Lord of Midnight (39 page)

“I’m afraid with the king and his court here, we’re desperately short of space. If this wasn’t going to serve as your wedding bower, you’d be five to a bed like the rest of us.”

Claire sat on the bench, suddenly exhausted. “I’m still not sure…”

“No?” Imogen’s glance was sharp. Oh yes, she had definitely changed. “The king is set on it.”

Was that fear in her voice?

Claire dismissed her maids. “Imogen, what happened between you and your husband?”

Imogen perched on the edge of the bed. “Happened?”

“Your marriage. Was it forced?”

“Not exactly… Oh, do you think I was dragged to the altar screaming? No. I needed a man to protect me, and FitzRoger was an excellent choice.”

“So you could have said no?”

Imogen grinned. “No. But by then I didn’t really want to.”

“You love him?”

“Of course.”

“But he whipped you!”

Imogen wriggled back to sit cross-legged on the bed. It was a childish position, but there was nothing naive about her manner. “Who told you that?”

“Isn’t it true?”

“Yes and no. I simply wondered what form of the story was out there.”

“I was told you knocked him out, and in retaliation he locked you up and whipped you.”

“Interesting. And mostly true.” She looked astonishingly cheerful about it. “The long story will have to wait, but the short one is that we were imprisoned by Arnulf of Warbrick. De Belleme’s brother?”

Claire nodded with a shudder. She’d heard Warbrick was as bad as his monstrous brother.

“It was awful. But when we had him at our mercy, FitzRoger was set upon fighting him to the death. One of these man things. No one else would stop him, so I knocked him out.”

Claire blinked at the prosaic words. “You didn’t think he’d win? Renald says he never loses.”

“Normally, he doesn’t. But he was wounded. When we had Warbrick in our power it seemed wrong to give him even the smallest chance. But you know men…” She shrugged.

Claire wasn’t sure she did, or not the wolfish sort of men, but she could see that Imogen’s interference wouldn’t have gone down well. “What happened?”

“Well, after I’d had Warbrick killed—”

“What?”

Imogen dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “I simply ordered our men to fill him full of arrows. So, after that, Renald carried me off to Cleeve. That’s FitzRoger’s castle—”

“Imprisoned you, you mean.”

Imogen laughed. “Oh, poor Renald. How can you think it? He just wanted me out of reach of FitzRoger’s first rage. It was probably as well, though I wanted to nurse him.”

Claire rubbed her head, feeling dizzy. “But then when FitzRoger did recover, he put you on trial and whipped you.”

“No. The king put me on trial, pressured by the other barons.
They
really wanted my skin. For some reason,” she added with a wicked glint in her eye, “men don’t like to hear of a woman knocking out her husband to make him see sense.”

Claire couldn’t help but laugh. “But surely Lord FitzRoger didn’t have to whip you.”

“It is a grievous offense. Attacking a husband is bad enough, but attacking a vassal of the king is the same as attacking the king himself.”

Claire crossed herself. “But even so—”

“But even so, he managed to make it symbolic. Only one stroke, and over my clothes.”

She rolled her eyes. “He was
so
angry! He wouldn’t have had to do that if I’d taken the oath.”

“The oath?”

“Never to do such a thing again. Henry and he had set it up, you see. A way out. But I
would
do it again. Better a whipping than to see him dead. I couldn’t take a false oath.”

“No. Of course not.” Claire stared at a hanging on the far wall. How close this was to her father’s case. He hadn’t been able to take a false oath, either, but Henry hadn’t tried to make the punishment symbolic.

Or rather, she realized with sudden insight, Henry had again come up against someone who wouldn’t take the easy way out.

Henry and Renald. Now she understood Renald’s anger at her father.

Just as FitzRoger had been angry at his wife for making him whip her, Renald was angry at her father, angry at being forced to be an executioner.

What’s more, if Claire had thought to stop her father, stop him physically as Imogen had stopped her husband, all this might never have happened.

Imogen slid to her feet. “I’ve chattered too much and tired you even more. I’ll send your ladies.”

“No.” Claire put out a hand to stop her. “It’s only that your story makes me think. About my father.” She wasn’t ready to pursue her interrupted thoughts openly, so she addressed another. “I love Renald, but I’m still uneasy in my mind about the fact that he killed my father.”

“As I would be. But it was a court battle.”

“But such an unequal one!”

“Before God, that doesn’t matter.”

Claire searched Imogen for a trace of doubt. “Do you believe that?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“Yes. So I can’t see how my father lost.”

Claire knew she should keep her counsel, but she had to talk to someone and Imogen seemed to have a sharp insight. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I still feel that the king murdered his brother, so if God had a hand in that battle, my father should have won.”

Imogen pushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “But that wasn’t what the trial was about.”

Claire stared at her. “It wasn’t? What then?”

“Your father’s treason, and thus the king’s right to the throne.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Not really. It’s all to do with elections and consent and things. I don’t pay much attention. But would you rather have Duke Robert ruling England through de Belleme and his like?” When Claire didn’t answer, Imogen shook her head. “I’m chattering again. I’ll call your maids.”

Stunned by the new idea, by a light as hopeful as dawn, Claire had to know one more thing. “Stop a moment! How did your cheek get scarred?”

Imogen turned at the door, touching the long pale line. “Do you think FitzRoger did it? Poor man. Everyone thinks he’s harsh, but truly, he isn’t. Or not unless he has to be,” she added carelessly.

Oh yes, Imogen had changed.

“He’d never willingly hurt me,” she continued, without a trace of doubt. “This happened when I was escaping Warbrick’s men. I smashed the lanthorn and a jagged piece of the horn cut me.” She smiled, still stroking the mark. “I was afraid he’d be disgusted by me. It looked awful when it was healing, and there was my hair as well. But he pointed out all his scars. He’s a good man. So’s Renald. And Renald’s a great deal sweeter.”

She disappeared, calling for the maids. Claire stayed on the bed, buffeted by a dozen new thoughts, all of them hopeful.

Renald and FitzRoger were up on the wall—one of the few private places in the crowded castle. Guards patrolled, but they were not many in a time when no danger threatened, and they knew to keep their distance.

Renald gave his friend a brief account of the last few months.

Leaning back against the battlements, FitzRoger asked, “Do you regret taking the task for me?”

“No.” After a moment, he added, “I love her.”

“Clearly.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Perhaps only to a friend. What worries you?”

Renald grimaced. “Terrifies, more like. I’ve made her swear an oath, but… She believes that the king had his brother killed—”

“So does most of England.”

“But she thinks that means her father’s cause was just. Therefore the fight was unfair. She hates everything about it.” He told his friend about the betrothal banquet and the sword.

“Salisbury, as you say, trying the indirect route.”

“And Claire has made me promise not to act against him over it. He’s her godfather.”

“It’s probably as well. Henry wants things to settle, not be stirred.”

“At least that attack on the road may have convinced her that fighting skills are not all evil. But what if her beliefs overwhelm her promise, and she accuses Henry to his face?”

FitzRoger winced. “She’s sworn not to?”

“I forced her.” Renald pulled a face. “I threatened to break her leg if she didn’t.”

“A bit crude.”

“What else was I to do? Refuse the king’s ‘invitation’? Claim she was ill and lock her up? Even if we could pull off the deception, her people would release her.”

“Could you have done it? Injured her?”

“Could you?” Renald countered.

After a thoughtful moment, FitzRoger shrugged. “Yes. Just as Imogen would knock me unconscious again. Love drives us to strange behaviors. And speaking of love…”

Little in his face showed his feelings as Imogen climbed the wooden stairs to join them, holding her veil against the breeze.

“Oh, pest,” she said, and pulled off both headcloth and circlet, leaving her cinnamon curls to be tossed by the wind. “Renald, I think you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve told your bride all about my folly and punishment, and blown away some of her fears. She seemed to think poor FitzRoger had split open my face.” She went into Renald’s arms for a hug and a kiss. “You, however, are looking weighed down by cares, my friend.”

“While you are blooming, little flower.”

She smiled and went to stand by FitzRoger. “Three months’ blooming, though it hardly shows yet.”

“Congratulations.”

FitzRoger moved a finger to play in her hair and she smiled. Renald watched, wondering if he and Claire could ever achieve the peaceful connection he saw between these two. They’d started in acrimony, but not with a father’s death between them.

“I think she’ll consummate the marriage tomorrow,” he said.

FitzRoger’s brows rose. “You don’t look particularly happy about it.”

“It won’t mean much if she still thinks it’s wrong.” He laughed wryly. “If I’d had any sense, I would have taken her into the bushes and done it when she was exalted by battle fever on the road.”

“With a murderer on hand? Highly unwise. Who do you think was behind that?”

“I have no idea. No one has any reason to wish Claire dead. But if they did, an arrow could have done it. Why drag her away?”

“Rape?” asked Imogen, then answered herself. “No, they can’t have thought they’d have time. Could they have thought her someone else?”

“I don’t see how.”

“At least she’s safe now.”

“Is she? She said the other man, the one who’d paid, sounded Norman. He could come here.”

“We’ll put guards on her when she’s not by your side,” said FitzRoger.

“Which will be rarely if I have my say.”

“Ah, how sweet to see another man victim to a woman’s power.”

Imogen elbowed him in the ribs. “And here am I, weak for love.”

FitzRoger turned her face to his. “Is that a seductive request, wife?”

Her color flared. “We’ve been sharing other beds for three nights now—”

“How true. And had scarce a minute to steal during the day. Renald, go away.”

“But I have so many matters I wish to discuss,” Renald teased.

FitzRoger never stopped smiling into his wife’s eyes. “Go, or die.”

As Renald left, laughing, he heard her say, “The place is too crowded. We can’t—”

He grinned, sure that his friend would find a way. After all, failing all else, the massive walls of Carrisford keep were riddled with secret passageways. He’d check later for cobwebs in their hair.

Claire woke to darkness in a strange room, and it took a moment for her to remember where she was. But
darkness
? An oblong of paler dark showed where the window was, proof that it must be night. She’d lain on the bed to think, and must have fallen asleep. She still had her clothes on.

There were bodies in the bed with her, and she assumed they were her maids. She shook the one closest. “Wake up.”

“Wha… ? Oh, lady!”

Claire recognized the voice. “Maria, I need to piss. Where should I go?”

“We have a pot, lady.” Maria scrambled out of bed, waking Prissy.

“Do you need anything else, lady?” Prissy asked sleepily.

Claire hated to send her off around the castle in the middle of the night, but she was desperately hungry. “Something to eat and drink,” she said as she climbed out of bed to use the pot.

“We have food.” Prissy could be heard stumbling over something on the floor. She brought over a wooden box.

Claire opened it and felt inside. “What’s here?”

“Only cheese and bread, lady. And we have watered wine.” She brought a wooden cup and Claire drank thirstily.

“You can both go back to sleep. I can feed myself.”

The maids tumbled back into the bed and in moments she heard their soft sleep-breathing.

A lifetime of sleeping with her aunts had taught Claire never to leave an empty space or the others would take it over, so she sat on the bed to eat and go over her thoughts.

Perhaps her brain had been working on the situation as she slept, for it all seemed clear to her now. Her father had fought to establish his innocence of treason—which meant that the question became whether Henry was rightful King of England or not. Perhaps if he’d fought on the question of whether the king had killed his brother, he might—by the power of God—have won. The king’s right to rule, however, did not hinge on whether he’d killed the former king or not.

Why hadn’t she seen that before?

In history, rulers frequently took power by conquest and slaughter.

Claire knew a bit more about laws and the English crown than Imogen did. The king was elected by the great lords. The wishes of the last king were taken into account, and the crown generally went to the oldest legitimate son, but it still had to be ratified by election.

So, did Henry Beauclerk have the right to the throne? He was, as Renald said, acclaimed by the nobles and anointed by the Church.

And Imogen was right. Who would want Robert of Normandy ruling here, particularly when his supporters included such devils as de fielleme?

It was quite possible, therefore, that her father had asked a question—did Henry have the right to the throne of England—to which the answer was yes. Henry had the right because he was the choice of most men, and he was the best suited to bear good fruit.