In all, things were working out as well as could be expected. She had accomplished what she set out to accomplish, and all would be well.
If only she didn’t have this looming presentiment of utter and complete disaster.
“I’m not afraid of Simon of Navarre, or of marriage,” she said calmly. Lying.
Claire nodded, satisfied. “Then let’s go break the news to our dear brother. And see what alternative he has in store for me.”
Chapter Four
The Great Hall of Summersedge Keep was alive with activity that late morning. Richard had already broken his fast earlier that day, but he’d grown increasing fond of food and ale, and he ate heartily of bread and cheese and honey while he surveyed his motley household.
Simon of Navarre barely touched the food in front of him. He had few weaknesses, and food and drink were not numbered among them. He was far more interested in observing the inhabitants of the keep and their relationships with their lord and master.
Richard the Fair wasn’t quite a prince, though he doubtless wished he were. Second cousin to Henry the Third, the boy king, he could trace his lineage back to William the Conqueror, but then, so could countless others. He had a household of more than two hundred strong, knights and squires, family members and retainers, soldiers and servants. And of course, the castle magician. The wizard, the monster who haunted the corridors and frightened small children. The Grendel.
Simon of Navarre kept his expression calm and clear, ignoring the wary glances, the furtive crossing motions when his gaze would happen to drift across some hapless soul. Even the knights, stalwart and fearless in battle, would do their best to avoid his path. Men like Sir Thomas du Rhaymer would rather face a dozen battle axes than the spawn of the devil.
It was Sir Thomas who particularly amused Simon of Navarre. Sir Thomas, with the whoring wife and the stern morality. Sir Thomas, who never sinned and yet managed to spend a goodly time confessing to Brother Jerome his slightest transgressions.
Simon of Navarre had observed the look in Thomas’s eyes when he first gazed on Richard’s sisters. The pain, and the longing, quickly repressed when Claire had moved into view. Followed by disapproval as fierce as Thomas’s courage.
Which would prove stronger, Thomas’s stern morals or Claire’s wild beauty? The conflict would be interesting over the next few weeks, and distracting for a brother intent on evil deeds. If Claire didn’t do her part, Simon of Navarre had every intention of replacing Thomas with someone more tempting. Richard might think he had the running of his household, but in that he was deluded. For the past three years his wizard had seen to it that he got everything he wanted, and not a soul had interfered. Lady Hedwiga ignored his very existence, too absorbed in her solitude to bother with her household, and Richard was too intent on the pursuit of pleasure. Leaving Simon in power.
He didn’t think he was going to have to change Claire’s guardian, though. His instincts about such things were infallible, and the flighty Claire would be illogical enough to fancy a stern moralist such as Sir Thomas. Particularly a married one, forever out of her reach.
Indeed, as Lady Claire cast a glance over the assembled knights, her eyes lingered momentarily upon Thomas. Perhaps it was simply because he was staring at her with fixed disapproval. Perhaps it was because Thomas was undoubtedly an extremely handsome man.
Or perhaps it was just the beneficent workings of fate.
“Claire!” Richard shouted in greeting, dipping a piece of bread in his goblet of dark ale. “Come sit between me and your future husband and tell us what you wish of us. I’ve a mind to give you a jeweled collar that belongs to my lady wife. Hedwiga has a thick neck but a very great deal of money, and now she has embraced God and eschewed decoration, including her jewels. It would look far prettier on your slender neck.”
The beauty had torn her gaze away from Sir Thomas’s, and she now looked at her brother with confused dismay, stealing a glance at his companion as well.
So the elder sister had promised her all would be well, Simon of Navarre surmised, and now she didn’t know what to believe. He wondered how much Alys remembered of the previous night. The wine had been drugged, and she was already weary and nervous when she approached the solitude of his tower rooms. He’d been both astonished and enchanted by her temerity. There were few men who would dare seek out his presence, and no women. With the exception of this plain, fierce little wren.
She was there, of course, blending in with the somberly-dressed serving women. Her gown today was even more dreary than the brown thing she had worn yesterday, something he wouldn’t have thought possible. It was too long for her small frame, too large to show her plump curves to advantage. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her pale face, and she looked as if she were in pain. He suspected she was. The potion she’d drunk down so heartily the night before exacted its own penance by the following morning, with a pounding head and a roiling stomach, particularly if one was unused to it.
She was looking at him as well, with a combination of hope and confusion. Perhaps she thought she’d dreamed her encounter with him last night. After all, she had slept like the dead when he’d had her borne back to her own rooms.
He hadn’t wanted to let anyone else touch her, but he couldn’t risk being seen. He’d had Piers, a strong young man with no interest in members of the opposite sex, lift her up in his arms and carry her with a maternal tenderness, and Simon of Navarre
