breathed voice. “You can win a battle by wearing down your opponent, Thomas, but I doubt that will work in this case.”

“I’ll find a way to kill you!”

“Perhaps. One day.”

Thomas paused—mouth set, eyes blazing, chest heaving.

Claire knew then that he’d heard the truth and she began to pray, rapidly, earnestly, for his safety.

Her brother slashed a few more times in what was clearly blind frustration, only to halt again. Then he pointed his sword like a spear and charged, screaming with frustrated rage.

Claire cried out, too, and knew to her shame that some of her alarm was for the man. Renald jumped back, a flicker of surprise on his face but deflecting the sword with his own. Then, as if part of the same movement, he knocked the sword from Thomas’s hand before the lad tumbled to the grass.

He stepped back, sword point to the ground. Thomas just sat there, sobbing for breath, head down.

Claire took the chance to run forward. “What are you doing to him?” she demanded as she hugged her brother. “Trying to kill him, too?”

“He’s trying to kill me.”

Thomas shrugged her off and scrambled to his feet. “He killed Father.”

“I know.”

“It’s my duty to kill him!”

Claire closed her eyes briefly. “Thomas, you know you can’t. Yet. Wait a few years. Vengeance has no limits.”

Thomas stood there, sucking in breaths, jaw thrust out. At times, he could be as unreasonable as Felice.

Claire rose to her feet, too, and looked at her husband as she spoke. “If you want to make him pay, Thomas, let him train you in the skills you’ll use one day to kill him.”