Chapter 19
Since learning about Sigfrith, Claire had noticed the man more, and even detected a faint resemblance to her father. She’d never spoken to him, however, other than about stable matters.
They found him in a stall, cleaning a horse’s hooves.
“Lord Renald. Lady Claire.”
“Sigfrith,” Claire said, “we hoped you might be able to tell us something about poor Ulric.”
He kept his head down to his task. “Ulric? Him as died?”
“You sat with him during his last meal.”
He glanced up then, in the wary way of one who expects trouble. “So? He came in late and sat there, lady. What of it?”
“We wondered what he said to you.”
“Nothing.”
Claire shared a glance with Renald, before remembering that this guilty reaction wasn’t good for her case.
“Not even, ‘Good evening’?” asked Renald. “Stand and face us.”
Claire thought for a moment that the groom would ignore the cold command and shivered for him. But then he let the hoof fall and rose. He even bowed. “Aye, well, lord, maybe he said that.”
“And did you say good evening back to him?”
“Aye, I suppose I did, lord. I can’t remember.”
Claire wondered if Sigfrith had always been this sullen and resentful. Or was it now a sign of guilt?
“And did he say anything else?” Renald asked patiently. “About the tumblers, for example. Or about Dora, who was chattering about the tumblers?”
The man frowned, but more thoughtfully than angrily. “Aye, lord, he did at that. Called her a chattering besom, which is true. But Ulric was never much of a one for speech.”
“You knew him well?” Claire asked.
He turned his blue eyes on her, eyes very like her father’s. “‘Course I did, lady. We were of an age, and lived here all our lives.” There was an unmistakable edge in the comment and Claire worried again for his skin.
“But since you knew him so well,” Renald asked, “didn’t you say an extra word or two? Ask him about his journey, perhaps? Or comment on Lord Clarence’s death?”
Sigfrith looked as if he were weighing chancy options, but in the end he said, “I suppose we spoke a little. I think I said as I’d wondered where he’d been. And I did ask what happened to Lord Clarence’s horse. ’Twere a good one.”
Claire looked at Renald. “What did happen to Aidan?”
His dark eyes flashed a command. “Later. So,” he said to Sigfrith, “what did he say to that?”
“That it were none of my business. Which wasn’t true. Stables are my business.”
“Did he say anything about how Lord Clarence died, or about my betrothal to Lady Claire?”
The question clearly surprised the man. “Nay, lord.”
“Nothing?” Claire asked. “My betrothal must have been of interest to him.”
“Can’t say about that, lady. He made no mention of either.”
She’d think he had to be lying except that she couldn’t see why. Even if he’d killed Ulric, for his own purposes or those of her grandmother, why not admit that Ulric talked of such pressing events?
Renald killed Ulric, she reminded herself. Renald, or one of his men.
Renald picked up the questions. “A number of people stopped by to talk to him. Do you remember any of them?”
Sigfrith shrugged. “Big Gregory. He’s married to Ulric’s sister. Offered him sympathy, as I remember. Lord Eudo said much the same. And Britha—you know Britha, lord—asked if he wanted comfort.”
Claire jotted down the names, distracted by wondering if that you know Britha, lord meant that Renald knew generous Britha in a biblical sense.
She tried to pretend she didn’t care.
She asked, “And those are the only people you remember speaking to Ulric at the table that night?”
“And the lord’s squire, Josce.”
Claire’s stylus froze, mid-mark, and she glanced up at Renald. He showed nothing, but that—as she was beginning to realize—said a lot.
“Did you hear what Squire Josce said to Ulric?” she asked.
Like, meet me in the garden …
But Josce? Fresh-faced Josce with the freckles and the big smile? What was a squire to do if ordered to kill, however? The same as his master. Obey.
“Nay, lady,” said Sigfrith. “The young man spoke quietly. Privately like.” Sigfrith’s sly look showed that he knew he’d started trouble and was glad of it. She’d have to think more about his place here.
She finished her note, thanked the groom, and walked out into the sunshine. Once out of earshot, she faced Renald de Lisle. “Well, my lord?”
His jaw was tight, twitching with anger, but not at her. “Well, we had better go and speak to Josce.”
He strode off so quickly, she had to hurry to catch up. “Are you still claiming innocence?”
“I still am innocent. As Josce will be able to make clear.”
“Don’t try to lay all the guilt at his door! He’s only a youth.”
“I’ll lay the exact amount of guilt he deserves.” His fist clenched. Claire seized his arm with both hands. He stopped, but turned on her so sharply she feared for her skin.
After a shocking moment, the searing danger was leashed. “What?”
Claire had to force out her voice. “If Josce killed him,” she made herself say, “it was by your orders.”
He simply turned and strode off toward the hall. Almost faint, Claire ran after, fearing there’d be blood spilled soon. Would he kill his squire to hide his guilt?
Josce was laughing with a group of young men, but Renald’s sharp command brought him at a run, freckles already dark against suddenly pale skin.
“Yes, lord? Is something the matter?”
“What were you doing talking to Ulric, Lord Clarence’s man, on the night he died?”
Instead of innocent confusion, guilty red flooded the young man’s face so that his freckles entirely disappeared. Feeling nauseous, Claire waited for confession, tempted to silence him somehow.
The squire licked his lips. “I just … just wanted to say sorry.”
“Sorry!”
Renald sounded as astonished as Claire felt. Sorry? For a murder not yet committed? If not, for what?
Josce looked at Claire, almost as if asking for intercession. Then he faced his lord again. “You wouldn’t let him travel home with Lord Clarence, my lord. It pretty well broke his heart. I know he would have wanted to be at the burial.”
Renald had his thumb tucked in his belt again, and one finger tapped against the studded leather. His jaw still twitched. He was still in a rage, though she couldn’t see why. Was a kind heart a sin to such a man?
“In his pack,” Renald said, “he had two shillings and some pennies.”
To Claire’s astonishment, Josce—except for the freckles—turned snow white. “I gave him the money,” he whispered.
Renald’s hand closed around his belt and Josce began to visibly tremble. Claire looked between them, lost.
“Tomorrow, you return to your father,” said Renald flatly. “On foot. Though I’ll send some men to make sure you get there.”
Josce’s lips quivered. “Yes, lord.”
“You understand why?”
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, my lord.”
Renald nodded. “Get out of my sight. Spend the night in the church and pray.”
Claire thought Josce would argue or beg, but he turned and walked off, looking as if he’d like to run.
What had just happened? Josce had offended by giving Ulric a few shillings? “What? What’s wrong with—”
“I trust you’re satisfied that he didn’t murder the man.” Renald’s eyes were flat as stones.
Claire tried to believe that Josce had killed Ulric at Renald’s command, but after this scene she couldn’t. “Maybe. But then … But why? You didn’t want Ulric to have any money? Did you hope to starve him to death?”
“We left him enough food for a week or more.” He turned and walked away, but then swung back.
“No more secrets. I didn’t want Ulric here to tell the tale until everything was settled, so I made sure he’d have a slow journey home.
If Josce hadn’t betrayed me, he would not have been here until it was all done. ”
“Betrayed? I wouldn’t say—”
A slash of his hand silenced her. “Speak no more of it.”
Her mouth dried. He was at the very limit of a ferocious rage. Over Josce? Or over something the young man might confess?
She made herself speak. “So you wanted to keep Ulric away, and when he turned up, you had him killed.”
“By Lucifer’s horns, if I’d wanted him dead, I’d have killed him in London!
” He suddenly rubbed a hand over his face.
“My word on this, Claire.” He looked straight into her eyes.
“On my soul and my hope of heaven, I did not kill Ulric. I did not order him killed. I did not condone his killing. I would never do something like that. As you pointed out in the case of your grandmother, it was unnecessary. I couldn’t keep the secret forever.
And to kill for such base ends would be murder.
I value my immortal soul more even than I value Summerbourne. And you.”
He stalked off to the hall and Claire tucked away her stylus, badly shaken. Not least by that And you.
Was it possible for him to have a true regard for her and yet to have killed her father?
Indeed it was.
That, put simply, was tragedy.
She recognized it because it sat as black misery within herself. She admitted the truth clearly for the first time. Deeply and forever, she loved her father’s murderer.
Numb with that, she headed for the peace and comfort of the garden, to the healing herbs, trying to think things through. Since the horrifying revelation in the wedding bower, she’d not been able to think logically about her situation. Now, walking the aromatic paths, she tried.
Renald was a man of war, a very blooded sword, but her heart believed that he was honorable for his sort.
She knew that when he could be he was kind.
However, she also knew that Summerbourne was a prize he valued.
Landless from a young age, he had hungered for land of his own, for a place where he could build a family, a dynasty.
And that explained his part in her father’s death. When ordered by the king to kill, the temptation had been too great and he had obeyed in order to win what he so dearly wanted. Because her father was a rebel, the world would not think that deed wrong, but she must.