by Marliss Moon
“Why not just demand that I be your mistress?” she asked with her back still turned. She needed more time to think.
He remained on his knees. “Two reasons,” he said. “The first is that you deserve more.”
She felt herself wavering toward acceptance.
“Secondly, I would like . . . a more permanent arrangement. I have a son to think of and no time for courting.”
A thorn of disappointment pricked her heart. She hoped he would admit to harboring a tendresse for her. After all, he’d once admitted that he liked her. Wasn’t love just a step above like?
She sternly put a stop to her runaway thoughts. Love was a fickle emotion. She’d fancied herself in love with Alec once, and those feelings had done naught but die a slow, frustrating death.
Nay, Christian was right. It was better to marry for the sound reasons he’d supplied.
As for his bleak reputation, she would let it work for her own ends. The Slayer would destroy her stepfather as only a ruthless warlord could. Following that, she could only pray that his sense of right and wrong would reemerge, bringing a balance of humors to his inner darkness.
With her decision made, she pivoted and came to stand before him. “Very well,” she said, ready to set a seal on the bargain. “I agree to marry you.”
His eyes blazed with triumph. He grabbed her wrists and tugged her down until she dropped to her knees before him. “You will never regret it,” he vowed, cupping her face.
She wanted badly to believe him. She was keenly aware of the leashed strength in his fingertips against her delicate skull. She shuddered with mixed ecstasy and dread as he pulled her close to claim her with a kiss.
Five days later Clarise descended the tower stairs with the feeling that moths were eating holes in her belly.
It was natural for any bride to feel nervous. Yet it wasn’t solely the prospect of marriage to a warlord that worried her; it was the knowledge that Ferguson had come to the wedding as planned. He had pitched his tents outside the walls in the very meadow where Christian had proposed to her. He had come believing that an alliance was about to be forged. He had no idea that the Slayer intended to kill him during a joust tomorrow.
It was Christian’s notion, drawn from the game Ferguson had invented when he sent her mother pounding at the gates of Glenmyre. Clarise had doubts that Ferguson would accept the offer: he’d wanted the Slayer dead, after all. But apparently the lure of having the Slayer for an ally was even more tantalizing than having him dead. The promise of a wedding and a tourney had lured the Scot to Helmesly. Clearly he was all too eager to expand his power.
Perhaps if Clarise knew more details about the Scot’s ultimate demise, she could focus on her marriage. But Christian had been stubbornly silent on the subject. “Am I not the warrior?” he’d pointed out one night. “Are you not the maid? You’ve carried the burden of your family’s plight long enough, Clarise. Leave the rest to me.” It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Christian; rather, it was Ferguson whom she did not trust.
“Do you see any wrinkles in my gown, Nell?” she asked, trying to recall the wedding vows she’d committed to memory.
“Nay, milady,” assured the servant, descending the tower steps behind her.
“What about my hair? Is it staying up?”
“Ye look perfect, milady. Like a queen.”
Her gown had been cut from a cream-colored bolt of Normandy silk, procured from a silk merchant who’d come to Abbingdon. It clung to every curve of her body before streaming behind her in a shimmering cascade. Her hair was caught up in a tiara of pearls with a matching girdle slung low on her hips. She believed that she had never looked lovelier in her life. Would it make the mercenary speak the words of love she still foolishly wanted to hear?
Given the scents wafting up the tower stairs, the wedding feast would be one befitting a queen. Christian and his master-at-arms had gone hunting every day to procure the necessary fare. Clarise doubted she would manage to eat any of it. What if Ferguson had a plan of his own? What if his toxic powders found a way into the food?
Surely Christian would have taken measures to prevent that. She considered the man she was about to wed. It still came as a shock to think of herself as the Slayer’s bride. At the mere mention of his name, peasants still crossed themselves and fled. The tragedy at Wendesby would live with him forever.
She asked herself for the hundredth time if she was making the right decision. His behavior since the day of their proposal had given her no reason to change her mind. He’d treated her with abundant generosity and unfailing chivalry, assigning her a seamstress to provide her with a new trousseau. A perfume merchant arrived yesterday morning bearing an assortment of oils and perfumes. A tapestry weaver, hired to create five new tapestries for the castle, had requested her input on the size and color of each. Her groom gave her leisure to do all this while he planned the details of the wedding and tourney.
She knew that the Abbot of Revesby would marry them. Ethelred had procured a special license while conferring with the archbishop. Elections were already in process to determine who would take Gilbert’s place at Rievaulx. It was no secret that Ethelred, desiring to see his former abbey flourish, would be happy to accept the position if offered.
One villain down, thought Clarise as she edged toward the balustrade to peer down into the bustling hall, and one to go.
She braced herself for the sight of her stepfather. She saw at once that Ferguson had brought more than half his men with him. Their pea-green plaid was unmistakable, as were their bare knees in kilts. They milled impatiently in the great hall, gathering closely about the fire pit as though anticipating the fires of hell that awaited them.
She backed up until her spine was pressed to the wall. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of their too familiar faces. Kendal, Rowan’s father, stood with his shoulders hunched and his eyes glittering with the desire for vengeance. It came as little comfort that his only weapon was a costume sword, its scabbard encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Clarise didn’t doubt it was sharpened in anticipation of conflict.
She summoned the courage to look again. Her eyes sought and found her stepfather. He lounged behind his men, using them as a shield in the eventuality of a scuffle. The smirk that rode the edges of his orange mustache contrasted sharply with Kendal’s fury. He looked well pleased, she thought, thinking himself allied with the Slayer. Hatred and grief wound themselves about her throat and squeezed. He did not deserve to be happy, she thought, when he had brought her family so much pain.
Her gaze slid to the women huddling beneath the window, and she gave a gasp of mixed delight and dread. Her mother and sisters had come! Jeanette was even wearing a presentable gown, though her hair was still gnarled and her expression haunted. Merry looked nearly as distressed as her mother. Her fire-red hair had been covered with a headdress, but she stood with her arms crossed and her green eyes darting nervously. Only little Kyndra, her hand tucked in Merry’s arm, looked pleased to attend a wedding. Blond and guileless, she was too young to scent the current of danger in the air.
If God were merciful, Clarise thought, they would all be free of Ferguson by the morrow.
Suddenly a Scot caught sight of her. He nudged his partner, and a dozen curious gazes rose above the tapestry of the hunt. A rash of pinpricks broke out on Clarise’s skin.
“Daughter!”
The cry startled her. Her mother had seen her as well. Clarise watched with alarm as Jeanette struggled to claw through the wall of Scottish soldiers to get to her.
“Get back, wench,” one of them growled, shoving her into the wall again.
“Leave her go,” said Ferguson. His eyes glittered with contempt. “Let her make a fool o’ herself.”
Jeanette shot through their ranks, not waiting for her daughters, who trailed behind. Up the stairs she scrambled, leaving Clarise torn between panic and the desire to greet her halfway. She took several steps toward the stairs. Her mother ga
ined the last step and raced forward, her eyes wild with alarm.
“Daughter!” she cried again. She flung her bony arms around her and held her tightly.
Clarise felt her mother tremble. Her own arms folded protectively over her. “Hush, Mother. Everything’s all right.”
“My dear, how have you been?” Jeanette cried. She pulled away and clasped her daughter’s face in her hands. “Oh, but you look so beautiful!”
She wished she could say the same of her once-lovely mother. Jeanette was as thin as a wraith. Her cheeks were now hollow, and her hazel eyes had lost their luster. “I am well, Mother,” she answered earnestly. Her gaze moved beyond her mother’s shoulder to Merry and Kyndra, now gaining the second level. “Sisters!” she cried, holding her arms out to them, also.
They huddled together, embracing fiercely, their eyes wet with tears, their hearts aching.
“I have found help,” Clarise whispered, taking care not to be overheard. “The Slayer will reclaim our home.”
The blare of a trumpet signaled that the wedding was about to commence. All and sundry began to file through the forebuilding and out to the chapel. “Stay with me,” Clarise implored, gripping them tightly. “You need not go with them.”
The Scots looked to Ferguson for permission to proceed. In a tightly knotted group, they marched toward the chapel, ignoring the women who remained on the gallery.
At last the only people left below were the servants laying out the fare.
“You don’t have to marry him!” Jeanette blurted. She seemed suddenly stronger than she had seconds before.
“I have a poison for you,” her younger sister added, pressing a satchel into her hand. “You can kill him ere he takes you to his bed.”
Clarise regarded them both with amazement. “Nay,” she said, “you misunderstand, both of you. I am not being forced in any way. ’Tis my choice. The Slayer is going to help us.”
“Hah, he’s another like Ferguson,” her mother insisted. “He has killed women and children. I heard he even killed his first wife.”
She gripped her mother’s arms. “Mother, I am not being coerced. You have to trust me in this matter. Christian is an honorable man, not a murderer. I will wed him of my own free will,” she insisted.
Merry hissed a breath through her teeth. “He’s put you under a spell!” she guessed, her green eyes enormous.
“Stop it!”
“How could you want to marry such a man?” her mother asked. “Do you want to end up like me?”
A movement drew Clarise’s gaze to the window. It was a pigeon, launching itself into flight. Could her mother be right? She shook her head. Nay, she believed in the better side of Christian de la Croix. Besides, if she didn’t marry him, who then would save her family from their misery?
No one.
In truth, she had no choice. But it didn’t help to have them planting doubts in her mind.
There was more to this marriage than the promise of Christian’s help, wasn’t there? After the tourney tomorrow, their marriage would hinge on something other than Ferguson. The question was, what?
Nell called her name. “Milady, Sir Roger doth give his summons,” she pointed out. Indeed, the knight had poked his head through the double doors and was signaling them to descend.
“Hear me out,” Clarise said firmly to her mother and sisters. “This marriage is our best chance at destroying Ferguson. Do not meddle in the matter. The Slayer is not like him,” she added. “He’s a far better man, an honorable man. I do not need this poison,” she added, thrusting it back at Merry.
“Come,” she added when they simply gawked at her. “The sooner this is done, the sooner you’ll be safe.” Taking her mother’s hand, she led them down the sweeping stairs and across the hall, where Roger held the doors. As they approached the knight, she could see the interest and the pity in his eyes as he beheld her mother. “My lady,” he said, bravely addressing her. “May I have the honor of knowing your name?”
Startled, Jeanette looked to Clarise for instruction.
“This is my mother, Lady Jeanette,” Clarise said, making the introductions. “My sisters, Merry and Kyndra.”
He repeated each of their names, giving them all a gallant bow. Then he turned his focus to Jeanette. “Will you grant me a token for the tourney tomorrow?” he begged her.
Flustered, Jeanette looked down at herself in vain, for she wore no jewelry of any kind.
“Give him one of your ribbons,” Clarise suggested.
It was a simple task to tear a pink ribbon from Jeanette’s dress. Sir Roger smoothed it reverently between his thumb and fingers. Then he led the way through the forebuilding to the chapel, gesturing for all the DuBoise women but Clarise to enter. He then offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully.
The harp fell silent at their entrance. Clarise was struck by the utter stillness of the vaulted chamber, especially given the number of witnesses standing wall to wall. Incense hung in fragrant spumes above their heads. The flames of a dozen torches kept a steady glow.
The aisle was a clear-cut path between the Scots on one side and the people of Helmesly on the other. Doris stood with Simon in her arms. As Clarise passed the baby, her heart swelled with love for him. Soon, my sweet, I’ll be your mother.
Her gaze slid over a row of familiar faces and came to land on her groom. The Slayer stood before a candelabrum of five bright candles. They cast a brilliant haze about his torso. He wore a tunic of emerald silk—not black, she marveled with a curious sense of relief. The tunic deepened the green of his eyes as his gaze probed hers. Awareness plunged through her, deep and keen.
She felt much the way she’d felt at their first encounter. She was still struck by the size and breadth of him. The aura of power radiated from his being. Yet now she knew that the look in his eyes was neither ruthlessness nor a quest for blood. Instead, he looked worried she might change her mind and bolt from the chapel.
She looked at Christian’s scar for the courage. More than anything, the scar was a reminder of the faithful child in him. The band of apprehension eased around her chest. She took a cleansing breath. Despite the doubts her mother and sister had spawned, she believed he would overcome the demons of his past. She had no choice but to believe it.
As she slipped her fingers into his warm grasp, she felt his squeeze of reassurance. “You steal my breath, lady,” he murmured in a voice threaded with awe.
Bemused by his compliment, she looked down at their hands. His strong, tanned grasp looked enormous in contrast to her pale, slim fingers. The sight was both reassuring and disturbing.
Ethelred launched into the Latin service. In a matter of minutes she was bound to the Slayer for a lifetime. For the sake of fulfilling her father’s request, she said, “I do.”
For the sake of her own private yearnings—a warrior to retake her home, a lover to cherish her, and a friend to keep her company through good and through evil—she sealed her promise with a kiss.
“Will my lady eat?” Christian asked in her ear.
Clarise eyed the lozenges of curd cheese, bacon and walnut stew, hazelnut crumble, and crustade of chicken with mistrust. The centerpiece was a whole, stuffed swan, dressed in its own feathers and swimming on a sea of lettuce. The fare surpassed anything she had ever seen before, but she couldn’t bring herself to take a bite.
“I cannot,” she admitted. She cut a distasteful glance at her stepfather and found him enjoying himself immensely. His beard was sticky with grease. A horn of ale was clutched in his left hand. He looked happy indeed thinking himself allied with the Slayer.
Just you wait, she thought.
Her groom leaned in closer. The warmth of his shoulder spread quickly through the silk of her gown. “The food has not been tampered with. I posted guards at every door. Look you, even Ferguson is eating.”
Nearly everyone was enjoying the feast. Trestle tables groaned beneath the weight of so much food. Wine and ale warmed the blood of those imbi
bing freely, especially the Scots who celebrated the forging of an important alliance. Tongues began to wag, and boasts could be heard over the jangling of the juggler’s bells. A minstrel of far better skill than Rowan sang both Scottish ballads and Norman tunes, while fighting men tapped toes beneath the boards. Given the bright ribbons that festooned the lord’s table, one might be deceived that the atmosphere was gay.
“You should not have let them bring their swords inside the walls,” she whispered tensely. “Look at Rowan’s father. See how much he hates you.”
The warlord cast Ferguson’s henchman a considering look. “Hush, sweetling,” he soothed. “Our broadswords can cut those paltry blades in half. There will be no uprisings. Mark you how they drink and eat. They think their futures secure. Besides, if there were danger, Sir Roger would sense it. He has a gift for that sort of thing, you know.”
She looked to Sir Roger for confirmation. The knight took his ease in a chair opposite her mother and sisters. He had eaten a good portion of his trencher and was sipping the mulled wine with narrow-eyed satisfaction.
“I’m worried about tomorrow’s tourney,” Clarise admitted, turning back to her husband. “How will you kill Ferguson without starting a war?”
He silenced her with a sudden kiss. Her eyes flew wide as she found herself gazing into his pupils. “Not now,” he whispered against her lips. “Tonight.”
The recollection of the night to come sent a cataract of chills down her spine. In response to her shudder, the warlord kissed her more deeply, his tongue stealing between her lips. The warmth of his kiss weakened her instantly. Over the thudding of her own heart, she heard the hoots of encouragement coming from the men at the boards. She imagined what she and Christian looked like to the assembly—newlyweds eager to spend time alone.
In her preoccupation with the tourney tomorrow, she had almost forgotten about their wedding night. Now, with his thorough kiss, she was startled by her own anticipation. If the preview he’d already given her was any indication, this would be a night she wouldn’t soon forget.
