Many hours later, smelling of lavender and sleeping in her newly laundered chemise, Clarisse’s eyes sprang open. A fleck of moonlight had fallen on her face, reminding her to waken. She sat up slowly. Simon snored in his cradle. He had yet to rouse for a midnight feeding, but when he did, she would have nothing to feed him if she didn’t make a midnight run to the goat pen.
With a silent groan, she forced herself to rise. The servants would have all sought their pallets by this late hour. No need to don a gown over her chemise if she wasn’t going to run into anybody. Opening the chest, she retracted the empty pail, wriggled her feet into a pair of slippers, and set out on her nightly quest for goat’s milk.
This is truly madness, she thought, not for the first time.
Her stomach endured a familiar uneasiness as she slinked through the now-familiar, darkened castle, across the great hall, and out the exit that led to the kitchens. Pushing through the heavy door, she stepped into the inner ward where full moon lit ground so boldly that it seemed to glow. Creeping along the wall of ivy, she hid herself as best she could, darting past the softly cooing pigeons to enter the goats’ enclosure. The gate gave an agonizing groan as it closed behind her. A fresh layer of straw crunched beneath her soles as she stalked the spotted goat.
Both nannies had grown accustomed to producing at this time. She took turns getting milk from them so as not to draw attention to a possible shortage from either one.
As she neared the goat, crooning to it reassuringly, her foot came in contact with a bucket. The full pail sloshed but didn’t tip. She bent down to examine it.
God’s toes, it was a full bucket of goat’s milk, fresh from the udder if its warmth was any indication! She dipped her finger and tasted it. If her senses could be trusted, it tasted and smelled fresh.
Who would be so careless as to forget a pail of milk? She straightened and eyed the bucket thoughtfully. One of the milkmaids must have left it behind.
Or was it possible that someone had taken note of her midnight outings and had left the milk to communicate that fact?
Fear froze her in her tracks. Then again, if someone had discovered her secret, he or she would have taken it straight to the Slayer, not left her a full bucket, saving her the time and effort of filling it herself.
She had wasted enough time as it was just thinking it through. What if Simon had already wakened? What if he were crying even now, drawing the unwanted concern of his father? Mere stone could not prevent the sound of Simon’s cries from carrying.
Making a quick decision, Clarisse snatched up the bucket and hastened back into the castle. Remembering the fall of Troy from Homer’s famous tale, she hoped she would not regret this gift the way the Trojans regretted the gift horse for the enemies who lay concealed within it.
“Lady de Bouvais!” The Slayer had called her nothing but that in the strictest formality since she’d rebuffed his advances.
Clarisse winced openly and ground to a halt. She'd been tiptoeing past the Slayer’s solar the following afternoon, hoping not to gain his notice. It was finally Friday, and the servants were scheduled to leave for Abingdon at any moment. This was her long-awaited opportunity to enlist the Abbot of Revesby’s aid in getting word to Alec.
“My lord?” she inquired, stepping closer to the open doorway.
She found the warrior seated at a writing table, quill in hand. Sunlight streamed through the window behind him, framing his torso in a haze of gold. He looked different, she noticed, and then she realized why. He wore a bleached undershirt and no tunic. She’d never seen him dressed in white. He looked like the archangel Gabriel.
Until he looked up. The scar on his face betrayed an inner tension that was entirely at odds with an angel’s serenity. “Call me Christian,” he demanded, stabbing the inkwell with the tip of his quill. He paused to take in her appearance.
She wore a different gown today, a smock of forest green with a satin ribbon that laced up the front. His gaze fell to the sling she carried against her hip. “Where are you going?” he added sharply.
She wiped moist palms against her linen skirt. “I would like to go to Abingdon to hear the Abbot of Revesby preach,” she replied, holding her breath. “May I have your permission?”
“With my son?” His eyebrows predictably lowered.
“He will come to no harm,” she assured him. “I go in the company of many servants, even men-at-arms, to keep us safe.”
“My son does not pass outside these walls,” the Slayer decreed. His expression was stern enough to make her fidget.
“But I wish to confess,” she insisted, fighting to keep her tone mild as a surge of fear arose that she’d be unable to make contact with the Abbot of Revesby. “Is there another here who could watch Simon in my stead? Perhaps Sarah or Nell?”
He clenched his jaw. “I can watch him,” Christian volunteered unexpectedly.
“Why, my lord!” she exclaimed, astonished by the offer. “I’m certain you have better things to do, but that would be good for the both of you,” she agreed, stepping into his chamber.
The Slayer stiffened, his gaze falling to the bundle she carried. “But what if he hungers whilst you are gone?” he queried, clearly regretting his offer already. “’Tis an hour’s walk in either direction.”
“Simon won’t hunger. I’ve just fed him. He’ll be fine,” she assured him, working to unknot the sling so she could pass the baby off.
“Wait!” he said, staying her hand. “Don’t leave him yet. I require your help in writing this letter.” He gestured to the vellum sitting on his desk. “’Tis intended for Alec Monteign. Since I’m unable to speak to him in person, I will put my offer on parchment and see it delivered.”
A letter to Alec? Securing the sling again, Clarisse waded deeper into the Slayer’s solar.
The room was a very different place than the rest of the castle. Here, rich blue tapestries still padded the walls. The rushes under her feet were woven into a thick mat. At one end of the room stood a massive bed, draped in blue velvet. At the other end was his writing table and a chest laden with manuscripts.
The sight of such a treasure thrilled her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, stepping over to the chest to admire the jeweled covers. “Proverbs of Solomon,” she cooed, picking up a book and reading the titles of its lengthy poems. “History of the English,” she added, putting it down. “Where did you get these?” She hoped he wouldn’t say he had acquired them in his sieges.
“They were a gift from the abbot you just mentioned. Ethelred illustrated them when he was a master novice at Rievaulx.”
“Ethelred,” she echoed him. “You know the Abbot of Revesby well enough to call him by his birth name?”
The warrior nodded. “He was a friend of my mother’s,” he said, looking at her curiously.
With that simple admission, Clarisse’s hope for help expired painfully. Being loyal to the Slayer, would not Ethelred betray her if she told him who she really was? God’s teeth, was there no way around her troublesome quandary?
Perhaps this letter might finally put the matter to rest. “What did you need my help with, lord?” she inquired.
“Call me Christian,” he reminded her. Then he glanced around. “Let me find you a stool.”
“Simon will wake if I sit,” she declined. It was true. The minute she held still, the baby rose from his slumbers. He seemed especially agitated today. Standing next to the table, she swayed softly to keep him lulled.
The warrior watched her out the corner of his eye, apparently distracted by her movements. Shaking his head, he forced his gaze downward to his desk.
“Let me read what I have already written. ‘Amiable and God-fearing knight, Greetings from your humble neighbor and friend, Christian de la Croix, and wishes for good health.’” Half a minute of silence ensued as the Slayer stared hard at his scrawl across the vellum.
Clarisse gazed in consternation at his rigid back and waited.
At last, he shoo
k his head slightly. “Is that how you address a man whose father you have murdered?” he tacked on, his voice gritty with remorse.
Compassion flooded her. While sunlight sat brightly on his shoulders, shame clearly also weighed them down. He looked forlorn, clutching the quill as though his words alone would redeem him. “Give me the words,” she heard him mutter.
She knew an insane urge to lay a hand on his broad shoulder. Restraining herself from offering that comfort, still, she knew that she could help him.
“You must apologize,” she instructed him. The letter would have to be worded carefully. If Alec accepted the Slayer’s offer, he would need a wife to help him rule Glenmyre. But was he strong enough to defend her and to rid Heathersgill of Ferguson? “Confess your guilt,” she added, “and accept full blame for killing his father, while explaining it was done in defense. He will respect your honesty.”
He nodded his head, put quill to paper and wrote. As she watched him, Clarisse noted that the Slayer’s lashes rimmed his eyes in the same sooty fashion that Simon’s did. His handwriting was forceful and sweeping, though his hand seemed to tremble slightly. Black ink bled into the vellum. She could not read what he wrote, as the script was upside down and some distance from herself. The words were for Alec—and perhaps even God, if he meant them true enough.
When he lifted his gaze to look at her, she found herself reeling at the sincerity reflected in his gray-green eyes. Why did people persist in thinking him a monster?
“Shall I mention you?” he asked.
Her pulse leapt at the offer. Aye, for then Alec would know where to find her. “Please do,” she replied, wondering why the prospect of Alec coming to her rescue did not immediately thrill her. “Tell him his cousin Clare dwells safely at Helmsley, caring for your son in exchange for your protection.”
It would puzzle Alec to read this, for his cousin’s name was Isabeau, not Clare. However, noting the similarity of the name to that of his former betrothed, she hoped curiosity might bring him yet to Helmsley. The sooner he came, the better, she thought, gnawing on the inside of her lip.
The quill’s scratching slowed. “I take it he knows what his father did to you,” he guessed, his face growing hard.
Guilt rose up in her like bile. How she hated to be reminded of the lies she’d told, especially when the Slayer seemed so genuinely concerned.
“Of course,” she said tightly. “We went to Rievaulx together.” The moment the words were out, she regretted them. With his letter, the Slayer was unburdening his soul. Why not confess her own sins now and tell him who she really was?
Her pulse galloped forward at the thought. Could she afford to pass up such an opportunity, with the Slayer in such an amenable mood?
“Forgive me,” he said, stabbing at the inkhorn, unknowing of her thoughts. “It must be painful to remember the babe you lost.”
“Aye, it is,” she agreed in a thin voice. But not for the reasons you imagine, she considered adding.
“My own mother was raped, you know, by my father. And I’m the bastard that he whelped.”
Surprise kept her own confession locked in her throat. She hadn’t known this detail about the Slayer’s dark past.
“She was a novice at the time,” he continued, “gathering herbs outside her convent’s wall. A lone rider surprised her and raped her. He boasted that he’d defiled a child of the Christian God and would have her know his name—Dirk of Wendesby.” He made another stab at the inkwell.
Clarisse remembered clearly the tales her father had told of that heathen mercenary, great-grandson of a marauding Dane. How horrible for an innocent novice to be debauched by a man who held no law to be higher than his own!
“My mother endured the shame of bearing a child when she was supposed to be chaste.” Eyes averted, his mouth twisted with bitterness, he continued his tale of woe. “Fortunately, her superiors were compassionate and refrained from casting her from their order. She gave birth to me within the convent walls, and I remained there, ’til the age of twelve.”
Understanding dawned on Clarisse giving rise to a gasp of wonder. No wonder Sir Roger had called his liege lord devout. The man had grown up in a convent, of all places!
“When I was twelve—” his voice had flattened with tension—“my mother fostered me to a local family. I wasn’t told that the lord of the house was also my father.” He broke off, waiting to see her comprehension.
She shook her head, not understanding. “She gave you to the man who raped her?”
“’Twas an act of forgiveness, she told me later.” Though his face was now a mask of ruthlessness, she saw a pinch of pain overtake him.
“I don’t understand,” she breathed. “Why did she do that to you?”
His jaw muscles bunched and flexed. “I think she hoped that knowing me would change him for the better.” A frosty look entered his eyes, letting her know that his mother’s hopes had never been realized.
It took no insight whatsoever to realize the Wolf had mistreated his son. Clarisse’s heart swelled with pity. Every child deserved a father like her own, a man who had doted on his daughters and adored his wife.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, tears of pity stinging her eyes. “She surely must regret that decision now.”
“Aye, she did. She died two winters past of fever.”
Leaving him with no one in the world left to love him. Her tears won out, filling her eyes.
He looked up and blinked. “You need not feel sorrow for me,” he said, sounding surprised. “I had the benefit of a good education, and my father, despite his failings, made me strong. Without his training, I would not be sitting here as overlord.” He ducked his head and reapplied himself to finishing his letter.
Clarisse knew then the time had come to be honest with the Slayer. Surely, he was capable of mercy, for that was a virtue his mother would have taught him. She would begin by telling him how her own father had been slain, and then he would know that she had no allegiance to Ferguson. Other than her lies, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She'd refused to carry out her terrible charge of murder by poison, and she had brought Simon from the brink of starvation.
The Slayer’s punishment, if any, was bound to be light, she reasoned.
The appearance of Christian’s tongue on the edge of his lip recalled her to the pleasure he had sparked running it over her breast. Her thoughts fragmented, especially when he caught her looking at his mouth. She jerked her gaze up with a guilty start.
“Did I swear you would be safe with me?” he inquired in a soft, gruff voice that unsettled her still more.
Her voice had deserted her, so she gave a jerky nod.
“Pity.” He looked down again, melting wax to form a seal.
The lightness of his tone was unexpected. Clarisse gave a laugh that was half relief, half amusement. Suddenly, she was not afraid to tell him anything—even that she’d substituted goat’s milk for the precious breast milk she was unable to give.
“I like you, lady,” he admitted, keeping his gaze fixed on the letter.
Flustered and beset with guilt, she opened her mouth to confess to everything and to cast herself on his mercy. Just then, Simon stirred, emitting a garbled cry that was unlike any she had yet heard from him. In consternation, she plucked the blanket away to look at him and give him air.
Concern knifed through her as she beheld his pallor. She touched a finger to him, and found him clammy.
“What is it?” the Slayer demanded, noting her stricken expression. Rising quickly to his feet, he leaned over to peer into the sling at his son.
This was unexpected. He’d been fussy earlier, but not visibly ill. “I think he has taken ill,” she replied, scarcely able to believe the words as she uttered them.
She looked up in time to see the Slayer’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. He put his hands out. “Let me have him,” he demanded.
Wedging her hands beneath the baby, she passed him carefully to his father. Simon’s
eyes opened but remained glazed. Again, he issued a cry that sent anxiety twisting through Clarisse’s heart.
“He was fine a short while ago,” she stated, raising an uneasy gaze to the warrior’s stricken face.
“From the cold,” he rasped, staring down at his son. “The other night, when I found him naked ... he was so cold.”
“Yet he has thrived since then,” she pointed out, touching Simon’s clammy cheek.
“Look, he trembles,” the Slayer intoned, sounding utterly helpless. “Someone did this to him,” he decided, his tone hardening. He glanced up at her accusingly. “You have reason to avenge me,” he recalled.
She shook her head. “Nay!” How could he think she would harm Simon—or any baby? To think that she had just been on the verge of telling him who she was! “I did not do this,” she insisted fiercely. She looked the Slayer squarely in the eyes. “He has fallen ill, ’tis all. Yet we must do what we can for him. Can we send for a physic?”
He dismissed her suggestion with a shake of his head. “I trust no one in these parts,” he said shortly.
“Not even a wise woman from the village? A midwife, mayhap?”
“Especially not the midwife!” he retorted, his volume rising. “That woman gets her herbs from the abbey. The scourge could spread from there to here. Nay!” he thundered. “We will care for him ourselves. I’ll have his cradle brought to this room, and we will watch over him until he is well again. And you will stay with me until then.”
The underlying threat was plain. Until the baby recovered, she would remain suspect in the Slayer’s eyes. This was the side of him that terrified his servants and made him a lonely man.
“Of course I will,” she retorted, defying his temper as her own anger flared. “Do you think for one second that I would not care if he sickened?” How bereft she would feel without Simon’s small yet willful presence. “I love your son,” she added, her voice quavering with emotion. How had that happened, and so quickly? If something should happen to him…
The Slayer's Redemption Page 12
