Chapter 12
The men had dragged Renald away, and Claire was grateful. With the women she could relax, especially as they plied her with wine. It was part of the custom to make the newly betrothed giddy.
The man as well as the woman. At laughter and cheers, Claire looked over to see Renald draining a huge horn of ale.
At least, she hoped it was ale, the amount he was swallowing in one long, gulping draft.
Finally, when she was beginning to fear he might drown, he pulled the horn from his lips and tipped it triumphantly to show it was empty.
Sweet Mary, it must have held a quart! The men around him roared their approval.
Grinning, he caught her eye on him, and his expression softened to a smile, but still was more joyous than she had ever seen on him. She couldn’t help but smile back.
He picked up his goblet from a table, and raised it to her across the room. She reached for her own to return the salute, but then sunlight flashed on gold and jewel. Frozen, Claire realized he held her father’s cup, the king’s gift!
“Claire?” asked Lady Huguette, sitting beside her. “Is something the matter?”
“No.” Claire forced a smile, seized her own goblet, and toasted him in turn. Something must have shown, however, for Renald’s eyes narrowed.
No one else seemed to notice. Everyone laughed and cheered their byplay, with clapping hands and stamping feet. Some men shouted ribald comments. Women giggled. Claire smiled as brilliantly as possible, then turned back into the comfort of the friendly, bawdy women.
He couldn’t have known that cup symbolized his master’s betrayal, and like everything here, it belonged to Renald. But she wished he hadn’t chosen to use it.
“Quite the man you’ve found yourself, Claire,” said one matron, licking raspberry juice off her fingers. “What a chest on him!”
“And doubtless well-built in other parts,” said another, winking.
“Now, how would I know?” Claire countered, nibbling one of the sweetmeats she’d worked so hard to bake. “Yet.”
The women chuckled. “Let’s hope he knows what to do with his size,” said old Lady Huguette, nudging Claire with a bony elbow.
Margret winked. “If he doesn’t, you just send him to me, Claire, and I’ll teach him!”
Everyone laughed, but Claire said, “Touch my man, Margret, and I’ll rip your hair out by the roots.”
Everyone laughed at that, too, because it was all part of a game, a ritual that moved a woman from maid to bride. Even for a sacrificial bride, there was enormous comfort in it.
These women, young to old, had all gone before her and survived.
They formed a community she was about to join.
The wives met whenever they could, sharing stories and wisdom, and always ready to help.
She remembered her grandmother talking of ways of dealing with cruel men. It was true. The women had their ways.
They had their ways of handling death and sorrow, too. Though Lady Agnes stayed in her padded chair, friends around, Claire’s mother had retreated from the celebrations. Various women slipped in and out of her room, making sure she had company and solace.
At last Margret slipped into a place beside Claire, hand on her swelling abdomen. “You look sad, Claire. Your father, I suppose.”
Claire hadn’t realized that her smile had faded. At least with Margret, she didn’t have to pretend too much. “I can’t be entirely happy yet”
“No one would expect you to.” Margret picked a stuffed mushroom off a platter. “But he’s surely a saint in heaven now.”
“Yes, I think so.” His own particular heaven, where he’s free to explore the universe. “How’s the babe? Are you sick again?”
“Every morning.” Margret sighed, but happily went on to describe all her symptoms.
This was part of the ritual too, this passing on of knowledge. Soon Claire might be swelling with her husband’s child, might feel the changes, retch on an empty stomach. Despite the retching, it was another benefit of marriage. She loved children, and would delight in some of her own.
She risked a glance across at her betrothed, looking as much part of the men as she was of the women, despite his being a stranger here. He was fitting in. It was going to work.
Would he use his big hands to rub her aching back as Margret said her Alaine rubbed hers? Remembering their time in the garden, she knew he would. The frost of her resistance melted yet more. In so many ways he was a good man, merely shadowed by the way he had come here.
She tried to think how she would have seen him if he’d come here as a stranger, without the burden of her father’s body. He’d still have disturbed her with his size, with the fact that he was a warrior, but she thought she might have come to like him.
As, perhaps, she had.
He was handsome. She’d known it, but now she truly recognized that he was a very good-looking man, especially merry. His dark eyes were remarkably fine when crinkled with laughter. His movements were graceful. He managed his big body with the kind of grace that comes of health and strength.
No wonder the women around her were making salty comments and envying her possession of him. She’d never expected that. She’d thought that if anything they’d all feel sorry for her. Now she could see that her destiny did not inspire pity.
She continued to watch, secretly, noting the ease with which he moved among the men and the approval he left behind.
Such a man—a warrior, a champion, a favorite of the king—could try to lord it over everyone, be too loud, too overbearing, too arrogant.
Renald de Lisle, however, was fitting into her community like a foot into a well-worn shoe.
It was disconcerting, but she didn’t really object. She just felt as if a giant had picked up the hall and tilted it.
It was probably just the drink.
A blow on the knee pulled her attention down, where she found Margret’s two-year-old daughter demanding a cuddle. Glad to settle on a simpler thing, Claire hoisted her onto her lap. “Having a good time, Ouisa?”
The brown haired moppet nodded, then pointed at Claire’s flower wreath. “Pretty.”
“Yes, isn’t it? Lord Renald made it for me. I’ll have him make one for you next time you visit.”
That was pleasant, too, the idea of Margret, Alaine, and Ouisa visiting Summerbourne for a leisurely time with Claire and her husband. Clearly the child thought it pleasant, too, for she threw back her head and screamed, “Lordenald!” at the top of her lusty lungs.
Claire laughed and hushed her. Margret exclaimed, “Ouisa, behave yourself.”
But Renald came over. “My lady called?” he said, holding out his hands. Claire tensed, thinking Ouisa would shrink away, but the girl practically launched herself at him.
“She’s a dreadful flirt,” said Margret. “And acquisitive. Beware, my lord, she’ll have the bullion off your garment before she’s done.”
And indeed, Ouisa was picking at the embroidery around his sleeve.
“Any beautiful lady deserves gold.” He twisted off a bracelet and gave it to the little girl.
“Mine?” Ouisa asked.
Claire had feared that, and wondered what he’d do.
“No. But you can borrow it for a moment or two.” He smiled at Margret and complimented her on her child.
As the two of them chatted, and as Ouisa inspected the glittering bracelet inside and out, Claire absorbed a picture too close to her silly dreams for comfort. Against all odds, Renald de Lisle—war-wolf and blooded sword—might be a good father. Why that should seem so threatening, she wasn’t sure.
Ouisa tried to balance the bracelet on her head like a crown and he moved a hand to prop it there without a break in what he was saying. Then she pulled the gold band down again and hung it on her tiny arm, rocking it. A moment later, she looked up at him, frowning. “Pee-pee,” she said.
“Oh dear.” Margret rose with a laugh. “You’d best give her to me, my lord, unless you want your finery spoiled.”
He put the little girl in her mother’s arms, but said, “I need my bracelet back now, Lady Ouisa. Will you put it on my wrist for me?”
Ouisa contemplated wrist and gold for a moment, then tried to connect the two by brute force. It must have hurt, but he simply maneuvered so he could help and twisted into it again.
“Thank you, fair maid.” Gallantly, he kissed the girl’s plump hand. Smiling—Claire could say doting—Margret hurried off with her, Ouisa watching him all the time over her mother’s shoulder.
“You like children.”
He turned to her, brows raised. “You object?”
Claire blushed for the sharp edge to her comment. She hadn’t meant it. It was just that the giant had rocked the hall again.
“Of course not, my lord. I am pleased that the father of my children will be kind to them.”
He looked at her and one brow twitched, and she knew it had come out less graciously than she’d meant. Before she could amend it, he said, “I prefer girls to boys. Little boys are monsters.”
As if to prove the point, a young voice yelled, “Lord Renald! Come on!”
His lips twitched. “Alas, I seem to have promised to show a bunch of them a trick with some stones and reeds.” He bowed to kiss her hand, and murmured, “Give me lots of little girls, my bride.”
Red-faced, Claire watched him join a tangle of eagerly waiting lads even younger than Thomas. Some had the glow of hero-worship in their eyes and it was hardly surprising.
Claire realized she was following him with her eyes as Ouisa had done, and hastily turned back to the women, to find them all watching her with warm, knowing smiles.
The giant was rocking the hall like a boat. She’d come down to make a sacrifice, and now she didn’t really know what she was doing apart from getting drunk. Though she knew it wasn’t all the wine’s fault, she put down her goblet half-full.