She’d headed immediately up to his chamber, hoping to find Ethelred so exhausted from his visit to Rievaulx that he had overslept. But his chamber proved as empty as the chapel, and his bed had not been touched. Alarmed to think what might have happened to him, she had sought out Christian, thinking to find him in his solar. Instead, she had found his chamber also empty.
Racing to the great hall, she’d queried Harold, who’d informed her in his roundabout way that the lord and his vassal had gone hunting in anticipation of a feast. Foregoing her own breakfast, she’d handed Simon to a startled Nell and hastened to the mews to look for either man, only to be told by Malcolm that the two men had just departed.
Agitation fizzed in Clarisse’s empty belly. The certainty that Ethelred had come to harm at Rievaulx urged her into a full run through the inner gate and to the outer bailey. The sun had scarcely scaled the outer defenses. Yet there were the Slayer and his master-at-arms disappearing on horseback through the second gate, Alfred, the wolfhound, trailing behind. The jeweled hood on Sir Roger’s gyrfalcon gave a wink as they passed under the barbican.
“My lord, Sir Knight, wait!” she cried, dampening her slippers on the grass, but they failed to hear her for the rushing of the moat.
The vigilant gatekeeper gave a blast on his horn, alerting them on her behalf. Overlord and vassal hesitated on the drawbridge, and turned as one. Their faces reflected alarm to see Clarisse chasing after them, her skirts held high, her head covering loosened down her back and her hair flying behind her.
She slowed to a brisk walk to catch her breath. The men were dressed in minimal armor, each with a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.
“What is amiss?” Sir Christian demanded. “Is it Simon?” He looked ready to return at the least word.
“Not Simon,” she assured them breathlessly. “The Abbot of Revesby. He went to Rievaulx yesterday, but he has not returned. Something foul has happened to him, I can feel it.”
The Slayer’s expression of alarm subsided into something more like consternation. He glanced at his vassal for an opinion.
Sir Roger’s smile dipped toward a grimace. “The abbot did say he would return by nightfall yesterday.”
Clarisse rubbed away the chill on her arms. “What if the Abbot of Rievaulx is keeping him against his will?”
Christian frowned. “I think that unlikely considering Ethelred has the backing of the archbishop.”
Both men gazed off in the direction of Rievaulx.
“Still, if he’s not back by sunset tonight, we should act,” Sir Roger said.
“I think you should,” Clarisse concurred.
The Slayer looked down at her, his gaze running warmly over her figure. Ever since he’d propositioned her to be his leman, a secret light had entered his eyes, making them seem more green than gray. Why, he looked almost happy—if such a word could be applied to him. His mouth curved into a hint of a smile as he studied her.
Could he have been the one spying on her bath the other night? She had nearly convinced herself that she’d imagined the whispered curse.
“The good abbot has endeared himself to you already,” the Slayer noted, while subduing his restless mount. “Would that you worried so about me.”
She blinked up at him. “You can clearly take care of yourself, my lord,” she retorted. “Ethelred is small and weak where Gilbert is cunning and possibly mad.” She feared she’d given Gilbert further reason to dislike his colleague. If he had overheard the message Ethelred had conveyed on her behalf to Alec, he may well have reacted badly.
“Aye,” Christian agreed. “But whereas God will have naught to do with me now, Ethelred enjoys His protection.”
“God defends any man who puts his trust in Him,” she argued. “Even you.”
He snorted his disbelief. “We have to hunt now, my lady. Both my horse and my hound are eager to run.”
“Go then.” She waved them away but then remembered to thank him for a recent circumstance. “Sir Christian, I thank you for moving Nell to the second floor chamber. In truth, I never had a lady’s maid before.”
The overlord seemed to go slightly pink about his cheeks at her gratitude. Perhaps he didn't like being caught doing something kind and thoughtful.
He nodded slightly. “’Twas only proper,” he said, his voice gruff.
Clarisse smiled slightly at his discomfit. “Good hunting to you both,” she called, backing toward the castle.
The Slayer started to turn his mount around. Then he stared directly at her, all traces of embarrassment vanished. “I would speak with you later today about my offer,” he said.
With those alarming words, he jabbed his destrier’s flanks and the horse bolted, leaving Sir Roger struggling to keep up and forcing the wolfhound to run.
Clarisse watched the 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 would he say to her later? she wondered. Likely, he would pressure her again to become his leman.
She had imagined in vivid detail what it would be like to accept his terms. Despite his bloody reputation, she was certain he would treat her well, perhaps even come to feel affection for her beyond the obvious lust. Perhaps he would 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 aloud. How could she settle for anything less?
Turning, she plodded back inside the castle’s high walls. 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 had offered her his sword arm along with pleasure she had never experienced before. Unless Alec could top that offer, it would have to be enough for Clarisse du Boise.
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 just become prey. Christian pulled taut his bowstring, causing it to creak ominously. The birds fell dumb at the sound. 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 fled. 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 sandals 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 at that moment. 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 Clarisse. 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 satchel for you,” he replied. A skinny arm jutted outward and dangling from the monk’s hand was a large leather bag, closed with a string.
“What’s in it?” Christian demanded,
suspicious of anything 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, mayhap. Hopefully, nothing else.
“Letters!” the monk blurted. “Letters from Clarisse du Boise 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 bluebottle fly.
Clarisse and Alec? Lovers?
He recalled that they had been betrothed at the time he seized Glenmyre. However, 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 Christian’s longbow.
He could see his reputation was alive and well at the abbey. “I don’t kill clergy,” he bit out.
The instant he seized the bundle from the man’s shaking hands, Christian was 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 descended upon his chest, squeezing harder with every breath. Without a word more to the watchful monk, he jerked his horse around and galloped from the glen, riding blindly in the direction of the field where he’d left his hunting partner. Sir Roger would know what to do.
Hours later, they sat in Christian’s solar with the table between them and Clarisse’s letters lying in two piles: those they had read and those yet unread. He had refused to let his vassal read the majority. The messages were too intimate, too sensual. They made him burn with jealousy and shame at thinking he could incite such feelings of devotion in her.
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 would be 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, Christian was not immune to Clarisse’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 Dearest One.
In a violent gesture, he scythed his arm across the table and swept the letters to the floor. 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 master-at-arms could even think about the weather.
“What shall I do?” he asked, feeling perfectly violent. He rubbed his forehead where his scalp seemed pulled too tight. The marriage alliance he had terminated by killing the senior Monteign had been a love match! He reeled with the truth of it.
“What had you intended to do?” Sir Roger inquired easily.
“Kill Ferguson,” he retorted. It had all been so simple. He would kill the Scot, thereby earning the right to wed Clarisse. However, everything had changed with the appearance of her letters.
“And then?” prompted Sir Roger.
“Wed Clarisse,” 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 warrior’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. “I know not,” he retorted.
“Mayhap he knows you covet the lady for yourself,” Sir Roger suggested.
“How could he know that?” Christian scoffed. “He doesn’t live here; nor do any clerics travel betwixt the abbey and Helmsley.”
Sir Roger hummed thoughtfully. “But what if he did know? Why would he seek to incite your jealousy?”
“To spite me, of course.”
“Or to urge you to marry the lady before Alec could do so.”
“Why would he wish for me to marry her?”
“Think about it,” Sir Roger answered. “So long as Alec remains a priest, the lands you returned to him will remain with the church. The abbey will absorb his inheritance. If he leaves Rievaulx to wed Clarisse, the church gains nothing.”
Christian pondered the circumstances. “Sir Roger, I think you’ve hit the anvil square,” he agreed. Suddenly, the thought of marrying Clarisse held less appeal, if only because that was what the abbot wanted.
He raked a hand through his shorter hair. And yet, the thought of Alec leaving the priesthood so that he could marry Clarisse was unacceptable. His teeth clicked together.
He would never let that happen. Perhaps if her love for Alec had been earlier revealed, he could bring himself to be generous. If he hadn’t raised his own hopes falsely, he might even encourage the two to unite. It was too late for that now. Either he would have her for himself, or no one would have her!
The darkness in his heart mirrored the storm outside. The mere thought of another man claiming her kindled violence within him.
A horrible notion struck him without warning. Perhaps Clarisse had come to Helmsley, not only to poison him but also to be closer to her betrothed. Christian’s fingers curled into fists. He’d prevented her from leaving Helmsley the day she’d claimed she was headed to Abingdon to hear Ethelred preach. What if, instead, she’d intended to steal off toward Rievaulx for a tryst with Alec?
Of course, she’d claimed to be a virgin—indeed, she’d given him her word on it—but she’d also convinced him she was a wagtail for Monteign.
A sharp rap at the door jerked him to the present. “Who is it?” he shouted.
“’Tis Clarisse,” called the source of his distress. “I would speak with you about Ethelred.”
Christian darted a look at his vassal. The knight shrugged.
“Enter,” Christian called. 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, and his anger dimmed to a low-burning bitterness.
Clarisse drew up short at the strange looks on the two men’s faces. Were they discussing Ethelred’s plight? Or something else entirely?
“My lord, Sir Knight,” she greeted them. “E
thelred has yet to return. I think we should send someone to escort him back to Helmsley.” Her gaze fell to the puddle of parchments strewn all over the Slayer’s floor, and she forgot what else she meant to say. It looked as though someone had lifted one end of the Slayer’s table and dumped its contents.
“What happened here?” she asked, regarding the curled sheaves with a rising sense of foreboding. Her gaze fell upon one that had rolled open far enough for her to read the salutation. My Dearest Alec. Recognizing her own handwriting, she felt the color drain from her cheeks, and the floor beneath her seemed to shift as she bent slowly down and picked it up.
She opened it, scanned it quickly, and looked down at the others. Why these were the missives she had penned to Alec—all of them by the looks of it! A hot wave of self-consciousness rose toward her cheeks as she lifted her gaze to the two men who had yet to speak.
“How did you get these letters?” she demanded.
“Gilbert sent them by messenger,” said the Slayer, watching her through half-closed eyes.
His relaxed look failed to conceal his inward fury. At his answer, anger rushed out to replace her humiliation.
“He gave you these,” she repeated. “How dare he? These were not meant for anyone to see but Alec!”
In her fury, she balled the thin parchment in her hands. “I should like to put an arrow through his meddling heart!”
“Compose yourself,” the Slayer ordered.
“How simple for you to say! This is a private matter,” 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 leave Rievaulx and defend us.” Fuming, she turned toward Sir Roger who had not yet spoken and added, “I’ll wager he never got a single one. The abbot kept and read them for his own perverse pleasure!”
Silence filled the chamber. She glanced again at Christian. His burning regard unsettled her. With her fury now exorcised, she became aware of the strange currents weaving through the chamber. He, too, had read her letters, she realized. She felt oddly exposed to him and strangely sullied. So many yearnings she had poured upon those parchments! However, more than that, in attempting to entice Alec from the church, she had displayed the depths to which she would sink.
The Slayer's Redemption Page 21