Chapter 24 #2
Imogen slid to her feet. “I’ve chattered too much and tired you even more. I’ll send your ladies.”
“No.” Claire put out a hand to stop her. “It’s only that your story makes me think. About my father.” She wasn’t ready to pursue her interrupted thoughts openly, so she addressed another. “I love Renald, but I’m still uneasy in my mind about the fact that he killed my father.”
“As I would be. But it was a court battle.”
“But such an unequal one!”
“Before God, that doesn’t matter.”
Claire searched Imogen for a trace of doubt. “Do you believe that?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Yes. So I can’t see how my father lost.”
Claire knew she should keep her counsel, but she had to talk to someone and Imogen seemed to have a sharp insight. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I still feel that the king murdered his brother, so if God had a hand in that battle, my father should have won.”
Imogen pushed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “But that wasn’t what the trial was about.”
Claire stared at her. “It wasn’t? What then?”
“Your father’s treason, and thus the king’s right to the throne.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Not really. It’s all to do with elections and consent and things. I don’t pay much attention. But would you rather have Duke Robert ruling England through de Bellême and his like?” When Claire didn’t answer, Imogen shook her head. “I’m chattering again. I’ll call your maids.”
Stunned by the new idea, by a light as hopeful as dawn, Claire had to know one more thing. “Stop a moment! How did your cheek get scarred?”
Imogen turned at the door, touching the long pale line. “Do you think FitzRoger did it? Poor man. Everyone thinks he’s harsh, but truly, he isn’t. Or not unless he has to be,” she added carelessly.
Oh yes, Imogen had changed.
“He’d never willingly hurt me,” she continued, without a trace of doubt.
“This happened when I was escaping Warbrick’s men.
I smashed the lanthorn and a jagged piece of the horn cut me.
” She smiled, still stroking the mark. “I was afraid he’d be disgusted by me.
It looked awful when it was healing, and there was my hair as well.
But he pointed out all his scars. He’s a good man.
So’s Renald. And Renald’s a great deal sweeter. ”
She disappeared, calling for the maids. Claire stayed on the bed, buffeted by a dozen new thoughts, all of them hopeful.
Renald and FitzRoger were up on the wall—one of the few private places in the crowded castle. Guards patrolled, but they were not many in a time when no danger threatened, and they knew to keep their distance.
Renald gave his friend a brief account of the last few months.
Leaning back against the battlements, FitzRoger asked, “Do you regret taking the task for me?”
“No.” After a moment, he added, “I love her.”
“Clearly.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Perhaps only to a friend. What worries you?”
Renald grimaced. “Terrifies, more like. I’ve made her swear an oath, but … She believes that the king had his brother killed—”
“So does most of England.”
“But she thinks that means her father’s cause was just. Therefore the fight was unfair. She hates everything about it.” He told his friend about the betrothal banquet and the sword.
“Salisbury, as you say, trying the indirect route.”
“And Claire has made me promise not to act against him over it. He’s her godfather.”
“It’s probably as well. Henry wants things to settle, not be stirred.”
“At least that attack on the road may have convinced her that fighting skills are not all evil. But what if her beliefs overwhelm her promise, and she accuses Henry to his face?”
FitzRoger winced. “She’s sworn not to?”
“I forced her.” Renald pulled a face. “I threatened to break her leg if she didn’t.”
“A bit crude.”
“What else was I to do? Refuse the king’s ‘invitation’? Claim she was ill and lock her up? Even if we could pull off the deception, her people would release her.”
“Could you have done it? Injured her?”
“Could you?” Renald countered.
After a thoughtful moment, FitzRoger shrugged. “Yes. Just as Imogen would knock me unconscious again. Love drives us to strange behaviors. And speaking of love …”
Little in his face showed his feelings as Imogen climbed the wooden stairs to join them, holding her veil against the breeze.
“Oh, pest,” she said, and pulled off both headcloth and circlet, leaving her cinnamon curls to be tossed by the wind.
“Renald, I think you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve told your bride all about my folly and punishment, and blown away some of her fears.
She seemed to think poor FitzRoger had split open my face.
” She went into Renald’s arms for a hug and a kiss.
“You, however, are looking weighed down by cares, my friend.”
“While you are blooming, little flower.”
She smiled and went to stand by FitzRoger. “Three months’ blooming, though it hardly shows yet.”
“Congratulations.”
FitzRoger moved a finger to play in her hair and she smiled. Renald watched, wondering if he and Claire could ever achieve the peaceful connection he saw between these two. They’d started in acrimony, but not with a father’s death between them.
“I think she’ll consummate the marriage tomorrow,” he said.
FitzRoger’s brows rose. “You don’t look particularly happy about it.”
“It won’t mean much if she still thinks it’s wrong.” He laughed wryly. “If I’d had any sense, I would have taken her into the bushes and done it when she was exalted by battle fever on the road.”
“With a murderer on hand? Highly unwise. Who do you think was behind that?”
“I have no idea. No one has any reason to wish Claire dead. But if they did, an arrow could have done it. Why drag her away?”
“Rape?” asked Imogen, then answered herself. “No, they can’t have thought they’d have time. Could they have thought her someone else?”
“I don’t see how.”
“At least she’s safe now.”
“Is she? She said the other man, the one who’d paid, sounded Norman. He could come here.”
“We’ll put guards on her when she’s not by your side,” said FitzRoger.
“Which will be rarely if I have my say.”
“Ah, how sweet to see another man victim to a woman’s power.”
Imogen elbowed him in the ribs. “And here am I, weak for love.”
FitzRoger turned her face to his. “Is that a seductive request, wife?”
Her color flared. “We’ve been sharing other beds for three nights now—”
“How true. And had scarce a minute to steal during the day. Renald, go away.”
“But I have so many matters I wish to discuss,” Renald teased.
FitzRoger never stopped smiling into his wife’s eyes. “Go, or die.”
As Renald left, laughing, he heard her say, “The place is too crowded. We can’t—”
He grinned, sure that his friend would find a way. After all, failing all else, the massive walls of Carrisford keep were riddled with secret passageways. He’d check later for cobwebs in their hair.
Claire woke to darkness in a strange room, and it took a moment for her to remember where she was. But darkness? An oblong of paler dark showed where the window was, proof that it must be night. She’d lain on the bed to think, and must have fallen asleep. She still had her clothes on.
There were bodies in the bed with her, and she assumed they were her maids. She shook the one closest. “Wake up.”
“Wha… ? Oh, lady!”
Claire recognized the voice. “Maria, I need to piss. Where should I go?”
“We have a pot, lady.” Maria scrambled out of bed, waking Prissy.
“Do you need anything else, lady?” Prissy asked sleepily.
Claire hated to send her off around the castle in the middle of the night, but she was desperately hungry. “Something to eat and drink,” she said as she climbed out of bed to use the pot.
“We have food.” Prissy could be heard stumbling over something on the floor. She brought over a wooden box.
Claire opened it and felt inside. “What’s here?”
“Only cheese and bread, lady. And we have watered wine.” She brought a wooden cup and Claire drank thirstily.
“You can both go back to sleep. I can feed myself.”
The maids tumbled back into the bed and in moments she heard their soft sleep-breathing.
A lifetime of sleeping with her aunts had taught Claire never to leave an empty space or the others would take it over, so she sat on the bed to eat and go over her thoughts.
Perhaps her brain had been working on the situation as she slept, for it all seemed clear to her now.
Her father had fought to establish his innocence of treason—which meant that the question became whether Henry was rightful King of England or not.
Perhaps if he’d fought on the question of whether the king had killed his brother, he might—by the power of God—have won.
The king’s right to rule, however, did not hinge on whether he’d killed the former king or not.
Why hadn’t she seen that before?
In history, rulers frequently took power by conquest and slaughter.
Claire knew a bit more about laws and the English crown than Imogen did. The king was elected by the great lords. The wishes of the last king were taken into account, and the crown generally went to the oldest legitimate son, but it still had to be ratified by election.
So, did Henry Beauclerk have the right to the throne? He was, as Renald said, acclaimed by the nobles and anointed by the Church.
And Imogen was right. Who would want Robert of Normandy ruling here, particularly when his supporters included such devils as de Bellême?
It was quite possible, therefore, that her father had asked a question—did Henry have the right to the throne of England—to which the answer was yes. Henry had the right because he was the choice of most men, and he was the best suited to bear good fruit.
And thus, her father had died without any need of cheating.
Truly, Claire wished she’d had the vision to see this months ago.
Then she might have had the courage to do as Imogen had done and prevent her father by force from taking the path to death.
But now, she could throw off her doubts of evildoing.
She could never forget that Renald had struck her father’s deathblow, but she understood now why he felt no guilt.
At least that riddle was solved.
Perhaps, as Renald had said, life didn’t neatly fall into good and bad, virtue and vice. If her father had understood that, if he’d steeped himself more in the confusion of real life, perhaps he wouldn’t have died.
Claire sighed, popping the last of the cheese into her mouth. If she’d seen more of real life, perhaps she would have recognized the danger in time to prevent it.
Renald had threatened to injure her so she wouldn’t be able to come to court. He’d been willing to hurt her to protect her from even greater danger. She knew she would do the same for him if the case ever arose.
She, like Imogen, would rather give pain and risk punishment than watch the death of anyone she loved.
Nearby, Renald lay sleepless on a straw mattress on the floor of a crowded room, surrounded by the snuffles, snores, and smell of a dozen sleeping men. There was a bit more space than there should have been, however, because FitzRoger was not here.
Clearly having bethought themselves of the secret passageways, the host and hostess had settled in there. What were damp and a few rats when lovers wanted to be together?
As he wanted to be with Claire.
As they would be this time tomorrow, God willing.
He worried, though.
No secrets lay between them now, but his very nature did. Despite the ambush on the road, her rescue, and her own burst of violence, he wondered whether she would always be uneasy with the fact that he must fight and kill.
He didn’t revel in violence, but he didn’t flinch from it, either. He was good at fighting, he enjoyed the fire of it, and it was all too often necessary to protect the things he valued.
He valued Claire—that was too mild a term for a passion that now ruled his life. If she came to him troubled, however, their love would shatter under the strain.
He’d rather lose her than cause her that sort of pain.
Suddenly, he had an idea of how to test the blade before it struck. He hesitated, because any tested blade could fail, but better now than later. He put his hands under his head and thought the whole thing through.