by Marliss Moon
Clarise dived into the midst of traffic. A trail of carts and traders swept her along. The cheerful throng was 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 jewels. Clarise stumbled through the throng, 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. Over the shouts of the hawkers she heard her stomach rumble.
“Have a gooseberry?” a kind old lady offered, extending her the prickly ball of fruit.
“Thank you!” Clarise 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. Alec had flown there to keep from being murdered by the Slayer. Yet illness now despoiled the place, and the abbot’s strange behavior made it all the more frightening.
She thought of Alex, trapped behind the walls. He must be desperate to leave! But until the illness ran its course, he could not. Perhaps he’d never even received her letters. The abbot could have kept them to himself, fearing Alec would rescind his vows if he knew of Clarise’s desperate situation.
She seized the explanation with relief. While it meant that Alec knew little of her plight, it also meant that he might still help her. If she found a way to reach him.
How long until the quarantine was lifted? Could she afford to bide her time in this trading town while every day brought her mother and sisters closer to death?
The sound of one woman scolding another roused her from her thoughts. “Megan, are ye mad?” hissed the woman, tugging at the other’s elbow. “Do ye want to live at Helmesly and be nursemaid to the Slayer’s son?”
At the Slayer’s name, Clarise gave a guilty start. She followed the direction of the women’s stares and spied a man sitting astride a horse. The man wore no armor in the afternoon heat. By the hopeless look on his battle-scarred face, he hadn’t met with any luck in his search for a nurse.
That can’t be the Slayer, Clarise thought, swallowing hard. A gooseberry seed moved painfully down her throat. As the women moved hurriedly away, whispering to themselves, Clarise eyed the Slayer’s representative.
The Slayer had spawned a son on the baron’s daughter. Ferguson wouldn’t like that at all, she thought with a faint smile. 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 nurse.
I am not equipped to feed a baby, she silently resisted. Yet that was not exactly true. She’d fed her youngest sister goat’s milk when their mother suffered the birth fever. It wasn’t an impossible task. Besides, she couldn’t stay in this trading town indefinitely, waiting for the quarantine to lift.
With leaden feet, Clarise 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 eyes were light and keen. Though his face was crosshatched by scars, one end of his mouth was caught up in a perpetual smile, giving him a congenial look. He dismounted as she approached him.
“Are you in search of a nurse?” she asked in the Saxon tongue. As Ferguson had suggested, she would play the part of a freed serf.
He took hold of his animal’s bridle. “I am,” he said, giving her a quick but thorough inspection.
“I can care for the baby,” she offered, sounding more certain than she felt.
He gave her a skeptical look. “Where is your child?”
My child? Mary’s blood, she was supposed to have birthed a child! “It . . . it died of fever just a day ago.”
The knight’s expression turned sympathetic. “And you would care for another,” he finished gently. “What does your husband think?”
Husband? She balked at the unexpected question. Having not intended to go through with Ferguson’s plan, she’d given little thought to what she would say under the circumstances. “I have no husband,” she answered automatically. At the knight’s odd look she added, “He died in a skirmish.”
The knight frowned and paused. “You have suffered much for one so young,” he said.
His sympathy gave her courage. It would be easier than she thought to find her way into the Slayer’s home. “I have no money,” she added pathetically. “No way of feeding myself. Please, take me to Helmesly Castle. Let me care for the baby.”
The man 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 said, thinking quickly.
“What is your name?”
“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 Sir Roger de Saintonge,” said the knight. He inclined a slight bow. “Shall we go?”
She approached the white destrier with mixed eagerness and dread. Sir Roger spanned her waist, tossing her pillion into the saddle. “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 commoner.
The knight led his mount by the bridle through the thinning crowds. Clarise 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.
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, bringing Clarise the worry that she might be alone with him come nightfall.
“How far is it to Helmesly?” she inquired.
He slanted her a startled look. She realized with dismay 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 Abbingdon, are you?”
Her spirits sank to new depths. 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. “Glenmyre,” she said, naming Alec’s estate. It was best to keep close to the truth, she told herself.
“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. “Nay,” she said slowly, though she knew the peasants to which he referred. Just before she left, 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. Clarise used the time to sketch a rough history for herself. She imagined what it would be like to care for a warlord’s baby. Rather like playing nursemaid to the devil’s spawn, she thought, recalling what she knew of the Slayer.
The mercenary had once been the master-a
t-arms for the Baron of Helmesly. The baron had wed him to his only daughter and then departed Helmesly on pilgrimage to Canterbury, leaving the Slayer behind as his seneschal. Rumor had it that the Slayer had plotted to kill the baron and his lady wife, for they did not return alive from their pilgrimage but in coffins. The Slayer was left ruling Helmesly, not as rightful lord but as a usurper.
Much the way Ferguson had acquired Heathersgill, Clarise thought with a sneer.
She cautioned herself to disguise her disdain. In masquerading as a freed serf, she would need to be humble and respectful. “What is the Slayer’s proper name?” she asked, realizing she didn’t even know it.
The knight 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.”
Clarise paled at the warning.
“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 the devout name. With difficulty she swallowed the lunatic laughter in her throat. Still, she couldn’t resist questioning the knight. “How comes it, then, that they call him the Slayer? Did he not kill every living soul at 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.”
She bit her tongue at the reprimand and looked away. The knight was clearly loyal to his liege lord. She would do well to be cautious in his company.
Gazing toward 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 Sir Roger 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 Helmesly, 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’d 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 task and do it quickly.
Chapter Two
“ ’Tis beautiful,” Clarise admitted with surprise.
“Aye, it is,” Sir Roger concurred.
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 was 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 ancient earthworks, making the second wall visible as well.
The inner wall was flanked by towers. Four of them! Clarise marveled. Her own family’s home of Heathersgill touted just one tall building. The closer Sir Roger urged them, 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.
They clattered over the moat. “Diverted from the River Rye Derwent!” Sir Roger shouted over the burbling water.
Clarise recalled that Helmesly had been built after the Norman acquisition to protect England from Scottish incursions. The ruling barons had been powerful men, fervently loyal to successive kings. Yet the man who ruled it now was nothing but a bastard seneschal.
They stopped before the gatehouse. Clarise shrank into the saddle, eyeing the window slits with the fear of being recognized. Feeling sharp, suspicious gazes on her person, she tied her kerchief more securely beneath her chin. Yet Sir Roger’s hail was answered at once. The portcullis rumbled upward, and their passing went unchallenged.
In the outer ward she cast eyes to the outer bailey. Bobbing helms 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 knew already that a number of his fighting men remained at Glenmyre, yet he did not look ill prepared to defend this stronghold.
There was no bustling trade at Helmesly as there had been in Abbingdon. No venders, no craftsmen, no laughing children. It was a warrior’s paradise.
Passing through a second gate, they came to the inner ward. The keep stood squarely before them, rising nearly to the height of the towers at either corner. 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. A red fire glowed 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?” Clarise wondered aloud.
“Within,” Sir Roger said, helping her from the saddle.
He left her for a moment to duck into the stables. His answer told her nothing. She took note of where to find his horse should it suddenly become necessary to leave. Then she hunted for signs of a nanny goat.
She told herself she wouldn’t linger long. But until she slipped the powder in the Slayer’s drink, she would need to be convincing. If she were caught feeding the baby goat’s milk, her identity would be called into question. She didn’t doubt the Slayer had ways to make a prisoner talk.
In a distant pen a mud-caked sow nursed her offspring. Chickens pecked in another enclosure. There wasn’t a nanny goat in sight.
Sir Roger emerged from the stables. “Lord Christian is back from Glenmyre,” he announced with cheer. “His horse is here. He will be pleased that I have found a nurse at last.”
How nice, thought Clarise, her stomach cramping. “Do you house goats here?” she rushed to inquire. Sir Roger was leading the way to the forebuilding of the main keep. “I have a fondness for goat’s milk,” she said, running to keep up with him.
He slanted her a tolerant look. “I find it sour.”
“ ’Tis good for one’s health,” she argued, mounting the stairs by his side. “You do have goats, here, do you not?” she asked again. What would she do if the man said no?
“Several,” came the heartening reply. “You shall have milk to quench your thirst,” he promised. A moment later he swung wide the doors to the great hall and motioned for her to enter.
The grandeur of the hall chased all thoughts of goat’s milk from her head. Clarise stepped into an enormous chamber. Its high arched ceiling soared above the first and second levels. A gallery coursed the length of the inner wall. The last hint of daylight glowed in the four tall windows opposite.
Clarise drew up short. Not a single tapestry, urn, or silver tray relieved the starkness. The hall was clean beyond compare but lacked the personal touches that made it welcoming.
A murmuring of voices drew her gaze to a clutch of servants lining the benches. A minstrel, sitting with his back to the door, plucked dejectedly upon his lute, while his audience looked on. At Clarise’s entrance they turned their heads to regard her, their faces reflecting only vague curiosity.
“Did someone die?” she whispered, working at the knot beneath her chin.
Sir Roger spared her a distracted glance. “Did I not tell you? My lady died in childbirth. ’Tis the reason I was sent for a nurse.”
Clarise’s stomach tightened. The baby’s mother was dead? And she was supposed to kill its father as well? “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said automatically. “They must have loved her greatly to cease their labors.”
“Aye, they did,” Sir Roger said with a sigh. “But this particular gathering is an indication of my lord’s temperament. They herd together like sheep to avoid an encounter with him.”
She nearly rent the cloth in her hands. “What . . . what does that mean, exactly?” But he was already mounting the stairs to the second level. With leaden feet she chased after him.
The tales of horror inspired by the Slayer bubbled in the cauldron of her mind. In laying waste to Wendesby six years past, he’d burned the
village to ash and killed the innocents that ran before the flames. His own people huddled in the hall in fear of him, and she had just joined their oppressed ranks. Was she mad?
With every step Clarise’s feet grew heavier. What if he recognized her from some previous visit to Heathersgill? She quickly redonned the kerchief to conceal her hair. Gazing at the second level, she faltered to a halt. She couldn’t do it. She feared she would be caught and executed in a matter of hours.
“I have a terrible thirst,” she called, stopping Sir Roger midway up the stairs. “Might I have the milk you promised me?”
Roger leaned over the balustrade and called to the servants. “Dame Maeve!” An elderly woman withdrew from the gathering, her harsh face softened by the mellow light. “Have a servant bring up a mug of goat’s milk for our nurse, Dame Crucis.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Boil it first, if you please,” Clarise added, knowing that part to be crucial.
Dame Maeve thinned her lips, but taking up her keys, she turned to fulfill the request.
“You give orders with accustomed ease,” Sir Roger remarked. He indicated that they should follow the length of the gallery where a servant worked to light a torch. Shadows had already leaked into the upper levels. Clarise felt like a lamb being drawn to slaughter.
“My husband was a lenient man,” she said, offering him a breathless explanation. She followed him along the gallery and down a long and narrow hall. They came to the twisting stairs of one of the four towers. Here the shadows thickened into blackness.
“Lord Christian must be in a rage if his servants won’t approach him,” she gasped, dreading the encounter to come.
“My lord is a reasonable man,” Sir Roger threw out to comfort her.
But the sounds coming from the level above belied his tale. The cacophony of a wailing infant and a bellowing man blended in an awful duet. The Slayer’s angry roar shot through Clarise like a poisoned arrow. She felt as though he were railing at her and not some hapless servant. Curiosity alone carried her up the remaining steps.
