The Slayer's Redemption Page 6

  The Slayer frowned with concern and began to unfold. Clarisse froze. He would see the nursing skin if he stood. She shoved it hastily beneath the pillow, causing Simon to rage at the sudden deprivation.

  “What goes wrong?” the Slayer demanded. “Why is he not sucking?” In addition to towering over the bed, he felt inclined to raise his voice. Simon responded in kind, his cries growing louder.

  Under the threat of doom, Clarisse raised her own voice. “He must have quiet, lord!” she informed him firmly. “Please, sit down and I will calm him!” Her imperious suggestion, rather than drawing the Slayer’s wrath, brought an incredulous look to his face.

  Very slowly, he put the goblet on the floor. Simon roared in Clarisse’s right ear. The Slayer’s shadow fell across the left side of her body. She realized he was crawling onto the mattress, over her. His long fingers sank into the pillow on either side of her head and she twisted flat on her back to stare up at him, all the while expecting the bladder to spew milk out from under the pillow and onto the sheets.

  Ignoring Simon’s cries, the Slayer lowered his face until his eyes were level with her own.

  This is it, Clarisse considered. Shock slipped over her with the feel of hot oil. He will force me now, even with the innocent babe in the bed, and I will be helpless to stop him.

  She willed her eyes to shut, but the scar that raked the length of his cheek held her spellbound. His body was so close that she could feel the heat of it as well as smell a hint of juniper mixed with fruity wine.

  “Let us settle one thing now,” he told her in a voice as hard as the links of armor he’d thankfully shed. “Simon is heir to the baronetcy of Helmsley, and that is more than I will ever be. To be baron, he must first survive his infancy. He must have the best care, the best food, the best this world can offer. Do I make myself very clear, Dame Clare?”

  “Quite,” she answered, struck by his honesty.

  “You of all people should understand how I would feel if something were to happen to him.” A flicker of sympathy showed in his face as he said those words.

  I of all people? It took her a second to realize he referred to the babe she’d supposedly lost.

  With a start of surprise, she realized that he pitied her. Not only was he sympathetic, but instead of threatening her with physical violence, he’d listed his hopes and fears regarding Simon. The lens of fright dropped briefly from her eyes, leaving her looking at a real human being, a vulnerable man.

  A very big and powerful warrior-man. She grew suddenly aware of his hard, honed body hovering over her.

  “In exchange for your service to my son, you will enjoy my protection,” he rasped. “You will sleep on this feathered bed, eat in my hall, and wear the gowns that I give you. Do you question this arrangement?”

  “Nay.” She could hardly see past him for the breadth of his shoulders. His arms bulged on either side of her. Muscle corded the length of his neck. Ferguson wouldn't stand a chance against him, came the errant thought.

  He flashed her his unexpected smile. “Good,” he said, looking suddenly more intent. His gaze shifted to her mouth.

  It was then Clarisse remembered that her gown was unlaced, her hair uncovered and spread out wantonly around her. With his gaze sliding to her parted bodice and to her breasts cupped by the material on every side, her skin tightened as if physically caressed. She forgot to breathe. In reaction to his hot stare, her nipples crowned. She couldn’t help it.

  “By God, you would tempt a man to madness,” he muttered thickly.

  The words sobered her instantly. Did he think she was tempting him? She lifted hands to his shoulder and pushed with agitation, but he didn’t budge.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, taking note of her reaction. The baby curled his fists in her hair and screamed. “Ah, Simon wants you to himself,” he concluded, seeing her wince.

  To her melting relief, he lifted himself a fraction higher. Then, just as she expected him to climb off the bed, he dipped his head. In a gesture as shocking as it was unexpected, he laved his tongue over her nipple.

  Once.

  Lightning shot up her spine. Clarisse gasped, drawing back into the mattress. The Slayer straightened from the bed. He looked as dazed by his temerity as she was. Dull red color crept toward his cheekbones.

  “We will speak again,” he warned, falling back on bluster. “And I will have honest answers from you next time.”

  With a scowl gathering on his forehead, he retrieved the goblet and pitcher and exited the chamber.

  Clarisse watched the open doorway in the event that he returned. To pacify the unhappy baby, she retrieved the nursing skin, finding it miraculously unharmed, and stuck it in Simon’s mouth. The pendant swayed against her arm, reminding her again of the nightmare from which she’d awakened. She realized with astonishment that she could never bring herself to poison the Slayer.

  The man was too decent, too clever, too virile to be dispatched at an early age. He’d had the opportunity to take her by force, and he’d restrained himself. Ferguson would never have let such an opportunity pass. She could not kill the Slayer—yet neither could she forfeit the lives of those she loved. Forsooth, she had to find another way to save them.

  Dazed by the revelation, Clarisse watched little Simon suckling happily, unknowing of all the evil in the world. She’d gotten herself deep into a concealment, a ruse that served no purpose at all but to give her shelter and food. Yet she could not leave now, not when the baby relied on her. There had to be another way!

  Immediately, she thought of Alec Monteign. She could try to contact him a second time. He owed her a boon for abandoning her. As soon as she got word to him, he would leave the monastery and raise an army on her behalf to challenge Ferguson’s right to Heathersgill. Alec would be her champion yet. She could not give up on him. After all, he was her only option.

  It was well past dawn when Clarisse awoke. She had missed the morning meal, sleeping until the sun rose high enough to leap the outer wall and pierce the crack between the bed drapes. She opened one eye, viewed the high curved ceiling of her tower chamber, and groaned. Alas, it was not a dream.

  She had insinuated herself into the Slayer’s castle. The welfare of the future baron rested on her shoulders, by her own oath to his father. Moreover, given the number of times Simon had awakened for a feeding, she had her work cut out for her.

  As if that were not enough, her virtue was also at stake. The memory of the Slayer’s caress made her groan again. He’d made it shockingly clear that he desired her. And though she knew in her heart that she could never poison him, she had no intention of becoming his leman either. The mere thought made her break out in a sudden sweat. She kicked off the covers to relieve it.

  There was no denying reality. She had wedged herself into a situation from which there was little chance of escaping unscathed, unless she dared admit who she was—which she could never do. Given the antipathy between the Slayer and the Scot, she would immediately be taken hostage by the Slayer. He would think he had the upper hand until he learned that Ferguson wouldn’t pay a penny for her return. Ferguson would then do what he’d threatened in the first place—hang her mother and sisters in the courtyard.

  Since forcing her mother into marriage a year ago, the Scot had taken all that he wanted from Jeanette, and then ignored her. The marriage had given him the legitimacy he needed to rule Heathersgill without the peasants revolting. And since establishing his foothold, Jeanette and her daughters were dispensable—especially Clarisse, who had tried to kill him.

  With her eyes still closed, she drew her strength from the knowledge of their desperate plight. She pictured her mother in her rose garden, where she could be found most hours of the day, drifting like a wraith among the blood-red blooms. Since her beloved Edward’s murder at the hands of the man she'd been forced to wed, she’d gone mad with grief, scarcely sparing a thought for her three daughters.

  Fortunately, Merry had found refuge with a n
earby wisewoman, reputedly gifted with knowing the medicinal qualities of many local plants, and lived with her outside the castle walls, learning the art of healing. ’Twas the safest place for the fifteen-year-old to be.

  Katherine, who was eight, was being looked after by the servants who had children about her age. She was no doubt playing in the buttery with her peers at that very moment, covered in filth and learning nothing that a nobleman’s daughter ought to learn.

  Clarisse drew a deep breath and let it out again. Somehow, she would find a means to free them of Ferguson’s rule—she was determined. However, she would not send her soul to eternal damnation to do it. She would not poison the Slayer of Helmsley.

  And as long as the warrior believed she nursed his son, she was safe. She would stick to her flimsy disguise and pray that he would question her no further. Simon seemed content to drink the goat’s milk, and all she had to do was ensure a steady supply for him while endeavoring to reach Alec.

  Clarisse whipped back the bed curtain and put her feet to the floor. The sight of a tray inside her door gave her pause. It was laden with cheese and bread and—God be praised—milk for Simon. Rubbing a grain of sleep from one eye, she knew she could put off finding the source of the goat’s milk for a little longer. First, she would tend to the matter of reaching Alec.

  At the sounds of her stirring, Simon gave a whimper. She fed him until he burped with repletion. Then she changed his soiling cloth, adjusted his swaddling, and viewed her own reflection in a square of hammered steel.

  Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her hair, recently washed, had dried into long waves. Her gown had wrinkled from wearing it to bed. While her vanity protested, at least she looked the part of a harried nurse. Locating the headdress that went with the borrowed gown, she covered her hair and left the room with the baby secured against her chest by a length of the cradle cloth. She had learned when caring for Katherine how to make a sling that held the baby secure and left her hands free. She had only been ten at the time, but with her mother sick, it had been up to her to run the household.

  Descending the tower steps for the first time since ascending them, Clarisse realized she had no idea which way to turn in the vast castle to find what she was looking for.

  “Good morrow,” she greeted the first person to cross her path, a girl of twelve or so staggering under a load of clean linens as she made her way along the gallery.

  Blue eyes set in a round face peered over the pile. “Ye art the new nurse!” the girl exclaimed in the English tongue.

  “Dame Clare,” Clarisse supplied. “Oh, but you may call me simply Clare.” Instantly, she saw the resemblance between this girl and the terrified creature who’d tended Simon the day before.

  “Me name’s Nell,” the girl said eagerly. “Me sister Sarah gives thanks that ye haffe come.” Her gaze fell to Simon. “Sarah raised all eight of us when oure mum and da died. But not e’en Sarah knew how to comfort the wee master. ’Tis a miracle ye haffe wrought. Ye saved me sister from a fate most dire.”

  The word dire hung in the air between them. Clarisse listened for the sound of anyone else approaching, and then stepped closer to the girl.

  “What happens when the Slayer is angry?” she whispered, recalling the sharpness in the warrior’s eyes. “Does he ... maim his servants?”

  The color drained from Nell’s round cheeks. “Sarah tol’ me ne’er to speak on it!” she whispered back. “Pardon, Clare. Dame Maeve wille be sore vexed with me, do I tarry longer.” She slipped past Clarisse with her teetering load and headed toward the tower stairs the way Clarisse had come.

  Struck by the girl’s fear, Clarisse nearly forgot her purpose in questioning her. “Just a moment,” she called, causing Nell to halt and look back at her. “Can you tell me the way to the chapel? I missed matins this morning.”

  Nell’s brow creased. “The chapel is in the forebuilding,” she replied, “but…”

  “But what?”

  “But it hast ne been used since Her Ladyship wed the lord,” she whispered, her gaze sliding to one side.

  Clarisse guarded her disappointment. “Are you saying there’s no priest here?”

  Nell shook her blond head, and Clarisse stared at her in consternation. Without a priest, how would she convey her message to Alec?

  “How do you confess, then?” she asked.

  Nell brightened. “The Abbot of Revesby visits Abingdon once a week. We confess to him.”

  “The Abbot of Revesby comes to Abingdon? But why, when there’s an abbot at Rievaulx?”

  “Because he speaketh English.”

  And clearly, the dark-eyed Abbot of Rievaulx did not. “Is this Abbot of Revesby a kindly man?” she asked.

  Nell nodded. “Oh, aye. A truly holy man, he be. He hath many differences with the Abbot of Rievaulx,” she added, her eyes rolling. “Would ye like to come with us on Friday? Most folk walken to Abingdon to hear his words.”

  So there was a way to contact Alec, but it would take some time. “Aye, I would like that very much,” Clarisse answered. Yet would the Slayer let her go? Moreover, hadn’t she sworn to keep vigilant watch over Simon?

  Bidding the laundry maid good day, Clarisse adjusted Simon in his sling and coursed the hallway on the second level toward the main stairs. With no luck in enlisting the aid of a priest, she would tackle her next most pressing need: finding the blessed goats. She couldn’t ask for a mug every time the baby hungered.

  The more Clarisse wandered, the more the size of Helmsley impressed itself on her mind. It had been built to house the king and all his men, should the baron be requested to house them. Yet as she peered into the guest chambers, she found them all lacking in the barest of comforts. The beds had been stripped of their drapes. The embroidered cushions had been plucked from the chairs. The chests were gutted. Torch holders stood devoid of torches. Even the candleholders held neither tallow nor wax.

  Had everything been sold to pay for weapons? she wondered.

  She found herself comparing Helmsley with her own ravaged home. Ferguson had set fire to the hall one day while brawling with his second-in-command. Ever since then, the roof had a ragged hole through which the rain poured in, a circumstance that pained her heart whenever she thought of it.

  In her father’s day, Heathersgill had been a lovely stronghold, built at the highest point of the Cleveland Hills, making sieges almost impossible. The only way to take the keep was by trickery, which was how Ferguson had come to claim it for himself.

  If her father could see what had become of their home, he would roll over in his grave, she mused. If he knew what had become of his lovely wife, wasted to a skeleton, her hair cut to jagged lengths, his ghost would surely haunt the wall walks.

  Should something ever happen to me, he’d once told Clarisse, protect your mother and sisters as best you can. He’d raised her much like a son, which explained why he had laid such a burden at her feet. Yet he could never have predicted that his death would come so soon, while Clarisse was yet a maiden with no husband to call upon for military might. Nonetheless, she felt that—thus far—she had failed him.

  If there had been any way to stop Ferguson from overtaking the keep, she would have done it. However, with a false smile and a humble request for shelter, the Scot had wormed his way into the gates. No one had suspected his intent to poison the lord, and then sever Edward’s head from his body. Ferguson had then raped Clarisse’s mother and laid claim to the castle himself. No one could have stopped him. Still, Clarisse blamed herself for the ruination of her family and her home.

  Simon mewled in her arms, rousing her from her painful reflections. She turned toward the east tower judging that it would convey her to the kitchens. There, she would feign an interest in livestock and discover where the nanny goat was housed.

  She had almost reached the ground level when the jingling of keys alerted her to Dame Maeve’s ascent. The grim-faced servant drew up short at the sight of the nurse in the dim stairwell.


  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, clutching her chatelaine as a sign of her power.

  Clarisse quelled the impulse to check the woman’s tone. The steward’s wife was a superior servant. She would be wise to establish a friendship with the woman.

  “Does this tower lead to the kitchens?” she asked her meekly.

  “Nay,” the woman retorted. “Why? Have ye need of aught?”

  “Actually, I missed the morning meal,” Clarisse lied. She would determine if Dame Maeve were responsible for the tray in her room or someone else.

  “Then you should get up earlier,” the woman snapped.

  “Our lord has instructed me to eat well—”

  “He is seneschal, not lord of this castle,” Dame Maeve corrected her.

  Clarisse wondered if the woman’s gray hair dared escape the knot on her head. “I see,” she said. “The Slayer has instructed me to eat well.” She used the taboo sobriquet to fluster the old woman. “I was hoping for a bit of bread and some milk to stave off my hunger.”

  The woman turned as still as stone. Her eyes hardened to match her frame. “You are a fool to use that name lightly,” she muttered. “Do you know how this babe came into the world?” With a long bony finger, she made to prod Simon in the back, but Clarisse turned her body to protect him. “He was cut from his mother’s belly whilst my lady yet lived.”

  A chill swept through Clarisse. She’d been told that Simon’s mother died in childbirth. No one had mentioned such butchery.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, rubbing the baby through his sling to comfort herself as much as him.

  “Ask anyone,” insisted the steward’s wife. “We all saw the blood on his tunic. Her body was still warm when I went to clean the chamber.”

  “None of this is my concern,” Clarisse insisted, thrusting aside the horrific image. “But the baby is. I must have nourishment to feed him. And I must have it now.”

  Dame Maeve drew herself up. “Your request will be relayed,” she said, glaring at her.

  “And bread and milk brought to my chamber?” She was pressing her luck now.