Danger’s Promise

by Marliss Moon

  At first the servants had been too paralyzed by the housekeeper’s influence to help Clarise bring the goods up. Dame Maeve had secretly threatened them with additional chores, while in the presence of the master-at-arms she was solicitous and helpful. Clarise had found the woman maddening to deal with.

  However, when it came to the chapel, servants had come whenever they could sneak away. With additional hands it had taken only a week to coat the ornate woodwork in beeswax. The embroidered kneeling cushions had been washed and replaced under the pews. They had swept up the stale rushes and scrubbed the floor with lye and wood ash. In short time the chapel was fit for worship.

  Clarise had then turned her attention to the hall. With an eye toward decorating the walls, she’d enlisted Harold’s aid in hanging a tapestry on the gallery wall. She chose the tapestry of a hunt, attended by lords and ladies, complete with comical hounds and red-tailed foxes. Silver trays were hung between the windows where they flung the light of the many torches back into the chamber. Even with the shutters drawn to keep out the gusty rain, the hall appeared as bright as if it were a fair day.

  Clarise had placed a pot of flowers on every step of the grand staircase and brightened the high table with a colorful bouquet. She’d plundered the castle gardens and sent servants outside the walls to procure wild roses, savory, and meadow saffron, which now filled the room with their perfume. Oxeye daisies and pink mallow splashed color against the gray stone.

  All stood in readiness for the lord’s return. The room lacked only the crowning touch—a fire crackling in the fire pit. But with Dame Maeve threatening to complain to Sir Roger, Clarise admitted that a fire might make the room a mite too warm.

  Studying the combined effects of her labor, she sought reassurance that the Slayer would be pleased. She had heard that Ferguson had set fire to Glenmyre. While the wall and central keep had held, the rest had been gutted by flame. If Lord Christian had discovered her identity by now, his need to avenge the Scot might well overshadow his reason.

  The blare of the gatekeeper’s horn shot through her like an arrow. Clarise nearly dropped poor Simon, who was sleeping in her arms. He’s back. Her first instinct was to flee to her bedchamber and lock the door. But she was not a coward. Aside from a few white lies, she was guilty of no wrongdoing.

  Clutching Simon like a shield, Clarise headed to the forebuilding. There, she encountered Harold dawdling at the base of the steps. He seemed reluctant to step through the protective arch and into the pounding rain.

  “ ’Twould put me in a foul mood to travel in this mess,” she called out, announcing herself. The thought depressed her further.

  “Foul mood,” the steward repeated. He glanced at her with something akin to wariness. She could only assume his wife had blistered his ears for doing her bidding this afternoon. She reminded herself that she had promised to read to him in exchange for his help with the tapestry.

  Perhaps tomorrow, if the Slayer could forgive her lies.

  She found herself wishing she had told Sir Roger who she was. The opportunity had presented itself at nearly every meal. And yet, as she was loath to see the disappointment on his face, she had bitten her tongue. The last time he’d questioned her, weeks ago, he had demonstrated great trust in her. How would he feel to know she’d been misleading him all the while?

  In tense silence Clarise waited with the steward at the base of the steps. Sir Roger dashed across the courtyard from the garrison and joined them in a huddle. “Is all in readiness?” he asked, casting her a conspiratorial wink.

  She gave him a weak smile. “I pray so,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Anxiety was twisting her innards into knots. What if the Slayer didn’t like the changes she had made? What if they were viewed as presumptuous?

  The clopping of hooves played descant to the spattering rain. They were all astonished to see a lone rider pass through the gate on the top of a donkey. The beast hung its head dolefully against the downpour. The rider was cloaked in a mantle, his hood pulled low over his face.

  “ ’Tis Ethelred!” Sir Roger exclaimed. He ran into the rain to greet the good abbot.

  Clarise went weak from a mixture of relief and disappointment. She watched the Abbot of Revesby slide from his mount. She could see that he was quite a little man, coming only to Sir Roger’s shoulder. As a stable boy took away his donkey, the two men splashed through the puddles as they raced for shelter.

  Clarise had just lit the torch on the stairwell—a true feat with a baby in her arms. She had adopted the habit of carrying a flint with her, as it afforded her pleasure to witness the fruits of her labor.

  As she turned around, the abbot shook back the hood of his mantle. He was still a young man, she saw, having pictured him much older. His sandy-colored hair was cropped short. He wore the black garb of an Augustinian monk, yet unlike the Abbot of Rievaulx, he went without a fancy stole. No jewels twinkled on his fingers. Sandals peeked from below the hem of his cloak. She looked into his friendly gaze and found him watching her intently.

  “Father, this is Lady Clare, Simon’s nurse.” Sir Roger made the introductions. “Lady, the esteemed Abbot of Revesby.”

  “Pleased to meet Your Grace,” she murmured, masking the sudden certainty that this man would help her reach Alec if the necessity arose. She hoped it would not.

  The abbot’s gaze fell upon the bundle in her arms. “This could only be Christian’s son!” he exclaimed. “What a mighty one he is already!”

  Simon was swaddled in purple silk, a color chosen to complement Clarise’s lavender gown. He returned the abbot’s praise with a dispassionate stare. Father Ethelred laughed out loud. “A miracle!” he pronounced, chuckling.

  Clarise felt her heart swell with love, both for the baby and the cleric who was so clearly pleased to see him. She kissed the curl that grew skyward from the top of Simon’s head.

  “I have news,” announced the abbot happily, “and I would say it without delay. But where is your seneschal?”

  “Due to return at any minute,” the knight supplied.

  “I cannot wait!” Ethelred’s blue eyes sparkled. “I have just come from a meeting with the archbishop. The subject of the interdict came up in casual conversation. Archbishop Thurston said that the interdict was never approved by the Holy See. Tomorrow I go to Rievaulx to see the papal seal. If Gilbert fails to produce it, this matter will place him under grave scrutiny.”

  Ethelred did not seem at all displeased by his colleague’s treachery. Clarise recalled that there was rivalry between them.

  “Verily?” exclaimed Sir Roger after a moment of astonished silence. “Then it was just an attempt to breed discontent at Helmesly. Gilbert hoped the people here would turn against their seneschal.”

  “Mayhap so,” Ethelred agreed.

  “Well, why stand here like knaves when Lady Clare has put the great hall to rights? Our castle is now a welcome place for visitors.”

  An hour later Clarise had developed a pounding headache. The abbot had been given a room where he would dry out his robes. All she had intended to do was to tell the new head cook that a special meal would have to be drawn up for the cleric, who could not eat meat, except for Sundays. The cook, who’d finally been persuaded to concoct a jellie of fyshe this night, complained to Maeve. The steward’s wife intercepted her in the breezeway.

  “Lady Clare!” she called in her strident voice.

  Rolling her eyes at the woman’s tone, Clarise turned, just two steps from an escape into the great hall. “What it is?” she inquired sweetly.

  “I see you have taken it upon yourself to perform Harold’s duties once again. What the abbot—or for that matter, what anyone—will eat is none of your concern.”

  “I am certain Harold would not mind a little help. You, on the other hand, seem to resent it strongly. I have to wonder why you wield your power like a sword. Even your husband is subject to you.”

  Maeve drew herself into a rigid line. “Do you wish t
o play lady, then?” she hissed. “Very well. Let us see if you can take my place. I’m retiring to my chambers,” she announced, pivoting sharply. She took her keys with her as she headed toward the servants’ hall.

  Clarise stared after her with her mouth agape.

  This was a setback she hadn’t expected. She had hoped to greet the Slayer with poise and elegance from the vantage of the dais, not scurrying around with her hair slipping from the knot on her head, sweating from the heat of the kitchen and the burden of having to tote Simon wherever she went.

  Harold, she feared, would be more of a hindrance than a help. He paced before the kitchen exit, wringing his hands and muttering in agitation. Promising once again that she would soon read Stories of the Saints’ Lives to him, she managed to convince him that they would get along without his wife.

  In the kitchen the pages and maids milled aimlessly. Hearing them squabble over the order in which they would carry in the food, Clarise pushed into their midst and gave them a lecture worthy of the Empress Matilda. The jostling for position ceased but not the complaints.

  She reentered the hall to find the abbot conversing with the reticent steward. He detached himself to approach Clarise.

  “Harold tells me that a babe has been buried in the graveyard and awaits the sacrament of burial,” said Ethelred.

  Clarise was forced to calm a fussing Simon. “Aye, Your Grace. ’Twas the cook Doris’s babe, a stillborn. She would be thankful if the proper words could be said over him.”

  “At dawn tomorrow, then. It should be done at once, now that the interdict has been lifted, so to speak.”

  “Has Simon been baptized?” Clarise asked, realizing that she didn’t even know. He fretted loudly against her shoulder.

  “I baptized him the day that I buried his mother,” said Ethelred solemnly, “as Christian had refused the right of the midwife to do so. True,” he added under his breath, “the interdict forbade both sacraments at the time, but I never did see the point of it.” His hand came up and stroked the soft spot on Simon’s head. Immediately the baby quit his hungry mewls. “At the time,” Ethelred continued, “I was quite concerned that this babe would not live. You have been a blessing to him,” he added, glancing at her sharply. “Where are you from?”

  She looked into the abbot’s inquisitive gaze and found she couldn’t lie. “From Heathersgill,” she admitted quietly. “My father was Edward the Learned.”

  “Keeper of the Books,” he elaborated with a smile. “I met him once.”

  “In truth?” She was astonished to hear it.

  “He tutored King David’s children in the Scottish court.”

  “Aye, that he did!”

  “I was educated there myself. How does he now?”

  Clarise’s throat closed with grief; still, she managed to repeat the awful story of Edward’s death. It came as a relief to speak of it after guarding her identity so long. “Now Ferguson rules my father’s keep as if he were the rightful lord,” she added, pained by the knowledge that she had done nothing yet to ensure her mother’s and sisters’ survival.

  Ethelred’s face reflected shock. “I am saddened to hear it,” he said. “Your mother? Is she well?”

  Clarise shook her head. “The selfsame Scot forced my mother to wed him. He abuses my mother at will; my sisters, also.”

  Ethelred put a hand on either one of her shoulders. “What can I do to help you?” he asked sincerely.

  Her hopes took wing. “Is there something that the Church can do? Annul the marriage, perhaps?”

  “I will look into it,” he promised.

  “Your Grace,” she added, resisting the urge to cling to his sleeve. “I have yet to tell Christian who I am. You see,” she added, lowering her voice, “Ferguson sent me here to poison his enemy. Only I couldn’t do it. But if Ferguson learns that I’ve betrayed him, he will kill my mother and sisters as he has sworn to do.”

  The abbot looked astounded by such subterfuge. “You haven’t told Christian the truth?”

  “Not yet,” she admitted miserably. “I was afraid that Ferguson would catch wind of it, and the ones I love would be swiftly put to death. Now I have spun so many lies, Lord Christian has every right to be angry, perhaps to throw me out with nowhere else to go, or worse.” She tried not to think of what worse might entail.

  “You must tell him at once,” said Ethelred firmly. “Truth is a better fortress than deceit.”

  She nodded in agreement of his admonition. The time had come to cast herself on the Slayer’s mercy.

  Further discussion was curtailed by Sir Roger’s presence as he trotted down the steps behind them. No sooner had the knight joined them than the horn trumpeted loudly, announcing the Slayer’s return.

  “He’s here,” Sir Roger stated cheerfully.

  Oh, God. Clarise gripped the baby so hard he let out a shriek. She had just enough time to cast a final look over the hall, wishing again that she had struck a fire in the hearth, in spite of Maeve’s disapproval. But now it was too late. Both the doors to the main entrance crashed open. Into the glare of fifty candles and ten torches stepped the Slayer.

  Clarise’s eyes flew wide. He looked every inch a warrior tonight—immense, powerful, swathed in black. The links of his armor, dulled with soot, swallowed the light of the torches. His sword hung out of sight beneath a swirling, black cloak. As he threw back the hood, she could see that his hair was cut shorter and plastered wetly to his skull. It looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days. His eyes gleamed above the scruffy darkness of his beard.

  Christian drew up short and blinked at the unexpected glare. The great hall was ablaze with torches and blinding reflections. Despite the gathering that drew him toward the stairs, he paused a moment to marvel at the changes that had taken place since his departure.

  The scent of flowers masked the odor of so much burning tallow. The most immediate difference was the enormous tapestry that hung from the gallery to cover an entire wall. A row of blazing torches drew his gaze toward the high table, covered in snowy linens and bouquets of colorful flowers. On the eastern wall, silver platters, with their polished luster, reflected the gay scene.

  The great hall bore little resemblance to the echoing chamber that his wife had made of it. A rush of contentment filled him as he beheld his home transformed. There was no doubt as to who was responsible for the changes. Just as suddenly, bitterness tinged his pleasure. How dare she taunt him with what he longed for most? She hadn’t come to shed her light into his morbid world. She’d come for a different reason—to spy or to hide. And yet she teased him with the illusion of what he craved.

  He ripped his gaze from the wall hangings and shot her an accusing look. Clarise’s eyes reflected hope and fear in equal parts. Her pale face was framed by copper tendrils that had slipped from the knot on her head. Her mouth was slightly parted as if she struggled to inhale. Good, he thought, as betrayal stung him anew. She would do anything to procure his mercy.

  A movement next to Clarise dragged his gaze to the cleric standing beside her. “Ethelred!” he exclaimed, surprised to see the abbot in his castle. He hurried forward and extended a wet hand. Water streamed off his cloak onto the fresh rushes. “ ’Tis a pleasure as always.”

  “The good abbot has brought us excellent news,” Sir Roger interrupted, his smile at the height of crookedness. “You tell him, Father.”

  Ethelred offered his boyish smile. “The interdict has been lifted from Helmesly,” he announced, pumping Christian’s hand as if he didn’t mean to let it go. “In fact, it never truly existed in the eyes of the mother church, for it lacks the approval of the Holy See. I am going tomorrow to question Gilbert about the matter.”

  It seemed to Christian as if the hall were suddenly brighter, though that was impossible given its present brilliance. He looked from Ethelred’s blue eyes to Sir Roger’s happy smile and felt his vocal chords vibrate. The laugh that rasped free was almost an embarrassment. He darted a look at Clarise and found h
er gazing at him with wonder in her eyes.

  He withdrew at once behind a façade of solemnity. “I owe it to you,” he said to the abbot, whose hand he still squeezed.

  Ethelred let go with a muffled yelp. “Not at all, not at all,” he assured him affably. “The matter came up in casual conversation.”

  Christian nodded. His thoughts had already turned to Lady Clarise, who stared at him like a paralyzed hare. Anger boiled in him anew. She had lied to him so many times that he found himself looking at a stranger. She wasn’t from Glenmyre. She was never Monteign’s mistress. He didn’t know whose child she had born out of wedlock, or had she lied about that, too?

  He took a step that brought him close enough to hear her sharp intake of air. Her head tilted back, offering him a clear view of the hollow fluttering at the base of her throat. The fact that she was frightened of him meant that her purpose at Helmesly was a sinister one. She hadn’t come for protection or simply to hide.

  He leaned over her, allowing his knowledge of the truth to blaze in his eyes. “You and I have much to discuss,” he warned her. He was perversely satisfied to see all color slip from her cheeks.

  It was the glare of his infant son that distracted him from toying with her further. The baby, swaddled in royal raiment, glowered at him from the throne of Clarise’s arms. The little baron looked displeased with his father’s behavior.

  Christian straightened guiltily. He thrust a finger out for Simon to squeeze, but the baby ignored him. The frown on his downy brow bespoke of grave disapproval. “He doesn’t remember me,” he said by way of explanation. Addressing the onlookers, he added, “Give me a moment to wash up, and I’ll join you for supper.”

  Ignoring his vassal’s questioning look, he tackled the stairs two at a time. He couldn’t help but notice the effort that had been put into ensuring his mercy. On every step there stood a pot of wildflowers, artfully arranged.