Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  “Do you read, demoiselle?” Lord Renald asked.

  Lady Claire turned back to face him. She had courage, Nils was pleased to see, and without her aunt’s foolish pride. “Yes.”

  “English or Latin?”

  “Both.”

  Lord Renald raised his brows in that way he had. “Nils, give the documents to Lady Claire. She can read everything for herself.”

  Nils went over to present them. “Lady, you have here the king’s commands for you and for this place, Lord Renald’s right of possession, and the betrothal agreement. The latter requires only the bride’s signature and that of witnesses.”

  “How presumptuous.”

  Lord Renald answered that. “The king has a right to presume obedience, Lady Claire. Do you deny it?”

  From the tightening of her lips, Nils suspected that Claire of Summerbourne would deny King Henry anything she could, and he knew his lord was right to fear folly from these people. But at least she lowered her eyes and guarded her tongue for now.

  Nils saw her hands tremble as she unrolled the soft parchment, and felt true pity for her. What would it be like for a lady to have to marry a stranger, and such a stranger? And she did not know the worst of it yet.

  She read the documents aloud for her mother and grandmother, and in a clear, steady voice. A remarkable woman, Claire of Summerbourne. It was a shame, really.

  Claire fought back tears as she read the first document, the one that declared her father traitor, and all his property attaindered. Had it been written before or after his death? She hoped he had never heard the words.

  In the second, Summerbourne and all attached estates, rights, and duties were given to “the king’s right trusty servant, Renald de Lisle, knight and champion.”

  Champion. She glanced up to find Renald de Lisle watching her. If stone had eyes, they would look like that.

  Hastily, she looked down again, but the word jangled in her head like an alarm bell. Champion meant that he could be called upon to fight in the king’s name in single combat. It told of his quality as a fighter, but it also told her that he was a true blooded sword. She could see for herself that he was soulless.

  Her whole body began to tremble at the thought of such a man owning Summerbourne. It was almost sacrilege.

  Though her eyes blurred, she sucked in a deep breath and continued. “Because of past kindness between Lord Clarence of Summerbourne and Henry, now King of England …”—as well to call it past, foul friend.

  “… the king in his mercy commands Lord Renald of Summerbourne to take the said Clarence’s dependents under his care as if they were his own. For this purpose, Lord Renald is permitted and commanded to choose one of the three maids of Summerbourne and take her to wife without delay.”

  That was the end. Claire looked up at him. “Permitted to choose, my lord? Why pretend that we have the choice?”

  “Summerbourne may choose the bride.”

  “Not by this document. This gives you the choice.”

  “And I pass it on. It matters not to me.”

  Claire rolled the parchments, trying to find a hint of untruth in that flat statement. There was none. He truly didn’t care which maiden was his bride.

  Ludicrous to feel insulted, but she did. Her sacrifice, or the sacrifice of one of her aunts, meant nothing to the man.

  The king’s will was clear, however. De Lisle must marry one of them, and “without delay.” What did that mean? She doubted a month or even a week would fit.

  But a day? Surely they had at least a day.

  It shouldn’t take even that long to persuade Felice.

  Though cold, Renald de Lisle wasn’t a brute of a man, and he must stand high in the king’s favor. Yes, thought Claire, aware of persuading herself, he was a gift from heaven for Felice. She would only have to get a good look at him to appreciate it.

  But a jolt of alarm shot through her.

  Felice was out in the camp and Claire and de Lisle were here in the castle! What if he wanted the ceremony before he’d let the hostages back in? Keep a calm head, Claire.

  She looked up, hoping her panic didn’t show. “I do see that the king expects speedy action, my lord. But surely we are allowed a little time to grieve.”

  What was he thinking? She had no idea. She longed for a spontaneous word or gesture by which to judge him, but he was as incomprehensible as a text she’d once seen written in the Arabic script.

  Those dark eyes studied her, shielded and quiet. “A little time, yes, Lady Claire. But do not try to avoid this.”

  She started. It was as if he could read her.

  Then let him. She would not pretend. Claire rose and stalked over to thrust the documents back into the clerk’s hands. Only his startled look alerted her to the fact that she’d crushed them in her anger.

  She fought to stay calm, to keep her goal clear. She must, to delay any vows and get Felice back into Summerbourne. The best route to that goal was to sweeten him.

  Though she hated to do it, she spoke meekly and gave him his correct title. “You must see, Lord Renald, that we are offering no resistance—”

  “Must I?”

  She swallowed. “No effective resistance. I pray you, my lord, bring my aunts back into Summerbourne. You have no need of hostages, and they must be in danger of an ague out there.”

  His steady eyes never left hers. “The sooner we’re wed, Lady Claire, the sooner they can sleep in a dry bed. We can have the ceremony now, if you wish.”

  “No!” She found she’d taken a step back.

  “You prefer your aunts to suffer an ague?”

  “I prefer them safe and dry in here.”

  “Then marry me. What point in delay?”

  “I need time to come to terms with—”

  “Claire!” snapped her grandmother. “The man has a point. Get it over with.”

  Claire whirled on her. “He has stolen my father’s property—your son’s property!”

  “Whose father stole it from my father. Don’t forget that.”

  “It’s not the same!”

  “Seems the same to me.”

  Then Claire realized she’d not been able to stay meek for a moment.

  Lady Agnes poked her with her stick. “If you’ll take the advice of an old woman whose been through this before, you’ll either marry this instant, or stir people into producing a decent meal. They’re probably all standing around letting the stew burn, and there’s nothing like good food to mellow a man. Or at least”—she winked—“only one thing.”

  Claire knew her cheeks had turned bright red. She wanted to scream that she’d rather poison this invader than feed him. But she’d much rather feed him than bed him. She glared at him, hoping he would read the message.

  He simply stared back with that implacable, unreadable, complex expression. He planned to marry his bride-in-the-hand and secure his claim to Summerbourne. He didn’t care which bride. He didn’t care about the bride’s feelings. He didn’t care about looks or temperament, either. She’d sacrificed her hair for nothing. She and her aunts were pieces in a game, not people at all.

  “Felice,” she said in desperation, “the Lady Felice might be more comfortable with this marriage than I, my lord.”

  “Then she should have stayed behind.”

  “If you would just bring her in—”

  “I have already explained why that is impossible.”

  “The Lady Amice could remain as hostage …” Oh, poor Amice. She’d faint with terror. “Or my mother could perhaps go out—”

  “The choice has been made, Lady Claire.”

  She heard a sob and realized it was her own. She sucked in a deep breath. Time. Perhaps he’d think better of it with time.

  Felice was beautiful. If she could only stand side by side with Felice, he’d surely see reason, especially now Claire was in ash-stained drab and with ruined hair.

  She needed time so she could do something about Felice.

  Time.
/>   Food!

  Suddenly her grandmother’s words hit her. Food would soothe him and pass time, and arranging it would give her an excuse to leave the hall. To escape.

  “I must go and see to the meal, my lord.”

  She expected objection, but he nodded.

  As she turned to leave the room, Lady Agnes said, “Take the boy with you.”

  Claire saw Thomas standing in a shadowy corner, glaring at the usurper with bitter hate. Sweet Jesu, no. The last thing they needed was her brother doing something rash.

  She went over to him. “Come with me to the kitchens, love.”

  “I want to stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “To watch him.”

  “Why?”

  He looked up then, so at least she’d broken the spell of fear and anger. “I hate him. That’s Father’s chair. We should—”

  She squeezed his shoulder hard. “Don’t, love. Don’t. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Felice said I’m the man, now. That I have to protect you all. And I am, aren’t I?”

  Claire wished Felice an extra century or two in purgatory. “Thomas, there’s nothing any of us can do now. And it’s not really his fault.”

  “But you’re going to marry him, aren’t you? Then you’ll take his side. Like Gran.”

  “Gran doesn’t take his side. She just doesn’t see any point in opposing him.”

  He shook his head, his blond curls bouncing with his frustration. “I mean after Hastings, when Grandfather came! Do you know Sigfrith in the stables?”

  What on earth was he talking about? “Yes.”

  “He’s Gran’s cousin. He was part of the family here, but now he works in the stables, and Gran doesn’t care! That’ll happen to me, won’t it?”

  Claire pulled him to her, smothering his rising voice with her body. “No, love. No, I’ll make sure it won’t.” She pushed him back and looked into his wild eyes. “But, Thomas, the only way we’ll make anything out of this is to step carefully. Come.”

  She pushed him before her out of the room, but couldn’t resist one glance back. Renald de Lisle was watching her. A raised finger brought his squire to his side. A moment later, the young man followed her.

  “I’m only going to the kitchens to check on the food. Presumably you want to eat.”

  “I’ll be no trouble, lady.”

  No, she thought. You’ll just stop us from running away. In such a short time Summerbourne had changed from home to prison.

  To her surprise, the kitchens weren’t in disorder. The mood was somber and some women dabbed at their eyes with their aprons, but work was going ahead. There would be a decent meal shortly.

  The servants all clustered around her, of course, seeking information and reassurance. She gave the best she could.

  “Is it true you’re to marry him, lady?” asked the cook.

  “One of us will marry him, yes.”

  “Better you, lady. Better you.”

  With that he turned away, but he’d placed another burden on her shoulders. Of course the people here wouldn’t want Felice as mistress. She had a quick temper and a sharp hand with punishment. Her way of always thinking the worst curdled the air.

  “I can’t take everyone’s cares on myself.”

  It was only when she saw sympathy in the squire’s blue eyes that she realized she’d spoken aloud.

  She turned her mind firmly to efficiency and food.

  As Claire was discussing a problem about the beer casks, laughter startled her. She glanced over and saw her guard relaxed at the long table and amusing the curious servants. Whether by accident or design, his youth, freckles, and cheerful grin were lightening the atmosphere in the kitchen by the moment.

  She pushed away the hurt of that. She couldn’t stay to take care of the people here, but she didn’t want them miserable. If the squire and the master brought happiness, she must approve of that. It hurt, though, to see Thomas by his side, looking calmer as he listened to a story about London.

  Oh, mercy, wasn’t that what she’d wanted—that he put his anger and fear aside and accept the situation? Claire didn’t know what she wanted anymore other than escape.

  Why couldn’t she slip out to the camp now? She would persuade Felice of the advantages of the match, and her aunt could come back in to prepare for her wedding. Claire would stay with Amice in her place.

  First, she tried the obvious thing and strolled out of the kitchen.

  Immediately, she heard the young man behind her.

  She stopped to face him. “Are you going to creep around after me everywhere?”

  “I’ll stomp around after you if it’ll make you feel better, lady.”

  “What point is there? Where would I go?”

  He had an honest, open face, and seemed genuinely concerned. “Now that, I don’t know, lady. But Lord Renald said to stay with you, so stay with you I will.”

  “Is he such a fearsome lord?”

  “He expects his orders to be obeyed, lady. Doubtless you are the same.”

  He had her there. She must remember that the squire was no more a fool than the master. So, how to escape him? “I’m going to the maidens’ chamber. Do you plan to follow me in there?”

  “Is that upstairs, lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I reckon I’ll make do with waiting outside. I don’t suppose you can fly.”

  Claire puffed out a breath in annoyance and stalked off, but inwardly she was satisfied. So, he thought being on the upper floor would make escape impossible, did he?

  The lower floor of the wooden manor house was mainly taken up by the great hall, her parents’ solar, and her father’s office. The upper floor held storage rooms, and sleeping chambers for the sons and daughters of the house. The windows were high off the ground. No wonder he thought her secure.

  Claire went into the maidens’ chamber and shut the door in his face. Then she dug in a chest, looking for the coiled rope.

  This had been her father’s idea after some people in a nearby town had been burned to death on the upper floor of a house. He’d ordered knotted ropes stored in each room and iron rings set into the wall to hold them.

  Claire carried the rope to a window and assessed the area.

  She immediately saw that it wasn’t going to work.

  Both windows overlooked open spaces, and now that the rain had stopped servants were hurrying about anxious to get on with long-neglected tasks. They could hardly miss her, scrambling down a rope. Perhaps the castle people wouldn’t give her away, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Impatient though she was, she’d have to wait till dark. She could afford to. No wedding was planned for today. She tucked the rope back in the chest and left the room, ignoring the squire who followed her down to the ground floor like a patient hound.

  The hall was deserted except for her grandmother in her usual spot, and the servants beginning to set up for the meal.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked Lady Agnes.

  “In the study. Lord Renald and his clerk are going over the records with your mother and some others. He has matters well in hand.”

  “Seized in a firm grasp, you mean.”

  “If you want. What do you want?”

  Yesterday, thought Claire. Or rather, months ago, before madness, before death. “Choice,” she said.

  “Choice? That’s a luxury indeed! But you have choice. Choices, in fact. You can marry the man and keep Summerbourne as it should be. Or you can talk Felice into it, and we’ll all suffer under her bile. Or you can insist we all go out to be poor but honorable.”

  Claire faced her. “There’s nothing wrong with honor.”

  “There’s plenty wrong with starving to death.” Then her grandmother shook her head. “Claire, Claire. Accept reality. I’ll confess I was worried, urging you to marry a man sight-unseen. But not now. He’ll make a fair husband for a woman of sense.”

  “I could never forget how he came here.”


  “You’ll be surprised what you can forget. I forget my children’s saint’s days, which I never thought I would as I struggled to give them birth.” Her lips twisted into a smile. “But I remember, too. I remember my mother talking to me much as I’m talking to you, and I remember thinking she was a heartless monster to be going on so when her husband and sons lay dead in a pit somewhere. Like it or not, Claire, I know what you’re going through, and it doesn’t seem so long ago, either. I tell you, in twenty, thirty years it won’t seem much of anything. So don’t do anything foolish. It’s not worth it.”

  Claire turned away. Persuading Felice to marry the man wasn’t foolish. True, Felice could have a sharp edge to her tongue, but she’d be gentler when contendedly married.

  The question was, would she be content when married to Renald de Lisle?

  Of course she would. They’d match like two icicles under the eaves.

  When a servant hurried over to tell her the dairy roof was leaking, Claire thanked heaven for escape from her tangled thoughts.

  It wasn’t an emergency, but she went outside anyway, raising her skirts and picking her way carefully over the logs laid down between the buildings. She still got her feet wet. It was another folly, and she knew it, but it was a relief to be outside and doing something.

  A glance back showed her the squire following, grimacing as he tried to find footing in the slime. With a flicker of mischief, she thought that perhaps she’d go and check the waste-pits next.

  However, by the time she’d arranged for the benches in the dairy to be moved out of harm’s way, and for the thatcher to work on the roof the next day, any inclination to drag de Lisle’s watchdog through the stinking middens had faded. The poor young man was only doing his duty.

  It was only as she headed back toward the hall that she realized that taking care of Summerbourne wasn’t really her job anymore, hers or her mother’s. She could have sent the servant to de Lisle with his problems.

  Ha! A war-wolf wouldn’t know thatch from farrowing.

  Thinking of farrowing reminded her that a new litter had been born just before the storm. She picked and slithered her way over to the sties to find the piglets virtually swimming in mud and loving it. She even found herself smiling at their antics.