Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  Lady Agnes thumped her cane on the wooden floor. “And what comfort will that be, girl, as you beg for bread?”

  “Think. If we defy the king in this, we’ll be lucky if anyone even tosses us a crust.”

  Amice was wailing now, and even Felice looked shaken.

  Claire’s mother sighed and came over to gather her son and daughter into her arms. “Lady Agnes is right. We are helpless. Heaven knows, I would give myself to this man if I could, but he would have no interest in a woman so far past her prime.”

  “So,” said Lady Agnes, “which of you is to be the bride, and which the hostages?”

  Amice abruptly stopped crying.

  “None of us!” cried Felice, her color high. “It is brutal. We’ll all take the veil. Not even the king can stop a woman becoming a bride of Christ.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Lady Agnes, “but will the Church take you? You don’t own anything anymore. None of us do. Not our clothes, not the food on the table. Certainly not our property. Even brides of Christ are supposed to bring something with them to the cloister.”

  “This is impossible,” said Felice, but even she sounded shaken. Amice seemed too shocked even to weep.

  Claire saw her mother smile, and was surprised, but then Lady Murielle said, in her best persuading voice, “He doesn’t seem so terrible a man, Felice. He’s shown consideration. And whichever of you ends up as his bride will have high rank. She’ll be Lady of Summerbourne.”

  Her mother was tempting Felice, and Claire prayed it would work.

  “Of course,” interrupted her grandmother, “Felice would have to curb her tongue. A man like that, he’ll take his belt to a contrary wife. Still, as long as she’s sweet and meek …”

  Felice was as sweet as rhubarb.

  Lady Murielle flashed a ferocious look at Lady Agnes then smiled at her sister-in-law again. “You have beauty enough to keep any man content, Felice. And he’ll likely hardly be here, being a favorite of the king.”

  Claire appreciated the neat way her mother slid in that telling point. Felice desperately wanted to marry a great man, or one headed for greatness.

  “Who says he’s a favorite of the king?” Lady Agnes demanded.

  “He’s been given Summerbourne, hasn’t he?” That clearly was a telling point, and Lady Agnes fell silent, scowling.

  “He must be a very busy man,” Lady Murielle continued. “His wife will doubtless have to run his estates and raise the children alone while he’s at war, and at the king’s court.”

  “Court?” Felice straightened with interest.

  Lady Agnes rallied. “Court. Where he’ll be, while his wife stays here to count pigs.”

  “I’m sure he would take a wife to court sometimes,” said Claire’s mother.

  “Hardly. After all, if Felice was his wife, she’d be known to all as a traitor’s sister. He’d want her hidden away.”

  “Then his wife would have even more independence here.”

  “You think he’d trust a traitor’s sister with his affairs without check?”

  Lady Murielle’s smile widened. “Your husband trusted you.”

  Lady Agnes smiled back, showing the gaps between her remaining teeth. “Only after a year or two—tricky years at that—and only because I took care to please him.”

  Felice glared at her mother. “Are you saying I can’t please this man?”

  “You haven’t managed to please one yet, have you? Amice might do better if she’d stop crying.”

  That, of course, set Amice off again. Lady Agnes had been at odds with her late-born daughters since the hour of their birth.

  “Stop it!” cried Claire, rising to her feet. “Father would hate to hear such dissension in the family.”

  “This is all Clarence’s fault,” snapped Felice, surging up to face her. “His folly has brought us to this, and his daughter should pay the price.”

  “She’s the youngest,” Lady Murielle protested.

  Felice’s elegant face set into the hawklike harshness they knew too well. “Only by a few years. She’s eighteen. Old enough to be a bride.”

  But then Amice surprised them all. “No,” she whispered, tears still leaking. “I … I’ll do it. To save Claire. I’ll d-do it.” She was visibly shaking, her pale face a collection of damp, quivering angles.

  Claire met her grandmother’s demanding eyes. She knew quite well what the old woman was up to—trying to get her own way as usual.

  Claire would let Felice do it. Even if he did take his belt to her now and then, she thought Felice would get enough out of the bargain—marriage to a powerful man, and control of Summerbourne. But Lady Agnes thought Felice would be a harsh mistress here, and that she’d anger her husband rather than sweetening his moods.

  She might be right.

  Amice would never do. She’d quite likely make herself ill over it. Even if she survived, she’d never be able to manipulate such a man.

  Claire went over to hug her aunt. “I don’t think we need to make firm decisions yet, Amice. He can’t expect any of us to marry him today.” Remembering her grandmother’s story, she shivered and hoped she was right. “But I know you’ll feel safer with Felice, so why don’t you and she go as the hostages? I’ll stay here, and if he chooses to assume I’m the bride, let him. Once we’ve met him, we’ll know better what to do.”

  Yes, that was it. If he turned out to be a tolerable sort of man, he’d suit Felice and all would be well.

  Of course, that meant if he was completely intolerable, she might have to marry him herself. She’d face that when they came to it.

  Amice looked up, tears drying. “Oh, Claire. Are you sure? Are you sure you can face him?”

  How on earth had her aunt thought to marry the man, if facing him was beyond her? Claire patted Amice’s trembling hand. “I’ll have Mother and Lady Agnes to support me. Don’t worry.”

  Amice began to weep again, but this time with relief, and Felice led her off to collect some belongings.

  “Claire, why did you do that?” her mother wailed. “You’ll end up married to him. Marriage is for life, you know, and a cruel husband is a terrible thing.”

  “Then we should hardly wish him on Felice, should we?”

  “Don’t lecture me!”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re as bad as Clarence. You never listen. You always think you’re right.”

  Claire pressed her hands to her aching head. “Mother, it’s just an early move. We have to give him hostages. How else could it be arranged?”

  Her mother stared at her. “You’re not planning anything, are you?”

  “No.” Claire wished she did have a plan. She couldn’t imagine marrying this man, but if Felice remained set against it, she might have to. How could she let her whole family suffer?

  “Oh,” said Lady Murielle, dabbing at her eyes, “I could strangle Clarence!” But then she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “I didn’t mean that! Anyway, he’s already dead—”

  “Murielle,” snapped Lady Agnes, “stop twittering!”

  Claire’s mother glared, but she did steady. She looked at Claire with a watery smile. “Thank heavens, at least, that you are pretty and have a sweet nature. You’ll make sure we’re all taken care of.”

  Claire had to stop herself touching the gray cloth hiding her ruined hair.

  What if she had to marry this man and it angered him?

  What if he took out his anger on everyone here?

  Her mother went on: “I’ve been telling you for years that if you’d only pay attention to the young men—”

  “What young men?”

  “You have had suitors, you know. You just never noticed! All Clarence’s fault, of course. He never encouraged any of them.”

  “He knew I wasn’t interested.”

  “He wanted you home to read and sing with him.”

  Her mother’s tone shocked Claire. Had she been jealous? Lady Murielle could have spent more time with her hu
sband. But, Claire realized, she’d never had much interest in study and books.

  She turned away to hide her trembling lips. Everything was breaking apart. Everything!

  Her grandparents’ marriage had seemed happy, but it had come about by conquest, and perhaps by rape.

  She’d thought her parents loved each other, but now she doubted. Perhaps it had only ever been a comfortable arrangement between two people of an accepting nature.

  Her home and everything she believed about it was being ripped out from under her!

  At a touch, she whirled, and found her mother there, studying her anxiously. Anxious for her feelings, or anxious as to whether she would play the part of sacrificial maiden?

  She’d always felt sure of her mother’s love, but now even that was eaten by cankers of doubt.

  “Why not go and put on something prettier, Claire?”

  “On Father’s burial day?”

  Lady Agnes thumped her stick. “Put death behind you, girl. Look to life.”

  Claire whirled to confront her. “Could you, that first day?”

  “I don’t remember.” It was clearly a lie. She, too, wanted Claire to submit so she could keep her place here.

  Claire looked over to her brother, who seemed mainly numb, but who surely needed her sacrifice if he was to make anything of his life. Hers or her aunt’s.

  Amice and Felice came back into the room, swathed in cloaks, servants behind bearing their chests. Amice seemed to be largely held up by Felice, but at least she was walking. Felice was frowning.

  Hoping the frown was one of indecision, Claire said, “Are you sure, Felice?”

  The frown disappeared. “Completely! Better a night or two in the damp than a life shackled to a monster.”

  Claire gave up for now, and went to kiss Amice. “Do you have your herbs?”

  Amice nodded. “Claire, I wish—”

  “Hush. This is better. You know me.” She even found a smile. “Things just bounce off me.”

  Felice was frowning again. From years of experience, Claire knew her aunt was trying to decide if she’d achieved a clever escape or been cheated out of something. In the end, no matter what the truth, she always decided she’d been cheated.

  Perhaps this time Claire had misjudged her and the frown was genuine concern, for as they exchanged kisses Felice said, “God go with you, Claire. If we’re allowed to return, I’ll try to protect you from the worst.”

  “What if he turns out to be a veritable Roland, worthy to be a hero?”

  Felice’s eyes slid away. “Then I suppose you’ll keep him.”

  “No, I promise. No matter how noble in mind and body, I do not want him.”

  Felice looked back, picking at the statement to find the catch. “We’ll see.”

  Unfortunately at that moment, Claire’s head cloth began to slip. Claire put up a hand to hold it, but Felice lunged forward and pushed it all the way back.

  “Claire!”

  It seemed to come from all voices at once, but Felice overrode it shrilly. “Now I see it. You pretend to be willing, but you plan to make yourself so unappealing that he’ll reject you. Well, it won’t work. He’ll have to take you, shorn or not!”

  With that, she hustled the wide-eyed Amice on her way.

  Lady Agnes cackled. “Your hair won’t make a farthing’s worth of difference in the dark.”

  Lady Murielle was staring. “Oh, Claire … Don’t you know your looks could have been a weapon?”

  Red-faced, Claire declared, “Not one I’d want to use.”

  “You foolish girl! But now you must certainly put on some becoming clothes.”

  “For a vicious upstart? Why?”

  “To wrap a vicious upstart round your fingers. Have some thought to the fate of all here. Think of your brother!”

  Claire winced.

  “Or,” asked her mother, “are you truly pretending to be willing while planning to be rejected?”

  “No!” But then Claire realized that had been her plan. Her selfish, selfish plan. Oh, but she deserved a vicious monster for a husband.

  “It can’t matter, Mother,” she said. “He clearly doesn’t care what sort of woman becomes his bride. I will do what I must. I cannot, however, pretend to be willing. This is a house of mourning, and this usurper cannot make us pretend otherwise.”

  Claire dipped her fingers in the ash at the hearth’s edge, then smeared it on her face and down her clothes. Thus marked, she went to stand by the open doors, ready to face the monster she might have to marry.

  Chapter 4

  Brother Nils, clerk to Renald de Lisle, new lord of Summerbourne, stood shivering in the drenching rain despite a good cloak, feeling true sympathy for the ladies having to leave their home. He’d only been with Lord Renald for a few days, having been recommended to him by the king, but his first impression had been of a compassionate man. Cold, perhaps, but not cruel. Now this.

  The people of Summerbourne had opened their gates without resistance. Why demand hostages, and gentle ladies at that? When he’d ventured a question, Lord Renald had merely said, “I’ll have no more foolishness from this family. One death is enough.”

  Now, when the ladies’ servants had to carry them through what was clearly a muddy mire, he tried again. “My lord, surely this is not necessary.”

  “Brother Nils,” said the big man by his side, “you are neither my conscience, nor my tactical adviser. However, you can store in your memory that drainage work needs to be done here. And the ditch is so shallow it hardly needs a bridge. And the wooden walls need outward spikes at the top at least. Find the nearest source of stone for walls.”

  The man turned to him, though he could almost be a headless monster for all that could be seen under his hood. “You have all that?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I’m not going to harm them,” he added, and a touch of humor warmed his voice. Nils had found there was humor in Lord Renald, like a gold thread running through dark granite.

  “But you will leave them here with your men.”

  “You think my men will harm them?”

  Nils didn’t bother to answer, for none was needed. Lord Renald had built his troop around a core of men belonging to his friend FitzRoger of Cleeve. As he’d been the Lord of Cleeve’s lieutenant for many years, these men knew him well. The rest were as new as Nils was, however. It had been … interesting to watch them being turned, in a matter of days, during a grueling storm-battered journey, into a household.

  These men would do exactly as their lord wished, as he would himself, though for different reasons.

  He returned to watching the servants carry the women through the small pond that had formed at the end of the bridge. Certainly, drainage was a priority, and Nils wondered at the previous lord who’d let such a matter go unattended. From what he’d heard, Lord Clarence had been a charming man with a gift for storytelling and riddles. But clearly, as a landholder he had been somewhat lacking.

  “Who do you think’s coming?” asked Josce, Lord Renald’s squire. Also new. “Or rather, who do you think’s staying?”

  Josce of Gillingford thought this business of marrying a fair damsel romantic. Nils had at first but now, as they waited to find out who would be the bride, he was imagining all the women in the world he wouldn’t want to be tied to. He wondered how Lord Renald could appear so unconcerned. Marriage was for life, after all. He could have lined them up and taken his pick. It might have been wiser.

  But as Lord Renald had pointed out, Nils was neither his conscience nor his adviser, except perhaps on matters to do with estate management and administration.

  Since Lord Renald hadn’t answered, Josce went on: “I’ll bet it’s the aunts. They’d want to stick together.”

  “The Ladies Felice and Amice,” supplied Nils, since it was his business to keep track of such details. “The daughter is called Claire.”

  “Happiness, Love, and Light.” Lord Renald gave a dry laugh. “All rather
unlikely brides in the circumstances. Well, let’s find out.”

  The servants had reached the rocky ground where the tents were set, and had put their burdens on their feet. Huddled in their cloaks, raising their skirts, the two ladies picked their way toward the big tent outside which the men stood waiting.

  “My ladies,” said Lord Renald, “here is my tent. I think you will find it has the essentials for comfort.”

  At a command, a man by the test flap raised it and the women hurried into shelter and pushed back their hoods. Both were revealed to be fine-boned beauties, with damp, golden hair.

  “Mmmm,” said Josce to Nils. “Not bad.”

  “Don’t forget, lad, these are the ones who won’t be Lord Renald’s bride.”

  They were very alike, though one looked haughty, the other terrified. Almost certainly the twins.

  “I am Renald de Lisle, my ladies. And you are?”

  “The Ladies Felice and Amice of Summerbourne.” The haughty one glared down a long, straight nose. “It is intolerable that you drag us out here to live like pigs in a sty.”

  “We will make you as comfortable—”

  “Comfortable! Only beasts could be comfortable here.”

  “It is—”

  “It is evidence of lowly birth, sirrah!”

  Nils winced. It was a true accusation in a way. Lord Renald came only from the petty nobility of France, and from a family dispossessed into poverty. This sudden rise in fortune was unexpected.

  The woman was continuing her harangue. “What arrogance makes you think you are worthy to marry into our family?”

  “Oh, Felice, take care!” The other had eyes swollen and red with weeping and she flinched as if expecting a blow. As well she might.

  “Don’t let him cow you, Amice. I insist that—”

  Lord Renald turned and walked away, gesturing for Nils and Josce to follow. They headed for the horses, pursued by screamed complaints.

  “If that was Happiness and Love,” said Nils’s lord, taking the reins of his horse, “light should prove to be a suitably dark and dismal lady.”

  Claire had planned to face the usurper with courage and defiance, but nerves began to shake her.

  If only she had some idea what to expect!