Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  In the drumming of rain, she had watched Felice and Amice being carried out, watched as they picked their way toward the tent. One of the cloaked and hooded men had accompanied her aunts there. Presumably Lord Renald.

  She’d peered through the rain, desperate for any hint of the foe she must face. He looked big.

  Of course he’d be big. He was surely one of the men who lived by the sword. Blooded swords, her father had called them. Wolves of war. He’d not welcomed them here. That had been another of Felice’s complaints, for where else was she to find a great man except among the ambitious wolf packs?

  So, if he was that type, he’d appeal to Felice.

  What if he wasn’t? What if he was too big for her taste? Or badly scarred. Or deformed. Or foul-smelling. Or had the manners of a pig.

  Then Claire would have to marry him.

  She tried to persuade herself that it wouldn’t be so terrible. Her grandmother had married in worse circumstances and made a good life out of it.

  She went over her mother’s words to Felice, telling them to herself. If she was meek, he’d not be brutal. He’d rarely be here, so most of the time she’d be left in charge of Summerbourne. She could see her home kept as it had always been, a prosperous place of arts and learning, full of laughter and music.

  But when he was here he’d share her bed and use her body.

  Claire had known some men she would rather die than lie with. Baldwin of Biggin sprang to mind. Sir Baldwin had claimed hospitality here some months back and proved to be a revolting man.

  He had the big, strong body of a fighting man, but padded out with fat. His belly overlapped his belt and his cheeks bulged up, making his eyes like those of a pig. He ate like a pig, too, spilling food and drink down himself. His hands were enormous, each finger like a fat red sausage stuck with dark hairs, and he’d liked to use those fingers to pinch bottoms and squeeze breasts.

  Claire had tipped a bowl of soup over him when he’d tried it with her. He’d just laughed and said he liked spirit in a woman, looking at her as if she were another dish at the table. Her father had got rid of him, of course, but she shuddered at the memory. Now, she had no one to protect her from men such as that.

  She started when her mother clasped her hands around a warm goblet of mead. “Drink, dear. It will steady your nerves.”

  The heat was welcome, and the spicy steam soothed, but Claire swallowed tears as she sipped. Her mother couldn’t rescue her, and now she wasn’t even trying. She wanted Claire steady to face the sacrifice. Didn’t they give condemned men a drink before execution?

  She suddenly felt terribly alone, exposed like a felon in the marketplace, every nerve vulnerable to the harsh winds of grief, and the hail of fear, with none daring to protect her from her fate.

  She looked out at the camp again and saw her fate turn from the tent and walk toward the horses. She drained the mead in one gulp.

  Soon four cloaked men approached the gates, but to her surprise, they led their mounts. They waded the muddy pool and crossed the wooden bridge, their horses’ hooves rapping on the wood like ominous hammers.

  Thomas moved up beside her. She couldn’t hug him, nor would he want to be hugged. It would mark him as a child he could no longer be. But she rested her hand upon his shoulder hoping he couldn’t feel her fear. Her mother was right. Right. Thomas was the one most vulnerable here. If marriage was the price of his safety, she’d do it, no matter how revolting the man turned out to be.

  As soon as the men were through the gates, one took all four sets of reins and led the horses to the stables. Claire swung her attention back to the other three. Which was the new lord? They all looked the same, tall, broad, and cloaked.

  And hard-pressed.

  She almost giggled at the incongruous sight. They were struggling through the ankle-deep mud toward the hall, their long riders’ cloaks dragging them back like lead weights. Surely the mighty warrior wished he were stalking majestically over his conquered land.

  She whipped her mind back into order. Nothing about this was funny. Her father lay dead in the chapel, and muddy ground didn’t make these men any the less dangerous. They were doubtless used to muddy slaughter.

  With a whispered command, she sent Thomas away, to their mother. To safety.

  The long, water-dark, leather cloaks concealed the men’s bodies, and hoods sheltered their faces. She caught a glimpse of mail around chins, however, and the metal nasals that must extend down from helmets. Why were they so heavily armed? Didn’t they know they were wolves among rabbits?

  Doubtless the middle wolf was her enemy.

  Broad, broad shoulders. Probably a big-bellied swaggerer with thick, hairy fingers. It would hurt to see such a man in her father’s place, but perhaps he would appeal to Felice.

  She began to pray that he not have a deforming scar, or warts, or bad teeth. Felice disliked disfigurement.

  As the three men drew close to the hall doors the sheer size of de Lisle caused a swirl of fear in Claire’s belly. She tried to remember that he was just a man, but the dark cloaked mass of him began to block out the world. She realized she was retreating instead of standing her ground, but couldn’t stop herself.

  Despite her will, she was trembling now, a faint yet violent tremor that ran through her whole body and set her teeth to chattering.

  “Go any farther, girl,” snapped Lady Agnes, “and your skirts’ll be in the fire.”

  Claire started, looked down, and hastily moved to the side out of danger.

  By the time she looked back, de Lisle was by the hearth too. Head and shoulders taller than she and twice as broad, he pushed back his hood with bare hands.

  Big, strong hands.

  But not sausage-like.

  She looked at his face. As she’d thought, he was armored, but she could see a square chin and firm lips. Not thick. Not at all slack.

  The formidable set of those lips made her heart thump like a warning bell.

  Slowly, he scanned the room, assessing the family by the central hearth and the servants huddled against wooden walls. She could tell he was ready for danger, ready to draw his sword and kill. The simple power of his readiness to kill filled the room like a fierce, hot wind.

  In her peaceful life, Claire had never experienced such a thing.

  Then he relaxed and unlaced his helmet. He pushed it off and tossed it to the man on his left. That man had pushed back his hood, too, pulling a face as if it was a huge relief to be rid of it. He was quite young, with reddish hair and freckles. Big and strong, though. Another fighting man. Probably de Lisle’s squire.

  Claire jerked her attention back to her enemy, desperately squashing fear. She must watch him and study him if they were all to survive.

  Chain mail still hid his hair, but his face was rather square, with strong bones and dark brows. She preferred a man with more delicacy in his features, but she had to admit that he was comely for his sort. No obvious flaw.

  Hope stirred. Surely Felice would find him pleasing.

  His eyes were dark, too, but seemed worn. Bloodshot, perhaps. Probably the result of constant debauchery.

  He unclasped his cloak and tossed it to the squire. The casual movement showed his strength, for a cloak like that, sodden with days of rain, was not an easy thing to handle.

  Of course he’s strong, Claire! He’s a warrior to the last, iron inch.

  Chain mail covered him to the knee, blousing over the wide, studded belt clasped around his hips. That drape of the mail was the only soft touch about him. No bulging belly here, no puffy cheeks. She suspected he’d be as hard to the touch without the armor as with it.

  And as cold?

  She dismissed that fanciful notion. He was flesh and blood like any man. Like any animal. Not an ox, though, despite the massive chest. He was more like a war stallion, fluid and powerful in his muscles.

  Oh, Father, poor Father. Did you have to face men like this?

  He scanned the room again, then looked
back at her: She guessed he had been seeking out the other maid of Summerbourne, and because of her dull clothing had taken her for a servant. Since neither her mother nor grandmother could be his wife, he now knew it was she.

  Her grandmother had been right.

  He was no fool.

  He frowned slightly as he pushed back his chain hood to reveal wavy brown hair falling down to his shoulders, and onto his brow. Then he shook himself like a dog coming in from the rain and moved closer to the warmth of the hearth, holding out his hands.

  The very ease of the action, the possession it implied, offended her in a more direct way than her deeper hurts. He’d assessed them all, decided they were rabbits, and was sure he was safe.

  It would be immensely satisfying to kill him simply to wipe the smugness off his face!

  He bowed to her mother. “Lady Murielle. I assure you I am sincerely sorry for the events that have led up to this moment.”

  Oh certainly, sneered Claire silently. Events that have led to you seizing a handsome property.

  Her mother twittered nervously and introduced him to Lady Agnes. He’d probably taken her for an ancient servant, too. Corrected, he gave her a courtly bow and his sorrow over the death of her son.

  Claire gritted her teeth and waited for Lady Agnes to ingratiate herself with the conqueror.

  Her grandmother, however, stared up with cold, weary eyes. “You just watch yourself, young man. I’ve no quarrel with you. But hurt my chicks and I’ll fix you. There’s not much you or your king can do to make my life more miserable.”

  “I have no intention of hurting anyone, Lady Agnes. But if anyone here attempts to hurt me or mine, not only will the hostages suffer, the king will doubtless visit his own revenge. It is always best to have these matters clear.”

  On the last words, he turned to Claire. “Would you not agree, my lady?”

  It was a direct challenge that took her breath away.

  She made herself look him in the eye, frightened by how hard it was. “Certainly, Sir Renald.” She deliberately did not give him his rightful title of Lord. “I wish to make it clear that you are not welcome here.”

  He didn’t so much as blink. Without looking away, he snapped his fingers. “Ale.”

  Claire didn’t let the flurry distract her, but in seconds a tankard was in his hand. His strong, warrior’s hand …

  She jerked her eyes back to his face where she’d intended them to stay.

  “Since Ladies Felice and Amice are in my camp, you must be Lady Claire.”

  For answer, she just dropped a curtsy.

  “A still tongue. Virtue as well as comeliness.” He drank deeply of the ale. “When you’re cleaned up a bit, that is.”

  As he took another draft of the ale, he frowned at her hair. “My lady, neither of us has been permitted our choice in this. It would be foolish to set out to be miserable.”

  “Since I am completely miserable, Sir Renald, the question doesn’t arise. Must I remind you that we are mourning my father, whom I loved deeply?”

  For a brief moment, his lids shielded his eyes and she was fiercely glad of it. At least she’d managed to jab him in some way.

  But then he looked at her again. “This is certainly not the time to discuss our future. It can at least wait until he is laid to rest.” He turned back to her mother. “I assume you have a solar here?”

  “Of course—”

  “I and my men will sleep there. My possessions will be brought over soon.”

  “That is my parents’ room!”

  They both turned to her, and her mother flapped her hands. “Hush, Claire. All here is now Lord Renald’s to do with as he wishes. Of course that room will be his!”

  “And yours too when we are wed, Lady Claire.”

  She did her best to suppress the shudder. Thank the saints and angels that she wasn’t going to have to marry this man. Felice would snap him up. For a wolf, he was good-looking and though cold, he didn’t seem to be vicious.

  Claire could even, with the logical part of her mind, accept that her mother and grandmother were right. This situation was not his fault. He was merely the beneficiary of it.

  Still, she had meant what she had said. He was unwelcome.

  And she meant what she hadn’t said. She wanted him married to her aunt so that she could leave Summerbourne. So she wouldn’t have to see the defilement of the place she loved.

  They buried Lord Clarence of Summerbourne that evening, the mourners all cloaked against the never-ending rain. Sir Renald and his men had the tact to stay out of sight.

  Claire wept to see her father’s body settled into inches of cold muddy water, but at least she’d persuaded them to bury him in his favorite blue gown beneath the winding sheet.

  She turned from the grave and looked up instead at the heavy sky, letting rain mingle with tears. Presumably somewhere beyond the clouds was the golden light of Paradise. She hoped there were books there, and furs, and good music. She hoped the angels liked his wonderful stories, and clever riddles.

  Be happy, Father. But watch over us, too.

  As the men began to fill the grave, laboring to lift shovels of sodden earth, the family returned to the hall, each going to their own room to mourn.

  Claire found her bedchamber strange, for she’d shared it all her life with her aunts. The too-empty room reminded her of how her life had been shattered. Could she have done anything to prevent disaster? Could she have persuaded her father not to go? Though they were close, she didn’t think so. As she’d said to Thomas, once her father made up his mind on something, he was like a rock.

  She turned bitter thoughts toward Eudo the Sheriff. He’d been the one to stir her father up about the king’s right to the throne. Working quietly on her illustrations in her father’s study, she’d often heard their talk. She’d heard Eudo going on and on about regicide and duties, debating the matter endlessly on every visit.

  Then, in the end, Eudo’s courage had failed him and he hadn’t joined the rebellion at all. Last she’d heard he, like so many others, had slunk off to London to pay homage to the man he believed to be a murderer. He’d certainly been confirmed in his position as sheriff of the county.

  But the damage had been done. Her father had come to his decision and after that, the Archangel Gabriel complete with fiery sword couldn’t have deflected him.

  So he’d kissed her and told her to take care of everyone at Summerbourne until he returned. Then he’d ridden away as if off to market except for the weapons and armor on the packhorse trailing behind.

  Take care of everyone.

  That memory froze her in her steps. Would her father want her to take care of Summerbourne by marrying his successor?

  Yes, said an inner voice.

  “No!” she said out loud. He’d want her to find a way out of it.

  Trying to escape her conscience, she seized her needlework and sat by the window to embroider more flowers along a long linen band. Then she realized it had been meant for a new shirt for her father.

  Almost she tore it in two, but then she forced her fingers to keep working. Waste was evil, and someone would make use of it. But could she bear to see someone dressed in clothes intended for her father? No, no more than she could bear to see that dark, cold man in her father’s place.

  Sweet Mary, it was all so impossible.

  Felice. Felice would be willing.

  Her needle froze. What if the usurper wanted to drag her to altar and bed today, as her conquering grandfather had done?

  When Maria came to say she was wanted in the hall, wanted by her mother and Lord Renald, Claire gulped and wanted to hide under the bed. Did he have the priest ready?

  Well, she’d refuse. Folding her work, she told herself even the king couldn’t blame her for not taking a husband on the day she buried her father. With that thought like a talisman before her, she headed down the stairs.

  It was only as she walked into the hall that she realized that the setting sun w
as shining through breaks in the clouds. The rain had stopped.

  The usurper entered the hall from the solar, dressed now in a blue linen tunic so dark as to be little brighter than his iron armor, but now he wore heavy gold bracelets at his wrists and a belt with a buckle set with colored stones. A tonsured monk walked behind him, carrying documents.

  Claire realized with surprise that this must have been the third “monster” who had entered Summerbourne—de Lisle’s clerk! And he was not particularly warlike, having a softness to him, and merry eyes.

  Had all her reactions been so disordered? She glanced again at de Lisle—big, hard, and somber—and decided they had not.

  Claire’s mother was already in her own chair, and with an anxious smile, she patted the bench by her side, calling Claire over. Lady Agnes sat fixed in her usual place, glaring at the world in general.

  De Lisle sank into her father’s chair and she hated him.

  “My ladies.” His voice was deep and steady. “We must settle the matter of this marriage without delay.”

  Claire made herself look him in the eye. “None of us wish to marry you, Sir Renald.” When her mother reached to control her, she twitched free and stood.

  “And what do wishes have to do with it, Lady Claire?”

  “We need time. None of us can be a merry bride on my father’s burial day.”

  His brows rose. “But I can expect a merry bride one day? I confess, it’s more than I’d hoped for.”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. She must remember that he was no fool. “If you give us time, my lord. Perhaps a month—”

  “But the king commands that the ceremony be immediate, Lady Claire.”

  Chapter 5

  “Immediate!”

  The lady went pale, and Brother Nils was not surprised. Was Lord Renald truly intending to drag the poor woman to altar and bed within hours of her father’s burial? There was no need for such haste.

  “Brother Nils, the documents.”

  The crisp words snapped Nils out of his worry, and swung the Lady Claire’s attention to him. Though not as beautiful as her aunts, she was a woman he could imagine marrying. If he wasn’t in Holy Orders, of course. Nils opened his pouch and pulled out the scrolls.