by Jo Beverley
“With a murderer on hand? Highly unwise. Who do you think was behind that?”
“I have no idea. No one has any reason to wish Claire dead. But if they did, an arrow could have done it. Why drag her away?”
“Rape?” asked Imogen, then answered herself. “No, they can’t have thought they’d have time. Could they have thought her someone else?”
“I don’t see how.”
“At least she’s safe now.”
“Is she? She said the other man, the one who’d paid, sounded Norman. He could come here.”
“We’ll put guards on her when she’s not by your side,” said FitzRoger.
“Which will be rarely if I have my say.”
“Ah, how sweet to see another man victim to a woman’s power.”
Imogen elbowed him in the ribs. “And here am I, weak for love.”
FitzRoger turned her face to his. “Is that a seductive request, wife?”
Her color flared. “We’ve been sharing other beds for three nights now—”
“How true. And had scarce a minute to steal during the day. Renald, go away.”
“But I have so many matters I wish to discuss,” Renald teased.
FitzRoger never stopped smiling into his wife’s eyes. “Go, or die.”
As Renald left, laughing, he heard her say, “The place is too crowded. We can’t—”
He grinned, sure that his friend would find a way. After all, failing all else, the massive walls of Carrisford keep were riddled with secret passageways. He’d check later for cobwebs in their hair.
Claire woke to darkness in a strange room, and it took a moment for her to remember where she was. But darkness? An oblong of paler dark showed where the window was, proof that it must be night. She’d lain on the bed to think, and must have fallen asleep. She still had her clothes on.
There were bodies in the bed with her, and she assumed they were her maids. She shook the one closest. “Wake up.”
“Wha… ? Oh, lady!”
Claire recognized the voice. “Maria, I need to piss. Where should I go?”
“We have a pot, lady.” Maria scrambled out of bed, waking Prissy.
“Do you need anything else, lady?” Prissy asked sleepily.
Claire hated to send her off around the castle in the middle of the night, but she was desperately hungry. “Something to eat and drink,” she said as she climbed out of bed to use the pot.
“We have food.” Prissy could be heard stumbling over something on the floor. She brought over a wooden box.
Claire opened it and felt inside. “What’s here?”
“Only cheese and bread, lady. And we have watered wine.” She brought a wooden cup and Claire drank thirstily.
“You can both go back to sleep. I can feed myself.”
The maids tumbled back into the bed and in moments she heard their soft sleep-breathing.
A lifetime of sleeping with her aunts had taught Claire never to leave an empty space or the others would take it over, so she sat on the bed to eat and go over her thoughts.
Perhaps her brain had been working on the situation as she slept, for it all seemed clear to her now. Her father had fought to establish his innocence of treason—which meant that the question became whether Henry was rightful King of England or not. Perhaps if he’d fought on the question of whether the king had killed his brother, he might—by the power of God—have won. The king’s right to rule, however, did not hinge on whether he’d killed the former king or not.
Why hadn’t she seen that before?
In history, rulers frequently took power by conquest and slaughter.
Claire knew a bit more about laws and the English crown than Imogen did. The king was elected by the great lords. The wishes of the last king were taken into account, and the crown generally went to the oldest legitimate son, but it still had to be ratified by election.
So, did Henry Beauclerk have the right to the throne? He was, as Renald said, acclaimed by the nobles and anointed by the Church.
And Imogen was right. Who would want Robert of Normandy ruling here, particularly when his supporters included such devils as de Bellême?
It was quite possible, therefore, that her father had asked a question—did Henry have the right to the throne of England—to which the answer was yes. Henry had the right because he was the choice of most men, and he was the best suited to bear good fruit.
And thus, her father had died without any need of cheating.
Truly, Claire wished she’d had the vision to see this months ago. Then she might have had the courage to do as Imogen had done and prevent her father by force from taking the path to death. But now, she could throw off her doubts of evildoing. She could never forget that Renald had struck her father’s deathblow, but she understood now why he felt no guilt.
At least that riddle was solved.
Perhaps, as Renald had said, life didn’t neatly fall into good and bad, virtue and vice. If her father had understood that, if he’d steeped himself more in the confusion of real life, perhaps he wouldn’t have died.
Claire sighed, popping the last of the cheese into her mouth. If she’d seen more of real life, perhaps she would have recognized the danger in time to prevent it.
Renald had threatened to injure her so she wouldn’t be able to come to court. He’d been willing to hurt her to protect her from even greater danger. She knew she would do the same for him if the case ever arose.
She, like Imogen, would rather give pain and risk punishment than watch the death of anyone she loved.
Nearby, Renald lay sleepless on a straw mattress on the floor of a crowded room, surrounded by the snuffles, snores, and smell of a dozen sleeping men. There was a bit more space than there should have been, however, because FitzRoger was not here.
Clearly having bethought themselves of the secret passageways, the host and hostess had settled in there. What were damp and a few rats when lovers wanted to be together?
As he wanted to be with Claire.
As they would be this time tomorrow, God willing.
He worried, though.
No secrets lay between them now, but his very nature did. Despite the ambush on the road, her rescue, and her own burst of violence, he wondered whether she would always be uneasy with the fact that he must fight and kill.
He didn’t revel in violence, but he didn’t flinch from it, either. He was good at fighting, he enjoyed the fire of it, and it was all too often necessary to protect the things he valued.
He valued Claire—that was too mild a term for a passion that now ruled his life. If she came to him troubled, however, their love would shatter under the strain.
He’d rather lose her than cause her that sort of pain.
Suddenly, he had an idea of how to test the blade before it struck. He hesitated, because any tested blade could fail, but better now than later. He put his hands under his head and thought the whole thing through.
Chapter 25
To her surprise, Claire slept again and was awoken by Prissy shaking her. Maria stood behind with a breakfast tray. Claire sat up in daylight, to the sound of a busy castle.
“What hour is it?”
“Gone terce, lady. And you are asked for.”
Claire scrambled out of bed, wincing from a headache grown out of too much sleep. “By the king?”
“And the queen. And your husband.” Prissy poured warm water into a bowl and Claire began to wash, demanding the clothes she had worn for her wedding. This was, in a way, a second wedding day.
Not too far away, her second wedding night awaited.
“There’s to be fighting,” Maria said.
“What?” Claire looked to where her maid was peeping out of the long narrow window. “We are attacked?” she asked with sudden panic, even thinking that her mysterious attacker still pursued.
“Nay, lady,” Maria said with a laugh. “For fun! For your delayed bridals. They’re building a stand. You’re to sit there with the king and q
ueen.”
Claire picked out the rap of hammers. “For fun,” she muttered and went back to washing. Though she’d witnessed the need for wolves to fight off other wolves, and even shown a touch of wolfishness herself, she still did not like the idea of anyone fighting for fun.
She remembered Renald confessing to enjoying it. She remembered his glow when he rode back from killing the brigand knights. She remembered him holding his sword between them and demanding that she accept the sword as well as him.
“Will my husband fight?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Oh yes, lady. He’s to fight against Lord FitzRoger. Everyone says it’s a wonder to see them. Though they do say,” she added with a wary look at Claire, “that Lord FitzRoger is better.”
“My Lord Renald says the same thing, so it’s likely true.” Claire didn’t relish having to watch a fight. She certainly didn’t look forward to watching Renald lose. “At least they should know better than to hurt each other.”
She dried herself and dressed, hoping she appeared calmer than she felt. It wasn’t the faint chance of injury that upset her. It was that she suspected Renald had set this up deliberately. He was going to show her the full nature of the blooded sword—force her to accept it—before she committed herself.
He deserved to be nibbled to death by fleas. How could he doubt her? Doubting her, how could he force her to this? Tugging a circlet down on her troublesome hair, she fretted. What if she failed? In her heart she still hated the harsher world, hated armor and swords and the calluses men had to put on body and soul to use them.
She was determined to be sensible, and she’d persuaded herself that Renald had not done anything truly wrong in killing her father, but she still worried that she could not wholeheartedly embrace the sword.
“Nibbled to death by eels!” she muttered, startling her maids.
Dressed in her finery, with her veil already slipping, Claire left her room to find Josce awaiting. It gave her a start, reminding her how once he’d guarded her, but then she realized he was her protective guard now, in case her would-be murderer was about.
Angry at that unknown villain, she made her way to the great hall. Hung with banners, and gleaming with precious plate on sideboards all around, Carrisford’s hall was full of noise, sweat, and richly dressed bodies. At long tables nobles, ladies, and clerks broke their fast. Servants wove around with jugs and platters. Dogs were everywhere, as were young pages, who were mostly as troublesome as the hounds, and as likely to snitch food. Claire glimpsed Thomas once, weaving through the crowd at a run along with two other boys.
They might be on urgent business, but she feared not. They looked as if they were up to mischief. Instinctively, she moved to follow and control, but then she stopped herself. She must let him go. If he fell into mischief and was corrected, it would do him good.
Summerbourne was lost to him anyway, and he needed to be among men. The past weeks under Renald’s firm rule had done wonders for him. He might look like an Angel of Summerbourne, but if he was, he was more like the Archangel Michael, warrior of the heavenly host. It was hardly surprising. He came of warrior blood on both sides of the family.
So did she. She prayed that blood would run in her veins today as she watched her beloved fight.
Where was he?
If she was asked for by husband, king, and queen, she didn’t know where to find them. Claire was thinking of seeking the peace of the garden when a page found her and led her to the solar.
This handsome room’s walls were hidden by rich hangings, and there was even a woven cloth on the floor. Carrisford was rich. The queen sat by the window attended by a dozen ladies. She beckoned Claire over and demanded a full account of the betrothal and wedding.
Claire skipped the bloody sword but she had to mention the corpse and listen to the details of a fruitless search for a murderer.
“We were all most distressed by your father’s death,” the queen said at last. “So discourteous of him.”
Claire bit back a sharp protest. With her new understanding of the matter, she could understand what the queen meant, but the woman lacked tact.
“Such wonderful stories as Lord Clarence told,” Matilda said. “And the riddles. Very clever. Do entertain us with a story, Lady Claire.”
Claire stared at her. “Highness, I do not have my father’s gift.”
The queen frowned. “Surely you can remember some of his work. You must have heard it often.”
“Yes, Highness, but I do not have his gift of telling.” The frown deepened. “Perhaps I can try to remember some of his riddles.”
The royal frown eased. “Yes, do so.”
Claire wondered how people lived their days under this kind of tyranny. She searched her memory, however, fearing that the queen must have heard them all. She recollected one she’d made up herself and tried to tell it right. “Sharp to the attack am I, with mighty followers, determined to change all in my wake. None can withstand my mighty thrust, and yet I am gentle as can be, and seek to improve not to destroy. Often I shed blood, but not by my will, and when I have passed my mighty way, I leave the world enhanced behind me. What am I?”
When the ladies looked at one another, pondering, she knew that at least she’d found a novelty for them.
“Sounds like my husband,” said one matron with a smile. “He always thinks the world best for his roaring and fighting.”
A chuckle ran around the room, threaded with agreements.
“But,” said the queen, “Lady Claire said what am I, not who. I cannot think of an object so brutal yet kind. Would a conquering army fit? Perhaps the army of my lord husband’s father conquering England and leaving it the better?”
Claire couldn’t think of anything diplomatic to say to that. Matilda was of the English royal line and Claire thought she shouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic about the Norman invaders.
“By your leave, Highness,” said one older lady, “I doubt any army would claim to be gentle, or to not want to shed blood.”
They tossed out suggestions, some clever, some silly.
“A plow.”
“A ship.”
“A penis!”
“Mighty followers?” someone questioned.
“His balls!” called out one young woman, and everyone laughed.
They all looked at Claire, sure they had it, and she had to admit it fit in many aspects. She was also rather embarrassed at the cheerful bawdiness of them all. “I’m not sure it could be said to enhance the world, my ladies.”
“Try telling that to any man,” remarked the matron with a twinkle. “So, if we don’t have it, Lady Claire, give us a hint.”
“This is a ladies’ matter—”
She was interrupted by the bold young woman saying, “So is stick and balls!”
“In fact,” Claire added quickly, “it is something some of you are engaged in now.”
“Not something some of us wish we were engaged in, Alida,” said the queen, and the younger woman laughed. “So, what are we doing that could fit?”
They all looked around, and then the queen clapped her hands. “It is sewing. No, it is a needle! The needle breaks through cloth and drags the thread—its followers. It does not seek to shed blood, but alas often pierces our fingers. And it does leave the world much enhanced. How very clever.”
As everyone echoed the queen’s praise, Matilda said, “Do ask another one, Lady Claire.”
Hoping her inner sigh was not obvious, Claire found another. And another. And another. When the king came in and interrupted, she could have fallen at his feet and kissed his boots.
Of course, the queen immediately told him her favorites of the riddles—which she tangled so that the meaning was much too clear. After some time of this, he came to Claire. “I thank you for amusing the queen so well, Lady Claire.”
“They were mostly my father’s riddles, sire, and I fear I do not tell them as well as he.” Despite everything, she could not keep a h
int of bitterness from her voice. She still couldn’t believe that this powerful man could not have turned fate.
“Truly, he had a gift.” The king seemed unaware of her tone. “He said he planned to write down his stories and riddles. Was any of that done?”
“My father had little patience for fine script, sire. I was writing them for him. I had only just begun the work.”
“Continue it before they slip from your memory, and before children take up your time. I would like to see such a book.”
It was almost a royal command, and Claire took it as such even though his manner distressed her. He clearly had no feelings about her father at all.
“What of your father’s journal?” the king asked. “He always had writing materials with him. At the end, he often wrote.” He must have seen something in her face, for he added, “Do you expect me not to speak of it, as if I had an uneasy conscience?”
It was a direct challenge and carried a warning. The king was commanding her to accept his right. Yesterday it might have pushed her into disaster despite her vow to Renald. Today she could say, “It upsets me, sire, as is only natural. But not through any fault of yours. It was a death, and a death I would have prevented if I could.”
“As would I,” said the king shortly. “So, what happened to his book? I would like to read what he made of that sorry rebellion.”
She had to tell him of its loss.
Another royal frown. “You cannot have searched well enough! I will have the location from Lord Renald and send out more men. And you should be more careful with something so precious.”
This so closely echoed Felice, that Claire smiled.
“You laugh?” he asked sharply.
“No, sire.” Claire struggled for an acceptable explanation. “Or yes, but only because everyone is always saying that of me. It is a sad failing. I lost my own book at Summerbourne not long ago. And someone chided me for leaving it by a window …” She trailed off, seeking to pin down who that had been.
Felice? She didn’t think so, yet it seemed important that she remember …
“Lady Claire!” The king’s voice was sharp and Claire found herself helped to a bench by the king’s own hand. She blinked up at him. “Have I so distressed you that you turn faint?”
