Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  Claire knew she was blushing. “What else?”

  “He assured me that he would be a good and tender husband, and I believe him.”

  “Tender? I’m not sure he knows what tender is.” And yet, that vision of him with children would not be denied. Where had it come from if it was entirely false?

  “He’s a different kind of man from your father, Claire,” said Lady Murielle. “Hard for you to judge. I know the type, though, because my father and brother were like that. Such men value courage and action, and guard their honor. Sometimes they stamp and roar, but they do little harm unless attacked or truly angered.”

  “Like stallions or bulls.”

  “But with more brain. Do try not to anger him, Claire. Honey will always work better than vinegar.”

  Claire wasn’t sure she could always be honey-sweet, but her mother’s hands were twisting with anxiety. She smiled. “I will try, Mother.”

  Lady Murielle patted her shoulder approvingly, and said, “Good girl.” However, then she turned a surprising pink. “I suppose I should speak to you about other things … Though this is only the betrothal, Claire, I should perhaps speak to you about marital duties …”

  Claire slid down in the water, embarrassed. “Like the duty to keep his clothes in good repair?”

  Her mother laughed and shook her head. “That, too, of course, but … You do not fear the marriage bed?”

  Claire went back to swishing the herb bag, remembering the way she’d felt in his arms, the way she felt just from a touch, or the brushing of his body against hers. She didn’t fear those feelings, but she wasn’t ready to welcome them yet, either.

  “It will be some time until the wedding.”

  “You have set the date?”

  “No.” She looked up at her mother. “But he will wait. Won’t he?”

  “Perhaps the king will want a speedy wedding, too. It’s unusual to have a long delay.”

  Claire lay there, really facing for the first time that today would lead to the bed. She wasn’t ignorant of the facts. She’d have to let him touch her as he wished. She’d have to let him enter her and tear her maidenhead. She’d have to let him plant his seed, so that they could have babies. She’d have to let him repeat the act whenever he wanted, within the rules of the Church.

  Lent, Advent, and Holy Days were likely to be a welcome respite.

  She could accept all that. It was the other. The dazedness that made her feel so weak, so vulnerable, so needy …

  Clearly there was more to it than the basics. Perhaps her mother was about to explain. “Very well, Mother, get it over with. Tell me all.”

  Lady Murielle limped through a description that embarrassed Claire as much as it seemed to embarrass her mother, without adding to her knowledge.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” she asked at the end.

  “Nothing. That’s the good thing. You don’t have to do anything but what he tells you.”

  For some reason that didn’t seem quite right to Claire but she accepted it and climbed out of the bath. One thing was sure. Whatever needed to be done, Renald de Lisle knew about it.

  “You always were such a sensible girl,” said her mother, though it almost sounded like a complaint. But she added briskly, “And he’s a very lucky man to have such a treasure. But, oh, your hair!”

  Claire rubbed at it with a cloth. “Sensible,” she remarked, with a wry smile, and was rewarded by a chuckle. “You have to admit, Mother, it’s easier to dry.”

  Prissy and Maria burst back in then, chattering with excitement about the guests, the rich clothes, the fine horses, and the feast already being spread in the hall. Claire let them comb her hair, sprinkle her with perfume, and dress her in a clean shift. Then she went to peep out of the window.

  As the maids said, everything was abustle down below. A steady stream of guests was arriving, and it was as well they’d prepared a handsome feast. It looked as if just about everyone from the area had come. People called greetings, strange servants hurried backward and forward, and a mass of extra dogs and horses got in everyone’s way. The horses, harness bells jingling, were being led out to wait for their masters in the fields.

  “Come away from the window, Claire,” said her mother. “You should finish dressing. It must be nearly time.”

  Claire saw her friend Margret ride in with her husband Alaine and their retainers. If only she could have a few moments with Margret, she was sure she could sort out the truth of the marriage bed. She’d promised though. She’d promised to stay in seclusion until the ceremony.

  Time enough later. This was just the betrothal. With her father so recently dead, she could surely put off the wedding for weeks, perhaps even for a month or two.

  Comforted by that, she let the maids dress her in her finest kirtle, woven in shades of cream and pink, and in a heavy silk tunic banded with gold and pearls. Lady Murielle cinched a jeweled girdle around her hips.

  “You look so pretty, Claire,” said her mother, kissing her, then taking her place in the hall.

  “It’s a crying shame about your hair, though, lady,” said Prissy. “With it hanging to your hips as it should, you’d be an angel.”

  Claire sighed for her sacrificed hair, and peered into her silver mirror to try to see how she looked. The metal couldn’t show the detail that the eye could, but it told her she had a mass of curls sticking out all around. She tried to press it down, but it did no good.

  How long would it take to grow? Years.

  She put the mirror down. Vanity was a sin, but she wished custom did not dictate that a bride wear her hair loose and uncovered. A veil would be a disguise of sorts.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Despite her best intentions, panic hit. “Is it time? Already!”

  Maria opened the door a crack. After some quiet conversation, she turned, smiling, to offer Claire a circlet of forget-me-nots, roses, and delicate violets.

  “How lovely!” Claire said, taking it. “Just like the May Queen’s crown. Where does it come from?”

  “From your husband, lady,” said the bright-eyed maid. “Message says as it’s a custom of his land for a lady to wear flowers and a veil to her betrothal.”

  Touching a delicate pink rose, Claire suddenly doubted it. But that would mean that Lord Renald had invented the custom to give her an excuse to wear something to disguise her short hair. Would he even think of such a thing?

  Then she understood, but still she smiled. His motive was doubtless selfish—he didn’t want her to look reluctant on such a sensitive occasion—but the result was very welcome. The chaplet wouldn’t hide her hair, but it would soften the effect.

  She raised the flowers to enjoy the perfume, and to enjoy a sense of being in harmony with her future husband, even if it was just in practical ways. For their own reasons, both of them wanted this affair to progress comfortably and without ill-feelings. There were worse foundations for a marriage.

  “Maria,” she ordered, “my silk veil.”

  Her father had purchased the sheer headcloth for her just the year before, and tears stung that he wasn’t here to see her today. She forced them away. Tears would destroy comfort.

  Prissy arranged the veil over her hair, so the rippling front rested above her brows. Then Maria carefully set the chaplet on top. “Don’t want to snag this silk, lady.”

  “Certainly not.” Claire hardly dared move her head. “It’s a bit heavy, but that should help it hold. How does it look?”

  The maid’s faces told her, but they said it, too. “Beautiful, lady.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Like one of the fairy folk.”

  Claire peered into the mirror again, but it didn’t show much more than before. She suspected that she still looked a freak, but she’d let the flattery ease her.

  As carefully as if she carried a bowl of raw eggs on her head, she went to the window to look out again. Stragglers still arrived, but it must be close to time.

  At
another knock she turned. That chill panic touched her again, but not as fiercely. She really did think she could make this forced union work.

  Maria answered. “They’re ready, lady.”

  Remembering that she was going to be positive, Claire unlocked her spice chest and took out a pinch of cinnamon to dust down inside her tunic. Then she ruffled a little cardamom and ginger into her hair. Last, she seized a handful of violets, bruised them between her palms, then rubbed her hands around her neck.

  There, that was symbolic of her intent to honor the vows she was about to make, to be a good wife to Renald de Lisle. Slowly because of the flowered circlet he had sent to her, she walked out of the room to embrace her future.

  The chaplet and veil would certainly ensure that she moved with dignity today, for she feared to snag the delicate silk. Raising her skirts, she stepped carefully down the stairs. The sound of music and chatter grew louder by the moment, swelling when she turned at the bottom of the stairs and walked around the screens into the main body of the hall.

  Deep inside she’d worried about seeing condemnation in her neighbors’ eyes, of seeing echoes of Thomas’s anger. But everyone smiled. The smiles were a little muted, but that was to be expected when her father’s death cast a shadow over the day.

  She saw bright interest, too, and was sure events at Summerbourne were the talk of the county. There was also surprise, but that was probably because of her strange headdress and the short hair.

  One smile wavered. Perhaps Eudo the Sheriff was crushed by her father’s death, for he was an emotional man. Despite the fact that Claire placed much of the blame on him for her father’s actions, she sent him a calming smile, then faced her destiny.

  Lord Renald dominated the center of the hall, of course. His clerk stood on one side, and Bishop Geoffrey on his other, both men a head shorter and half his size. The bishop’s presence was an honor and reminded her, if she needed it, that this marriage was the king’s will.

  Her godfather, the Earl of Salisbury, was here too, standing tall, thin, and haughty by her mother in her father’s place. Claire was pleased that her mother had a man to support her at this time.

  She walked forward, fixing her gaze on her husband-to-be, trying to consciously accept him as he truly was—warrior, champion, king’s man, but reasonable and even kind sometimes. Her mind was distracted, however, and she realized it was because of the earl’s expression.

  Anger?

  No, not quite that.

  Condemnation, perhaps. Or disapproval. Or just resentment. But of course. He’d been one of the rebels. He doubtless wasn’t happy to see her and Summerbourne passing into the hands of one of Henry’s men. He might even have been pressured by the king to come and give support to this wedding.

  It was the sudden narrowing of Lord Renald’s eyes that made her realize she had halted, frozen in the middle of the crowded hall.

  The slightest glance showed smiles dimming as everyone watched her with interest and speculation. She looked back at Lord Renald, astonished that he seemed to think she might back out at this point. She walked briskly forward.

  His frown eased. “You look most beautiful, my lady.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She could say something similar about him. Thus far she had seen him in mail and ordinary clothes, but today his tunic was of richly woven red cloth, embroidered in black and gold by a master hand, and he wore heavy gold in bracelets and buckle. He looked every inch the mighty lord.

  She felt a twinge of something close to guilt, for if Felice had seen him like this she would have snapped him up. That was nonsense, though. Heaven knows, she had done her best to match him with her aunt.

  As she moved to her mother’s side, she glanced at her brother, standing stiffly behind Lord Renald. Thomas was in his best blue tunic, his hair a clean froth of gold. Though he was still a youth, his calm presence was an important part of reassuring all their neighbors, and here he was, calm.

  Perhaps Lady Agnes’s tart words had made him see sense. She hoped he wasn’t cowed by threats of violence from de Lisle.

  She tried a smile at him, but he looked through her. With a sigh, she put that aside for now. Once this matter was settled she’d do something for her brother and he’d know she had his best interests at heart. One step at a time.

  Her mother gave her an anxious smile and squeezed her hand. Claire tried her best to look calm and content, and squeezed back. She dropped a curtsy to her godfather and turned to face her dark destiny.

  She started. Lord Renald was wearing what she thought of as his warrior mien. His alert eyes scanned the room, as if he expected trouble and was ready to face it. If he’d been wearing his sword, she’d think him ready to draw it and kill. She glanced around, seeking the danger, but only saw her friends and neighbors, watching, smiling.

  “We are gathered together,” said the bishop, “to witness the vows …”

  Claire hastily paid attention, as the bishop read the betrothal document aloud so all should know its provisions, and be able to bear witness to them later, even if the document was lost. Claire paid attention in case any detail had been altered, but she didn’t expect that kind of trickery.

  It was all as before. She was given three holdings by her husband-to-be. They would be her security during marriage, and her dower if she became a widow. They came from her father’s property rather than her husband’s—except that her father’s property was now his.

  Her mother and grandmother were confirmed in their dower properties, and Felice and Amice in their portions. There was no mention of Thomas. Claire glanced once at him, but she couldn’t even be sure he was listening. In this situation no one would expect Thomas to receive property, yet when all the provisions were so generous, it was a shame there was nothing for him.

  If this marriage were harmonious, his sister’s loving husband would be expected to assist him. Uneasily, she realized that he would be, in a sense, a hostage for her good behavior, and she for his. She wondered if he’d been told that, and if it explained his meek behavior.

  Oh, but this was not how she’d ever wanted to promise herself to a man!

  It was time for the vows, however. Her mother and godfather put her hand in that of Renald de Lisle. The bishop sprinkled them both with holy water, praying that God stand witness to their promises. Then a monk held out a crucifix to her as the bishop recited the question, asking if she wished to accept the arrangements and pledge herself to Renald de Lisle.

  She had no choice. Hand on cross, Claire said, “I wish it.”

  The cross was presented to Lord Renald, and the same question asked. His voice was deep and steady as he said, “I wish it.”

  He then turned to her and slid a ring onto the third finger of her right hand.

  The bishop clasped their right hands tightly together. “So you are bound. May God be your guide in your life together.”

  The room shook with a hearty, “Amen.”

  The forceful physical link, the unfamiliar ring digging into both their flesh, seemed a true symbol of this match.

  Tears prickled as she signed the document. She fought them. She would not cry today. She even managed a slight smile as she watched her betrothed make his mark, even though it reminded her again how different he was from her father.

  She wouldn’t dwell on that. Few laymen were learned as her father was. Most fighting men could not read or write at all. Such skills were considered a weakness, a sign that a man had wasted time best spent in hardening his body and learning ways to kill.

  He turned to her and took her hand again, but this time with his left, and gently, and turned her to the company to declare, “Our troth is plighted!”

  Cheers shook the beams, and made the hangings billow. The men pushed forward to sign or put their mark on the document. The women clustered to congratulate them.

  And to comment on her hair. “Such a shame!”

  And the veil, “Such fine material!”

  And the flowers, �
��So pretty. So unusual.”

  Enveloped in familiar faces, Claire did cry a little then, but they were happy tears. It felt so good to be among smiling faces, and with people who were not forcing her into things. Anyway, it was done. She was committed for life, and this was her betrothal day. She might never have another.

  It was time for happiness and feasting, and she would make it so.

  Chapter 12

  The men had dragged Renald away, and Claire was grateful. With the women she could relax, especially as they plied her with wine. It was part of the custom to make the newly betrothed giddy.

  The man as well as the woman. At laughter and cheers, Claire looked over to see Renald draining a huge horn of ale. At least, she hoped it was ale, the amount he was swallowing in one long, gulping draft. Finally, when she was beginning to fear he might drown, he pulled the horn from his lips and tipped it triumphantly to show it was empty. Sweet Mary, it must have held a quart! The men around him roared their approval.

  Grinning, he caught her eye on him, and his expression softened to a smile, but still was more joyous than she had ever seen on him. She couldn’t help but smile back.

  He picked up his goblet from a table, and raised it to her across the room. She reached for her own to return the salute, but then sunlight flashed on gold and jewel. Frozen, Claire realized he held her father’s cup, the king’s gift!

  “Claire?” asked Lady Huguette, sitting beside her. “Is something the matter?”

  “No.” Claire forced a smile, seized her own goblet, and toasted him in turn. Something must have shown, however, for Renald’s eyes narrowed.

  No one else seemed to notice. Everyone laughed and cheered their byplay, with clapping hands and stamping feet. Some men shouted ribald comments. Women giggled. Claire smiled as brilliantly as possible, then turned back into the comfort of the friendly, bawdy women.

  He couldn’t have known that cup symbolized his master’s betrayal, and like everything here, it belonged to Renald. But she wished he hadn’t chosen to use it.