by Marliss Moon
Clarise DuBoise had been born a lady, and a lady she wished to remain. She owed it to her bloodlines to discover if Alec would trade his cleric’s robes for a sword. Alec, she thought, would never demand such a price as the Slayer had demanded. He was far too honorable for that.
Abbot Gilbert crushed the purple berries in the large marble mortar, heedless of the juice that spurted stains onto his vestments. The beauty of being an abbot was that no one could take him to task for soiling his clerical garb.
At Rievaulx no monk dared question the things that he did or said. Anyone foolish enough to try was shut away in a dark cell, with Horatio visiting in short but painful interludes. These unfortunates rarely survived to speak of the horrors they’d endured.
Gilbert chuckled and reached for one of the glass vials on a shelf above him. Of all the chambers in the abbey, this cellar chamber was the most cluttered and unkempt. He preferred it that way. The lack of order encouraged him to think creatively. As he ground the seeds of the fruit into the pulp, he looked about his cellar herbal with satisfaction.
In addition to the shelves of corked vials, all of them unmarked and known only to him by their smell, the room contained a long table where he performed his masterpieces. On the table were various instruments for heating, mixing, and separating his creations. Squares of parchment were scattered across his work area. Now and then he jotted down the ingredients and quantities of his experiments.
Behind him, crates were stacked as high as the wall. These contained various beasts that snuffled and stirred in continual despair. Their animal odor blended with the herbs’ perfumes. A pair of foxes lived in one box, a pig in another—the gluttonous creature. It had knocked its slop out of the bowl, so that it dribbled through the slats of the crate onto the stone floor.
The smaller boxes held animals ranging from a mouse to a poisonous lizard. These were the recipients of his experiments. Some of them were wounded or ill when they came to him. He had healed a few with his herbal remedies—pure happenstance, he admitted. He had killed the majority.
I will let them go, Gilbert decided with uncharacteristic magnanimity. In truth, their noise intruded on his thoughts so often that he would be better off without them. He uncorked a vial and added a careful drop of anise infusion to his mixture.
He had no use for beasts anymore. He was skilled enough to work with humans. As soon as word of the scourge reached Clairvaux in France, he would dazzle the world by healing his monks. He savored the vision of his acclaim. No longer would he be considered a rustic priest, doomed to obscurity in the fells of Yorkshire. Nay, he would have as much fame or more as his colleague Ethelred. And that little man would finally show him some respect!
The familiar beating of a bird’s wings caused him to drop his pestle and pivot toward the single window. It was just a narrow vent that filtered the sunlight and kept the room in gloomy illumination. In the aperture at level with the ceiling paced a pigeon, bobbing its iridescent head.
“My clever one!” Gilbert exclaimed, stepping on a stool to reach the sill. “What have you brought me today?” he asked. He reached with stained fingers to free the cord looped over the bird’s neck. From the reed that was strung along the cord, he pulled out a tiny piece of parchment.
Archbishop Thurstan denies interdict at Helmesly, he read. Ethelred comes today to make inquiry.
Gilbert balled the minuscule letter in his fist and hurled it with fury across the cellar room. “Cursed, meddling man!” he railed, bounding off the stool.
Ethelred had once been a brilliant monk at Rievaulx. Several times during his years as a master novice, Gilbert had been tempted to cast him into the Cell of Castigation. But Ethelred was looked upon favorably by Bernard of Clairvaux. The Augustinian leader had encouraged the master novice’s writing to such an extent that Ethelred was released from his rigorous schedule and left alone for hours. Now that he was the Abbot of Revesby, he was Gilbert’s social equal. Was there no such thing as justice in the world?
Gilbert trembled with irrational fear. If the interdict were found to be a fake, then his integrity would be called into question.
Wouldn’t the illness keep Ethelred away? He paced the length of the cramped chamber, then back again. A thought occurred to him that soothed his anxiety.
He could get rid of the meddling Ethelred once and for all! He would explain to Archbishop Thurstan that Ethelred had fallen ill and died of the scourge. He envisioned the little priest chained to the cellar wall. Horatio would force a liquid laced with malignant herbs down his throat, and that would be the end of him.
The abbot smiled outright and rubbed his hands with anticipation. Aye, Ethelred would get what was coming to him. But that did not prevent the matter of the interdict from coming up again.
Ah, what did it matter? He would think of something to excuse himself. The interdict had failed, in any event. The people at Helmesly should have closed the gates against their evil seneschal, but they were too afraid to defy him. Shunned by the church or not, the Slayer ruled the fortress with an iron hand. And now he had a whelp, a boy with a rightful claim to the lands.
Gilbert sighed in disgust. He had done everything he could to expel the Slayer from Helmesly. It was up to the sender of the messages to do the rest.
Nell gasped in fear and slapped a hand to her heart. “Oh, m’lord, ye gave me such a start!” she exclaimed, flattening herself to the corridor wall. One of the torches lining the passage found a reflection in her golden curls as she gawked at the warlord.
Christian regarded the girl’s panic with mild amazement. Would the servants never cease to shrink from him? “Nell, is it?” he asked, summoning an expression that he hoped looked harmless.
She nodded mutely and at the same time forced herself to step away from the wall.
“I hear that you have many siblings and that Sarah raised all of you,” he said, utilizing the information Clarise had once fed him.
She nodded her head, looking dazed.
“Were you orphaned?” he prompted.
Again she nodded.
“Have you a plot to call your own?” He realized he should know the answer to his own questions. But between Ferguson’s mischief and domestic demands, he’d put off perusing the castle’s ledgers. Harold took care of the bookkeeping—or was it Maeve?
“Nay, sir,” the girl finally spoke, gazing at him earnestly. “The baron reclaimed our lands under the Right of Escheat when my da passed away. But he gave us work in the castle and a roof over our heads.”
“Then you had no brothers to inherit the land?”
“There be Callum and Aiden, but they were only wee ones at the time.”
Christian crossed his arms over his chest. As seneschal, he could distribute the peasants’ holdings however he saw fit. “How old are your brothers now?”
“Fifteen an’ twelve,” she told him, apparently forgetting to fear him.
“Tell Callum and Aiden they will each have a plot to call their own. And if they have an interest, they may take up swords and be trained to fight.”
Nell’s mouth rounded into a perfect circle. “M’lord, ’twould please them immensely!”
“I’ll send for them soon,” he promised.
“Thank ye, m’lord!” She bobbed him a curtsy and nearly kissed his hands.
Christian stepped back, unused to such affection. “Is your lady within?” he asked.
Nell hesitated. “I left her with a full tub o’ hot water.”
“So she’s bathing.”
“Aye,” she said, drawing out the word.
“How long did you know she was feeding Simon goat’s milk and not her own?” He threw the question out suddenly, taking her by surprise.
Nell grew pale. “Not long, m’lord. Mayhap a week.”
“Then you should have told me a week ago,” he chastised. “I’m the seneschal of Helmesly,” he added, pointing to his chest. “Lady Clarise could have been a spy.”
Nell cast a helpless ga
ze down the hallway, but no one was coming.
“Who else knew the truth?” he demanded. He felt a little mean, torturing the girl, especially as they’d just had a pleasant exchange.
“Me sister,” she admitted mournfully. “An’ Doris.”
He frowned down at her sternly, letting her stew in her distress a moment longer. “From now on you will come to me with news that bears on Simon’s safety.”
Nell’s eyes flashed with sudden fire. “The Lady Clare—Clarise would ne’er think to hurt the babe!” she cried.
Clarise had been at Helmesly, what, about a month? And yet the servants defended her over a man they’d known for years. “Fortunately for you, she has cared well for him,” he relented.
Nell swallowed hard, not knowing what to say.
“If I had known her circumstances sooner,” he heard himself explain, “I’d have killed Ferguson already.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. He’d have maneuvered Clarise more swiftly to his bed, and perhaps gone after Ferguson in their latest conflict.
Regret darkened Nell’s blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, empathizing with her mistress’s plight.
Christian jerked his head. “Go about your duties,” he said, dismissing her.
She edged thoughtfully past him. Before she’d taken three steps, she stopped and turned around. “There be somethin’ ye should know, m’lord,” she blurted.
“What’s that?” Curiosity rose along with caution.
“The lady hath marks on her back where she haffe been beaten. An’ she cries out often when she sleeps.” Nell looked miserable for having revealed just that much.
Christian hissed a breath through his teeth. Ferguson had beaten Clarise? Anger came to a flash boil. He pictured the burly Scot leaving marks on Clarise’s flawless skin, and he couldn’t wait to kill the fiend!
But then he reined himself in. Nay, he wouldn’t kill the Scot for free. He’d placed a price on his willingness to help. The price was Clarise’s body—his for the taking.
He offered the maid a reassuring nod. “You were right to tell me, Nell. She is safe now.”
Safe, hah. He was a hypocrite to say so, casting himself in a chivalrous light, as though he meant to defend the lady without recompense. Mercenaries were not chivalrous. They killed for pay. And the price he’d demanded was Clarise’s sweet and willing body.
As the maidservant retreated, Christian approached the lady’s door. Uneasiness roiled in his stomach. What if she declined his offer? What if she turned him down flat? After all, it must be distasteful for a lady of her breeding to yield to a monster like himself. Perhaps if he sweetened his offer with the promise to restore her home. According to his spies, Ferguson had all but destroyed it.
The sound of splashing water distracted him from his thoughts. He put an ear to the wood and was astonished when its hinges gave way and the door eased slightly open. The view that greeted him through the resulting crack made him freeze like a thief.
Clarise sat in a wooden tub, the water to her shoulders. Her hair was a damp, russet rope mooring her to the floor. The scent of lavender hung sweetly in the air. The brazier snapped with mellow light. She had not seen him, for her back was to the door.
Just as it occurred to him that he should turn away, she perched a long, slim leg on the edge of the tub and reached for the soap.
Like a hungry hound he salivated. He told himself to leave, but for the moment he was spellbound. With lazy movements she began to lather herself, starting with the leg she’d lifted and then switching to the other one. Limb by limb, she rubbed the scented bar into her skin. His fingers itched to follow the same path.
Go now, he told himself. ’Tis bad enough that you take advantage of her circumstances. Must you sink to new depths by spying on her?
Her head fell back, and she rubbed her neck, sighing softly as she eased the soap between her breasts. Christian swallowed a groan. Desire pulsed through his body with double vigor. Uncertainty followed close behind. What would he do if she refused him? His need for her could not be slaked by any other woman!
Something pounded on the door of his conscience, demanding to be heard. This is honor! shouted the entity. I demand that you free her family without reward.
But he ignored it. He was a bastard warlord, not an honorable knight. He needed Clarise DuBoise, and there was no way to get her other than by blackmail. Ladies of her ilk didn’t give themselves to baseborn mercenaries.
Unless they proved themselves worthy, replied the voice inside.
She caught up her hair and squeezed it, coiling it on top of her head. Then, without warning, she put her hands on either side of the tub and stood straight up. Christian’s gaze fell at once to the pink streaks lining her back. Nell had not been lying. “Jesu,” he cursed, unable to keep silent.
She turned with a gasp. “Who’s there?” she called, trying to see through the cracked door.
He swiveled guiltily and beat a hasty retreat.
Cur, he called himself, stalking furiously toward his solar. He wanted so badly for her to want him that he had stooped even beneath himself. There was more of his father in him than he cared to admit, he lamented, grinding his teeth.
Yet he had to capture her incandescence or else lose himself to the despair that threatened before she came.
In the sanctuary of his solar, Christian dropped his head into his hands, his temples throbbing. A promise to rebuild her home was not enough. Short of offering for her hand, nothing he did could cast his offer into a nobler light.
He straightened abruptly, startled by the workings of his mind. Offer for her hand? Nay, the thought was ludicrous! Absurd! The lady would take her own life ere she agreed to wed him. Wouldn’t she?
He forced himself to rationalize. There were factors in his favor, not the least of which was Simon, whom she adored. Then, too, he was not without the ability to give her a decent home, to feed and clothe her as befitting her station. Most important, he could give her what she truly desired of him: his sword arm to defend and protect those she loved.
It might just work.
His gaze fell upon a book that lay open on his table. It was Ethelred’s Mirror of Charity, the latest text brought for Christian’s erudition. He and the abbot made a practice of discussing the readings the abbot supplied. They’d had no time on this particular visit. But Ethelred had marked one of the pages with a ribbon in order to draw it to Christian’s notice.
Christian dragged the manuscript closer and read the indicated page. His attention was drawn in particular to the closing remarks. Put off the mantle of self-absorption and embrace the world unselfishly. For God, who sees all things, rewards the righteous heart.
Christian read the lines three more times. With fingers that had butchered and maimed, he smoothed down a wrinkle in the parchment. It was time for the Slayer of Helmesly to forget his bitter roots. For his son’s sake, he could not continue to be a fearsome warlord. Why not do as Ethelred suggested and shuck the mantle of self-absorption? What would it cost him? A mistress, probably.
What would he gain? Perhaps a wife.
God rewards the righteous heart, wrote the abbot. Christian hoped the abbot was right. He didn’t want to go through the trouble of redemption and not get what he’d set his sights on: Clarise DuBoise.
Chapter Fourteen
“When did they leave?” Clarise asked Malcolm, who kept the mews.
The aged falconer regarded her through eyes as bright and watchful as the birds he tended. “They left but a second ’fore ye came,” he answered in a creaky voice.
She shot him a word of thanks and raced across the treacherous cobbles of the inner ward toward the first gate. Already, she was breathless from this morning’s activities. It had all begun at morning prayers when the good abbot failed to show himself.
Clarise had raced to Ethelred’s chambers, hoping that she would find him sleeping in exhaustion from his visit to Rievaulx the day before. His chamber was empty. His bed had not been touche
d.
Agitation fizzed in Clarise’s empty belly. Ethelred wasn’t safe at Rievaulx. She remembered the mad gleam in Abbot Gilbert’s eyes, the festering sores on Horatio’s face. If anything had happened to Ethelred, she would blame herself for encouraging him to visit the scourge-ridden abbey.
Clarise had looked for Christian, wanting to apprise him of the circumstances. He had already eaten, she discovered, not finding him in the great hall. She would not break her own fast until she delivered her news to him. If anyone could help the good abbot, it was the Slayer.
“He’s gone ahunting,” the stable boy had said, yawning with maddening apathy. At last the falconer had more definitive news. If she hurried through the shadowed barbican, she might catch the seneschal and his vassal before they left.
The sun was still creeping skyward at this early hour, promising a warm day as it tinted the air a peachy pink. Swallows dipped and whirled for their breakfast of bugs. A rooster crowed from the henhouse. Clarise caught sight of the Slayer and his master-at-arms disappearing on horseback through the second gate. Sir Roger’s gyrfalcon rode on its perch. Its jeweled hood gave a final wink as they passed under the barbican.
“My lord, Sir Knight, wait!” she cried, dampening her slippers on the grass as she raced toward them. They failed to hear her, for the rushing of the moat.
The vigilant gatekeeper gave a blast on his horn, alerting them for her. Lord and vassal turned together at the end of the drawbridge. Their faces reflected alarm to see Clarise chasing after them, her hair flying like a banner.
She slowed to a brisk walk, wary of the Slayer’s enormous black mount, snorting impatiently to be on its way. The men were dressed in minimal armor. They bore all the accoutrements needed for a successful hunt, including bow and quiver slung over their shoulders.