The Slayer's Redemption Read online

  What did he think of her now? she wondered, laying the balled letter atop his desk.

  “You think Alec never read them?” Behind the glittering surface of the Slayer’s green-gray eyes, she saw his mind was busy calculating.

  “I think he would have helped if he had,” she said with more certainty than she felt.

  He pushed away from the windowsill abruptly, approaching her with calculated steps. She held her ground. After all, this changed nothing. Yet as her gaze fell to his lips, she experienced the wistful urge for him to forget this matter and simply kiss her.

  “You swore to me, no more lies,” he said. Thunder rumbled outside, adding menace to his words. “You told me you came here because Ferguson sent you to poison me.”

  “I did!”

  “The day you wanted to go with the servants to pray, had you intended to meet with Alec?”

  “Meet with him how?” she demanded. “Father Gilbert has quarantined the abbey so that none can go out or in. But, aye, I wanted to speak to Ethelred in the hopes that he could contact Alec for me.”

  “Ethelred,” said the Slayer, looking suddenly stunned. “Is he even now at your behest? Is that why he’s gone to the abbey?”

  “Of course not. He has gone to see the papal seal on the interdict.”

  She jumped at the feel of the Slayer’s hand on her chin. Catching it between his thumb and forefinger, he demanded, “Is that the only reason?” he demanded.

  She forced herself to return his stare. The impulse to lie and protect herself from the wrath she sensed burning beneath his bland façade battled with her conscience.

  “Nay,” she heard herself admit. For Ethelred’s sake, she had to tell the truth this time. “I asked him to convey a message to Alec for me.”

  In the deafening silence that followed, rain showered the courtyard outside. The room gave an eerie flash as lightning forked the sky. Then the Slayer made a sound of disgust, dropped his hand, and stalked back to the window.

  Clarisse looked to Sir Roger for help. The knight regarded his lord’s rigid back and sat up straighter. “My lord, make no rash decisions,” he warned uncertainly.

  Decisions? “What will you do?” Clarisse asked, sudden anxiety raising the downy hair on her forearms.

  Simon seemed to sense her agitation. His round face crumpled with sudden distress. He began to sob against her shoulder. She felt like weeping with him. They had more important matters to discuss than her foolish and desperate letters to Alec.

  The Slayer kept his back to her. “I have had enough of your deceit, lady,” he grated in a voice devoid of emotion. “I will not be used to reunite you with your lover. Nor can you convince me to raise arms on your behalf. I will return you to Ferguson,” he announced unexpectedly. “You and the Scot have more in common than you think. You are both dissemblers.”

  Shock rolled over her, leaving her momentarily mute. She soothed the baby automatically, patting his back even while her mind recoiled in horror at his words.

  “Return me?” she finally repeated. “You mean send me to my death, for that is what will become of me once Ferguson sees that I have failed. He’ll kill all of us, me and my mother and sisters.”

  The warrior shrugged, still presenting her his back. “What matters that to me, Clarisse du Boise? Leave me be. You had no intention of staying with me, anyway.”

  Clarisse frowned as she struggled to interpret his words.

  All she knew for certain was that he’d sentenced her, her mother, and her sisters to be hanged. It was too horrific even to envision. Even the Slayer of Helmsley was incapable of such malice, wasn’t he?

  “Sir Roger,” she pleaded, turning to appeal to the knight.

  Alarm had turned his face into a map of battle scars. “My lord, why not take some time to think about this matter?” he suggested.

  The Slayer flicked him an obstinate look. “I have made up my mind,” he snarled.

  Sir Roger closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “You’ve forgotten about Ethelred,” Clarisse offered in a quaking voice.

  The giant of a man swiveled abruptly. “What message did you convey through him to Alec?”

  “I wanted him to ask Alec if he knew you’d given him back his lands.”

  “Doubtful,” Sir Roger muttered.

  “Because, if he knew, he would surely leave the priesthood to marry you,” the Slayer stated.

  Since it wasn’t a question, she forbore to answer him right away. Indignation raged through her so that, if she had a knife just then, she would have carved a matching scar on his right cheek. “He was my betrothed before you stripped him of his inheritance,” she finally hissed, gripping the baby harder.

  Simon responded with a deafening wail.

  “I do not recall meeting him on the field of battle,” the warrior rebutted, raising his voice to be heard over the baby. “He ran like a coward for Rievaulx. Or mayhap he was simply grateful for a reason not to wed you!”

  Sir Roger dropped his face into his hands and groaned.

  Clarisse went perfectly still. The pain that diced her heart gave her something on which to cling. “Do what you will with me, you monster.” Her voice turned fearless and resolved. “Only think on it—marrying Alec was far preferable to the dishonorable proposition you laid out for me. As if I ever would have accepted your vile offer!” She would never let him know how close she’d come to giving him her body.

  She backed toward the door, trying not to grip Simon too fiercely. “One day, Sir Christian de la Croix, you may sorely regret your words, for I will have naught to do with you even if you crawl on your knees, begging my forgiveness.”

  His jaw merely tightened at her futile words. If Simon had not been in her arms, Clarisse might have flown at the warrior to beat on his iron chest with her fists, so incensed was she by his betrayal.

  “You do not deserve this babe whom I have loved as my own.”

  Her voice broke at the thought of having to leave Simon. Before her eyes betrayed her by filling with tears, she spun around, racing for the door.

  Slamming it behind her, she startled Simon into silence, and through the oaken door, she heard Sir Roger drawl out on a grim note, “Well done, my liege. Your father would be most proud.”

  The words reverberated in her head as she fled to her chamber.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Clarisse paced the length of her chamber while fighting the impulse to gnaw on her fingernails. A single taper cast a ring of light through which she stalked, in and out, in and out, her thoughts on Simon, who slept in his cradle next door, watched over by Nell. Her heart wrung with yearning for him.

  More than once already, she had caught herself from going to fetch him back, only to wrestle down her maternal instincts for Simon’s sake. If the Slayer sent her back to Ferguson as he’d threatened, the babe needed to accustom himself to another caretaker, or he might fail to thrive after her departure.

  Don’t think about it!

  She ought to be sleeping. It was likely past midnight, yet in light of Ethelred’s continued absence, how could she do anything but fret and think? Harm had surely befallen the good abbot at the hands of his colleague, and her own situation had never been more tenuous.

  When would the Slayer make good on his threat? She refused to think of him as Sir Christian, overlord of Helmsley Castle, anymore. To her, he was every bit the monster he was reputed to be. Would she be swinging from a rope in the courtyard at Heathersgill before that time the next day?

  How could she have ever thought the Slayer a goodly man? First, he had insulted her noble blood by propositioning her to be his leman. Then he’d turned on her over a matter of a few stupid letters, calling her a liar, and likening her to Ferguson, the most loathsome creature in all of North York!

  He had left her no recourse—unless Gilbert had kept the Slayer’s offer of Glenmyre a secret from Alec, and hearing of it from Ethelred made Alec want to leave the priesthood. He might yet claim her as
his betrothed and challenge Ferguson at her behest. True, the chances were slim, but they were all she had left, leaving her nothing to do but pray for Ethelred’s well-being and for her own deliverance.

  The sudden jiggling of the latch at her door had her whirling with a fearful gasp toward the sound. Not for the first time did she lament that there was no way to bar the door from within. The latch rose, and the door swung slowly open.

  Her heart gave a leap of dread as the Slayer ducked beneath the lintel, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. He staggered back against it as it shut, his movements unnaturally clumsy. When he looked at her, his glazed eyes focused not on her face but on the shadow of her nipples, visible through the thin weave of her shift.

  “Still awake?” he asked, his speech distinctly slurred.

  “You’re sotted!” she accused in what was meant to be a scolding tone but came out as a squeak.

  “What of it?” he growled back. A mantle of darkness seemed to encapsulate him. “Am I not the overlord of this castle? Am I not free to take what I want?”

  The implication that he could take her, too, if he desired kept the air firmly lodged in her lungs. “Only a blackguard takes what he wants without consideration,” she replied, hoping to awaken conscience.

  “Aye,” he agreed, pushing off the door to weave in her direction. “But since I am a monster of the worst sort, I need not trouble myself with consideration, need I?”

  She recognized his epithet as one she’d tossed at him earlier that day—monster. It seemed as appropriate then as it did now. Cutting her gaze to the door, she measured her ability to outrun him—not likely, considering first she would have to run around him. Even as drunk as he was, it would not be hard for him to stop her.

  “My lord, you should not be here,” she told him in her sternest voice. “’Tis unseemly to visit a maiden’s chambers at this hour.”

  “Mayhap,” he agreed, stopping an arm's span away. “But that begs the question as to whether you are yet a maid. Those letters you wrote suggest otherwise. If you were so willing to spread your thighs for Alec, why not do so for me before I send you back where you came from?”

  His words sparked fury in her. Uncaring of the consequences, Clarisse launched herself at him. Whipping back her arm, she slammed her open palm across his cheek as hard as she could. The resulting crack startled them both. Though he’d turned his head absorbing much of the blow, when he looked back at her, his face bore the imprint of her palm.

  “Get out,” she raged, quailing at the likelihood that he would retaliate in kind. “Get out now! How dare you say such vile words to me? I meant what I said to you earlier. I will never forgive you for your treatment of me—never!”

  Sobered by the stinging in his cheek and the ring of desperation in Clarisse’s voice, Christian realized he wasn’t dreaming but actually standing in her bedchamber with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. He cast his gaze around.

  “Where is Simon?” he asked with sudden consternation.

  “What do you care?” Clarisse snarled. She shoved him unexpectedly, moving him two steps closer to the door. “You would send away his wet nurse, imperiling his health, his very life. You care for no one but yourself, you loathsome creature.” She went to shove him again.

  This time he snared her wrists before she could move him. She immediately sought to free herself. Privately surprised by her strength, he nonetheless held her fast, for she was no match for him.

  Gazing down at her, his heart sank as he watched the bright color in her cheeks bleach to white. The realization that she was, for the first time since her arrival at Helmsley, afraid of him hit him like an unexpected kick from a horse. He released her abruptly, backing away until he bumped into her bed.

  Then he wheeled away, lurching toward the door and wrenching it open. He stumbled straight into a shadowy figure standing in the hallway. As he brushed past the interloper, the light of Clarisse’s taper found reflection in Nell’s blonde curls and illumined her expression of horror.

  Everywhere he went, people cowered in terror. He had thought that was finally changing, but apparently not. Fleeing, he tumbled down the twisting tower stairs, nearly breaking his worthless neck in the process.

  “Lady, are you well? Did he hurt you?”

  Nell rushed into her chamber and threw her arms around Clarisse. Shaken by what had just occurred, Clarisse accepted the servant’s comfort without protest. In some ways, Nell reminded her of her youngest sister Katherine, as they were similar in age and coloring. In the circle of Nell’s arms, she sought to subdue the trembling that shook her to the core.

  When the Slayer had overpowered her seconds before, she’d been certain of what would come next. He would throw her upon the bed and force himself on her, making a mockery of the last time she’d been in bed with him and touched the very gates of heaven. She’d seen the intent clearly on his face.

  Thank the saints, he’d released her instead. Perhaps he had heard Nell approaching the door. It could not have been his conscience that had reined him in, for the man had none. If he did, he wouldn’t think to separate her from Simon—not after they’d so thoroughly bonded.

  “Nell,” she whispered, in a voice still fraught with fear. “I shall need your help.”

  Nell drew back far enough to search her face. “In what manner, m’lady?”

  “I must leave Helmsley before he sends me away.”

  “But ye ne canna leave,” the maid protested. “Who will feed Simon? He’ll surely starve.”

  “Hush. The overlord said he will send me to a terrible man who even now holds my family captive. If I leave, I can escape somewhere that I may still help them. It is too long a tale to explain.” The girl looked as though she was about to break down and sob. “Nell, we must think of the baby. Listen to me. I will show you how to boil goat's milk and use a skin to feed him.”

  Grabbing the girl by the shoulders, she looked into her eyes. This was important as Simon meant the world to her. “Also, I have a notion that Doris might be able to nurse him,” she added. It was a thought that Clarisse had rebelled at when it had first come to her hours earlier—Simon suckling at another woman’s breast. Intolerable! But thinking of him hungry and unsatisfied upset her more.

  “Simon won’t starve,” she insisted, mostly to convince herself.

  “But how will ye leave?” Nell asked, her voice sounding as shaky as Clarisse felt inside. “M’lord will ne just let ye go.”

  “I know. I will have to steal away—dress myself as a servant or something and leave at night. Will you help me?”

  Nell’s eyes shone with worry but she nodded. “Where will ye go, m’lady?”

  Clarisse drew an uncertain breath. Good question. She had but one last recourse—appealing to Alec in person. Ethelred had spoken of another way inside the abbey. Perhaps if she could find it for herself, she could ascertain whether Alec had actually learned of the Slayer’s offer and what he meant to do about it. Moreover, she could discover why Ethelred had yet to return to Helmsley.

  “I shall tell you on the morrow, Nell,” she decided. The less the girl knew of her plans, the better her odds of keeping them from the Slayer’s ears. “In the meantime,” she added, “help me think of a way to leave in secret.”

  “Aye, m’lady,” Nell agreed, her face a picture of misery.

  A wave of nausea washed over Christian as he tugged at the bell rope outside the gate of Rievaulx Abbey. It was both the prospect of seeing the boils on Horatio’s face and the result of having drunk too much that kept his stomach churning that morning. He set his teeth against the urge to retch.

  Then, too, the memory of Clarisse’s face when she’d glared up at him the night before in fearful loathing might well be the greatest cause for his malaise. He’d have stayed in bed that morning, nursing his pounding head, but when Sir Roger informed him Ethelred had yet to return from the abbey, the certainty that he was being held against his will had Christian rolling out o
f bed. He was determined to investigate the matter personally.

  Only, no monk could be bothered to answer his summons—not even Horatio, who’d thrown open the peephole to send him away previously. Perhaps that toad had succumbed to the illness within these walls. Christian heartily hoped so, and then he silently begged God’s forgiveness for such a thought. Glancing back at his retinue of men-at-arms, he flinched against the sunbeams slicing into his eyeballs from the east. Turning back to the gate, he tugged the bell again.

  Counting the beats of his heart, he waited for someone to answer. Clearly, the Abbot of Rievaulx had forbidden his monks to answer any summons. He knew that Christian would come for his friend Ethelred, and Gilbert meant to keep him out.

  Looking up, Christian eyed the high walls. They were not so tall that he couldn’t scale them, though doing so violated the law. Helmsley might not truly have been under an interdict, but a violent act against the abbey would certainly bring such a thing crashing down upon his castle. More than that, he would be ostracized by the church forever. Yet he had to do something, for he refused to slink away in defeat.

  Slamming a palm against the heavy wooden door, he made up his mind. He would send the abbot a warning this time. If Gilbert failed to take it seriously and release Ethelred, Christian would return with an army and overrun the abbey by force—consequences be damned!

  He turned to eye his men at arms. “Arm your bows,” he ordered, prompting them to eye him in surprise for a moment. Sharing looks, they obeyed him one by one, drawing bolts from their quivers and readying their crossbows.