by Jo Beverley
Rebelliously, she thought that God’s ways were extremely difficult to comprehend. Bad people should be clearly bad. They should lack all virtue and charm. And the least He could do was keep His pact with His people and let good triumph over evil!
Then she crossed herself and begged pardon for such impertinent thoughts. The ways of God, they were always told, were beyond human understanding.
As she secured the book again she absorbed the fact that Renald had indeed spoken the truth on one thing. He and the king had done their best to persuade her father out of his course.
They’d still killed him.
She must never forget that.
She must not hide from the cruel reality of what had happened.
She tried to imagine it.
Her father had been kept in the Tower. She’d never been to London, but she imagined the White Tower as big, heavy, and of cold stone. He’d been a prisoner, even if in luxury.
He, a gentle soul, had been forced out in mail to fight a warrior twice his size and vastly more skilled. Her father had doubtless been like Lambert in the sword dance, sweating and gasping as he tried to match the unmatchable.
She flinched from it, but she made herself envision Renald, graceful in his mastery of his dreadful sword, playing with her father as he’d played with Lambert, then moving in at his leisure for the kill. Moving in to drive that dark, deceitful sword through mail and into her father’s loving heart.
She wept, but clung to the sickening image as her own mail, as protection against her weak and foolish heart.
Renald had gone out that day to kill. He’d admitted it. To kill as cold-bloodedly as a cowherd slaughtering beef. He claimed to take no joy in killing and probably spoke the truth. The cowherd took no pleasure in slaughter, either.
Ignoring conscience, ignoring justice, he’d killed a weaker man on his master’s command, and pretended—still pretended—that it was the will of God. No honorable woman could ever reconcile herself to that.
Desperate for advice and comfort, she went in search of her mother. She found Lady Murielle in her small chamber, sitting by a window, ominously still.
“How are you, Mother?”
Lady Murielle sighed. “It’s a sad situation, but we’ll put him off.”
“Put who off?”
“Why, de Lisle!” Her mother grasped Claire’s wrist. “You mustn’t marry him! Not now. I’ve seen how you look at him, but you mustn’t marry your father’s murderer!”
Claire looked wildly to one of the women who hurried forward to soothe her lady. Soon Lady Murielle was staring out of the window again.
Claire moved away, rubbing at her wrist, still red and white from the fierce pressure. “Has she been like this since she woke?”
“Pretty well, lady. In a fret over you, that you not say your vows.”
Claire crossed herself. “Sweet Saviour aid her.”
The woman made the sign of the cross, too. “He will, lady, never fear. I’m sure with rest she’ll soon be herself.”
Claire prayed for it, but remembered the miller’s daughter who counted stones.
What now? She’d come here in hope of advice, perhaps even of a shoulder to cry on. All she’d found was more burdens. More reason to destroy Renald.
She returned to the solar, finding Prissy there darning her silk veil. “Leave it,” Claire said sharply.
“But, lady—”
“Leave it! It’s better ruined.”
Prissy put the veil down and eased out of the room, almost as if she expected a blow.
Claire pressed her hands to her face. She mustn’t do that. She mustn’t take her hurt out on the innocent. Renald was the only one who deserved to suffer.
She needed some sort of occupation, one that wouldn’t stir emotions, but she didn’t want to go around the manor. She might bump into Renald anywhere and she wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t strong enough yet.
She’d try again to find ease in her writing. She took out another stack of parchment bound in boards, one very like her father’s. It was her own record book. She didn’t record day-to-day events, for her days never seemed interesting, but her father had encouraged her to start recording customs of the manor, things like charms, and recipes for food and healing.
She wasn’t sure there was much point to it, for everyone knew these things, but she’d continue.
She flipped through the loose sheets to a clean one, but suddenly realized that, whatever else they might be, her days were no longer uninteresting. Could she write of recent events? She could try. Perhaps somewhere within she might find something to help pin down Renald’s guilt.
She dipped her pen and began at the beginning, when the sound of a horn announced people approaching through a storm …
She had reached her betrothal when the door banged open and Felice stalked in “Well really, Claire! You are the lady of the manor now, or had you conveniently forgotten?”
Claire sighed and wiped off her pen.
She hadn’t found anything to help in her plan, but writing of events had been healing in a way.
Felice came over and flicked the corner of a piece of parchment. “You can’t spend your days on such foolery anymore.”
Claire pulled it out of harm’s way. “Is your music foolery?”
“My music entertains others.”
“Perhaps my writings will entertain others.”
“When so few can read them? It would be more to the point if you told stories as Clarence used to.”
“But I have no gift for that.”
“Then do something useful. Murielle is completely out of her wits, you know.”
Claire stood. “It’s just shock.”
“If you choose to think so. Anyway, she can wait. We need to know how much of the feasting food should be given to the poor, and how much kept for the hall.”
“Ask Renald. It’s his property.”
When Felice’s brows rose, Claire knew that snarl had been unwise. She had to remember that at the moment, everyone thought they were in harmony, and just under vow of chastity for a month. Until she decided what to do, she’d best pretend that was true.
She bound up her work. “I’m sorry. I took a sleeping draft and it’s given me a headache. But I’ll see to the food. Perhaps you could check how many fowl and other animals we have left. We may have to buy more next market day.”
“Giving me orders now, are you?”
“As you pointed out, I am the Lady of Summerbourne.”
Felice’s lips tightened, but she snapped, “As my lady commands!” and stalked off. Unkind though it was, Claire couldn’t help thinking that if Renald had ended up married to Felice he’d have been halfway to just punishment.
As she walked to the door, a glint drew her attention to the golden cup once more sitting on its shelf. The king’s cup, given to her father by Henry Beauclerk not long after he’d become king. A gift of friendship, and of gratitude for pleasant times here in the place he’d called paradise.
Chapter 18
In the pantry, Claire assessed the quantity and quality of leftover food and divided it. There wasn’t any cherried pork left but that didn’t surprise her. Thomas alone would have eaten it all if given the chance.
That reminded her of her brother. She couldn’t put it off any longer. As yet, no one seemed to know the truth but herself, her mother, and de Lisle, and her mother was making no sense. At any moment, however, the news could break and Thomas mustn’t learn of it that way.
She asked where her brother was.
“He’s with Lord Renald, lady,” a servant said. When she turned toward the office, he added, “I think they’re outside the walls practicing swordwork and such.”
Of course, thought Claire. What else?
She heard the noise before she passed through the gates—bangs, clangs, and coarse voices. Even a sharp cry. It sounded like her brother! She broke into a run.
She crossed the bridge and saw a battle going on. After a mom
ent it resolved into Renald and his men playing at slaughter, one-on-one. Some wielded quarterstaffs, some fought with bare hands, some with sword and shield. They’d brought a huge tree trunk from the woods and set it upright in the ground, and a man was hacking at it with a sword, chips flying.
Practicing to hack at men.
To kill men.
Efficiently.
That conversation came back to her, the one on the first day when Renald had spoken about killing efficiently. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Oh, curse him for being what he was!
Where was Thomas? In the seething mass of fighting men she couldn’t find him.
Where?
Where? She glimpsed blond curls.
He was fighting de Lisle!
Frozen, Claire’s first thought was that if she could capture the moment she would have the perfect illustration of Brave Sebastian and Count Tancred. Then, a heartbeat later, she raced forward to stop the unequal fight.
An arm cinched her, swinging her off her feet. “Nay, lady!” Josce gasped. “You’ll more likely cause damage by interfering.”
Claire struggled helplessly, then froze, watching. “But … But Thomas has a real sword!”
“Of course.”
“He’ll get hurt! Or hurt someone.”
“Lord Renald will keep him safe, lady. Never fear.”
She fought again to get free. “Lord Renald killed our father! Why not complete the job? Let me go!”
He warily obeyed, but it was clear he would not permit her to interfere.
“I note Thomas’s sword is smaller,” she said bitterly, arms crossed tightly in front of her. “Does Lord Renald ever fight fair?”
“Have a care, lady,” he said softly. “Thomas could never control a full-sized sword. He has a better chance of injuring with that one.”
“But little enough.” Now she had calmed a little, Claire could see that Thomas was in no immediate danger. It was like the sword dance again, with Renald clearly in control.
Even so, she asked, “He won’t be hurt?”
Josce shrugged. “Not seriously.”
Her heart raced again. Lose a finger or two, or the proper use of his legs? Renald’s mighty sword could smash bone like kindling.
She twitched to interfere but knew, with sick frustration, that she would not be allowed to. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the unequal contest as if her gaze could keep her brother safe.
Thomas’s slashing sword could hardly reach Renald, but it was real. The man caught each blow on shield or sword and as he did, wood chipped and sparks flew. Renald didn’t attack. In fact, he seemed to be talking all the time.
Aware of being shadowed by Josce, Claire crept closer until she could hear her husband’s even-breathed voice. “You can win a battle by wearing down your opponent, Thomas, but I doubt that will work in this case.”
“I’ll find a way to kill you!”
“Perhaps. One day.”
Thomas paused—mouth set, eyes blazing, chest heaving.
Claire knew then that he’d heard the truth and she began to pray, rapidly, earnestly, for his safety.
Her brother slashed a few more times in what was clearly blind frustration, only to halt again. Then he pointed his sword like a spear and charged, screaming with frustrated rage.
Claire cried out, too, and knew to her shame that some of her alarm was for the man. Renald jumped back, a flicker of surprise on his face but deflecting the sword with his own. Then, as if part of the same movement, he knocked the sword from Thomas’s hand before the lad tumbled to the grass.
He stepped back, sword point to the ground. Thomas just sat there, sobbing for breath, head down.
Claire took the chance to run forward. “What are you doing to him?” she demanded as she hugged her brother. “Trying to kill him, too?”
“He’s trying to kill me.”
Thomas shrugged her off and scrambled to his feet. “He killed Father.”
“I know.”
“It’s my duty to kill him!”
Claire closed her eyes briefly. “Thomas, you know you can’t. Yet. Wait a few years. Vengeance has no limits.”
Thomas stood there, sucking in breaths, jaw thrust out. At times, he could be as unreasonable as Felice.
Claire rose to her feet, too, and looked at her husband as she spoke. “If you want to make him pay, Thomas, let him train you in the skills you’ll use one day to kill him.”
Renald’s brows rose. “I thought you didn’t approve of men of violence, my lady.”
“Life forces unpleasantness upon us, my lord.”
He looked away, as if the distant coppice had suddenly become of interest. “A truth indeed. Thomas, go to Harry and work at the quarterstaff. But first,” he said, looking back as the lad moved away, “clean your sword.”
Thomas glared at him, but picked up his sword and carefully dried it with a cloth before sliding it into a scabbard lying on the ground. Then he stomped off toward a middle-aged man-at-arms.
“Where did that sword come from?” Claire demanded.
“I had the blacksmith shorten and lighten one for him.” Renald was cleaning his own blade—an ordinary one, not the dark sword that had killed her father. “No one seemed to have provided a practice weapon for him before.”
She folded her arms again, shielding herself. “Summerbourne has never been a place of violence.”
“Yet even your father trained once. It is a man’s duty.” He looked up. “Did you want something, Claire?”
He was acting as if nothing lay between them! No, not nothing. But not the monstrous deed that changed everything.
“I came looking for Thomas,” she said, trying to decide just how she should behave. “I wasn’t sure he knew.”
“Your mother told him.”
And in the worst possible way, Claire was sure. She should have done it herself instead of hiding away like a coward. She watched the quarterstaff bout, wincing whenever her brother was rapped.
“He’s my concern now,” Renald said, “and I will care for him.” When she turned to protest, he added, “I won’t let you or him kill me.”
“How pleasant to be omnipotent.” But her secret curled inside. There were more ways to destroy than by the sword.
“It is hardly meaningful to be able to best a child.” He pushed his blade into a plain scabbard.
“But who can defeat you?” she demanded. “What courage does it take to fight, when to you all men are children?”
“That isn’t true. And anyway, don’t you believe that God will support the side of justice?”
“Not anymore.” She looked away in time to see Thomas tripped by his opponent’s staff. “He’s hurt!”
It was de Lisle who stopped her this time, arm tight around her waist. “God’s wounds, Claire, he’ll come to no serious harm. You’ve cosseted him half to death.”
She pulled free and turned on him. “You don’t understand love, do you? You don’t understand it at all! I suppose I should be sorry for you, torn from your family so young, forced into cruel ways. But not when you bring those ways here.”
He seized her shoulders, holding her so she had to face him. “Love doesn’t wrap people in silk.” Roughly, he turned her. “Look at him! He’s not your baby brother anymore. He’s nearly as tall as you and doubtless stronger. One day, failing me, he could be your shield against the world, shield for you and your family. He must be strong and skilled.”
She swallowed tears, and fought a burning awareness of his hard hands on her. “He was meant for the Church.”
“Then he should have been there. Instead, he was left to drift because your father couldn’t face the truth.”
She whirled on him. “Don’t you dare—!”
“Of course I dare. Your father was a good and kind man who brought great joy to the world. But as a brother and father he was disastrous. Your aunts should have been suitably married before now. It’s not surprising Felice is bitter.”
“She
was born bitter!”
“How do you know? You weren’t alive at the time. You should have been settled with a good man, particularly when he planned such a risky course.”
Claire opened her mouth but was overridden. “And Thomas should either have been in a monastery or training for war. He shouldn’t have been running wild. You lived an illusion here, pretending that the big, cold world didn’t exist. The least your father could have done was not invite it in the gates.”
She stepped closer, almost breathless with fury. “You clearly cannot understand the demands of a sound conscience.”
“I understand it very well.”
She laughed. “You killed my father and feel not one qualm. What sort of conscience is that? I’ll make you feel it, though.” She’d not intended to spit this out, but she couldn’t help herself. “You killed Ulric to hide your guilt from me. I might not be able to make you pay for killing my father, but killing Ulric was base murder and I intend to prove it.”
He stood before her, impervious as granite. “You cannot prove a falsehood.”
“I don’t need to.”
She turned and walked away but once inside the walls and out of his sight, Claire sagged. How could he attack her father like that, seeking to destroy his memory as he’d destroyed his body? Defense, she decided. The more he could convince himself that Lord Clarence had not been a good man, the easier he could live with having killed him.
Well, as she’d said, she doubted she could make him pay for that, not with king and church supporting his deed. She’d destroy him instead with Ulric’s death.
How though? Just how did someone prove a secret murder? Eudo and the earl had already looked into the matter and found nothing.
Remembering her father’s belief in recording details, she found the wax tablets she used for notes. In the kitchen, she wiped off old scribbles with a hot knife, wishing it was as easy to wipe away her lingering reluctance to destroy Renald de Lisle.
Like a snake through grass, she remembered a peaceful time in the garden, teasing about foxgloves, laughing over a robin …
While, she reminded herself, just behind them lay the body of the man he had foully murdered.
“Right,” she said to herself. “Where to start?”
