by Marliss Moon
“I only sought to appeal to him one more time, because . . . well, because you threatened to return me to Ferguson.”
He shifted her in his arms and looked away again, scowling. He had forced Clarise to do the very thing that had caused him to burn with jealous rage.
“Alec won’t leave the abbey anyway,” she added, without a hint of sorrow. “I’ve been wasting my time. He doesn’t even want his inheritance back.”
Their conversation was abruptly terminated by the reappearance of his men. The Abbot of Revesby was propped between them. The little man flinched against the sunlight in the open corridor. Christian assessed his health. His skin looked dried and shriveled. His shrunken frame betrayed starvation. But there was no sign of sores on his face.
The abbot moved his lips only to emit a croak.
“Find him water,” Christian commanded one of his men.
The man had taken no more than a step when Alec materialized again, bearing a full bucket and a loaf of bread. He placed it before the good abbot. Christian saw a flicker of gratitude in Ethelred’s eyes before he sank to his knees and began scooping water into his mouth.
Alec turned to Christian. He appeared a little shocked to see Clarise in the mercenary’s arms but not at all dismayed. His mouth hardened in a manner that reminded Christian of Monteign’s face beneath the visor of his helm. “Abbot Gilbert is in the herb garden,” he announced. “I told him that I turned you away from the gate.”
Again, Ethelred tried to speak. At first he choked, for he was still desperately drinking the water. “We need proof that he is sickening the monks,” he rasped. “The College of Cardinals must have proof to condemn him.”
“Sickening?” Christian asked. Clarise had said something similar when he freed her.
Alec summarized the abbot’s foul experiment, offering himself as evidence that the wine, which he never drank, had been tampered with. “He means to make a name for himself by curing the monks of the very sickness he conceived.”
“Do you know where he mixes his herbs?”
The young man nodded. “I will take you there,” he said. His gaze shifted to Clarise, who was watching from the circle of Christian’s arms. “I won’t let you down this time,” he told her.
She gave him a faint smile. “Thank you.”
Christian insisted that his men-at-arms take Clarise outside the gates. He was gratified to hear her protests.
“Nay, I will not let you go alone,” she said, with the same haughtiness that had drawn him to her in the first place. The worry in her eyes was a novelty. No one but Sir Roger had ever spared a thought for his safety.
“My lady, you are in no condition to accompany us.” He pried her gently from his shoulders and made her stand. Her knees folded under her weight, lending proof to his statement.
She cast him a pleading look.
“Go,” he commanded, forcing himself to sound firm.
Ethelred rose shakily to his feet. “I must accompany you,” he said. His voice had gathered strength.
The abbot was in worse condition than Clarise. “If he goes, then I am coming, too,” she argued, shaking off the arm of the man who tried to help her.
Christian rubbed his jaw with agitation. Clarise had no business in the abbot’s affairs, while Ethelred had initiated the inquiry. She would have to wait at the gate. “Give her some water,” he commanded to his men, turning quickly away so he wouldn’t have to face her pleas or her anger. “Then take her to the gate.”
“This way,” Alec gestured.
Christian put a helping hand under the good abbot’s elbow and trailed Alec down the corridor. He threw one last look over his shoulder and encountered Clarise’s worried stare.
Alec led them clear to the other end of the abbey. Their footfalls on the flagging invaded the hush of the long corridors. “Down here,” whispered the monk, pushing open a door.
The hinges gave a low moan. Stairs hewn from the rocky hillside beckoned them downward. The barest light guided their footsteps. Strange animal noises greeted them, fluttering, scuffling, and grunting. Alec paled and stepped aside. “I can go no further,” he admitted.
Christian noted the bead of perspiration sliding from the young man’s temple. “You have been most brave. Tell me how to repay you for the losses I have caused.”
Alec looked him in the eye, his expression somber. “Take proper care of Clarise,” he urged. “She is worthy of great loyalty and love, as those are the very traits she shows to others. I let her down. See that you do not.”
He nodded, seeing wisdom in the young man’s words. “Come, Your Grace.” He motioned for Ethelred to take his arm as they descended the stairs to the abbot’s laboratory.
The faint light, he ascertained, came through a ventilation slit at ceiling level. Christian was first impressed by the number of boxes and cages piled about the room. The chamber reeked of waste and feed and the overlying scent of drying herbs, suspended in clumps from pegs along the ceiling and walls.
Ethelred released his arm and headed toward a table. It was littered with mortars and pestles, a crucible for heating herbs, and bowls that overflowed with seeds, roots, petals, and leaves. A collection of blue bottles lined the shelves above. Ethelred unstopped a bottle and sniffed it.
His attention fell on a scrap of paper, and he turned it toward the window to read the scribbled words. “Infusion of Henbane,” he murmured and reached for another bit of paper. “Bark of Mezereon Spurge, just a pinch. Devil’s bit, with Honey of Roses.”
Christian caught sight of a scrap by his toe. Thinking it another ingredient, he picked it up and unrolled it. Archbishop Thurstan denies interdict at Helmesly. Ethelred comes today to make inquiry. As he read the warning a second time, the full implication of its existence came to him.
Someone at Helmesly had been spying on Gilbert’s behalf! It was just as Sir Roger suggested the day he was given Clarise’s letters. The evidence was overwhelming. The culprit could be just about anybody. He felt a stirring at the nape of his neck.
“Excellent,” said Ethelred, holding several bits of parchment together. “This should be enough to implicate Gilbert.” He looked at Christian. “I think we should go now.”
Christian heartily agreed. The damp air of the cellar was worming beneath his armor. He felt distinctly chilled. “Just one more thing,” he said, turning toward the cages behind him. Reaching high and low, he twisted the latches that held the animals captive. The first to break free was a filthy pig, who nosed his way free with a delirious squeal.
Ethelred gave Christian an approving look. Together they approached the stairs. With the good abbot still weak from his captivity, the climb up the narrow passage was laborious. Christian was tempted to pick the man up and carry him. There were so many matters to attend to.
They had ascended little more than halfway when the door above them yawned open. The Abbot of Rievaulx appeared with a candle in his hand. As they were disguised by the darkness, he failed to see them. But the noise of the liberated animals alerted him to trouble. He thrust the flame of his candle to a rush holder, and the tallowed rushes flared into life. The stairwell blazed with brightness.
“You!” cried Gilbert, his gaze sliding from one to the other. The sight of the Slayer so unsettled him that he dropped his candle. It sputtered on the steps and died. “What . . . what are you doing here?” he cried. “Brother Alec said he sent you away!”
“He misled you,” Christian answered coolly.
“What have you got there?” Gilbert demanded, his gaze lighting on the paper in Ethelred’s hands.
“Your notes,” said the good abbot, with more strength than he’d shown previously. “There is evidence here that you have sickened your monks. Soon you will be thrust from office.”
Gilbert began to breathe like a man running for his life. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” he cried. His hand went to the wall for support. “I have discovered a cure for the plague. If you destroy my work, the
disease will continue to run its course. It will kill everyone, including you.” He pointed. “You should never have come here!” He backed up a step, distancing himself.
Christian doubted his conscience would trouble him if he overlooked his scruples just this once and sent Gilbert on his way to his just reward. Despite the trappings of a monk, he was surely no servant of the Church.
The abbot withdrew another step. Christian suddenly realized that he intended to bar the door, locking them in the cellar. His first thought was for Clarise. He’d promised her he would hurry. With the window too small to slip through, his only alternative was to reach the door before the abbot had a chance to lock it.
Just then, he felt something brush by his feet. He glanced down and recognized the tail of a weasel as it streaked past. Gilbert failed to mark the animal’s approach. A second later it rippled against his ankles. The abbot gave a cry of alarm and jerked his leg back. The weasel turned and sank his teeth into his leg.
Gilbert screamed. He tried to kick the weasel free. In the process, he lost his footing.
Christian watched in fascination as the abbot flailed. He seemed to hang for a moment in thin air before he lurched forward, pitching down the stairs. Christian snatched Ethelred out of harm’s way. The two of them hugged the wall as Gilbert tumbled past. Together they winced at the sound of snapping bones.
Gilbert came to a rest at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t move. A hedgehog trampled over him as it crossed the room.
It was clear even at a distance that the Abbot of Rievaulx had snapped his neck. His head lay at an odd alignment to his body. Christian and Ethelred shared a look. Without a word, they turned and followed the weasel up the stairs.
A reward for righteousness? Christian asked himself. So much had happened when he’d expected so little. It all seemed fantastical when considered in the light of logic. Yet of all the events of the morning, none seemed so miraculous as Clarise laying her palm against his cheek and announcing that she didn’t love Alec. That she likely never had.
Suddenly it seemed a simple thing to shuck the mantle of darkness that had consumed him for years and trade it for a cloak of another color.
Clarise DuBoise wanted a champion? He would be the noblest hero she could possibly imagine.
Chapter Seventeen
Clarise felt as light as a feather as Christian swept her onto the back of his huge destrier and swung himself into the saddle behind her. She felt no fear as the midnight warhorse plunged down Rievaulx’s steep hill, for his arm was locked beneath her breasts.
From the abbey’s open gate, Alec waved farewell. It was up to him to advise his brethren of their circumstances. They were all still shaken by the news that their abbot was dead, killed by his own fall down the treacherous stairs. Clarise was thankful Ethelred could corroborate the tale. The warlord’s reputation was such that he might fall under suspicion without a witness to the accident.
She glimpsed at Ethelred to see how he was faring. The good abbot rode double with one of the men-at-arms. It was agreed he would go with them to Helmesly to recover. Later he would travel to York and carry evidence of the abbot’s treachery to the archbishop. He looked pale, but stronger for the warmth of the morning sun.
The fresh scent of heather helped to nudge their shock toward relief. Everything would return to normal at the abbey. The men would shake off the effects of the malignant herbs and rise again to their prayers. The vineyards would enjoy pruning and reseeding and would soon yield a harvest of green grapes.
From the circle of Christian’s arms, Clarise gave a sigh of contentment. The wind rushed through her hair and whistled through the threads of her boy’s attire, carrying away the musty odor of her prison cell. The sun shone warmly on her face. She was pinned securely to the man who’d snatched her from the clutches of evil.
After all the lies, the difficulties she had brought to his entangled life, he was willing to shelter her. Did this mean that he would help her with Ferguson?
“Relax,” he said in her ear. “You are safe now.” The words seemed a message to her anxious heart.
They thundered into the valley, past the waddle and daub structures of Abbingdon. Merchants peered from their window shops to identify the passersby.
Clarise experienced the peculiar contentment of going home. She reminded herself that there were many unanswered questions, not the least of which was what the Slayer intended for her. He’d said nothing about his threat to return her to Ferguson. Rather, the tender way that he held her close gave her hope that he would not. The spark of anger she’d witnessed earlier was gone.
She could only assume he would ask her to be his mistress again. While that prospect hadn’t looked so grim from the vantage of a prison cell, it rankled her pride in the light of day. She would give anything to set her family free, but she couldn’t give the Slayer her body without also giving him her heart. And to get the latter, he would have to profess an emotion other than lust.
The rise and fall of the horse’s back lulled her into a trance. She stared at Christian’s grip on the reins. The sun had tanned his long fingers to a shade of golden brown. She remembered how gently, how persuasively those hands had coaxed her toward surrender. A sigh escaped her lips. Her eyelids grew heavy.
She must have drifted off to sleep. When the rhythmic movement of the horse ceased, she came awake. The warrior had pulled them to a halt in the meadow outside his castle’s walls. His men-at-arms filed over the moat and out of sight. “What are we doing here?” she asked, twisting around.
She felt him dismounting. Several strands of her hair were caught in his mail. “Ouch!” she cried, reaching up to save them.
He snatched her off the saddle with him and in the process lost his balance. They tumbled from the stirrups into the stalks of wildflowers, with Christian taking the brunt of their fall.
“Sorry,” he managed to groan. He lay flat on his back beneath her, peering up at her with worry. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She took her weight off him, rising to her hands and knees. “My hair is caught in your armor.” She tried to free the troublesome snags. “Why did you stop here?” she asked again. The strands had worked their way between the links. She doubted she could pull them out without tearing them.
He didn’t answer right away. She stabbed him a look. “Well?”
“You said you would have naught to do with me even if I crawled on my knees begging your mercy,” he reminded her, his green eyes watchful.
Guilt elbowed its way to the forefront of her feelings. Her heart beat faster. “I said all that?” she asked, wincing inwardly.
He nodded very seriously. “I intended to apologize before we entered the castle.”
“You were going to apologize?” The very sweetness of the gesture made her light-headed. “Why out here?”
He gave her his endearing half-smile. “So no one would see me?” he admitted.
She punched him in the ribs and came away with bruised knuckles. “Oh! Help me get my hair out,” she snapped, shaking her wounded hand.
His clever fingers went to work, and in seconds she was free. “Thank you,” she said, rolling away from him. She came to her feet and brushed the grass from her boy’s braies. “You can get up now,” she told him.
He pushed himself to his knees and reached for her. “Give me your hand,” he said.
“My lord, you don’t have to do this!” She had to wonder if she wasn’t dreaming. The scenery was stunning. The petals of the flowers rippled under the breeze. The moat danced about the castle in sparkling, little waves. And the most notorious warrior in the borderlands was on his knees before her.
“Your hand, lady.”
With a sigh she stuck her hand out for him to take. Pleasure feathered up her spine as he stroked her palm and brought her reddened knuckles to his lips. “I am groveling,” he informed her as his mouth brushed her skin. “Perhaps you could still bring yourself to forgive me?” He darted her a pleading l
ook from under his lashes.
The heat of his mouth reminded her of the scorching kisses they had shared the night he made his demands. “There isn’t a need to apologize,” she said breathlessly. “I brought it on myself. I was most deceitful, and I am sorry for the mistrust my lies had spawned.”
“Forgiven,” he said, cutting her off. “However, do you attempt anything so rash as worming your way inside an abbey again, you will answer for it.”
She regarded him closely. Was he angry or merely concerned? “Will you get up now? You’re going to snap the buckles on your knee-guards.”
“I’m not done yet. There is something else I need to ask you while I’m down here.”
“What?” The question came out on a breath of disbelief. Nay, surely he wasn’t going to . . .
“Will you wed me?”
She told herself the wind was rustling the stalks of wildflowers. “What did you say?”
“Lady, will you marry me?” The naked fire in his eyes matched the intensity of the question.
The sun gathered warmth on her shoulders, but still she couldn’t speak. Could this be the realization of her fantasies? Had a handsome warrior fallen helplessly in love with her? Did he want to cherish her always, give her children, gather her close on winter nights? “Why?” she asked in a thin, little voice.
He paused a moment. “Simon needs a mother” came his reasonable reply at last.
Some of her delirium dimmed. “Ah.”
“And you need a knight to challenge your stepfather.”
It was all so reasonable. She tugged her hand free and stalked a short distance away. Amidst a patch of tangle roses, she forced herself to forget her pique and think of the benefits.
He was right. She still required a champion. And Simon needed a mother—oh, how lovely it would be to claim him as her own! This was not some romantic fairy tale with a prince and a princess. He was the Slayer, for mercy’s sake! Tying her name to his meant accepting the darkness that hovered around him and rose to consume him at unexpected moments. Could she live with that?