by Jo Beverley
“I am by nature kind.”
And she knew that was true.
“He’s a good lad with high spirit,” he continued. “He’ll do well if he doesn’t let his mischievousness take him too far.”
“I do worry—”
“Don’t. He’ll doubtless feel the birch a few times. It will do him no harm. And believe it or not, Henry will have a care for him.”
“Out of guilty conscience, I suppose.”
But he met her eyes steadily. “No more than I.”
He rode off to check the long line of horsemen and pack animals, leaving her shaking her head. The only sense to it seemed to be that she had a completely different view of right and wrong from the rest of the world. Perhaps it was inherited, for the same thing seemed to have sent her father to his death.
Claire wondered if Renald had said anything to Thomas about not opposing the king. He’d feel more than the birch for that. She didn’t think her brother was interested in politics, but he could be as impulsive as she. She called him to ride alongside.
“Do you think you’ll enjoy court life?”
“I don’t know.”
“You won’t have any problems with serving the king?”
He glanced at her. “Should I?”
“By the rood, no. But after Father—”
“I don’t think I’m old enough to understand these things. So I will serve him according to my honor.”
Claire smiled, sure she heard an echo of something Renald had said. “Good. I, too, don’t intend to stir up trouble.” Her vow bound her to that, but with sudden insight, she added, “After all, if any wrong has been done, God will amend it.”
Thomas brightened. “Josce said that.”
“And it’s true. We don’t have to make a point of trying to correct such wrongs.” Of course one day Thomas would have to choose whether to take his oath of loyalty to the king, but that was years away.
He was chattering now. “Josce says the king has dozens of pages, and they get up to all kinds of things! It’ll be fun to have so many boys of my own age and station. And he says I’ll have arms and armor fitted to my size for training. And …”
Claire listened, smiling, thanking heaven that this part, at least, might work out well.
Her mother would be content enough in the convent. And, whatever happened, Lady Agnes would have her place in Summerbourne. Felice might end up with exactly the sort of husband she wanted.
She looked to where Renald was riding with some men. The only ones to suffer would be she and him, and all she had to do to avert that was to see that her father’s death had been legal and righteous.
She sighed.
Could she hand that over to God, too? It seemed to her that people were supposed to make moral choices.
Most of the time they rode at a walk to spare the horses, so the company chatted and sang. Then one man started to tell a story, and that made Claire think of her father’s journal. She’d brought it with her, hoping for a chance to read it, hoping that something in it would cut through the tangled knot of her dilemma. She pulled the book out of her bag and settled to read.
Miles passed, and she was deep in the story when Renald came alongside again. “Your father’s book? Can you tell me what he says?”
The calm between them now was heartbreaking. “It’s maddening in a way,” she said. “I think he was as confused as I am much of the time. He had a low opinion of the rebellion. He thought too many of Duke Robert’s supporters were self-serving.”
He nodded. “Drawn by promises of powerful positions in the kingdom.”
“He detested Robert de Bellême and his brothers.”
“Hardly surprising.”
His big warhorse put him inches higher than her, so she had to look up. “Is it true de Bellême so abused his poor wife that she died of it?”
“So rumor says.”
She sighed. “Father—or rather, the Brave Child Sebastian—struggles with these issues. He even questions the justice of the cause.”
“Would to God he’d questioned more.”
She couldn’t help but say, “Amen. He was much troubled by the company he kept. He writes of knowing a tree by the fruit it bears.”
Renald shrugged. “As for that, there were doubtless as many rogues on our side.” He twisted to look up and down the line. “We’d best stop to rest the horses soon.” He rode off to give the orders, leaving Claire exasperated.
Was neither side of anything right or wrong?
As they fed and watered the horses, the humans refreshed themselves, too, wandering around to stretch their legs. Claire read as she walked, still seeking a magic message in her father’s writings.
Doubtless to counter the “bad fruit,” her father listed the good men who supported Duke Robert, including the Earl of Salisbury and Eudo of Peel. Eudo? Claire squinted at it, but that was definitely what it said. Her father must have referred to Eudo’s ardent support of the cause.
It seemed many of these men felt uncertain. Though uncertain didn’t seem to be quite the term for her father’s mind. Troubled, yes, uncertain, no. She came to the passage she’d found earlier, where the Brave Child Sebastian rose before the company to speak eloquently about the justice of their cause, telling the story of the bad king who brought ruin on his land.
She looked around at peaceful, lush countryside. The heavy rain, though miserable at the time, had spurred a burst of new growth. England seemed to be prospering rather than falling into ruin. Was that a sign?
Everyone knew that Henry Beauclerk had promised a return to law and order, and word was that the roads everywhere were already safer. True, some harsh punishments of brigands and outlaws had been necessary, but that was fair in such a cause.
She was pondering links between the placid idyll around her and the king’s right to the throne, when one of the horses reared with a shrill whinny. A hoof knocked over a tub of grain, creating a minor chaos of horses, men, and spilled feed.
In every idyll an occasional wasp will fly, she thought with a wry smile.
A sharp cry to her right startled her, as if someone had hurt themselves. She walked around a bush to see if she could help.
And was immediately seized.
A hand over her mouth stopped her cry. A strong arm confined her as she was dragged, kicking and writhing, farther from the camp. The book—the precious book—slipped from her hands and she moaned a special cry at that, fighting even harder.
“Claire?”
At Renald’s call she tried desperately to clear her mouth, but she was helpless. When her skirt caught on a branch, it was ripped free as her captor—captors, for there were a number of men about her—desperately dragged her away.
Then Renald bellowed, “To me! To your lady!” and she heard him coming after, crashing through the woods. She struggled as fiercely as she could, doing anything to cause delay.
“Kill her,” someone said, low-voiced.
Claire’s captor halted. Another man turned to her, drawing a wicked knife. She watched in horror as he stepped forward grinning.
She’d once thought Renald without a soul. Now she knew what it truly meant.
Grin turned to rictus as a thrown blade thudded into his chest. Her captor’s hold slackened for a moment and she twisted an arm free, slashing up with her fist. More by luck than skill she caught him in the throat and he went down, choking.
Claire whirled, looking for other dangers. Where was the man who had ordered her killed? The only sign was a crashing as he fled. She spun back to other noises.
Three men were attacking Renald.
His thrown knife had saved her life. Now he fought for his own against sword, ax, and quarterstaff.
His men were coming, calling and crashing, but they were not here yet. The quarterstaff cracked on his leg even as he beat aside the sword and ducked the ax. On his next move, his weakened leg almost gave way.
One sweep of his sword, his special sword, and the quarterstaff wa
s half its length.
Claire ran forward to seize the fallen part. With all her strength, she slammed it against the head of the axwielder.
The burly redhead staggered, but didn’t go down. Bellowing, he turned on her, mad rage in his eyes. But then he screamed as a sword impaled him. Blood gushed from his mouth as he crumpled at her feet.
Claire stood frozen, but then she realized that Renald must be swordless!
Sweet Mary mild! He dodged a wild thrust from the swordsman, but the jagged quarterstaff jabbed viciously at him. He beat it aside with his fist.
Josce charged from between the trees. He’d be too late. Renald fended off another sword slash with his arm. Thank heavens that sword could not cut through mail!
Claire ran forward and whacked the swordsman hard behind the knees, a childhood trick to bring someone down. As he must, he crumpled. The man with the broken quarterstaff tried to run, so Claire tripped him. To be safe, she slammed her stick on the fallen swordsman’s wrist then snatched up his weapon.
Armed with sword and stick, she glared at the men who had dared to threaten her love. “So there!”
When she looked up, she saw Renald’s men staring at her, and her lord and master helpless with laughter and exhaustion against a tree. He opened his arms, and without thought she dropped her weapons and ran into them.
“I suppose you think I’m funny,” she said, beginning to shake with relief and shock.
He stroked her hair. “I think you’re magnificent.”
She looked up. “You could have died.”
He sobered. “So could you. Next time, woman, keep out of a fight!”
“You were in difficulty. Don’t deny it!”
“I was in more difficulty after I lost my sword.”
“You should have kept hold of it.”
“By the rood, Claire, I had to throw it.” But he cradled her face. “My heart stopped. I swear it.” Then he kissed her, desperately, tenderly, and she kissed him back.
He’d almost died.
Sweet Mary, he’d almost died. Like a stream of pure water, it washed away all doubt. “Tomorrow, I want to consummate our marriage.”
Instead of delirious joy, he sighed. “Though it pains me to say it, you’re suffering battle fever, my love.”
“Are you saying I’m mad?”
“I’m saying that I can’t hold you to anything you say at the moment.”
“I’ll say the same tomorrow. I can’t live without you.”
“I pray for it, but I won’t hold you to it.”
She puffed out a breath. “I could begin to think you don’t care.”
“Never think that. Never.” His hands tightened at her waist. “My heart is yours, Claire, now and through all eternity.”
It was what she felt, but it shook her. “If that’s true, it would be very unfair to tie Felice to you.”
He kissed her forehead and pushed her away. “I hoped you’d see it that way.”
She rolled her eyes, yet couldn’t help but smile.
His smile faded when he looked at the two men on the ground, guarded by his own soldiers. Josce had retrieved the dark blade and came over, cleaning it. Renald straddled the white-eyed swordsman and put the point of his sword to the man’s heaving chest, leaning on it slightly so the eyes widened even farther. “Why did you seize my lady?”
The wild eyes flickered around as if searching frantically for help, but then settled again on the nemesis above. “We were paid, lord. Mercy, lord.”
“Mercy? Only in the speed or slowness of your death. Who paid you?”
“A man, lord. Mercy—”
“What man?” Renald leaned on the sword a little more and the man cried out.
“Don’t know, lord! Don’t know! He gave us gold to upset the horses and seize the lady.”
“And to kill her.”
“We didn’t know nothing about that, lord, until he spoke it!”
“Renald,” said Claire, “the man who was holding me got away. And the one who paid.”
“A shame, that.” Renald looked at the other man, who snarled like a cornered animal. He stepped away and sheathed his sword. “Come, Claire. Let’s see if we still have horses.”
She let him guide her along, but then paused, looking back. “What will happen to them?”
“They’ll die quickly.”
“Could we not—”
He forced her on, out of sight. “Not what? Let them free to savage the next group of travelers? Take them to Carrisford for trial? What point in that other than to extend their agony?”
She heard nothing, and when Josce and the men emerged there was nothing to see except, perhaps, that the squire looked a little pale. She suspected he hadn’t seen much killing yet. She was very grateful that Thomas had been left with the men guarding the camp.
The horses were all present, fed, and watered. It was only as she went to mount that Claire realized she didn’t have the book. She turned to the woods. “I must look for my book.”
Renald stopped her. “I’ll go.”
She shook her head at him. “Dead bodies don’t frighten me.”
“Live ones should. At least two of your attackers went free.”
She’d forgotten. She wasn’t used to the idea of someone wanting her dead.
She didn’t complain, however, about Renald and three men escorting her back, swords drawn. They followed the path of churned-up ground and broken branches that showed where she’d been taken. She paused to pluck a scrap of her torn skirt off some brambles. “I think I dropped the book here.”
The ground was deep in leaf mold, and settled over by fallen leaves and branches. Small plants and bushes captured drifts of them where a brown book could hide. Still, by the time they had to give up, she felt that they’d searched everywhere.
“Perhaps it wasn’t here. I can’t be sure.”
They went farther, the men poking their swords into likely spots. “Brown wooden boards could disappear here,” Renald said, kicking aside a rotten tree stump. “I’m sorry, Claire. It’s a bitter loss.”
“I hope those brigands spend their due time in purgatory. What did they want with me anyway?”
He turned her back toward the camp. “I don’t think they knew. The one who paid them? Interesting, isn’t it? You aren’t an heiress, to be snatched for property.”
“And he wanted me dead.” She shivered. “It frightens me.”
He was looking at the ground near the brambles one last time. “And me. We must press on, or we’ll have to stop on the road. I daren’t risk traveling at night now.” He put an arm around her. “I’ll keep you safe, Claire, as long as I have breath in my body.”
His strength and skill was a comfort, as was the feel of his once-hated mail. But protecting her had almost cost him his life.
He wasn’t immortal or invincible.
She had decided she couldn’t turn her back on him, but now she could lose him to this evil.
Who was the danger? Who wanted her dead?
Hours later, when they came in sight of Carrisford Castle, solid and strong with its stone walls and tower, she knew why Renald didn’t entirely trust wood. Thick, high stone walls seemed very comforting, when wolves prowled. Passing through gates into a long, easily defended tunnel, she felt she’d be very safe if she could be sure the enemy was outside.
“You’ll be safe here,” he said, and she could sense his relief.
She spoke her fears. “What if the man who wanted me dead can get in?”
He stared at her. “He was Norman?”
She thought. “I’m not sure. He spoke in English, but—Yes, I think so. Do Normans live in the woods with brigands?”
“Very few. And clearly the man hired them. By the rood, Claire. Do not be alone. Ever.”
“Willingly, but I wish I knew who to fear.”
She searched through her acquaintance for the villain, pausing on the Earl of Salisbury. He’d been angry at her marriage. Could he be angry enough to
try to kill? It seemed impossible, but no other likely name came to mind.
Now she came to think of it, they’d never considered him as a possible murderer of Ulric. She couldn’t imagine his motive, but certain sure, if he was at court, she’d avoid him!
One enemy certainly was in Carrisford. Here she would have to face the king, and by her vow she could not show how much she blamed him for her father’s death. But here she would consummate her marriage to Renald. Hours of riding had settled her wildness, but not changed her mind. She refused to think anymore about right and wrong. Life was precarious, and she would seize what happiness she could.
On the great square keep three banners flew. One belonged to the Lord of Carrisford, one was the gold lions of the king. The other was stark bars of green and black.
“Whose is the third banner?”
“FitzRoger’s. It only flies when he’s here. He gave Imogen lordship of Carrisford.”
She turned to him. “Lordship?”
“Don’t get ideas. Carrisford was hers by right and she struck a hard bargain before she’d wed him.”
“Imogen?“ Claire tried not to sound as surprised as she was. The Flower of the West, Lord Bernard’s pretty, pampered daughter, had struck a hard bargain with Bastard FitzRoger of Cleeve?
Then she saw the lord and lady waiting to greet them and knew that Imogen had changed. She stood differently for one thing, every line proclaiming that she was no longer a girl, but a woman.
And her hair.
Claire suppressed a laugh. They’d make a matched pair. Lady Imogen’s famous hair, that had reached to her knees in honey-gold waves, now only brushed her shoulders.
“Did she cut it in protest, too?” she asked Renald.
“What?”
“Her hair.”
“Oh. Not at all. She cut one plait to escape. There was nothing for it then but to cut the other.”
“Escape?” Claire suddenly remembered that this was not a pretty tale. “Was that before or after he whipped her?”
Renald flashed her a look. “She wasn’t escaping FitzRoger. There’s no time now. Get Imogen to tell you the whole story.”
The moment of horror passed. If Imogen was to tell it, it could not reflect too badly on her husband, because Imogen was no beaten, terrified wife. She was tilting her head to make a comment to the man beside her, smile bright.
