Clarisse’s hopes took wing then plummeted as his black gaze skewered her through the little opening.
“You should not be here,” he informed her. “There is a great pestilence within these walls.”
“Please, Reverend Father,” she said deferentially, “I wish only to speak with Alec Monteign.”
“Brother Alec tends the sick. He cannot be interrupted.”
“Then he’s not ill?” she guessed, hopeful once more.
“Not yet.” The abbot spoke with no inflection in his voice.
She couldn’t tell if he was angry or dispassionate, but she hoped to sway him to pity.
“I was once his betrothed, Father,” she rushed to explain. “If he knew I had come so far, I am certain he would want to—”
His gaze had sharpened with her words. “Remove the cloth so that I might see you,” he interrupted.
Clarisse adjusted the headdress she wore, easing it off her flame-colored hair.
The abbot put jeweled fingers to his mouth and gasped with recognition. “I know you,” he said in a voice so intimate her innards seemed to curdle. “You are the one who has written Alec words of defilement and temptation.”
“But, Father Abbot,” she protested, realizing he made reference to her many letters, “I merely reasoned with his choice—”
“Silence!” He stepped back suddenly, his face lost to shadow. “You are a woman, an ancestor of Eve. You would lure Alec from his holy vows,” he insisted.
“Not true!” she cried. “I have come for ... for ...” She stuttered, for in truth, she had come to lead Alec from the Church. “I have come for sanctuary,” she amended. It was a means to gain entrance; she had nowhere else to turn.
The abbot pressed himself to the gate while baring his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Sanctuary?” he repeated. His head fell back as laughter, harsh and mirthless, rose from his throat. “Is that what you call it?”
Suddenly, he was deathly serious. “Horatio!” he snarled over his shoulder.
The man who’d previously answered the gate loomed behind him. “Show this woman your face,” the abbot commanded.
The monk pulled the hood from his head.
With horror, Clarisse beheld a face speckled with lesions. Puss oozed from every pore. The wounds seemed to weep, lining his cheeks in flaky traces. She changed her mind at once about wanting to enter.
“Does this look like refuge to you?” the abbot inquired. His onyx eyes glittered with something akin to madness.
Clarisse drew the ends of her head covering, now hanging loosely around her neck, closer to her nose. The vision of illness threatened to upend her empty stomach. “Let Alec go,” she begged. “He is the only one who can help me, Father. I have great need of him.”
“I am sure you do,” said the abbot with oily implication. “Nonetheless, he cannot leave. Until the illness runs its course, no one leaves. You run the risk of infection yourself.”
She stepped back instinctively. What if Alec were already infected? He would be unable to help her. “I am going,” she said, turning away.
“Just a moment,” the abbot ordered. “Horatio might have infected you already. We cannot contribute to the spread of disease. Can we, Horatio?”
“Nay, Father Abbot.” The monk’s voice seemed to hold a smirk of malice.
Turning back, Clarisse looked from one man to the other.
“You must come inside,” the abbot ordered. The bar inside the gate slid open.
“I must go,” she repeated, staggering backward as she replaced her mantle. “I will return when the illness is gone.” She could not afford to be locked in the abbey’s walls indefinitely. Ferguson had given her only one month’s time to accomplish her assignment. After that, her mother and sisters’ lives would be forfeit.
With a nameless fear, she turned and hurried down the grassy slope. As the earth dropped sharply beneath her feet, she began to run, desperate to put distance between herself and the sickness that polluted the abbey. Pinching her slippers with her toes, she skirted hollows and leaped over rocks, racing toward the river and the trading town at its shore.
There, Clarisse dived into the midst of the throng. A trail of carts and traders swept her along as they headed toward the market at the river’s edge. To her relief, there was no sign of illness in the sweating faces of those who milled around her.
The busy air of the market town contrasted sharply with the deathlike stillness of the abbey. Stalls and tents crowded the grassy riverbank. Tables overflowed with goods brought from other places—leather, samite, mink, trinkets, and blessed, glorious food. Clarisse stumbled through the crowd, dismayed by the turn of events.
The scent of meat pies lured her toward the food stands. Ducklings sizzled over spits. Barrels swelled with luscious fruit. A baker had a table overflowing with loaves. Over the shouts of the hawkers, she heard her stomach rumble.
“Have a gooseberry?” a kind old woman offered, extending her the prickly ball of fruit.
“Thank you!” Clarisse ripped off the skin with her teeth and stuffed the juicy globe in her mouth.
Now what? she wondered. It had never occurred to her that the Abbey of Rievaulx would be anything but a haven of refuge. She thought of Alec, trapped behind the walls. He must be desperate to leave! However, until the illness ran its course, he could not. Perhaps he had never even received her letters. She had an inkling the abbot had kept them to himself, fearing Alec would rescind his vows if he knew of Clarisse’s desperate situation.
She seized the explanation with relief. While it meant that Alec knew not of her plight, it also meant that he might still wish to help her. If she found a way to reach him.
How long until the quarantine was lifted? It could be weeks. Could she afford to bide her time in this trading town while every day brought her mother and sisters closer to death? How would she feed herself?
The sound of one woman scolding another roused her from her thoughts. “Megan, are ye mad?” hissed the older woman, tugging at the other’s elbow. “Would ye risk your life to live under the Slayer’s roof and be nursemaid to that monster’s son?”
At the mention of the man she was ordered to kill, Clarisse gave a guilty start. She followed the direction of the women’s stares and spied a man sitting astride a horse. He wore no armor in the afternoon heat, yet given the type of saddle he used and the way he sat his horse, she knew him to be a knight. Moreover, by the women’s words, he was in the town looking for a wet nurse. The hopeless look on his battle-scarred face suggested he hadn’t met with any luck as yet.
That cannot be the Slayer, Clarisse thought, swallowing hard. A gooseberry seed moved painfully down her throat. This man was too old to be the dreaded lord of Helmsley. As the women hurried away, whispering among themselves, Clarisse eyed the Slayer’s vassal thoughtfully.
So, the Slayer had spawned a son on the baron’s daughter, Clarisse mused. Ferguson wouldn’t like that at all, she thought, smiling faintly. Yet it made her mission that much easier. For the sake of her mother and sisters, she needed to approach the knight and offer her services as a wet nurse.
I am not equipped to feed a baby, she silently argued with herself. Yet that was not exactly true. She’d fed her youngest sister boiled goat’s milk when their mother suffered the birth fever. It wasn’t an impossible task to keep a babe alive that way. Besides, she couldn’t stay in this trading town indefinitely, waiting for the quarantine to lift.
With leaden feet, Clarisse crossed the grassy expanse that separated her from the horseman.
The man caught sight of her and stared with interest. To her relief, he did not appear to be a vicious warrior. Below a full head of graying hair, his brown eyes shone with intelligence. True, fearsome scars crisscrossed his face, but one of them pulled at the side of his mouth, keeping it in a perpetual smile that made him look congenial. He dismounted as she approached him.
“Are you in search of a nurse?” she asked in the Saxon tongue. As Ferguson ha
d suggested, she would play the part of a freed serf.
He took hold of his animal’s bridle. “I am.” He gave her a quick but thorough inspection.
“I can care for the babe,” she offered, sounding more certain than she felt.
He looked around then back at her. “Where is your child?”
My child? Mary’s blood! Of course, she was supposed to have birthed a child! “It ... uh, she died of fever just a day ago.”
The knight’s expression softened. “And you would care for another,” he finished gently. “What does your husband think?”
Husband? Oh, dear. She ought to have had one of those, too. “I have no husband,” she answered automatically. At the knight’s quizzical expression, she added, “He died in a skirmish.”
The knight gave a grunt of sympathy. “You have suffered much for one so young,” he surmised.
His compassion gave her courage. It would be easier than she thought to find her way into the Slayer’s home. “I have no money,” she told him, letting a pathetic tone creep into her speech. “No way of feeding myself. Please, take me to Helmsley Castle. It would honor me to care for the baby.”
He looked dazed by her enthusiasm. “Very well,” he said. “You wish to go now?”
“Aye, right now.” Her hopes rose anew. The hoary knight had fallen for her tale.
“Have you nothing to bring with you?”
“My goods were sold to cover my husband’s debts,” she glibly lied.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Clare,” she improvised. “Clare … Crucis.” The last word from the inscription at the abbey sprang to her lips. She congratulated herself for being so clever.
“I am Roger de Saintonge,” said the knight. He inclined a slight bow to which she responded with a low curtsey. “Will you ride?”
She approached the white destrier with mixed eagerness and dread. Sir Roger spanned her waist, lifting her sideways onto the saddle where she settled as comfortably as she could.
“You are not afraid of horses,” he remarked. She shook her head and realized belatedly that most peasants were afraid of the giant warhorses. She would have to remember to think like a serf.
The knight led his mount by the bridle through the multitudes, who scattered out of their way. Clarisse kept her gaze fixed on the road they were taking. It was a well-trodden path leading away from the town and abbey.
As they wound around a series of low hills, the Abbey of Rievaulx dropped from view. The hope that Alec would save her from her dreaded task died a painful death. Either she advanced Ferguson’s evil plot, or her mother and sisters would be put to death. What options did that leave her?
Oblivious to her desperate thoughts, the knight strode alongside the horse, keeping hold of the reins. The sun sank lower into the troughs of the hills, causing Clarisse to worry that she might be alone with Sir Roger come nightfall.
“How far is it to Helmsley?” she asked.
He slanted her a startled look, and she realized with a small gasp that she’d spoken in the language of the upper class.
“You speak French!” he commented. His eyes gleamed with interest. “And you’re not from Abingdon, are you?”
Her confidence floundered. She was not as adept at subterfuge as she’d imagined. “I served in a Norman household,” she muttered, as that was the only logical answer. Few peasants, free or bound, knew how to speak Norman French.
“Which household?”
Ferguson had instructed her not to mention Heathersgill, where he lived.
“Glenmyre,” she said, naming Alec’s father’s estate. From this point on, she would keep as close to the truth as possible so as not to forget her compounding lies.
“Ah,” said the knight, looking suddenly grave. Crickets added a melody to the tempo of the horse’s iron shoes. “Was your husband one of the peasants recently killed?” he inquired gently.
As he persisted in speaking French, she answered in the same, being more at ease with her first tongue. “He was not,” she said slowly, though she knew the peasants to which he referred. Just before she’d left Heathersgill, Ferguson had boasted that he’d cut the peasant population at Glenmyre in half. She had no wish to be associated with that slaughter. “As I said, my husband was killed in a skirmish.”
They continued the journey in silence. Clarisse used the time to sketch a rough history for herself. She imagined what it would be like to care for the ruthless murderer’s baby. Rather like playing nursemaid to the devil's spawn, she thought, shuddering at the recollection of the Slayer’s misdeeds.
The man who now held Helmsley had once been the master-at-arms for Baron Evynwood, Lord Helmsley. The baron had wed the Slayer to his only daughter, Genrose, and then departed on pilgrimage to Canterbury, leaving the warrior behind as his seneschal. Rumor had it that the Slayer had plotted to kill the baron and his mother-in-law, for they did not return alive from their pilgrimage but in coffins.
The Slayer was left ruling Helmsley, not as rightful lord but as a usurper.
Much the way Ferguson had acquired Heathersgill, Clarisse thought, wallowing in bitterness.
She cautioned herself to disguise her disdain for the Slayer. In masquerading as a freed serf, she would need to be humble and respectful. “What is the Slayer’s given name?” she asked, realizing she didn’t even know it.
Sir Roger looked up at her sharply. “Have a care that he doesn’t hear you call him that,” he warned. “He doesn’t like the name Slayer.”
Clarisse nodded her agreement.
“His name is Christian de la Croix,” answered the knight, “and despite what people say of him, he is a devout man.”
Christian of the Cross? She nearly hooted aloud at his name’s true meaning. With difficulty, she swallowed the hysterical laughter in her throat. Still, she couldn’t resist questioning his vassal. “How comes it, then, that they call him the Slayer? Did he not kill every living soul at Wendesby, including the master—the Wolf of Wendesby—or is that a lie?”
The knight’s crooked smile flattened to a seam. “If you value your post as the baby’s nurse, you had best keep silent on the subject of Wendesby.”
She bit her tongue at the reprimand and looked away. Sir Roger was clearly loyal to his liege lord. She would do well to be cautious in his company.
Searching the horizon, she sought sign of a fortress standing over the next hill. For just a second, she imagined what it would be like if this knight spoke true. What if the Slayer weren’t the monster rumor painted him to be? What if he hadn’t killed anyone at Wendesby, or the Baron of Helmsley, or even Alec’s father?
She shook her head at her wishful thinking. There were far more villains in this world than good men. She would be doing everyone a favor to rid the borderlands of the notorious Slayer. If she wished to see her mother and sisters alive, she had best accomplish her charge to poison him and do it quickly.
Chapter Two
“’Tis beautiful,” Clarisse uttered with surprise.
“Aye, it is,” Sir Roger agreed.
The object of their admiration stood in a field of wildflowers, just behind a swift-running moat. In the coppery hues of evening, the moat resembled a golden disk from which the outer wall rose, clifflike. It stood at least twenty hands high and twelve feet thick. The entire castle had been built on a mound of earthworks, making the second wall visible as well.
Lofty towers stood at each corner of the inner walls. Four of them! Clarisse marveled. Her own family’s home of Heathersgill touted just one tall building, the keep itself. The closer she drew to the immense stronghold, the more overawed she became. With the sun plunging down behind the castle, shadows engulfed the drawbridge. She felt as if she were being swallowed into the maw of a great beast.
Fresh water flowed beneath them as they crossed the drawbridge.
“Diverted from Rye Derwent!” Sir Roger explained. “The castle was built after the Norman’s came,” he continued, “to protect t
his land and areas to our south from the Scots.”
Clarisse nodded. Since her childhood, she’d heard of the powerful ruling barons of Helmsley, fervently loyal to successive kings. Yet the man who ruled it now was nothing but a bastard seneschal.
When they stopped before the gatehouse, she shrank into the saddle for fear of being recognized. Through the window slits, she could feel suspicious eyes examining her person, and she wound the ends of her head covering more securely around her slender neck. Yet Sir Roger’s hail was answered at once. The portcullis rumbled upward, and their passing went unchallenged.
Once inside, she glanced around the outer bailey. The bobbing helms of guards betrayed the Slayer’s vigilance. In the grassy enclosure stood a practice yard and archery run, attended by a handful of knights who continued to drill, though bats wheeled overhead. She already knew that a number of his fighting men remained at Glenmyre, yet he did not look ill prepared to defend this stronghold.
What the Slayer boasted in terms of his defense, however, he lacked in populace. Only a few wattle-and-daub houses existed in the shadow of the inner wall, just enough to shelter a few serfs to tend the fields outside.
Passing through a second gate, they arrived at the inner ward where the keep stood squarely before them, three stories high. It loomed into the evening sky, abutted by supporting arches. Smaller buildings huddled at its base in no apparent order, yet each was immaculately kept. No filth grimed the cobbles; no stench fouled the air.
Neither was there sign of human life, just a red fire glowing in the smithy’s hovel. From the mews came the screech of a hunting bird. The scent of hops wafted from the brewery house. Yet not a soul traversed the courtyard.
“Where is everyone?” Clarisse asked, as Sir Roger helped her to dismount.
“Within,” Sir Roger said, taking his horse by the bridle.
“Attending Mass,” she guessed. “Is there service at this time?”
He paused, cutting her an inexplicable look. “Stay here,” he said, not answering her question.
Leaving her to her own devices, he disappeared into the stables. She took note of her surroundings lest it become suddenly necessary for her to leave. Beyond the stable, a mud-caked sow nursed her offspring. Chickens pecked in another enclosure. She strained her ears, listening hopefully for the bleating of a nanny goat, as she would soon have urgent need of one. But the nicker of a horse was all that she could hear.
The Slayer's Redemption Page 2
