The Slayer's Redemption

by Marliss Melton

  Not that his sword arm had been badly needed. In the aftermath of their leader’s death, the Scottish forces had looked to Kendal to lead them. He’d drawn them into the forest to lick their wounds and plot their next move, which had come soon after.

  Sir Roger had taken half the Slayer’s army with him and seized Heathersgill in the name of Christian de la Croix. A messenger had reported only one attack on Heathersgill since. Kendal had been felled in the retaliatory violence, and the remainder of the Scot's men had apparently dispersed, for all had been quiet since.

  Sir Roger had deemed it safe for Lady Jeanette and her daughters to return to their home, but Christian kept Merry near just in case he had been blinded and there was anything more she could do.

  “Are you sure ’tis not too soon, sister?” Clarisse asked the young healer.

  “His eyes have had three days to heal,” the girl replied, taking her time. “’Tis long enough.”

  “Will he see again?”

  Clarisse’s anxious tone was a balm to Christian’s heart. She had been strangely distant since his battle with Ferguson. He’d sensed she was angry, though he could not for the life of him decipher why. At least her tone betrayed tender feelings.

  “I cannot say. The soda ash might have scored his eyes irreparably.”

  Christian scowled. The witch didn’t have to sound so cheered by the thought. However, with each layer coming off his eyes, the dark that had filled his vision grew brighter.

  “I can see light,” he said, failing to conceal his excitement.

  The last bit of linen fell away, and he blinked through a milky haze, making out Clarisse’s furrowed brow as she leaned in closer, watching his reaction. Her hair, freshly washed and dried and filling his senses with the scent of lavender, hung over her shoulders, not yet restrained in a plait. He reached for a long tendril and let it run like a silken ribbon through his fingers. The furrow on her brow abruptly cleared and a small smile appeared.

  “He can see,” she declared.

  “Not so well,” he qualified, unwilling to give Merry full credit for his recovery.

  “Your vision will improve,” the girl stated, “but you should use this tincture in your eyes for a week, morning and night.” She pressed a small bottle into his hands.

  With reluctance, he forced himself to focus on her piquant face. Viewed through the haze that still afflicted him, she was not as plain as he’d originally thought. Her face was shaped like a heart, giving her chin a pointed appearance. Freckles flecked her cheeks and nose. Her eyes were as green as grass.

  “What is it?” he asked, still feeling somewhat suspicious of the girl who’d cursed him.

  She put her hands on her hips as if she didn’t want to explain to him, but then she said, “Garlic and onion, wine and oxgall. It will stop your eyes from becoming swollen and pus-filled.”

  He swallowed at the notion. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say.

  “Merry, would you leave us?” Clarisse’s request had him searching his wife’s expression with rising alarm. Something in her tone informed him that he had been judged and found wanting, though last he could recall, he’d been doing exactly what she’d requested—killing Ferguson.

  “As you wish,” Merry replied, sketching them both a mocking curtsy. She gathered up the linens in her arms and crossed to the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  “She’s a tart one,” Christian couldn’t help but comment.

  Clarisse whirled to face him, her hands settling on her hips in a sign of irritation. “Husband,” she said, her syllables like the crack of a whip. “I shall never forgive what you have done.” Two spots of pink bloomed on her fair cheeks.

  “What did I do?” he asked, at a loss for her sudden fury.

  “What did you do?” She huffed out a breath and stormed away from him, pacing toward the brazier and back again, frustrating his attempts to keep her in focus. “You nearly widowed me within hours of our marriage!” She stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her lush breasts.

  “I married you for your protection,” she continued, “not to be left for the next scavenger to feed upon. How dare you fight to the death and not consult me first. How dare you risk your life for me!” She underscored her last question by stamping a foot.

  Ah, the reason for her lather became suddenly clear to him. Contentment flooded his heart as he leaned toward her and squinted, hoping to see her better. “Sir Roger would have protected all of you,” he assured her softly. “Besides, I had no intention of dying.”

  “You almost did! If my mother hadn’t interfered, Ferguson would have killed you. He’d have brought his axe down and split your head wide open.”

  “By trickery alone he might have won,” Christian conceded, sitting back. “Had he fought honestly—never. His weapon was too heavy; his feet too slow. Besides, if you and your mother hadn’t interfered in the first place, I would have finished him ere he could pull his foul trick.”

  “I thought you meant to kill him by some devious means,” she admitted. Her golden eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “I never meant for you to risk your life for me,” she insisted, dropping her arms to her sides and fisting her skirts in a way that betrayed powerful emotions.

  “Ah, Clarisse.” The evidence that she cared for him was unmistakable. “Come closer,” he implored, spreading his arms and gesturing for her to perch on his knee.

  She hesitated before seating herself stiffly, fixing her stare on the middle distance and pointedly not looking at him. He pulled her against him and held her fast.

  “Listen, wife,” he implored, running a hand up and down her rigid arm. “If we had designed some seeming accident, I would have been guilty of his murder. Aye, he was a blackguard and doomed to hell no matter the circumstances, and most likely myself as well.”

  He hushed her protest. “But to execute him in cold blood would have made us both no better than butchers ourselves—you said so yourself. I have killed too many men, my lady.” He drew a breath at the remembered horror. “I did not desire his death on my conscience. But mostly, my love, I did not desire it on yours.”

  The endearment had slipped out of him without his intending it to. Nevertheless, seeing its softening effect upon her, he could not bring himself to regret saying it.

  “You risked your life to protect my conscience?” she asked.

  He loved how soft and breathless she could sound. ‘To prove my worth,” he paraphrased.

  “Your worth?” She looked directly at him then, searching his gaze. “Of what are you not worthy?”

  He looked deep into her eyes, seeing clear to the brave and loyal soul that lay within. “Of your love,” he admitted gruffly.

  Her eyes flooded unexpectedly. “Oh, Christian,” she choked out, “how could you think that you had anything to prove?”

  He gave an incredulous chuckle. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my lady, I am feared by the people. I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I have a scar running down one side of my face, and a wicked temper to match it.”

  “I know how you came by that scar,” she told him, lifting a hand to stroke the pale seam. “And as for your temper, you are careful to guard me from it.”

  “The people, my lady?" he prodded, amused by her ability to reduce his fearsome qualities into nothing.

  “The people were fed lies by the Abbot of Rievaulx and by Dame Maeve. He planted seeds of slander, predicting you would kill Genrose, and then your housekeeper poisoned her to make those lies come true.”

  “Those days are over now,” he said, having heard via the servants that Maeve had been found hanging by a rope made of her own plaited hair in a barn not far from Helmsley.

  Clarisse continued to stroke his face. “There is something you should know about yourself, Christian; something someone should have told you long ago.”

  “What is it?" he asked, basking in the warmth of her devoted gaze.

  “You, my lord, are honorable, noble, chival
rous, and incredibly brave.” This time there was no mistaking the tears that rimmed her lower lashes. “And I am honored to be your wife. I am honored that you nearly laid down your life in the belief that it would make you worthy. But if you ever endanger your life for my sake again, you will cease to find me in the marriage bed.”

  Christian pretended to hang his head, chastised. He looked up at her from under his lashes. “Is that your way of telling me you love me?” he inquired.

  “Nay,” she said, and he felt his heart thump uncomfortably. Nay?

  “This is,” she added, taking his face in her palms and pulling his head down to hers as she had once before.

  Elated, he crushed her lips under his, kissing her until she trembled and strained closer.

  “I shall never, ever give you reason to shirk the marriage bed,” he assured her.

  “Does that mean you love me, too, lord?” she queried while pressing feverish kisses to his jaw and neck.

  He chuckled at her coy game. “Aye,” he said. “Without doubt.” He loved her, simple and true.

  Epilogue

  A man once called the Slayer stared with awe into the barely open eyes of his newborn daughter. Reflected in their lilac depths, he resembled an ordinary man, a humble man. Not long ago, peasants fled in fear of him; trained knights trembled to fight him. Now, he was greeted by his name, Sir Christian de la Croix.

  The infant who still shivered from her wet transition into the world drew a healthy breath and emitted her first cry. Beyond the open shutters, clouds scudded through an April sky and a gentle breeze carried the scent of young grass into the lord and lady’s solar. A bright light touched the babe’s head, highlighting her red hair. Her weary mother groaned.

  “I shall never do that again,” she vowed, regarding them beneath her heavy eyelids.

  Christian lowered their daughter, setting her atop his wife’s naked body, and the baby ceased to cry.

  “Look,” he urged in a voice hoarse with joy. “Look what we have made.” Then he watched the woman he loved study the baby’s heart-shaped face, her cherry-red hair, and her bowed lips, and his wife smiled. The infant peered back at her, as though in recognition.

  “Her eyes are violet,” Clarisse whispered.

  Ignoring the young midwife who pressed a compress between her legs, Clarisse cupped one of her splendid breasts and guided the berry-like nipple into the baby’s mouth. The infant thrashed just once before latching on.

  “That was easy enough,” Clarisse said, with relief.

  “You’ve had practice.”

  She flicked him a patronizing look. “Do not speak to me just yet,” she warned. “You could never have survived what I just went through.”

  He loved it when she scolded him. “Likely not,” he agreed, shuddering at the memory of her twenty-four-hour labor. Even now, she glowed with health, despite her hair being dank with sweat and her eyes looking as though they could slam shut and sleep for a week.

  “I shall not do it again,” she repeated. Her head lolled with exhaustion upon the snowy pillow.

  He indulged her in all things, but he could not agree with this whim. Already he looked forward to the day she recovered sufficiently to resume their lovemaking, for there was nothing in the world that so fulfilled him.

  Leaning over the nursing baby, he dropped a gentle kiss on his wife’s lips. “Shall I fetch Simon so he can meet his sister?”

  “Aye,” she agreed with a weary smile. “In a moment.”

  Smoothing a tendril from her damp cheek, he watched her eyes float closed. His daughter sucked contently. “What will we name her?” he asked as the question suddenly occurred to him.

  Clarisse peeked through her lashes at the baby. “Rose,” she said without a second’s hesitation.

  And just as quickly, he agreed, for the name suited the baby’s coloration, while honoring the memory of his first wife. “Imagine Harold’s face when we present her.”

  “Indeed, he’ll be happy,” Clarisse agreed.

  Harold enjoyed the life of a nobleman these days, his duties having been assimilated by the new housekeeper and her brother. Yet still, Harold could ofttimes be found in the kitchen where his wife of three months, Doris, continued to cook for the household.

  In his contentment, Christian bowed his head over his wife and buried his face in the long locks of her hair that spilled beside her. Tears of gratitude swamped his eyes unexpectedly as he thanked his Maker that Clarisse had survived childbirth. Christian had brought the best midwife to be found in York just in case, though he knew it had been up to God whether Clarisse would live or die. He wondered what the midwife would think to see a mighty warrior cry.

  I've grown soft, he admitted, choking back a sob. He would never say it publicly, though his wife accused him of it often enough.

  In a year, he had outgrown the unreasonable need to stir fear in the hearts of strangers. At present, he used his sword for practice only and for protection. Heathersgill had become a profitable sheep farm under his banner, supervised by his most loyal vassal, Roger de Saintonge. ’Twas rumored that worthy man had won Lady Jeanette’s confidence, returning her to a reasonably normal state of mind.

  Glenmyre now basked in the gentle protection of the church. Christian could not help but reflect how greatly life had changed for him since the fateful night he had cut Simon from Genrose's womb. He’d thought himself bound straight for hell. Then Clarisse had come along, saving both his son and his soul.

  “You won’t be needing a nurse,” she commented, causing him to pull his face from her hair to remark his daughter’s hearty appetite.

  “Nay, but I may have to send Sir Roger looking for a leman,” he said, ignoring the midwife’s shocked glance. “My own lady has decided to forsake the marriage bed.”

  Clarisse remained silent so long he decided she’d fallen asleep. As he rested his head back down on his hand to watch his two lady loves, she said, “Try it, my lord, and you will have a second scar to match the first,” she mumbled tartly.

  He chuckled at her jealous remark. “You know I could never even look at another,” he said, leaning forward to nuzzle her ear. Uncaring of what the midwife thought of him, he let a tear of joy roll unchecked down his cheek.

  What shame was there in admitting that the Slayer of Helmsley had shucked the mantle of darkness to adopt a righteous heart full of love? Or that, somehow, this one young woman had brought him back from the brink of damnation to the gates of heaven on earth? No shame whatsoever.

  The End

  The Warriors of York

  To Be Continued

  Coming Spring of 2016

  The Black Knights Reward

  Clarisse's middle sister, Merry du Boise, is condemned as a witch and sentenced to death by fire. One man, Sir Luke le Noir, can offer salvation. But at what price?

  Coming July 2016

  The Crusader's Challenge

  Youngest of the du Boise sisters, Katherine seeks only freedom from the chains of matrimony in a world where men rule absolutely. Maddox of Morton, virile, handsome, and brave, is condemned to a trial by Ordeal that will surely take his life. Has Katherine found the perfect husband—one who won't live past the morrow?

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  About Marliss Melton

  Marliss Melton is the author of two seemingly disparate genres—medieval historical romance and military romantic suspense. Yet she creates in all her stories a common theme: Men of Valor, Women of Strength.

  Daughter of a U.S. foreign officer, Marliss grew up overseas. Exposure to different languages led her to teach high school English, Spanish, and—her favorite subject—History of the English Language, which she taught at the College of William and Mary, her alma mater.

  Marrying into the military, Marliss Melton’s love of history existed side-by-side with her appreciation for the selfless sacrifices of the military community. Inspired to pen con
temporary romantic suspense featuring U.S. Navy SEALs and agency heroes, she is now weaving tales of long-ago warriors.

  Marliss resides in Williamsburg, Virginia, with her husband and their youngest daughter. Be sure to “friend” her on Facebook! and visit www.MarlissMelton.com for more information. She loves to hear from her readers. You can contact her by visiting her website's Contact page.

  To find other books by Marliss Melton, click here.