Chapter 12 #3
“Oh indeed,” Claire retorted. “Withers away if unused, does it? Might save a maiden many tears!” The women cheered again.
“More likely make her weep with frustration.” Applause from the men.
He kissed her hand again, deep in the palm. “Wed me sooner, Claire, and avoid the risk.”
She pretended to consider the matter, grinning at her grinning friends. “A six-month, then.”
“In the middle of winter? Have pity on our neighbors.”
“Aye, Claire!” someone shouted. “And not in harvest time, either. We don’t want to miss this bedding!”
“A month, then,” Claire said, suddenly aware that she’d been teased into a commitment she hadn’t thought to make so soon.
She thought that was it, but he said, “A month? It hardly seems worth sending everyone home for just a month.”
“When, then?”
He grinned and she knew she’d fallen into a trap. “Tomorrow.”
The hall fell silent, watching, grinning.
He released her hand, and gestured around. “Here are all our good friends. Here is feast enough for two days. Why delay?”
Genuinely shocked, she whispered, “My father—”
“That is past,” he said softly. “The wheel has turned. Why not, Claire? Once it is done we can look to the future, to restoring peace and order here in Summerbourne.”
Claire’s head buzzed, from the kiss, from the wine, and from a spell he was weaving around her. It was hard to think. But he was right, wasn’t he? What point was there in delay?
“Why not, Claire?” he repeated, laying a hand on her shoulder, fingers playing gently against her neck, eyes holding hers.
The whole hall waited, as if every breath were held …
“Why not?” she meekly echoed.
Before she could retract her half-thought words, he surged to his feet. “My friends, my fair lady has no desire to risk any lessening of my person. We marry tomorrow!”
Laughing cheers roared through the room, making Claire’s cheeks flare with heat. He sat and pulled her to him for a kiss as hot and thorough as the first. A flaming promise for the morrow’s night.
Lingering against her stinging lips, he said, “It’s better this way, Claire. Trust me on that. You will be happy if it is at all in my power to make you so.” Then he spoke clearly to the attentive hall. “Lady Claire will not regret this day. I swear it by my sword.”
It was not unlike the betrothal vows and the marriage vows, but somehow the words said here, plainly before all her neighbors, carried more power. A kind of peace settled on Claire. He was right. It was better to get on with it and move into the future.
“And a vow on such a sword is mighty indeed.”
Focusing her unsteady eyes, Claire saw that the earl had risen and raised his cup. “A toast to the famous dark sword, and to a marriage surely made in paradise.”
Everyone raised their cups and drank, though Claire could tell that many of them were as confused as she.
“Dark sword … ?” she queried.
“Have you not heard of it?” asked the earl, sitting again.
“Lord Renald’s sword is made of German steel of a peculiarly dark hue. The only light thing about it is a stone in the hilt. A stone from Christ’s tomb in Jerusalem.”
Claire turned to Renald with new reverence. “You were on crusade, my lord?”
“Alas, no.” Perhaps that was why he seemed suddenly sober and angry, to be forced to deny it. “The stone is a gift from a crusader.”
“And a gift from the king,” said the earl.
“Such a holy relic.” Claire was truly awed. So few had traveled to the Holy Land, and the precious objects they brought back were prized. “You must have done some mighty service for this crusader to be so rewarded.”
“The sword was from the king,” Renald said shortly.
“Then you must have done some mighty service for the king.” When he said nothing, she realized with surprise that he might be modest. Perhaps it was a code among this sort of man, not to boast of their achievements.
It was unexpected, but she approved. “I admire your modesty, my lord. But surely it is a wife’s duty to celebrate her husband’s feats.”
“There are no feats.”
She had to hide a smile. How could he expect to hide such a bright light under a bushel? “You cannot expect anyone to believe that, my lord. Not of a king’s champion. Your men boast of your achievements. I will have them tell me—”
“Yes, tell us, Lord Renald. Tell us of your achievements.”
The earl had leaned forward to interrupt. Claire looked between the two men. Was she imagining that they were eyeing each other like angry dogs? Her wine-fuzzed eyes were not completely reliable.
Before her befuddled mind could even try to sort things out, Renald said to her, “The crusader gave the stone to the king, and Henry had it put into a sword as a reward to me. That’s all.”
“But what did you do to deserve it?”
“Nothing at all glorious.”
She shook her head. “I’ll find out and have a minstrel make a song about it.”
“You won’t find anything I have done worthy of a ballad, Claire.” He seized the jug before them. “May I pour you more wine?”
More wine and her eyes would cross, but she could spot an attempt to change the subject. “I would like to see it.”
“The wine?”
“Your sword! And the stone from Jerusalem.”
He poured her wine anyway and pressed the jeweled cup into her hand. “Some other time. Swords are not fitting at a feast.”
“A holy relic is. It would bless our vows.”
“No.”
She blinked at him. That commanding no again, but disarmingly this time it was stirred by modesty not anger.
The earl, listening but ignored, suddenly spoke, his voice raised so others would hear. “I’m sure all here would be honored to see the sword, Lord Renald. Rumor says it can cut through the hardest wood. Perhaps even metal itself.”
Now other men were paying attention. “Cut through metal?”
“ ’Tisn’t possible.”
Word rippled around the room. “A stone from Christ’s tomb!”
“Cuts through iron.”
The hall began to swell with demands to see this wonder.
Abruptly, face set, Renald commanded Josce to bring the sword. When the squire returned, Renald took it one-handed, and laid it—almost dropped it—in Claire’s lap.
It was heavy. Heavy, hard, and dark. As her betrothed now was. Claire realized that she’d been wrong. He might be modest about his deeds, but at this moment he was very, very angry.
It was too late to retreat, so dry mouthed she studied the gift she’d demanded. She had never been this close to a sword before, and she didn’t like it. He was right. An instrument of death had no place at a feast, especially such a one as this.
Scabbards were usually decorative, painted, and sometimes banded with metal and set with precious stones. This one was black leather over wood. The only decoration came from small silver studs and carved medallions of jet.
It made her think of hell, or of a moonless midnight.
“Well?” he asked.
She knew he could read her expression. “It looks deadly.”
“What use is a sword that does not kill?”
She swallowed, for the question applied to him as well as his weapon. He didn’t sow, he didn’t reap. He didn’t create music or art. He just trained to kill and did so when called upon.
She concentrated on the hilt—part of the instrument of death, but shaped like a cross and set with the only bit of color about the thing—a sandy stone. The holy relic that sanctified this dark instrument of death.
Killing infidels was a saintly act, or so the Church said.
Could killing, therefore, sometimes be good? Someone had to execute criminals. And kill the human wolves who preyed on peaceful people.
The stone sat in a cup of fine black ironwork for protection. She put her fingertip through the cold metal to touch it. “Has it performed any miracles?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“But it might. Being from Christ’s tomb.”
She raised the sword and kissed the stone, praying for the health and welfare of all in Summerbourne, and for her marriage, that, despite all the odds, it be good. At times it seemed that might truly need a miracle. “You are blessed to have this, my lord.”
“Then perhaps we should send it around the room. Josce!”
The squire stepped forward and Claire put both hands under the sword to lift it to him.
Then gasped.
Blood smeared her palm!