Danger’s Promise

by Marliss Moon

  She gave him a thin smile. The knight was mocking her disguise as a freed serf. She hoped she could keep the truth from him, as she had kept it from the Slayer.

  Sir Roger helped her into a chair, then occupied the seat beside her, leaving the lord’s and lady’s places empty. He nodded to the water bearer, and the meal began. The scent of trout broiled in almond sauce preceded the pages as they bore the main course to the high table.

  Men-at-arms still trudged to the trestles from the practice yards. Sweaty and exhausted, they straggled in, groaning audibly at the sight of the minstrel and casting curious glances toward the high table. Clarise kept her eyes downcast as they whispered among themselves to discover who she was.

  “Did you live in Glenmyre all your life?” Sir Roger asked. At the same time he divided their trencher in half, giving her the choicest portion of the fish.

  She braced herself for another round of questions. “Aye, all my life, except for the years I spent studying at St. Judes.”

  “You mean St. Giles,” he offered helpfully.

  Clarise colored furiously. He’d caught her right away in the web of her own words. “Aye, St. Giles,” she muttered, stabbing at her fish with her two-tined fork.

  Sir Roger dabbed his mouth with the edge of the table linen. “Dame Crucis,” he said softly, “you have heard, no doubt, that my lord will kill anyone who crosses him.”

  She forced herself to chew, though the trout began to taste like dirt in her mouth. The knight was clearly warning her to be forthright. To save herself, she retreated behind a wall of silence.

  Saintonge drove his point home. “He respects honesty in any man,” he added, “or woman.”

  She resisted the urge to shake her head. She could never tell the Slayer who she was, for in jeopardizing her own life, she jeopardized the lives of those she loved. “Where has the seneschal gone?” she asked, changing the topic abruptly.

  The gleam in Sir Roger’s eyes warned her that he saw straight through the ploy. “To Rievaulx,” he said shortly.

  The unexpected answer brought her senses to alert. “But the abbey is quarantined. I went there for shelter and was turned away.”

  Sir Roger ripped off a portion of his trencher and dipped it in sauce. “I know,” he said, with anger coloring his tone. “ ’Tis supposedly riddled by a great scourge.”

  “Oh, it is,” she assured him. “I saw the effects of it myself.” Her stomach turned at the recollection of Horatio’s ravaged face.

  The knight leaned back until his chair creaked. “My lord means to call at the gate, not to enter. He is looking for a monk there.” His silvery gaze swiveled toward her face. “Alec Monteign. You must know him, coming from Glenmyre,” he added casually.

  Clarise glanced to the cradle to disguise her sudden panic. Simon was dozing, giving her no excuse to flee. “Aye, of course. He heeded a call to the brotherhood after the. . . the seneschal took possession of Glenmyre.” She had nearly said the Slayer.

  “Just so. What do you know of the man?”

  She tore off a bit of her own bread. “He’s a good man,” she said evasively. “Why do you ask?”

  The knight looked at her directly. “ ’Tis a matter of great importance, affecting the lives of many,” he replied. “One day you may be able to return to Glenmyre”—he paused and sipped his wine—“to do whatever it is that you did before.”

  She ignored his deliberate sarcasm. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “Are you suggesting that Alec might rightly rule in his father’s stead?” Hope fluttered anew.

  The knight smiled enigmatically. “Mayhap,” he said, raising her hopes, “but then, mayhap not. Who can explain the devotion of an eremite?”

  To Clarise, it sounded like a leading question. Sir Roger was eager to explore her allegiance to Alec. Likely, everything he had to say was designed to trap her into revealing her loyalties.

  She clicked her mouth shut and silently counseled herself not to speak of the past again. The conversation moved to safer topics: the lax attitude of King Stephen and the recent antics of his dubious heir.

  As the sweetmeats approached the table, Clarise summoned the courage to ask, “Sir Roger, why is there no priest here?” Seeing his questioning look, she added, “ ’Tis my custom to confess once a week.”

  Something suggestive flickered in his eyes. “Are you such a sinner, then?”

  The strange question gave her pause. “Let us just say that I have a conscience,” she finally answered. “Why is there no priest?”

  His perpetual smile became a grimace. “An interdict was imposed on Helmesly not too long ago. The only sacraments that may be administered here are baptism and extreme unction. ’Twould serve no purpose to have a priest.”

  “I see,” she said, reeling with surprise. “And who imposed the interdict? The Abbot of Rievaulx?”

  “An accurate guess.”

  “But why?” she persisted.

  He popped a sweetmeat in his mouth. “Who knows?” he muttered. “It gives him pleasure to spread discontent.”

  Hearing the irritation in his voice, Clarise glanced toward Simon’s cradle and saw that the baby was fussing. “Sir Knight, I thank you for your gracious company. The baby wakes, and I have sworn to give him my undivided attention.” She was anxious to retire to her room and ponder her next move.

  “Join me,” he said, trapping her hand momentarily under his, “at the evening meal. The minstrel will be gone, and our ears will be left at peace.”

  She gave a noncommittal reply. The knight was too astute by far. If she spoke at any length with him, she knew her story would buckle and the truth would be revealed.

  He pulled back her chair, then called a youth to assist her with the cradle. As Clarise trailed Peter toward the stairs, they passed the minstrel who plucked at his strings in a futile attempt to make harmony. The young man’s gaze rose to capture hers, and shock slammed through her, bringing her to a sudden halt. By God, she knew him after all!

  His name was Rowan. He was the son of Kendal, Ferguson’s second-in-command. No doubt he’d been sent to Helmesly to ensure that Clarise fulfilled her sinister purpose.

  Mischief sparkled in Rowan’s eyes. Without warning, he launched into a ballad extolling the beauty of “The Fiery-Haired Lady.”

  Clarise’s heart began to pound in earnest. She glanced about the hall and realized she was now the center of attention. Knowing she would draw more speculation by ignoring the boy, she listened to his song with outward courtesy.

  Inwardly she felt herself quaking. Rowan’s ballad was laden with hidden meanings. It was the story of a king’s mistress, hung for betraying him and revealing secrets to his enemy. This was Ferguson’s way of warning her, she thought, feeling her anger burn. He was likening himself to the king and her to the fiery-haired mistress.

  Clarise’s throat felt suddenly parched. She swallowed hard against the dryness. The nightmare she’d dreamed last night replayed itself in her mind.

  Mercifully, the song came to an end. Rowan offered her a mocking smile, one that held an unmistakable warning. Pretending to be flattered, Clarise clapped for him. A smattering of applause punctuated the hall. She turned stiffly away, encouraging Peter under her breath to move out smartly.

  Halfway up the broad staircase, Clarise dared a glance over her shoulder. Two pairs of eyes in particular watched her retreat. One was dark and mocking, the other light and speculative.

  Frustration pricked the backs of her eyeballs. Everywhere she turned, men sought to control her destiny. All she wanted was to give her family back their freedom. And there wasn’t even a priest at Helmesly to help her!

  Clarise sheltered Simon’s eyes from the sunlight drenching the inner bailey. The afternoon was uncomfortably hot, and she missed the breeze wafting from the meadow to cool her third-story chamber. But she would not reenter the keep until she’d accomplished her tasks. She had two birds to kill and only one stone to see it done.

  Under the guise of
introducing the baby to the castle folk, she managed to locate the livestock shelters near the kitchen. Two nanny goats bleated in alarm as she peered through the shelter door. The nearest entrance to the castle was a short dash away. Getting milk straight from the source would not present a problem, she determined, so long as she could do it without attracting notice.

  Her spirits sank briefly at the need for so much secrecy. Still, she thought, rallying, her masquerade would be over the moment Alec learned of her plight. Perhaps with the Abbot of Revesby visiting on Friday, she would have more luck in getting word to him.

  With one bird slain, she resumed her walk around the castle courtyard, keeping a vigilant eye on the only gate. Rowan would be leaving this very afternoon, dismissed for his poor playing. She could not resist the urge to gloat over his failure to infiltrate the castle as she had. She would need to convince him that she would soon be poisoning the Slayer. That way Rowan would have nothing but good news to deliver to Ferguson.

  She crossed sedately to the stables where a rough-hewn laborer pounded shoes on a plow horse. “Have you met the little baron yet?” she inquired, guessing the man to be the stable master.

  The laborer straightened and wiped his brow. Frowning suspiciously, he stepped from the horse to peer at the bundle in Clarise’s arms. Simon resembled a sleeping cherub with lashes feathering his rounded cheeks. The stable master’s visage softened. “He has the look of his mother,” he growled, turning away.

  Clarise hid a satisfied smile. Though the people of Helmesly found it easy to resent their seneschal, they couldn’t bring themselves to hate a baby. Simon might be still an infant, but it was good to foster the loyalty of the people he would one day rule.

  Enjoying a moment of misplaced pride, she almost overlooked the minstrel’s surreptitious departure. Rowan hastened toward the gate, clutching his lute to his chest. As he cast a wary glance over one shoulder, he caught sight of Clarise heading him off. He drew up short, his lips drawn back in a crafty smile.

  “Lady Clarise,” he said, ignoring her hissed warning not to speak her name.

  “You make a sorry minstrel, Rowan,” she informed him, casting a scathing look at his festive attire.

  “You wound me, lady,” he said, clearly not meaning it. “Did you have something of any import to tell me?”

  Clarise was conscious of several curious gazes being cast their way. She would need to keep their meeting brief to avert suspicion. “I want you to take a message to Ferguson for me,” she told him in a hushed voice. “Tell him all is going according to plan. At the earliest convenience the deed will be done.”

  Rowan narrowed his eyes. “What took you so long in getting here?” he demanded. “I was at Helmesly two full days before you showed up.”

  “I got lost,” she lied. “Then a farmer gave me a ride in his cart, and he took me in the wrong direction.”

  “Humph,” grunted Rowan. “Ye had best not try something foolish.”

  “Like what?” she wanted to know. “You know that I have no choice in this matter.”

  He gave her a careless shrug, making it clear that the lives of her family meant nothing to him.

  She knew a vicious urge to wound him. “You should have practiced on that lute of yours before you came here,” she needled. “Ferguson won’t be pleased to see you back so soon.”

  Rowan smirked with self-confidence. “I got what I needed to make my stay worthwhile,” he confided.

  His words pricked her curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  The minstrel leaned closer to share a confidence. “There are others here who would gladly see the Slayer replaced.” He patted his covered lute the way she patted Simon. “Now,” he said straightening, “see to it that you follow Ferguson’s orders soon. Don’t make a liar of me,” he cautioned, turning away.

  Clarise watched with relief as he walked through the shadow of the barbican. Rowan would tell Ferguson what he wanted to hear. He would not be tempted to cut short the deadline that he’d given her.

  As casually as possible, she turned and strolled toward the keep.

  The sound of a furious gallop roused Clarise from the bed where she lay humming to Simon. Leaving him, she ran to the window and peered through the purple twilight to locate the horseman thundering over the meadow. Even in the semidarkness the silhouette of the Slayer could not be mistaken for any other. He guided his mount toward the open draw, where she briefly lost sight of him.

  He appeared again in the outer ward and veered toward the lists. At the edge of the field, he halted his horse in a patch of dusky shadow.

  What was he doing? Clarise’s knees trembled to know that he was back. She recalled, without wanting to, the feel of his tongue gliding over her breast. She wondered at his purpose in visiting the abbey. Was it possible he would actually return Glenmyre to Alec? What sort of warlord made such generous concessions?

  She leaned out of the window in order to see the Slayer better. The sky, like the mercenary, was of mixed character tonight. The horizon, where the sun had set, was pink, then violet merging into indigo. Black night threatened to swallow the whole of it. Was he good or evil, or some volatile blend of both?

  The warlord urged his horse toward the lances hung on rungs at one end of the list. In a graceful movement he caught up a spear and tested the weight of its tip. Then he turned his horse toward the entrance of the run.

  This was a fête des armes, Clarise guessed, against an unseen enemy. There were no gay banners snapping in the breeze. The air was still. The shadow of the Slayer and his steed lay across the grass, like the fantastical centaur in the books her father used to read. She imagined the clarion of a trumpet as he closed the visor on his helm. An unseen handkerchief fluttered in the air and fell. The Slayer was off.

  So thickly were the shadows settling on the ground that his horse simply disappeared. The warlord galloped as though flying through air. He focused fully on the stuffed target at the end of the run. In the tattoo of the horse’s hooves she could hear his force and speed. In the set of his broad shoulders, she could see determination, power in the arm now raising the tip of the lance.

  The Slayer targeted his weapon on the dummy’s nonexistent heart and, in the next instant, ran it through.

  The straw figure was ripped from its place atop a pole. It dangled limply on his lance until the warlord shook it off. Clarise’s knees knocked together. There had been fury and frustration in the Slayer’s attack. She imagined those two emotions turned upon herself, and her mouth went dry.

  Are you a spy, sent to take account of my men and weapons? She let the windowsill take her weight. If only she could earn his trust.

  With fluid motions the warlord replaced the lance, patted the neck of his stallion, and headed toward the inner gate. Clarise’s vantage was such that she could also see into the courtyard, to the very spot where she had spoken to Rowan earlier. Several torches had been left blazing in expectation of the seneschal’s late arrival.

  She glanced back at the bed. Simon was staring at the patterns of light flickering on the bed canopy. For the moment he could be left unattended.

  She turned to the window again to mark the Slayer’s approach. A youth, probably a squire, ran forward to catch his master’s reins. The Slayer freed the latches of his helmet and tossed it at the boy. But the squire fumbled the catch, and the helm went clanging to the cobbles.

  The boy froze in terror. Three stories in the air Clarise bit off a fingernail down to the quick.

  “What ho, my lord?” Sir Roger’s cheerful hail shattered the tense moment. The master-at-arms popped through an archway of the garrison and into view. He drew up short at the sight of the Slayer’s scowl. “No success in getting past the abbot, then,” he said, sizing up the situation.

  Clarise strained her ears for the seneschal’s reply. The still silence of the early evening and the empty yard caused the men’s voices to carry clearly to her window. She gleaned that the abbot was ill and refusing visitors. The
warlord swung down from the back of his giant horse.

  “ ’Twas nothing less than you expected,” Sir Roger cajoled. He hesitated a moment. “Or did aught else go awry?”

  The Slayer’s chain mail gleamed with the oil with which it had been scrubbed. “I take it you sent the minstrel away,” he growled, in a voice thick with disgust.

  “He left this afternoon,” affirmed the knight.

  “Did he inform you of his destination?”

  Sir Roger hesitated. “No, my liege.”

  “Did anyone think to search his possessions before he left?”

  Silence answered for the knight.

  The Slayer turned toward his horse and pulled a length of parchment from beneath his saddle. “He was carrying this inside his lute,” he added, unrolling it for his vassal’s inspection. Clarise caught a glimpse of a drawing in the flickering light. She pressed a hand to her thudding heart. Rowan had said he’d made his stay worthwhile. Clearly he thought he’d gotten away with stealing sketchings of Helmesly’s interior defenses.

  The Slayer rolled up the parchment with furious but fluid motions. “He was heading straight for Heathersgill,” he added through his teeth.

  Clarise strained her ears as the warlord’s volume dimmed to scarcely more than a murmur. “Henceforth no one enters or leaves this stronghold without being thoroughly searched. I want to know how the minstrel got his hands on these designs!” He shoved them out for his vassal to take.

  “We will soon find out, my lord,” Sir Roger promised him. “What did you do with the boy? We will question him.”

  The seneschal tugged off a gauntlet, one finger at a time. “I killed him,” he said at last, in a voice as emotionless as death. “ ’Twas an accident.”

  Clarise’s vision blurred as the words seeped into her brain. The Slayer muttered something in defense of his butchery. She shook her head in denial as she struggled to assess the impact of this news. Rowan was dead, cut down by the Slayer for being a spy. It was true that Kendal’s son was sly and utterly without honor, but he’d gone without armor and could not even defend himself! To kill him was a cold-blooded act indeed.