by Jo Beverley
He smiled into her eyes. “Starve me that way, Claire, and I might lose it where you’ll least approve.”
The hall rocked with laughter, hoots, and applause.
“Oh indeed,” Claire retorted. “Withers away if unused, does it? Might save a maiden many tears!” The women cheered again.
“More likely make her weep with frustration.” Applause from the men.
He kissed her hand again, deep in the palm. “Wed me sooner, Claire, and avoid the risk.”
She pretended to consider the matter, grinning at her grinning friends. “A six-month, then.”
“In the middle of winter? Have pity on our neighbors.”
“Aye, Claire!” someone shouted. “And not in harvest time, either. We don’t want to miss this bedding!”
“A month, then,” Claire said, suddenly aware that she’d been teased into a commitment she hadn’t thought to make so soon.
She thought that was it, but he said, “A month? It hardly seems worth sending everyone home for just a month.”
“When, then?”
He grinned and she knew she’d fallen into a trap. “Tomorrow.”
The hall fell silent, watching, grinning.
He released her hand, and gestured around. “Here are all our good friends. Here is feast enough for two days. Why delay?”
Genuinely shocked, she whispered, “My father—”
“That is past,” he said softly. “The wheel has turned. Why not, Claire? Once it is done we can look to the future, to restoring peace and order here in Summerbourne.”
Claire’s head buzzed, from the kiss, from the wine, and from a spell he was weaving around her. It was hard to think. But he was right, wasn’t he? What point was there in delay?
“Why not, Claire?” he repeated, laying a hand on her shoulder, fingers playing gently against her neck, eyes holding hers.
The whole hall waited, as if every breath were held …
“Why not?” she meekly echoed.
Before she could retract her half-thought words, he surged to his feet. “My friends, my fair lady has no desire to risk any lessening of my person. We marry tomorrow!”
Laughing cheers roared through the room, making Claire’s cheeks flare with heat. He sat and pulled her to him for a kiss as hot and thorough as the first. A flaming promise for the morrow’s night.
Lingering against her stinging lips, he said, “It’s better this way, Claire. Trust me on that. You will be happy if it is at all in my power to make you so.” Then he spoke clearly to the attentive hall. “Lady Claire will not regret this day. I swear it by my sword.”
It was not unlike the betrothal vows and the marriage vows, but somehow the words said here, plainly before all her neighbors, carried more power. A kind of peace settled on Claire. He was right. It was better to get on with it and move into the future.
“And a vow on such a sword is mighty indeed.”
Focusing her unsteady eyes, Claire saw that the earl had risen and raised his cup. “A toast to the famous dark sword, and to a marriage surely made in paradise.”
Everyone raised their cups and drank, though Claire could tell that many of them were as confused as she.
“Dark sword … ?” she queried.
“Have you not heard of it?” asked the earl, sitting again.
“Lord Renald’s sword is made of German steel of a peculiarly dark hue. The only light thing about it is a stone in the hilt. A stone from Christ’s tomb in Jerusalem.”
Claire turned to Renald with new reverence. “You were on crusade, my lord?”
“Alas, no.” Perhaps that was why he seemed suddenly sober and angry, to be forced to deny it. “The stone is a gift from a crusader.”
“And a gift from the king,” said the earl.
“Such a holy relic.” Claire was truly awed. So few had traveled to the Holy Land, and the precious objects they brought back were prized. “You must have done some mighty service for this crusader to be so rewarded.”
“The sword was from the king,” Renald said shortly.
“Then you must have done some mighty service for the king.” When he said nothing, she realized with surprise that he might be modest. Perhaps it was a code among this sort of man, not to boast of their achievements.
It was unexpected, but she approved. “I admire your modesty, my lord. But surely it is a wife’s duty to celebrate her husband’s feats.”
“There are no feats.”
She had to hide a smile. How could he expect to hide such a bright light under a bushel? “You cannot expect anyone to believe that, my lord. Not of a king’s champion. Your men boast of your achievements. I will have them tell me—”
“Yes, tell us, Lord Renald. Tell us of your achievements.”
The earl had leaned forward to interrupt. Claire looked between the two men. Was she imagining that they were eyeing each other like angry dogs? Her wine-fuzzed eyes were not completely reliable.
Before her befuddled mind could even try to sort things out, Renald said to her, “The crusader gave the stone to the king, and Henry had it put into a sword as a reward to me. That’s all.”
“But what did you do to deserve it?”
“Nothing at all glorious.”
She shook her head. “I’ll find out and have a minstrel make a song about it.”
“You won’t find anything I have done worthy of a ballad, Claire.” He seized the jug before them. “May I pour you more wine?”
More wine and her eyes would cross, but she could spot an attempt to change the subject. “I would like to see it.”
“The wine?”
“Your sword! And the stone from Jerusalem.”
He poured her wine anyway and pressed the jeweled cup into her hand. “Some other time. Swords are not fitting at a feast.”
“A holy relic is. It would bless our vows.”
“No.”
She blinked at him. That commanding no again, but disarmingly this time it was stirred by modesty not anger.
The earl, listening but ignored, suddenly spoke, his voice raised so others would hear. “I’m sure all here would be honored to see the sword, Lord Renald. Rumor says it can cut through the hardest wood. Perhaps even metal itself.”
Now other men were paying attention. “Cut through metal?”
“ ’Tisn’t possible.”
Word rippled around the room. “A stone from Christ’s tomb!”
“Cuts through iron.”
The hall began to swell with demands to see this wonder.
Abruptly, face set, Renald commanded Josce to bring the sword. When the squire returned, Renald took it one-handed, and laid it—almost dropped it—in Claire’s lap.
It was heavy. Heavy, hard, and dark. As her betrothed now was. Claire realized that she’d been wrong. He might be modest about his deeds, but at this moment he was very, very angry.
It was too late to retreat, so dry mouthed she studied the gift she’d demanded. She had never been this close to a sword before, and she didn’t like it. He was right. An instrument of death had no place at a feast, especially such a one as this.
Scabbards were usually decorative, painted, and sometimes banded with metal and set with precious stones. This one was black leather over wood. The only decoration came from small silver studs and carved medallions of jet.
It made her think of hell, or of a moonless midnight.
“Well?” he asked.
She knew he could read her expression. “It looks deadly.”
“What use is a sword that does not kill?”
She swallowed, for the question applied to him as well as his weapon. He didn’t sow, he didn’t reap. He didn’t create music or art. He just trained to kill and did so when called upon.
She concentrated on the hilt—part of the instrument of death, but shaped like a cross and set with the only bit of color about the thing—a sandy stone. The holy relic that sanctified this dark instrument of death.
Killing infidels was a
saintly act, or so the Church said.
Could killing, therefore, sometimes be good? Someone had to execute criminals. And kill the human wolves who preyed on peaceful people.
The stone sat in a cup of fine black ironwork for protection. She put her fingertip through the cold metal to touch it. “Has it performed any miracles?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“But it might. Being from Christ’s tomb.”
She raised the sword and kissed the stone, praying for the health and welfare of all in Summerbourne, and for her marriage, that, despite all the odds, it be good. At times it seemed that might truly need a miracle. “You are blessed to have this, my lord.”
“Then perhaps we should send it around the room. Josce!”
The squire stepped forward and Claire put both hands under the sword to lift it to him.
Then gasped.
Blood smeared her palm!
Chapter 13
Lord Renald snatched the sword from her. “You’ve cut yourself?”
Claire rubbed her palm and found no wound at all. “No.”
He had stood and was already sliding the sword out of the scabbard, revealing a crimson trace on the blade and around the join to the hilt.
“Josce?”
The squire blanched. “I just brought it from your room, my lord.”
Lord Renald touched the blood. “Not fresh, but not old either.” Watched by the now silent hall, he drew the sword clear. Lit by torch and candle, the blade stayed dark, light only rippling on the surface like fire on a deep, dark pond.
A pond streaked with blood.
“When did you last kill, my lord?” Claire whispered.
“Too long ago for this. And Josce would be flayed if he’d left my sword in this state.”
Claire seized her goblet and drained it. Of course he hadn’t killed recently. Not since coming to Summerbourne. But now she was sharply reminded of what he was.
A true blooded sword. It was as if heaven shouted it! Was she wicked to fall in love with such a man?
He shoved the blade back in the scabbard. “Some strange joke, perhaps.” He flashed a cold look at the earl, and Claire remembered who had pushed to have the sword brought out. Why, though, would such a powerful man indulge in such a petty trick? Just because he objected to this marriage?
He thrust the sword at his squire. “Clean it. Then bring it back so all who wish can see it.” He then sat, calling for water. When it came, he cleaned Claire’s hand himself. “I’m sorry for that, my lady. Such matters should not come to trouble you.”
“We can’t live a lie. A wife must share in her husband’s life.”
He kissed her clean palm. “I will keep you as joyous as Summerbourne deserves.”
“But you will still ride out to kill.”
He tossed the bloodstained cloth on the floor and let her go. “It is my duty if called.”
“I know that. But—”
Before she could say anything else, he placed a honeyed plum to her lips. She had to take a bite, but he could not silence her mind. She’d been happy. She’d been surrendering to love. But now her dizzy feelings and the gaiety all around seemed like froth, froth on a swamp of violence and death.
She glanced at the earl. He’d been fined heavily for his part in the rebellion, but he still had his life and his lands. His children still had their birthright. What right had he to stir the dark waters beneath her happy day?
Renald turned her face back to him, eyes searching hers. “Don’t frown, fair lady.” He kissed her gently on her forehead, where she must be creased by troubles. “Paradise should know only smiles, and angels never frown.”
Claire let him tease her out of the dark. She was tired, tired, of thinking and fretting. When he drew her in for another overwhelming kiss, she surrendered. When he finished, everyone applauded again, and Claire suspected they were as happy as she to put blood and swords behind them.
Then someone called, “The dance! Let’s have the dance!” and the musicians started up the Holly Berry, the traditional bridal dance.
Claire was supposed to lead the maidens in the dance, but she wondered if she was able after the wine she’d drunk. Ah well, no one expected the happy couple to be entirely steady on their feet.
When she stood, the world had a slight buzz of unreality, but Claire decided she could walk and talk without embarrassing herself. A tug at her scalp reminded her of her chaplet and veil, and she carefully began to take it off.
Lord Renald rose and helped her, hands mysterious against her head. She remembered to thank him for the chaplet.
“It becomes you,” he said, smile warm and comforting.
She smiled back then walked into the center space, gesturing to the maidens to join her. Soon, so soon, she would no longer be a maiden. Soon she would be intimate with him.
It was a strange thought, full of mysterious music.
Ordinary music called, however, and so Claire led the maidens in their dance, turning her attention, as they all did, to her chosen man.
Claire liked the dance, but she’d never before performed it for a significant man. Stamping her foot at him, raising her skirt, flashing challenging looks, seemed to start something inside her. Or set something free. Something fiery that she saw reflected in his dark, dangerous eyes.
He was leaning back in his chair, big hand lax around his goblet, but his eyes stayed fixed on her. Intent. Hot, even. It dried her mouth, that heat, but seemed to drive her to yet wilder movements in the dance.
Then, as she spun, she caught the eye of another man. Lambert of Vayne—young and handsome—was leaning forward, grinning most appreciatively at her.
With purely wicked intent, she danced for him for a while, swaying her hips, flashing her leg, her true attention all on the dark man at the high table.
When she turned fully back to her betrothed, he was still lounging, but now his hand gripped tight around his goblet, and his eyes warned. Instead of making her cautious, that sent a flicker of excitement down her nerves.
What would he do if she really flirted with other men?
For some mad reason she wanted that danger, hungered for it.
She desperately wished she had her long hair loose and free to swing like a whip to torment and defy her dark wolf even more.
When the dance whirled to a stop, she staggered, clutching on to similarly gasping, dizzy friends, joining in the wild, delighted laughter. Then he appeared at her side and cinched her to him, support and capture.
“You are a bold wench,” he murmured, kissing her sweaty neck. But then he nipped her sharply.
Even as she squeaked, she knew it was playful chastisement.
She stared up at him, suddenly wishing this was her wedding night.
“Ah, Claire, if you dance as hotly in the marriage bed, I will be a very happy man.”
“Isn’t it the groom’s place to make the bride dance?”
His smile was slow, lazy, and blistering. “I will certainly do my best. Now,” he said, steering her back to her seat, and gently settling her veil and chaplet back on her head, “sit, my bride, and watch as I perform for you.”
He called for the sword dance and most of the younger men leaped forward to take part, keen to show off before the women.
They didn’t use swords—though Claire had heard that at one time they used to. As the music began, a beat more than a tune, they clashed short staves with one another. It was a simulation of a sword fight but with a rhythm that became music.
Turning, stamping, beating stick against stick, the men eyed their chosen women.
His eyes were for her alone.
She’d not seen this dance very often for her father hadn’t liked it. She’d tended to think it vulgar, and she’d hated the aura of violence it created. But now, something had changed. Now, seeing the ease of Renald’s movements, his fluid grace, she recognized a thing of dangerous beauty.
Pure skill. Without any experience of swordplay, she could se
e that Renald’s command was greater than any other man’s. Like everyone, she began to clap along with the beat of the dance, but she clapped just for him, feeling the beat thrum through her body.
Then the pattern turned him to face Lambert. Perhaps the local man made a challenge of it. Or perhaps Renald did, itched by her play.
Suddenly the movements seemed less rhythmical, more threatening. The clapping died away. Like ripples in water, the other men drew back into a circle, beating their sticks against the floor as the two in the middle made a contest of it.
Renald and Lambert kept to the rhythm after a fashion, but they also tried to overcome each other’s guard. Lambert was hopelessly outmatched. Even Claire could see that. He trained for war, but only as duty. He was no match for a king’s champion, a man whose life was battle.
Watching Renald toy with his opponent, Claire remembered him speaking of a skilled fighter in control of a match. It was here before her. He just blocked Lambert’s moves, making occasional attacks so mild as to be easily countered. Clearly, he could prolong it, use it, end it at will.
Suddenly, chillingly, Claire imagined her father facing such a man, helpless before unerring death. After all, Lambert was younger, fitter, and much more able at swordplay than her father, but he was drastically outmatched.
She grasped her goblet with shaking hands, praying for the macabre dance to end. Of course her father’s death had been nothing like this. It had doubtless been in some muddled skirmish somewhere and he’d not even seen the blade that killed him.
But End it, she thought desperately, stick-music pounding in her brain. Kill him now. Stop toying with him!
She gulped wine, fighting madness. They fought with wooden sticks. No one was going to be killed. No one would even get hurt. It was a dance.
A dance.
She saw Renald flash her a glance and frown. A moment later the rhythm returned. Smoothly, under his control, it blended with the beat of the other men’s sticks and the musician’s drum. Renald looked untested by it all, but Lambert gasped, the sweat running. Whoever had started the contest, Lambert was relieved to take the escape offered.
The other men picked it up and wound into the end.
It was well done. Claire admitted that. She was doubtless reacting stupidly to a mere entertainment. But as soon as the dance ended, before Renald could return to her, she slipped out of the hall into the cooler, fragrant evening to try to untangle her tormented mind.
