The Slayer's Redemption Page 24

  “Horatio,” Gilbert called, straightening his stole as the monk ducked into her cell. “Chain her,” he ordered.

  Ignoring her protests, Horatio muscled her toward the manacles. Shoving her to the wall, he lifted one of her hands and then the other, banding each in the iron fetters.

  “Give her nothing to drink until she begs for it,” Gilbert added, handing Horatio his keys. “Stand watch and do not leave the cellar except at nones and terce.”

  Bending down, he placed the candle on the floor. Then, with a swish of his robes, he turned and left.

  Horatio breathed foul breath against her cheek. “I be sore tempted to treat you like a woman.” Grinding his pelvis against her backside, he earned her swift retaliation as she slammed her booted heel against his shin. He reeled back and spat toward her.

  Clarisse shuddered and closed her eyes, willing him to depart, as well.

  Mumbling dark invectives, he finally retreated. As the lock turned in her door, she wilted in despair. The chains, with their short leash, kept her from reaching the loaf of bread. The abbot had set his candle next to it, as if to taunt her with its proximity.

  Now what, Clarisse?

  She shook her head at her rash nature. She ought never to have come to Rievaulx alone. If she had attempted to plead with the Slayer rather than calling him a monster, she might have made inroads toward saving her family. As it was, she had likely condemned herself to die of the blue sickness rather than to die by Ferguson’s hand.

  God have mercy on me, she prayed, dropping her forehead to the cool, hard wall. It came as no comfort to learn that her instincts were right—the Abbot of Rievaulx was beyond dangerous. He was well and truly out of his mind.

  Homesickness swamped her unexpectedly. Only it wasn’t Heathersgill she missed with its tragic history and terrifying memories, but rather Helmsley. To think that she had given up Simon for this! Her foolish pride was all to blame. The Slayer would have made her his mistress. So what? She could have accepted such for a while, at least. Eventually, she would have done something to secure her footing in his castle.

  She could have taught the Slayer to love her, perhaps convinced him to marry her, for Simon's sake. Thinking of the baby brought a surge of fresh milk to her breasts. Hot tears filled her eyes.

  So long as Nell kept quiet, Christian wouldn’t know where to begin looking for her. God forbid, she would waste away in this cold, bleak cellar!

  The tears spilled over, tracking down her dusty cheeks. Her thoughts went to her mother and sisters. Ferguson would hang them in just over a week’s time.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, addressing her dead father. She had tried her best to protect her kinswomen, but in the end, she’d failed them.

  At the sound of someone humming, Clarisse caught back a sob and listened. It seemed to be coming through the wall before her. She pressed an ear to the stone and heard a canticle being chanted in the chamber next to hers.

  “Who’s there?” she called quietly.

  The chanting stopped. She heard the eerie scrape of chain across stone. “Lady Clarisse.” Ethelred’s voice was a mere ghost of its former self. “I saw them bring you down but could not credit mine eyes.”

  “Ethelred,” she replied, recognizing his voice, though it had lost its robust quality.

  “What do you here, my lady? Is anyone with you?”

  She swallowed down her despair. He sounded ill, as though he, too, had caught the scourge.

  “I am alone,” she admitted. “But Sir Christian has come to the abbey twice now,” she added in a bid to encourage them both. “And he sent an urgent message to the archbishop on your behalf when you did not return.”

  “You found the tunnel,” Ethelred guessed. “I never meant for you to use it. Why would you?”

  “Sir Christian vowed to return me to Ferguson.”

  Even as she said the words, she realized he would never have carried out his threat. Hadn’t she discovered for herself that the man was all bluster? He had merely spoken out of anger prompted by reading her letters to Alec, which for reasons unknown had made him greatly angry with her. Perhaps he’d assumed Alec had been her lover when she’d professed her innocence. Mayhap he would always think her a liar. In any case, in his drunkenness, he had frightened her by overpowering her struggles. Instead of taking her by force, however, as he could so easily have done, he had left her chaste.

  God forgive her, she had run away from her best hope for salvation!

  “I’ve been a fool, Father Abbot,” she acknowledged.

  Ethelred said nothing for so long, she thought he’d fallen asleep. At last, she heard, “Don’t drink the wine, my child.”

  “What’s that?” She pricked her ears to his sudden warning.

  “Don’t drink the wine,” he rasped. “You will ... seem to show symptoms of the blue sickness.”

  “Show the symptoms? But the pestilence isn’t spread by drinking wine, is it?”

  “Correct. ’Tis not an actual pestilence,” he continued. “’Tis a reaction to poison.”

  “Quiet in there!” Horatio roared out in the corridor.

  She kept quiet, not because of Horatio’s warning, but because Ethelred’s news gave her much to ponder. Was the plague-like disease then a fraud, a mere reaction to some foul concoction created by Gilbert himself? That would explain why he did not sicken. But what on earth did he hope to accomplish by poisoning his monks?

  When she whispered this question to Ethelred moments later, she gained no reply. He had either fallen asleep or swooned.

  The chill of isolation struck her to the bone, and she sank to her knees, forced by the chains to remain in a posture of penitence upon the floor. How long could she bear it?

  Ironically, this was the treatment she had feared from the Slayer. Instead, he had given her a feather mattress and colorful gowns. Even when he’d learned the truth of her identity, he had offered her his sword arm. His stipulation had been simple enough—a warm embrace. A body willing to receive him.

  She spent a moment soothing herself with the memory of his kisses and his caress. Oh, what she would give to feel his arms around her now, to curl into the security of his embrace! Surely, if his threat had been prompted by jealousy—though she had no assurance of this—then he would search for her.

  Even so, how long would it take for Nell to admit to where her mistress had gone? Moreover, could Clarisse live that long without a drop to drink?

  Christian likened himself to a hound chasing an elusive hare. The frustration pounding through him made him want to bay at the sun rising over the outer walls.

  Having slept poorly the previous night, he’d sought out Clarisse at dawn that morning with the intent to make peace with her for Simon’s sake. But when his knock at her door had gone unanswered, he’d pushed his way inside, pausing in consternation to discover her bed untouched and Simon’s cradle missing.

  The thud of the nursery door had him hurrying to the next room over, where Simon’s cradle, still warm from his presence, reassured Christian that his son had not been stolen in the night.

  Chasing a fleet-footed Nell down the tower steps, he’d called for her to stop, but she had seemed not to hear him. By the time he arrived at the great hall, she had disappeared.

  “Lady Clarisse is gone,” he informed his master-at-arms.

  Sir Roger had looked up at him from his mug of watered beer. “Imagine that,” he drawled. “Did she take your son with her?”

  “Nay. He is here—I think.”

  “Best find Nell and make certain,” the knight suggested.

  Nevertheless, finding Nell did not prove easy. A page said he’d just seen her in the kitchen sneaking a bite of gingerbread. Christian hurried to the outer building, only to find the girl already gone.

  “Washing the babe’s soiling cloths,” Dame Maeve answered in response to his query. “You will find her by the well.”

  He went straight to the courtyard where the well stood, drawing mo
re than a few startled gazes as he bellowed Nell’s name. The boy pushing a huge wheel of cheese across the open space lost control of it, and it rolled under a cart of fresh hay. But Nell did not appear.

  Spying her sister headed toward the gates, basket in hand, he jogged to intercept her. “Have you seen Nell?” he demanded.

  Sarah regarded him blankly though he detected astuteness in her gaze.

  “Where is she?” he growled in his fiercest voice.

  She only shrugged at his severity—loyal to a fault but not to him. “I saw her by the well but a nonce ago.”

  He gestured back at the well. “As you can see, she’s no longer there.”

  “I know not where she be,” Sarah insisted, but her quick glance at the brew house betrayed her.

  Aha! Spinning toward the squat structure that shared a common wall with the kitchens, he dove into a room smelling of hops and collided with a figure holding his baby.

  Nell squealed in fright.

  “There you are.” Christian laid hold of her plump arm and felt her trembling. The fire burning at one end of the room had turned the brewery as hot as purgatory. It illumined Nell’s wide eyes as she gazed at him like a rabbit paralyzed by fear. Simon snored on her shoulder, oblivious to his father’s frustration.

  “Where is she?” he asked through his teeth, drilling Nell with a glare that had always earned him a quick reply.

  Servants in their labors paused to observe the exchange.

  “Wh-who, m’lord?” Nell stuttered.

  He tightened his hold, squeezing her arm for good measure. “Don’t play games with me, Nell. This is not the time to forget where your loyalty should lie. Or have you no aspirations for your brothers?” he threatened.

  In the fire’s orange glow, her face looked as pasty as a lump of dough. Yet he saw the same flash of defiance that he’d seen in her sister’s eyes. “She said ye would withdraw yer promise,” she accused, her voice wobbling.

  “What?”

  “Ye made us a promise!” the girl insisted. “Ye said me brothers would have land o’ their own. And ye made m’lady a promise to defend her against the Scot. Ye haffe lied on both accounts now!”

  Christian sucked in a breath and released her. He glanced at the servants who huddled together for safety’s sake. There was more contempt than fear in their faces now.

  “You grow impertinent, Nell,” he said under his breath. “Yet I give you credit for your bravery. My offer to your brothers stands,” he said, raising his voice. “As does my intent to defend Lady Clarisse from Ferguson.”

  “But ye tolde her ye would return her to ’im!” the maid insisted.

  That, he had. But that was two days prior, when he’d spoken in haste. Since then, he’d had two drunken nights and two interminable, miserable days to help him recover from his fit of temper. And to regret.

  Had he ever intended to execute the threat? Nay, not even the night he’d said it to scare Clarisse. Jealousy, anger, confusion—combined, they had caused his heinous promise to send her to her death. Yet he had assumed she would understand how much he wanted her, wanted to believe in her, and that he could never let her end up in the Scot’s hands. Apparently, she had taken him at his word and run from him.

  “My plans to destroy the Scot cannot be spoken aloud lest they reach his ears. Suffice it to say that I will defend Lady Clarisse and her family. More than that, I will make her my lady and your mistress.” If she will have me, he added to himself.

  Astonished silence answered his bold proclamation. Wonder usurped cynicism in the faces of those looking on.

  “The fact is if she is not within these walls, then she is very much in danger. Tell me where she went,” he pressed, training his gaze on Nell once more.

  “Tell him, sister,” urged a youth, coming forward.

  Christian looked into the sweaty countenance of a young man and saw at once his resemblance to Sarah and Nell.

  “Aiden or Callum?” he inquired.

  “Callum, m’lord,” said the young man, tugging his forelock. “Spare me sister for her part in the lady’s disappearance, and I'll tell ye where she be.”

  “Nell will be spared,” Christian reassured him.

  “The lady haffe gone to the abbey,” said the boy succinctly. “She wears me best tunic and braies.” He cut an accusing glance at Nell.

  Christian swore as his gut twisted at the unexpected news. So, she had fled to be with the man she loved. Doubt threatened to snuff the optimism rising in him at the prospect of making Clarisse his bride. What made him think, after all he’d done and said, that she would even have him?

  “She should be coming back then,” he said, thinking out loud. “No one answers the bell at Rievaulx.”

  Nell lifted her hand from Simon’s back where she’d been rubbing gentle circles and touched her overlord’s sleeve, her gaze both anxious and hopeful. “M’lady made mention of a secret entrance. Abbot Ethelred described it to her. She went to look for it herself.”

  A secret entrance! His back teeth came together. Had she been sneaking into the abbey to be with Alec all this time?

  “God’s teeth and bones!” he muttered, pivoting toward the door. He headed straight to the forebuilding to inform his master-at-arms.

  Reason insisted that Clarisse had been too busy looking after Simon to slip away and rendezvous with her betrothed. What’s more, Alec had never read Clarisse’s passionate letters, for Gilbert had kept them away from him in hopes of keeping him in the priesthood and gaining Glenmyre for the church.

  If Alec had never read her letters and she had never met with the man in secret, then Clarisse had left Helmsley for one reason and one reason only: his terrible threat. Christian had driven her out himself. His own violent humors had betrayed him—again.

  “Jesú, please, just one more chance,” he heard himself mutter. He’d reached the doors to the great hall by the time he realized he’d just prayed again, not for Simon this time, but on his own behalf for the first time in years. It was becoming a habit—and a welcome one at that.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Lady Clarisse, is that truly you?”

  Clarisse roused to a discomfort so keen that a groan escaped her dry lips. In her misery, she decided she must have imagined the faint whisper.

  “Lady, look to the door!” This was said more urgently.

  Turning her head, her senses sharpened at the sight of Alec’s boyish figure standing at the barred door.

  “Are you well?” he asked, gripping the bars anxiously.

  She struggled to her feet, her legs so numb she could scarcely feel them, the chains at her wrists rattling. Alec, of course! She had given up all hope of ever seeing him again. Praise God, he had found out she was here!

  “Where is Horatio?” she asked, hoping Alec had clubbed him over the head.

  “Supping in the refectory.”

  Some of her elation dimmed. She could see that Alec didn’t have the keys to set her free.

  “Supping,” she repeated. “Is it only midday then?” It seemed to her that she had spent days in captivity, not mere hours. The candle left behind by Father Gilbert had burned out, leaving her no way to measure the passing of time.

  “I heard your voice earlier, but I had to wait for him to go eat. Why are you here?” he asked.

  Why, indeed? “I have tried for months to reach you,” she said. Now that she could finally speak to him in person, the words she had poured to him in her letters refused to form upon her tongue. “I have long needed your help,” she added lamely.

  “Have you?” He sent a fearful glance over his shoulder.

  His fear further undermined her confidence in him. She understood why he would dread Horatio’s return, yet his temerity only confirmed the realization that he could never take on Ferguson and trounce him. The lecture she had always intended to give him for abandoning her died in her heart, unspoken.

  “Can you release me?” she said instead. “The Abbot of Revesby lies i
n the next chamber over. They have denied him sustenance. He sounds unwell.”

  Looking surprised to hear this, Alec left her door to verify her words. She heard him call to Ethelred, but the good abbot gave no reply.

  “He doesn’t answer,” Alec said, returning to her door. “Why won’t they give him any drink?”

  “They give him only wine, which he refuses for good reason. Your abbot is mad, Alec. He has laced the wine with herbs. That’s what is sickening the monks. You mustn’t drink it.”

  Alec shook his head. “I never have. I’m allergic to elderberry.”

  “Which is why you’ve yet to sicken,” she pointed out. “Please, you must help us to escape.”

  Alec peered over his shoulder a second time. “I shall try to get the key,” he promised.

  “Thank you. Did Father Gilbert tell you that the Slayer has returned your lands to you?” she inquired.

  He shook his head. “Nay. The Abbot of Revesby told me just the other day. I never expected such a thing from the Slayer of all people.”

  “Aye, yet he isn’t the vicious brute he’s reputed to be. And he doesn’t like that nom de guerre.” Nor did she any more believe he deserved it. “He told me, Alec, he did not mean to kill your father. He rode under the banner of peace, but Lord Monteign did not recognize it.” She paused, wondering if he would believe her. “Will you accept his offer?” she pressed without much hope that he would.

  Alec hesitated. “I belong here, Clarisse,” he stated with certainty.

  Oddly, she felt no betrayal at his words, only grim acceptance. “Then help me to escape and the abbot also, and I’ll leave you to your devotions.”

  Alec sent her a long, thoughtful gaze. “Horatio is known to nap in the afternoon. Perhaps if he falls asleep, I can take the keys from him and free you. But we’ll have to be quiet.”

  Pain stabbed at her legs as they revived, feeling like a dozen sharp thorns. She sagged against the wall with despair. Alec clearly dreaded having to confront Horatio. With such a cowardly rescuer, it was unlikely she would ever leave the Cell of Castigation.