Lord of Midnight (41 page)

At least during the progress to the stand Claire had some opportunity to think, for the queen chattered all the way.

Who had accused her of being careless with a book? And why did she feel it was important? She couldn’t really be accused of carelessness with her father’s book, except in bringing it on the journey at all. Claire found herself seated at the queen’s right hand and victim of Matilda’s inane chatter. She thanked heaven she was not a lady of the court, obliged to put up with this day after day.

However, Claire became truly interested in the sport. Horse riding and archery had a kind of beauty, and quarterstaff fighting was rather like the sword dance. Though she knew a stone from a slingshot could kill, she couldn’t see the target practice as unpleasant.

She definitely enjoyed watching the young men doing acrobatics in their chain mail to show their strength and agility. When she spotted Josce among them, she cheered him on.

But when the events turned to swordplay, sadness assailed her. These men were all so well-honed. She couldn’t forget that her father had left his books and his rabbit-fur rug to challenge their world.

Assailed by the clang and grunt of it, she began to shake. This was all leading up to Renald fighting, and she had to be ready to accept it. She couldn’t fail. She
couldn’t! Yet
already she was shaken by a panicky reaction she couldn’t control.

By the time he and FitzRoger came out to fight, she wished he’d be nibbled to death by ferrets. Then, perhaps, he’d know how she felt.

They walked into the open space prepared for them, two men of iron. Despite their different builds, they were alike in one thing— the ease with which they moved within their armor. Like fish in water or birds in the air, they were in their natural metier, and beautiful.

The stand was crowded with nobles, and many of the court had joined the castle folk in the rough circle within which the two men would fight. Children sat at the front, eager for the entertainment. No one wanted to miss this treat, to miss seeing prime predators in action.

Try as she might, Claire couldn’t avoid seeing Renald as the dark warrior who had come to claim Summerbourne. Mail covered him to the knee, belted at the waist. His coif was up, his helmet laced. He was ready to kill.

But then, with a start, she realized he was different, and not only because she knew him now, and loved him. Today, he was relaxed and completely unwary. He smiled as he chatted to his opponent, then laughed at something FitzRoger said, teeth white.

FitzRoger was dressed exactly the same, though no one could mistake one man for the other. In mail, Renald looked solid, massive, like the warhorse she had once likened him to. FitzRoger was much leaner, and his mail seemed to flow over him, making him like a gray wolf on the prowl.

Claire’s panic twisted into other ways as she recognized the danger in this man. He was better than Renald, by Renald’s cheerful admission. If this were a true fight, he would win and Renald would die.

Already, she didn’t want to see this.

“Are you all right, Lady Claire?” The queen’s voice seemed to come from a distance, but Claire made herself turn and smile.

“Oh yes, Highness.”

“You seem a little pale. Perhaps it’s the heat. Wine!” she commanded sharply, and Claire found herself clutching a goblet. The wine shivered in echo of her trembling hands.

She raised the cup and managed to drink without spilling., and the strong wine did steady her. In fact, her spurt of terror seemed ridiculous now, with the two combatants chatting to the king. But then she became fretful in a more practical way. They were just like Thomas and his friends, laughing about taking risks. True, they were armored and their swords were blunted, but as she’d always been telling her brother, accidents could happen.

Then the king said, “At it, my friends, and fight well.”

Renald turned to her and held out his hand. She put hers in it, hoping it didn’t feel chill and unsteady. Perhaps it did, for his smile faded. “Alas,” he said, kissing her fingers, “I can’t promise to win for your glory, my dear wife. I can only promise to fight my best.”

She tightened her fingers over his. “Just be careful. Be safe.”

“But safe is boring!” He grinned and kissed her hand again. “Wish me well.”

She raised their joined hands and kissed his fingers. “Of course I do.” She remembered when he’d left Summerbourne to fight, left without a blessing. “God go with you,” she said.

Perhaps he remembered, too, for his eyes turned deep for a moment before he turned to walk into the center.

FitzRoger kissed Imogen on the lips then joined his friend. Imogen smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. They’ve done this lots of times.”

Claire really wasn’t worried about their safety. She was worried she would react in the wrong way, causing Renald to refuse to complete the marriage. He was capable of that kind of sacrifice.

Very well, then. She was a wolf’s bride. She would act the part.

Each man slipped his long shield onto his left arm, and took his sword in his right. No special swords today, for these were blunt. Supposedly safe. They could still break bones, and—as she had pointed out to him—a man could die of a broken bone.

He’d said the same of court battles. That often the fight was won by battering blows.

She wanted to cross herself and pray.

The squires moved back out of the way, and Claire tried desperately to relax. She could not afford to show fear!

Within moments, her hands gripped one another.

If they fought for show, it was to show violence!

The first blows had not been fierce, but now the clang of metal on metal shrieked the ferocity of their attack. They held nothing back. Sweeping sword blows crashed and Claire could
feel
the impact against the blocking shield. She saw the jolt of it, the dents and splinters, saw how impossible it would be to halt. One slip and a sword would burst flesh and bone.

From time to time, both men staggered under the brute force of a blow caught slightly amiss. It didn’t seem to halt them for a moment. She saw Renald grin.

Not grimace with effect.
Grin
!

Nibbled to death by rabid dogs while rolling in nettles and stung by wasps…

Sliding out the other side of panic, Claire saw the wildness was an illusion, that control was almost absolute. She could even appreciate, with horrified fascination, something very like the sword dance.

Both men moved in balance, knees flexed, rooted to the earth. The fiercest blows only rocked them. They anticipated and reacted almost perfectly. From years of experience, they probably knew just what the other would do.

However, it wasn’t a dance. Both were alert for the smallest mistake, anything that might give the victory.

Oh yes, show fight or not, they both fought to win.

She began to think they were too well-balanced, and that they’d dance themselves into exhaustion. Then FitzRoger made a different kind of move, and almost succeeded in knocking Renald’s sword out of his hand. In a wild recover, Renald’s shield clipped the edge of his friend’s helmet, knocking the man to his knees.

Everyone gasped.

Renald thrust at his friend’s throat. FitzRoger could not block it! Surrounded by gasps and a few screams, Claire covered her eyes, but peeped.

Instead of trying to block, FitzRoger gave into the fall and rolled flat, coming to his feet like a cat just out of sword’s reach. Amazingly, both men laughed and took a moment to recover as the crowd cheered its approval of the moment.

Show fight or not, everyone was caught up in it. Claire realized some of the nearby men were wagering. FitzRoger was the clear favorite.

A page offered her more wine, and she gulped it greedily.

“An interesting move, that,” said the king. “Clearly needs work, though.”

“Lord FitzRoger will have a sore head,” said the queen. “They must both be growing tired. Should you perhaps stop it, my lord? We don’t want the groom too tired for his night’s bout.”

Claire’s face heated, but she hoped fervently that the king would agree. Her nerves wouldn’t take much more of this.

The king didn’t speak, however, and the fight continued.

That was when Claire saw everything change.

FitzRoger took control.

It reminded her again of the sword dance, of the way Renald had mastered Lambert of Vayne. It was only a subtle change at first— Renald had to work harder to match the strokes. She thought perhaps it was something in the angle of attack, and the rhythm. Whatever it was, Renald could only cope. He could no longer make an attacking move.

She realized she was leaning forward, hands over mouth, praying for a miracle that would give Renald a chance. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was a kind of battle fever.

She wanted her man to win.

It wasn’t to be. FitzRoger somehow put Renald off balance, and beat his sword wide with his shield. At the same moment, he knocked aside Renald’s shield enough to threaten his heart with his blade.

Renald threw out his arms in surrender.

The gasp this time was followed by a beat of silence on the stand. Then the common people began to cheer, tossing hats into the air, and chatter started all around her.

Claire noted, however, that the king’s hands were clenched tight on the arms of his chair. Had there really been danger there?

Behind her, Claire heard someone say, “That move. But—”

It was almost as if he’d been silenced.

Perhaps it had been improper, if they had rules to their deadly games. Claire was more interested in watching Renald, wanting to be sure that he wasn’t hurt.

He and FitzRoger seemed completely relaxed. They unlaced helmets and tossed them to waiting attendants. As they strolled back to the stand, they pushed back coifs to let the breeze cool sweat-damp hair. They were chatting, doubtless going over the fight in detail, as if it had all been the greatest fun.

Which it probably had been.

For them.

“A strange end, that,” said the queen, nibbling on an almond. “It wouldn’t be a killing blow, that, to the chest.”

“Unless the sword could go through mail,” said the king.

“But they can’t, can they?”

Claire’s breath caught. Of course. No wonder people were surprised that a threatened strike at the chest had been seen as deadly, but some— including the king—had recognized the meaning. If FitzRoger had been wielding Renald’s dark blade, the thrust could have been deadly.

That last move had been a reenactment of the blow that had killed her father.

Claire couldn’t think of a nibbling awful enough.

She was sure that fight—the end of it, at least—had followed the pattern of her father’s death fight. Renald was making her face what he was, and what he had done. He had played the part of her father, while FitzRoger had been the executioner. The difference in skill level was not as great, but as Renald had no real chance of defeating FitzRoger, it had been the same in the end.

If she wanted to, she could put her father in Renald’s place. She could see him fighting at first in some sort of control, then how in the end he’d been outmatched and Renald had moved in for the kill.

The quick, the skillful, kill.

Renald and FitzRoger were before the king now. Henry’s hands had relaxed, but he didn’t look pleased. “I trust you have made your point, Lord Renald.”

“I hope so, sire.”

“I think you could have had him when he went down.”

“Perhaps. In your cause, sire, I would have pursued.”

“Make sure you do. And you, FitzRoger, that move was not yet ready for combat.”

“How better to perfect it, sire, than to try it against a good opponent? I may need it one day in your service.”

“But why bother,” asked the queen, “when God will decide?”

Claire saw a flicker of communication between the men which probably translated into, “Women!”

The king said, “But my dear, just as I expect my men to train to be fit to do my will, so God expects the same of us all. Should we tax Him to use inferior tools?”

“God is omnipotent, Henry.”

“But prefers that His people on earth make suitable attempts to take care of themselves. Come, my dear. No more theology. See, they are setting up for more archery.” He turned back to the combatants. “Go rest, my friends, and have your muscles eased. You, especially, Lord Renald, should not exhaust yourself.”

Claire knew she’d turned red again, and when Imogen slipped into the seat beside her, she grimaced at her.

“Isn’t it strange how everyone talks about it?” Imogen asked. “I’m quite glad to have had a quick and stark wedding.”

“I had a feast with all my family and friends. It was lovely, until I found out the truth.”

Imogen squeezed her hand. “Are you feeling better about it? If not, we can probably arrange something—”

“Renald,” Claire interrupted, glaring at her departing husband. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“He doesn’t want you to feel forced.”

“Hence the macabre sword fight! I could hit him over the head with a rock, and not for his good, either.”

Imogen giggled. “Clearly you love him madly.”

Claire had to laugh. “Clearly I do. But I want no more of
his fairness
, thank you. My nerves can’t take it. I wish I could speak to him now and tell him I’ve resolved it in my mind.”

“I don’t think you can follow him to the bath.”

“It’s tempting, believe me. I’d like to settle this before we move to other things.”

“Bed-play.” Imogen’s eyes twinkled.

Claire eyed her. She wasn’t a friend like Margret, but she was a young woman not long married. After a quick glance around, she asked, “Do you like it?”

“Bed-play? Yes indeed. Are you nervous?”

“A little.” She couldn’t speak of her first wedding night, but she said, “I don’t really know what to do.”

“Don’t worry. Renald does.” She rose. “The queen’s leaving.”

Matilda turned to them. “My lord husband wishes to hunt,” she said. “We poor ladies will be left to our own devices. Lady Imogen, you may play for us.”

Claire looked for a chance to slip off to speak to Renald, but found none. A queen’s court, she was discovering, left as little freedom as a convent. She soon learned anyway, that he and FitzRoger had been dragged out of their baths to join the hunting party. She certainly hoped her husband was as robust as he seemed.