Chapter 16
The retching stopped and Claire wiped her face on a clean corner of the sheet.
The earl’s words had started this. Think about your father, and mail, and swords, before you revel in the marriage bed.
The earl hadn’t wanted her to marry Renald, hadn’t wanted her happy about it, because he’d known what a sin it was.
She had married her father’s killer! Not just a man who had killed him in the heat of battle, but one who had used a cheating weapon. A murderer.
Why, in God’s name, hadn’t the earl spoken directly? Why hadn’t he stopped her before this?
A sound made her twitch around to face her husband—her enemy—but he was simply pulling on his braies.
“I will have the marriage annulled,” she said.
“No.”
“You can’t stop me!”
He was cold granite again. “Of course I can.”
“You will rape me?” Despite the quiver inside she raised her chin. “Why did I think otherwise? Everything else you’ve said to me has been a lie.”
“Everything I’ve said to you has been the truth. Just not the whole truth. I will never rape you.”
She scrambled for her shift and pulled it on, pulled her kirtle over it, and her tunic. She wished she had a thick cloak to gather around herself for protection. “Then I will free myself of this marriage.”
“And fling your family into poverty?”
She turned. “You would do that?”
“Why not if you will not give me what I want?”
“How can you want a wife who hates you?”
“Only believe that I do.”
“A wife whose body you can never take without rape.”
His features were set like stone but his eyes betrayed him.
She remembered him earlier, laughing.
She remembered, with a bitter sense of loss, the tender way he had guided her into her womanly pleasure, the burning spiraling wonder of it all.
The tragedy here, she feared, was that he did indeed want her, and even more than want.
She closed her eyes briefly before speaking. “Renald, I know it must have been in battle. I don’t really blame you. You can’t have set out to kill him. But you must see I cannot—”
“It was not in battle, Claire. Or not as you mean it. And I did set out to kill him. It was a court battle. One on one.”
She stared. “A court battle?”
“Where a man proves his cause—”
“I know what a court battle is! How could my father have ended up in something like that?”
“By challenging the king’s right to the throne.”
Claire shook her head as if she could throw off the macabre picture. “And you were the king’s champion. You and he. What kind of contest was that?”
“None at all.”
She put her hands to her head, trying desperately to make sense of a shattered world. “And that sword! It wasn’t enough that you’re younger, bigger, stronger. That you’ve trained and trained from the day you were weaned. You had a sword that could cut through mail. You set out to kill him!”
She waited for denial. For excuses.
But he said, “Yes. He had to die.”
She backed away until a wall stopped her, and covered her face with her hands. Sweet Mary mild, why had this been put before her? When she’d accused him of murder, it had been a wild word. She’d been sure it had been a true battle death, not really anyone’s fault.
But it had been murder. Her father had been forced into a one-on-one fight with an opponent he could never defeat.
When she looked at Renald again, he was pulling on his tunic. It was over his head.
She ran for the door. She was through it and around the screen before he caught her in an iron-hard embrace.
The celebrating crowd fell slowly silent.
And in those moments, he whispered, “Don’t say a word, or your family will suffer.”
Still, the accusation swelled inside her. This man cold-bloodedly killed my father, and by treachery even. I renounce him. But his threat, reinforced by his iron hold, held her silent for the crucial moments.
“My friends”—he spoke to the startled gathering, easing his arm so it must seem more like an embrace—”in my hurry to claim my bride, I overlooked her deep grief for her father.”
Claire twitched and his hold on her tightened ruthlessly.
“Though she has tried to be a dutiful wife, her grief comes between us and pleasure this night. Therefore, we have decided to delay our consummation. As the Church recommends, we have taken a vow of celibacy for the first month of our marriage. We offer it up for the good of Lord Clarence’s soul.”
“My father is already in heaven,” Claire said, but it was muffled against his chest.
“Perhaps,” he said softly. “Accept this, Claire. At least it gives you a month to think before you destroy everything.”
Tight with resistance, she was kept there as a murmur of surprise ran through the room. She thought she heard approval. It was true that the priests preached the holiness of such restraint within marriage, but few found the strength to embrace it.
It disgusted her that he cloak his villainy in sanctity, but she could see that it gave a reprieve. She didn’t have to decide everything now while her mind was splintered by horror. She had a month to find a way out of this marriage, a way that would not ruin her family.
“You can let me go,” she murmured. “I am ready to play my part.”
When he cautiously eased his hold she looked him in the eye. “I, too, do not lie, my lord.”
Then she turned to meet her friends, to meet their commiseration and admiration.
She saw Thomas looking bewildered and realized she’d have to tell him the truth soon. Sweet Mary mild, what would he do?
And how would her mother and grandmother feel to know they’d welcomed Lord Clarence’s murderer? Perhaps, she thought bitterly, her mother would only care that Thomas was threatened again.
When would she have to tell them?
Then she realized that the story would break whether she spoke out or not. She saw the Earl of Salisbury, watching somberly, and glared at him. Why hadn’t he told her sooner?
Then she remembered his words about cowards. He hadn’t been talking about her, but about himself. He’d wanted to tell her, but hesitated to thwart the king’s plan. So he’d hinted. And he’d caused that horrible sword to be brought out bloodstained, hoping for some revelation.
If Renald de Lisle had a soul, he’d have faltered then.
She shed anger with the earl. He’d kept silent to protect himself and his family. She was keeping silent for the same reason.
But it would come out. She hugged that thought to herself. Even if she kept silent, at any moment a traveler or tinker would bring the story of Lord Clarence’s death to Summerbourne.
Then, as her friends surrounded her, cossetting her with comfort, she remembered Ulric.
“Such a shame, but right,” said Margret.
“A lovely gesture,” agreed Lady Huguette, moist-eyed.
“A good man to agree to such a course,” added Lady Katherine, the biggest gossip in the country. What an event this must be for her.
Claire let the words wash over her as she absorbed the fact that Renald had indeed had a motive to kill Ulric. He’d killed him so his news wouldn’t ruin the betrothal and wedding.
She began to weep. She couldn’t help it. She let Margret help her back into the solar. “There, there. Hush, love. Better for sure not to start out your marriage bed with tears.”
She fell silent and Claire wiped tears to look. The damp and disordered bed with a black sword lying among crimson rose petals suggested a very strange tale.
Margret stripped off the sheets without comment, however, scattering petals on the ground but putting the sword aside carefully on a chest. The smell of roses haunted the room, along with that other one. Claire feared she’d never find roses sweet again.
“Quite some sacrifice,” Margret remarked.
“Not really.”
“Well, if I’m any judge, he’ll be gnawing the walls before a month’s up. He’s been eating you with his eyes all day. Are you sure you’re being fair to him?”
“Fair!” But Claire had to remind herself that Margret didn’t know. None of them did, except the earl.
Margret patted her shoulder. “There, there, love. I’ll send your maids to you.”
Prissy and Maria hurried in and remade the bed without comment. There’d be speculation, though, about what exactly had happened here. Let them all wonder.
Claire watched Maria move the big sword so she could get sheets out of the chest and wished she could throw it out of the window. Throw it into the forge, even, to be melted down. That dark thing had pierced her father’s heart, driven by the cold hand of Renald de Lisle.
She realized then that all his possessions were here. His chests. His bags. His mail on its hanger. This was his room. Would he expect to sleep here?
With her?
Her possessions had been brought down from the maidens’ bedchamber. As he had promised, her father’s book chests sat against a wall. She went and touched them, seeking comfort.
“Oh, Father, what now?”
Though full of wisdom, the books were silent.
“Do you wish to undress again, lady?” Prissy asked.
She couldn’t stay huddled in layers of clothing forever, so she let them strip her, but kept her shift. If he came, at least he wouldn’t find her naked.
What would the guests expect from a celibate couple?
That they sleep together to make the sacrifice more meaningful?
Or that they sleep apart to show that they were keeping their word?
Though the priests preached the holiness of a time of restraint after marriage, Claire had never known anyone to actually embrace the notion.
Embrace.
She hugged herself. She had enjoyed his company, enjoyed his embraces. Yes, she’d even reveled in the passion he’d given her.
It wasn’t her fault that she’d not known who he was, but still she felt deeply soiled.
“Are you all right, lady?” asked Maria, fussing around her. “Do you need anything? Some poppy juice to help you sleep?”
“No.”
“Do you want us to stay with you?”
“No. You can go.”