She had filled the pail halfway when the sound of women’s voices arrested her. Two of them were talking near the entrance to the kitchens.
“He killed the minstrel? Just because he couldn’t play?”
“’Tis what Dame Maeve told me. Struck him down where he stood.”
Clarisse frowned at the inaccurate gossip. Rowan had been caught carrying plans to the castle’s fortifications in his lute. Espionage was a crime punishable by death—although murder by sword was a bit excessive given the boy’s tender years and lack of defense.
Reminded that she might well become the next victim, Clarisse pushed to her feet and lifted the pail. Peering out of the enclosure, she determined it was safe to leave the pen, so long as she kept to the shadows of the garden wall.
The milk sloshed loudly in her bucket as she scurried for cover. All the while, she strained to hear the conversation coming from the kitchen door. She could just make out a young girl and a plump cook conversing by the hearth they were lighting. To her amazement, she realized she was now the topic of their conversation.
“Well, who is she?” the girl wanted to know.
The cook shrugged her massive shoulders. “She were seen sharin’ words with the minstrel yesterday. They say she’s a spy as well, which means the master will kill her, too. That’s what Maeve thinks.”
Clarisse’s eyes widened. She nearly tripped over her own two feet.
“I don’t think her a spy. I think she’s beautiful,” the girl insisted. “Me sister says she’s a gentlewoman.” The girl was clearly kin to Nell and Sarah. Grateful for the vote of confidence, even if it came from an insignificant source, Clarisse gave a nod and turned to leave.
“She might be a noblewoman for the airs she gives herself,” the cook replied, delaying Clarisse’s swift departure. “But Maeve says she’s a leman. She overheard Sir Roger say it.”
Clarisse stopped in her tracks. She, a leman? A nobleman’s whore?
Surprise rooted her beside the bed of ivy. She considered the gossip, disdaining it at first for its inaccuracy. Still, she could see why the knight had come to his conclusion. She’d supposedly given birth to a child out of wedlock. Moreover, she’d claimed no family, no allegiance to anyone.
It dawned on her that the unappealing natter had merit. Indeed, it gave her the perfect excuse for coming to Helmsley. Moreover, it explained Rowan’s song about the king’s leman, for she could say that he had recognized her as Monteign’s leman, a thought that made her shudder. Still, she might seize the rumor and use it to her advantage.
If she did not return to the keep that very instant, however, it wouldn’t matter what story she supplied. She glanced toward the rising sun, dismayed to find it peeking over the garden wall.
Just then, the servants moved away from the hearth to tend other tasks, and Clarisse dashed to the entrance, yanking open the door, and running blindly toward the great hall.
Thankfully, she ran into no one but Harold, who was setting up the trestle tables one by one. He lives in his own world, Sir Roger had said. Putting that assessment squarely to the test, Clarisse walked briskly past him toward the stairs. The steward never once looked her way.
Carrying the pail in one hand and holding up her skirts with the other, she flew to the second floor. Her heart threatened to explode from her chest as she passed the Slayer’s solar and bolted toward the tower stairs. Arriving at her chamber out of breath, she found Simon still sleeping in his cradle. Panting over him, she vowed never to fetch milk at such a risky time again.
Dropping a kiss on the baby’s cheek, she went to light the brazier. She would steam the milk in the copper pail until it boiled. When Simon awoke, the formula would be ready for him.
Thoughts ricocheted within her mind as she went about her business. Her plan to cultivate the Slayer’s trust had been shaken but not destroyed. She would construct an identity based on the gossip she had overheard and would rise above suspicion yet.
Then, if she could only get word to Alec, there might still be time to save her family.
Clarisse curled the end of the downy pillow over her ear. A pig squealed as though running from the cleaver. Hens clucked. The smithy’s hammer clanged, and the room was hot, the air, stagnant. With a small groan, she kicked off the blanket and admitted defeat. It was useless to try to sleep any longer.
The few hours’ rest she had gotten since dawn would have to sustain her in the hours to come.
With a lingering stretch, she braced herself for what was certain to be a trying day. All at once, a small familiar sound, a latch releasing, a hinge swinging—and then sunlight beaming through her open drapes.
Snapping her eyes open, she gasped to see the Slayer standing by her bed with his hands on his hips. His gray-green gaze pinned her to the mattress.
“Do you always enter a woman’s chamber without knocking?” she snapped, forgetting for the moment whom she addressed.
“Do you always sleep so late?” he countered, with an even stare.
She noticed the stillness in him right away, and she sat up with a start. “Is it Simon?” she asked, directing her attention to the baby, lying awake but peaceful in his cradle.
“Nay,” said the Slayer. “The midday meal is being served, and I would have you join us.”
The inevitability of the confrontation made her stomach clench. Clearly, the mercenary chafed for answers, yet she doubted her ability to eat well and spin lies at the same time. “As you wish,” she said, resigned to her masquerade.
She tended first to Simon. By luck alone, she’d put the nursing skin and the pail in the chest, out of sight. Evidence of the early-morning feeding would have ruined her story.
As she put her legs over the end of the bed, she noticed the wrinkled state of her gown with a grimace. A leman wouldn’t be caught dead looking like this.
As if thinking the same thing, the warrior asked, “Why do you sleep in your clothes?”
“My chemise is being laundered, and I have nothing else to wear.”
“Sleep naked,” he suggested.
She glanced at him sharply and was not surprised to see the watchfulness in his light eyes. Now that she’d heard the rumors, she understood his reason for such suggestive talk. This was as good a time as any to corroborate his suspicions.
“To what purpose should I sleep unclothed,” she asked, meeting his gaze boldly, “when I sleep alone?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Good God, had she actually asked that?
Her pitch clearly worked for a glimmer of interest flared to full flame in the seneschal’s eyes. He raked the length of her rumpled gown. “That’s an easy problem to remedy,” he remarked.
Alarm bells tolled in her head. She could not be a courtesan!
“Well, I don’t actually sleep alone, do I? There is the young baron to consider.” She mustn’t let the Slayer think her favors were available for the asking. The mere notion of him seeking to join her in her chamber that night sent panic swirling through her. The man was too large, too powerful, and by far too male. Today, he wore a charcoal tunic that strained over the breadth of his chest. The sleeves were rolled back to reveal a dusting of hair on his powerful forearms. Black leggings hugged his long, muscular thighs.
She tore her gaze away. “In any case,” she said, coming to her feet. “I thank you for rousing me … I mean waking me.” She felt her cheeks heating up. “Give me a moment to refresh myself and I will join you in the hall anon.”
“I wish to escort you,” he replied implacably. “You have tarried long enough.”
She weighed the wisdom of resisting him with the necessity of earning his charity. “As you will.” Shaking out a protective sheet, she lifted the baby and laid him on the bed. “Kindly wet this for me,” she instructed the Slayer, handing him a cloth, “and squeeze out the excess water.”
To her relief, he complied without protest, handing her back the moistened cloth. The baby lurched as she placed it against his bottom, but he didn’t cry.
<
br /> “He has a rash,” she commented, inspecting the young master. “Perhaps Sarah knows of an ointment that will soothe him. Did you know she raised all eight of her siblings?”
“My servants don’t share confidences with me,” the Slayer answered.
Clarisse tossed the soiled linens into the basket set aside for that purpose. She couldn’t resist giving him the tiniest bit of advice. “Perhaps you should speak with them first. Good servants don’t initiate conversations.”
His eyebrows rose from their scowling line as he considered her words without comment.
Clarisse diapered the baby in fresh cloth, and then dressed him in one of the many gowns she’d found in the nursery. Had his mother made them in anticipation of his birth? she wondered, feeling suddenly sorry for the woman—Lady Genrose was her name.
With the baby dressed, Clarisse spared a thought for her own pressing needs. “Here,” she said, thrusting Simon at his father. “Hold him for a moment, please.”
Their fingers brushed as he put out his hands to accept the baby. Disturbed by the warmth of his skin, Clarisse hurried for the door.
“Where are you going?” he called with a hint of panic.
She neither slowed her step nor answered him. There were some matters that were best kept private.
Abandoned, Christian gazed with consternation at his gowned son, who stared back at him with equal trepidation. It took a full minute to realize that the baby wouldn’t cry. Confidence reemerged, and Christian began to enjoy the close encounter.
He noticed right away that his baby’s cheeks were fuller. A link of fear fell away, making him breathe a sigh of gratitude. The nurse had saved his son from sure starvation. Even if Roger found she were a spy, he knew he could not punish her. He owed Clare Crucis for saving Simon’s life.
Examining his son’s features, his tiny nose and watchful eyes, he could hardly believe something so perfect could have come from him. The awakening he’d felt at Simon’s birth was not a fleeting revelation. He had loved the babe on sight, and he loved him even more at that moment.
Pressing a finger to Simon’s palm, he received a hearty squeeze. Amazement coursed through his veins. The chuckle tickled his throat.
He glanced toward the empty doorway, relieved that no one had overheard the merry sound but exasperated that, as usual, the wet nurse was dawdling. She’d had sufficient time enough to recover from her travels. Now was the time for honesty. If she were linked to the minstrel’s subterfuge in any way, they would know it today.
Still, he had his doubts. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the thoughts behind her amber eyes did not seem malevolent or shifty. There were times when she seemed truly afraid of him, yet those were few and far between. Rather, she watched him as if assessing him. He hoped it meant she was toying with the notion of coming to his bed or letting him into hers. His blood warmed at the thought.
He growled in irritation at her delay. The sooner the truth of the matter was unburied, the sooner he would know if his burgeoning desire would find release. It had been such a long time since a woman had held him tenderly.
Ignoring the heaviness in his groin, he turned his attention back to Simon—the Baron of Helmsley, he thought with satisfaction. No one would call his son a bastard. He would be loved by all and, in turn, rule his vast demesne with justice and might.
Clarisse lingered in the garderobe for as long as she dared. With the water that trickled through a pipe from a cistern on the roof, she wet a sponge, rubbed it on the lye soap, and considered the chore ahead of her. Even after rubbing her skin until it turned rosy, even after scrubbing her teeth and plaiting her hair, she still felt unclean thinking of the lies she would have to tell to protect her identity.
In vain, she tried to smooth the rumpled dress, yet it didn’t really matter what she looked like, she decided, ceasing to groom herself. She might have to confess having been a man’s concubine, but that did not mean she needed to look the part.
Resolved to the task ahead of her, she returned slowly to her chamber. May God forgive my untruths, she prayed. She had thought of Monteign as her future father-in-law, and she was certain he had viewed her as a daughter. To say she’d had carnal knowledge of him turned her stomach. Nonetheless, this was the surest way to avert suspicion. The Slayer had come too close, too many times, to guessing who she really was.
Arriving at her door, she drew up short, arrested by the tender expression on the warrior’s face. He had seated himself on the chest in which the pail of milk and the nursing skin were stowed. With the babe in his arms, he looked almost civilized. Only his unkempt dark hair and unbelievably broad shoulders kept his appearance savage.
Approaching cautiously, she took in Simon’s rapt expression. “He wants to be like you,” she said, intending her words to be a compliment.
The Slayer’s head came up swiftly. “Why the devil would he want that?”
She would have thought the answer obvious. “You’re a mighty warrior, the best there is, feared by your enemies.” In addition to practically everyone else, too, she thought but did not say.
His eyes narrowed into slits as if he suspected she was mocking him.
“All boys want to be like their father,” she added with exacerbation.
He gave a smile that was more a baring of his teeth. “Not all,” he refuted.
She recalled that the Slayer was a bastard. She wondered if he had even known his father.
He must have read the question in her eyes. “My father,” he began slowly, his voice as harsh as the lye soap she’d just used, “was the Wolf of Wendesby.”
Clarisse’s thoughts sputtered at the news. “The Wolf? But ... that means you—”
“Killed him,” he finished for her. He rose swiftly, causing the baby to fling out his little arms.
Not only the Wolf, but every other soul at Wendesby, according to the rumors.
Clarisse watched him stalk to the door. God’s blood, she thought. Wasn’t it enough that he had killed the Lady Genrose and the minstrel, too? Every time she thought the Slayer worth redemption, she was reminded of his brutal nature.
She remembered suddenly that they would need the cradle and called him back for it.
He rounded on her with amazement. “Aren’t you afraid to talk to me now?” he snarled.
In the light of what she had just learned, she ought to be. Her ears still rang with the knowledge of who his father was: a Danish mercenary who’d ravaged the countryside during her father’s era.
“Should I be?” she dared to ask staring at him directly, holding her breath as she awaited his answer.
He approached her slowly, his eyes burning with an emotion she couldn’t understand. “You and Sir Roger are the only people who ever speak to me.”
The admission was as unexpected as it was pitiful. It came to her in a flash that this man was lonely. “Why did you kill your father?” she pressed, wanting desperately to hear a reasonable reply.
The muscles of his chest flexed beneath the linen tunic. “’Tisn’t a matter I discuss with strangers.”
She felt a peculiar twinge in her chest. “I just want to ...” She shrugged, unable to voice the warring emotions inside of her, both disgust for his actions and sympathy for his plight. Added to those was the alarming knowledge that she did not want him to consider her a stranger.
“I desire to understand you, Christian de la Croix,” she admitted, her voice quavering.
The mask of anger slipped abruptly from his face, usurped by surprise. Just as quickly, he concealed it, bending to place Simon in his cradle.
“I am what you see,” he said quietly. With that, he lifted the cradle effortlessly and turned away to carry it to the hall.
Clarisse trailed close behind, her gaze straying to the wild locks of his hair. The black strands looked soft to the touch. The scent of juniper trailed after him, betraying a propensity for cleanliness that she certainly appreciated. His height and breadth blocked her view of the stairw
ell entirely.
I am what you see.
What she saw was an awesome warrior, a man possessed by demons, a lonely man. It occurred to her if anyone could free her family from Ferguson, it was this warrior. She needed his strength and experience. Nevertheless, asking for his help was like bargaining with the very devil. Not only would she have to trust him not to kill her, she would have to strike a bargain that a fiend himself would fear to make.
Clarisse sighed. She wasn’t quite brave enough to do that. She could not imagine the wrath she would bring upon herself were the Slayer to know that she was Clarisse du Boise, the stepdaughter of his archrival. What made her think that he might agree to help her at all? Moreover, even if he did, what would he demand in return? Certainly more than she was willing to offer.
If only Alec would concede to be her champion. Then she would be spared the necessity of playing a fallen woman. Then she might even have a husband worthy of her admiration.
She struggled a moment to construct a vision of Alec’s boyish face and found that the memory of him had faded. Nor could she imagine Alec Monteign in the guise of a great warrior going into battle on her behalf.
Chapter Seven
Clarisse studied Sir Roger with an uneasy eye as she approached the high table. Would he see straight through the lies she must spin that day? He stood behind his chair upon the dais dressed in a pea green tunic with a gyrfalcon perched on one gloved hand. Meeting her gaze, he smiled and placed the falcon on the back of his chair. Its silver jesses jangled as it scooted free, scenting the air with an open beak. Facing the two of them together, Clarisse felt suddenly like prey.
Girding herself mentally, she plucked the baby from the cradle as the Slayer put it down.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Your son is wide-awake,” she answered. “If you want to hear him screaming, then I will leave him in his bed. Elsewise, I must hold him.”
Of course, she had another reason for wanting to hold Simon. The more accustomed the lord of the castle was to seeing his son in her arms, the more secure her future. The babe would be her shield, her certain protection.
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