If there had been any way to stop Ferguson from overtaking the keep, she would have done it. But with a false smile and a humble request for shelter, the Scot had wormed his way into the gates. No one had suspected his intent to poison the lord, then sever Edward’s head from his body. Ferguson had raped Clarise’s mother, then laid claim to the castle himself. No one could have stopped him. Still, Clarise blamed herself for the ruination of her family and her home.
Simon mewled in her arms, rousing her from such painful reflections. She hurried toward the eastern tower, hoping it would speed her to the kitchens. There, she would feign an interest in livestock and discover where the nanny goat was housed.
Clarise had almost reached the ground level when the jingling of keys alerted her to Dame Maeve’s approach. The grim-faced servant drew up short at the sight of the nurse in the dim stairwell.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, clutching her chatelaine as a sign of her power.
Clarise quelled the impulse to check the woman’s tone. The steward’s wife was a superior servant. She would be wise to establish a friendship with the woman.
“Does this tower lead to the kitchens?” she meekly inquired.
“Nay,” said Dame Maeve flatly. “Why? Have ye need of aught?”
“Actually, I missed the morning meal,” Clarise lied. She would determine if Dame Maeve were responsible for the tray in her room or someone else.
“Then you should get up earlier,” the woman snapped.
“The lord has instructed me to eat well—”
“He is seneschal, not the lord,” Dame Maeve corrected her.
Clarise wondered if the woman’s gray hair dared escape the knot on her head. “I see,” she said. “The Slayer has instructed me to eat well.” She used the taboo sobriquet to fluster the old woman. “I was hoping for a bit of bread and some milk to stave off my hunger.”
The woman turned as still as stone. Her eyes hardened to match her frame. “You are a fool to use that name lightly,” she muttered. “Do you know how this babe came into the world?” With a long bony finger she made to prod Simon in the belly, but Clarise turned her body to protect him. “He was cut from his mother’s belly while my lady yet lived.”
A chill swept through Clarise. She’d been told that Simon’s mother died in childbirth. No one had mentioned such butchery.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, rubbing the baby’s back to comfort herself as much as Simon.
“Ask anyone,” insisted the steward’s wife. “We all saw the blood on his tunic. Her body was still warm when I went to clean the chamber.”
“None of this is my concern,” Clarise insisted, thrusting aside the horrific image. “But the baby is. I must have nourishment to feed him. And I must have it now.”
Dame Maeve drew herself up. “Your request will be relayed,” she said, glaring at her.
“And bread and milk brought to my chamber?” She was pressing her luck now.
The steward’s wife pushed past her, muttering commentary on the sin of sloth as she stormed up the stairs. Clarise listened to the click of her efficient footsteps. She had meant to make a friend of the steward’s wife. Instead, she’d likely made a foe. With no hope of reaching the kitchens by this avenue, she turned back the way she had come, seeking her chamber, for Simon showed signs of getting hungry.
The light repast was brought to her door with impressive speed. The page who’d brought it also conveyed a message from the master-at-arms, enjoining her to share the midday meal with him.
Clarise declined Sir Roger’s offer. We will speak again, the Slayer had warned her. And I will have honest answers from you next time. Not if she succeeded in avoiding him, he wouldn’t. She refused to be caught between the two of them at the noon repast. Instead, she fed Simon with the milk and nibbled at the loaf, hoping to make it last.
The sound of a horseman leaving the stables spurred her to the window. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of the warlord’s black hair as he guided his mount through the gate. The sight of the Slayer in full armor made her stand at attention. She held her breath, waiting for him to reappear on the road outside the castle walls.
As he thundered into view, she watched with silent awe. He was armed to the teeth and striking out with purpose.
Where was he going at midday? And why did she feel disappointment to see him leaving? The more distance between them, the safer she was. And yet she wished, perversely, that he would stay where she could keep an eye on him.
Dressed in armor, he looked every inch the warlord. The chain mail that girded his broad chest was hewn from dark iron links that nullified the sun’s rays. The leather scabbard across his back was black, as was the hilt of his sword and the knee-high boots. Even the shield that she couldn’t see was black—or so she’d heard—with a small white cross on the upper left corner.
She’d always thought his device a sacrilege. Now that she knew his name, she understood the cross, in part. Yet the man had no priest in his castle. He was anything but devout—though Sir Roger had insisted to the contrary.
Still, she knew in her heart that she couldn’t poison him. Warlord or not, he was still Simon’s father. Helmesly would be lost without his iron rule, just as Ferguson desired. And she would not be party to such violent destruction.
She caught up the pendant that hung from her neck and studied it. The gold globe seemed to symbolize Ferguson’s power over the lives of the DeBoise women. Clarise curled her lip in scorn. She would not be subject to Ferguson’s whim any longer.
Very deliberately she pulled the chain off over her head. With a flick of her thumb, she unhooked the clasp that kept it closed and swung the chamber open. Lethal powder sat in the silk-lined interior, looking as harmless as a pinch of salt. Clarise extended her arm and held it out the window. With a twist of her wrist, the powder slipped free and sailed lightly into the wind.
Clarise felt a great weight ease from her shoulders. She snapped the locket shut and looped the chain over her head once more. Then she turned to inspect her lonely chamber. It solved nothing to sequester herself with Simon. She would eat with the master-at-arms, after all. Perhaps Sir Roger knew a priest who could bear a message to Alec.
Chapter Five
After hurriedly feeding the baby, Clarise placed Simon in his cradle and hefted them both. Though the burden was heavy, she struggled to carry both the baby and the box down the tower stairs. After all, she had promised the Slayer her vigilance.
Sir Roger hastened to her rescue the moment he saw her on the gallery. “Dame Crucis, you should summon a servant,” he scolded as he took the cradle from her hands.
They descended the broad stairs together, drawing the gazes of servants who scurried under Maeve’s stern eye.
“Where would you have me put this?” the knight inquired.
“As close to the dais as possible. Let us pray that Simon remains asleep.”
“I trust you are rested,” he huffed as they neared the high table.
Clarise murmured something to the affirmative. She took approving note of the ready table, the neat appearance of the pages, the freshness of the rushes under her feet. Maeve performed her husband’s duties with daunting skill.
“Lord Christian looked for you again this morning,” the knight confided, putting down the box. “But I advised him to let you sleep.” He straightened and looked directly at her face. “You still look tired.”