Lord of Midnight (20 page)

They had their ways of handling death and sorrow, too. Though Lady Agnes stayed in her padded chair, friends around, Claire’s mother had retreated from the celebrations. Various women slipped in and out of her room, making sure she had company and solace.

At last Margret slipped into a place beside Claire, hand on her swelling abdomen. “You look sad, Claire. Your father, I suppose.”

Claire hadn’t realized that her smile had faded. At least with Margret, she didn’t have to pretend too much. “I can’t be entirely happy yet.”

“No one would expect you to.” Margret picked a stuffed mushroom off a platter. “But he’s surely a saint in heaven now.”

“Yes, I think so.” His own particular heaven, where he’s free to explore the universe. “How’s the babe? Are you sick again?”

“Every morning.” Margret sighed, but happily went on to describe all her symptoms.

This was part of the ritual too, this passing on of knowledge. Soon Claire might be swelling with her husband’s child, might feel the changes, retch on an empty stomach. Despite the retching, it was another benefit of marriage. She loved children, and would delight in some of her own.

She risked a glance across at her betrothed, looking as much part of the men as she was of the women, despite his being a stranger here. He was fitting in. It was going to work.

Would he use his big hands to rub her aching back as Margret said her Alaine rubbed hers? Remembering their time in the garden, she knew he would. The frost of her resistance melted yet more. In so many ways he was a good man, merely shadowed by the way he had come here.

She tried to think how she would have seen him if he’d come here as a stranger, without the burden of her father’s body. He’d still have disturbed her with his size, with the fact that he was a warrior, but she thought she might have come to like him.

As, perhaps, she had.

He was handsome. She’d known it, but now she truly recognized that he was a very good-looking man, especially merry. His dark eyes were remarkably fine when crinkled with laughter. His movements were graceful. He managed his big body with the kind of grace that comes of health and strength.

No wonder the women around her were making salty comments and envying her possession of him. She’d never expected that. She’d thought that if anything they’d all feel sorry for her. Now she could see that her destiny did not inspire pity.

She continued to watch, secretly, noting the ease with which he moved among the men and the approval he left behind. Such a man—a warrior, a champion, a favorite of the king— could try to lord it over everyone, be too loud, too overbearing, too arrogant. Renald de Lisle, however, was fitting into her community like a foot into a well-worn shoe.

It was disconcerting, but she didn’t really object. She just felt as if a giant had picked up the hall and tilted it. It was probably just the drink. A blow on the knee pulled her attention down, where she found Margret’s two-year-old daughter demanding a cuddle. Glad to settle on a simpler thing, Claire hoisted her onto her lap. “Having a good time, Ouisa?” The brown haired moppet nodded, then pointed at Claire’s flower wreath. “Pretty.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Lord Renald made it for me. I’ll have him make one for you next time you visit.”

That was pleasant, too, the idea of Margret, Alaine, and Ouisa visiting Summerbourne for a leisurely time with Claire and her husband. Clearly the child thought it pleasant, too, for she threw back her head and screamed, “Lord Renald!” at the top of her lusty lungs.

Claire laughed and hushed her. Margret exclaimed, “Ouisa, behave yourself.”

But Renald came over. “My lady called?” he said, holding out his hands. Claire tensed, thinking Ouisa would shrink away, but the girl practically launched herself at him.

“She’s a dreadful flirt,” said Margret. “And acquisitive. Beware, my lord, she’ll have the bullion off your garment before she’s done.”

And indeed, Ouisa was picking at the embroidery around his sleeve.

“Any beautiful lady deserves gold.” He twisted off a bracelet and gave it to the little girl. “Mine?” Ouisa asked.

Claire had feared that, and wondered what he’d do.

“No. But you can borrow it for a moment or two.” He smiled at Margret and complimented her on her child.

As the two of them chatted, and as Ouisa inspected the glittering bracelet inside and out, Claire absorbed a picture too close to her silly dreams for comfort. Against all odds, Renald de Lisle—war-wolf and blooded sword—might be a good father. Why that should seem so threatening, she wasn’t sure.

Ouisa tried to balance the bracelet on her head like a crown and he moved a hand to prop it there without a break in what he was saying. Then she pulled the gold band down again and hung it on her tiny arm, rocking it. A moment later, she looked up at him, frowning. “Pee-pee,” she said.

“Oh dear.” Margret rose with a laugh. “You’d best give her to me, my lord, unless you want your finery spoiled.”

He put the little girl in her mother’s arms, but said, “I need my bracelet back now, Lady Ouisa. Will you put it on my wrist for me?”

Ouisa contemplated wrist and gold for a moment, then tried to connect the two by brute force. It must have hurt, but he simply maneuvered so he could help and twisted into it again.

“Thank you, fair maid.” Gallantly, he kissed the girl’s plump hand. Smiling—Claire could say doting—Margret hurried off with her, Ouisa watching him all the time over her mother’s shoulder.

“You like children.”

He turned to her, brows raised. “You object?”

Claire blushed for the sharp edge to her comment. She hadn’t meant it. It was just that the giant had rocked the hall again.

“Of course not, my lord. I am pleased that the father of my children will be kind to them.”

He looked at her and one brow twitched, and she knew it had come out less graciously than she’d meant. Before she could amend it, he said, “I prefer girls to boys. Little boys are monsters.”

As if to prove the point, a young voice yelled, “Lord Renald! Come on!”

His lips twitched. “Alas, I seem to have promised to show a bunch of them a trick with some stones and reeds.” He bowed to kiss her hand, and murmured, “Give me lots of little girls, my bride.”

Red-faced, Claire watched him join a tangle of eagerly waiting lads even younger than Thomas. Some had the glow of hero-worship in their eyes and it was hardly surprising.

Claire realized she was following him with her eyes as Ouisa had done, and hastily turned back to the women, to find them all watching her with warm, knowing smiles.

The giant was rocking the hall like a boat. She’d come down to make a sacrifice, and now she didn’t really know what she was doing apart from getting drunk. Though she knew it wasn’t all the wine’s fault, she put down her goblet half-full.

A long blast from the horn shook the room, announcing the meal. Relieved to be getting on with things, Claire stood, a tug on her hair reminding her to be careful because of the wreath. She touched it to make sure it was straight, then went to where Renald waited to lead her to their two chairs at the center of the high table.

Slightly tussled from his time with the boys, he looked younger. Not at all like a hard-bitten warrior. In fact, there was a glow to him that seemed to leap the room and surge into her. The giant turned the whole world upside down.

He moved swiftly to her, taking her hands. “Are you all right?”

“Of course!” But Claire had to hold on to his hands as if he were her only chance of keeping balance. “It’s the wine.”

She knew it wasn’t though. She was falling in love with her husband-to-be, and it staggered her. It was too new, too raw. This wasn’t what she had expected of this day.

He led her to her chair and seated her. “Some food will help.”

She doubted it.

His raised hand brought Thomas for the hand washing. Claire thought her brother seemed a little more relaxed. Many of the younger guests were friends of his, and with Renald being so admired, perhaps Thomas was warming, too.

She prayed for it. That would be one thing less to worry her to death.

Surely it was no bad thing to love her husband. And yet, it made her feel strange. Precarious. As if she teetered on a slippery rock in the middle of a raging river.

Around the hall, everyone was settling into places and the racket was simmering down into conversation. The music could finally be heard. When her brother had finished attending to their washing, Renald said, “Thank you, Thomas. Now, you may go and enjoy the feast with your friends.”

Claire could see a faint desire to glower fight with genuine pleasure within her brother. Pleasure won. “Thank you, my lord!” And he was off to a far corner of the hall where the younger guests were doubtless up to all kinds of mischief.

“Thank you,” Claire said, even though it made the rock wobble.

“I’ve let Josce off his duties, too.” He turned to her. “It gives me an excuse to serve you myself.” It was the sort of thing a newly betrothed man was supposed to say, but Claire wished he wouldn’t. Not now. She was trying so hard to keep her balance.

The servants entered with platters of food, and Claire focused on the practical, both keeping an eye out for problems, and looking forward to soaking up some of the wine with food.

When a suckling pig lying whole on a bed of cress was placed before her, however, she said, “Oh, poor piglet!”

Renald immediately gestured the dish away, but she grabbed his arm. “I would like some, my lord.”

Then she froze, seared by the feel of his skin beneath her hand. Rich muscles crisp with dark hair stung her palm, made her head swim. She carefully took her hand away. “You might as well know the worst, my lord,” she said lightly, taking a swig of wine before realizing that wasn’t wise. “I lack a sensitive soul, and I love suckling pig.”

His dark eyes crinkled. “If that is the worst, then I am a very fortunate man.” He selected a piece of the tender meat and put it to her lips. “Let not their sacrifice be in vain.”

She took it, blushing, heated in strange places. When she licked away cherry sauce, even having to use a finger to scoop a drip from ‘her chin, his eyes seemed to watch everything she did.

The rock trembled beneath her feet and she knew she couldn’t stay out of the torrent for long.

As custom dictated, she chose a piece and fed it to him, aware without looking that everyone was watching. Watching as he caught her wrist and held her there so he could lick sauce from her fingers. Only she could know, however, that he let his teeth catch her for a moment. Only she could know the effect that had.

Then she realized from the look in his eyes that he knew.

The moment passed. He waved the delicacy on to other guests, and served her and himself with chicken. Claire settled to eating as the safest option available to her. If this was love, if it wasn’t wine-madness, then she’d settle to it. It would become more comfortable in time. Less aching. Less dizzying.

She chatted to the earl, who was seated on her other side, grateful for calmer waters, even if he did seem rather sour about this whole event. It was nothing he said. Just his expression.

A flash from her left made her glance over to where Renald was raising his cup to drink. It was that goblet again.

He caught her eye. “My lady, what distresses you?” Abruptly, he was in warrior mode again, seeking out danger.

“The cup. It was my father’s.”

He glanced at the goblet with a frown. “Everything here was. Why does this bother you?”

Fearing his anger, she still told the truth. “It was a gift from the king.”

“Ah. And it hurts to see me using it?”

“Perhaps because it’s never been used. It arrived after… after King Henry seized the throne.”

“Was chosen king,” he corrected coolly.

She bit her lip. She’d not intended to stir that pot. “My father never used it. He kept it as ornament.”

After a moment, Renald picked up her silver cup and replaced it with the gold and jeweled one. “It is yours. A betrothal gift. Do with it as you wish.”

Am I allowed to crush it, she wondered, or throw it into the forge? She wouldn’t do that anyway. She, like her father, was incapable of destroying a piece of art. Tracing the inscription, she said, “Thank you.”

“What does it say?”

“To the lord of paradise from the king of angels.”

His brows rose. “A strange message.”

“Henry Beauclerk always called Summerbourne a little bit of heaven, a paradise on earth.”

“I can understand that,” he said, eyes warm upon her. “But the king of angels?”

She smiled, though she knew it carried sadness. “It was a joke between them. They were friends, you know. Once.”

“Yes,” he said, quite gently. “I know. So, what was this joke?”

She traced the golden rim. “Do you know the story of Pope Gregory and the English slaves?”

A server came by and Renald placed honeyed rabbit before her. “Tell me.”

She realized she’d hardly touched the chicken and made herself eat. “Pope Gregory saw some slaves in Rome. This was hundreds of years ago, when the Romans kept slaves. He was much struck by their beauty, being unused to such fair skin—”

“And golden hair,” he said, admiring hers. “And eyes,” he added, looking into hers, “blue as the summer sky. I can imagine just how he felt.”

Claire had to work to swallow a mouthful of meat. “So”—she managed to go on—“Pope Gregory said, ‘What people are these?’ And the slave-dealer replied, ”Angles.“ But the pope said, ‘
Non Angli sed angeli
.’ Not Angles, but angels. So my father teased Prince Henry that he wanted to be the king of angels—”

She broke off, reminded of what Henry Beauclerk had done to become the king of angels, and that he’d done nothing to help the lord of paradise. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with her father’s death to shadow this day, and yet it seemed it could not be avoided.

She saw Renald frown, but not at her. He was frowning at the Earl of Salisbury.

“Salisbury suggested that I use it,” he said.

Claire glanced at her godfather, who was talking to her mother on his other side. “He would know of it. I’d think he’d also know—”