Lord of Midnight (30 page)

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?”

At the beginning, she supposed. Stylus in hand, she went in search of the guards on duty the night that Ulric had returned home. One of them was in the guard hut, repairing some piece of leather equipment. “I was on the walk, lady,” he said, pushing a thick needle through the skin. “Osric was manning the portal gate and spoke to him. He’s up on duty now.”

Claire climbed the steep ladder to the wooden walk along the inside of the palisade. Up high, the wind was brisk and rather pleasant, for the day was heavily hot. Claire paused to look over the countryside, spread like a woven cloth before them. How peaceful and fruitful it was—except for the clash and bang of warlike training just below.

She turned her back on that and walked over to the guard.

The man bowed. “Lady Claire?”

“You spoke to Ulric when he arrived the other night?”

“Aye, lady. I was down at the gate that night.”

Stylus poised, Claire asked, “What exactly did he say?”

The man screwed up his face. “Very little as I remember, lady. It was a bit of a start, him turning up like that. I think I said something like, ‘Ulric! Where’ve you been, man? We thought you dead.’ ”

“And what did he say to that?”

He thought some more then nodded. “He said something about being left for dead.”

Claire dug the words into the wax. “Someone had attacked him?”

“Dunno, lady.”

“Did he seem wounded?”

“Nay. Dead weary, and probably with sore feet, but not wounded.”

Claire smoothed out the bit about an attack. “Where did he go when he passed through the gates?”

“He just sort of stood there, lady, as if he didn’t know rightly where to go. But Ralph-he always has an ear out for anything happening—he popped out of the guardhouse to tell him there was a feast going on, and plenty to eat and drink in the hall. Ulric looked right surprised.”

“Surprised?” She made another note.

The man looked away uneasily. “Well, lady, he surely knew about Lord Clarence’s death…”

“Oh, I see. So, what did Ulric do then?‘

The guard dug deeper into his memory. “I think he said, ‘They’re celebrating the lord’s death?’ Something like that. I said, ‘Not the death, the betrothal. Lady Claire’s marrying the new lord, this Renald de Lisle that the king sent here.’ ”

“And what did he say to that?” Claire could imagine what a shock it must have been.

The man shook his head. “Nothing, lady. He just stared at us, then turned and tramped off toward the hall.”

Claire made a few more notes then looked out over the countryside again, thinking. She was assuming that Ulric had known about de Lisle, but maybe he’d been separated from her father before the end. It was hard to imagine. Ulric had been fiercely attached to Lord Clarence.

But why then hadn’t he stormed into the hall to denounce the murderer? He must have hated Renald de Lisle as much as she did. As much as she should. A change in sound drew her attention down, down to the military training below. The mixed noises had stopped, leaving only a rhythmic one almost like music, like a drum. Stripped to the waist, Renald de Lisle was disintegrating the tree trunk. Massive muscles flexed in his back as he hacked—front-stroke, back-stroke, down-stroke and up—with his dark sword. Light on his feet, he circled the tree in a macabre dance, each strike fatal if the target had been a man.

As in the sword dance at their betrothal, Claire was snared by a terrible beauty in these deadly skills.

At last he stopped, leaving some wood for the others, but not much, and turned, flipping back hair obviously soaked with sweat. Sucking in breaths, he looked up and froze, seeing her there. Abruptly, he turned and drove the sword to quiver deep in the heart of the wood.

Claire turned and fled down the narrow ladder to solid ground, shuddering from a gesture she could not begin to understand.

It took time to steady herself, to pull back from horror, but then she regained her purpose, and with even greater intensity. She needed to destroy Renald de Lisle before he destroyed her.

Reading
over her notes, she didn’t feel much farther forward.
It was
perhaps strange that Ulric hadn’t rushed in to protest the union, but he’d always been taciturn and slow to act.

Ulric must have been a lad of about Thomas’s age when he’d been made servant to the baby Clarence. Despite the age difference and lifelong attachment, he’d never tried to meddle in her father’s decisions. He’d certainly said nothing about Lord Clarence’s plans to join the rebels, simply packed the bags and had the armor polished.

He’d been a faithful servant, though, and his death must be avenged. So, where could she look next? He must have spoken to someone.

She inquired in the kitchens. A couple of people remembered him being at the back of the hall near the doors, but neither recalled who he sat with. Coming in late, he’d likely ended up among some minor servants of one of the guests. And the guests and their servants had all left.

Claire made her way through Summerbourne asking her question, asking also for any information about Ulric’s movements on that night.

She was emerging from the bakehouse, her tablets softened from the heat but unmarked by anything useful, when she saw Renald walking toward her. He wore fresh garments, and though his hair was wet she suspected it was from well water now rather than sweat. He looked both cool and cold.

“I understand you are making inquiries about Ulric.”

“Are you going to forbid me?”

“No. But I insist on accompanying you.”

She closed her tablets with a snap. “I see. Thus preventing me from finding out the truth.”

“Thus preventing us from both asking the same questions of the same people. Since I didn’t kill Ulric, I’m as keen as you to uncover the truth.” He hooked a thumb in his wide leather belt. “I understand your purpose, I Claire. Now understand mine. I intend that eventually we will find some amity in this marriage, but that will be difficult if you believe me a sneak murderer.”

“
Amity
! Even if you could prove you didn’t kill Ulric, you’ve admitted killing my father.”

“Yes.”

She stared, but when he said nothing more—not an excuse, an explanation, or a plea for forgiveness—she turned and headed for the next shed. “No one but you had reason to kill poor Ulric.”

“No?” He matched her step for step and she couldn’t stop him. “What about Lady Agnes? She seemed set upon our marriage and might not have wanted anything to prevent it.”

“Gran?” She stopped to face him. “You’re moon-mad! She can’t rise out of a chair without agony.”

“She was lady here once and must know people who would do her will. She indirectly threatened to have me killed.”

“Why would my grandmother have Ulric killed? Even if she knew what he would say, she only had to keep him quiet until after the betrothal.”

Those dark brows rose. “An excellent point. I suggest you write it down for later consideration.”

“Why?”

“It’ll come to you. Now, tell me what else you’ve found out.”

She thought of refusing, but there wasn’t any point. She tucked the stylus into the loop designed to hold it. “Nothing. A few people saw him in the hall, where he ate a little and drank rather more. Those I’ve found so far were all serving, so they’d no time to ask about his journey. No one seems to remember who sat beside him, or anyone in particular he spoke to.”

“Where did he sit?”

“At the rear of the hall. Very close to the doors. He came late, so he took the closest space.” She realized his tone had been rather strange. “Why?”

A silenced stretched, and he seemed almost dazed.

“Are you all right?”

Still staring at nothing, he said, “An older man with grizzled blond hair and a big nose—”

“What about him?”

“Do you know such a man?”

“Why?” If someone else had fallen into madness, she was going to succumb herself.

It was as if he didn’t hear. “And I think… a wench with rather bulbous eyes and flushed cheeks.”

“That sounds like Dora from the dye house. But what… ?”

He shook himself and turned to her with a shrug. “I have a gift of sorts. I remember pictures. I can remember some of the hall during that meal, and I think I remember Ulric sitting between those people.”

“But you didn’t know him.”

“I saw him in your father’s service.”

Of course he had, but it was like icy water down the spine. “Don’t you hesitate to speak of it?”