by Marliss Moon
Ignorant of the warlord’s weighty thoughts, Clarise struggled to keep her eyes open. She sensed that the Slayer had finished questioning her. Miraculously she’d survived the initial round. With wildflowers sweetening the evening air and the rhythmic tugging at her breast, she was lulled into a false sense of security. Any moment now she might fall asleep.
Through the bloom of light at her feet, the warlord’s rasping voice reached her again. “I am sorry for the death of your lord, Monteign.”
She could not credit the quiet apology. She must have misheard him.
“I’d heard rumors of an alliance between Monteign and Ferguson. I only meant to question him about the matter.”
“An alliance?” Reality jarred Clarise to wakefulness. Her heart lurched against her breastbone.
“ ’Twas a marriage, between Monteign’s only son and Ferguson’s stepdaughter.”
Her stomach slowly twisted. Her scalp tingled. He couldn’t have guessed who she was already!
“I was told to confront Monteign and put an offer to him that was better than Ferguson’s. The sight of our soldiers must have confused him. He ambushed us as we came over the hill. We had no choice but to fight. He ignored our signal for a truce.”
Stunned, Clarise digested this new information. She’d always assumed that the Slayer had seized Glenmyre by force. This was the first she’d heard of an attempt at negotiations, but perhaps he was lying to her. Men’s recollections of battle were inevitably skewed.
“Tell me,” he added, sounding reflective. “What was Monteign like? What kind of lord was he?”
The question left her reeling. Did the Slayer feel remorse for his sins?
She summoned a picture of Alec’s father. “He was a father to his people,” she replied. “He was fair, yet stern with them. He was stubborn, too, and loyal to his friends.”
“And was he friends with Ferguson?”
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “I . . . I don’t know. I was only a servant. However, I . . .” Did she dare say more, to admit to any kind of knowledge? “I rather think he feared Ferguson more than anything.”
All at once it was quiet on the other side of the partition, and the quiet was profound.
“Dame Crucis, would you like fresh clothing?”
The question was the last thing Clarise expected. She was certain he had guessed who she was and was preparing to kill her.
Clothing? She looked down at her worn smock. “Please,” she replied, dazed that he would even concern himself.
She heard him move to the door. Straining to see beyond the alcove, she perceived the outline of his powerful frame.
“I expect you to sup with me once you’ve refreshed yourself. Bring my son with you.”
With that peremptory order, the shadow melted into the darkness, and Clarise was left alone with the baby. She pondered the words she’d shared with his father. No matter how she turned them over in her mind, she was left with one burning impression: The Slayer wasn’t the barbaric warrior she’d believed. His intelligence made him a double-edged sword. And something else . . . he seemed to actually have compassion and remorse—rare qualities indeed for a man of such fearsome repute.
How was she to poison such a man without losing her own life, or worse yet, her soul to eternal hellfire?
Christian shifted his legs under the table and encountered the wolfhound bellycrawling beneath it. The dog did not belong on the dais, but the presence at his feet was comforting. Since no one but the dog dared get so close, he let the interloper stay.
The discordant twangs bouncing off the ceiling drew his disbelieving gaze. Christian stared at the multicolored tunic of the minstrel and admitted he had erred. Three days ago he’d believed the presence of a minstrel would lighten the spirits of the servants. But the notes tumbling from the boy’s instrument were more of an irritant than entertainment. Christian tried to shut his ears to the noise. Now he knew why the hound hid beneath the table.
Shifting his attention to Peter, he wondered perversely what the page would drop tonight. Peter lived in terror of the seneschal’s temper, and his fear put him in peril of dropping the water bowl. Even now candlelight shivered on the water’s surface. If he dropped the bowl, the Slayer would yell. ’Twas a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Christian growled and glanced toward the gallery. No sign of the new nurse yet. Perhaps the servants had whispered his sins in her ears, and she cowered in her chamber, loathing the prospect of his company. What of it? Everyone feared him. It was inevitable that she would come to fear him, also.
Still, he thought, peering into the ale that was the color of her eyes, he hoped she wouldn’t. Her unflinching attitude was a novelty to him. It had been so long since anyone besides Sir Roger had told him what to do. Kindly leave us.
Could the woman really be a freed serf? She sounded like a bloody queen.
Now she was late for supper, exacerbating his desire to look at her again. He entertained himself by wondering which of her many attributes appealed most to him. Was it her eyes or her mouth? Her habit of chewing on her bottom lip had caused immediate stirrings in his loins. And those breasts! Ah, how he marveled at those full pale globes. He found himself irrationally jealous of his son, who got to suck on them.
Where was the wench? For that matter, where was his master-at-arms? Christian sat alone, insulated from his serfs by the rift that widened to unbreachable proportions after his lady’s passing. Genrose had visited the peasants’ cottages and tended to their needs. He could not compete with the devotion they were used to. He could not begin to emulate it.
He swirled his drink, feeling guilty for something that had been beyond his powers, irritable for the caterwauling coming from the minstrel’s lute. Several soldiers at the boards grumbled over supper’s delay.
At last Sir Roger sidled along the dais to take his seat beside the empty lady’s chair. He greeted Christian with his usual aplomb and held out his goblet to be filled.
Christian waited for what he thought was a reasonable span of time. “You wished to tell me something of the nurse, Saintonge?” he inquired casually.
Sir Roger sent a meaningful glance toward the musician. “How long are we going to put up with this?” he asked, ignoring his liege’s opening.
Christian didn’t want to discuss the minstrel. “Dismiss him tomorrow,” he said curtly. “What was it you were going to say about the nurse?” he asked, betraying his impatience.
“A veritable pearl in an oyster, eh, my lord?” Sir Roger stalled.
Christian checked his reply. With his wife not in the ground a week, it didn’t seem appropriate to comment one way or the other. But if Clare were a pearl, then Genrose might have been a slab of marble. He squashed the unkind thought.
“Did she tell where she is from?” Sir Roger added, his eyebrows nudging upward.
“Glenmyre,” Christian assented with a grunt.
“Yet you trust her with your son.” The knight watched his lord’s expression. “Her husband was killed in a skirmish, you know.”
Christian nodded his head. “He was one of the peasants Ferguson killed.”
Sir Roger gave him a funny look. “Nay, I asked her if that were so, and she denied it,” he retorted unexpectedly.
The noise from the lute faded into the background. Christian frowned and searched his memory. “She led me to believe such was just the case. That is why she came here, because she couldn’t bear to remain at Glenmyre any longer.”
Sir Roger’s gray eyes narrowed. “I’d say we have a slight discrepancy,” he said lightly. “What more did she tell you?”
“In her own words, she said she came to serve me, as I am now the ruler of Glenmyre.”
“Serve you?” the knight repeated, a hint of ribaldry in his eyes.
Christian ignored it, though in his mind’s eye he imagined her serving him in exactly the same way. “Is she suspect?” he asked his vassal. Sir Roger had a gift for sensing danger. If the wo
man were a spy, his man would soon know it.
“I’m not sure,” Saintonge surprised him by replying. He scraped the bristles of his new beard. “I know she is not what she professes to be. Her speech betrays her. She is no more a freed serf than you or I are high-born princes. The woman is a Norman, if not a lady outright.”
It was nice to have his suspicions corroborated. Yet if the woman lied to them, then chances were she intended some mischief. “I’d better check on Simon.” He rose quickly from his chair.
Sir Roger clapped a hand to his wrist. “Peace, my liege. A man stands guard over the baby. Sit you down and eat for a change.”
Christian eased back into his oak chair. “You left a guard alone with her?” The notion unsettled him. He knew firsthand the willpower it took not to stare at the nurse’s breasts.
“ ’Tis only Sir Gregory,” Sir Roger said, naming the oldest knight in their service.
Christian was mollified, but only slightly. He signaled to Peter to bring the water bowl. “He had best keep his eyes to himself,” he muttered, dipping his hands. “Marked you how the woman spoke to me?” he couldn’t help but add. It had been years since he’d shared a casual conversation with any woman, the most recent being with his mother nigh ten years ago.
“Mayhap she has yet to hear the rumors of your bloody past,” drawled the knight.
“She knows them,” he insisted. “I saw the fear on her face when she beheld my scar.”
“Then she is either brave or foolish.”
Trenchers of starling and pork pie made their way to the high table. “Where is the wench?” Christian wondered aloud. “I bade her sup with us.”
“Likely sleeping,” said Saintonge. “She was dead on her feet when I found her.”
Ah, yes, she’d fainted in his arms. Christian savored the memory of her softness against his armor. He ought to have thought of her welfare, but he was not as astute as Saintonge where women were concerned. Catching the eye of Dame Maeve, he waved her forward. “See you what the nurse is doing,” he commanded.
The woman pinched her lips. She gave the air a sniff as she turned to do his bidding.
What? Christian wondered, staring after her. He decided he should have asked a lowlier servant. The steward’s wife had better things to do than charge up and down the stairs. It was no secret that she was the true source of efficiency behind the simple-minded steward.
Harold, panicked by his wife’s desertion, began to pace before the dais. His white hair bobbed like a rooster’s comb as he oversaw the food’s distribution. The minstrel fell wisely silent as the men dug into their trenchers.
The meal progressed slowly. Christian looked up, happy to see the steward’s wife approaching the table at last.
“My lord, the woman is sleeping, and I was unable to awaken her,” she said with more deference.
“Well, what about my son? Who watches him?”
“The babe sleeps, also, and a knight stands guard outside his door.”
“All is well with the world,” Sir Roger added with distinct cynicism.
“Kindly prepare a tray for her,” Christian requested of the woman, “as I would not have her starve. I will carry it up myself,” he added, eager to share words with the woman.
“She is fond of boiled goat’s milk,” said Saintonge from the side of his mouth.
Christian indicated that the milk be added to the fare. Dame Maeve affirmed the order and moved away, calling instructions to the pages as she hastened to the kitchen.
“So,” Sir Roger said, reaching for his goblet. “You will deliver the tray yourself.”
“I mean to question her, ’tis all,” Christian groused. “We know that she has lied to us. I mean to discover why.”
“The answer depends on what she truly is,” his vassal reasoned. “If one goes by her speech alone, she could be a damned Parisian.” He deftly fingered his knife.
“Then she’s a lady,” Christian reasoned. “But what would a lady be doing traipsing through the countryside in search of work? ’Tis impossible.”
“ ’Tis possible if she bore her baby out of wedlock,” Sir Roger countered.
Her baby. Christian had forgotten that the woman had to have given birth first in order to have milk. God’s blood. Not only had she lost a husband recently but also a child. Having experienced that kind of loss himself, he felt a ribbon of pity wind through his heart. At least he was capable of such a basic emotion, poor woman. Had he been crass to her? He could have been more thoughtful.
He put the pieces together slowly. “So, if she bore a babe out of wedlock, then mayhap she lies about the husband.”
“ ’Twould explain the inconsistencies,” Sir Roger countered. He tapped the side of his goblet with his knife and narrowed his eyes. “Which brings up an entirely new possibility,” he murmured, after a moment of intense reflection.
“And that is?” Christian prompted.
“Perhaps she was a courtesan, a leman—”
“A mistress!” said Christian. Now, this explanation he preferred, for he could feel less guilty about the woman’s loss. “Aye, that would explain her candor with me, the jewelry that she wore about her neck,” he added with enthusiasm. “She said it was bronze, but I know the difference.” He remembered staring at the pendant to keep from ogling the woman’s wares.
“It also explains why she bore a child out of wedlock, why she has come to serve you as overlord of Glenmyre.” Sir Roger imbued the word with all its baser connotations.
Christian felt his ardor rise. The woman had come to serve him in the absence of her former lord. All at once, his excitement dimmed. “That means . . .” He reached for his wine, needing to chase a bitter taste from his tongue.
“That she might have been Monteign’s leman,” Saintonge supplied.
Christian thrust the unpleasant image from his mind. Monteign had been a big and burly man, more than twice Clare Crucis’s age.
They sat for a moment in private contemplation.
“Do you think she seeks a new protector?” Christian dared to ask.
Sir Roger wiped the sheen of grease from his chin. “We have taken our guesses to extremes,” he replied, crushing his lord’s burgeoning hopes. “She might also be a spy, sent to take stock of our defenses. Or to avenge a husband’s death.”
Those same fears had coursed Christian’s mind like muddy rivers, sullying the relief that Simon had been saved. “I will get the truth from her yet,” he vowed, hurrying to finish.
With eagerness whittling away his appetite, he abandoned his trencher and stood. The knight’s parting caution echoed in his head as he took the tray from Maeve and carried it up the stairs.
Try subtlety, my lord. It works better than threat.
The room that Clare had been allotted stood adjacent to the nursery. Christian approached the knight who was supposed to be standing guard. Sir Gregory sat on the floor with his back to the wall and his head between his knees. He snored loud enough to herald an army.
“God’s toes!” Christian muttered, battling the urge to jerk the old man to his feet. He stepped over him instead and snatched the torch from the holder. Angling himself into the nurse’s room, he held the torch aloft and looked around.
Dame Crucis lay on the high mattress, fast asleep. By all appearances, she’d intended to join him. She wore the gown he’d found in his late mother-in-law’s discarded wardrobe. A brush lay loosely in her palm. It appeared that she had simply wilted onto the bedcovers, lulled by the warmth of the brazier.
In the innocent posture of sleep, she didn’t look capable of spawning any mischief. She did, however, fit the description of a female valued for her womanly charms. Brushed to smoothness, her hair poured fire over the bleached pillowcase. She had bathed the dust from her body, revealing pale, soft flesh beneath. The room smelled of lavender and woman.
Even in a dress more suited to a matron, she possessed a sensual allure. The turquoise bodice strained across her breasts, its laces sc
arcely meeting. Christian’s gaze moved from her tiny waist to the flare of her hips. Her skirts molded the shapely length of her splayed thighs, invited his gaze to fall into the indent between them. How simple it was to imagine himself moving over her, pressing himself into her vulnerable core.
Christian gave himself a mental shake. He could not afford to blind himself with lust until he knew the woman’s purpose.
The cry of his infant penetrated the wall of the nursery. Clare Crucis stirred but failed to waken. Witnessing the extent of her exhaustion, Christian placed the tray beside the bed and carried the torch to the nursery, stepping over the knight, who blocked the corridor.
The vision that awaited him brought choked denial to his throat. Simon lay naked in his box, his skin nearly blue with cold. The swaddling had been taken off him and tossed over the end of the cradle. He wore no soiling cloth, and the crib was wet with urine.
Christian threw the swaddling over his screaming son and caught him up. “Hush,” he soothed, rubbing the baby’s limbs to speed the return of warmth. The infant’s distress filled him with helpless rage.
How long had Simon lain there shivering? Had Clare Crucis done this to him? By God, he would tear her limb from limb if he saw guilt upon the nurse’s face! But first he would teach that doddering, old knight not to sleep on the job.
With his temples throbbing, he girded his baby’s loins in a fresh soiling cloth and swaddled him as best he could. His ministrations only enraged the infant more. Simon’s fists broke free of the inept swaddling, and he bellowed loud enough to make the chamber echo.
Sir Gregory muttered in protest as Christian stalked into the hall. “Get up!” the warlord snapped, prodding the man with his toe.
The knight threw his head up suddenly, smacking it against the wall. With a cry of pain, he scrambled to his feet, muttering unintelligibly.
