The Slayer's Redemption Read online

  “Aye, sir.” The soldier bounded into the gatehouse and jogged down the narrow stairs.

  Christian heard the shouts below him. It took several men to lift the heavy crossbar from its slot. He hoped they could slam it into place again at once. He heard the crossbar roll to one side. Not too far, he cautioned silently.

  There came an unmistakable roar of voices. Before his eyes, the very ground seemed to rise as men, disguised by mats of straw across their backs, leaped up and raced toward the castle with their swords raised. At the same time, the sound of thunder ripped Christian’s gaze to the edge of the oak forest where shadows now took the form of distinct silhouettes. Men on horseback exploded across the field in a second wave.

  “Close the gate!” he roared down to his men.

  They struggled now to shut the gate against the foot soldiers who threw themselves against it, hoping to push their way inside. Though the woman had been a ruse to get the gates open, she now howled like a cat gone mad, seeming truly distraught that she’d been denied entrance. The crossbar rumbled back into its slot, effectively locking her and the army out. The force of it reverberated under Christian’s feet.

  He turned his attention to the second wave. The enemies' horses devoured the remaining distance to the wall. Ferguson was easiest to find, betrayed by the burnished beard that jutted from beneath his helm. He wielded his signature battle-axe in lieu of a sword.

  Out of the Scot’s leering mouth came the command to halt. His men pulled hard at the reins, out of range of Christian’s soldiers’ arrows. Horses reared up in whinnying protest. With a furious gesture, Ferguson bellowed for his men to retreat and the woman in the shift to return to him.

  Christian cursed at his cowardice. “Bows down!” he called to his men, who had readied their crossbows again.

  He did not want the woman accidentally struck while his men sought to pick off their enemies.

  The woman refused to come. In response to Ferguson’s orders, several of his foot soldiers grabbed her and began to drag her away. All the while, they looked over their shoulders, fearful of being struck by the Slayer’s arrows.

  “Bows down,” Christian repeated, ignoring the incredulous glares his men now sent him as it would have been an easy thing to pick off Scot's men.

  Instead, he watched with interest as Ferguson leaned down from his horse to haul the woman onto the saddle in front of him. Her stricken face was the mold from which Clare’s own features had been cast.

  With a flash of insight Christian guessed the truth. The rumors returned to him of how Ferguson had seized Heathersgill by killing Edward du Boise and forcing his widow to wed him. Clare, herself, had confirmed it, talking animatedly about the events and insisting that Monteign was not allied to Ferguson. Was that she, then, Edward’s widow? If so, then Lady Clare de Bouvais was actually one of Ferguson’s stepdaughters.

  The thought struck him like a blow from a mace. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted to believe in her innocence.

  However, at the present moment, he could not afford to dwell on his discovery. The savage troops withdrew just far enough to where they could gloat as the fires they’d spawned undid all the work that Christian had expended in rebuilding.

  Christian bellowed orders to the peasants to herd their livestock into the main keep. The stone wall of the keep would protect them as long as the fire didn’t sink its teeth into the timber floor joists. Their primary job was to ensure that the outer wall, which was made of timber, continued to resist the flames.

  Rallying the heartier people of Glenmyre, he called them to fight the fire. While it had taken only a handful of men to spawn such mischief, it would take many more to keep the fire from spreading. The Scot clearly planned to burn them out, then slaughter them all.

  Eight hours later, they stared in weary stupefaction at what remained of the lesser buildings. Charred timbers jutted from their postholes like teeth. The walls, the roofs, the contents of the buildings lay in steaming piles of cinder just an arm’s length from the main keep. However, the outer wall, which had been coated in pitch, had not burned down, keeping the aggressors at bay.

  They’d survived Ferguson’s attack with no loss of life. With the threat of reinforcements coming from Helmsley, the Scot and his men melted away, leaving Glenmyre in peace, at least for the time being.

  Christian wiped a hand over his blackened face. His limbs ached. He longed to collapse where he stood, but that was an indulgence he would not allow himself. Despite the knowledge that his reparations at Glenmyre had been undone, he felt a sense of accomplishment at having saved the wall and the keep.

  The livestock were led from their sanctuary, snorting, stamping, bleating in confusion. He smiled wearily. ’Twas a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

  He had worked side by side with the people of Glenmyre to save their home. The grain had been kept from harm. The water was still clean. In the act of fighting for Glenmyre’s future, they had forged a bond of mutual respect. He could see it in the peasants' smudged and sooty faces, in the steady gazes that turned his way.

  “Let us celebrate the saving of Glenmyre!” he shouted, startling more than a few of his own men.

  A rousing cheer rose over the hiss of steaming wood.

  “And if every able man here joins my army to defeat the Scot, then I will build you a wall of stone, so that no man can ever burn you out again.”

  This announcement was followed by another cheer. Three barrels were rolled from the keep’s cellar and set upon trestles for the people to help themselves. Ale flowed freely, drowning despair and replacing it with a vision for the future.

  Christian waited for the right people to become sotted with drink before he cornered them. What was the name of the woman Alec was going to wed? he asked. What did she look like?

  In a short time, his suspicions had been confirmed. He’d been taken for a fool.

  As the sun set that evening, he rooted out a solitary spot upon the wall-walk. The sun glowed an angry orange, lighting the tops of the oaks like so many torches. A flock of geese honked noisily overhead as they flapped their way toward Spain and thence to the land of the infidels.

  Christian eased his aching back onto a ledge, thankful for the balm of cooler air streaming from the mountains. He raked his fingers through his hair. Some of the longer strands were singed.

  Oh, but it felt good to take his ease! He dropped his head into his palms. The memory of the woman’s screams echoed in his ears. He was able to name her now: Jeanette du Boise, the mother of the lady in his castle. To see such a fair woman wearing only a shift and crying with such desperation had been shock enough. However, the fact that she looked so much like her daughter, Clarisse, made it all the more disturbing.

  He wished very much that they had managed to let the woman in. What was clearly a ruse to open the gates might also have been her only hope for survival. Ferguson had put her directly in the path of danger, as though he cared not a whit if she were killed.

  The thought sickened him.

  He dragged his fingers over his face. What was he going to do now? The only thing left to him was war. Ferguson had asked for it by willfully attacking Glenmyre. And yet everything inside him rebelled at the spilling of more blood. He did not care to fight anymore, to add yet more hellish visions to those that paraded through his dreams.

  And what of Clare? Clarisse, he corrected himself. Seeing her mother’s situation firsthand, he was certain she could not be loyal to the Scot.

  Why had she come to Helmsley, then? Why? If she’d come for aid, why hadn’t she simply asked him for it?

  The sun sank lower, and the crickets began to chirp in the high grass between the wall and the tree line. Christian stretched his full length upon the wall-walk and closed his eyes.

  One thing alone was certain—Clarisse du Boise had not come to Helmsley to save Simon. The hope that God had sent an angel to redeem him was nothing more than fantasy. She had another purpose at his castle a
ltogether. And it was not likely a purpose that would benefit his soul or his son.

  A thin mist hung in the castle graveyard. The sound of wet earth falling on a wooden casket rose over the sniffles of the heavyset cook as she watched the box containing her baby disappear beneath the crumbling soil. Along with the few servants who dared to test Dame Maeve’s patience by shirking their duties, Clarisse huddled against the morning chill.

  There were no holy words to soothe the spirit of the grieving mother, only the mournful call of a dove as it settled on the large sarcophagus in the middle of the garden. Regarding the lone bird, Clarisse gave a thought to the bodies contained inside the sarcophagus. The late baron and his wife would have both been laid to rest there—as would Simon’s mother, Lady Genrose, her body still decomposing. Repressing a shiver, Clarisse tore her gaze away as Harold tapped a wooden cross into the ground.

  The stark reminders of death brought to mind the terrifying threat hanging over her mother and sisters. Ferguson had promised to swing them all from a noose if she failed to poison the Slayer. With only two weeks to go until her time was up, the bodies of her own kinswomen might be going next into the ground.

  God forbid! I must save them, Clarisse thought, her heart starting to pound with desperation.

  Simon, who’d been napping in his sling, gave a mewl. Her breasts immediately swelled and tingled, recalling her to the miracle of her newfound ability to feed him and providing her with an excuse to slip away. The mere fact that she had milk for Simon was not enough to ensure the Slayer’s forgiveness. It most certainly wasn’t enough to convince him to take up his sword in defense of her family.

  There had to be more that she could do to ensure her well-being in addition to theirs. She had seen the chapel door unlocked, giving servants a place to pray and improving their opinion of their lord. But that small accomplishment seemed paltry considering the chapel lay bare, with no priest to perform the sacraments.

  Hurrying from the castle graveyard, Clarisse passed through the chapel, clean but dreary—the linens and crucifix, like everything else of import or decorative nature in the castle, were missing. As she passed along the corridor in search of the northeast tower, she found herself in a corridor she’d never visited before. I must have gone the wrong way, she surmised, slowing her step.

  Simon had quieted the moment she’d started moving, thus she made little noise as she crept along the unfamiliar passage headed for what she hoped would be the correct tower. Passing a closed door, her gaze fell to the lock hanging from the latch, and captured by curiosity, she slowed her steps.

  What lay behind such a large door, she wondered, and how to discover it?

  She examined the lock. It looked very similar to the one that had held the chapel closed. Pulling from her girdle the key Dame Maeve had reluctantly given her, she inserted it into the lock, heard it turn with a satisfying sound, and removed the lock to push the door wide open.

  A chamber devoid of windows greeted her. It was cool and musty, suggesting it was a storeroom, as did the collection of objects she could not make out due to the darkness. Retrieving the flint she now carried everywhere, she returned to the corridor and lit one of the fresh torches she’d recently commissioned. Back in the room, she held the torch aloft to better see, and her eyes widened in amazement.

  Mercy, what was this? Chests of every size had been amassed here, stacked as high as the ceiling. Thick tapestries lay in rolls like carpets she had seen imported from the Holy Lands. A light layer of dust coated everything. Crossing to a small chest teetering atop two others, she opened it gingerly and drew a breath of surprise. Silver candlesticks, like the kind found in a chapel, winked back at her.

  Were these the goods missing from every room in the castle but the solar? Genrose was said to have given all household items to the poor upon her parents’ death. Yet they were all still apparently right here! It could not have been her untimely death that had interrupted the selfless donation, since it had been nine months at least since her parents had perished. If she had changed her mind, why hadn’t the items been returned to their original locations? The chapel would seem far more welcoming with a chalice, linens, and candlesticks.

  A sudden suspicion skewered Clarisse. Surely, Dame Maeve with all her efficiency would have known these goods were here all along. Likely, she’d been the one to lock them up in this out-of-the-way storeroom, rather than carry out her lady’s instructions. But to what purpose? Had she hoped they would be forgotten?

  Clarisse nibbled on a fingernail as she considered whether to expose Dame Maeve’s perfidy? Nay, for her position here was tenuous as it was, and the housekeeper wielded tremendous influence over the other servants.

  Yet, here in this storeroom lay the potential to do something truly meaningful for Sir Christian. Imagine his satisfaction at coming home to a fortress filled with luxurious goods! Even if he had discovered her true identity and was set on revenge, certes he would have second thoughts upon seeing his home restored to its former glory when Sir Roger attributed the change to Clarisse.

  Making up her mind, she shut the small chest and quickly snuffed the torch to conceal herself. With a peek into the corridor, she slipped from the chamber, taking the lock with her as she continued stealthily in the direction of the tower stairs.

  First, she would take the time to feed Simon while thoroughly considering her strategy. After Simon’s nap, she would seek out the master-at-arms and show him the lock, suggesting he look into the large storeroom himself to discover what was there. Surely Sir Roger would agree with her that the goods should be restored to their original use.

  Then she would have her work cut out for her, turning the stark castle into a home before the Slayer’s return. If he’d discovered her true identity at Glenmyre, her work might just manage to placate him. Who knew? If it pleased him enough, he might be convinced to take up his sword in her family’s defense.

  Three days later, Clarisse surveyed her handiwork from the landing on the stairs and pondered Christian’s reaction when he beheld the changes. A damp messenger had stamped his way into the great hall at midday with the announcement that the overlord would be home by nightfall. Clarisse’s heart had leapt up her throat. Her respite was at an end. That night, she would know if her efforts had been a waste of time, or if they would inspire mercy.

  “Should we light a fire in the brazier?” she called down to the housekeeper.

  Dame Maeve, who was busy setting a bouquet on the high table, cast her a sharp look. While Sir Roger had acted commendably in making it appear as though he had stumbled on the household goods in the storeroom, Clarisse knew Dame Maeve suspected her of initiating the changes in the castle.

  Ever solicitous to Lady du Bouvais in the knight’s presence, the dour housekeeper nonetheless thwarted her at every turn. Servants had been threatened more chores if they were found answering to Lady Clare. Poor Harold’s ears were red from his wife boxing them repeatedly. Yet he had been her staunchest ally, dragging the goods up one by one with the help of Edgar, guardian of the dungeons.

  Clarisse had thrown herself into the transformation. With Simon in his sling to keep her hands free, she had directed Harold and Edgar in hanging a tapestry on the gallery wall—just one for the job was taxing. The tapestry of a hunt attended by lords and ladies, complete with comical hounds and red-tailed foxes, now warmed the great hall. She then had them hang trays across from the open windows so that they reflected the sun by day and torches by night. This day, the shutters had been drawn to keep out the gusty rain, but with all the new torches ablaze, the hall was nonetheless welcoming in contrast to the dreary outdoors.

  Bed-curtains, pillows, and more tapestries had been returned to the chambers upstairs. Moreover, in the chapel, embroidered cushions now lay beneath the benches, encouraging visitors to worship before the reinstated crucifix.

  All stood in readiness for the lord's return. The room lacked only the crowning touch—a fire crackling in the fire pit.
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  “Nay,” Dame Maeve retorted with a thinning of her lips. “’Tis far too warm for a fire.”

  Studying the combined effects of her labor, Clarisse considered that it was, perhaps, a trifle warm. Only she—with more reason to fear the Slayer’s return than anyone—remained chilled to bone. The messenger had made it known that Ferguson had set fire to Glenmyre two days past. The outer wall and central keep had held, but the rest had been gutted by flame. If Sir Christian had discovered her identity, his need to avenge the Scot might well overshadow his reason.

  Clarisse caught herself gnawing on a fingernail. Whatever the Slayer’s response, she had done everything in her power to help him. She had saved Simon from starvation, loved the baby with her whole heart, and turned his barren castle into a home worthy of a nobleman. Come what may, she thought, I have done all that I can.

  The sudden blare of the gatekeeper’s horn shot through her like an arrow. She clutched Simon closer, her heart galloping. The Slayer had returned. Soon she would discover if her efforts counted for something or for naught.

  Plucking Simon from his sling, she cast it off, holding him across her breast like a shield as she proceeded to the forebuilding to greet Sir Christian.

  Chapter Twelve

  At the base of the steps, Clarisse encountered Harold standing in the dark stairwell and holding the door open. Beyond him, pounding rain spattered the cobblestones of the courtyard.

  “’Twould put me in a foul mood to travel in this mess,” she considered out loud. Why couldn’t the skies have been clear? Then the Slayer could have traveled in comfort, arriving in high spirits. Instead, he would arrive in a grumpy mood, soaking wet.