The Slayer's Redemption Page 20

  “But what of the illness? You must be careful. They say if you breathe through a satchel of herbs, you won’t catch the blue sickness.” She looked helplessly back at the garden, then patted the babe’s back to soothe herself at the thought of harm befalling him or the good abbot or any of those she cared about.

  The abbot patted her shoulder. “The illness is the least of my concern,” he assured her.

  Envisioning the pustules on the monk Horatio, she thought the abbot exceedingly brave. Moreover, a brave man was the one thing she needed at that moment, but one who used weapons, not the word of God.

  “There is one more thing, Father. Sir Christian wrote Alec a letter in which he offered to return Alec’s inheritance to him. Would you ask him if he received the letter and whether he has considered returning to Glenmyre as its lord?”

  “Ah.” Ethelred’s eyes narrowed with sudden comprehension. “Do you hope that he will marry you, after all, and take up arms on your behalf?”

  “I have nowhere else to turn,” she admitted, feeling suddenly forlorn, though her chances of getting word to Alec had never been higher.

  The abbot’s brow furrowed. “I thought perhaps Christian would help you now that you’ve told him the truth of your plight. Perhaps since you care for his son,” he nodded his head toward Simon, “he would be willing to reclaim your father’s home for you. Have you asked him?”

  She looked down, adjusting the baby’s sling as an excuse to hide her mortification, causing him to wake with a start. “I have asked,” she confirmed, willing the heat in her face to subside. “He refuses to help.”

  A thoughtful silence followed her words. She glanced up to find his keen gaze on her face. “Would you like me to speak to him?” he offered kindly. “Perhaps I can convince him—”

  A hot wave of humiliation crested in her cheeks. “Nay. Thank you,” she added, not wanting the abbot to hear of her shameful choice. “If you can get word to Alec, you’ll have done more than enough.”

  The cleric nodded gravely. “Then I’ll do my best,” he promised.

  “When will you go?” The prospect of being pressured by the Slayer emboldened her to ask.

  “Today, just after nones' prayers.”

  She nodded, relieved. If there was any recourse to the Slayer’s proposition, she might know it by sundown. “Thank you,” she whispered. “How can I repay you?”

  He winked at her as he tightened the sash around his waist. “I was headed to the abbey anyway,” he said. With a jerk of his head, he gestured for Clarisse to precede him back to the building as Simon began to cry softly. “Your young charge has need of you,” he surmised.

  “Yes, he does,” she said, lifting him to her shoulder and patting him. He stopped crying immediately.

  “A blessed burden,” the abbot added.

  He is indeed, thought Clarisse. Because of the babe, she had considered accepting the Slayer’s proposition. Having loved the infant from the first, she could not bear the thought of leaving him when the time came to depart Helmsley. If she left at all. ’Twas not the Slayer’s intoxicating touch that influenced her thinking, she swore. Yet whenever the memory of her ecstasy replayed itself, her bones seemed to melt like butter, and delicious warmth suffused her. Humiliation failed to beat down her desire. While a part of her thrilled at the thought of becoming his concubine, she refused to acknowledge it.

  Clarisse du Boise had been born a lady, and a lady she would remain. She owed it to her bloodlines to discover if Alec would trade his cleric’s robes for a sword. Alec would never conceive of asking what the Slayer had demanded in exchange for his sword arm. He was far too honorable for that.

  The Abbot of Rievaulx crushed the purple berries in the large marble mortar, heedless of the juice that spurted stains onto his vestments. The beauty of being an abbot was that no one could take him to task for soiling his clerical garb.

  At Rievaulx, no monk dared question the things that he did or said. Anyone foolish enough to try was shut away in a dark cell, with Horatio visiting in short but painful interludes. Those unfortunates rarely survived to speak of the horrors they’d endured. Gilbert chuckled and reached for one of the glass vials on a shelf above him.

  Of all the chambers in the abbey, this cellar was the most cluttered and unkempt. He preferred it that way. The lack of order encouraged him to think creatively. As he ground the seeds of the fruit into the pulp, he looked about his herbal with satisfaction.

  In addition to the shelves of corked vials, all of them unmarked and known to him alone by their smell, the room contained a long table where he fashioned his masterpieces. On the table were various instruments for heating, mixing, and separating his creations. Now and then, he jotted down the ingredients and quantities of his experiments in his codex.

  Behind him, crates containing various beasts leaned against the sooty walls. The animals inside the crates snuffled and stirred in a state of continual despair. Their animal odor blended with the herbs’ perfume. A pair of weasels lived in one box, a pig in another—the gluttonous creature. It had knocked its slop out of the bowl, so that it dribbled through the slats of the crate onto the stone floor.

  The smaller boxes held animals ranging from a mouse to a poisonous lizard. All of them were the recipients of his experiments. Some of them were wounded or ill when they came to him. He had healed a few with his herbal remedies—pure happenstance, he admitted. He had killed the majority.

  I will slaughter them soon, Gilbert decided. In truth, their noise intruded on his thoughts so often that he would be better off without them. He uncorked a vial and added a careful drop of anise infusion to his mixture.

  Besides, he had no use nor need for beasts any longer. He was skilled enough to work with humans. As soon as word of his abbey’s pestilence reached Clairvaux in France, he would dazzle the world by healing his monks. He savored the vision of his acclaim. No longer would he be considered a rustic priest, doomed to obscurity in the fells of Yorkshire. Nay, he would have as much fame as his colleague Ethelred. And more! And that little man would finally show him respect!

  The familiar beating of a bird’s wings caused him to set down his pestle and pivot toward the single window. It was just a narrow vent that filtered the sunlight and kept the room in gloom. In the aperture that was level with the ceiling, a pigeon had appeared, bobbing its iridescent-colored head.

  “My clever one!” Gilbert exclaimed, stepping onto a stool to reach the sill. “What have you brought me today?” he asked. He reached with stained fingers to free the cord looped over the bird’s neck. From a reed strung along the cord, he pulled out a tiny piece of parchment.

  Archbishop Thurstan denied interdict at Helmsley, he read. Ethelred visits you today to make inquiry.

  Gilbert balled the minuscule letter in his fist before hurling it furiously across the cellar room. “Cursed, meddling man!” he railed.

  Ethelred had once been a brilliant monk at Rievaulx. Several times during his years as a master novice, Gilbert had been tempted to cast him into the Cell of Castigation. However, Ethelred was looked upon favorably by Bernard of Clairvaux. The Augustinian leader had encouraged the master novice’s writings to such an extent that Ethelred was released from his rigorous schedule and left alone for hours.

  Now that Ethelred was the Abbot of Revesby, he was Gilbert’s social equal. Was there no such thing as justice in the world?

  Gilbert trembled with irrational fear. If the interdict were found to be a fake, then his integrity would be called into question.

  Why hadn’t the illness kept Ethelred away? He paced the length of the cramped chamber, then back again. A thought occurred to him that soothed his agitation. He would get rid of the meddling Ethelred once and for all! First, he would imprison him in the abbey. Then he would send a missive to Archbishop Thurstan that Ethelred had fallen ill and died of the scourge.

  With a grim smile, he envisioned the little cleric chained to the cellar wall. Horatio would force wine laced wit
h malignant herbs down his throat, and that would be the end of him.

  The abbot rubbed his hands with anticipation. Aye, Ethelred would get what was coming to him. But that did not prevent the matter of the interdict from coming up again. His smile faded.

  Ah, what did it matter? He would think of something to excuse himself. The interdict had failed, in any event. The people at Helmsley should have closed the gates against their evil overlord, but they were too afraid to defy him. Shunned by the church or not, the Slayer ruled the fortress with an iron hand. And now he had a whelp, a boy with a rightful claim to the lands.

  Gilbert sighed in disgust. He had done everything he could to expel the Slayer from Helmsley. He glanced at the pigeon, still perched by the open window, and offered up the briefest of grim smiles. It was up to the sender of the messages to do the rest.

  Nell gasped in fear and slapped a hand to her heart.

  “Oh, m’lord, ye gave me such a start!” she exclaimed, flattening herself to the corridor wall. One of the torches lining the passage found a reflection in her golden curls as she gawked at him.

  Christian regarded the girl’s panic with mild amazement. Would the servants never cease to shrink from him? “Nell, is it?” he asked, summoning an expression that he hoped looked harmless.

  She nodded mutely and, at the same time, forced herself to step away from the wall.

  “I hear that you have many siblings, and that Sarah raised all of you,” he said, utilizing the information Clarisse had once fed him.

  She nodded her head, a curious air spreading across her plump countenance.

  “Were you orphaned?” he prompted.

  Again, she nodded, then seemed to recall her duty. “Yes, m’lord,” she whispered.

  “Have you a plot to call your own?” He realized he should know the answer to his own questions. However, between Ferguson’s mischief at Glenmyre and domestic demands, he’d put off perusing the castle’s ledgers. Harold took care of the bookkeeping—or was it Maeve?

  “Nay, sir,” the girl finally managed, gazing at him earnestly. “The baron reclaimed our lands under the Right of Escheat when my da passed away. But he gave us work in the castle and a roof over our heads.”

  “You had no brothers to inherit the land?”

  “There be Callum and Aiden, but they were only wee ones at the time.”

  Christian crossed his arms over his chest. As overlord, he could distribute the peasants’ holdings however he saw fit. “How old are your brothers now?”

  “Fifteen an’ twelve,” she told him, with large eyes staring at him as if she couldn’t fathom he was still speaking to her.

  “Tell Callum and Aiden they shall each have a plot to call their own. And if they have an interest, they may take up swords and be trained to fight.”

  Nell's mouth rounded into a perfect circle. “M’lord, ’twould please them immensely!”

  “I’ll send for them soon,” he promised.

  “Thank ye, m’lord!” She bobbed him a curtsy and nearly kissed his hands.

  Christian stepped back, unused to such affection. “Is your lady within?” he asked.

  Nell hesitated. “I left her with a full tub o’ hot water.”

  “So she’s bathing.”

  “Aye,” she said, drawing out the word.

  Christian jerked his head. “Go about your duties,” he said, encouraging her to leave. “She will be safe with me,” he promised her.

  Safe, hah. He was a hypocrite to say so, casting himself in a chivalrous light, as though he meant to defend the lady without recompense.

  With an uncertain nod, the maidservant retreated. Christian stepped up to Clarisse’s chamber door, uneasiness assailing him suddenly. What if she’d decided to decline his offer? What if she turned him down flat? After all, it must be distasteful for a noblewoman of her breeding to yield to a monster like himself. Perhaps if he sweetened his offer with the promise to restore her home to its former glory? According to his spies, Ferguson had all but destroyed it.

  The sound of splashing water distracted him from his thoughts. He put an ear to the wood and was astonished when its hinges gave way and the door eased soundlessly ajar. The view that greeted him made him freeze like a thief.

  Angled away from the door, Clarisse lounged in a wooden tub, the water to her shoulders, her knees peeking out of the suds. Beyond her, not far away, Simon snored softly within the confines of his cradle.

  Christian’s gaze returned to Clarisse. Her damp hair hung over the tub like a russet rope that moored her to the floor. The scent of lavender hung sweetly in the air, and the brazier snapped with mellow light.

  Just as it occurred to him that he should turn away, she perched a long, slim leg on the edge of the tub and reached for the soap.

  Like a hungry hound, he salivated. He told himself to leave, but for the moment, he was spellbound. With lazy movements, she began to lather herself, starting with the leg she’d lifted and then switching to the other one. Limb by limb, she rubbed the scented bar into her skin. His fingers itched to follow the same path.

  Go now, he told himself. ’Tis bad enough that you take advantage of her circumstances. Must you sink to new depths by spying on her?

  Her head fell back, and she rubbed her neck, sighing softly as she eased the soap between her breasts. Christian swallowed a groan.

  Desire pulsed through his body with double vigor. Uncertainty followed close behind. What would he do if she refused him? His need for her could not be slaked by any other woman!

  Something pounded on the door of his conscience, demanding to be heard. This is honor! shouted the entity. Free her family without compensation, it demanded.

  But he ignored it. She had called him a blackguard, after all. Since that was what she thought of him, that was what he would be. Forsooth, he had no intention of letting her family die without trying to save them. Yet he needed Clarisse du Boise—and he could think of no way to get her other than by blackmail. Ladies of her ilk did not give themselves to baseborn warriors like himself, be they overlord of a castle or otherwise.

  Unless they proved themselves worthy, replied the voice inside.

  She caught up her hair and squeezed it, twisting it on top of her head. Then, without warning, she put her hands on either side of the tub and stood straight up. His gaze slid toward the curve of her beautiful buttocks only to freeze over the pink welts lining her back.

  “Jésu,” he cursed, unable to keep silent.

  She turned with a gasp. “Who’s there?” she called, trying to peer through the cracked door into the darker passageway.

  He swiveled guiltily and beat a hasty retreat.

  Cur, he called himself, stalking furiously toward his solar. He wanted so badly for her to want him that he had stooped even beneath himself. There was more of his father in him than he cared to admit. He ground his teeth in self-loathing.

  Yet he had to capture her incandescence or else lose himself to the despair that had threatened before she came.

  In the sanctuary of his solar, Christian threw himself into the chair behind his desk and dropped his head into his hands. His temples throbbed, as did a certain other part of him. A promise to rebuild her home was not enough. Short of offering for her hand, nothing he did could cast his offer into a nobler light

  He straightened abruptly, startled by the workings of his mind. Offer for her hand? Nay, the thought was ludicrous! Absurd! The lady would take her own life ere she agreed to wed him. Wouldn’t she?

  He forced himself to rationalize. There were factors in his favor, not the least of which was Simon, whom she adored. Then, too, he was not without the ability to give her a decent home, to feed and clothe her as befitted her station. Most important, he could give her what she truly desired of him—his sword arm to defend and protect those she loved.

  It might just work.

  His gaze focused on the book lying open before him on his desk. It was Ethelred’s Acts of Charity, the latest text brought
for Christian’s erudition. He and the abbot had made a habit of discussing the readings that Ethelred supplied. They’d had no time on this particular visit. But Ethelred had marked one of the pages with a ribbon in order to draw Christian’s attention to it.

  Christian dragged the tome closer and read the indicated page. His attention lingered in particular to the closing remarks. Put off the mantle of self-absorption and embrace the world unselfishly. For God, who sees all things, rewards the righteous heart.

  Christian read the lines three times. With fingers that had butchered and maimed, he smoothed down a wrinkle in the vellum. It was time for the Slayer of Helmsley—for he knew that was what the world called him—to forget his bitter roots. For his son’s sake, he could not continue to be a fearsome warrior. Why not do as Ethelred suggested and shuck the mantle of self-absorption? What would it cost him? A concubine, probably.

  What would he gain? Perhaps a wife.

  God rewards the righteous heart, wrote the abbot. Christian hoped the abbot was right. He didn’t want to go through the trouble of redemption and not get what he’d set his sights on—the flame-haired beauty who’d captivated him from their first encounter.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “When did they leave?” Clarisse asked Malcolm, who kept the mews.

  The aged falconer regarded her through eyes as bright and watchful as the birds he tended. “Just a bit ago,” he answered in a creaky voice. “Hurry and ye’ll catch ’em still.”

  Shooting him a word of thanks, she raced across the treacherous cobbles of the inner ward toward the first gate.

  The cause for her alarm had been made apparent at matins that morning. She had forced herself to awaken early in the hopes of speaking to Ethelred directly after morning prayers. Forsaking even wasting time plaiting her hair, she had wrapped a headdress over her unbound locks, placed Simon in his sling, and hurried to see how the abbot had fared in his meeting with Gilbert. However, the chapel had stood empty, not a single taper lit.