Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  “So what are we do to? Why are you telling us all this?”

  “Heaven help us all, girl. You do as I did!” She glared at the three of them. “There’s three young maids in Summerbourne. One of you marries the man, and we all live here as before.”

  “Just as before!” Claire leaped to her feet in outrage. “Have you forgotten Father is dead?”

  Her grandmother looked up at her, and Claire saw the tears. “I birthed him and fed him from my breast. I guided his steps and birched him to teach him sense.” Then she scowled again. “I obviously didn’t birch him hard enough. So now one of you must marry this new lord.”

  “It certainly won’t be me!” said Claire.

  “Nor I!” yelped Amice, pale eyes huge.

  “Nor I,” snapped Felice. “Come, sister, we must go and change into somber clothing.”

  However, Claire had detected a hint of hesitation in Felice’s response and it stirred hope. As her aunt steered her twin toward the wooden stairs, Claire told herself that if a marriage was necessary, Felice would come to like the idea.

  Despite a notable degree of beauty, at twenty Felice had not yet found a husband. She wanted one, but only one she considered worthy of her. She wanted to marry a great man, or one destined for greatness. Surely a man given a rich estate …

  “Felice won’t do,” Lady Agnes said.

  Claire turned to her. “Why not? As the bride’s mother, you’ll be able to live here.”

  “Live in hell. She could eat honey morn till night, that one, and it wouldn’t sweeten her tongue.”

  “She’ll be better tempered when she has what she wants—a man of importance in her bed.”

  “And why doesn’t she have one, fair of face as she is?”

  Claire tried to be tactful. “The nearby families are not of great estate. And Father was more inclined to invite scholars to Summerbourne than nobles. You know Felice complained of it.”

  “Half the county knows she complained of it! But what makes you think a visiting noble would have fallen prey to her charms?”

  “She is very beautiful.”

  “Beautiful as glass, and just as hard. True enough that none of the local men were good enough for her, but did you ever see any of them try to court her?”

  “She made it clear that she had no interest—”

  “A man can spot a shard of glass when it glints at him.”

  Claire turned to look into her grandmother’s eyes. “Well, if Felice is cold, hard, and sharp, she’s exactly the bride this usurper deserves! Anyway, the man’s probably married with a family of his own.”

  “Landless men don’t marry, and this is probably his first estate. It’s the usual way. Seal ownership by marrying into the family. Happened to me. It’ll happen to one of you.”

  “Not to me. I’d rather leave.”

  “Has to be you.”

  Claire tried to turn the conversation. “Shall I help you to the chapel, Gran?”

  “I’m not moving,” the old woman grumped, seeming much like a peevish child. “I suffered enough bringing him into the world. I’m not suffering to see him out.” But she knuckled away some tears and Claire knew how deeply she must be suffering.

  Claire could cry too, but if she started, she might never stop.

  She knelt by her grandmother’s chair. “I’ll order one of your herb drinks to help with the pain so you can get there.”

  Lady Agnes turned watery eyes to her and patted her cheek. “You’re a good child, Claire. A good child. You remind me of myself back when my Thomas rode up. You’ve got to marry this man.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. You’ve the strength for it, and the looks. I was a bonny lass, just like you, and it helped.”

  “Bonny? Felice is the beauty.”

  Lady Agnes shook her head. “It’s you who’s got what men like. Curves and big titties. Your hair’s as gold as hers, your skin as good, but it’s the curves and titties that count. You can use those to rule a man.”

  “Felice—”

  “A man wants something soft in the night. And what’s inside shines through. Why do all the local men come courting you?”

  “Courting? They’re just friends, or friends of Father’s—”

  “Friends who light candles at your altar.” Lady Agnes shook her head again. “You’ve been so bound up in reading and writing and such, that you’ve hardly noticed what’s around you. You have a power over men. Now’s the time to use it.”

  “I wouldn’t marry this man to save my immortal soul!”

  “Then marry him to save your family! Do you want us all thrown out? You may not care about me, or about my foolish daughters. But what about your brother?”

  Claire scrambled to her feet. “Thomas will be all right. It’s clear this man won’t be harsh.”

  “There’s harsh and harsh, girl. What do you think’s going to happen?”

  “We’ll all go to St. Frideswide’s—”

  “I won’t, so there!” Lady Agnes stated. “That woman’s not lording it over me. And Thomas can’t go there.”

  Claire turned away to hide her sudden terror. “One of Father’s friends will take him in.”

  “Take in a traitor’s son? But this man, this Lord Renald—if wed to a winsome wife—he might make sure her brother gets a start in life.”

  Claire swung back. “Never, never, never! I could never marry the man who’s stolen Summerbourne.”

  “No one’s asking you to marry the king, girl.”

  “The king?”

  Lady Agnes thumped her cane. “Whose fault is all this? Why couldn’t the fool kill his brother right, so other fools like my son wouldn’t get stirred up over it?”

  “That’s treason, Gran!”

  Lady Agnes scowled. “To say Henry Beauclerk killed his brother? Or to say he should have done it better? I’m past caring. But if you care, you do the right thing to patch it all together.”

  Claire rubbed her hands over her face. It broke her heart to think of all the suffering, the suffering now and the suffering to come. But she couldn’t. Even if it would patch it all together, she couldn’t.

  “It won’t be too bad, Gran. Truly. I’m sure we can all find a comfortable spot.”

  Lady Agnes’s bottom lip came up, and her grizzled brows came down. “I haven’t been comfortable in ten years, and I’ll never be comfortable again until I’m in my grave. But I was born in Summerbourne Hall, and I intend to die here.”

  The old woman’s need beat at Claire, but she resisted. “I can’t do it, Gran.”

  Lady Agnes sat there, as fixed as a weather-worn rock. “You will. I’ve buried parents, brothers, and five children. I’ve learned that people do what they have to do. And in time, the horror fades, like the pain in my joints fades under the herbs.”

  Claire seized the chance. “I’ll go and order your potion.”

  She almost ran from the room, but wasn’t fast enough to escape her grandmother’s shout. “You can’t flee this, Claire!”

  She paused before the covered walk that led to the kitchens. “Oh yes I can,” she whispered.

  Marry the invader?

  She’d rather tramp the roads of England!

  When she’d ordered the tisane, she knew she should go to pray at her father’s bier. Her feet didn’t want to make the journey, however. She didn’t want to face the confirmation of the end.

  Vespers. It couldn’t be long until Vespers when they’d all be cast out. Should she start to gather their belongings?

  What would they be allowed to take? Everything must now belong to the invader.

  Her father’s precious books! The thought of leaving such treasures in barbaric hands was almost worse than the reality of his body lying cold in the chapel.

  What of the work of her own hands—her notes on local customs, her leech book, her writings of his stories, so carefully illustrated? Must she leave those, too?

  She stood frozen there, trying to make decisions.


  “Lady Claire!” Her maidservant, Maria, gathered her into her arms. “Come along, do. The other ladies are clean and dry and here you are all soggy. You’ll catch your death, and that’ll do no one any good. And your hair’s a mess …”

  Claire allowed herself to be herded away from tangled problems, upstairs to the room she shared with her aunts. At least they’d gone down again so she was spared Amice’s weeping and Felice’s complaints. Standing like a child, she let Maria and her other maid, Prissy, strip off her damp, muddy clothes.

  Now, however, her grandmother’s words drowned out practical worries in her mind. It was true—landless men rarely married. Henry Beauclerk had himself been single and landless before seizing the throne. He had a household of similar men waiting for rewards.

  But she couldn’t … She couldn’t marry the man who had stolen her father’s land and place.

  If this Renald planned to marry into the family, how would he go about it? What if he lined them up and took his pick! Claire didn’t believe that she was more attractive than Felice, but she had to be sure not to be chosen. When Maria brought forward rich, somber clothing, Claire pushed it away. “Find me something dull. Something ugly.”

  “Ugly? Why?”

  “Don’t ask why. Do it!”

  The startled maid backed away. “There’s that old brown kirtle, lady. The one where the dye faded. I don’t know what kind of tunic, though—”

  “The gray,” said Claire. “It’s only trimmed with a bit of blue braid.”

  When Maria gave her the garment, she pulled out her sharp knife and began frantically ripping out the stitches holding the braid in place. Yes, streaked and faded brown with dull gray on top should keep her safe.

  “You’ll look like a scullion,” Prissy protested. Where Maria was plump and gentle, Prissy was lively and never slow to speak her mind. “At least we’ll have you a bonnie one.” She started unraveling Claire’s long blond plaits.

  You’ve got what men like. Curves and big titties. And your hair’s as gold, your skin as good …

  Suddenly terrified, Claire seized one long plait and sawed it off as close to her head as she could.

  “Lady!” Prissy shrieked.

  Claire hacked off the other. She couldn’t do anything about her curves and titties, but what was a woman without her “crowning glory”?

  She tossed both plaits on the floor where they lay like thick golden snakes. “Find me a dull head cloth.”

  The wide-eyed maid dug in a chest and finally found a length of gray cloth. With this wrapped around her strangely-light head, Claire felt safe enough to leave the maidens’ room and go to the church to kneel by her father’s body.

  By the time she knelt at the foot of his bier, she was already feeling a little foolish, and very guilty. She could imagine him shaking his head and saying, “Claire, Claire. Was this a wise act? Was it a fair one?”

  When she bowed her head, it was as much with shame as grief. She could pretend she’d cut off her hair in mourning, but she’d done it out of fear. She’d done it to avoid an unpleasant fate. She’d done it hoping one of her aunts would have to suffer in her place.

  She covered her face and prayed harder. It hardly seemed necessary to pray for her father’s soul, good as he’d been, so she prayed for her own. She begged God’s pardon for her selfishness, and she asked for the courage to do what needed to be done to save her family.

  But she couldn’t say the holiest words—Thy will be done. Instead, she begged God that her cup not be the ultimate sacrifice.

  Marriage to the man who had stolen Summerbourne.

  Too soon, in the distance, the convent bell tolled vespers. Again the horn sounded, demanding entry for the manor’s new lord and master. The family hurried back to the hall, gathering in the doorway to watch as the great gates swung slowly open once again.

  Beyond, a camp had been set up. Tents hunched against shielded fires, stuck among rivulets and mud. Men hunched too, surely deeply uncomfortable. Claire was fiercely glad, but she wondered at it.

  Why set up camp out there when they’d come to claim Summerbourne? Why did men stand at the far end of the bridge, but make no move to enter?

  One called something.

  “What now?” Claire muttered. Was this some strange form of torture, all these delays and negotiations?

  After a brief exchange, Niall trotted toward the hall. “Hostages!” he gasped. “He demands hostages!”

  “What?” Lady Murielle exclaimed.

  “Clever man,” said a cracked voice from behind.

  Claire whirled to face her grandmother. “You sound as if you’re on his side.”

  “If we have to have a new lord, I’d rather a clever one. Like my Thomas.”

  “Grandfather was a different type of man altogether!”

  “I had no way to know that. Nor do you.”

  Claire turned away, but she acknowledged that demanding hostages was clever. Throughout the vigil by her father’s corpse, she’d thought of revenge. In the Bible, Judith had killed her enemy Holofernes by driving a spike through his head …

  If Renald de Lisle didn’t feel entirely secure, it was not surprising.

  “What kind of hostages?” her mother was demanding of the man, her hand gripping Thomas’s shoulder. He was the most likely.

  Niall looked warily between them. “He says there are three young maids in this hall. Two are to go out as hostages.”

  “What?” Despite the exclamation, her mother looked weak with relief. She continued strongly, however. “The monster wants two gently bred young women to live in his muddy camp with his men?”

  “They’ll be safe enough, Murielle,” said Lady Agnes. “Or as safe as they’ll be anywhere at such a time. Either he’s a man of honor, or he isn’t. If he isn’t, he’ll have ’em here on the hall floor then pass ’em to his men.”

  With a wail, Amice fainted.

  Claire and Felice dropped to their knees beside her, raising her up as she recovered, and chafing her hands.

  “Oh, now look what you’ve done!” Lady Murielle cried. “You know how sensitive she is!”

  “And is being sensitive going to help? He wants two hostages, does he? What about the third?”

  They all looked to the uneasy messenger. “He says the third is to be his bride.”

  “Told you so,” said Lady Agnes.

  Amice fainted again.

  Claire and Felice shared wary, assessing glances.

  “Bride?” Lady Murielle declared. “No, this is all too much. Claire, get Amice up off the floor. Spiced mead for the ladies!” she demanded of the hovering servants, waving a hand. “I won’t permit this. I will protest. Someone fetch my cloak. I’m going out to speak to this man. He cannot force such a thing.”

  Felice and Claire pulled Amice to her feet and helped her to a bench by the fire. Lady Murielle pulled on her cloak and hurried out of the hall. She looked determined, but Claire had a sinking feeling that a man carrying the king’s standard could force anything he wanted.

  Felice was silent and her face was deliberately blank, but surely, now she’d had time to think, she would see this as an opportunity. A man given such a rich estate must be high in the king’s favor. Exactly what Felice wanted.

  Amice would be allowed to stay here with her twin sister. As Felice’s mother, Lady Agnes would keep her place by the fire. If they were all amenable, perhaps the usurper would even make suitable arrangements for Thomas.

  That just left Claire and her mother to settle.

  Claire suspected that her mother would be happy to move to St. Frideswide’s. As for herself, much though she loved Summerbourne, she wanted to leave. She might take the veil. Or perhaps she’d look at her local friends with a new eye and find a husband.

  As she sipped the spiced mead and listened to Amice weeping, she ran over the local swains in her mind. Lambert of Vayne was probably a suitor, though he’d done little enough about it but visit often. He was somewhat of a silly fell
ow, much given to boasting.

  It was possible that Eudo the Sheriff had some interest. His first marriage had been childless, and since his wife died he’d talked about remarrying. The post of sheriff had passed down his family for generations and he wanted a son. Was she imagining that he’d looked at her with some interest? He certainly liked Summerbourne and could well seek a connection.

  He was close to her father’s age, however, and she blamed him in part for her father’s folly.

  Robert of Pulham? Amiable, but so dull-witted.

  John de Courtney? She suspected he had a cruel streak—

  Her mother came back in, wet and defeated. “He’s an unfeeling monster. He says it’s no choice of his. The king commands that he wed one of Lord Clarence’s unmarried women.”

  “And the rest of us?” Claire asked, then bit her lip at the keen look Felice flashed her way.

  “If he marries here—he stressed the if—then he is to take care of the rest of your father’s family. Except Thomas.” She looked sadly at her son. “He is to go to court.”

  “Oh, that’s kind,” gulped Amice.

  “Don’t be a ninny,” snapped Felice. “‘Care for.’ What does that mean? And poor Thomas will be nothing but a hostage to be maimed or blinded at his whim.”

  Thomas swallowed a cry and began to tremble. Claire ran over to gather him into her arms. “Felice. Mind what you say!”

  “I say the truth.”

  Lady Agnes broke in. “Then the truth is, no one will get hurt if everyone behaves themselves. Not even hostages.”

  “I don’t trust it,” Claire said. “Why would the king want to take such care of a traitor’s family?”

  “To keep order.” Lady Agnes sighed with weary patience. “By the cross, you lot are enfeebled by years of comfort. This is the way it always goes! Men fight and die, and women are passed on as chattels. Does the king want to stir more unrest by casting us out? No. He wants the appearance of an orderly transfer.”

  “Then we must not give it to him!”