The Slayer's Redemption Page 27

  “My lord!” she called. “I must speak with you.”

  “Enter,” he said, sounding in good spirits.

  Pushing the door open, she found him divesting himself of the hunting attire she had seen him wearing once before. Alfred lay on the rush mat still panting hard, his long tongue lolling. Christian’s welcoming smile faded as he beheld her pallor. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, still catching her breath.

  “What’s amiss?” he demanded.

  “You missed morning prayers,” she began, just now realizing the reason for it.

  “I meant to return in time,” he swore. Forgetting to undress, he searched her face as he drew nearer. “But we felled a stag so large it required us to fashion a sled in order to pull it home. Are you displeased with me?” he asked with just enough worry that she dismissed the lecture she had intended to give him.

  “I have just now realized something I never knew before,” she informed him.

  His expression turned unexpectedly hopeful.

  “’Tis not good news,” she added, wondering what he’d thought she was going to say.

  Right away, his face became a mask. “Go on.”

  Pushing off the door, she took his arm and guided him toward the window, away from anyone potentially listening in the hallway. Her gaze strayed briefly to the bed they would share, cloaked in fleur-de-lis-printed drapes.

  “Did you know that Harold is the brother of the late baron, John?”

  Christian searched her face with confusion. “What?”

  “Aye, I just realized it myself. He told me his niece’s name was Rose, and that she used to read to him. Doris just explained that he was given in marriage to Maeve because no noblewoman could be found to marry him, though he was noble born. Because the Evynwoods were embarrassed about his infirmity, they must have made him their steward and ceased to treat him like family!”

  Christian frowned, looking thoughtful. “By God, that makes sense,” he stated. “Genrose was especially fond of him. I remember her calling him uncle once or twice. I thought it merely a term of respect.”

  “You know what this means?” Clarisse interjected. “It means Harold is second to the baronetcy after Simon.”

  Christian made a face. “Aye, but he could never truly be Lord of Helmsley.”

  “Not by himself,” Clarisse agreed, her suspicions solidifying, “but Maeve could.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She gestured toward the chair at his desk. “I have something to tell you, and I think you should sit first.”

  He frowned down at her refusing to budge. “You think me such a pudding-heart that I would faint at bad news?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Speak it,” he demanded, drawing himself up taller.

  Clarisse swallowed hard. Was she about to tell a lie out of her dislike for Maeve? Nay, every instinct assured her she was right. She thought of yet another reason. “Do you remember the night of my arrival at Helmsley when you came to awaken me and found Simon stripped of his covers?”

  “Aye,” he admitted, his eyebrows sinking into a straight line.

  “Just keep that in mind as I tell you this story,” she begged him. “I left Mass early this morning. I was passing through the servant’s quarters on my way to the kitchens when I caught Harold leaving Doris’s bedchamber. It was perfectly evident that they’d been … together.”

  Christian’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Confronting her, I discovered that they have loved each other since childhood. Maeve knew about their trysts. Recently, when Doris got with child, Maeve put bark of brakefern in her ale so that the babe would come early. She then summoned the midwife who pronounced the babe dead. I was there. I saw the birth, and it was wretched.”

  Christian folded his arms across his chest, his frown thunderous.

  “There is more.” Reaching around Simon in his sling, she took his large hands in hers and squeezed them. “Doris said that Maeve has tried to kill another babe but would say no more. Think about it, Christian. Wouldn’t Maeve have had a motive for wanting to prevent Simon’s birth?”

  His gaze glazed over as it slid lower to regard the baby gazing up at him.

  “If not for Simon,” Clarisse continued, warming to her own conclusions, “the baronetcy would belong to Harold and to Maeve. Or am I inventing tales because I dislike her so?”

  Christian looked up at her. He moved away abruptly, stalking toward his desk where he snatched up a tiny bit of vellum and brought it over to her.

  “I found this in the Abbot of Rievaulx’s herbal. Someone from Helmsley sent it to him.”

  Taking the tiny note, she read the message penned there with dawning comprehension. “You think Dame Maeve apprised the abbot of your comings and goings?”

  “Aye. If she begrudged Genrose—and myself, of course—the ownership of Helmsley, then the abbot would be a good ally.” He reread the note. “I’ll warrant you she apprised him of everything happening at Helmsley. He apparently knew of my growing attachment to you—”

  She pounced on the confession “Are you attached to me, my lord?”

  He cocked his head and looked down at Simon. “Are you not the chief source of sustenance for my son?” he countered.

  “Hmm.” That was not the confession of love for which she’d been hoping. But this was not the time to examine her disappointment. “I have a thought,” she admitted, holding up the tiny missive. “I saw both chickens and pigeons near the goat pen, but also a smaller pigeon cote near to Dame Maeve’s herbal. Perhaps they are not all for food. Mayhap she keeps some trained as carriers. My father used to have them for carrying missives to London.” She waggled the note in the air. “Could not a message this small be conveyed by pigeon to the abbey?”

  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Aye, it could.”

  “Then we have only to ascertain whether Dame Maeve has trained pigeons. And if she has, we have sufficient evidence to question her.”

  “Let us do so at once,” Christian decided, plucking the missive from her fingers. “I have suffered the bane of a traitor in my midst too long.”

  “’Twould improve your reputation to attend Mass each morning,” she inserted breezily.

  He cut her a frown. “I was hunting for our wedding fare.”

  Her heart leapt at the reminder that he’d set a date four days from then. From that point on, she would be bound to him forever.

  “How will you free my family from Ferguson’s clutches?” she demanded blocking his path as he headed for the door. “I fear when he hears of our wedding, he will kill them at once.”

  “Leave that to me, fair lady,” he replied with confidence. “I will tell you more anon, I promise you,” he added, reading her frustration accurately. He gestured for her to precede him to the solar door. “Let us confront Dame Maeve.”

  Chapter Twenty

  With the feeling that moths were gnawing holes in her belly, Clarisse descended the tower stairs from her chamber by the nursery. To think that she would end this day a bride and sleep from now on in the solar with the Slayer!

  ’Twas only natural for any bride to feel nervous. Yet it wasn’t solely the prospect of sharing her body on the first night in the marriage bed that left her uneasy. Nay, it was the proximity of Ferguson, who had come to Helmsley at the Slayer’s invitation.

  For several days, it was unknown whether the Scot would fall for Christian’s ploy, which he had not shared with her until Ferguson had accepted his offer—an alliance between the two enemies, forged by the bonds of marriage.

  When the Scot and his men showed up the day before, pitching tents in the very field where Christian had proposed to Clarisse, she had breathed a little easier. If Ferguson believed himself allied with his enemy, it gained him nothing to kill Clarisse’s remaining family. He could not possibly suspect that the Slayer would turn on him, per Clarisse’s request. However, the worry that he had planned some treachery of his own ke
pt her in a state of high distress.

  Perhaps if Christian had shared the precautions he had taken, Clarisse could enjoy the festivities surrounding her wedding day. Her groom had merely implored her to trust his judgment.

  “Am I not an experienced knight?” he’d pointed out just a day after Maeve had been confronted and had confessed to everything. “Are you not a mere maid? You’ve carried the burden of your family’s plight long enough, Clarisse. Leave the rest to me.”

  ’Twas not that she failed to trust Christian’s military acuity; rather, it was Ferguson’s penchant for deceit that kept her on edge.

  “Do you see any wrinkles in my gown, Nell?” she inquired, as they moved from the tower stairs toward the gallery. Soon, the guests would look up from the great hall to see her for the first time.

  “Nay, m’lady,” Nell assured her.

  Clarisse turned back to make certain that Simon, dressed in a handsome cream-colored gown of his own and nestled in Nell’s arms, hadn’t spat up unexpectedly. He blinked back at her, as though dazed by her appearance.

  “What about the headpiece?” she asked her maid. “Has it fallen to one side?”

  “Ye look perfect, m’lady. Like a queen.”

  Her gown had been cut from a sapphire blue bolt of Normandy silk, which Christian had procured from a merchant passing through Abingdon on his way to York. A local seamstress had worked night and day to sew it in time for the nuptials. Cut in the latest fashion, it clung to Clarisse’s torso while the sleeves draped down on either side to trail in her wake. Her headpiece, delicate and laced with pearls, matched the girdle draped about her waist. The single plait falling down her back had been dressed with tiny white flowers.

  Having glimpsed her reflection in a looking glass, Clarisse had scarcely recognized herself. Would her appearance—clad in blue for purity and fidelity—inspire the words of tenderness and devotion she still foolishly wished to hear from her betrothed?

  This is not a love match, she reminded herself. She was marrying Christian because, as a warrior, he was the best chance to see her family freed, and, of course, she married to give Simon a mother. That was all. She smiled slightly at the realization that it was a love match after all. And the baby’s love would be enough. Pausing to drop a quick kiss on Simon’s cheek, she continued toward the gallery.

  Given the scents wafting upward from the great hall, Doris had outdone herself in gratitude to Sir Christian for ridding Helmsley of Dame Maeve. The steward’s wife had indeed kept carrier pigeons in the cote by her herbal. In her chamber, they found small notes, questions from Abbot Gilbert, to which she must have responded. She’d been cast from the castle to find her own way in life, and Ethelred had promised to annul her marriage to Harold on the grounds of her criminal acts.

  Upon consulting Clarisse and his master-at-arms, Christian had replaced Maeve with Sarah, already a capable young woman, who would grow into her new role. Moreover, the preparations had begun, including a delivery from the marketplace of exotic figs and apricots. Yet, despite how enticing the food promised to be, Clarisse doubted she would eat much—for what if Ferguson had found a way to poison it?

  At least she could not attribute her nervousness to pledging herself to a warrior whose name alone made peasants cross themselves in fear. In time and without Dame Maeve or Father Gilbert’s continued attempts to subvert him, the good qualities she had remarked in Christian de la Croix would become evident to the local populace.

  She could find no fault in his behavior lately. Since his proposal, he had lavished her with generosity and unfailing consideration. The seamstress, having finished her wedding gown, would start in on a new trousseau from other fine cloths Christian had purchased. He’d brought a perfume merchant into the castle who’d displayed an assortment of oils, including jasmine, a heavenly fragrance from a distant land. The local weaver, hired to make blankets throughout the castle in honor of its new lady, had requested Clarisse’s input on the pattern and colors of each. Her groom had given her leisure to do all this while he planned the details of the wedding and tourney.

  She had discovered that Ethelred would marry them, having procured a special license while conferring with the archbishop about the Abbot of Rievaulx’s diabolical experiment. Gilbert had been buried earlier that week and an interim abbot brought to Rievaulx to shepherd the monks until a permanent replacement could be found.

  One villain down, Clarisse considered as she slowly approached the balustrade and gazed down. And one to go.

  Braced for the unpleasant sight of her stepfather, she spied him sitting amidst a knot of his men-at-arms who all stood in pea-green plaid kilts, their knees conspicuously bare. They had positioned themselves by the fire pit as though anticipating the fires of hell that awaited them.

  At the sight of their too-familiar faces, dread pooled in her intestines. Rowan’s father, Kendal, stood with his shoulders hunched, his eyes glittering with malice. It came as little comfort to see that his only weapon was a ceremonial short sword, its scabbard encrusted with rubies. She had no doubt he had concealed other weapons on his person.

  Her attention shifted to Ferguson. The burly Scot had taken the only chair for himself. The smirk that rode the edges of his mouth contrasted sharply with Kendal's fury.

  He looks well pleased with the turn of events, she considered. Either he truly desired an alliance with the powerful Slayer, or he was biding his time until he could engage in further murderous treachery. Hatred and grief burned like peat coals within her. How she resented his contentment, however temporary!

  Glancing beyond Ferguson, Clarisse gasped in recognition of the women huddled next to the window. Ferguson had brought her family with him! Her mother even wore a presentable gown, and her hair had been combed—no doubt by Merry—yet her once-intelligent, caring expression remained vacant. Did she even know she attended her eldest daughter’s wedding?

  Fifteen-year-old Merry stood beside her, wearing a shapeless, dun-colored gown for obvious reasons and holding tightly to her mother as if to restrain her. Merry had concealed her burnished hair with an ugly headdress, though two fiery braids brushed either shoulder. Only eight-year-old Katherine seemed pleased to be present. Too young to scent the current of danger in the air and with the excitement of anticipation on her sweet face, she watched the servants scurry about in preparation of the feast.

  Please God, let them be free of Ferguson by this time tomorrow, Clarisse prayed.

  Kendal saw her first. Nudging his companions, he directed a dozen pairs of eyes up and over the tapestry of the hunt.

  Feeling as though a rash of pinpricks had broken out on her skin, Clarisse could only stare back, trying to get her terror under control.

  “Daughter!”

  The cry startled her. With growing concern, she watched Jeanette break free of Merry’s hold and push past the men surrounding them to get to the stairs.

  “Get back, wench.” One of them gave her mother a shove.

  “Leave her go.” Ferguson’s pale eyes glittered with contempt. “Let her make a fool o’ herself.”

  Jeanette shrugged free and ran for the stairs, followed immediately by her daughters. Clarisse moved down the gallery to greet them on the topmost step. Her mother flew toward her, her eyes wild with alarm.

  “Daughter!” she cried again. Flinging bony arms around her, she held her tightly.

  Clarisse could feel her trembling. She hugged her tightly, drawing her away from the balustrade and the people watching. “Peace, Mother. I am well.”

  “My Clarisse, I’ve been so worried for you.” Drawing back, Jeanette's blue gaze widened with wonder as it drifted over her. “Oh, but you look so lovely!”

  She wished she could say the same of her once-beautiful mother. As thin as a wraith, Jeanette’s skin seemed to hang upon her skeleton. Her eyes had long since lost their luster and her skin’s pallor seemed gray.

  “You need not worry,” she assured her, then directed her attention at her sisters a
s they stepped closer. “Merry. Katherine!” She held her arms out to them also.

  For the next precious moments, they embraced, no one speaking, their eyes wet with tears.

  “Take heart,” Clarisse whispered, pitching her voice low to keep it from carrying. “My groom will reclaim our home and free you from Ferguson’s tyranny. Fear you not.”

  Katherine’s hold tightened. Merry drew back with a look of skepticism. Jeanette seemed not to have heard her.

  The blare of a horn kept Clarisse from elaborating, as it signaled the start of the wedding. Below in the great hall, guests began to move toward the chapel. “Stay with me,” Clarisse implored, gripping her sisters hands tightly. “You need not go with them.”

  Peering over the balustrade, she watched the Scot and his men file out of the great hall, followed by other guests of Christian's.

  “Don’t let him harm you,” Jeanette blurted when the only people left were servants dressing the high table.

  Clarisse turned to her in surprise. “Do you mean Sir Christian?”

  “I have a poison for you,” Merry added, pressing a satchel into her hand. “You can kill him ere he takes you to his bed.”

  She regarded the small satchel in astonishment. “Nay,” she said, thrusting it back at her sister. “You misunderstand, both of you. I am not being forced in any way. ’Tis my choice to wed. My groom will defeat Ferguson for us,” she added, reluctant to offer any details, especially since Christian hadn’t given her any.

  Jeanette said nothing else, seemingly turned inward at the idea of more harm befalling any of them.

  “Hah,” Merry scoffed. “The Slayer is another just like Ferguson. Has he not killed women and children? You must beware, sister. I heard he slew his first wife!”

  “Stop.” Clarisse caught her mother's and her sister’s arms and squeezed them firmly. She held her mother’s gaze until she focused on her. “I swear to you I will come to no harm, nor shall you, not anymore.”

  Her mother made a small moaning sound, as if it was too much to take in. Clarisse turned her attention to Merry.