The Slayer's Redemption

by Marliss Melton

  “Sir Christian is not the butcher everyone says he is,” she insisted. In spite of her outward conviction, a drop of uncertainty gathered like a raindrop that would either fall or evaporate. If only he had told her his plans for Ferguson! “You must all trust me in this matter,” she added, including Katherine in her admonition. “I will wed him of my own free will,” she insisted, “and he will be our champion.”

  Merry snorted. “He has blinded you with his charms,” she hissed, “whatever they may be.”

  “Nonsense,” Clarisse retorted.

  She thought of all he had shared with her privately, of his own mental torment. She believed in the better side of Christian de la Croix. She had seen it for herself. And who else was there who could save her family from their dreadful situation?

  No one.

  “Look,” Clarisse said, wishing to dispel their anxiety. She drew them closer to where Nell stood holding Simon. “This is the babe I have been caring for. Is he not beautiful?”

  Katherine and Jeanette cooed in admiration, tickling Simon’s bare feet where they peeked out from under his gown. Merry regarded the baby with an intent but puzzled frown.

  “M’lady,” Nell said, glancing down into the hall. “Sir Roger needs you to descend.”

  “Aye, ’tis time,” Clarisse agreed, nervousness assaulting her anew. “Let us go then.” Grasping one each of her sisters' hands, she led them down the stairs, her mother following. Sir Roger’s brown gaze settled over Clarisse’s shoulder on Jeanette and did not stray, prompting her to make introductions.

  “Mother, this is Sir Roger de Saintonge, master-at-arms of Helmsley,” she said, taking her mother’s limp hand and placing it in the knight’s extended one.

  “I see where Lady Clarisse gets her beauty,” he stated seriously.

  Jeanette stared mutely back at him.

  He nodded as if she had spoken, then released her hand. “Shall we?” he continued. Holding out his arm to Clarisse, he escorted her toward the chapel.

  She thought immediately of her father, who would have been the one to do so, were he still alive. Would Edward the Learned have approved of this match? How she wished he were there to give her counsel and hopefully his blessing!

  The harp in the adjoining chapel fell silent at their arrival. Clarisse’s mother and sisters moved past her to join the standing congregation. An expectant hush filled the vaulted space. Incense hung in fragrant spumes above their heads. Sunshine beamed through the many open windows.

  Distrust had blazed a clear-cut path between Ferguson and his men on one side and the people of Helmsley on the other. At the other end of it, Christian stood before the candlesticks that graced the Lord’s Table. Twin flames illuminated the emerald tunic he wore—not black, she thought, heartened by the color. Green implied rebirth and renewal. It brought out the green of his eyes as they held hers captive. Self-aware under his intense regard, she felt heat steal into her checks as Sir Roger led her to him.

  A sense of déja vu washed over her. The same sense of awe had filled her upon their first encounter. Searching Christian’s gaze now as she had then, she sought a warning sign that she was making a mistake. However, not a hint of ruthlessness was evident in the crooked smile he sent her. If anything, he looked worried that she might yet change her mind. The band of apprehension squeezing her chest abruptly eased.

  Sir Roger placed her hand atop her groom’s and stepped back.

  “You steal my breath,” Christian murmured.

  Pleasure suffused her, making her deaf to the words Ethelred began to speak, his Latin sonorous and melodic. She marshaled her thoughts to recall the vows she had committed to memory. All too soon, she was speaking them, promising a lifetime of obedience to her husband.

  For the sake of her family’s future, she said, “I do.”

  For the sake of her own private yearnings, she sealed her promise with a tender kiss.

  “Will my lady eat?” Christian asked in her ear.

  Clarisse eyed with mistrust the lozenges of curd cheese, the bacon and walnut stew, the hazelnut crumble, and the croustade of chicken. A whole, stuffed swan, dressed in its own feathers and swimming on a sea of lettuce, stood as the centerpiece. The fare surpassed anything she had ever seen before, but she could not bring herself to take a bite.

  “I cannot,” she admitted, eyeing her stepfather out the corner of her eye. He sat like an honored guest at the end of the high table, seeming to enjoy himself immensely. Grease stained his orange beard for all the food he’d consumed. He hadn’t put his horn of ale down for longer than a moment. Was he even then planning Christian’s murder in order to secure both Glenmyre and Helmsley?

  Just you wait, she longed to tell him.

  Her groom leaned in closer. His shoulder warmed her straight through the silk of her gown. “The food has not been tampered with. I posted guards at every door,” he assured her.

  She considered the food again, hoping to spark an appetite. Trestle tables groaned under the weight of such large platters. Wine and ale flowed freely, warming the blood of those imbibing it—especially Ferguson's men who seemed to revel in the new pact.

  To please her new husband, she took a token bite of venison.

  The evening progressed, and tongues begun to wag. Boasts could be heard over the jangling of the juggler’s bells. A minstrel of far better skill than Rowan sang both Scottish ballads and Norman tunes causing fighting men to tap their toes beneath the boards. If one were unaware of the rivalry between the two factions, the atmosphere might have seemed perfectly friendly.

  Clarisse laid a hand on Christian’s arm. “I should like my mother and sisters to sleep in the castle tonight,” she begged him.

  He searched her hopeful gaze. “You ask much of me, my lady. I can, of course, invite them, but Ferguson is still their lord.”

  Glancing over at her stepfather, she stabbed a wedge of cheese with her knife, knowing he would never let them out of his sight. Time seemed to stand still, and there was still her wedding night to get through before Christian would fulfill his promise to her to free her kinswomen once and for all. But how would he do it without inciting suspicion and further bloodshed?

  “Perhaps you would care to retire early,” he suggested, “since you have no appetite.”

  She glanced in surprise at the windows. “’Tis not yet sunset,” she protested, although the thought of escaping the great hall greatly appealed to her. She had no desire to watch Ferguson feast on his final supper—especially when his impending death had been prompted by her. Guilt assailed her suddenly.

  How could she possibly feel guilty for wanting Ferguson dead, after everything he’d done to her family? Yet plotting his demise—his murder—was still a sin of the worst kind, and she had asked Christian to do it for her!

  The realization that she’d put his soul in further danger of eternal damnation made her stomach lurch.

  “Will you come, too?” she begged, needing suddenly to discuss the matter further.

  “In a while. You should take some rest whilst you can,” he added with a glint in his eyes that suggested she wouldn’t get much sleep after he joined her.

  Her heartbeat skittered. In her preoccupation with Ferguson, she hadn’t given much thought to her wedding night. Anticipation, mingled with maidenly fear, trickled through her. Glancing around, she gauged the response that her early withdrawal would garner. Her gaze rested with concern on her mother who, seated on the far side of Ferguson, gripped her knife while contemplating her trencher intently. Only she had yet to take a bite.

  Clarisse’s instinct for trouble alerted her. At Heathersgill, Jeanette had been utterly passive, not seething as she seemed to be that night. Merry’s behavior was equally puzzling. Even with a wimple on her bright head, it was hard not to notice her, sitting at the first trestle table, her green eyes darting here and there, her expression pinched. It pained Clarisse to discover that her sister dabbled in poisonous herbs as well as those for healing.

>   Look what Ferguson has done to us, she thought. He deserves to die tomorrow. She ought not to feel a drop of guilt for suggesting that her husband kill him.

  “I think I will retire, my lord,” she decided, setting her napkin on the table.

  Christian immediately pushed back his chair and gave her his hand to rise. All conversation ceased.

  A self-conscious flush climbed Clarisse’s neck as she concentrated on picking her way past the many guests at the table and ignoring the jests called to them. They came to the stairs where Christian handed her over to Nell, who stood holding Simon, a bloom of pleasure in her round cheeks.

  “Anon,” Christian said. Stroking his thumb across her lower lip, he turned away.

  Feeling dazed, Clarisse turned and climbed to the second story with Nell. She cast him a pleading, backward glance in the hope that he would interpret it correctly and join her so they could talk. However, he did not look back at her, only resumed his seat.

  The sight of the solar door briefly distracted her. It had been framed with a garland made from lily of the valley blossoms.

  “How lovely,” she praised, knowing by Nell’s proud smile that she had been responsible.

  “Wait till ye see inside, lady,” Nell said, opening the door with a flourish.

  Clarisse stepped into the chamber, looking around in wonder. The servants had turned it into a proper bridal bower, with garlands looped around the bedposts, summer lilies and heliotrope in vases throughout, and a nightdress, fashioned from the same silk as her wedding dress, lying upon the bed like icing on a cake.

  Clarisse absorbed every detail with a sense of unreality. “So lovely,” she said to Nell. “Be sure to give everyone my thanks, including our new housekeeper.” For a marriage of convenience, this had the feel of a real wedding. Yet through it all, never once had Christian mentioned having feelings for her except appreciation and desire.

  Her flowing sleeves brushed over the rush mat as she crossed to the open window. With the onset of evening, the horizon had begun to turn pink. A cool breeze stirred the wisps of hair that had escaped her plait. She could not have asked for a lovelier wedding night, she mused. Yet the tops of Ferguson’s tents, barely visible above the outer wall, reminded her of the possible deadly tangle of weapons and the calculated death of the Scottish leader on the morrow.

  How would Christian succeed in making it appear an accident? Would the Scot's soldiers suspect foul play and rally behind their murdered lord? Was this evening of celebration and joining the prelude to a time of war?

  How she longed for Christian to assure her otherwise!

  Turning back to Nell, she sent her a forced smile. “Undress me so that I can feed Simon.” The sudden fear that a Scot would sneak into the castle and murder the babe struck terror into her heart. “Perhaps he should sleep with us tonight.”

  “Not on yer weddin’ night, m’lady,” Nell scoffed. “Fear ye not. Sir Christian hath named four knights to guard the nursery door.”

  It heartened Clarisse to hear it. He was taking precautions, just like he’d said.

  Nell laid Simon on the bed, where they both kept a watchful eye on him as she helped Clarisse unlace her dress. Simon had learned to roll over and could not be trusted to stay put.

  “Tonight it shall be just the two of ye,” Nell chatted on, unaware of how her words edged Clarisse’s anxiety in a completely new direction. “An’, God willin’, in less than a year’s time, there’ll be a new wee one in the nursery fer me to watch.”

  Mixed emotions twisted through Clarisse at the prediction. She could not begin to imagine life a year from now, not with tomorrow’s deeds hanging over her wedding night like a raven circling the sky in anticipation of a kill.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clarisse roused to the sound of the door groaning open and realized she had fallen asleep. A breeze gusted through the chamber, coming in through the window and out the open door. The flames of the many candles gasped and went out, plunging the room into utter darkness. The door, which she could not see for the bed drapes, closed quietly and all went still.

  Then a stealthy tread crossed the room in her direction making her wonder if it was not Christian after all who’d just joined her. Where were the hoots and jests of those who ought to have accompanied him to the bridal bower? Tradition dictated that they create a great clamor, thereby advising the bride of the groom’s imminent appearance.

  A nameless fear raked her spine. What if Kendal, intent upon avenging his son’s death by killing the bride, was stealing toward her bed?

  Fright had her rolling off the mattress and tiptoeing away from the bed as she searched the dark shadows to identify the intruder. She collided with a man of such proportions, he could only be her husband.

  “Clarisse,” he exclaimed, holding her fast. “What ails you?”

  “’Tis you.” With relief, she threw her arms about his waist and held him fast. “I thought you were Kendal come to stab me in my sleep.”

  “Hush,” he said, sweeping his hand up and down her spine. “’Tis a wicked thought.”

  She looked up at him. “’Tis no more evil than plotting to kill Ferguson tomorrow,” she whispered, the words tripping off her tongue. “How will you do it?” she added.

  He set her at arm’s distance. “I have better things to speak of on my wedding night,” he countered firmly.

  “Why were you so stealthy just now?” she demanded, frustrated by the lack of information at her disposal. “Where were the revelers that ought to have alerted me?”

  “All retired,” he said, following a split second’s hesitation.

  “Is it so late?” she asked, confused by his answer.

  “’Tis not yet midnight.”

  His answer told her nothing. Gazing up at him, she found that her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could just make out the frown that carved a line between his eyebrows. “What happened?” she demanded.

  He heaved a sigh that made her fear the worst.

  “’Tis naught,” he assured her, turning away and reaching for one of the many tapers.

  “Tell me, or there will be no wedding night,” she threatened.

  He turned back quickly, causing her pulse to leap in fright. “That sharp tongue must run in the family,” he observed.

  A sudden suspicion skewered her. “Merry spoke to you?”

  “Oh, aye. She spoke to everyone.”

  Clarisse swallowed hard. “What did she say?”

  “She cursed my manhood,” he replied, crossing to his desk to light the tallow lamp.

  Horrified, she watched in silence as he struck a flint and set the wick ablaze. Golden light rose up the breadth of his chest to illumine his forbidding profile.

  “Several guests were making toasts,” he elaborated, putting down the flint and turning toward her. “She stood on her chair and before God and everyone said—” He held up an imaginary goblet—“May your ballocks shrivel and fall off if you dare lay a hand to my brave sister.”

  Clarisse’s jaw dropped as she pictured the scene in her mind’s eye.

  “Needless to say, the atmosphere turned hostile at that point.” His hands went to the buckle on his belt. The thick strap dropped to the mat with a soft chink.

  He put one boot on the chest and unbuckled it before unwinding the linen strips that held his chausses in place. “Sir Roger put a swift end to the festivities. The servants got busy cleaning up. There was no one left to accompany me to my bride.”

  Clarisse watched the other boot come off. He unwound the strips on his other calf and let them drop.

  “You are angry,” she stated, uncertain of his mood. “If only you knew what she has suffered, you would forgive her,” she insisted.

  He straightened abruptly. “What need for forgiveness? I commend her for defending you. Only cowards use their strength against the weaker sex.”

  His equanimity surprised her. “’Tis most kind of you to say so,” she said, doubting he truly felt tha
t way. No man liked to have his manhood cursed. “She doesn’t know you as I do,” she added. “All she knows of warring men is what Ferguson has modeled. Do you see what he has done to my family?”

  “Let there be no talk of him tonight,” he said again.

  She closed her mouth abruptly, watching as he whipped his tunic over his head leaving him naked but for the chausses hanging low on his hips and hugging his thighs. Fixing her gaze on his rippling chest, she avoided staring at the bulge that the chausses failed to conceal.

  “Can you not at least tell me how you mean to defeat Ferguson tomorrow?”

  “Clarisse.” He closed the distance between them and gripped her shoulders. “I ask that you trust me in this matter and speak of it no more,” he said very seriously.

  “But your immortal soul may be at stake,” she whispered. “If you kill him in cold blood, then you are no better than he. I should not have asked this of you.”

  His hands rose, finding their way into her hair as he worked to unwind her plait. “How do you know my soul is not already condemned?” he asked, avoiding her gaze.

  Surrounded by his scent—juniper and musk—and with his fingers combing out her hair, she found it difficult to talk. “Because your touch is gentle,” she replied.

  His gaze returned to hers, and he made a thoughtful sound in his throat. “Come into the light,” he said, drawing her toward the lamp. “I would see my bride in her night dress.”

  Positioning her before the lamp, he stepped back just far enough to admire her. Clarisse glanced down self-consciously. The silk chemise encasing her felt so fine as to have been spun out of spider webs. She was certain he could see straight through it—a suspicion that was confirmed by his indrawn breath.

  “You look good enough to eat,” he stated.

  She shivered at his bold comment.

  “Have you ever seen a man naked?” he asked her unexpectedly.

  Her eyebrows rose. “I once saw my father’s men-at-arms bathing by the stream,” she admitted.