“Perhaps the Abbot of Revesby could be convinced to perform the sacrament?” she proposed. If the good abbot came to Helmsley, she could feel out his loyalty to Sir Christian and weigh whether it was safe to enlist his aid in reaching Alec.
Sir Roger shook his head. “I doubt Ethelred will defy his colleague again.”
“Again? What do you mean?”
“It was Ethelred who wed my lord to Lady Genrose in the very chapel you mention,” he explained. “The Abbot of Rievaulx had refused to marry them, offering no other reason than his differences with the baron. Ethelred petitioned the archbishop and was granted permission to marry them in Gilbert’s stead.”
“Gilbert is the Abbot of Rievaulx?” she confirmed.
“Aye.” He sent her a quick frown. “You must not have lingered long at the abbey to have escaped that knowledge.”
“I was housed separately from the men,” she quickly lied, only to kick herself for not confessing the truth to him—that she had never stayed at the abbey.
“Ah,” Sir Roger nodded. “Well, on the day of the wedding, Gilbert tried to halt the sacrament but he arrived too late. In a choleric fit, he cried out a warning that has caused a rift between the serfs and their seneschal ever since, just as he meant it to.”
“What did he say?” Clarisse asked, feeling a chill on the top of her head. At last, she would know why the folk at Helmsley persisted in fearing their master.
The knight began dumping leftovers in the basket, purposefully silent.
“Please tell me,” she gently begged him.
He stilled, struggling with himself. “My lord is an honorable man,” he told her. The scars stood out starkly on his face.
Clarisse felt her eyes sting in the face of such loyalty. “I have seen honor in him,” she admitted. And she would doubtless see the worst unless she could soften the blow when it came. “What did Abbot Gilbert say?”
Sir Roger looked down at his own callused hands. “He said Lady Genrose would be slain by her husband.”
Clarisse barely smothered her gasp. A vision of a body desecrated rose up in her mind’s eye, and she shook it free.
Roger de Saintonge’s eyes flashed with unaccustomed fierceness. “The lady labored long and died in childbirth, no thanks to that foolish old midwife. Sir Christian saved his son from dying, also. But I swear he never desired such a sad fate for his wife!”
She laid a consoling hand over Sir Roger’s. “I believe you,” she said. “I do. And God will reward such loyalty as yours.”
His deep devotion, however, made it unlikely that Sir Roger would defend her if his lord ordered her imprisoned—or worse.
“I think the Abbot of Rievaulx to be mad,” she added, saying aloud what she had privately believed after their conversation at the abbey door. “When I spoke with him, he left me feeling quite uneasy.”
“You may be right,” Sir Roger agreed. “They say he works night and day pouring over his herbs. Likely he has tried one too many of his concoctions, and it has turned his brain to slop.”
Clarisse imagined her sister Merry would know of an herb that caused madness. “I should like to tell Gilbert what he can do with his horrid interdict!”
At her virulence, Sir Roger’s smile took up its usual post. “Helmsley is a happier place for your presence, my lady,” he admitted unexpectedly. “You have cast your light into my lord’s dark heart, and I thank you for it.”
So that he wouldn’t see the guilt on her face, she lifted her gaze toward the main keep where it rose so proudly between its graceful buttresses, stirring contentment in her breast. How could she feel so connected to a place when her safety here remained uncertain?
“Do you know if Alec ever received Sir Christian’s letter?” she asked, thinking of the quickest way out of her predicament. The odds of Alec defeating Ferguson were not as good as the Slayer’s odds. But then again, Alec held her in affection—which the Slayer would not, after he discovered the depth of her deception.
The knight shook his head. “He delivered it to the abbey on his way to Glenmyre. Whether the abbot gave it to Alec is anyone’s guess.” He heaved a troubled sigh.
Clarisse considered his haggard face a moment. “How long have you known Sir Christian?” she inquired.
The knight’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Decades,” he replied. “I served the Wolf before him.”
“His father?” she asked in amazement.
“No one was told that Christian was his son. He was merely a boy who came to Wendesby to train as a squire under my tutelage. He was but twelve years old then—a slim lad with a large vocabulary that made him the laughing stock of the servants. I remember he spoke eloquently of angels and apostles and crossed himself every time he mounted a horse.”
Clarisse went curiously lightheaded. “Go on,” she said when the knight lapsed into quiet.
“The Wolf would not recognize him as his son. He kept their kinship a secret, I think because the boy perplexed him. He looked at Christian and saw his weaknesses rather than his strengths. He felt the need to turn the whelp into a warlord.”
Oh, nay. She felt a sudden pang for the boy’s lost innocence. “Did Sir Christian hate him for that? Is that why ... why he razed his father’s demesne six years ago?”
Sir Roger picked up the baby to avoid answering right away. Rather than lay him against his hard leather hauberk, he let Simon dangle between his two hands. “You needs must understand that my lord was ill-used by his sire. He was made to sweat and to toil longer than any other page. To train long hours and then to grow hungry.”
Clarisse heard herself make a sound of sympathy.
“By then I had grown fond of him,” the knight continued as he gazed deep into Simons’ eyes. “He was a quick study in the art of warfare. In just a few years, he had grown as tall and strong as the father who denied him. His sword arm became the stuff of legends. Yet what I most admired in him was that he never lost his sense of right and wrong. He had a determined spirit and a streak of chivalry that the Wolf could not snuff out.”
“That is how he came by the scar on his cheek,” he recalled. “His father found an altar he had built in one corner of the stables. Dirk of Wendesby was a Dane, himself, a heathen with a dozen useless gods. He ordered Christian chained to a post and whipped. My lord refused to cry out. He even turned his head to watch the Wolf raise the whip, and the tip of it slashed his face. He was only fifteen.”
Clarisse touched a finger to her cheek. She could almost feel the sting of the leather herself. Why, he’d been only a boy! How could a father treat his flesh and blood so cruelly? She stared at the knight, aghast.
“Five years later, my lord left Wendesby with blood on his hands. Earlier that day, his half-brother had taunted him with the truth. He told him the Wolf was his father. All those years, Christian had trained under a man he hated. The truth was too much to accept.”
Simon squirmed uncomfortably, and Sir Roger passed him to Clarisse who tucked him against her bosom, where he immediately turned his head in hopes of a feeding.
“When he left,” Sir Roger continued, watching Simon’s futile attempts, “I was afraid he would lose the honor that I had cherished in him. So I mounted my horse and followed. There have been times,” he added with a sigh, “when I believed the Wolf had succeeded in claiming his son’s soul for evil. However, lately, I remark more of the Christian de la Croix I once knew. He is coming back to himself,” he decided with a contented nod.
Clarisse looked down at Simon to blink back the tears that swarmed her eyes unexpectedly. She had been right to doubt the entirety of the rumors about the Slayer. He was not the spawn of Satan people believes him to be. She ought to have trusted her instincts from the first and told him what had brought her to Helmsley. Perhaps if she had, she would now have a champion at her side. As it was, she would have to earn his trust all over again.
“We traveled east,” the knight continued, unaware of her sharp regret, “and pledged our swords t
o various liege lords. The Baron of Helmsley saw Christian fight in a tourney and hired him at once to train his men. A few years later, desiring to go on a pilgrimage and needing to leave his estate in capable hands, the baron betrothed his only daughter to my lord.”
“Sir Roger,” she began in a strangled voice. The time had come for her to be perfectly frank with him. If God were merciful, he would defend her to his lord.
Before she could begin, another knight strode up to them with an urgent report—a lone horseman had been spotted standing in the distant tree line. As Sir Roger struggled to his feet, Clarisse’s confession died unspoken on her tongue.
“Thank you for the meal,” the master-at-arms said, excusing himself. “I pray that Doris will be well enough to cook tomorrow.”
“Her body has healed,” Clarisse answered, harkening back to the reason for her visit. “But her heart cannot unless the chapel is put to use again. At the very least, let me clean it so the servants can enter in and pray.”
He frowned down at her, and she pressed her advantage. “They hunger for a spiritual life, Sir Roger. Denying them a place to worship only deepens their resentment against their seneschal.”
His lips thinned. “No doubt that was the Abbot of Rievaulx’s intent. Very well,” he added. “Dame Maeve has the key. You may tell her to give it to you.”
“Thank you! And may I have your permission to make some other changes?”
He shifted suspiciously. “Like what?”
“Well, I think the hall would benefit from the addition of flowers, don’t you? And there is an urgent need for more torches to be made, or perhaps you haven’t noticed that everyone scuttles about in darkness?”
He swiped away a bead of sweat streaking down his temple. “Fine, fine,” he said, clearly eager to return to such simple things as weapons and their use. “Do whatever you think best.”
She cast him her most winning smile. “Thank you, Sir Knight. You will not regret it.”
Looking like he did already, he turned and walked away.
Sleep eluded Christian. That circumstance in itself was not a novel one, but this was the third night in a row that he’d awakened in the middle of the night, unable to find rest again. The tedium of waiting for the darkness to lift taxed his patience.
Lying on a feather bed in the chamber that once belonged to Alec Monteign, he stared in frustration at the whitewashed ceiling. The bed curtains had been stripped by the peasants and used for clothing. The shutters had been broken off the windows and burned as fuel. Nothing prevented the moon from shining through the open window to mock him.
Perhaps he should have slept in the lord’s chamber and not the son’s. At least the boxed bed in that room was tucked into a corner out of the moonlight. Yet Christian had made it a point over the past few days never to sit in Lord Monteign’s chair, nor sleep in his bed. Not only did he worry that Monteign’s ghost might torment him, he had no wish to exacerbate his relations with the people of Glenmyre. They disliked him well enough as it was.
He sent a hopeful look toward the open window. No hint of dawn yet. Stars paid court to the half-moon’s brilliance. Insects chirped in the overgrown yard below. The humid air lay upon him like a sodden blanket. His eyeballs burned, but whenever he lowered his lids, unanswered questions beat against the door of his brain, finding no outlet.
Who was the woman in his castle?
No one at Glenmyre had heard of Clare de Bouvais, only an Isabeau by that name who’d lived at Glenmyre several years hence. Might Clare be Isabeau’s sister? But it was Isabeau who had left Glenmyre in shame after being compromised by the stable master—the stable master, not Monteign! That man had had no leman, no wagtail, according to his affronted servants.
Forsooth, there was nothing that tied Simon’s wet nurse to Glenmyre, save the quick looks exchanged by peasants when he questioned them.
They knew something, Christian was certain of it. He was also certain he would be the last to discover what that was. He flung an arm over his eyes and groaned. Was she a spy for the people of Glenmyre, an advocate, or someone else entirely?
A vision of her beauty swam behind his eyelids. As in the flesh, she glowed with purpose and strength. He had assumed her motive was to rise above her past. I am no longer any man's leman, she’d told him with haughty disdain. Yet she’d kissed him with passion, then sent him away.
Could it be she was somebody’s wife? He cursed long and fluently. Then he turned and buried his face in the pillow, tormented by questions.
Her lips were like rose petals, enticing him as much with their silken texture as with the fact that she used them to talk to him. No woman in his adult life had ever talked with him at such length before. Nor had he ever kissed a woman with the same heart-pounding wonder he had felt while kissing Clare. Her passion was a hot spring bubbling just beneath the surface. He would go mad if he couldn’t keep her for himself! Yet what chance did he stand of winning her, scarred as he was—a man guilty of murder?
For the Slayer of Helmsley, passion had taken place under the cover of darkness. It was done quickly, spuriously, and always with feelings of guilt.
With Clare, however, he hadn’t felt guilty at all. How could he when she had pressed herself so eagerly against him?
Why had she ultimately denied him, then? Will you kiss me when I return? he’d asked, and she had said nothing. What did her silence mean? With no attack forthcoming from Ferguson, he soon intended to find out. Perhaps on the morrow, he would return to Helmsley and question her. By God, he would settle for nothing short of absolute truth this time coming from her sweet lips!
Chapter Eleven
Harsh yellow light filled the chamber as Christian cracked open his eyes. Realizing that he must have slept, he sat up quickly at the sound of someone shouting. He rolled from the bed and rushed to the window where the shouts of “Fire, fire!” brought him more sharply awake.
Thrusting his head through the second-story window, he glimpsed the roofs of the huts below smoldering under a new sunrise. Tongues of flame licked across the thatch, spreading quickly. Chased from their houses, Glenmyre’s peasants coughed against the smoke and huddled together. A few brave men tossed water onto the flames. It died with deceptive ease, then sprang up in a great roar, which made no sense, for the roofs were newly thatched, not dried and brittle.
Beware the powders that he uses to spread fire.
Clare’s warning echoed in Christian’s mind, inciting immediate suspicion. “Ferguson,” he ground out, realizing the Scot’s long-awaited attack had come after all.
Raking his gaze along the tree line, he sought a glimpse of his enemy in the thickly shadowed oaks. One man alone could have thrown packets of flammable powder over the wooden wall, for it was not particularly high. But whatever the substance, it was highly combustible, devouring one building after another.
“Ferguson!” Christian roared. His shout was louder than the crackling fire below—so loud that it echoed back at him in mockery. However, he was certain the Scot and his army remained nearby, hiding in the distant trees perhaps, hoping that the wall would catch flame and crumble to ash.
His soldiers, posted on the wall walks, suddenly tensed, whipping bolts from their quivers and taking aim. Christian followed their trajectory and, through the smoke, spied a solitary figure hurtling toward them. Whoever it was tumbled into a low-lying area, then rose up again, racing over the earthworks toward Glenmyre’s closed gate.
Second by second, the figure took shape. It was not a lone Scot, as he’d first guessed, but a woman, dressed in nothing more than a white shift that molded her slender body as she ran. The sound of her cries rose over the snapping of flames. She was screaming for the gates to be opened.
“Hold your arrows!” Christian called. The men at the battlements heard him, letting up the tension on their bowstrings.
Snatching up his boots, Christian whirled and raced outside to join the soldiers on the wall.
“Is she from G
lenmyre?” he asked, breathing harshly from his run to the battlements. Smoke billowed thickly from the fire, obscuring his view of the field. For the moment, he’d lost sight of the woman, but he could hear her crying out hysterically.
“I know not,” answered one soldier. The other one shrugged.
They were no more familiar with the people of Glenmyre than he was. Christian shimmied down a ladder and grabbed a peasant man by the scruff. “Come to the top with us. Tell me if you know this woman.”
The man scrambled obediently up the ladder. By this time, the lone woman had arrived at the gate. She pounded at the oaken barrier with great distress.
“Do you know her?” Christian demanded, dangling the frightened peasant over the edge of the wall.
The man wavered. “I ken not. Me vision be poor. But I ... I think I do.”
“You think so!” Christian raged. This was not the time for uncertainty. He released the peasant and thrust his fingers through his hair. He did not have leisure to drag another peasant up the ladder. He longed to yell out for the gates to be opened, but wary of a ruse, he decided to be cautious. The woman was possibly a decoy sent by Ferguson to get the gates ajar.
He raked the field for signs that the Scot and his men lay hidden in the grass, preparing to swarm forward and take them by surprise. He could see no one. Still, with Clare’s warning ringing in his ears, he balked at opening the gate straightaway.
Leaning far out over the parapet, he peered through the haze at the woman below him. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it was Clare herself who bloodied her fists as she sobbed for entrance. Then he could see that this woman was older. Her slender bone structure was the same, however, as was her hair, only darker. As she threw her body against the oaken gate, she screamed until her voice grew hoarse. All his instincts to shelter the weak demanded that he let her in.
“My lord?” queried the soldier he had posted at the gatehouse. Clearly, the man suffered the same impulse.
“Wait a moment,” Christian answered grimly. He could not get over his impression that the woman was somehow related to Clare. A sliver of suspicion began to work its way beneath his skin. “Crack the gate,” he decided. “Let her in and shut it quickly behind her.”
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