The Slayer's Redemption Page 17

  “Foul mood,” the steward repeated without so much as looking at her.

  Rather than ask him to light the torch, Clarisse did so herself—no easy feat with a baby in her arms. As she struck the flint, she relived her regret that she had not confessed her identity to Sir Roger during the time that the Slayer had been gone. The opportunity had presented itself daily. Yet, wary of his deep devotion to his liege lord, she had bitten her tongue like a coward. Now she would have to face the Slayer, who likely knew the truth.

  Would he unmask her in front of everyone? Humiliate her publically, then cast her into the dungeon?

  Tense silence filled the stairwell as light licked up the wall, starting out as a paltry glow that grew steadily brighter. Sir Roger dashed across the courtyard from the garrison and joined them in the stairwell, shaking water off his mantle as he pulled it back.

  “Is all in readiness?” he asked, casting her a conspiratorial wink.

  She forced herself to smile. “I pray so.” Anxiety twisted her innards into knots. What if her efforts went unappreciated? What if Sir Christian viewed them as presumptuous?

  The clopping of hooves played descant to the spattering rain. They peered outside, only to spy a lone rider passing under the barbican atop a donkey. The beast averted its face against the downpour. The rider was cloaked in a mantle, his hood pulled low to conceal his identity.

  “’Tis Ethelred!” Sir Roger exclaimed. He ran into the rain to greet the good abbot.

  Relief vied with Clarisse’s disappointment, turning her knees to water. As she watched the Abbot of Revesby slide from his mount, she discovered he was just a little man, coming only to Sir Roger’s shoulders. As a stable boy led away his donkey, the two men splashed through the puddles racing for shelter.

  Once inside, the abbot drew off his hood, and Clarisse saw a young man with sandy-colored hair, cropped but not shaved into a tonsure. He wore the black garb of an Augustinian monk, yet unlike the Abbot of Rievaulx, he went without a fancy stole. No jewels twinkled on his fingers. Sandals peeked from below the hem of his cloak. Meeting his friendly gaze, she found him watching her intently.

  “Father, this is Lady Clare du Bouvais, Simon’s nurse.” Sir Roger made the introductions. “My lady, the esteemed Abbot of Revesby.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Father Abbot,” she murmured, masking the sudden certainty that this man would help her reach Alec if the necessity arose—though she hoped it would not.

  The abbot’s gaze fastened upon the baby in her arms. “Why, this could only be Christian’s son!” he exclaimed. “What a mighty one he is already!”

  Clarisse turned Simon around so the priest could better see him. She’d swaddled him in purple silk, a color chosen to complement her own violet gown.

  Ethelred laughed at the babe’s dispassionate stare. “A miracle!” he pronounced, chuckling.

  His appreciation for Simon made her like the abbot even more. Clarisse kissed the curl that was growing skyward on the top of Simon’s head.

  “Where’s his father?” the abbot asked looking around. “I have news for him that I would share without delay.”

  “Due to return at any minute,” Sir Roger supplied. “What news do you bear?”

  Ethelred’s blue eyes sparkled. “Very well, I will tell you now and him later. I have just come from York where I brought up the matter of the interdict to Archbishop Thurstan. He was astonished to hear of it and informed me that the Holy See never approved the interdict. Tomorrow, I go to Rievaulx and demand to see the papal seal. If Gilbert fails to produce it, this matter will place him under grave scrutiny.”

  Ethelred’s tight smile recalled Clarisse to the rivalry between him and the Abbot of Rievaulx.

  “Verily?” exclaimed Sir Roger after a moment of amazement. “Then ’twas simply an attempt to breed discontent at Helmsley. Gilbert hoped the people here would reject their new overlord.”

  “Mayhap so,” Ethelred agreed.

  “Well, my lord will be pleased to hear this news. But why do we stand here like knaves when Lady Clare has put the hall to rights? Please come inside, good abbot,” Sir Roger exclaimed, waving Ethelred up the stairs. “Helmsley castle is now a welcome place for visitors.”

  An hour later Clarisse had developed a pounding headache. She’d seen to it that the abbot was given a room where he could dry out his robes. She had then gone straight to the kitchen to remind Doris that a special meal would have to be drawn up for the cleric—perhaps trout—since he could not eat meat that night. No sooner had she gained Doris’s cooperation than the steward’s wife intercepted her on her way back to the great hall.

  “Lady de Bouvais!” she greeted her on a resentful note.

  Raising her eyebrows at the woman’s tone, Clarisse returned her glare and asked, “Is there a problem, Dame Maeve?”

  “I see you have taken it upon yourself to perform Harold’s duties once again. What the abbot—or for that matter, what anyone—will eat is none of your concern.”

  Already on edge at the prospect of the Slayer’s return, Clarisse forgot for a moment how tenuous her situation really was.

  “Verily? Yet Harold is ever appreciative of my help,” she pointed out. “’Tis you who resent it. I have to wonder why you think yourself so powerful that even your husband is subject to your will.”

  Maeve drew herself into a rigid line. “Do you wish to play the lady of this castle then?” she hissed. “Very well. By all means, take my place if it pleases you.” Tearing the chatelaine from her belt, she slapped the castle keys into Clarisse’s hands as she brushed past her, bound for the servants’ wing. “But you remember how the last lady of this castle fared,” she said over her shoulder before she disappeared.

  Clarisse stared after her with her mouth agape.

  This was an occurrence she had not expected. She had hoped to greet the Slayer with poise and elegance and in the company of the abbot, not scurrying around with her hair slipping from her plaits, sweating from the heat of the kitchen, and toting Simon wherever she went.

  Harold, whom she found just inside the great hall wringing his hands and muttering in agitation, would be more of a hindrance than a help, she feared. Promising once again that she would soon read Stories of the Saints’ Lives to him, she convinced him that they would fare just as well without his wife. It was up to him to greet the abbot when he came back down and offer him wine.

  Clarisse then returned to the kitchen where milling pages and confused-looking maids created an air of chaos. Hearing them squabble over the order in which to carry in the food, she marched into their midst and declared herself to be in charge. The jostling ceased. Doris announced that the fare was ready. All that was left to wait for was the Slayer’s return.

  Returning to the great hall, Clarisse found the abbot deep in discussion with Harold. As she drew nearer, pulling Simon from his sling to comfort him, the steward scuttled off.

  “Harold tells me that a babe has been buried in the graveyard and awaits the sacrament of burial,” Ethelred said with a frown.

  She patted a fussing Simon on the back. It had been hours since she’d nursed him, causing him to gnaw on his fist with hunger. “Aye, Father Abbot. ’Twas the babe of our cook, Doris. He was stillborn.” She forbore to add that Doris had no husband. “I know she would be thankful for a prayer spoken over his small grave.”

  “Tell her I will do it at dawn tomorrow,” he promised. “Know you who the father is?” he asked casually.

  Something in his tone assured her that he, in fact, did know.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  He regarded her steadily. “’Tis not my place to say,” he replied. His gaze dropped to Simon, who continued to fret.

  “I should feed him before his father returns,” she said.

  “By all means,” the abbot agreed, laying a light hand on Simon’s back.

  The baby grew immediately peaceful.

  A thought occurred to Clarisse as she began to turn away. “Has Sim
on been baptized?” she asked.

  Ethelred nodded. “Aye, I baptized him the day that I buried his mother.”

  “Oh.” Clarisse pictured the sad moment in her mind’s eye. It had all happened so recently.

  The abbot leaned closer pitching his voice lower. “’Tis true that the interdict forbade the sacrament of baptism, but I never did see the point of it. I was more concerned that Simon would follow his mother to the grave. You have been a blessing to him, Lady Clare,” he added, peering up at her. “Where are you from?”

  Gazing back into the man’s blue eyes, she found it impossible to lie. “From Heathersgill,” she admitted, with a quick glance around. “My father was Edward the Learned.”

  “Keeper of the Books,” he exclaimed with a smile of delight. “I met him once.”

  “In truth?” She was astonished to hear it.

  “He tutored King David’s children in the Scottish court.”

  “Aye, that he did!”

  “I was educated there myself. How does he now?”

  Her throat closed with sudden grief. Stepping closer, she quickly shared with him the dreadful story of her father’s demise and the ruination of his keep. Having been guarded for so long, the truth tumbled out of her in a stream of breathless syllables.

  “Now Ferguson rules my father’s keep as if he were the rightful lord,” she added, pained by the knowledge that she had yet to ensure her mother’s and sisters’ survival.

  Ethelred’s face reflected shock. “I am so saddened to hear this news,” he said. “Your mother? Is she well?”

  Clarisse shook her head. “Nay. The Scot abuses her at will as he does my sisters.”

  Ethelred lifted both hand to capture her shoulders. “Say how I can help you,” he demanded earnestly.

  Relief caused her knees to knock together. “Is there something that the Church can do? Annul the forced marriage, perhaps?”

  “I will look into it,” he promised.

  “Father Abbot,” she added, shame burning a hot path up her neck to flood her cheeks. “I have yet to tell Sir Christian who I am. You see,” she added, repressing tears that burned the backs of her eyes, “Ferguson sent me here to poison him in exchange for my family’s lives. Yet I could not do it,” she whispered fervently. “But if Ferguson learns that I’ve betrayed him, he will kill my mother and sisters as he has sworn to do!”

  Astonishment wreathed the abbot’s young face. “You haven’t told Christian the truth?”

  “Not yet,” she confessed. “First I was afraid Ferguson would catch wind of it, and the ones I love would be put swiftly to death. Now, I have spun so many lies, Sir Christian has every right to be furious, perhaps to cast me out with nowhere else to go, or worse.” She tried not to think of what worse might entail.

  “You must tell him at once,” the abbot said firmly. “Truth is a better fortress than deceit.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Aye, you’re right. I intend to do so this very night.”

  Spying Sir Roger’s approach from the corner of her eye, she cut their conversation short. No sooner had the knight joined them than the horn trumpeted loudly, announcing the Slayer’s return. She’d had no opportunity to feed Simon.

  “My lord is just in time for supper,” Sir Roger stated cheerfully.

  Oh, God. Clarisse gripped Simon so hard he let out a shriek. Casting a final look over the great hall, she wished she had struck a fire in the pit despite Dame Maeve’s disapproval, for suddenly she felt chilled to the marrow.

  But it was too late now. Both the doors to the main entrance crashed open. Into the glare of fifty candles and ten torches stepped the warrior who wielded her future in his powerful hands.

  Clarisse’s eyes flew wide. Christian de la Croix looked every inch like a slayer of foes that night—immense, powerful, swathed in black. The links of his armor, dulled with soot, swallowed the light of the torches. His sword hung out of sight beneath a swirling, black cloak. As he threw back the hood, she could see that his hair was cut shorter in damp waves combed back against his head. A beard now darkened his usually clean-cut jaw. Above the dark scuff, his eyes appeared almost translucent as they widened in amazement.

  Clarisse held her breath. Did he like what he saw? Moreover, would it make any difference in determining her fate?

  Christian drew up short at the unexpected brilliance. The walls blazed with torches and glittering reflections coming from silver trays mounted to the walls. Despite the gathering that drew him toward the stairs, he paused a moment to marvel at the transformation. A handsome and enormous tapestry hanging from the gallery drew his gaze. Below it, the high table stood festooned in snowy linens and flowers of every color. Not even the smell of tallow from the burning torches could disguise the flowers’ pleasant fragrance. Cushions graced the chairs before the fire pit.

  A rush of contentment filled him. The great hall bore little resemblance to the echoing chamber he had left behind a week ago. Meeting the watchful gazes of the people waiting to greet him, he had little doubt as to which of them was responsible for this change.

  Just as suddenly, bitterness tinged his pleasure. How dare she taunt him with what he longed for most? She hadn’t come to shed her light into his morbid world. She’d come for a different reason altogether—to spy or to hide. And yet she teased him with the illusion of what he craved.

  Continuing slowly in her direction, he took in the hope and fear reflected in equal parts in her amber eyes. Copper tendrils had escaped her plaited hair to frame her lovely face. Her mouth, slightly parted as if she struggled to inhale, called to mind the blissful kiss they had shared the morning of his departure.

  He prayed she would do anything to procure his mercy.

  A movement next to Clarisse dragged his gaze to the cleric standing beside her.

  “Ethelred!” he exclaimed, surprised to see the abbot in his castle. He hurried forward and extended a wet hand. Water streamed off his cloak onto the fresh rushes. “’Tis a pleasure, as always.”

  “The good abbot has brought us excellent news,” Sir Roger interrupted, his smile at the height of crookedness. “You tell him, Father.”

  Ethelred offered his boyish smile. “The interdict has been lifted from Helmsley,” he announced, pumping Christian’s hand as if he didn’t mean to let it go. “In fact, it never truly existed in the eyes of the Church, for it lacks the approval of the Holy See. I am going tomorrow to question Gilbert about the matter.”

  It seemed to Christian as if the hall were suddenly brighter, though that was impossible given its present brilliance. He looked from Ethelred’s blue eyes to Sir Roger’s happy smile and felt his vocal chords vibrate. The laugh that rasped free was almost an embarrassment. He darted a look at Clarisse and found her mouth had fallen farther open.

  “I owe it to you,” he said to the abbot, whose hand he still squeezed.

  Ethelred let go with a muffled yelp. “Not at all, not at all,” he assured him affably. “The matter came up in casual conversation.”

  Christian nodded. His thoughts had already returned to Clarisse du Boise, who stared at him like a frightened hare. Anger boiled in him suddenly. She had lied to him so many times that he found himself regarding a perfect stranger. She was not from Glenmyre. She was never Monteign’s leman. He didn’t know whose child she had born out of wedlock, or had she lied about that, too?

  He took a step that brought him close enough to hear her sharp intake of air. Her head tilted back, offering him a clear view of the hollow fluttering at the base of her throat. The fact that she was frightened of him meant that her purpose at Helmsley had to be a sinister one. She hadn’t come for protection or simply to hide.

  He leaned over her, allowing his knowledge of the truth to blaze in his eyes. “You and I have much to discuss,” he warned her. He was perversely satisfied to see all color slip from her cheeks.

  It was the wail of his infant son that distracted him from toying with her further. Clarisse plucked him from her shoul
der and turned him in her arms to face his father. Swaddled in royal raiment and lounging in the throne of Clarisse’s arms, the little baron wrinkled his face in distress.

  Christian eyed him uncertainly. He thrust a finger out for Simon to squeeze, but the baby ignored him. The frown on his downy brow bespoke of grave disapproval.

  “He doesn’t remember me,” he said by way of explanation. Addressing the onlookers, he added, “Give me but a moment, and I’ll join you for supper.”

  Ignoring his vassal’s questioning look and nodding kindly to Ethelred, Christian tackled the stairs two at a time. He couldn’t help but notice the effort she had put into ensuring his mercy. On every step, there stood a pot of wildflowers, artfully arranged.

  Nevertheless, he thought, his temples throbbing with determination, she would have to pay a price for her deceit. She was guilty of putting a hunger in his heart, and he would not be satisfied until he forged his spirit in her fire.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pressing an ear to the solar door, Clarisse strained to hear the conversation inside over the thudding of her heart. At the close of supper, Sir Christian had ordered her to seek him out once she had put Simon to bed. Minutes earlier, she had left the babe sleeping, with Nell watching over his cradle. Now, however, she didn’t know whether to knock or to wait for the men inside to stop talking. All she knew was that she longed to put to rest the awful suspense that had caused her stomach to churn all day, and the only way to do so was to face the Slayer’s reckoning boldly.

  Throughout the meal, which she had scarcely eaten, he had slanted her more than one narrow-eyed glare. The certainty that he would publically denounce her had made it difficult to swallow. If not for the necessary requirement of overseeing the meals’ distribution in Dame Maeve’s stead, she might have succumbed to her unsettled stomach and disgraced herself.

  Following supper, the abbot had excused himself to visit the chapel. The Slayer had scraped back his chair and announced to his master-at-arms that they should retire to the solar. He had pointed a long finger at Clarisse and said peremptorily, “When you finish with Simon, we have a matter to discuss.”