Chapter 18
In the pantry, Claire assessed the quantity and quality of leftover food and divided it. There wasn’t any cherried pork left but that didn’t surprise her. Thomas alone would have eaten it all if given the chance.
That reminded her of her brother. She couldn’t put it off any longer. As yet, no one seemed to know the truth but herself, her mother, and de Lisle, and her mother was making no sense. At any moment, however, the news could break and Thomas mustn’t learn of it that way.
She asked where her brother was.
“He’s with Lord Renald, lady,” a servant said. When she turned toward the office, he added, “I think they’re outside the walls practicing swordwork and such.”
Of course, thought Claire. What else?
She heard the noise before she passed through the gates—bangs, clangs, and coarse voices. Even a sharp cry. It sounded like her brother! She broke into a run.
She crossed the bridge and saw a battle going on.
After a moment it resolved into Renald and his men playing at slaughter, one-on-one.
Some wielded quarterstaffs, some fought with bare hands, some with sword and shield.
They’d brought a huge tree trunk from the woods and set it upright in the ground, and a man was hacking at it with a sword, chips flying.
Practicing to hack at men.
To kill men.
Efficiently.
That conversation came back to her, the one on the first day when Renald had spoken about killing efficiently. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Oh, curse him for being what he was!
Where was Thomas? In the seething mass of fighting men she couldn’t find him.
Where?
Where? She glimpsed blond curls.
He was fighting de Lisle!
Frozen, Claire’s first thought was that if she could capture the moment she would have the perfect illustration of Brave Sebastian and Count Tancred. Then, a heartbeat later, she raced forward to stop the unequal fight.
An arm cinched her, swinging her off her feet. “Nay, lady!” Josce gasped. “You’ll more likely cause damage by interfering.”
Claire struggled helplessly, then froze, watching. “But … But Thomas has a real sword!”
“Of course.”
“He’ll get hurt! Or hurt someone.”
“Lord Renald will keep him safe, lady. Never fear.”
She fought again to get free. “Lord Renald killed our father! Why not complete the job? Let me go!”
He warily obeyed, but it was clear he would not permit her to interfere.
“I note Thomas’s sword is smaller,” she said bitterly, arms crossed tightly in front of her. “Does Lord Renald ever fight fair?”
“Have a care, lady,” he said softly. “Thomas could never control a full-sized sword. He has a better chance of injuring with that one.”
“But little enough.” Now she had calmed a little, Claire could see that Thomas was in no immediate danger. It was like the sword dance again, with Renald clearly in control.
Even so, she asked, “He won’t be hurt?”
Josce shrugged. “Not seriously.”
Her heart raced again. Lose a finger or two, or the proper use of his legs? Renald’s mighty sword could smash bone like kindling.
She twitched to interfere but knew, with sick frustration, that she would not be allowed to. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the unequal contest as if her gaze could keep her brother safe.
Thomas’s slashing sword could hardly reach Renald, but it was real. The man caught each blow on shield or sword and as he did, wood chipped and sparks flew. Renald didn’t attack. In fact, he seemed to be talking all the time.
Aware of being shadowed by Josce, Claire crept closer until she could hear her husband’s even-breathed voice. “You can win a battle by wearing down your opponent, Thomas, but I doubt that will work in this case.”
“I’ll find a way to kill you!”
“Perhaps. One day.”
Thomas paused—mouth set, eyes blazing, chest heaving.
Claire knew then that he’d heard the truth and she began to pray, rapidly, earnestly, for his safety.
Her brother slashed a few more times in what was clearly blind frustration, only to halt again. Then he pointed his sword like a spear and charged, screaming with frustrated rage.
Claire cried out, too, and knew to her shame that some of her alarm was for the man. Renald jumped back, a flicker of surprise on his face but deflecting the sword with his own. Then, as if part of the same movement, he knocked the sword from Thomas’s hand before the lad tumbled to the grass.
He stepped back, sword point to the ground. Thomas just sat there, sobbing for breath, head down.
Claire took the chance to run forward. “What are you doing to him?” she demanded as she hugged her brother. “Trying to kill him, too?”
“He’s trying to kill me.”
Thomas shrugged her off and scrambled to his feet. “He killed Father.”
“I know.”
“It’s my duty to kill him!”
Claire closed her eyes briefly. “Thomas, you know you can’t. Yet. Wait a few years. Vengeance has no limits.”
Thomas stood there, sucking in breaths, jaw thrust out. At times, he could be as unreasonable as Felice.
Claire rose to her feet, too, and looked at her husband as she spoke. “If you want to make him pay, Thomas, let him train you in the skills you’ll use one day to kill him.”
Renald’s brows rose. “I thought you didn’t approve of men of violence, my lady.”
“Life forces unpleasantness upon us, my lord.”
He looked away, as if the distant coppice had suddenly become of interest. “A truth indeed. Thomas, go to Harry and work at the quarterstaff. But first,” he said, looking back as the lad moved away, “clean your sword.”
Thomas glared at him, but picked up his sword and carefully dried it with a cloth before sliding it into a scabbard lying on the ground. Then he stomped off toward a middle-aged man-at-arms.
“Where did that sword come from?” Claire demanded.
“I had the blacksmith shorten and lighten one for him.” Renald was cleaning his own blade—an ordinary one, not the dark sword that had killed her father. “No one seemed to have provided a practice weapon for him before.”
She folded her arms again, shielding herself. “Summerbourne has never been a place of violence.”
“Yet even your father trained once. It is a man’s duty.” He looked up. “Did you want something, Claire?”
He was acting as if nothing lay between them! No, not nothing. But not the monstrous deed that changed everything.
“I came looking for Thomas,” she said, trying to decide just how she should behave. “I wasn’t sure he knew.”
“Your mother told him.”
And in the worst possible way, Claire was sure. She should have done it herself instead of hiding away like a coward. She watched the quarterstaff bout, wincing whenever her brother was rapped.
“He’s my concern now,” Renald said, “and I will care for him.” When she turned to protest, he added, “I won’t let you or him kill me.”
“How pleasant to be omnipotent.” But her secret curled inside. There were more ways to destroy than by the sword.
“It is hardly meaningful to be able to best a child.” He pushed his blade into a plain scabbard.
“But who can defeat you?” she demanded. “What courage does it take to fight, when to you all men are children?”
“That isn’t true. And anyway, don’t you believe that God will support the side of justice?”
“Not anymore.” She looked away in time to see Thomas tripped by his opponent’s staff. “He’s hurt!”
It was de Lisle who stopped her this time, arm tight around her waist. “God’s wounds, Claire, he’ll come to no serious harm. You’ve cosseted him half to death.”
She pulled free and turned on him. “You don’t understand love, do you? You don’t understand it at all! I suppose I should be sorry for you, torn from your family so young, forced into cruel ways. But not when you bring those ways here.”
He seized her shoulders, holding her so she had to face him.
“Love doesn’t wrap people in silk.” Roughly, he turned her.
“Look at him! He’s not your baby brother anymore.
He’s nearly as tall as you and doubtless stronger.
One day, failing me, he could be your shield against the world, shield for you and your family. He must be strong and skilled.”
She swallowed tears, and fought a burning awareness of his hard hands on her. “He was meant for the Church.”
“Then he should have been there. Instead, he was left to drift because your father couldn’t face the truth.”
She whirled on him. “Don’t you dare—!”
“Of course I dare. Your father was a good and kind man who brought great joy to the world. But as a brother and father he was disastrous. Your aunts should have been suitably married before now. It’s not surprising Felice is bitter.”
“She was born bitter!”
“How do you know? You weren’t alive at the time. You should have been settled with a good man, particularly when he planned such a risky course.”
Claire opened her mouth but was overridden.
“And Thomas should either have been in a monastery or training for war. He shouldn’t have been running wild.
You lived an illusion here, pretending that the big, cold world didn’t exist. The least your father could have done was not invite it in the gates. ”
She stepped closer, almost breathless with fury. “You clearly cannot understand the demands of a sound conscience.”
“I understand it very well.”
She laughed. “You killed my father and feel not one qualm. What sort of conscience is that? I’ll make you feel it, though.
” She’d not intended to spit this out, but she couldn’t help herself.
“You killed Ulric to hide your guilt from me. I might not be able to make you pay for killing my father, but killing Ulric was base murder and I intend to prove it.”
He stood before her, impervious as granite. “You cannot prove a falsehood.”
“I don’t need to.”
She turned and walked away but once inside the walls and out of his sight, Claire sagged.
How could he attack her father like that, seeking to destroy his memory as he’d destroyed his body?
Defense, she decided. The more he could convince himself that Lord Clarence had not been a good man, the easier he could live with having killed him.