“Like what?” she countered. “You know I have no choice but to see the matter done.”
He gave her a careless shrug, making it clear that the lives of her family meant nothing to him.
She knew a vicious urge to wound him. “You should have practiced on that lute of yours before you came here,” she needled. “Ferguson won’t be pleased to see you back so soon.”
Rowan smirked with self-confidence. “I got what I needed to make my stay worthwhile,” he confided.
His words pricked her curiosity. “What do you mean?”
The minstrel leaned closer to share a confidence. “There are others here who would gladly see the Slayer replaced.” He patted his covered lute the way she patted Simon.
Straightening, he tried to take on the veneer of authority that did not sit convincingly on him. “See to it that you follow Ferguson’s orders soon. Don’t make a liar of me,” he cautioned, turning away.
She watched with relief as he walked through the shadow of the barbican. When Rowan told Ferguson what he wanted to hear, surely he would extend the deadline he’d given her, not shorten it.
As casually as possible, she turned and strolled toward the keep.
The sound of a furious gallop roused Clarisse from the bed where she lay humming to Simon. Placing the baby in his cradle, she crossed to the window and peered through the purple twilight to locate the horseman approaching Helmsley. Even in the semidarkness, the immense silhouette of the Slayer identified him. He guided his mount toward the open draw, where she briefly lost sight of him.
Reappearing in the outer ward, he veered toward the lists. At the edge of the field, he halted his horse in a patch of dusky shadow.
What’s he doing? Her knees trembled with the knowledge of his return. She recalled, without wanting to, the feel of his tongue gliding over her breast and the spark of unexpected pleasure. What was his purpose in visiting Alec at the abbey? Would he consider relinquishing Glenmyre to its rightful owner? What manner of fearsome, ruthless warrior was he, returning what he’d forcibly taken?
She leaned out of the window in order to see him better. The sky, like the Slayer, was of mixed character. The horizon, where the sun had set, still glowed with the remembrance of daylight. The pink horizon turned violet, then indigo, then black.
Was he good or evil, or some volatile blend of both?
The warrior guided his horse to the lances hanging on rungs at one end of the list. In a graceful movement, he caught up a spear and tested the weight of its tip. Then he turned his horse toward the entrance of the run.
This was a fete des armes, Clarisse guessed, with the Slayer pitting himself against an unseen enemy that existed only in his mind. Not a single gay banner snapped in the breeze. The very air seemed to hold its breath as his shadow and that of his steed moved as one across the grass, like the beautiful illustration of the fantastical centaur she’d seen in a bestiary manuscript.
The Slayer closed the visor on his helm and, in her mind, she heard the clarion of a horn. An unseen handkerchief fluttered in the air and fell. Warrior and horse shot forward as one.
So thickly were the shadows settling on the ground that his mount seemed to vanish beneath him, so that he appeared to fly toward his target. The thunder of his destrier’s hooves testified to its speed. The set of his broad shoulders conveyed determination as he raised his arm and the tip of the lance.
He ran his weapon through the dummy’s non-existent heart in one powerful stroke, rending the straw figure from its place atop a pole. It dangled limply on his lance until he shook it off.
Clarisse’s knees knocked together. There had been fury and frustration in the Slayer’s attack. She imagined those two emotions directed at her, and she had to clutch the windowsill to stay standing.
Are you a spy, sent to take account of my men and weapons?
If only there were some means of dispelling his suspicion and earning, instead, his trust.
With fluid motions, the warrior replaced the lance, patted the neck of his stallion, and headed toward the inner gate. Clarisse’s vantage was such that she could also see into the courtyard, to the very spot where she had spoken to Rowan earlier. Several torches had been left blazing in expectation of the overlord’s late return.
Glancing back at the cradle, she saw Simon marveling at the patterns of light flickering on the ceiling. She smiled briefly at his sweetness, before hearing a noise from the courtyard directly below her.
Peering over the window ledge, she remarked the Slayer’s entrance and how a youth, probably a squire, ran forward to catch his horse’s reins. The Slayer freed the latches of his helmet and tossed it at the boy. However, with only one hand free, the squire fumbled the catch, and the helm went clanging to the cobbles.
The boy froze in terror. Three stories in the air, Clarisse bit off a fingernail waiting in the silence for the terrible repercussion.
“What ho, my lord?” Sir Roger’s cheerful hail shattered the tense moment. The master-at-arms popped through an archway of the garrison and into view. He drew up short at the sight of the Slayer’s scowl.
“No success in getting past the abbot, then,” the older knight guessed, sizing up the situation.
The Slayer didn't answer at first. He waited while the page collected himself, reined in his fear, gathered up the fallen helmet and, while keeping a terrified eye on his overlord, managed to lead the horse away toward the stables. Then he turned to the master-at-arms.
The still silence of the early evening and the empty yard caused the men’s voices to carry to Clarisse’s window. From the Slayer’s muttered reply, she gleaned that the abbot was ill and refusing visitors.
“’Twas nothing less than you expected,” Sir Roger cajoled as the younger man stiffly dismounted. Yet upon regarding his overlord more closely, the master-at-arms asked, “Or did aught else go awry?”
The Slayer’s chainmail gleamed with the oil with which it had been scrubbed. “I encountered the minstrel upon the road,” he volunteered.
“Aye, I sent him away this afternoon, as you bade me do,” Sir Roger said with hesitancy.
“Did he inform you of his destination?” the Slayer asked.
“No, my liege.”
“Did anyone think to search his possessions before he left?”
Silence answered for the knight.
The Slayer turned toward his horse and pulled a length of parchment from beneath his saddle. “He was carrying this inside his lute,” he added, unrolling it for his vassal’s inspection.
Clarisse rolled onto the balls of her feet and leaned over the window’s ledge in order to glimpse what appeared to be a map of sorts. Rowan had said he’d made his stay worthwhile. Her heart seemed to thud deep in her belly as she strained to see the scroll better and to overhear the pair.
“These are plans of Helmsley’s interior defenses,” Sir Roger exclaimed, his hushed words scarcely audible, his shock perfectly apparent.
“Aye.” The Slayer re-rolled the parchment. “I encountered him at the crossroads bound for Heathersgill,” he added through his teeth.
His lowered voice prompted Clarisse to strain yet another inch out the window in her quest to hear.
“No one enters or leaves this stronghold without being thoroughly searched. Question every person in the castle,” the Slayer added. “Someone gave the minstrel these designs.” He tucked the parchment under his arm for safekeeping.
“I will have an answer, my liege,” Sir Roger promised him. He looked behind his lord. “What did you do with the boy? We should start by questioning him.”
Engrossed in the act of taking off his gauntlets, the Slayer hesitated.
Clarisse feared she knew the answer before he uttered it.
“I killed him,” he replied at last, in a voice as emotionless as death. Clarisse’s vision blurred as the words seeped into her brain. The Slayer muttered something in defense of his butchery. “’Twas an accident,” she thought she heard.
&nb
sp; Shaking her head in denial, she struggled to assess the impact of this news. Rowan was dead—slain for being a spy! God’s mercy. Certainly the youth was slimy Kendal’s ne’er-do-well son, a boy with no sense of honor or integrity. Nevertheless, he’d gone without armor, his only defense, a lute! To kill him in cold-blood was an act of unadulterated evil!
A still more horrible thought entered her mind. What if Rowan had mentioned the truth of her identity as he’d bled out? She might be hanged for a spy within the hour.
Hanging halfway out the window, paralyzed by fear, Clarisse watched the brutal warrior stalk into the forecastle and disappear. Was he coming after her?
As if sensing her terror, Sir Roger looked up and spied her pale face gazing down at him. She steeled herself to keep from ducking out of sight. Forcing a smile, she lifted a hand in casual salute.
The knight did not wave back. Nor did he return her smile, but stared at her solemnly and with suspicion.
Clarisse heaved herself back inside, turned and walked blindly to the cradle. Scooping up the baby, she crossed to the bed and sank weakly onto the mattress, hugging Simon for solace. The image of the straw dummy flickered behind her open eyes. The Slayer had killed Rowan without a trial. What made her think he would hear her tale of woe with any compassion whatsoever?
Hours later, moonlight shimmered through the cracks of the shutters, exacerbating Clarisse’s inability to sleep. Simon, who had squirmed fitfully for hours, lay peaceful at last. Scarcely a drop of milk remained in the earthenware mug beside the bed.
Staring at the shadows forming on her bed curtain, Clarisse listened for the fall of approaching footsteps. She was certain the Slayer would visit her that night, subjecting her to an interrogation that would end with her begging for mercy.
Minutes stretched into hours, and still no middle-of-the-night visitation. Just as she succumbed to the weight of her eyelids, the groaning of the hinges brought her senses back to wakefulness.
She snapped her eyes shut and forced the air to flow evenly in and out of her lungs. The thud of her pounding heart blended with the stirring of rushes. The air in the boxed bed moved as the curtain was pulled aside. The faint illumination of moonlight flickered through the membrane of her eyelids. Someone was looking down at her, and she knew by the faint scent of juniper and musk who it was.
Her blood seemed to thicken, moving through her body sluggishly as she anticipated a rude awakening and possible violence. Would he grace her with the opportunity to confess to her lies, or would he plunge a blade in her heart as he had surely done to Rowan?
She could only pray that, with Simon in the bed next to her, he wouldn’t wish to spatter her blood everywhere.
“Clare Crucis,” he said, his slurred speech warning her that he had been drinking.
She dared not answer him. Even if he were fair enough to hear her confession, the truth of her identity would spread like a quick blazing fire. It might be but a matter of hours before Ferguson caught wind of her betrayal. All she needed was a means of reaching Alec!
To her relief, the Slayer didn’t call to her again. He stood silently beside her bed. She could scarcely hear him breathing. Fear of the unknown kept her motionless.
Christian blinked to clear his vision. He wished he hadn’t drunk a full bottle of wine to drown the memory of the day’s butchery. He wanted to see the nurse more clearly.
Besides, it would take more than a bottle of wine to forget that he’d snuffed out yet another life. Doing so unintentionally made it no less difficult to swallow. He should have realized that the boy wore no armor, no helmet to protect his head. One slap with the broadside of his sword had sent him sprawling to the earth. It was simple misfortune that his head had hit a rock and cracked his skull wide open.
Christian sucked in a breath at the memory and let it out again. He couldn’t help but consider that he had been a young man once, and in the name of service to his father, he had done things more awful than steal the sketches of a castle.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he muttered hoarsely. The sound of his voice in the quiet chamber startled him. He’d had more to drink than was wise.
This was not the time to question the woman—although that had been his intent when he’d entered the room. Several witnesses had seen her speaking with the minstrel at the gate. Others claimed he’d sung her a ballad laden with hidden meaning. He had more than enough reason to doubt that Dame Clare had come to Helmsley just to serve him. More likely, her purpose was a sinister one.
His gaze fell to the chain about her neck. The ball-shaped pendant lay against one breast. Since first laying eyes on it, its odd shape and the secure clasp had made him wonder what use it served. Perhaps she carried in it the ashes of a saint, or a sweet-smelling spice ... or a deadly poison.
With a slight tremor in his fingers, Christian extended his hand and caught up the golden ball. He worked the clasp with his thumbnail, determined now to see what lay inside. The two halves of the pendant swung apart, revealing a hollow space. He tipped it to one side and then rubbed his index finger in the silk-lined interior. The locket was empty.
Relief pooled in his gut as he closed the pendant shut. This did not mean the woman was innocent, he reminded himself. Yet gazing at her peaceful profile, at the curve of her jaw in the moonlight, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she meant him any harm. He preferred to believe—as he had from the first—that she was sent by God's design to save Simon’s life. And possibly to save his own soul.
The hope still throbbed in him. Bathed in moonlight, she looked capable of casting out a hoard of demons. Her legs were drawn up trustingly, like a child’s. One arm curled protectively around the sleeping form of his son. They lay together as if they belonged.
She was beautiful to behold, a goddess with long, fiery tresses. He didn’t want to believe that she had anything to do with Ferguson or the struggle over Glenmyre. It chafed him to think it.
Sir Roger would question the girl tomorrow. The master-at-arms was more adept with words, more skilled at eliciting a slip of the tongue. However, for his part, Christian would sleep one more night with the illusion that there was hope for him and the new life for which he yearned. The baby prospered in his nurse’s care. With that sole assurance, he exited the chamber.
Hearing his footsteps retreat, Clarisse gasped air into her starved lungs then gave a sob of relief. A layer of sweat coated her. She threw back the coverlet to cool herself.
He hadn’t killed her.
He’d opened the pendant that she'd emptied and found nothing, thank God. Other than that, all he’d done was stare at her and utter those wrenching words, I didn't mean for it to happen. Had he been referring to Rowan’s death? Or was it something else—the death of Simon's mother, perhaps? With so many matters on his conscience, it could have been anything.
All she knew for certain was that he’d let her live a few more hours. But surely her reprieve was only temporary.
It must have been Simon’s presence that had dissuaded him. She nuzzled the baby in gratitude. Perhaps the Slayer would spare her for the sake of his son.
She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. Once she was certain the Slayer had sought his own bed, she would rise and fetch a fresh supply of goat's milk. The babe’s consumption now exceeded the single cup they gave her with each meal. As Simon was her only hope, it was critical that he thrive in her care.
Chapter Six
Clarisse awoke with a start. She could not remember falling asleep, but she realized instantly that the opportunity to fulfill her plans had nearly escaped her.
It was no longer dark. The sky through the open window glowed with a faint silver light signaling the approach of dawn. If she didn’t hurry, the castle folk would soon be stirring. The baby would awaken, too, expecting milk to fill his seemingly unquenchable appetite.
Scolding herself for sleeping so late, Clarisse slipped from the bed and sought her slippers. She had left her gown on in anticipation o
f her mission. All that was left was to decide what she should do with Simon.
She couldn’t bring him with her—if he awakened, his cries would rouse the servants. However, if the Slayer learned that she had left his son alone and unguarded, even for a moment, his faith in her would be destroyed. If she were caught skulking through the castle in the dark, his suspicions would multiply like the dreaded pestilence pustules.
She decided to leave Simon behind and race like the wind to accomplish her task. An empty corridor beckoned her from the bedchamber. The tower was lost to darkness but for the barest glow in the window slits. Descending them quickly, she then sped unnoticed past the Slayer’s solar, down the steps of the main stairs and through the great hall. Only Alfred, the wolfhound, remarked her passing from his place beside the fire pit. He raised his head, studying her through yellow eyes.
Clarisse exited the keep through the door that was closest to the livestock pens. In the breezeway separating the castle from the kitchens, she hesitated, looking for signs of life. A crow regarded her from the peat roof of the latter. No one else appeared to be awake.
The scent of yeast and drying herbs made her stomach growl as she hurried past the kitchens, startling the pigeons in the large enclosure. Stealthily, she entered the animal enclosure, wrinkling her nose at the stench of manure. Straw snapped crisply beneath her slippers as she pushed open the door of the goat shed. She could just make out two pairs of eyes reflecting the light she let into the pen.
She snagged a copper pail off a peg, dragged a stool close with her foot, and backed the spotted goat into the corner.
The animal tensed, mistrustful of a stranger. Clarisse wasted precious minutes soothing her to ensure that her milk flowed freely.
By the time she began to get results, a rooster started crowing. The pigeons chortled in their cage. Knowing that servants would soon be heading to their chores, she quickened her pace.
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