Lord of Midnight (6 page)

“
Don
^‘
t
lecture me!”

“I’m not—”

“You’re as bad as Clarence. You never listen. You always think you’re right.”

Claire pressed her hands to her aching head. “Mother, it’s just an early move. We have to give him hostages. How else could it be arranged?”

Her mother stared at her. “You’re not planning anything, are you?”

“No.” Claire wished she did have a plan. She couldn’t imagine marrying this man, but if Felice remained set against it, she might have to. How could she let her whole family suffer?

“Oh,” said Lady Murielle, dabbing at her eyes, “I could
strangle
Clarence!” But then she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “I didn’t mean that! Anyway, he’s already dead—”

“Murielle,” snapped Lady Agnes, “stop twittering!”

Claire’s mother glared, but she did steady. She looked at Claire with a watery smile. “Thank heavens, at least, that you are pretty and have a sweet nature. You’ll make sure we’re all taken care of.”

Claire had to stop herself touching the gray cloth hiding her ruined hair.

What if she had to marry this man and it angered him?

What if he took out his anger on everyone here?

Her mother went on: “I’ve been telling you for years that if you’d only pay attention to the young men—”

“What young men?”

“You have had suitors, you know. You just never noticed! All Clarence’s fault, of course. He never encouraged any of them.”

“He knew I wasn’t interested.”

“He wanted you home to read and sing with him.”

Her mother’s tone shocked Claire. Had she been
jealous
? Lady Murielle could have spent more time with her husband. But, Claire realized, she’d never had much interest in study and books.

She turned away to hide her trembling lips. Everything was breaking apart. Everything!

Her grandparents’ marriage had seemed happy, but it had come about by conquest, and perhaps by rape.

She’d thought her parents loved each other, but now she doubted. Perhaps it had only ever been a comfortable arrangement between two people of an accepting nature.

Her home and everything she believed about it was being ripped out from under her!

At a touch, she whirled, and found her mother there, studying her anxiously. Anxious for her feelings, or anxious as to whether she would play the part of sacrificial maiden?

She’d always felt sure of her mother’s love, but now even that was eaten by cankers of doubt.

“Why not go and put on something prettier, Claire?”

“On Father’s burial day?”

Lady Agnes thumped her stick. “Put death behind you, girl. Look to life.”

Claire whirled to confront her. “Could you, that first day?”

“I don’t remember.” It was clearly a lie. She, too, wanted Claire to submit so she could keep her place here.

Claire looked over to her brother, who seemed mainly numb, but who surely needed her sacrifice if he was to make anything of his life. Hers or her aunt’s.

Amice and Felice came back into the room, swathed in cloaks, servants behind bearing their chests. Amice seemed to be largely held up by Felice, but at least she was walking. Felice was frowning.

Hoping the frown was one of indecision, Claire said, “Are you sure, Felice?”

The frown disappeared. “Completely! Better a night or two in the damp than a life shackled to a monster.”

Claire gave up for now, and went to kiss Amice. “Do you have your herbs?”

Amice nodded. “Claire, I wish—”

“Hush. This is better. You know me.” She even found a smile. “Things just bounce off me.”

Felice was frowning again. From years of experience, Claire knew her aunt was trying to decide if she’d achieved a clever escape or been cheated out of something. In the end, no matter what the truth, she always decided she’d been cheated.

Perhaps this time Claire had misjudged her and the frown was genuine concern, for as they exchanged kisses Felice said, “God go with you, Claire. If we’re allowed to return, I’ll try to protect you from the worst.”

“What if he turns out to be a veritable Roland, worthy to be a hero?”

Felice’s eyes slid away. “Then I suppose you’ll keep him.”

“No, I promise. No matter how noble in mind and body, I do not want him.”

Felice looked back, picking at the statement to find the catch. “We’ll see.”

Unfortunately at that moment, Claire’s head cloth began to slip. Claire put up a hand to hold it, but Felice lunged forward and pushed it all the way back.

“Claire/
⁹³

It seemed to come from all voices at once, but Felice overrode it shrilly. “Now I see it. You pretend to be willing, but you plan to make yourself so unappealing that he’ll reject you. Well, it won’t work. He’ll have to take you, shorn or not!”

With that, she hustled the wide-eyed Amice on her way.

Lady Agnes cackled. “Your hair won’t make a farthing’s worth of difference in the dark.”

Lady Murielle was staring. “Oh, Claire… don’t you know your looks could have been a weapon?”

Red-faced, Claire declared, “Not one I’d want to use.”

“You foolish girl! But now you must certainly put on some becoming clothes.”

“For a vicious upstart? Why?”

“To wrap a vicious upstart round your fingers. Have some thought to the fate of all here. Think of your brother!”

Claire winced.

“Or,” asked her mother, “are you truly pretending to be willing while planning to be rejected?”

“No!” But then Claire realized that
had
been her plan. Her selfish, selfish plan. Oh, but she deserved a vicious monster for a husband.

“It can’t matter, Mother,” she said. “He clearly doesn’t care what sort of woman becomes his bride. I will do what I must. I cannot, however, pretend to be willing. This is a house of mourning, and this usurper cannot make us pretend otherwise.”

Claire dipped her fingers in the ash at the hearth’s edge, then smeared it on her face and down her clothes. Thus marked, she went to stand by the open doors, ready to face the monster she might have to marry.

Brother Nils, clerk to Renald de Lisle, new lord of Summerbourne, stood shivering in the drenching rain despite a good cloak, feeling true sympathy for the ladies having to leave their home. He’d only been with Lord Renald for a few days, having been recommended to him by the king, but his first impression had been of a compassionate man. Cold, perhaps, but not cruel. Now this.

The people of Summerbourne had opened their gates without resistance. Why demand hostages, and gentle ladies at that? When he’d ventured a question, Lord Renald had merely said, “I’ll have no more foolishness from this family. One death is enough.”

Now, when the ladies’ servants had to carry them through what was clearly a muddy mire, he tried again. “My lord, surely this is not necessary.”

“Brother Nils,” said the big man by his side, “you are neither my conscience, nor my tactical adviser. However, you can store in your memory that drainage work needs to be done here. And the ditch is so shallow it hardly needs a bridge. And the wooden walls need outward spikes at the top at least. Find the nearest source of stone for walls.”

The man turned to him, though he could almost be a headless monster for all that could be seen under his hood. “You have all that?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’m not going to harm them,” he added, and a touch of humor warmed his voice. Nils had found there was humor in Lord Renald, like a gold thread running through dark granite.

“But you will leave them here with your men.”

“You think my men will harm them?”

Nils didn’t bother to answer, for none was needed. Lord Renald had built his troop around a core of men belonging to his friend FitzRoger of Cleeve. As he’d been the Lord of Cleeve’s lieutenant for many years, these men knew him well. The rest were as new as Nils was, however. It had been… interesting to watch them being turned, in a matter of days, during a grueling storm-battered journey, into a household.

These men would do exactly as their lord wished, as he would himself, though for different reasons.

He returned to watching the servants carry the women through the small pond that had formed at the end of the bridge. Certainly, drainage was a priority, and Nils wondered at the previous lord who’d let such a matter go unattended. From what he’d heard, Lord Clarence had been a charming man with a gift for storytelling and riddles. But clearly, as a landholder he had been somewhat lacking.

“Who do you think’s coming?” asked Josce, Lord Renald’s squire. Also new. “Or rather, who do you think’s staying?”

Josce of Gillingford thought this business of marrying a fair damsel romantic. Nils had at first but now, as they waited to find out who would be the bride, he was imagining all the women in the world he wouldn’t want to be tied to. He wondered how Lord Renald could appear so unconcerned. Marriage was for life, after all. He could have lined them up and taken his pick. It might have been wiser.

But as Lord Renald had pointed out, Nils was neither his conscience nor his adviser., except perhaps on matters to do with estate management and administration.

Since Lord Renald hadn’t answered, Josce went on: “I’ll bet it’s the aunts. They’d want to stick together.”

“The Ladies Felice and Amice,” supplied Nils, since it was his business to keep track of such details. “The daughter is called Claire.”

“Happiness, Love, and Light.” Lord Renald gave a dry laugh. “All rather unlikely brides in the circumstances. Well, let’s find out.”

The servants had reached the rocky ground where the tents were set, and had put their burdens on their feet. Huddled in their cloaks, raising their skirts, the two ladies picked their way toward the big tent outside which the men stood waiting.

“My ladies,” said Lord Renald, “here is my tent. I think you will find it has the essentials for comfort.”

At a command, a man by the test flap raised it and the women hurried into shelter and pushed back their hoods. Both were revealed to be fine-boned beauties, with damp, golden hair.

“Mmmm,” said Josce to Nils. “Not bad.”

“Don’t forget, lad, these are the ones who
won’t
be Lord Renald’s bride.”

They were very alike, though one looked haughty, the other terrified. Almost certainly the twins.

“I am Renald de Lisle, my ladies. And you are?”

“The Ladies Felice and Amice of Summerbourne. ”The haughty one glared down a long, straight nose. “It is intolerable that you drag us out here to live like pigs in a sty.”

“We will make you as comfortable—”

“Comfortable! Only beasts could be comfortable here.”

“It is—”

“It is evidence of lowly birth, sirrah!”

Nils winced. It was a true accusation in a way. Lord Renald came only from the petty nobility of France, and from a family dispossessed into poverty. This sudden rise in fortune was unexpected.

The woman was continuing her harangue. “What arrogance makes you think you are
worthy
to marry into our family?”

“Oh, Felice, take care!”The other had eyes swollen and red with weeping and she flinched as if expecting a blow. As well she might.

“Don’t let him cow you, Amice. I insist that—”

Lord Renald turned and walked away, gesturing for Nils and Josce to follow. They headed for the horses, pursued by screamed complaints.

“If that was Happiness and Love,” said Nils’s lord, taking the reins of his horse, “light should prove to be a suitably dark and dismal lady.”

Claire had planned to face the usurper with courage and defiance, but nerves began to shake her.

If only she had some idea what to expect!

.Felice and Amice being carried out, watched as they picked their way toward the tent. One of the cloaked and hooded men had accompanied her aunts there. Presumably Lord Renald.

She’d peered through the rain, desperate for any hint of the foe she must face. He looked big.

Of course he’d be big. He was surely one of the men who lived by the sword. Blooded swords, her father had called them. Wolves of war. He’d not welcomed them here. That had been another of Felice’s complaints, for where else was she to find a great man except among the ambitious wolf packs?

So, if he was that type, he’d appeal to Felice.

What if he wasn’t? What if he was too big for her taste? Or badly scarred. Or deformed. Or foul-smelling. Or had the manners of a pig.

Then Claire would have to marry him.

She tried to persuade herself that it wouldn’t be so terrible. Her grandmother had married in worse circumstances and made a good life out of it.

She went over her mother’s words to Felice, telling them to herself. If she was meek, he’d not be brutal. He’d rarely be here, so most of the time she’d be left in charge of Summerbourne. She could see her home kept as it had always been, a prosperous place of arts and learning, full of laughter and music.

But when he was here he’d share her bed and use her body.

Claire had known some men she would rather die than lie with. Baldwin of Biggin sprang to mind. Sir Baldwin had claimed hospitality here some months back and proved to be a revolting man.

He had the big, strong body of a fighting man, but padded out with fat. His belly overlapped his belt and his cheeks bulged up, making his eyes like those of a pig. He ate like a pig
₅
too, spilling food and drink down himself. His hands were enormous, each finger like a fat red sausage stuck with dark hairs, and he’d liked to use those fingers to pinch bottoms and squeeze breasts.

Claire had tipped a bowl of soup over him when he’d tried it with her. He’d just laughed and said he liked spirit in a woman, looking at her as if she were another dish at the table. Her father had got rid of him, of course, but she shuddered at the memory. Now, she had no one to protect her from men such as that.

She started when her mother clasped her hands around a warm goblet of mead. “Drink, dear. It will steady your nerves.”

The heat was welcome, and the spicy steam soothed, but Claire swallowed tears as she sipped. Her mother couldn’t rescue her, and now she wasn’t even trying. She wanted Claire steady to face the sacrifice. Didn’t they give condemned men a drink before execution?