The Slayer's Redemption

by Marliss Melton

  I won’t be here long, she assured herself. Still, until the opportunity arose to slip the powder in the Slayer’s drink, she would need to be convincing. Without a nanny goat to give her milk, her charade would end ere it began.

  Sir Roger emerged with a bounce in his step. “Sir Christian is back from Glenmyre,” he announced with cheer.

  Her heart sank.

  “His horse is here. He will be pleased that I have found a wet nurse at last.”

  “Do you house goats here?” she blurted. If there were none, this would likely be her only chance to flee.

  “Goats? Why do you ask?” He caught her by the elbow and drew her with him into the forebuilding.

  “I have a predilection for goat’s milk,” she explained.

  He slanted her a puzzled look. “I find it sour.”

  “’Tis an acquired taste,” she admitted, mounting the stairs by his side. “You do have goats, here, then?” She slowed her step, desirous of a reply before they pushed through the heavy door.

  “Several,” he answered, easing her worry. “You shall have a cup at once to quench your thirst,” he promised. Putting his shoulder against the heavy door, he swung it wide and motioned for her to precede him.

  The grandeur of the hall rendered her speechless as she entered and stopped. An arched ceiling soared above the first and second levels. Wide, stone steps swept upward to a gallery on the second level, which overlooked the hall and faced a wall of windows. Seeing rare mullioned glass fitted into the windows and sparkling with the last rays of daylight, Clarisse gaped at their beauty.

  What a lovely dwelling, she thought. Yet, the hall itself was Spartan in appearance. Not a single tapestry, urn, or silver tray relieved the cold stone walls. The floor, with its fresh rushes, was clean beyond compare, but the furnishings were limited to tables, benches and uncomfortable-looking chairs.

  A murmuring of voices drew her gaze to a clutch of servants at one table. A minstrel, sitting with his back to the door, plucked a final dejected note upon his lute as his audience turned their heads to regard Clarisse. Vague curiosity registered on their dour faces.

  “Did someone die?” she whispered, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the ends of her head covering.

  Sir Roger spared her a distracted glance. “Did I not tell you? Our lady died in childbirth. ’Tis the reason I was sent for a nurse.”

  Her stomach tightened. The baby’s mother was dead? Moreover, she was supposed to kill its father as well? “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said quite sincerely. “The servants must have loved her greatly to cease their labors.”

  “Aye, they did,” Sir Roger said with a sigh. “And now they gather together like frightened sheep,” he added under his breath.

  She nearly rent the cloth in her hands. “Do you mean that they’re afraid of him?” she asked, but he was already mounting the stairs to the second level. With leaden feet, she followed.

  The tales of horror inspired by the Slayer bubbled in the cauldron of her mind. In laying waste to Wendesby six years past, he’d burned the village to ash and killed the innocents that ran before the flames. His own people lived in dread of him, and she had just joined their oppressed ranks. Was she mad?

  With every step, Clarisse’s feet grew heavier. What if he recognized her from some previous visit to Heathersgill? She quickly adjusted her headdress to conceal her hair. Gazing up at the second level, she faltered to a halt, quite certain that she would be caught and executed in a matter of hours.

  “I have a terrible thirst,” she called, stopping Sir Roger midway up the stairs. “Might I have the milk you promised me?”

  Roger leaned over the balustrade and called to the servants. “Dame Maeve!” An elderly woman withdrew from the gathering, her harsh face softened by the mellow light. “Have a servant bring up a mug of goat’s milk for our nurse, Dame Clare.”

  Clarisse was startled to hear herself addressed as a married woman for the first time.

  “Aye, sir,” came the older lady’s immediate reply.

  “Boil it first, if you please,” Clarisse added, as that step in its preparation was critical.

  Dame Maeve thinned her lips, but turned to fulfill the request, her heavy ring of keys jangling from her leather girdle.

  “You give orders with accustomed ease,” Sir Roger commented.

  Clarisse bit her lip, scurrying forward when he indicated they should follow the length of the gallery. Shadows had already leaked into the upper levels. She felt like a lamb being drawn to slaughter.

  “My husband was a lenient man,” she said, offering him the only excuse she could think of. At the end of the gallery, they coursed a short hall then came to a tower stairwell.

  “A word to the wise,” Sir Roger murmured. “My Sir Christian is a reasonable man but not a lenient one.” He sent her a wink and gestured for her to precede him.

  She hesitated. Twisting stairs disappeared upward, the darkness abated only by tapers set into recessed ledges in the stairwell.

  “The nursery is in the tower rooms,” he insisted.

  The sounds floating down from the level above seemed to herald a loud warning. The wailing of an infant blended with a thundering male voice. With no choice, however, she began to ascend. As she neared the top of the stairs, the man’s words became clear enough to comprehend.

  “Blood of the Saints, wench! Cease this infernal sniveling and think of something else. My son is starving. Will you listen to his cries?”

  “M’lord, I’ve done naught else for the last ten hours,” whimpered a female in Anglicized Norman. “He ne wille take the milk. I’ve tried it for days, now. Please ask nay more of me,” she begged.

  “You will scrub the garderobes for a sennight if you fail to make him drink!” he bellowed.

  Clarisse drew up short. How could she hope to make a babe drink if this serving girl couldn’t after days of trying? Sir Roger muscled her forward with a hand on her lower back and another on her arm, propelling her swiftly along the short hallway and through the open door.

  “Sir Christian,” he called over the din. “Your troubles are over, sire. This is the wet nurse you bade me find. Clare Crucis.” He gave her the smallest of shoves as her feet had stopped working.

  Clarisse skidded to a halt before the most enormous creature she had ever seen. Her first instinct was to draw back, and she trod Sir Roger’s toe as he barred the exit. The nursery seemed exceedingly small, or perhaps its proportions had shrunk in the presence of the giant.

  So this was the man she was to kill!

  Standing by an open window, half the Slayer’s body was lit by the sun’s lingering glow, while the other half remained in shadow. He was long of limb, broad in the shoulders, packed with muscle. His hair defined the color black as it hung in waves to his shoulders. Midnight eyebrows scowled over a long, straight nose.

  Yet, he was younger than she’d imagined. The clean lines of his face—the half she could see—shocked her with their unexpected appeal. The soft light revealed unblemished skin, tanned to the color of a clove bud. His cheekbones and strong jaw suggested rugged beauty. Absurdly long lashes framed an eye that was pale green or gray. It was hard to tell in the wan light.

  His intent stare seemed to burn the air from her lungs. She read intelligence in his scrutiny as he looked her over, followed by a sensual consideration that made her skin grow tight.

  She would have known this man had they met as strangers on the open road. What man but the Slayer could be so frighteningly big, so utterly dark? His alert stance betrayed a lifetime of training. He wore his chainmail—in the nursery of all places—as though incapable of shedding the mantle of war.

  God’s wounds, she hoped she had enough powder in her pendant to kill such a beast!

  “Of the cross?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and blessedly quieter than it had been seconds before. The brief chuckle that followed was an attractive sound coming from a man who would as soon kill her if he discovered who she was.<
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  After a moment’s incomprehension, she realized he made reference to the surname she’d invented—Crucis.

  The warrior’s smile was like a jag of lightning in a sullen sky. It stole Clarisse’s breath.

  Unaware of her amazement, he added, “You have done well in your search, Sir Roger. This damsel even bears my name.” His cool gaze ran over her, and she felt a tingling clear to her toes at the dawning realization of what he had found amusing a moment earlier.

  “Christian de la Croix,” he introduced himself.

  He sketched a bow—more for mockery than courtesy, she thought.

  Sinking into a low curtsy, she suffered an overriding desire to remove herself from his scrutiny, to run as far and as fast as her wobbly legs could carry her. Surely, he could see the guilt branded on her face! The pendant burned hell’s fire against her chest.

  The infant’s cries alone kept her from fleeing. At his raw and desperate wails, she turned to attend to his needs and encountered the weeping maidservant, who clutched the swaddled babe against her abundant bosom. Clarisse held out her arms, and the woman thrust the burden at her eagerly, snatched up her skirts, and ran, nearly toppling Sir Roger as she threw herself through the doorway.

  With a trembling in the pit of her belly, Clarisse settled the bundle in the crook of her arm. A heavy blanket framed his round face. Bottomless gray eyes regarded her with appeal. His chin dimpled and his tiny lips trembled as he loosed another whimper.

  He doesn't look like the spawn of the devil was her first thought.

  Seeing that he was bundled so tightly that perspiration drenched his swaddling, she clicked her tongue and freed his hot head before easing the material that restrained his flailing arms. At once, the infant grew peaceful.

  A tender gust blew across Clarisse’s heart. She turned toward the window, needing to see the baby better.

  Though barely days old from what she understood, he was cast in the image of his father. She could now see that he boasted a head of black hair. His face creased with the memory of distress, but he made no sound.

  Tenderness gave way to uncertainty. Thus far, she had only thought of herself and her own safety. This child’s very life rested in her hands! What if she failed in her attempts to feed him? What if, in killing his father, she left him orphaned with no one to safeguard his survival?

  Hiding her concerns, Clarisse ducked her head and kissed the babe’s dewy cheek. As she did so, her head covering slipped down on one side of her head. Immediately, she pulled it back in place, but a glance at the Slayer assured her he had glimpsed her auburn locks.

  Christian could not help but stare. This young woman—this Clare Crucis—had wrought the miracle of Simon’s silence. She had burst into the room like a sunbeam, dispelling his fear that his son might die. As she moved toward the window, she’d kissed his son and the cloth covering her head had slipped revealing hair the color of flame.

  Entranced by her lovely profile—sculpted cheekbones, a delicate nose, lips so soft looking as to make a man weep, he found he could not look away.

  “What is his name?” she asked in perfect Norman French. He could only assume she had served in a noble household.

  “Simon.” He had to clear his throat. “Go on, feed him,” he urged. “He is half starved.” The baby gave a start at the sound of his voice. To Christian’s amazement, the nurse took note of this and frowned.

  “I will nurse the child in private, my lord. Kindly leave us and be assured that he will hunger no more.”

  Christian felt his jaw slacken. He glanced at Roger to see if he had heard the woman right. His vassal merely grinned.

  By God’s right eye, the woman had just dismissed him from the room! He could think of no one—man or woman—who had dared such a thing before.

  The novelty of it aroused him instantly.

  Clarisse struggled to mask her desperation. Hadn’t the warriors heard her? They behaved as if they were pegged to the stone floor, doomed to grow shadows on the wall. She stepped closer to reason with the pair.

  The Slayer stood a full head higher than his vassal. His scowl alone would frighten the fleas off a hound, but she could not afford to be intimidated. If the men did not leave, her masquerade would end right then.

  “Am I not to be given privacy?” she asked, her tone implying she would leave her post, if such were true.

  Sir Roger shook his curly head. “My lord, we must talk,” he announced, backing out the door.

  This announcement dragged the Slayer’s gaze to the empty portal. But Sir Roger de Saintonge was gone. The Slayer held his ground.

  Clarisse regarded him with acute awareness. The sky outside the window had deepened to azure. She could see nothing of his features now. As the baby threatened to let loose a sob, she bounced him in her arms, praying he wouldn’t cry again and enrage his father.

  “Feed my son,” he said imperiously.

  Panic bloomed in her breast. “I ... I require privacy,” she stammered. What purpose could the warrior have other than to watch her bare her breasts? She gave a thought to Ferguson’s treatment of female servants, and her blood abruptly thinned.

  The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. She cast about for a place to sit. But it was too late. She felt herself stagger.

  She never saw the Slayer move. However, in the next instant, he banded his strong arms around her and the baby both, pinning them to his immense chest. She struggled instinctively, panicked by the thought of being at his mercy. However, as if she weighed no more than a goose feather, he steered her toward an alcove and deposited her on a stool, where she shrank away, clutching Simon for protection.

  “You are ill,” the warrior announced. He loomed over her, an unformed shadow.

  “Nay!” Clarisse protested as a vision of Horatio’s festering face sprang to mind. “’Tis merely that I haven’t eaten in more than a day.”

  Silence followed her answer. “I will see that you get some food at once,” he offered unexpectedly.

  She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already striding away, his boots ringing on the stone floor. She waited until he had gone and then she dashed to the cradle to seek the nursing skin the servant must have used. She would need it as much as that poor girl had if she meant to feed little Simon.

  She could see nothing in the blackened chamber. Cursing at the lack of tapers, she felt inside the cradle and along the floor. At last, she found the drinking bladder wedged into the corner of the cradle. Snatching it up, she sniffed the milk dribbling from the hole, and flinched. It had gone rancid in the heat.

  The babe began to cry again. Hurrying to the window, she stuck the bladder outside and upended it, squeezing it empty. Cries turned to shrieks. Hushing and rocking the baby, she returned to the stool with the empty bladder just before a wavering flame heralded the Slayer’s return.

  Shrinking onto the stool, she hugged the weeping baby to her chest. There was nothing she could do but cringe from the helpless fury that flashed in the Slayer’s eyes as he crouched to place the tray upon the floor.

  Her gaze fell to the thick hunk of hearty brown bread, wedge of cheese, and cup brimming with goat’s milk, and her hopes returned. If only she could find a way to fill the empty bladder with the goat’s milk, then she might fool the Slayer yet.

  Glancing up again, her thoughts splintered at the vision of his face in the candlelight. A scar bisected his left cheek, running from eye to jaw. The shiny seam informed her that the wound was an old one and well tended. Yet it marred the perfect symmetry of his face. Some might say it made him ugly.

  As though privy to her thoughts, a scowl creased his forehead, carving menace into his features. She snatched her gaze away and murmured her thanks, all too conscious of Simon’s wails.

  “Supper is being prepared,” he growled. “You will eat again straightaway, so please do hurry,” he urged. “My son is crazed with hunger.” With that, he stepped away so that the ring of light reached only to his shoulders.


  Clarisse grabbed a chunk of bread and stuffed it in her mouth. The lord’s courtesy abated her terror just enough for her to realize how ravenous she was, herself. To her great relief, he backed out of the alcove, leaving her in semi-seclusion, but he didn’t depart the nursery. She heard him cross to the other window.

  Now what? If she tried filling the nursing skin with the Slayer in the same room, he would surely overhear her. How would she ever get the fresh milk down the baby’s throat?

  Simon’s plaintive cries punctuated the tense silence. She had to do something. With a feeling that none of this could be real, she dipped a finger in the milk and offered it to the baby. He nuzzled the offering then screamed when little came of his exertions.

  “How goes it?” the Slayer demanded over Simon’s piercing note.

  She heard him take a step toward the alcove. With no alternative, she tugged at the laces on her bodice. “All will be fine,” she assured him. For authenticity's sake, she pushed the material apart and offered a breast to the inconsolable baby.

  Simon fastened on so fiercely that she had to swallow a cry of pain. By some miracle, his enthusiasm silenced him. It felt strange indeed to have a baby tugging at her breast. He didn't seem to mind that he was getting nothing from his efforts, either. To be held, to be pacified was enough for the moment.

  Exhaling with gratitude and exhaustion mixed, Clarisse sat more heavily on the three-legged stool and lifted the mug to taste the formula herself. The creamy texture and lingering warmth assured her it had been boiled per her instructions.

  The crush of rushes under the sole of a boot had her pricking her ears. She dragged her eyelids upward. The Slayer stood an arm's span away, his gray-green gaze focused on the pendant that lay between her naked breasts.