Chapter 9
“Capon,” said Lady Murielle later, surveying the bailey like a storehouse. “No time to roast an ox … Suckling pigs!”
Claire felt a pang for those piglets, who’d been wallowing so cheerfully in the mud two days before.
She ordered the slaughter, however, then hurried after her mother to the brewhouse and wine stores.
They didn’t drink much wine at Summerbourne, but in addition to plentiful ale they had mead, and two small casks of Bordeaux.
They were ordered rolled into the hall so they’d settle before the feast.
Feast.
Claire rubbed her temples, not feeling at all festive.
Her mother’s voice broke into her sad mood. “Are there any cherries left? I wonder if there are blackberries still in the woods. Send some children to see, Claire. Even if this is all done in a hurry, we must do it right.”
Claire looked at her mother who seemed to have drowned grief in hard work.
Perhaps that was the secret. She stuck her mind to the strictly practical and relayed the orders.
Then she bustled around with her mother making sure that the hens were laying well and the dairy animals were giving plenty of milk.
The beekeeper assured them that the hives flowed with honey.
“Provide enough rich cakes,” said Lady Murielle, “and everyone will be happy.”
“Until their stomachs rebel,” Claire remarked, and they even shared a wry smile.
They were walking back into the manor from the beekeeper’s hut when Claire saw de Lisle on the wall, watching.
Her mother followed her gaze. “I’m surprised he’s not out hunting with his men. His type enjoy the sport.”
“He’s sent his men out?” Claire asked.
“Yes. Any deer or small game they bring will be useful. Strange he didn’t go, though.”
“He’s making sure his one remaining bride doesn’t sneak off to St. Frideswide’s.”
Her mother flashed her a look. “Claire—”
“Don’t worry, Mother. I’m a willing sacrifice.”
Willing didn’t seem quite the right word, but what other word applied when she was not going to fight? At least tomorrow would only be the betrothal. She’d have time to try to steel herself for the marriage bed.
Having ensured that they had enough provisions, they now settled to supervising the preparations, and even baking themselves. Claire claimed a space in the bake-house and started making her specialty, honey-almond cakes.
How many would come to the hasty betrothal?
she wondered as she ground the nuts. She’d be surprised if every family of substance within the half-day’s ride didn’t send someone.
With the recent rebellion, there’d be plenty to talk about, and everyone would be curious about the new lord, and the whole situation.
She paused in kneading her dough. The invitations had included news of her father’s death, so they’d come in a sense to mourn, too. She went back to pounding her fists into the sweet, sticky mass. This was going to be the strangest betrothal ever known.
She hoped people wouldn’t want to talk about her father’s death, but they probably would. That made her think about how little they knew. She couldn’t tell anyone where he had died, or how, except that it was by a sword through mail to the heart.
Frowning, she wondered again what had happened to Ulric.
She wrapped her dough in a damp cloth and began to make the pastry.
Her father had considered his rebellion a personal act so he’d not taken any men-at-arms. However, Ulric, his manservant since birth, had refused to be left behind.
He must be dead, poor man, doubtless in the same skirmish, for he’d never leave her father’s side.
“Lady Claire!” One of the women snapped her out of her thoughts, stamping in red-faced to complain. “I’ll swear those men aren’t doing the hens right. Such a mess as they’re making of it. Been at the drink, if you ask me.”
Claire sighed. “I’ll be there in a moment, Heddy.
” She tossed a cloth over her pastry and reluctantly went outside.
She liked to keep as far away from slaughter as she could.
Felice had always supervised such matters.
It seemed a sign of the miserable changes in her life that she now had to go and watch hens having their necks wrung.
It was mayhem, but that was normal. Hens and chickens high-stepped in all panicked directions, squawking the alarm.
Laughing men caught whatever bird was passing and swung it by the neck to its death.
The corpses were tossed carelessly to waiting maids who chopped off the heads and plucked them.
The plucked hens were plunged into tubs of cold water.
Other women were pulling out the cool ones to clean them.
The stink of gut and gore was everywhere.
Claire saw one man kick a passing hen for sport and called, “Alby, stop that!”
Suddenly aware that the mistress was present, the men sobered and set to catching the victims with less play. The hens still died.
Carefully stony-faced, Claire watched, thinking about death. Necessary death. Pointless death.
Which sort of death had come for her father?
Someone at the betrothal might know, but she realized that she’d come around to her mother’s way of thinking. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to remember her father as the peaceful man he truly had been, not as a creature of iron and blood.
She should be less grim at this moment, in fact. No one else here thought slaughter a cause for sadness. Already, despite her presence, some of the joking and laughter was returning.
She turned away, but couldn’t escape the squawking, the shouting, the regular thunk of the hatchets severing necks.
The sounds of death.
Suddenly she heard the high-pitched squeals of piglets.
Dear heaven, what sort of joyousness was this?
Aware of being foolish—for did she not eat meat every day?—Claire inched farther away.
“My lady?”
She started at de Lisle’s voice, and turned to face him.
“Are you unwell?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
His eyes studied her. “You do not look as hearty as you usually do.”
“It’s just that there’s so much work.”
He glanced behind her. “Or work you do not like.”
She sighed and gave up trying to conceal the truth. “How did you know?”
“You have the look of a lad after his first battle. Without,” he added with the hint of a smile, “the delirium of having survived.” He glanced behind her again. “You must have seen chickens killed before.”
Claire wished he wasn’t always coming across her when she was being foolish. “I—It is not my task. Felice or Mother always does this.”
“Animals must die if we are to eat.”
She met his cool eyes. “I know that! I know it is a silly thing. But I do not like it.”
“What would you rather be doing?”
“Making honey cakes.”
This time the smile was more than a hint. “I’d far rather eat honey cakes than roast fowl. I will do duty here.”
“You?”
His brows rose. “I am, after all, eminently suited to supervise slaughter.”
She gulped at that cool reminder of what he was, but she grasped the main point. He was willing to take on the job she abhorred. “There’s the piglets, too—”
“Who so recently were enjoying the mud.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “I do understand, demoiselle.” The delicate, courteous brush against her knuckles made the world tilt.
Then, almost contemplatively, he kissed her hand again. “Ginger. Honey. Spicy and sweet.” Eyes holding hers, he ran his tongue across her captive fingertips. “Don’t think about death at all, my lady. Leave that to me, whose proper domain it is, and return to the land of milk and honey.”
Claire stared into eyes that seemed terrifyingly deep. With a gasp, she snatched her hand free and fled back to the bakehouse.
She paused in the doorway, however, and looked back. What was this effect he had on her? Good, or evil? What was he?
She stood there contemplating death and the man who dealt in death, and her own inner mysteries, for she could not deny a secret, wicked response to the invading wolf.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if Felice changed her mind and stormed into Summerbourne demanding her husband, Claire might feel a small sense of loss.
She turned sharply and plunged back into the crowded heat of the bakehouse. Only a very, very small one.
She did not want to marry Renald de Lisle.
Her mother was in the bakehouse now, checking the growing stacks of cakes and pastries, still quite happy amid all the work.
She was red-faced, however, her brown hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, and Claire feared she looked much the same.
She was reminded why Felice preferred to supervise the slaughtering.
It was cooler outside and a lady didn’t become such a mess.
“Oh, Claire, there you are!” said her mother. “We found some cherries, and the children have brought back plenty of blackberries and some raspberries as well.”
“I could put some in my tarts.”
“Yes, do that.”
Claire toiled on, creating sweet delicacies the guests would love. Her mind, however, wandered philosophical ways. These sweet delicacies would not sustain life, whereas the coarser product of slaughtering would.
She remembered de Lisle saying as much to Mother Winifred.
Her work, the writing and illustrating she loved so much, was really of no use, whereas the violence the warriors embraced was necessary in this harsh world.
It was not so long since parts of England had been subject to Viking raids.
At such times, the peaceful people like herself and her father—or the inhabitants of convents and monasteries—had died.
Their work had been stolen or destroyed unless a war-wolf stood between them and other predators.
Perhaps men like de Lisle were not so bad …
Her thoughts were shattered by a maid bearing a pail full of blood. “The livers, lady!” she announced to Claire’s mother.
“Oh, yes, thank you, Ilsa. Claire, why don’t you make that special dish. The one with the spices.”