Chapter 15
Claire staggered in on trembling legs. A glance behind showed the sun had almost set, touching the world with gold, scarlet, and black that mirrored the startling heat swirling inside her.
Oh yes. The dangerous bed …
She was holding something. When she looked down she saw her father’s book. She’d promised to put it with the other books, but she couldn’t go into the solar now—into their wedding chamber—without breaking custom. She had to wait to be led there. She was supposed to look reluctant, not keen.
She saw Thomas and grasped a chance to cool herself down. She went to show him the book. He was no more enthusiastic than her mother had been, though for different reasons. He just didn’t like books. In fact, he was keen to get back to his friends who were all playing a game with pebbles.
She held him back. “Are you less angry at me now?”
He looked down and grimaced. “I see that it isn’t your fault. And he can’t help the way things happened.”
Claire said a grateful prayer. “And I will never stop loving you, Thomas.”
He squirmed a bit at that, but then looked up, eyes anxious. “I don’t want to leave here, Claire.”
She sighed at that, but could only be honest. “I wish I could promise that you’ll never have to, love, but that’s not true. I’ll do my best for you. That’s all I can say.”
“Josce says it’s best to go. That I’ll like the king’s household.”
Claire sent a blessing to the squire. “Was Josce in the king’s household?”
A lad cried, “Thomas, it’s your turn! Come on!”
Her brother stepped away. “Yes. Josce is all right.” With that high praise, he ran back to his game.
Claire turned away, smiling. “All right” meant that Josce had been elevated to a level only slightly below God. Her brother was moving forward. He wasn’t happy yet, and the changes must still hurt—probably always would a little—but he was healing.
So. It was time.
Margret would be the one to drag her to her bed.
Claire looked around the crowded hall, seeking her friend.
Then she realized that Margret might be trying to find her, and returned to her seat at the high table, where she’d be expected to be.
She saw Renald across the hall, and he raised his brows as if asking why the delay.
She sipped some wine to steady herself. Come on, Margret!
Then, as she scanned the hall, the sheriff swooped the book from in front of her, stepping out of reach before she could snatch it back.
“Eudo!”
He was untying it with urgent fingers. “Your lady mother has clearly done with it for now.”
“There’s nothing in there.”
He paused. “The pages are blank?”
“No. But it is not Father’s journal. It appears that this time he didn’t keep one. Instead he wrote down one of his stories. The Brave Child Sebastian.”
He continued with the business of opening the boards then looked at the first sheet, frowning. “This is an atrocious script.”
“Father never took time to write neatly.”
He moved closer to a window, grimacing as he tried to make it out. Then he flipped to the end. Claire wanted to protest at that. She didn’t want him reading parts she hadn’t read, but it was already done.
Clearly he found nothing startling. He tidied the sheets and bound up the book. “As you say, Claire. Nothing. But it will be something to treasure.”
She took it and retied the strings just to establish that it was hers, hers and her family’s. “I will transcribe it into a fair script. Perhaps you would like to read it then.”
“But of course. Clarence was a dear friend.”
As he walked away, however, Claire had the impression that he was suddenly carefree. She contemplated the book, wondering what Eudo had thought it might contain.
He had read the last page. She didn’t think that had any significance, but she opened the book again. The writing was quite neat here, as if her father had had time and a flat surface.
And so the Brave Child stood over the corpse of his mighty foe, triumphant by the power of the Lord God. But tears trickled from the hero’s eyes. Tears of sorrow that he had been forced to kill, and to kill such a man.
She read the words again. The story had never ended like that before. Sebastian had never wept over the dead tyrant—
The book was snatched again. “Oh no you don’t,” said Margret. “Brides don’t get lost in books on their wedding night. And they aren’t supposed to frown, either.”
“Margret! Be careful with that.”
With a grin, her friend gave it back. “What is it, anyway?”
Claire explained, admitting to her disappointment that it was a story, not a record of the rebellion.
“Well you know,” said Margret, picking up a lingering sweetmeat and nibbling it, “your father had never fought before, or not since he was a young man. When Alaine has to put on armor, he can get in an odd mood. Sometimes he comes home jubilant—it’s strange what men like.
But sometimes there’s a look in his eye …
Perhaps your father saw a different side to heroes. ”
Claire stared at her friend, surprised by the insight.
“That would explain why he wanted to write a new version. To weave in what he’d learned of fighting.
” She traced the cover of the book. “It makes this even more precious, to see how Father was changed by his experiences.” She began to untie the strings.
Margret grabbed it again. “Oh no you don’t! Not tonight.”
Claire tried to get it back and in the laughing tussle, some pages fluttered to the floor. They were scooped up by the Earl of Salisbury.
“Fair ladies fighting over a book,” he said as he returned them to Claire. “It must be a very interesting tome.”
She tidied it, making sure to put the errant pages in the right place. “It is a special one, my lord. My father’s last writings.”
“His journal?”
She glanced up at him. “You know of that?”
“As we gathered to support Duke Robert, I saw him write in it every day. It must contain interesting comments on that sorry affair.”
Did he, too, look worried? Would he also want to snatch it away?
Claire firmly retied the strings. “Interesting, yes, my lord. But not a journal. For some reason he decided to write down his favorite story, that of the Brave Child Sebastian.”
“Ah, I remember him spinning it one night. A rather foolish tale.” He frowned at the book. “Where did it come from?”
“It was in Ulric’s pack. It held nothing else of interest.”
“And the book cannot shed light on Ulric’s murder. That’s a strange puzzle, and one that will probably never be solved. Sheriff Eudo also lost a manservant not many months back with the killers never found.”
“It can’t be that uncommon, my lord.”
“Uncommon enough. Most murders are obvious crimes, rising out of moments of hasty anger or fear. But in the sheriff’s case, he was set upon by brigands who escaped back into the wild lands. A lesson to him not to ride out without proper escort.”
She couldn’t imagine why he was talking of such matters, but didn’t much care. Darkness had settled, and Margret had slipped away to gather the other young matrons. Her fate loomed deliciously close.
Claire looked across the hall to see her husband down on his haunches with the boys, rolling a knucklebone. Thomas was laughing.
“Ulric must have known how your father died.”
Claire looked back to the earl. “Yes, he never left his side.” She sighed, despite the major part of her that just longed for the marriage bed. “I wish I had heard his tale.”
“I’m sure you would have found it most enlightening.”
Claire blinked at his strange tone. “Enlightening?” Where was Margret?
“Lord Renald brought your father here, I understand. In mail, as he died.”
“My lord, this is no time for such talk! I am trying to be joyous on my wedding day.”
“I see you are eager for the bed.” After a moment he added, “Some of us are cowards.”
She stared at him, wondering why he thought that of her, but Margret was coming, thank the Virgin, leading a group of noisy, laughing young women.
The earl glanced at them and she thought she heard him sigh.
“I will pray for you, Claire.” He suddenly leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers, forcing her to pay attention.
“Before you revel in your marriage bed, Claire, think more on death. Think about your father. About mail, and swords.”
She watched him walk away, wondering if drink had scrambled his wits.
Think on death. Now? Clearly he did wish she would weep and wail through her wedding.
As if she didn’t know that her father had never wanted her to marry a man so fond of his mail and sword.
But by venturing into the world of mail and swords, her father had brought all this about.
She was just trying to put things back together again.
When the women surrounded her, she let them drive away all memory of the earl’s words, and surrendered to laughing excitement.
In moments she was being dragged to the solar, pretending nervous unwillingness. Not having to entirely pretend. Despite desire, the marriage bed was a pit of the unknown, and there were those stories of screaming victims …
Nonsense. Snake stories.
Before she was dragged around the screen to the solar door, she looked back and saw Renald had risen to his feet to watch. It was as if flames of desire licked out from him to sear her.
He took a step forward as if to follow, and three men grabbed him to hold him back. Perhaps it was just part of the act, but somehow, she didn’t think so. The power of his desire shocked her. But it thrilled her, too.
Then she was in her bridal chamber, rich with the perfume of flowers and herbs. Scarlet rose petals scattered the coverlet and floor along with other blossoms of every hue.
Busy hands undressed her but then someone said, “By the crown, Claire. Without your hair, you’re indecent!”
“Into the bed, I think,” said Margret. Claire was happy to get under the perfumed covers and pull them up to her chin. Once again, her rash act of cutting her hair returned to plague her.
Margret touched the ends. “I don’t know how you could.”