Chapter 3 #3
It was possible that Eudo the Sheriff had some interest. His first marriage had been childless, and since his wife died he’d talked about remarrying.
The post of sheriff had passed down his family for generations and he wanted a son.
Was she imagining that he’d looked at her with some interest?
He certainly liked Summerbourne and could well seek a connection.
He was close to her father’s age, however, and she blamed him in part for her father’s folly.
Robert of Pulham? Amiable, but so dull-witted.
John de Courtney? She suspected he had a cruel streak—
Her mother came back in, wet and defeated. “He’s an unfeeling monster. He says it’s no choice of his. The king commands that he wed one of Lord Clarence’s unmarried women.”
“And the rest of us?” Claire asked, then bit her lip at the keen look Felice flashed her way.
“If he marries here—he stressed the if—then he is to take care of the rest of your father’s family. Except Thomas.” She looked sadly at her son. “He is to go to court.”
“Oh, that’s kind,” gulped Amice.
“Don’t be a ninny,” snapped Felice. “‘Care for.’ What does that mean? And poor Thomas will be nothing but a hostage to be maimed or blinded at his whim.”
Thomas swallowed a cry and began to tremble. Claire ran over to gather him into her arms. “Felice. Mind what you say!”
“I say the truth.”
Lady Agnes broke in. “Then the truth is, no one will get hurt if everyone behaves themselves. Not even hostages.”
“I don’t trust it,” Claire said. “Why would the king want to take such care of a traitor’s family?”
“To keep order.” Lady Agnes sighed with weary patience.
“By the cross, you lot are enfeebled by years of comfort. This is the way it always goes! Men fight and die, and women are passed on as chattels. Does the king want to stir more unrest by casting us out? No. He wants the appearance of an orderly transfer.”
“Then we must not give it to him!”
Lady Agnes thumped her cane on the wooden floor. “And what comfort will that be, girl, as you beg for bread?”
“Think. If we defy the king in this, we’ll be lucky if anyone even tosses us a crust.”
Amice was wailing now, and even Felice looked shaken.
Claire’s mother sighed and came over to gather her son and daughter into her arms. “Lady Agnes is right. We are helpless. Heaven knows, I would give myself to this man if I could, but he would have no interest in a woman so far past her prime.”
“So,” said Lady Agnes, “which of you is to be the bride, and which the hostages?”
Amice abruptly stopped crying.
“None of us!” cried Felice, her color high. “It is brutal. We’ll all take the veil. Not even the king can stop a woman becoming a bride of Christ.”
“Perhaps not,” said Lady Agnes, “but will the Church take you? You don’t own anything anymore. None of us do. Not our clothes, not the food on the table. Certainly not our property. Even brides of Christ are supposed to bring something with them to the cloister.”
“This is impossible,” said Felice, but even she sounded shaken. Amice seemed too shocked even to weep.
Claire saw her mother smile, and was surprised, but then Lady Murielle said, in her best persuading voice, “He doesn’t seem so terrible a man, Felice. He’s shown consideration. And whichever of you ends up as his bride will have high rank. She’ll be Lady of Summerbourne.”
Her mother was tempting Felice, and Claire prayed it would work.
“Of course,” interrupted her grandmother, “Felice would have to curb her tongue. A man like that, he’ll take his belt to a contrary wife. Still, as long as she’s sweet and meek …”
Felice was as sweet as rhubarb.
Lady Murielle flashed a ferocious look at Lady Agnes then smiled at her sister-in-law again. “You have beauty enough to keep any man content, Felice. And he’ll likely hardly be here, being a favorite of the king.”
Claire appreciated the neat way her mother slid in that telling point. Felice desperately wanted to marry a great man, or one headed for greatness.
“Who says he’s a favorite of the king?” Lady Agnes demanded.
“He’s been given Summerbourne, hasn’t he?” That clearly was a telling point, and Lady Agnes fell silent, scowling.
“He must be a very busy man,” Lady Murielle continued. “His wife will doubtless have to run his estates and raise the children alone while he’s at war, and at the king’s court.”
“Court?” Felice straightened with interest.
Lady Agnes rallied. “Court. Where he’ll be, while his wife stays here to count pigs.”
“I’m sure he would take a wife to court sometimes,” said Claire’s mother.
“Hardly. After all, if Felice was his wife, she’d be known to all as a traitor’s sister. He’d want her hidden away.”
“Then his wife would have even more independence here.”
“You think he’d trust a traitor’s sister with his affairs without check?”
Lady Murielle’s smile widened. “Your husband trusted you.”
Lady Agnes smiled back, showing the gaps between her remaining teeth. “Only after a year or two—tricky years at that—and only because I took care to please him.”
Felice glared at her mother. “Are you saying I can’t please this man?”
“You haven’t managed to please one yet, have you? Amice might do better if she’d stop crying.”
That, of course, set Amice off again. Lady Agnes had been at odds with her late-born daughters since the hour of their birth.
“Stop it!” cried Claire, rising to her feet. “Father would hate to hear such dissension in the family.”
“This is all Clarence’s fault,” snapped Felice, surging up to face her. “His folly has brought us to this, and his daughter should pay the price.”
“She’s the youngest,” Lady Murielle protested.
Felice’s elegant face set into the hawklike harshness they knew too well. “Only by a few years. She’s eighteen. Old enough to be a bride.”
But then Amice surprised them all. “No,” she whispered, tears still leaking. “I … I’ll do it. To save Claire. I’ll d-do it.” She was visibly shaking, her pale face a collection of damp, quivering angles.
Claire met her grandmother’s demanding eyes. She knew quite well what the old woman was up to—trying to get her own way as usual.
Claire would let Felice do it. Even if he did take his belt to her now and then, she thought Felice would get enough out of the bargain—marriage to a powerful man, and control of Summerbourne.
But Lady Agnes thought Felice would be a harsh mistress here, and that she’d anger her husband rather than sweetening his moods.
She might be right.
Amice would never do. She’d quite likely make herself ill over it. Even if she survived, she’d never be able to manipulate such a man.
Claire went over to hug her aunt. “I don’t think we need to make firm decisions yet, Amice.
He can’t expect any of us to marry him today.
” Remembering her grandmother’s story, she shivered and hoped she was right.
“But I know you’ll feel safer with Felice, so why don’t you and she go as the hostages?
I’ll stay here, and if he chooses to assume I’m the bride, let him.
Once we’ve met him, we’ll know better what to do. ”
Yes, that was it. If he turned out to be a tolerable sort of man, he’d suit Felice and all would be well.
Of course, that meant if he was completely intolerable, she might have to marry him herself. She’d face that when they came to it.
Amice looked up, tears drying. “Oh, Claire. Are you sure? Are you sure you can face him?”
How on earth had her aunt thought to marry the man, if facing him was beyond her? Claire patted Amice’s trembling hand. “I’ll have Mother and Lady Agnes to support me. Don’t worry.”
Amice began to weep again, but this time with relief, and Felice led her off to collect some belongings.
“Claire, why did you do that?” her mother wailed. “You’ll end up married to him. Marriage is for life, you know, and a cruel husband is a terrible thing.”
“Then we should hardly wish him on Felice, should we?”
“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!”
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.