Chapter 10 #3
“Am I doing the right thing, Father?” she whispered.
“I’m marrying him to save the family, and to be able to care for Summerbourne.
But he’s a king’s man and you thought Henry Beauclerk had no right to the throne.
” She slumped cross-legged by the grave.
“I don’t seem to have any choice. You wouldn’t want us all martyred in the cause, would you? ”
As expected, the grave gave no answer.
Wind rustled through nearby leaves, and on the far side of the bailey someone shouted a message, but not an urgent one. A door slammed. A dog barked. The light breeze ruffled the few remaining petals on the mound, but the grave stayed silent.
She gathered up a few lingering dead blossoms, poor wilted violets, and breathed in the last of their perfume. “He implied that you’d met. I wonder where, and what you made of him.”
Leaning back, she looked up at the glowing half-moon, wondering where heaven was, where her father was.
A star caught her eye, a bright one that twinkled.
She chose to imagine it was her father, dancing through the night sky, exploring the universe.
He’d like that. He’d wondered what the moon was like, and often studied the stars and constellations, saying that there was a great deal more to them than lights in the sky.
Like balm to her wounds, she remembered that he’d believed death to be a liberation for good souls, that heaven was freedom to explore beyond the limits of the human state. So, he was free now, unlike her.
Put simply, she had no acceptable choice other than this marriage. She pushed to her feet and dusted herself off.
Walking back to the manor house, she thought of all the rebels who presumably had thought like her father, but who had sworn to Henry and slunk home, grateful to be alive and to still hold their property. How could it be wrong to do as they had done?
A large shadow moved.
She choked back most of her cry, instantly recognizing Renald de Lisle. “You frightened me!”
“Why did you leave the hall?”
At his tone anger drowned fear. “You can’t still think I’ll run from you!”
“I guard against it.”
“Guard. Guard.” He was little more than a big shadow in the dark. Perhaps that’s why she felt bold enough to challenge him. “I’d rather you trusted my word, my lord.”
“You haven’t given your word, my lady, except to promise last night that you would be here this morning.”
She realized that was true. It bothered her that he seemed so untrusting, but she could see that he must worry about her running off to St. Frideswide’s.
Would she do that if she could?
No. If he was pinned by duty to the king, she was similarly trapped by duty to her family. “You have my word,” she said. “I will be here to plight my troth to you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” He caught her hand and raised it. Soft lips brushed her knuckles again, his warm breath teased her skin. She could come to like that kind of kissing.
“My lord …” She felt that in some way she should resist.
He turned her hand to kiss the very heart of her palm.
She tried to pull back then, but he held her captive and nuzzled her. She heard and felt him take a deep breath.
“Violets,” he murmured. “First spices, now flowers. You wield mighty weapons, my lady Claire.”
“I was just tending my father’s grave.”
His hand tightened on hers, but so little she really shouldn’t have been able to sense it. It must be the darkness that helped her detect such things—things like a slight tension in his hand, and a sudden stillness in his body.
“I know my father lies between us …”
“A very uncomfortable image, that.”
She dragged her hand out of his. “You are lewd! I mean that the way you have come here lies between us. My father’s recent death steals joy.
Your allegiance to Henry Beauclerk distresses me.
But I can forget and forgive all that. I will not, however, forget my father.
I will tend his grave. I will love him all my days! ”
The silence lasted a breath too long, and her nerves jangled. But she would not wilt anymore.
“Of course you will,” he said at last, sounding so unmoved it was almost an insult. “Perhaps one day you will feel a matching regard for me. I hope you’ve not forgotten your promise for tomorrow.”
He didn’t care. She must remember that. He played the suitor out of courtesy, but all he cared about was securing a bride according to the king’s orders. She should be grateful. She was grateful. She didn’t want stormy emotions swirling around her. With cool heads, everyone would be safe.
“I’ve not forgotten, my lord. When the first guests arrive, I will retreat to my room and be like a cloistered nun until the ceremony.”
“You sound aggrieved.”
She thought of explaining—that the work still had to be done so she’d have to rise earlier—but it didn’t seem worth the effort. “I’m sure it will be pleasant to have some time to myself. Good night, my lord.”
With that, Claire hurried on into the hall and went up to her room.
Renald de Lisle listened to her footsteps, to the closing of her door, then slowly raised his hands to his face seeking the memory of violets, the memory of Claire.
In two short days, the bride delivered to him by fate had wrapped around him like a perfumed vine, stealing his senses, nearly stealing his reason.
Her courage, her devotion to her family, even her occasional impulsive folly, were all like jewels in a crown on her absurd, charming, tempting froth of curls.
How long before the truth arrived, the truth of how her beloved father had died? Pray not until she was bound to him.
He was constantly aware, like a man reaching to grasp a naked blade, of excruciating pain soon to come. He’d avoid it, if he could. To shield Claire of Summerbourne from it, he would pay almost any price.
But not the price of losing her.
To keep her, he would grasp the blade, and force her to seize it too.