Lord of Midnight (38 page)

The wild eyes flickered around as if searching frantically for help, but then settled again on the nemesis above. “We were paid, lord. Mercy, lord.”

“Mercy? Only in the speed or slowness of your death. Who paid you?”

“A man, lord. Mercy—”

“What man?” Renald leaned on the sword a little more and the man cried out.

“Don’t know, lord! Don’t know! He gave us gold to upset the horses and seize the lady.”

“And to kill her.”

“We didn’t know nothing about that, lord, until he spoke it!”

“Renald,” said Claire, “the man who was holding me got away. And the one who paid.”

“A shame, that.” Renald looked at the other man, who snarled like a cornered animal. He stepped away and sheathed his sword. “Come, Claire. Let’s see if we still have horses.”

She let him guide her along, but then paused, looking back. “What will happen to them?”

“They’ll die quickly.”

“Could we not—”

He forced her on, out of sight. “Not what? Let them free to savage the next group of travelers? Take them to Carrisford for trial? What point in that other than to extend their agony?”

She heard nothing, and when Josce and the men emerged there was nothing to see except, perhaps, that the squire looked a little pale. She suspected he hadn’t seen much killing yet. She was very grateful that Thomas had been left with the men guarding the camp.

The horses were all present, fed, and watered. It was only as she went to mount that Claire realized she didn’t have the book. She turned to the woods. “I must look for my book.”

Renald stopped her. “I’ll go.”

She shook her head at him. “Dead bodies don’t frighten me.”

“Live ones should. At least two of your attackers went free.”

She’d forgotten. She wasn’t used to the idea of someone wanting her dead.

She didn’t complain, however, about Renald and three men escorting her back, swords drawn. They followed the path of churned-up ground and broken branches that showed where she’d been taken. She paused to pluck a scrap of her torn skirt off some brambles. “I think I dropped the book here.”

The ground was deep in leaf mold, and settled over by fallen leaves and branches. Small plants and bushes captured drifts of them where a brown book could hide. Still, by the time they had to give up, she felt that they’d searched everywhere.

“Perhaps it wasn’t here. I can’t be sure.”

They went farther, the men poking their swords into likely spots. “Brown wooden boards could disappear here,” Renald said, kicking aside a rotten tree stump. “I’m sorry, Claire. It’s a bitter loss.”

“I hope those brigands spend their due time in purgatory. What did they want with me anyway?”

He turned her back toward the camp. “I don’t think they knew. The one who paid them? Interesting, isn’t it? You aren’t an heiress, to be snatched for property.”

“And he wanted me dead.” She shivered. “It frightens me.”

He was looking at the ground near the brambles one last time. “And me. We must press on, or we’ll have to stop on the road. I daren’t risk traveling at night now.” He put an arm around her. “I’ll keep you safe, Claire, as long as I have breath in my body.”

His strength and skill was a comfort, as was the feel of his once-hated mail. But protecting her had almost cost him his life.

He wasn’t immortal or invincible.

She had decided she couldn’t turn her back on him, but now she could lose him to this evil.

Who was the danger? Who wanted her dead?

Hours later, when they came in sight of Carrisford Castle, solid and strong with its stone walls and tower, she knew why Renald didn’t entirely trust wood. Thick, high stone walls seemed very comforting, when wolves prowled. Passing through gates into a long, easily defended tunnel, she felt she’d be very safe if she could be sure the enemy was outside.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said, and she could sense his relief.

She spoke her fears. “What if the man who wanted me dead can get in?”

He stared at her. “He was Norman?”

She thought. “I’m not sure. He spoke in English, but—Yes, I think so. Do Normans live in the woods with brigands?”

“Very few. And clearly the man hired them. By the rood, Claire. Do not be alone. Ever.”

“Willingly, but I wish I knew who to fear.”

She searched through her acquaintance for the villain, pausing on the Earl of Salisbury. He’d been angry at her marriage. Could he be angry enough to try to kill? It seemed impossible, but no other likely name came to mind.

Now she came to think of it, they’d never considered him as a possible murderer of Ulric. She couldn’t imagine his motive, but certain sure, if he was at court, she’d avoid him!

One enemy certainly was in Carrisford. Here she would have to face the king, and by her vow she could not show how much she blamed him for her father’s death. But here she would consummate her marriage to Renald. Hours of riding had settled her wildness, but not changed her mind. She refused to think anymore about right and wrong. Life was precarious, and she would seize what happiness she could.

On the great square keep three banners flew. One belonged to the Lord of Carrisford, one was the gold lions of the king. The other was stark bars of green and black.

“Whose is the third banner?”

“FitzRoger’s. It only flies when he’s here. He gave Imogen lordship of Carrisford.”

She turned to him. “Lordship?”

“Don’t get ideas. Carrisford was hers by right and she struck a hard bargain before she’d wed him.”

“
Imogen
?” Claire tried not to sound as surprised as she was. The Flower of the West, Lord Bernard’s pretty, pampered daughter, had struck a hard bargain with Bastard FitzRoger of Cleeve?

Then she saw the lord and lady waiting to greet them and knew that Imogen had changed. She stood differently for one thing, every line proclaiming that she was no longer a girl, but a woman.

And her hair.

Claire suppressed a laugh. They’d make a matched pair. Lady Imogen’s famous hair, that had reached to her knees in honey-gold waves, now only brushed her shoulders.

“Did she cut it in protest, too?” she asked Renald.

“What?”

“Her hair.”

“Oh. Not at all. She cut one plait to escape. There was nothing for it then but to cut the other.”

“Escape?” Claire suddenly remembered that this was not a pretty tale. “Was that before or after he whipped her?”

Renald flashed her a look. “She wasn’t escaping FitzRoger. There’s no time now. Get Imogen to tell you the whole story.”

The moment of horror passed. If Imogen was to tell it, it could not reflect too badly on her husband, because Imogen was no beaten, terrified wife. She was tilting her head to make a comment to the man beside her, smile bright.

So that was the mighty and feared FitzRoger of Cleeve. Claire had expected someone bigger, someone rather like Baldwin of Biggin.

She should have known Renald’s confrere would not be of that type.

He stood beside his wife but slightly back, clearly giving her the lordship here. He dominated all the same. He wasn’t a monster of a man, but Claire wasn’t sure she’d be able to drive any sort of bargain with him.

Something in the way he stood, in the lines of his body and face, said
hard
, said ruthless. He reminded her of the first impression she’d had of Renald—the war-wolf ready to kill. With Bastard FitzRoger, however, she doubted there was a softer, gentler side. She had no trouble believing that he would whip a rebellious wife. She pitied Imogen, even if the young woman did seem to be happy with her fate.

Had Imogen really knocked him out? The man looked as invulnerable as Carrisford’s stone tower.

But then, as the horses stopped and Claire waited for Renald to help her down, she remembered how easily her own husband had been thrown into danger. Strong men and good fighters though they doubtless were— perhaps some of the best—they were only flesh and blood, and thus vulnerable.

Even, it would appear, to a determined young woman with a rock. Or a stick. Her blow behind the knees would bring down even FitzRoger if she had chance to use it.

With some surprise she realized what had happened today.

Renald was setting her on the ground. “You look troubled.”

“I’ve just realized that I helped kill.”

She expected some kind of debate on the rights and wrongs of it—wanted it—but he simply said, “I’m very glad you did,” and led her toward their hosts.

Killing, she thought. All in a day’s work.

But he’d said she must accept the sword and now she did. Or at last, she accepted that when her loved ones were threatened, she too could become a wolf.

Claire tried to decide whether FitzRoger was a handsome man or not. There was something about his elegant features and dark hair that said yes, but the harsh overlay and a scar or two made him something else.

If Renald was granite, FitzRoger was black marble.

His smile was pleasant enough, however, as he greeted her, and turned startlingly warm when he spoke to Renald. Claire winced at her own misjudgment. Like brothers, she remembered, as she watched them embrace.

Then Imogen pulled Claire in for a greeting kiss. “Is everything all right now? It must have been terrible.” She wrapped an arm around Claire’s waist and led her up the wooden steps that climbed the outside of the stone keep. “Everyone was upset about your father. And your hair! Isn’t it strange? I’m growing mine, of course, but I must admit it’s a great deal easier to have so much less of it. The queen is so excited.”

“About your hair?” Imogen hadn’t changed entirely. She’d always been a chatterbox.

Imogen chuckled. “No! About your wedding! Or your wedding night. She loves weddings. Come and make your curtsy.”

In all the turmoil, Claire had forgotten to prepare to face Henry Beauclerk. She was glad to have her vow to Renald to guide her. She curtsied low before the chair upon which the king sat, then raised her head to look at him. On the surface he hadn’t changed. Dark hair framed bright eyes in a comely face marked quite distinctly with ruthlessness.

“Lady Claire, we are pleased to see you. Rise, and sit beside me.”

Claire obeyed, taking a stool by his chair, as he greeted Renald. “How goes Summerbourne, my lord?”

“Well, sire. May I present Thomas, son of Lord Clarence.”

Thomas looked flushed, though whether with excitement or nervousness, Claire couldn’t tell. She worried still that he might suddenly turn rash, but he knelt properly.

The king leaned forward to raise his chin. “Young Thomas. You’ve grown into a fine lad. Will you like being a page in my household?” Claire saw the king’s searching look, and knew what he checked for. Rebellion.

Thomas frowned and hesitated, and Claire’s heart missed a beat. Then he said, “I don’t know, sire. I don’t know what to expect.”

Henry laughed. “A sensible answer. Do you like horses and hawks? Swordplay and fighting?”

“Oh, yes, sire.”

“Then you will like my household as long as you are obedient and work hard.” The king crooked a finger and a lad of about Thomas’s age hastened forward to kneel.

“Bruno, this is Thomas of Summerbourne. Take care of him.”

In moments, Thomas was gone, swallowed up in the king’s enormous household. Claire resisted a weak urge to reach out and hold him back.

“I will have a mind to him,” said the king, clearly seeing her concern. She looked at him, remembering Renald’s words. He probably meant what he said, though she was still sure he must have an uneasy conscience over whatever he’d done to be sure that her father could not win.

“The Summerbourne angels,” Henry said, studying her. “I called you two that, you know.”

“Yes, sire. As in the story about Pope Gregory.”

“Indeed. That was how I felt when I saw you at your father’s knee. Such pretty children, and so very English in your looks. I was born in England, you know, and I have an English wife.” He patted the hand of his fair-haired queen. “Perhaps our children will be little angels, too.”

Before Claire could think what to say, he frowned. “I am not pleased, however, by this new fashion for ladies to chop off their hair.”

Claire couldn’t help but share a glance with Imogen.

“Nor,” said the king, “with a certain boldness we detect among the young women of the kingdom. Lady Imogen, at least, should have learned her lesson.”

To Claire’s surprise, at this casual reference to her whipping, Imogen just smiled.

Henry shook his head and raised his queen’s hand to his lips. “You would both do well to take the example of my sweet wife.”

With soft fair hair—properly long—and large, gentle eyes, Queen Matilda did seem sweetly docile. “It is a shame,” she said, “that your hair is so short, Lady Claire. But hair at least grows. Poor Imogen is blemished.”

Claire hadn’t noticed, but now she saw a pale scar down Imogen’s cheek. Her mouth went dry. More brutality of her husband’s?

Suddenly she wavered with doubts. This was a world as unreal as the pictures she drew on parchment. The king seemed gentle and benign, but everyone knew him to be ruthless. He’d proved it when he’d arranged an old friend’s death.

The queen seemed content, but she, too, was a forced bride. The only reason for the union was that she carried the blood of the old royal house of England in her veins.

Imogen seemed to be a happy bride, but she couldn’t be, could she, when she’d been beaten and scarred, and had tried to escape. Perhaps she had to pretend for fear of more of the same?

So, what did this say about Thomas’s fate, and her own?

“With your leave, sire,” said Imogen, “Lady Claire must be exhausted after such a long journey. May I take her to rest before we eat?”

Claire realized that she must have sat in dazed silence for far too long.

The queen leaned forward to pat her head as if she were a dog. “Of course. We certainly want the bride well rested before tomorrow night.”

Claire rose and curtsied, happy to escape.

Tomorrow night. And now doubts were coming back to crush her.

Imogen led Claire and her maids up a wide inner staircase to the upper floor, then through a maze of rooms to a small chamber in a corner of the keep. It could just hold one large, curtained bed and a bench beneath a narrow window. Herbs hung in bags to sweeten the air, however, and the hangings were rich.