Chapter 11
By the time horns announced the arrival of the first guests, Claire was heartily glad of de Lisle’s custom.
Rumpled, hot, and with a touch of the headache, she was pleased to head for her room.
However, when she saw her grandmother in her chair by the window enjoying the sun, she went over.
“It is turning out as you wished, Gran.”
Lady Agnes looked up. “Don’t scowl at me as if it’s my fault.”
“Whose fault is it, then?”
Lady Agnes’s mouth worked for a moment. “Clarence’s.”
Claire stepped back. “It was not! It was”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—”it was the king’s!”
“If it helps you to think that, do. Just don’t try to revenge yourself on him. And take care of your brother. He was here not long ago, whining.”
“He’s not whining. He has reason to be upset.”
“Being upset butters no beans. Just get on with it.”
“I am, aren’t I?”
Lady Agnes looked up. “Yes. You’re a strong one. Like me. I had a sister, you know. Dead of a fever long ago. She got upset. I married the man because it had to be done.”
“I wish Thomas would understand that.”
“I told him, and sharply. Perhaps it’ll help.”
Harness bells and voices in the bailey warned of the first guests. “Did you have any younger brothers?”
“Me? No.”
“What about Sigfrith?”
Lady Agnes stared. “Sigfrith in the stables? He was a cousin’s son, raised by my father.”
“Could you not have done more for him?”
“What? He refused to take the oath, so he couldn’t be a fighting man. He’s had a place here all these years.”
Claire’s headache bloomed. What would happen if Thomas refused to take the oath when he was older?
“Where are you off to now?” Lady Agnes asked. “Work all done?”
“I’m vowed to seclusion until the ceremony. Some custom of the Franks.”
“Not one I’ve heard of, but considerate. Off you go, then.”
Claire took two steps, but then turned back. “Was it like this? For you?” She realized that was the question she’d wanted to ask all along.
Her grandmother pulled her lips together, considering. “Rougher. Times were chancier, it being within days of Hastings. Your grandfather had the priest out and the deed done before we’d stopped crying over the news. No betrothal. No witnesses other than the hall people.”
“How awful.”
Lady Agnes shrugged. “I don’t remember much of it if the truth be told. I was mostly numb. But once it was done he was gentle with me. Wooed me. It came right in time. It could for you, too.”
Her grandmother’s eyes fixed on something behind Claire, and she turned. Claire’s future husband stood by the hall doors, and outside the first guests prepared to enter.
He didn’t speak, but everything about him reminded her of her promise. Fighting an urge to pull a rude face, Claire hurried off to the seclusion of her room.
Her maids had a tub of hot water ready, and Claire stripped off her working clothes with relief. “Put some rosemary and lavender in the water, Maria.”
“Headache?” the maid asked, opening the herb box and taking out some pouches.
“Just from the kitchen heat,” Claire lied.
In moments, she was in the warm and fragrant water, and the pain began to melt.
Ah, she could get used to this. Normally, she’d bathe in the warm kitchens, but to keep her promise, she’d had the tub hauled up here.
Herbed steam, and peace and quiet made a magical combination.
As she washed off all traces of her work, she caught a hint of cinnamon, and remembered what Lord Renald had said about spices and violets.
It was not her way to do things grudgingly, or half-heartedly.
If she was going to pledge herself to Renald de Lisle, she should do her best to make it work.
After all, as she’d reasoned before, none of this was really his fault.
The king had killed his brother and seized the throne, leading to the rebellion.
That rebellion had killed her father and led to his land being given to another.
And, as she’d told Thomas, if a new lord had to be forced upon them, it could have been someone much worse than Renald de Lisle.
So, she was going to accept him without bitterness, and try to make the marriage work. As a symbol of that, she sent Maria for her spice chest, and Prissy to gather some wild violets.
While she waited for their return, Claire stirred the cooling water with her toes, trying to think positively about Renald de Lisle.
So, he’d been a mercenary and tourney fighter. Her life had been so easy, what right did she have to look down on someone who had struggled through thorns to get to where he was? And doubtless he had just been teasing, and had confessed the many men he had killed.
She remembered him speaking of property, wife, and children, and their value to a man such as he. He’d sounded sincere, as if he truly would value and cherish his property and his family. That was good. Very good.
She was startled by a vision then, a vision of Lord Renald, big and dark, with a tiny, blond-haired infant secure in his strong arms. It was nonsense—men didn’t usually pay much attention to babies—but it seemed so real that she couldn’t entirely resist it.
In fact, it grew. Soon he was laughing in the midst of a swarm of happy, healthy children, older ones on his arms, younger around his legs, and an infant on his broad shoulders …
With a dry laugh, Claire shook it away and sat up to scrub away such nonsense. She’d set herself up for heartbreak if she started to imagine her wolf as a lapdog. She must be strictly practical. Even if he did seem able to turn her weak with a touch …
When the door opened and her mother entered, Claire was glad of distraction. Her mother sat on a stool beside the bath, carefully arranging her rich skirts out of danger of splashing. “This is a special day, Claire.”
“I suppose so.”
“He will make you a good husband.”
Claire suppressed a grimace. It might be true, but her mother had no grounds for her statement.
“Lord Renald is a good man who means well by you,” her mother persisted.
Claire glanced up, surprised. “He’s spoken to you?”
“But of course.”
“I mean, about me.”
“Of course he has, Claire. Would he take a woman to wife without a word to her mother?”
“Since it is the king’s command …”
“Even so, there are courtesies. I see him as a man who observes the courtesies.”
Claire considered that. “Yes, I suppose he is.” Courtesies like soothing a nervous young woman in the garden.
She swished the herb bag around in the water, causing the perfume to waft up more strongly. She tried to resist, but in the end she asked, “So. What did he say? About me.”
Lady Murielle laughed in relief, which gave Claire ease.
“He told me that he found you beautiful and sweet-natured, and was pleased that in the end you were chosen to be his bride. I did try to tell him that you can be difficult when angered, but he seemed unable to imagine it.”
Claire knew she was blushing. “What else?”
“He assured me that he would be a good and tender husband, and I believe him.”
“Tender? I’m not sure he knows what tender is.” And yet, that vision of him with children would not be denied. Where had it come from if it was entirely false?
“He’s a different kind of man from your father, Claire,” said Lady Murielle.
“Hard for you to judge. I know the type, though, because my father and brother were like that. Such men value courage and action, and guard their honor. Sometimes they stamp and roar, but they do little harm unless attacked or truly angered.”
“Like stallions or bulls.”
“But with more brain. Do try not to anger him, Claire. Honey will always work better than vinegar.”
Claire wasn’t sure she could always be honey-sweet, but her mother’s hands were twisting with anxiety. She smiled. “I will try, Mother.”
Lady Murielle patted her shoulder approvingly, and said, “Good girl.” However, then she turned a surprising pink. “I suppose I should speak to you about other things … Though this is only the betrothal, Claire, I should perhaps speak to you about marital duties …”
Claire slid down in the water, embarrassed. “Like the duty to keep his clothes in good repair?”
Her mother laughed and shook her head. “That, too, of course, but … You do not fear the marriage bed?”
Claire went back to swishing the herb bag, remembering the way she’d felt in his arms, the way she felt just from a touch, or the brushing of his body against hers. She didn’t fear those feelings, but she wasn’t ready to welcome them yet, either.
“It will be some time until the wedding.”
“You have set the date?”
“No.” She looked up at her mother. “But he will wait. Won’t he?”
“Perhaps the king will want a speedy wedding, too. It’s unusual to have a long delay.”
Claire lay there, really facing for the first time that today would lead to the bed.
She wasn’t ignorant of the facts. She’d have to let him touch her as he wished.
She’d have to let him enter her and tear her maidenhead.
She’d have to let him plant his seed, so that they could have babies.
She’d have to let him repeat the act whenever he wanted, within the rules of the Church.
Lent, Advent, and Holy Days were likely to be a welcome respite.
She could accept all that. It was the other. The dazedness that made her feel so weak, so vulnerable, so needy …
Clearly there was more to it than the basics. Perhaps her mother was about to explain. “Very well, Mother, get it over with. Tell me all.”
Lady Murielle limped through a description that embarrassed Claire as much as it seemed to embarrass her mother, without adding to her knowledge.
“But what am I supposed to do?” she asked at the end.
“Nothing. That’s the good thing. You don’t have to do anything but what he tells you.”
For some reason that didn’t seem quite right to Claire but she accepted it and climbed out of the bath. One thing was sure. Whatever needed to be done, Renald de Lisle knew about it.