“How long will you be gone?” The knowledge that he was off to fight Ferguson filled her with trepidation, then hope. Mayhap he would kill the Scot without her asking him to do so.
The muscles in his jaw clenched rhythmically. “I know not.” He studied her defensive posture, then he sighed almost despairingly.
“Will you kiss me when I return?” he asked with almost boyish uncertainty.
She was tempted to say yes, if only to reassure him. Part of her longed to resume their passionate embrace. She had never experienced anything as wondrous as his kisses. However, she did not intend to offer her favors in exchange for his sword arm. She was the daughter of a nobleman, not the leman she professed to be.
She looked away, wishing she could blurt the truth. ’Twas safest to say nothing at all, she decided.
“I see,” he said, reaching for his belt. In a furious gesture, he slung the strip of leather against the bedpost. The resulting crack made her leap with alarm. The baby came awake with a gasp. The warrior snatched up a charcoal-colored tunic and strode to the door.
Simon began to cry.
“My lord … Christian,” she amended as he had requested, at the same time scooping up the baby.
When the Slayer looked at her, his anger was subdued. “Aye, what?” he asked, taking in the two of them.
“Be careful. Ferguson uses alchemy as a weapon. But I suppose you know that already.”
His gaze narrowed with interest. “What do you know of it?” he demanded.
The truth quivered on her tongue, but his volatile temper made her loath to confess it now. “I told you, Monteign feared Ferguson and his trickery. He told me all about it. Beware the powders that he uses to spread fire. Beware any ruse for peace, for he will use deceit to gain advantage.”
He pondered her words in silence, seeming to take them to heart. Then, with a brusque nod, he left the room.
Her thoughts ran after him. She found herself wishing him the best possible outcome, fearing for his life. If only he could kill Ferguson in the conflict to come! Then her family would be free, and then she might dare to tell him who she was, knowing Ferguson could not learn of her betrayal.
Perhaps she ought to have told him the truth after all. Wasn’t the Slayer going to Glenmyre? If he questioned her story and asked anyone there about Clare de Bouvais, they would immediately profess confusion.
She looked at Simon with consternation. Aye, she should have told him who she was. Instead, she’d lied and lied again, simply to avoid the Slayer’s wrath. Then she’d promised the man she would never feed his babe goat’s milk again. However would she keep her word?
Simon’s open mouth had turned toward her bosom as he sought sustenance.
“Hungry?” she crooned, panicked by the thought of having no milk for him. A strange heaviness filled her breasts, giving rise to a tingling, the likes of which she had never felt before.
“What in the name of sweet Mary?” she exclaimed, holding the baby away from her to look down at her bosom. Wet warmth surfaced suddenly on the tips of her breasts. To her wondering eyes, her bodice grew stains in two places. Was she bleeding?
Panicked, she untied the stays at the front of her gown, loosening it enough to peer down her neckline and beneath her clothing. To her utter amazement, she saw that her nipples were leaking milk—fragrant, nutritious breast milk!
“The saints and all the stars!” she exclaimed. She looked at Simon and back at her breasts. “I have milk for you!”
’Tis a miracle! she marveled, stripping the clothing from her breasts as fast as she could and centering Simon’s mouth over one wet tip. He fastened on so enthusiastically that Clarisse gasped with discomfort.
She waited as he sucked, dreading the thought of her breasts drying up and leaving him with nothing. But he sucked and sucked until her once-round breast looked depleted. Pausing to burp him, she put him to the other breast.
Without warning, the solar door swung open. Clarisse jerked in surprise and tried to cover herself. Dame Maeve drew up short, her birdlike gaze fastening in surprise on Simon nursing.
“My apologies, m’lady.” She had begun addressing Clarisse with more deference when it became known she was of noble birth. “I always clean the lord’s solar when he’s away. I didn’t realize you were in here.” She gave a sniff of disapproval as she took in Clarisse’s uncovered head, her tangled hair, and yesterday’s crumpled gown.
“Simon was ill,” Clarisse explained, narrowing her gaze on the woman’s pinched features. “We were up all night tending to him.” Accusation laced her voice. However, she did not compromise her position as wet nurse by bringing up the pail of goat’s milk.
“How fares he now?” the housekeeper asked, watching her suspiciously.
“Much better,” she replied with a hard smile.
“Excellent.” Nevertheless, Dame Maeve’s voice lacked enthusiasm. She edged toward the door. “I shall return when you’re finished,” she offered, slipping out of view.
Clarisse pondered the door with a growing frown. Did the steward’s wife wish harm to befall Simon? Could she have been the one to take the blanket off him the night Clarisse had first arrived at Helmsley? Why would she have done so? How would she or any other servant benefit from the death of Helmsley’s only heir?
She knew not. She could answer none of the questions swirling in her tired brain. And yet, the woman bore watching if only for the fact that Clarisse disliked her.
Chapter Ten
“Sir, Roger, why is this great hall so stark?” Clarisse asked as she and the master-at-arms sat at the high table awaiting supper.
The knight looked around as if confused by the question.
“Where are the tapestries?” Clarisse asked, helpfully. “The urns and silver trays?”
His frown abruptly cleared. “Ah, those. I believe Lady Genrose gave them to the poor when her parents died.”
“She preferred to live in a bare castle?”
He shrugged. “Apparently so.” He rubbed his belly to subdue the rumbling Clarisse could overhear from her seat beside him. “Where is the food? Surely, the servants don’t shirk their duties just because my lord is away.”
Glancing from the cradle where Simon lay contently, his own belly full of breast milk, Clarisse searched the great hall for Dame Maeve. By then, she should be in the hall directing the many pages and serving girls who carried the meal from the kitchens. The hall struck her as less busy than it ought to be.
“Where is everyone?” she remarked.
Sir Roger shook his head. “I know not. Even Harold is missing.”
Just then, Harold stumbled through the entrance from the kitchens. Wringing his hands and wearing an expression of supreme agitation, he approached the dais to gaze up at them, wild-eyed.
“She’s going to die,” he blurted, inciting Clarisse’s alarm with his unexpected outburst.
“Who?” she and Sir Roger asked in unison.
“Doris. Maeve called up the midwife, but there’s too much blood.”
The portentous words, uttered in staccato syllables, made no sense. Clarisse and Sir Roger shared a look of confusion.
“Dame Maeve summoned the midwife here?” Clarisse inquired.
“The babe will die, too,” Harold said by way of answer.
Clarisse glanced nervously toward Simon’s cradle, though she guessed right away that Harold had meant a different baby. “Are you saying Doris is laboring with child, Harold?” she asked.
“The babe will die, too!” he repeated, wailing the words this time.
His distress drove Clarisse to her feet. “Shall I attend her?” she asked Sir Roger.
He shrugged, sweeping a gaze over the surly men-at-arms, all awaiting their midday meal. “You are the only lady present,” he pointed out.
It fell to the lady of the castle to see to the servants’ welfare, but with Genrose dead, it was unclear who should supervise this situation. Having taken up the role of chatelaine whenever h
er mother was unable, Clarisse suffered no uncertainty in doing so now.
“Would you keep an eye on Simon whilst I look into this matter?” she requested, then asked more forcefully, “Please, I beseech you, do not let him out of your sight.”
Sir Roger cast a nervous eye at the cradle. “Aye, of course. Just be quick. And find Dame Maeve while you’re at it.”
Clarisse hurried down from the dais. “Come, Harold,” she called, linking her arm in his. “Show me where Doris is.”
“She will die,” he lamented, tears puddling in his eyes.
“Show me,” she said, gentling her voice.
Moments later, she and Harold passed the cavernous kitchen. Seeing Dame Maeve inside, scuttling about shouting orders, she slowed to a stop. The woman spied her at the door, and her dark eyes flashed as she sent a surly glance between her husband and Clarisse.
“Are you managing to prepare the meal?” Clarisse inquired, realizing at once that with cook gone from the kitchens, it was up to Maeve to put enough food together to feed every mouth in the great hall.
“Of course,” the woman answered, puffing out her chest as though offended by the question.
“Excellent,” Clarisse retorted, tossing out the same descriptor that Dame Maeve had used with her earlier. She tugged at Harold’s arm, and together they proceeded toward a part of the castle where she’d yet to venture.
“Down here,” Harold said, guiding her through the servants quarters, which resembled a honeycomb for its many small chambers.
A handful of women had gathered outside of what had to be Doris’s bedroom, shielded by a simple curtain and no door. Surprise registered on their faces as they recognized Clarisse in the dim lighting.
“Thank you, Harold,” she said, dismissing him and turning to address Sarah, Nell’s sister. “How fares she?”
The fulsome brunette shook her head. “We ken not. The midwife cast us out,” she said, her lips compressed with worry. Her expression clearly indicated what she thought of the midwife.
Moreover, from what Christian had told her of the midwife, the woman was not to be trusted. Squaring her shoulders, Clarisse lifted the curtain and edged inside. An oppressive heat hit her squarely in the face, and she drew up short, casting her gaze about the windowless chamber.
Doris lay like a great mountain on her pallet of straw. The sweat on her naked body gleamed in the light of a roaring brazier. Blood stained the pallet under her, spreading clear to her ankles.
At Clarisse’s gasp of dismay, the midwife cast her a suspicious glare, revealing a blinding film over one eye. “Push with the next pain,” she ordered, ignoring Clarisse and turning back to her patient.
The cook’s big body immediately tensed. She gave a moan of agony. The midwife leaned forward. “’Twill soon be over,” she predicted, scooting to the edge of her stool.
Clarisse could not have moved if the castle fell into ruins around her. ’Twas common practice for midwives to heat the chamber, but she had heard Merry protest that it caused premature exhaustion, and Doris did look near to death. No wonder Harold thought she would die.
A tide of blood gushed onto the already-soiled pallet. Clarisse clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from making any sound.
“Push,” urged the midwife. “Push!”
A baby’s bottom appeared instead of its head, followed by the rest of him. The poor mite had obviously come before its time. Scrawny in size and coated in a cheesy substance, the infant boy lay still and silent in the midwife’s shriveled hands. Not a sound filled the chamber, aside from Doris’s ragged sigh of relief.
Then the midwife bent low and dragged a metal object from the beaten bowl at her ankles. It was an iron cross.
Clarisse watched in abhorrence as the midwife muttered a seemingly heartless prayer over the dead baby. Then she wrapped it with rough hands and laid the dead baby on the cook’s still-distended belly. Doris’s face crumpled in grief as she pulled her dead infant closer.
With another inscrutable glance at Clarisse, the midwife dipped her hands in a bucket of murky water, gathered her possessions, and left the chamber wordlessly. No doubt she would go to Dame Maeve for payment for her useless services. With her gone, the women in the hall immediately entered the room together. Crowding around the grieving cook, they murmured their condolences.
Clarisse took the bucket left behind by the midwife and doused the brazier. She wished there were a window to throw open, but there wasn’t one. As she kept to one side, she overheard Sarah whispering to her companion.
“He looks just like ’im!”
“Shhh,” the other girl hushed.
Like who? Clarisse wondered, eying the stillborn in Doris’s embrace.
One by one, the women drifted away until just Clarisse remained. The cook took sudden notice of her. “My lady!” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up.
“Nay, don’t move!” Clarisse insisted, moving closer to the bed and kneeling beside it. “Forgive my intrusion,” she added. “’Tis concern alone that brings me here. I am so very sorry, Doris. Tell me, what can be done to ease your suffering?”
She expected Doris to request that a substitute cook be found to do her work for a while. Instead, a fat tear leaked from beneath her stubby eyelashes as she said, “I should like a proper burial, here in the castle graveyard, where my mother and brothers lie.”
It took Clarisse a second to understand the significance of Doris’s request. Priests would not venture near to Helmsley with the interdict in place. Who would speak words over the grave?
With Lady Genrose gone, the servants had no one to represent their wishes to the lord—no one but Dame Maeve, whose rigidity made her unapproachable.
Resolve straightened Clarisse’s spine. She would take it upon herself to speak to the overlord on Doris’s behalf. She had asked Sir Roger the reason for the interdict and had received no answer. However, if Christian de la Croix truly called Ethelred, the Abbot of Revesby, his friend, then perhaps he could request a favor of the man.
“I will do what I can,” she promised.
And while she was at it, why not make some other improvements at Helmsley that would make the Slayer’s castle a more pleasant place for all who lived there?
After all, Christian de la Croix was bound to return from Glenmyre with more reason to suspect her than ever. If he returned to find his servants happy and his son fat and thriving, he might just spare her if she finally told him who she really was.
Carrying Simon in his sling, Clarisse crossed the courtyard, heading straight to the outer bailey with a basket in one hand and a wineskin in the other. A day had passed since Doris went into labor, leaving Helmsley without a cook and with Dame Maeve struggling to make do.
The days had grown hotter since her arrival, Clarisse noted—much like the situation in which she found herself. The Slayer might return from defending Glenmyre any day now, and who knew what he had picked up there that contradicted her multiple fabrications?
Sweat trickled down the center of her back as she shaded her eyes and sought Sir Roger amidst the remaining men-at-arms. At last, she spied him on the battlements, keeping a sharp eye out in the event that Ferguson shifted his attack to Helmsley. Shouting his name, she showed him her basket and gestured for him to join her. He nodded and held up a finger, signifying she should wait.
Minutes later, they hunted for a shady spot in which to share her offering and found it under a peach tree in the castle orchard.
“To what do I owe this honor, my lady?” he inquired of her as she spread a blanket from her basket.
She shrugged and avoided his searching gaze. “You’ll get nothing better to eat in the great hall with Doris still abed,” she assured him.
His joints protested loudly as he lowered herself on the blanket beside her. “We shall all starve if another cook cannot be found.”
“Doris will rally by the morrow,” Clarisse promised. “In the meantime, I found sustenance enough to tide us over.”
“Have you news from our overlord?” she asked casually. To conceal her anxiety, she plucked Simon from the sling and laid him on his stomach in the center of the blanket.
“Aye,” Sir Roger replied. “He claims his presence at Glenmyre has dissuaded an attack.”
“Wonderful,” Clarisse replied, desiring to hear more. Had he been chatting with the local populace? Had he discovered that Isabeau was fair-haired and at least five years too old to be Simon’s wet nurse?
Sir Roger peered eagerly inside of the basket, lifting out a capon wing and turning his attention to Simon. “How does the babe today?” he asked, tearing into it.
“Fully recovered.” Clarisse’s breast milk had brought new vigor to Simon’s efforts. “Look!” A butterfly had touched down on the edge of the blanket, fanning its black and yellow wings. The baby turned his head to regard it.
“He thrives,” Sir Roger remarked with awe in his voice.
“Aye, if only everyone could thrive here,” she said, using his remark to bring up a new topic.
He slanted a curious look at her.
“Doris has requested that her babe be buried in the castle graveyard,” she said conversationally.
“Indeed.”
“Yet the chapel is sealed, making a service impossible and priests are not welcome at Helmsley.”
The knight helped himself to the wineskin but kept quiet.
“What would it take to get a priest to say Mass here, Sir Roger?” she came right out and asked.
He heaved a sigh and frowned down at Simon.
“A simple burial Mass,” she persevered. “’Tis not too much to ask.”
Sir Roger scratched a spot inside his collar and kept quiet.
Seeing that Simon’s eyes had crossed from staring too long at the blanket, Clarisse put him in a spot where he could examine blades of grass.
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