Chapter 25 #2
It was a direct challenge and carried a warning.
The king was commanding her to accept his right.
Yesterday it might have pushed her into disaster despite her vow to Renald.
Today she could say, “It upsets me, sire, as is only natural. But not through any fault of yours. It was a death, and a death I would have prevented if I could.”
“As would I,” said the king shortly. “So, what happened to his book? I would like to read what he made of that sorry rebellion.”
She had to tell him of its loss.
Another royal frown. “You cannot have searched well enough! I will have the location from Lord Renald and send out more men. And you should be more careful with something so precious.”
This so closely echoed Felice, that Claire smiled.
“You laugh?” he asked sharply.
“No, sire.” Claire struggled for an acceptable explanation.
“Or yes, but only because everyone is always saying that of me. It is a sad failing. I lost my own book at Summerbourne not long ago. And someone chided me for leaving it by a window …” She trailed off, seeking to pin down who that had been.
Felice? She didn’t think so, yet it seemed important that she remember …
“Lady Claire!” The king’s voice was sharp and Claire found herself helped to a bench by the king’s own hand. She blinked up at him. “Have I so distressed you that you turn faint?”
Now the queen was there, fussing, and all her ladies were gathering. “No, sire. I apologize. I must still be tired from the journey.”
“And doubtless the queen has demanded too many riddles. I come to escort the queen to witness the contests. I hope you are not too weak to attend, for you are to have a place of honor.”
It was virtually a command, so Claire said, “Not at all, sire,” and rose to take his hand. He gave the other to the queen and led them both out.
At least during the progress to the stand Claire had some opportunity to think, for the queen chattered all the way.
Who had accused her of being careless with a book? And why did she feel it was important? She couldn’t really be accused of carelessness with her father’s book, except in bringing it on the journey at all.
Claire found herself seated at the queen’s right hand and victim of Matilda’s inane chatter. She thanked heaven she was not a lady of the court, obliged to put up with this day after day.
However, Claire became truly interested in the sport. Horse riding and archery had a kind of beauty, and quarter-staff fighting was rather like the sword dance. Though she knew a stone from a slingshot could kill, she couldn’t see the target practice as unpleasant.
She definitely enjoyed watching the young men doing acrobatics in their chain mail to show their strength and agility. When she spotted Josce among them, she cheered him on.
But when the events turned to swordplay, sadness assailed her. These men were all so well-honed. She couldn’t forget that her father had left his books and his rabbit-fur rug to challenge their world.
Assailed by the clang and grunt of it, she began to shake. This was all leading up to Renald fighting, and she had to be ready to accept it. She couldn’t fail. She couldn’t! Yet already she was shaken by a panicky reaction she couldn’t control.
By the time he and FitzRoger came out to fight, she wished he’d be nibbled to death by ferrets. Then, perhaps, he’d know how she felt.
They walked into the open space prepared for them, two men of iron. Despite their different builds, they were alike in one thing—the ease with which they moved within their armor. Like fish in water or birds in the air, they were in their natural metier, and beautiful.
The stand was crowded with nobles, and many of the court had joined the castle folk in the rough circle within which the two men would fight. Children sat at the front, eager for the entertainment. No one wanted to miss this treat, to miss seeing prime predators in action.
Try as she might, Claire couldn’t avoid seeing Renald as the dark warrior who had come to claim Summerbourne. Mail covered him to the knee, belted at the waist. His coif was up, his helmet laced. He was ready to kill.
But then, with a start, she realized he was different, and not only because she knew him now, and loved him. Today, he was relaxed and completely unwary. He smiled as he chatted to his opponent, then laughed at something FitzRoger said, teeth white.
FitzRoger was dressed exactly the same, though no one could mistake one man for the other. In mail, Renald looked solid, massive, like the warhorse she had once likened him to. FitzRoger was much leaner, and his mail seemed to flow over him, making him like a gray wolf on the prowl.
Claire’s panic twisted into other ways as she recognized the danger in this man. He was better than Renald, by Renald’s cheerful admission. If this were a true fight, he would win and Renald would die.
Already, she didn’t want to see this.
“Are you all right, Lady Claire?” The queen’s voice seemed to come from a distance, but Claire made herself turn and smile.
“Oh yes, Highness.”
“You seem a little pale. Perhaps it’s the heat. Wine!” she commanded sharply, and Claire found herself clutching a goblet. The wine shivered in echo of her trembling hands.
She raised the cup and managed to drink without spilling, and the strong wine did steady her.
In fact, her spurt of terror seemed ridiculous now, with the two combatants chatting to the king.
But then she became fretful in a more practical way.
They were just like Thomas and his friends, laughing about taking risks.
True, they were armored and their swords were blunted, but as she’d always been telling her brother, accidents could happen.
Then the king said, “At it, my friends, and fight well.”
Renald turned to her and held out his hand. She put hers in it, hoping it didn’t feel chill and unsteady. Perhaps it did, for his smile faded. “Alas,” he said, kissing her fingers, “I can’t promise to win for your glory, my dear wife. I can only promise to fight my best.”
She tightened her fingers over his. “Just be careful. Be safe.”
“But safe is boring!” He grinned and kissed her hand again. “Wish me well.”
She raised their joined hands and kissed his fingers. “Of course I do.” She remembered when he’d left Summerbourne to fight, left without a blessing. “God go with you,” she said.
Perhaps he remembered, too, for his eyes turned deep for a moment before he turned to walk into the center.
FitzRoger kissed Imogen on the lips then joined his friend. Imogen smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. They’ve done this lots of times.”
Claire really wasn’t worried about their safety. She was worried she would react in the wrong way, causing Renald to refuse to complete the marriage. He was capable of that kind of sacrifice.
Very well, then. She was a wolf’s bride. She would act the part.
Each man slipped his long shield onto his left arm, and took his sword in his right. No special swords today, for these were blunt. Supposedly safe. They could still break bones, and—as she had pointed out to him—a man could die of a broken bone.
He’d said the same of court battles. That often the fight was won by battering blows.
She wanted to cross herself and pray.
The squires moved back out of the way, and Claire tried desperately to relax. She could not afford to show fear!
Within moments, her hands gripped one another.
If they fought for show, it was to show violence!
The first blows had not been fierce, but now the clang of metal on metal shrieked the ferocity of their attack.
They held nothing back. Sweeping sword blows crashed and Claire could feel the impact against the blocking shield.
She saw the jolt of it, the dents and splinters, saw how impossible it would be to halt.
One slip and a sword would burst flesh and bone.
From time to time, both men staggered under the brute force of a blow caught slightly amiss. It didn’t seem to halt them for a moment. She saw Renald grin.
Not grimace with effect. Grin!
Nibbled to death by rabid dogs while rolling in nettles and stung by wasps …
Sliding out the other side of panic, Claire saw the wildness was an illusion, that control was almost absolute. She could even appreciate, with horrified fascination, something very like the sword dance.
Both men moved in balance, knees flexed, rooted to the earth. The fiercest blows only rocked them. They anticipated and reacted almost perfectly. From years of experience, they probably knew just what the other would do.
However, it wasn’t a dance. Both were alert for the smallest mistake, anything that might give the victory.
Oh yes, show fight or not, they both fought to win.
She began to think they were too well-balanced, and that they’d dance themselves into exhaustion.
Then FitzRoger made a different kind of move, and almost succeeded in knocking Renald’s sword out of his hand.
In a wild recover, Renald’s shield clipped the edge of his friend’s helmet, knocking the man to his knees.
Everyone gasped.
Renald thrust at his friend’s throat. FitzRoger could not block it! Surrounded by gasps and a few screams, Claire covered her eyes, but peeped.
Instead of trying to block, FitzRoger gave into the fall and rolled flat, coming to his feet like a cat just out of sword’s reach. Amazingly, both men laughed and took a moment to recover as the crowd cheered its approval of the moment.
Show fight or not, everyone was caught up in it. Claire realized some of the nearby men were wagering. FitzRoger was the clear favorite.
A page offered her more wine, and she gulped it greedily.
“An interesting move, that,” said the king. “Clearly needs work, though.”
“Lord FitzRoger will have a sore head,” said the queen. “They must both be growing tired. Should you perhaps stop it, my lord? We don’t want the groom too tired for his night’s bout.”