Danger’s Promise

by Marliss Moon

  “What’s amiss?” the warlord asked, his scowl taking up its usual post. “Is it Simon?” He looked ready to return at the least word.

  “Not Simon,” she assured them, catching her breath. “The Abbot of Revesby. He went to Rievaulx yesterday, and he hasn’t returned. Something foul has happened to him, I can feel it.”

  The Slayer’s alarm subsided into something more like consternation. He looked to his vassal for an opinion.

  Sir Roger’s smile wavered and dipped. “He and Gilbert have never seen eye to eye,” commented the knight. “If Ethelred accused his colleague of dissembling, Gilbert may well have reacted without thinking.”

  Clarise rubbed away the chill on her arms. She swallowed down the admission that she’d made her own request of the good abbot.

  “But Ethelred has the backing of the archbishop,” Christian countered. “Gilbert can do nothing to deter him.”

  Sir Roger gazed off in the direction of Rievaulx. “Still, if Ethelred doesn’t return by sunset, we should act.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Clarise repeated, admitting nothing for the time being.

  The warlord returned his focus to her. His gaze was still as intense as it had been in the last two days. But a secret light now sparkled in his eyes, making them more green than gray. He seemed happier, almost gay—if such a word could be applied to a man who never laughed. As he stared down at her, his mouth curved in a hint of a smile.

  Could he have been the one spying on her bath the other night? she wondered. The thought put butterflies in her stomach. She told herself that she’d imagined the whispered curse and that Nell had left the door cracked.

  “Did you not lock the door?” she’d asked the girl, who’d appeared a moment later.

  “Nay, milady.”

  “Did you see anyone in the corridor?”

  “Only Lord Christian. He means to make me brothers squires, milady. An’ he means to give them both a plot o’ land!”

  That had been excellent news for Nell. But it also meant the warlord had been skulking in the corridor. Pacing like a fox for a rabbit to come out of its hole.

  “We have to hunt,” he said now. He still looked secretly pleased. “There will be a feast if we are lucky.”

  “A feast,” she repeated. The lightness of his spirits was contagious, if curious. “And what is the occasion?”

  “You will know it soon enough,” he said. He turned faintly red beneath his tan.

  “Can you not send others to do the hunting?” she asked, thinking of Ethelred. “There must be men-at-arms who would undertake the task.”

  “Sir Roger’s falcon answers only to his call. My men remain at Glenmyre. That leaves only us.” He shrugged, looking like a handsome woodsman with a bow on his shoulder.

  “Well, go then, but hurry back,” she relented. She made to turn away, but then remembered that she wanted to thank him for a recent kindness. “My lord, I thank you for moving Doris to the nursery. I am well rested for the first time in a month.” The cook had taken over Simon’s midnight feedings, giving Clarise the leisure to sleep.

  The warlord’s half-smile faded. His expression became quizzical. “I would like to take credit for such thoughtfulness, but it wasn’t I.”

  Not he? Then it could only have been Sir Roger. They both looked to the knight, who shook his head.

  Possibly Harold, then, or Dame Maeve. Had the steward’s wife tired of their rivalry? Was she ready to make amends? “Do you object, my lord? I will, of course, watch him at all other times.”

  His gaze caressed her upturned face. “You look better for your rest,” he decided kindly. “Doris may stay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wish to speak with you this afternoon, about my offer,” he announced. With those alarming words, he yanked his mount around. The destrier gave his tail a haughty swoosh, and they were away.

  From the edge of the drawbridge, Clarise watched the two men cut a fresh path through the knee-high flowers. Daisies and loosestrife swayed beneath an easterly breeze. She only had eyes for the dark-haired warrior who rode so confidently in his seat, his sharp gaze focused on the tree line. She felt a clutching pang in her chest that she attributed to missing breakfast.

  What was he going to talk to her about? Likely he wanted an answer right away.

  She didn’t have an answer yet, though she’d imagined in vivid detail what it would be like to be his mistress. Despite his bloody reputation, she was certain he would treat her well, perhaps even come to feel affection for her. Breed children on her if he so desired.

  Or marry again and leave her with her shame.

  She recalled the things she had wanted for herself since childhood—the things she’d thought Alec could offer her: a marriage blessed by God, a husband who cherished her, children in her lap and at her feet. A longing came upon her, so deep and pulling that she sighed out loud. How could she settle for anything less and be happy?

  She turned and plodded the length of the drawbridge. In light of the good abbot’s absence, her yearnings were selfish. Her mother and sisters suffered on, while she pined for something that was more than most women ever attained.

  The Slayer offered her his sword arm and shattering physical ecstasy. Unless Alec could top that offer, it would have to be enough for Clarise DuBoise.

  Was it a boar or a deer? Christian couldn’t readily tell by the color of its fur. The animal froze as though sensing that it had become a target. He pulled his bowstring taut until it creaked ominously in the silent clearing. The birds were dumb with terror. The leaves on the trees ceased to tremble. In the meadow nearby, the pure, high scream of the gyrfalcon signaled Sir Roger’s success in his portion of the wager.

  Christian gave a determined smile. By felling this animal, he might still come out the victor and produce the biggest game.

  The animal suddenly bolted. Through the underbrush it crashed, snapping twigs, crushing ferns. “Don’t shoot!” it cried.

  Christian brought his arrow down. A talking boar? Nay, it was a monk. He could see that clearly now. The man wore the dun-colored cloth of a novice. The bottoms of his sandal’s flashed as he ran.

  “Hold!” he called out. “I mean you no harm.”

  The monk disappeared behind a tree, then peeked around it.

  “What are you doing on my lands?” Christian snapped. It irritated him to be reminded of the Abbot of Rievaulx right now. He’d been enjoying this challenge between himself and his vassal. It had been a long time since he’d taken part in the hunt. More than that, every pheasant, every rabbit felled would find its way to the banquet table in celebration of his marriage to Clarise. Provided she agreed to wed him.

  “I’ve been following you,” the monk admitted feebly.

  “What the bloody hell for?”

  The man blanched at his foul language and crossed himself. “I . . . I have a package for you,” he replied. An arm jutted outward. Dangling from the monk’s hand was a large leather satchel.

  “What is it?” Christian demanded, suspicious of anything the Gilbert might have to give him. Two possibilities occurred to him: a ransom note for Ethelred—he dismissed the notion, as the bag was too big for a note. Or a body part of the good abbot—a hand, perhaps.

  “Letters!” cried the cleric. “Letters from Clarise DuBoise to her lover, Alec Monteign.”

  Those were not the words Christian expected. He heard a buzzing in his ears that might have been caused by a fly. Clarise and Alec? Lovers? He recalled that they had been betrothed at the time he seized Glenmyre. But he’d assumed their marriage was a legal arrangement, an alliance between Monteign and Ferguson. It was the catalyst to every event that followed.

  He sat astounded in his saddle. Shock gave way to denial. Gilbert was meddling again. “Come forward,” he growled.

  “Will ye kill me?” the man inquired. His eyes darted to the warlord’s sword.

  Christian could see his reputation was alive and well at the abbey.
“I don’t kill clergy,” he growled.

  When he seized the bundle from the man’s shaking hands, he was instantly impressed by the quantity of letters inside. “Stay a moment.” He loosed the cord and withdrew one of the parchment tubes. He would determine at once if the letters were real or forged. My beloved Alec, he read, struck by the flowing script of the writer. You have been gone but a month and already I feel that years have passed. He released one end of the parchment and it sprang closed.

  He could not begin to name what he was feeling. A vise had closed about his chest, squeezing so hard that he could scarcely draw breath. Without a word to the watchful monk, he jerked his horse around and galloped from the glen. He rode blindly in the direction of the field where he’d left his hunting partner. Through the green canopy overhead, he caught a glimpse of the gyrfalcon circling the sky. Sir Roger would know what to do.

  Hours later they sat in Christian’s solar with the table between them and Clarise’s letters lying in two piles: those they had read and those yet unread. He’d refused to let his vassal read the majority. The messages were too intimate, too sensual. They made him burn with jealousy and shame.

  Dearest One, read the letter in his hand. When you lie on your narrow cot at night, do you not dream of me? The marriage bed is a warmer place and softer, I trow. To sleep with your hand on my breast were as pure an act as prayer. He dropped the letter out of Sir Roger’s reach and snatched up another.

  Alec My Love, if you knew the humilities I endure under Ferguson’s rule, you would not have abandoned me so cruelly. Have you forgotten the kiss we shared at the Feast of St. Michaelmas? We strolled by the lake, and you held my hand. Have you forgotten that you pledged your heart to me that day while a starling serenaded us? I have not forgotten. I dream of kissing you again. All that I have are my dreams, now. Ferguson and his men roam the halls of Heathersgill looking for wenches, willing or nay. I try to stay clear of them. Do you lack the courage to rise up for me? You took your horse and armor with you when you left. In the name of chivalry, how can you leave us to suffer so?

  Even with a bitter taste in his mouth, he was not immune to Clarise’s desperation. Had she directed such words to him, he would have snatched up his sword and leaped on his horse at a full run. Yet, these pleas were not for him, which was precisely the rub. They were for Alec, her beloved, her Dear One.

  In a violent gesture he scythed his arm across the table and swept the letters to the floor. “Enough!” he shouted, scraping back his chair. He stalked to the window and stuck his head outside to find a breath of air. The wind had turned and was coming from the north. Clouds bruised the afternoon sky, bringing the threat of a storm.

  “ ’Twill rain,” Sir Roger observed from where he sat. “This front will bring relief from the heat,” he added.

  Christian wondered how his man could even think about the weather. “What shall I do?” he asked, feeling perfectly violent. He rubbed his forehead where his scalp seemed to be pulled too tight. The alliance he had terminated by killing Monteign had been a love match! He reeled with the truth of it.

  “What had you intended to do?” Saintonge inquired easily.

  “Kill Ferguson,” he retorted. It had all been so simple. He would kill the Scot, thereby earning the right to wed Clarise. But everything had changed with the appearance of her letters.

  “And then?” prompted Saintonge.

  “Wed Clarise,” Christian admitted, feeling the bite of jealousy in his gut. He darted his vassal a warning scowl. “Don’t laugh,” he warned.

  Sir Roger glanced at the letters scattered all over the floor. “Your plans have changed?”

  A streak of lightning jagged from the clouds, drawing the warlord’s gaze outside again. “She loves Alec,” he said, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. “She would never have me.”

  Trees foamed on the horizon. A breeze stirred his hair.

  “Why would the abbot give you these letters?”

  Sir Roger’s question forced Christian to think and not to feel. He watched the storm surge closer. “Clearly, Gilbert wishes to expose her,” he said. “He lives to strike misery into the hearts of everyone.”

  “True enough,” said the knight. “But there is more to this picture than pettiness. Gilbert suspects that you covet the lady for yourself. He means to drive a wedge between you and Alec in the hopes that you will withdraw your offer to return Glenmyre to him.”

  “How could he know such things?” Christian demanded, referring to his intentions toward Clarise.

  Sir Roger shrugged. “He must have put a spy among us.”

  That gave him pause. “You think he wants me to withdraw the offer to Alec.”

  “Alec’s lands are forfeit to the Church,” the knight pointed out, “but only as long as he remains a monk.”

  The warlord raked a hand through his hair. Following Sir Roger’s logic was like wending along an ancient riverbed; he never knew where it would lead him. “I presume we are speaking of Glenmyre, which is presently in my control.”

  The knight tapped his fingers on the table. “Gilbert will question your right in due time. He means to absorb Glenmyre into the abbey’s holdings, mark my word on it. Alec knows nothing of your offer. Nor will he ever know. He is completely cut off from the world, just as the abbot designed.”

  It was true. Alec had never replied to his offer.

  He thought of the distress in Clarise’s letters. Alec, in the name of God, you must answer me.

  A disturbing notion settled in the pit of Christian’s stomach. If Alec did accept the offer of Glenmyre, he stood to gain more than his own lands. He would need a bride to run his household, and he would logically ask for Clarise.

  His teeth clicked together. Nay. If her love for Alec had been earlier revealed, then maybe. If he hadn’t raised his own hopes falsely, perhaps he could be generous. But it was too late now. Either he would have her for himself, or no one would get her!

  The darkness in his heart mirrored the storm outside. He could not stand to think of another man touching her!

  Suddenly a horrible notion struck him. Perhaps Clarise had come to Helmesly, not only to poison him, but to be closer to her betrothed. He turned around, his fingers curling into fists. He’d caught her trying to leave once. She’d said she was going to Abbingdon to hear the Abbot of Revesby preach in English. Hah! Likely she intended to steal off toward Rievaulx and tryst with her lover!

  A sharp rap at the door jerked him to the present. “Who is it?” he shouted.

  “ ’Tis Clarise,” called his nemesis. “I would speak with you about Ethelred.”

  Christian darted a look at his vassal. The knight shrugged. “Come in,” he growled. He would have the satisfaction of witnessing her mortification. Aye, he would squeeze the truth from her this time and make her weep for the heaviness that was in his heart.

  She tugged on the latchstring and pushed. He could see at once that she had his baby in her arms. His anger died to a seething bitterness.

  Clarise wondered what lord and vassal were up to. They rarely cloistered themselves in the solar during the day. She hoped they weren’t discussing Ethelred’s plight without her. “Gentlemen,” she began, “I have something to tell you.” She had just closed the door behind her when she noticed the mess on the floor. It looked as though someone had lifted one end of the Slayer’s table and dumped its contents. “What has happened here?” she asked, staring down at the letter that was touching her toe.

  With a sense of unreality, she recognized the handwriting on the edge of the vellum. Holding Simon to her body, she leaned over and plucked it up. Her heart began to pound in earnest. My Dearest Alec, she read.

  She felt as though her feet were driven into the ground with spikes. Quickly she estimated the number of letters on the floor. She had written Alec over fifty pleas. There were at least that many here. A hot wave of self-consciousness rose toward her cheeks. “How did you get these?” she croaked.

 
“Gilbert sent them by messenger,” said the Slayer, watching her through half-closed eyes.

  Clarise wasn’t the least bit fooled by his sleepy look. He was furious. “The Abbot of Rievaulx?” Anger rushed out to replace humiliation. “He gave you these!” she cried, her volume rising. “How dare he? How dare he meddle in something that has naught to do with him?” Even holding the baby, she managed to rip the parchment in her hands, tearing it first this way and then that. “I should like to put an arrow through his shallow heart!”

  “Compose yourself,” the warlord warned. He looked nonplussed that she was shouting. What did he expect? Repentant tears?

  “How simple for you to say!” she yelled, forgetting that the baby grew distressed at the sound of raised voices. “Do you know the hours I spent laboring over these letters? I called upon every creative power I had to persuade Alec to quit his studies and defend us. I’ll wager he never even got these letters. The abbot kept and read them for his own perverse pleasure!”

  The warlord was looking at her very intently now. With her fury exorcised, she grew calmer, more aware of the currents weaving through the chamber. He, too, had read her letters, she realized. She felt exposed to him now, completely vulnerable. So many yearnings she had poured upon the page. But more than that, in attempting to entice Alec from the church, she had displayed the depths to which she would sink.

  What did he think of her now? she wondered, laying the shredded letter on the chest piled with books.

  “You think Alec never read them?” Behind the glimmer of his green eyes, she saw that his mind was busy calculating.

  “I think he would have helped if he had,” she said with more certainty than she felt.

  The warlord crossed the room to approach her. She locked her knees to hold her ground. As her gaze fell to his lips, she experienced the wistful urge to be kissed by him. When they kissed, she felt treasured and revered.

  “I should have you punished, lady,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion.