Chapter 23
Urgent organization for a journey provided an escape of sorts.
By the time they rode off into the morning mist, Claire hadn’t had much time to think over her problems, and she was glad of it.
If it were possible, she’d ride away from them entirely—ride into the mist with Renald and never have to think of right and wrong again.
She had visited her mother just before leaving and found her rather better, which in fact was rather worse. It seemed that Felice had gone to protest to Lady Murielle about being left behind. This had pulled Claire’s mother out of melancholy and into rage.
Felice seemed to have convinced her that Claire was hot for Renald and intended to consummate the marriage without complaint.
“Unfeeling child!” her mother had screamed at her. “Ungrateful daughter! How can you think of such a man even touching you with his bloodstained hands?”
“Mother, I—”
“I’ve seen you looking at him. Everyone has.”
“No!”
“Drooling over the man who killed your gentle father in cold blood.”
And that silenced Claire because it was true.
When her mother’s harangue sank to mutters, Claire said, “If I escape the marriage, Felice may take my place. Will you scream at her, too?”
Lady Murielle turned away. “She’s not my daughter. Not Clarence’s daughter. Anyway, I won’t be here. I’m moving to St. Frideswide’s. I understand you have promised the king’s cup as payment.”
Claire thought wryly that she should never have expected Mother Winifred to turn away from that temptation. But it was a solution to part of the problems. Her mother clearly couldn’t stay here.
“You can join me there if you wish,” her mother added. “If you stay pure. Send Thomas to me.”
Claire had kissed her mother’s cold cheek and left.
She had not sent Thomas. He was coming with them to join Henry’s household, and despite the pain of parting, she knew he’d be better off there.
As long as he didn’t have simmering rebellion inside him.
He seemed resigned, but it was so hard to tell.
Renald was now riding beside her in mail and helmet. It had been a shock, she couldn’t deny it, to see him like that in the chilly morning, and yet there had been good in it. This was reality, and she still loved. If only the love was possible.
“How’s Thomas?” he asked.
She wasn’t surprised that he seemed attuned to her thoughts. “If he’s upset at all, I think it’s that he’ll soon be separated from Josce. You’ve been kind to him.”
“I am by nature kind.”
And she knew that was true.
“He’s a good lad with high spirit,” he continued. “He’ll do well if he doesn’t let his mischievousness take him too far.”
“I do worry—”
“Don’t. He’ll doubtless feel the birch a few times. It will do him no harm. And believe it or not, Henry will have a care for him.”
“Out of guilty conscience, I suppose.”
But he met her eyes steadily. “No more than I.”
He rode off to check the long line of horsemen and pack animals, leaving her shaking her head.
The only sense to it seemed to be that she had a completely different view of right and wrong from the rest of the world.
Perhaps it was inherited, for the same thing seemed to have sent her father to his death.
Claire wondered if Renald had said anything to Thomas about not opposing the king. He’d feel more than the birch for that. She didn’t think her brother was interested in politics, but he could be as impulsive as she. She called him to ride alongside.
“Do you think you’ll enjoy court life?”
“I don’t know.”
“You won’t have any problems with serving the king?”
He glanced at her. “Should I?”
“By the rood, no. But after Father—”
“I don’t think I’m old enough to understand these things. So I will serve him according to my honor.”
Claire smiled, sure she heard an echo of something Renald had said. “Good. I, too, don’t intend to stir up trouble.” Her vow bound her to that, but with sudden insight, she added, “After all, if any wrong has been done, God will amend it.”
Thomas brightened. “Josce said that.”
“And it’s true. We don’t have to make a point of trying to correct such wrongs.” Of course one day Thomas would have to choose whether to take his oath of loyalty to the king, but that was years away.
He was chattering now. “Josce says the king has dozens of pages, and they get up to all kinds of things! It’ll be fun to have so many boys of my own age and station. And he says I’ll have arms and armor fitted to my size for training. And …”
Claire listened, smiling, thanking heaven that this part, at least, might work out well.
Her mother would be content enough in the convent. And, whatever happened, Lady Agnes would have her place in Summerbourne. Felice might end up with exactly the sort of husband she wanted.
She looked to where Renald was riding with some men. The only ones to suffer would be she and him, and all she had to do to avert that was to see that her father’s death had been legal and righteous.
She sighed.
Could she hand that over to God, too? It seemed to her that people were supposed to make moral choices.
Most of the time they rode at a walk to spare the horses, so the company chatted and sang.
Then one man started to tell a story, and that made Claire think of her father’s journal.
She’d brought it with her, hoping for a chance to read it, hoping that something in it would cut through the tangled knot of her dilemma.
She pulled the book out of her bag and settled to read.
Miles passed, and she was deep in the story when Renald came alongside again. “Your father’s book? Can you tell me what he says?”
The calm between them now was heartbreaking. “It’s maddening in a way,” she said. “I think he was as confused as I am much of the time. He had a low opinion of the rebellion. He thought too many of Duke Robert’s supporters were self-serving.”
He nodded. “Drawn by promises of powerful positions in the kingdom.”
“He detested Robert de Bellême and his brothers.”
“Hardly surprising.”
His big warhorse put him inches higher than her, so she had to look up. “Is it true de Bellême so abused his poor wife that she died of it?”
“So rumor says.”
She sighed. “Father—or rather, the Brave Child Sebastian—struggles with these issues. He even questions the justice of the cause.”
“Would to God he’d questioned more.”
She couldn’t help but say, “Amen. He was much troubled by the company he kept. He writes of knowing a tree by the fruit it bears.”
Renald shrugged. “As for that, there were doubtless as many rogues on our side.” He twisted to look up and down the line. “We’d best stop to rest the horses soon.” He rode off to give the orders, leaving Claire exasperated.
Was neither side of anything right or wrong?
As they fed and watered the horses, the humans refreshed themselves, too, wandering around to stretch their legs. Claire read as she walked, still seeking a magic message in her father’s writings.
Doubtless to counter the “bad fruit,” her father listed the good men who supported Duke Robert, including the Earl of Salisbury and Eudo of Peel. Eudo? Claire squinted at it, but that was definitely what it said. Her father must have referred to Eudo’s ardent support of the cause.
It seemed many of these men felt uncertain.
Though uncertain didn’t seem to be quite the term for her father’s mind.
Troubled, yes, uncertain, no. She came to the passage she’d found earlier, where the Brave Child Sebastian rose before the company to speak eloquently about the justice of their cause, telling the story of the bad king who brought ruin on his land.
She looked around at peaceful, lush countryside. The heavy rain, though miserable at the time, had spurred a burst of new growth. England seemed to be prospering rather than falling into ruin. Was that a sign?
Everyone knew that Henry Beauclerk had promised a return to law and order, and word was that the roads everywhere were already safer. True, some harsh punishments of brigands and outlaws had been necessary, but that was fair in such a cause.
She was pondering links between the placid idyll around her and the king’s right to the throne, when one of the horses reared with a shrill whinny. A hoof knocked over a tub of grain, creating a minor chaos of horses, men, and spilled feed.
In every idyll an occasional wasp will fly, she thought with a wry smile.
A sharp cry to her right startled her, as if someone had hurt themselves. She walked around a bush to see if she could help.
And was immediately seized.
A hand over her mouth stopped her cry. A strong arm confined her as she was dragged, kicking and writhing, farther from the camp. The book—the precious book—slipped from her hands and she moaned a special cry at that, fighting even harder.
“Claire?”
At Renald’s call she tried desperately to clear her mouth, but she was helpless. When her skirt caught on a branch, it was ripped free as her captor—captors, for there were a number of men about her—desperately dragged her away.
Then Renald bellowed, “To me! To your lady!” and she heard him coming after, crashing through the woods. She struggled as fiercely as she could, doing anything to cause delay.
“Kill her,” someone said, low-voiced.
Claire’s captor halted. Another man turned to her, drawing a wicked knife. She watched in horror as he stepped forward grinning.
She’d once thought Renald without a soul. Now she knew what it truly meant.
Grin turned to rictus as a thrown blade thudded into his chest. Her captor’s hold slackened for a moment and she twisted an arm free, slashing up with her fist. More by luck than skill she caught him in the throat and he went down, choking.
Claire whirled, looking for other dangers. Where was the man who had ordered her killed? The only sign was a crashing as he fled. She spun back to other noises.
Three men were attacking Renald.
His thrown knife had saved her life. Now he fought for his own against sword, ax, and quarterstaff.