Chapter 20 #2
Claire couldn’t see how it could help either, and she’d long since decided that she didn’t want to have the picture too clearly in her mind, but she said, ‘Tell me, then.”
He laced his hands, thinking, then said, “Your father was a traitor to the Crown.”
She opened her mouth, and he said, “Don’t interrupt.
He opposed the right of Henry Beauclerk to be King of England, and that is treason as far as Henry’s concerned.
Very few died in the rising, and the king had no desire to make matters worse by severe punishment.
Your father, like everyone else, was offered the chance to pay his allegiance to Henry and go home burdened with nothing more than a fine. ”
She frowned over that. “He was offered that, like everyone else?”
“You thought he was given no choice but to face me?”
She nodded. “But then why didn’t he—”
“He would not swear the oath.”
She remembered, so long ago, talking to Thomas about that. “There must have been many others in that state. Who could swear to the king they believed unrighteous?”
A brow twitched wryly. “Everyone else seems to have had a miraculous change of heart.”
“Everyone else? My father alone resisted?”
“Apart from those who fled into exile.”
“Then why wasn’t my father allowed to flee? At least we would still have him!”
He leaned forward slightly. “Because he wouldn’t go. He insisted on staying, and on saying that the king had no right to the throne. Friends, churchmen, even the king, all tried to talk him out of his stubborn stance.”
She shook her head. “You cannot talk a person out of what is right.”
She saw the knuckles of his laced hands whiten. “You’re just like him, except that he smiled more in his stubbornness.”
Hand to unsteady mouth, she said, “And made up jokes and riddles about it. I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“But he didn’t have to die. Even if the king had kept him in the Tower, what harm could my father do?”
He loosed his hands then, and laughed bitterly. “What harm? He could try to destroy a kingdom singlehanded. The king made a mistake. He had your father brought to a banquet. The king hoped that when he mingled with so many people who were willing to accept the situation—good people, honest people—”
“Cowardly people!” Claire flung at him, fearing that something was coming that would break down all her walls.
“Cowardly people, some of them, yes. Your father was no coward. But among so many, the king hoped that your father would see the error of his ways.”
Renald looked away then, doubtless into a past made vivid by his gift. “He kept the company enthralled with stories and riddles. He truly had a precious gift.”
“So why …?”
His eyes met hers. “Because he was both clever and resolute, and he had resolved to bring down a false king. At the end of the evening—the merriest evening the court could remember—he faced Henry and demanded his right to put the question of his guilt to ordeal by battle.”
Claire stared at him. “He demanded it?”
“On my oath. Henry couldn’t refuse. He couldn’t even try to argue him out of it, because it would look as if he did not believe in the justness of his cause.”
“And you were chosen to be his opponent.” Claire’s heart began to race, as she saw a tiny glow of hope. Her father had demanded it, and Renald, the champion, had been ordered to the task …
“I asked for the honor.”
“Asked for it!” She almost shot to her feet and ran, but she made herself stay. If she loved, could she not at least listen? “Why?”
She saw him note her shock, and her restraint.
“Claire, you are precious beyond rubies, beyond pearls, beyond breath. I was not, then, the king’s champion.
FitzRoger was. But he didn’t want the task, not least because Imogen was very fond of your father.
” His lips twitched. “Back then, I did not understand how love could make a man so change his ways.”
“Love?” she breathed, thinking of Imogen and her husband. Thinking of her own husband.
“Oh yes. I love you. As I never dreamed a man could love, I love you.”
It floated like a sunbeam in the room, but out of reach yet, for both of them.
“So you were given the task,” she said, not able to keep an edge out of her voice at that word. “But no. You asked for it. Why, if not for gain? Who seeks to kill an innocent man for noble reasons?”
“He was not innocent,” he said evenly. “He was a self-confessed rebel.”
“But the rebellion was just,” she countered.
He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he looked at her again and continued, “FitzRoger irritated an old wound—or that was the story told. Immediately, men were clamoring for the chance to oppose your father in the ordeal, even though it would be to the death. You know that?” he asked.
“Yes. But no one would seriously think themselves at risk fighting my father. It must have seemed an easy path to a reward. A task.”
“And a way to prove that they were true, ardent supporters of the king. A number of rebels were on their knees pleading for the chance to fight. After all, the king is refusing to give honors and gifts to those he thinks still secretly oppose him.”
“Is that all anything comes down to? Honors and gifts? What of right?”
“God would prove the right in the ordeal.”
She didn’t even try to hide the bitterness this time. “If that was true, my father would be alive. So, how did you come to be chosen for this mighty task?”
He seemed relaxed in the big chair, but she could tell that every part of him was tense. “The king wanted the best.”
“And you are the best?”
“After FitzRoger, yes.”
“Of course, if God truly spoke through the ordeal, that wouldn’t matter.”
“You don’t believe in the power of God?”
She rose then, restless under her own tangled thoughts. “I believe you all made a pact with the devil!”
“You believe Satan is stronger than God?”
She whirled away. “I don’t know what I believe! Go on with your story. Explain how noble you were to slaughter a man who could hardly wield a sword.”
His voice behind her sounded so level, so undisturbed. “The king also wanted the best so as to give your father an easy death.”
She turned back. “Is that going to be your excuse? That you killed my father quickly?”
“Not quickly, no. That would have been an insult. But cleanly. Do you know how men usually die in the ordeal by battle?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Exhausted and battered to death. Mail stops the blade from piercing, but it cannot stop the bruises, or the broken bones. To surrender is to die anyway, so the combatants stagger on until one can stagger no more. Then, if he has strength left, the victor can pierce the weaker one in the throat and put an end to it.”
Claire covered her face with her hands, thinking of her pretty mental pictures of Sebastian and the evil Count Tancred. “And this is your trade?”
“I’ve never fought in such a contest before, and I hope never to do so again. But I had the skill and strength to strike true, and with that sword, the ability to strike a killing blow through mail.”
She faced him. “But if my father had owned such a sword, he could have killed you.”
“No!” He shook his head. “No more than Thomas could kill me with that sword. Your father had no idea how to fight, no recent training to give him strength and agility, no stamina even. I had to work hard to make it look like an honorable contest. And that almost led to disaster.”
“He almost won?”
He looked at the sword. “I didn’t realize the true nature of that blade. I’d tested it, and knew it cut through mail, point or edge, but a blow at his shield cut right through the iron into wood. It jammed there. Your father was clever enough to try to take advantage. But not strong enough.”
He turned back to her. “Yes, if your father had been fit and strong, he could have destroyed a nation then. But he wasn’t. Why do we practice day after day, week after week from infancy? To gain and maintain strength and skill. It is not something a man can do by will alone!”
Claire bit her lip. “He thought he was Brave Child Sebastian. He thought God would provide.”
“So, what do you conclude from the result?”
“That there is no God in this land anymore.”
It lay there in the room, shattering glass and drowning sunbeams.
He rose and came to her. “Claire, fight! How can you not see that God spoke? That the ordeal was just.”
She retreated before him. “Because you were chosen for your strength. Because you had that sword. If the king had had true faith, he would have fought himself!”
“And both king and father would have suffered grievously.”
She was against the wall now, trapped, and he caged her with his strong arms. “Don’t you see,” she whispered, “it’s like the snake in the Garden, whispering how easy it would be. How easy just to accept that right is wrong, that lies are truth …”
He lowered his head and his lips touched the base of her throat. “I have told you the truth.”
“As you see it.” But instead of pushing at him, of fighting, Claire rolled her head back, opening herself to him.
His lips brushed softly in the sensitive hollow there, making her tremble. “I have no more words,” he murmured, “but I am a warrior. I fight.”
Up her neck, tongue and lips, scattering thought like feathers in a wind, smothering conscience. To her lips, her parted lips. “If I take you here,” he said, breath mingling with hers, “you are conquered.”
She felt only lips, heat, desire, and played her lips against his.
“Fight me, Claire,” he groaned. “Fight. Make me stop.” But his lips captured hers, and his body overwhelmed, and her biting hunger ruled her head.
But not—thank God and pity us—her conscience. Weakly, and from a distance, it made itself heard.
She wrenched her mouth free. “Stop.” It was the merest whisper, and her hands against his chest were like a fledgling’s wings. “We must not …”
He froze there, still braced rigid against the wall, then he pushed away, put the room between them.
“Fight, Claire,” he said again, back to her. “I cannot change the past, so you must try to see the truth. Or God have mercy on us both.”