Chapter 25 #3
Claire’s face heated, but she hoped fervently that the king would agree. Her nerves wouldn’t take much more of this.
The king didn’t speak, however, and the fight continued.
That was when Claire saw everything change.
FitzRoger took control.
It reminded her again of the sword dance, of the way Renald had mastered Lambert of Vayne.
It was only a subtle change at first—Renald had to work harder to match the strokes.
She thought perhaps it was something in the angle of attack, and the rhythm.
Whatever it was, Renald could only cope.
He could no longer make an attacking move.
She realized she was leaning forward, hands over mouth, praying for a miracle that would give Renald a chance. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was a kind of battle fever.
She wanted her man to win.
It wasn’t to be. FitzRoger somehow put Renald off balance, and beat his sword wide with his shield. At the same moment, he knocked aside Renald’s shield enough to threaten his heart with his blade.
Renald threw out his arms in surrender.
The gasp this time was followed by a beat of silence on the stand. Then the common people began to cheer, tossing hats into the air, and chatter started all around her.
Claire noted, however, that the king’s hands were clenched tight on the arms of his chair. Had there really been danger there?
Behind her, Claire heard someone say, “That move. But—”
It was almost as if he’d been silenced.
Perhaps it had been improper, if they had rules to their deadly games. Claire was more interested in watching Renald, wanting to be sure that he wasn’t hurt.
He and FitzRoger seemed completely relaxed.
They unlaced helmets and tossed them to waiting attendants.
As they strolled back to the stand, they pushed back coifs to let the breeze cool sweat-damp hair.
They were chatting, doubtless going over the fight in detail, as if it had all been the greatest fun.
Which it probably had been.
For them.
“A strange end, that,” said the queen, nibbling on an almond. “It wouldn’t be a killing blow, that, to the chest.”
“Unless the sword could go through mail,” said the king.
“But they can’t, can they?”
Claire’s breath caught. Of course. No wonder people were surprised that a threatened strike at the chest had been seen as deadly, but some—including the king—had recognized the meaning. If FitzRoger had been wielding Renald’s dark blade, the thrust could have been deadly.
That last move had been a reenactment of the blow that had killed her father.
Claire couldn’t think of a nibbling awful enough.
She was sure that fight—the end of it, at least—had followed the pattern of her father’s death fight.
Renald was making her face what he was, and what he had done.
He had played the part of her father, while FitzRoger had been the executioner.
The difference in skill level was not as great, but as Renald had no real chance of defeating FitzRoger, it had been the same in the end.
If she wanted to, she could put her father in Renald’s place. She could see him fighting at first in some sort of control, then how in the end he’d been outmatched and Renald had moved in for the kill.
The quick, the skillful, kill.
Renald and FitzRoger were before the king now. Henry’s hands had relaxed, but he didn’t look pleased. “I trust you have made your point, Lord Renald.”
“I hope so, sire.”
“I think you could have had him when he went down.”
“Perhaps. In your cause, sire, I would have pursued.”
“Make sure you do. And you, FitzRoger, that move was not yet ready for combat.”
“How better to perfect it, sire, than to try it against a good opponent? I may need it one day in your service.”
“But why bother,” asked the queen, “when God will decide?”
Claire saw a flicker of communication between the men which probably translated into, “Women!”
The king said, “But my dear, just as I expect my men to train to be fit to do my will, so God expects the same of us all. Should we tax Him to use inferior tools?”
“God is omnipotent, Henry.”
“But prefers that His people on earth make suitable attempts to take care of themselves. Come, my dear. No more theology. See, they are setting up for more archery.” He turned back to the combatants.
“Go rest, my friends, and have your muscles eased. You, especially, Lord Renald, should not exhaust yourself.”
Claire knew she’d turned red again, and when Imogen slipped into the seat beside her, she grimaced at her.
“Isn’t it strange how everyone talks about it?” Imogen asked. “I’m quite glad to have had a quick and stark wedding.”
“I had a feast with all my family and friends. It was lovely, until I found out the truth.”
Imogen squeezed her hand. “Are you feeling better about it? If not, we can probably arrange something—”
“Renald,” Claire interrupted, glaring at her departing husband. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”
“He doesn’t want you to feel forced.”
“Hence the macabre sword fight! I could hit him over the head with a rock, and not for his good, either.”
Imogen giggled. “Clearly you love him madly.”
Claire had to laugh. “Clearly I do. But I want no more of his fairness, thank you. My nerves can’t take it. I wish I could speak to him now and tell him I’ve resolved it in my mind.”
“I don’t think you can follow him to the bath.”
“It’s tempting, believe me. I’d like to settle this before we move to other things.”
“Bed-play.” Imogen’s eyes twinkled.
Claire eyed her. She wasn’t a friend like Margret, but she was a young woman not long married. After a quick glance around, she asked, “Do you like it?”
“Bed-play? Yes indeed. Are you nervous?”
“A little.” She couldn’t speak of her first wedding night, but she said, “I don’t really know what to do.”
“Don’t worry. Renald does.” She rose. “The queen’s leaving.”
Matilda turned to them. “My lord husband wishes to hunt,” she said. “We poor ladies will be left to our own devices. Lady Imogen, you may play for us.”
Claire looked for a chance to slip off to speak to Renald, but found none.
A queen’s court, she was discovering, left as little freedom as a convent.
She soon learned anyway, that he and FitzRoger had been dragged out of their baths to join the hunting party.
She certainly hoped her husband was as robust as he seemed.
At least with Imogen and some others commanded to perform, Claire didn’t have to amuse. She could think at last about books left by windows. Who had said that, and why was it important … ?
The music was excellent, however, and her mind too giddy with thoughts of the night. Instead of logical analysis, she drifted through the long afternoon in spicy dreams.