Lord of Midnight (28 page)

Even that wasn’t sure. On all levels of society property was crucial and often bound by marriage. Generally, though, if a killer was known he was punished.

No one would punish Henry Beauclerk for killing his brother, however, or for arranging the death of Clarence of Summerbourne. No one would punish the man who had used a cheating sword.

It wasn’t right. She could perhaps ignore the death of a king, for that did not touch her closely, but she could not ignore the death of her father and her father’s innocent man.

In fact, she would find a way to prove that Renald killed Ulric. That was murder, and even a lord could be executed for murder. Henry Beauclerk had made much of the way he was upholding the laws of the land. Let him uphold that one!

“Lady?” That was Prissy, sounding unusually subdued.

“Yes?” Claire said without turning.

“Lord Renald requests that you join him to bid farewell to the guests.”

Claire stiffened, tempted to refuse, but she’d choose her battles more carefully than that. She dressed plainly, however. Not in drab and ashes, but not in finery either.

He waited among the bustle of the hall, and with merely a “Good morrow, lady,” led her to stand with him by the doors. One glance had shown that he looked as terrible as she felt.

So he should, with the burdens his conscience bore, but her foolish heart wavered. Could she really seek his death?

Perhaps it need not be as bad as that. Perhaps his guilt could be used to make the king agree to an annulment, and to return this property to her brother.

Yes, that was better. Weaker, she knew. But better.

The guests bustled by, checking that they had all their possessions and calling good wishes on the union. Claire noted that word couldn’t have broken yet about how her father had died. Her neighbors took warm adieus of his killer, welcoming him into the county. Some even congratulated her for her great good fortune in finding such a husband.

Standing by his side, smiling with her lips, Claire asked, “Why did the earl not tell everyone of your crime?” I“I have committed no crime, lady.”

“O blessed soul!” she taunted while waving Margret on her way. “How few can make such a claim of innocence.”

“You have committed crimes?”

“I married you.”

He turned to her, brows raised. “You already have a husband? Thank heaven we did not take our pleasure any farther.”

“It was a crime against heaven, not earthly laws!”

“You think heaven condones bigamy?”

She kept forgetting that he wasn’t stupid. Lacking an answer, she turned to wave again as Margret and her husband rode through the gate. “I can’t think why the earl kept your secret.”

“Salisbury knows his fate hangs in the balance. I merely reminded him that the king would be displeased by any further disruption of this wedding. He already knew it.”

“Another coward.”

“Is it cowardly to fear the king’s displeasure? He can strip a man and all his family of everything, including life.”

Then the king can strip you of Summerbourne, she thought. “So,” she asked, smile tight around gritted teeth, “how did my gentle father so displease the king?”

“By accusing him of fratricide.”

She spun to face him. “Of which he is guilty.”

“Be silent!”

“You are so afraid of the truth?”

“I am charged with your welfare. I will not see you, too, destroyed by this.”

He waved at the last departing group, smiling. Then he grasped her arm and dragged her into the hall, across to the solar. People stared, but no one moved to stop him.

He was, after all, her lord and master, her husband.

When the door banged shut, she rubbed her arm. “Chastity too much for you already, my lord?”

He seized her shoulders and thumped her down on the bed, but sitting. “Listen to me. I understand your grief and anger. But nothing is ever simple, good or evil, black or white.” Suddenly he went down on one knee, seizing her hands. “Claire, no one will be served by another martyrdom.”

She snatched her hands free. “There
is
such a thing as good or evil. It suits you to argue otherwise because you have been the very hand of evil!”

“In a court battle, does not God speak?”

Her mind slammed up against that and recoiled. “In a true court battle, perhaps. Not when a man such as you is sent out against a man like my father. A man like you armed with a special sword.”

“And what of the Brave Child Sebastian?”

She leaned back, wishing she could escape farther, to the other side of the room. The other side of the world. “What do you know of that?”

“It is a well-known tale. But it is also what your father wrote in that book.”

“How do you know?”

“Lord Eudo spoke of it so I had Brother Nils read parts to me.”

She spoke from between clenched teeth. “I suppose I have no right to ask that you not read my father’s private writings.”

“No. No right at all.”

She did move then, scrambling away from him over the bed and off the far side, mainly so he wouldn’t see her tears.

He rose. “Why the anger? Anyone would think those writings contain secrets.”

“They are my father’s last words. I’m surprised you didn’t destroy them as you destroyed him!”

“Claire, you have cause to be angry with me, but don’t be childish.”

She whirled to face him. “Is it childish to hate my father’s murderer?”

After a moment he said, “No, but it is childish not to look beneath the surface of things. I’d think a riddler’s daughter would know that. The court battle was a legal process. Think of it like that. Your father was found guilty and died.”

“Found guilty by a false king! Killed by his lackey.”

A muscle twitched by his tight jaw. “Claire—”

“The king killed his brother,” she persisted. “The rebels were
right
to say he is unfit to rule. Therefore, that court battle could
not
have shown the hand of God.”

“What an interesting twist in logic.” She swept on, finding wild relief in spilling out all her bitter hurt. “You’re tricksters, you and the king both! Don’t think I don’t understand the games you’ve played. You claimed to give us free choice, but then had your men tell frightening stories to scare my aunts away.”

“To that, I confess.”

“There is no custom of the Franks that the bride stays apart.”

“Customs have to start somewhere.”

“And you are a thief.”

“A thief?” Those brows rose, but now, with his cold impassivity, it looked insulting.

“Was it not the action of a sneak thief to woo me? You knew how I would feel when I discovered the truth.”

“And what did I steal?”

My heart, she thought, but slammed that door shut. “My trust.”

He nodded. “Then I am sorry for it. But if I had told the truth you would not have married me.”

“Precisely!”

“One of you had to.”

“It could have been Felice if you’d not frightened her off.”

“I doubt it. I don’t think she would ever have given herself as willing sacrifice.”

He was a cryptic script again and worse, she was weakening. Even knowing what he was, something about him sapped her power to hate. “Are you saying that you would have married Felice if she’d been willing?”

He rubbed his lips with his knuckle, studying her. “Yes. But once I knew you, Claire, I wanted you, and I confess, I did my best to win you.”

“By tricks.”

“By whatever means came to hand.” He looked at her, dark eyes somber. “Remember. I fight to win.”

Suddenly, he shook his head. “Everything is too raw today. We have a month.” He gestured at the solar. “This room is yours. I pledge my soul that I will not disturb you here. At least for a month.”

“And after a month?”

“We need more space in the office,” he added, ignoring her question. “I’ll have your writing desk brought in here.”

He was right about one thing. It was all too raw today. She could scarcely think, never mind make true decisions. She wished she could mark him, however. She wished she could reach his soul, and write on it all her pain, betrayal, and grief.

Then she remembered her purpose was not to mark him but destroy him. She was going to prove him guilty of Ulric’s murder, and use it to put everything right. Despite a shredded heart, she clung to that. That was now her reason to exist.

All she said was, “Thank you, my lord.”

“Is there anything else you require?”

“Just your absence.”

He left without a word.

Outside the room, Renald took a deep breath, holding himself still, holding every emotion in check.

He would not howl or beg.

With God’s sweet grace, he would not try to win Claire by force. That would surely lose her for all time.

Her anger was justified, but surely in time it must ease. In time, with God’s grace, he would be able to woo her again, be able to talk to her about what had happened and explain how it had come about.

Perhaps.

Some wounds were too deep to heal.

Slowly, he raised his hands to his face, the hands that had for a little while touched hers.

No cinnamon today, no violets. But perhaps the faintest ghost of her, of the laughing maiden who had lain with him in joyous harmony.

A ghost of paradise.

In moments, someone knocked on the door and Claire let in two men struggling with her wooden desk and bench. At her direction, they set them close to the window where the light was good.

She fussed with the desk after they’d left, comforted a little by something from the past, something from better days.

Days that they could have again if she was clever and resolute. Days as meaningful as dust.

The men returned, one carrying her box of inks and cases of brushes and pens, the other her folder of parchment and vellum.

She knew she should start on her plan, start finding proof of Renald’s guilt, but she didn’t want to take the first step toward the end. Instead, she took out the story of the Brave Child.

It was weak, she knew, but reality encircled her like a gnarled woodland full of fanged beasts, a place of destruction, of utter loneliness. She’d rather be here with pictures, with stories whose plots always turned out as they should.

And this was Thomas’s happy tale. Once she had… once the matter of Ulric was sorted out, everything here would belong to her brother, as it should. She sat at her desk and smoothed out the half-finished page, but realized then that she hadn’t told Thomas the truth.

She half rose, but then sat again. It could wait. No one knew but her. She’d take just a little time.

Her hands shook, though, and were strangely cold. She rubbed them together. As she did so, she smiled sadly to see that she’d finally drawn the cow’s face right. But then she saw the blots in the margin. She picked up a sharp knife, ready to scrape down to clean parchment, but then she put the knife aside.

Let them stay. Let the blemishes record forever how her life had been ruined on the day that Renald de Lisle arrived at Summerbourne.

And it would be ruined, she knew, even when she’d put things right. Her heart would stay broken forever.

She stirred her ink and picked up a pen, waiting for the steadiness that always came through this work. But when she tried to trim the pen, she almost cut herself. She put down pen and knife, and wiped her palms on her skirt, knowing it was hopeless.

Renald de Lisle had left her no refuge at all.

Swallowing tears, she bound the work up again and returned it to the chest. She had to move her father’s book to settle the larger one, and she stroked it tenderly. She knew her father. He’d doubtless written the last entry just before going out to death, making sure the story was finished. She truly had read his last words.

She wished again that he’d not chosen to write a story. If only she had her father’s thoughts about the rebellion, perhaps she could make more sense of it all. Suddenly she wondered if it was both jumbled together. Her father had often leaped from one subject to another.

She untied the boards with clumsy fingers, and flipped eagerly through the pages, but eventually she had to accept that it was all the same. It was the story of Sebastian, though with some new elements. Sebastian seemed to have met some people on a lengthy journey to Count Tancred’s, whereas in the old version that part was brief.

But then she was caught by a word.

Salisbury.

Traditionally, the story of Sebastian took place abroad. Had her father put it in England this time? Making out the surrounding words, however, she realized the reference was to the Earl of Salisbury. The passage she was reading was about an evening at a manor called Ickworth and discussion there about the rights of Sebastian’s cause.

No, of the rebel’s cause!

There
were
real events mixed in with the story! Excited, she sat to study the pages.

And some wavered, but Sebastian, innocent though he was of worldly matters, rose to exhort

them to hold to their course. He wove a story of an ancient king who seized a throne through guile and sin, and thus brought horror on his land.

The sheet slipped to the ground. This wasn’t a retelling of the Brave Child Sebastian. This was her father’s account of the rebellion, with himself cast as the child! She covered her mouth with her hand. He
had
seen himself as the Brave Child, right from the very beginning. Perhaps he’d even believed the myth—that God would strengthen his arm.

Her hand shook as she stooped to pick up the fallen page. What did this all make of the end of his story?

She flipped to the last page, to the words she had read before.
And so the Brave Child stood over the corpse of his mighty foe, triumphant by the power of the Lord God. Tears trickled from the hero’s eyes, tears of sorrow that he had been forced to kill, and to kill such a man
.

A tear splashed onto the page, and she hastily mopped it. Her father had written the end, anticipating the sadness of killing Renald de Lisle by the power of God. He truly had believed in the fable. He’d been childlike in so many ways.