by Jo Beverley
“Lady Claire!” One of the women snapped her out of her thoughts, stamping in red-faced to complain. “I’ll swear those men aren’t doing the hens right. Such a mess as they’re making of it. Been at the drink, if you ask me.”
Claire sighed. “I’ll be there in a moment, Heddy.” She tossed a cloth over her pastry and reluctantly went outside. She liked to keep as far away from slaughter as she could. Felice had always supervised such matters. It seemed a sign of the miserable changes in her life that she now had to go and watch hens having their necks wrung.
It was mayhem, but that was normal. Hens and chickens high-stepped in all panicked directions, squawking the alarm. Laughing men caught whatever bird was passing and swung it by the neck to its death. The corpses were tossed carelessly to waiting maids who chopped off the heads and plucked them. The plucked hens were plunged into tubs of cold water. Other women were pulling out the cool ones to clean them.
The stink of gut and gore was everywhere.
Claire saw one man kick a passing hen for sport and called, “Alby, stop that!”
Suddenly aware that the mistress was present, the men sobered and set to catching the victims with less play. The hens still died.
Carefully stony-faced, Claire watched, thinking about death. Necessary death. Pointless death.
Which sort of death had come for her father?
Someone at the betrothal might know, but she realized that she’d come around to her mother’s way of thinking. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to remember her father as the peaceful man he truly had been, not as a creature of iron and blood.
She should be less grim at this moment, in fact. No one else here thought slaughter a cause for sadness. Already, despite her presence, some of the joking and laughter was returning.
She turned away, but couldn’t escape the squawking, the shouting, the regular thunk of the hatchets severing necks.
The sounds of death.
Suddenly she heard the high-pitched squeals of piglets.
Dear heaven, what sort of joyousness was this?
Aware of being foolish—for did she not eat meat every day?—Claire inched farther away.
“My lady?”
She started at de Lisle’s voice, and turned to face him.
“Are you unwell?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
His eyes studied her. “You do not look as hearty as you usually do.”
“It’s just that there’s so much work.”
He glanced behind her. “Or work you do not like.”
She sighed and gave up trying to conceal the truth. “How did you know?”
“You have the look of a lad after his first battle. Without,” he added with the hint of a smile, “the delirium of having survived.” He glanced behind her again. “You must have seen chickens killed before.”
Claire wished he wasn’t always coming across her when she was being foolish. “I—It is not my task. Felice or Mother always does this.”
“Animals must die if we are to eat.”
She met his cool eyes. “I know that! I know it is a silly thing. But I do not like it.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Making honey cakes.”
This time the smile was more than a hint. “I’d far rather eat honey cakes than roast fowl. I will do duty here.”
“You?”
His brows rose. “I am, after all, eminently suited to supervise slaughter.”
She gulped at that cool reminder of what he was, but she grasped the main point. He was willing to take on the job she abhorred. “There’s the piglets, too—”
“Who so recently were enjoying the mud.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “I do understand, demoiselle.” The delicate, courteous brush against her knuckles made the world tilt.
Then, almost contemplatively, he kissed her hand again. “Ginger. Honey. Spicy and sweet.” Eyes holding hers, he ran his tongue across her captive fingertips. “Don’t think about death at all, my lady. Leave that to me, whose proper domain it is, and return to the land of milk and honey.”
Claire stared into eyes that seemed terrifyingly deep. With a gasp, she snatched her hand free and fled back to the bakehouse.
She paused in the doorway, however, and looked back. What was this effect he had on her? Good, or evil? What was he?
She stood there contemplating death and the man who dealt in death, and her own inner mysteries, for she could not deny a secret, wicked response to the invading wolf. Perhaps, just perhaps, if Felice changed her mind and stormed into Summerbourne demanding her husband, Claire might feel a small sense of loss.
She turned sharply and plunged back into the crowded heat of the bakehouse. Only a very, very small one.
She did not want to marry Renald de Lisle.
Her mother was in the bakehouse now, checking the growing stacks of cakes and pastries, still quite happy amid all the work. She was red-faced, however, her brown hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, and Claire feared she looked much the same. She was reminded why Felice preferred to supervise the slaughtering. It was cooler outside and a lady didn’t become such a mess.
“Oh, Claire, there you are!” said her mother. “We found some cherries, and the children have brought back plenty of blackberries and some raspberries as well.”
“I could put some in my tarts.”
“Yes, do that.”
Claire toiled on, creating sweet delicacies the guests would love. Her mind, however, wandered philosophical ways. These sweet delicacies would not sustain life, whereas the coarser product of slaughtering would.
She remembered de Lisle saying as much to Mother Winifred.
Her work, the writing and illustrating she loved so much, was really of no use, whereas the violence the warriors embraced was necessary in this harsh world. It was not so long since parts of England had been subject to Viking raids. At such times, the peaceful people like herself and her father—or the inhabitants of convents and monasteries—had died. Their work had been stolen or destroyed unless a war-wolf stood between them and other predators.
Perhaps men like de Lisle were not so bad …
Her thoughts were shattered by a maid bearing a pail full of blood. “The livers, lady!” she announced to Claire’s mother.
“Oh, yes, thank you, Ilsa. Claire, why don’t you make that special dish. The one with the spices.”
Claire sighed, but went into the main kitchen. She didn’t like handling the still-warm organs of the victims, but it wasn’t as bad as watching the slaughter.
She organized the chopping of the delicate piglet livers, then mixed them with eggs, cream, and spices. She ended up with just one earthenware pot of it to place in the side of the scorching oven, but it was only for the most honored guests anyway. The Earl of Salisbury might accept his invitation if he wasn’t at court. After all, though she saw little of him, he was her godfather.
A cook was preparing the piglet carcasses for roasting whole tomorrow. Determined not to be stupidly squeamish anymore, Claire made a special cherry sauce to serve with them.
She was pleased enough, however, to wash her hands and escape back into the “land of milk and honey.” As she mixed nuts and fruit she considered the man who’d said that, playing with the idea that a blooded sword, a wolf of war, could perhaps be a tolerable man.
He had, after all, taken over a task that upset her, even though as Lord of Summerbourne it was beneath his dignity.
Despite his rage with his men when her aunts escaped, he hadn’t actually done anything vicious. She’d told Felice the truth when she’d said he’d not raised his fist to anyone here.
She put her tray of tarts by the oven to wait its turn, and straightened to rub her aching back, finding that her head was beginning to ache too, doubtless with all the tangled thoughts. Guiltily, she glanced around the crowded bustle of the hot room and decided to steal a moment to catch some fresh air.
&n
bsp; Just a moment.
The long day was fading, and a blessed breeze danced over her sweaty skin. She sighed at the surprisingly pleasant feel of it playing in the short hair at the back of her neck, and raised her hair a little more, rolling head and shoulders to relieve the ache.
“Life in the land of milk and honey must be as hard as in the crueler world.”
Of course. He would still be on guard. She turned to look at him. “You are enviably cool, my lord.”
“There must be a moral there, somewhere. That death is easier than other ways, like the primrose path?”
“Certainly Felice always manages to stay neat by witnessing the slaughter.”
His brows rose. “You still think your aunt and I well suited?”
“Perhaps, but someone has to get hot and sweaty in the kitchens.”
“You see. Ours is clearly a match made by destiny.”
“Made by force, you mean.” Then she wondered why she felt so calm about rebuffing him. Perhaps it was just the sheer exhaustion of a long day.
“Destiny or force,” he said, undisturbed, “I have no complaint. About bride or property. My bride makes honey cakes, and Summerbourne is in excellent state apart from its defenses.”
“Defenses?” she queried, trying not to be offended by the way he was assessing his ill-gotten gains.
“Don’t be alarmed. You’re safe enough in these times, but we need stone walls.”
“No!” He’d caught her alarm but completely misunderstood it. “Stone walls are cold.”
“Cold and strong. Give me a very small army and I could take this place in hours.”
She raised her chin and glared at him. “You didn’t even need an army, did you? A bit of trickery, a bit of killing, and we are yours without a blow struck!”
“What about that bit of killing?” Though he scarcely moved, a sudden anger in him dried her mouth. She took a step back, but only let it be one. “What are you accusing me of, my lady?”
She’d meant the king’s murder of his brother, but she had wit enough not to spit that out. The only counter she could think of, however, was to ask, “What are you ashamed of?”
His thumb tucked into his wide leather belt, and the anger still simmered. “I am ashamed of many things. Do you have an unsullied conscience?”
“At least I haven’t killed hundreds!”
“Nor have I.” He studied her for a dark moment, then shrugged. “I have no plans to change the fortifications here yet. We can fight over this later.”
“But you expect to win.”
That dark humor returned. “What would you, lady? I am a warrior. I fight to win.”
“And I’m a sheep with no recourse from the wolves.”
He smiled. “Except me.”
She could point out that he was the wolf in question, but he knew that. “I must go back.”
She turned away, but he stopped her with a word. “Lady. I think you’ve worked enough.”
“Not if there’s work still to be done.”
“Do we not have adequate servants?”
“They must be supervised. I can’t leave my mother to cope alone.”
He considered her a moment. “I’ll send Nils and Josce to act as her lieutenants.”
“In the kitchens?”
“Thomas can help, too. The busier we keep him, the less trouble he’ll get into.” He snagged a passing servant and sent him off with the messages.
“My lord,” she protested, “they can know little of kitchens! I really should go back—”
He captured her arm. He didn’t hurt her, but she was shiveringly aware that he could. “And leave me alone?”
She tugged against his hold. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! You’re guarding me. You’re afraid I’ll slip away to St. Frideswide’s.”
“Not afraid, no. But I have put extra guards on the gates and the postern. My men, of course.”
She stared, wondering if it was a joke. But wolves don’t joke. “Very well, my lord, if you must watch over me, come do it in the kitchens. You can even be useful. You have strong hands,” she added, glancing down at the one that restrained her, “and there’s always bread to be kneaded.”
The hand relaxed just a little, and moved, rubbing her sleeve disturbingly against her skin. “How pleasant to be bread,” he murmured, “and to be kneaded by you.”
Or had he said, needed?
Claire swallowed and tried again to get away. “I really should—”
He drew her closer and captured her other hand.
“My lord!”
He wound his fingers between hers. “Walk in the gardens with me, Lady Claire. After all, tomorrow we say our vows.” He gave it the tone of a request, but his touch made it a command.
Then his thumb rubbed gently over the back of her hand and she looked at him, startled—startled by the action and by a response in herself. Rough though his hand might be, that gentle friction was sweet.
He smiled.
He had rather a nice smile. For a wolf.
The next she knew, she was walking down a path between the tall frames that supported peas and beans, impelled by his arm around her. There was nothing brutal about his touch and yet she shivered just as she’d shivered before the convent.
She didn’t like the fact that he could turn her giddy with a touch and a smile.
What would happen to her if he kissed her? She knew he’d brought her here to kiss her.
But when they stopped, he went behind her. “Speaking of kneading …” His big hands began to massage her tight and aching shoulders.
She stiffened. “You shouldn’t—”
“Is it a sin?”
After the first shock, Claire was finding it sinfully pleasant. “No. But—”
“But?” His hands moved lower, finding a particular point between her shoulder blades, and she groaned with pleasure.
“But?” he reminded her.
“But it’s the kind of service a lady might give to her lord,” she said in a whisper. Her voice seemed to have melted like the rest of her. “Not the other way around.”
“Is there a rule about it?” She thought she heard humor in his voice, which relaxed her as much as his big, strong hands. “It should depend on who’s been doing the hardest work.”
“And I’ve been fighting almonds and cherries. Not to mention piglet livers.”
“Ah, poor maiden …”
His thumbs pressed just hard enough to ease, but not hard enough to hurt. She remembered writing to Felice something about him knowing how to control his size and strength.
How right she had been. “You’re good at this.”
“A squire learns to work the knots out of his lord’s muscles,” he said. “Or men do it for each other.” He began pressing along the tight tops of her shoulders. “I’m glad I have at least one war-born skill that will please you.”
His thumbs made circles up the back of her neck, sending fire down her spine. She let her head fall forward to give him better access, but didn’t respond to his words for he was right. His primary skills, his fighting skills, could never really please her. But this one did. Oh, indeed it did.
A new touch startled her—his lips, brushing gently over her exposed nape. At that, she tried to move away, but his hands gripped her shoulders, keeping her close.
“A naked neck presents such irresistible opportunities.” She felt teeth then, gently pressing on her flesh. Even as she shivered and resisted his hold, her legs shook, and her belly ached with a mysterious longing.
Even her toes curled.
It was too much. She pulled free and turned to face him. “Thank you, my lord, but that is enough.”
His brows rose in that manner he had, but he merely inclined his head. “It will always be my pleasure to serve you, my lady.” Seeming completely at ease and unmoved, he looked around the nearby garden, then frowned. “This place doesn’t seem very productive.”
“What?” She gathered her wit
s and looked around, seeing healthy plants.
“The peas and beans. They bear no fruit.”
“Oh, we’ve stripped everything edible for the feast.”
“Is that wise?”
She walked to a frame of peas and lifted a leaf to reveal small pea pods, still flat. “And there are still blossoms. In days, the good earth will produce more.”
“I’m relieved. I don’t care for a diet of roots.”
She looked over. “I see the old adage is correct. A man’s main concern is his stomach.”
“No. I wouldn’t say my main concern is my stomach.”
She remembered the way he’d been hard against her out by the convent, and suddenly, despite birdsong and insect hum, despite the distant noises of the manor, the garden seemed very isolated, the leafy shadows deep.
Claire edged a little farther from him. “Your stomach, at least, will not be deprived, my lord. Tomorrow we feast, and then we live on the remains of the feast for days. You’ll soon be very tired of cherried pork and saffron chicken.”
He seemed to be watching her lips. “I’ll bear even that, sweet lady, if it’s fed to me by your own hand.”
Though he didn’t move, it was as if he circled her, trapping her. She knew she could never outrun him. “My lord …”
He stepped closer. “Yes?”
Like a rabbit, she froze and soon his hands settled on her shoulders. She just stared as his lips came down to hers.
She expected a crude assault, but he merely brushed his firm lips against hers, a butterfly touch, no more, though lingering. When he stepped back she felt strangely dissatisfied but disarmed.
A moment later, she knew that was his intent.
“Do you play chess?” she asked, frowning.
“Yes. Why?”
“I thought so.”
He laughed, and she thought there was a glint of admiration in it, which eased her pride. He was playing her like a hawk being trained to the hood, or a horse being coaxed to the bridle, and in the end she would have to submit. She was a woman, however, not an animal, and though she must marry him, she would not be easily mastered.
