Clarise turned away from his probing gaze. “The little baron woke me more than once,” she told him. For all his chivalry, she sensed a search for answers in the knight’s silvery orbs. She hoped she could put his suspicions to rest.
“Come and sit by me,” he invited, gesturing toward the high table. “My lord is gone from the castle for the day, and there is no one but the minstrel to entertain me.”
As if by cue, the discordant twang of a lute rose toward the rafters. Clarise glanced toward the source of the discord and saw the minstrel she had seen once before seated at a bench on the far end of the hall. He burst suddenly into song, plucking an accompaniment that might have belonged to a different tune altogether.
Apprehension stirred the hairs on her forearms. There was something familiar about the man, she thought, staring at him harder.
“Fear you not,” Sir Roger said, mistaking her expression for disdain. “These are his last hours at Helmesly,” he divulged. “I will send him on his way after supper, with coin enough to speed him to his next destination.” He tipped her a smile and helped her up the dais steps.
She was glad to hear it. The last thing she needed right now was to run into someone who knew her. She turned her attention to the two men already seated at the table. Sir Roger introduced them as Hagar, guardian of the dungeons, and Harold the steward, husband to Dame Maeve.
When neither man acknowledged her polite greeting, she looked to Sir Roger for an explanation. “Hagar is deaf,” he informed belatedly, “and Harold lives in his own world. Your gracefulness denotes breeding, however,” he added lightly.
She gave him a thin smile. The knight was mocking her disguise as a freed serf. She hoped she could keep the truth from him, as she had kept it from the Slayer.
Sir Roger helped her into a chair, then occupied the seat beside her, leaving the lord’s and lady’s places empty. He nodded to the water bearer, and the meal began. The scent of trout broiled in almond sauce preceded the pages as they bore the main course to the high table.
Men-at-arms still trudged to the trestles from the practice yards. Sweaty and exhausted, they straggled in, groaning audibly at the sight of the minstrel and casting curious glances toward the high table. Clarise kept her eyes downcast as they whispered among themselves to discover who she was.
“Did you live in Glenmyre all your life?” Sir Roger asked. At the same time he divided their trencher in half, giving her the choicest portion of the fish.
She braced herself for another round of questions. “Aye, all my life, except for the years I spent studying at St. Judes.”
“You mean St. Giles,” he offered helpfully.
Clarise colored furiously. He’d caught her right away in the web of her own words. “Aye, St. Giles,” she muttered, stabbing at her fish with her two-tined fork.
Sir Roger dabbed his mouth with the edge of the table linen. “Dame Crucis,” he said softly, “you have heard, no doubt, that my lord will kill anyone who crosses him.”
She forced herself to chew, though the trout began to taste like dirt in her mouth. The knight was clearly warning her to be forthright. To save herself, she retreated behind a wall of silence.
Saintonge drove his point home. “He respects honesty in any man,” he added, “or woman.”
She resisted the urge to shake her head. She could never tell the Slayer who she was, for in jeopardizing her own life, she jeopardized the lives of those she loved. “Where has the seneschal gone?” she asked, changing the topic abruptly.
The gleam in Sir Roger’s eyes warned her that he saw straight through the ploy. “To Rievaulx,” he said shortly.
The unexpected answer brought her senses to alert. “But the abbey is quarantined. I went there for shelter and was turned away.”
Sir Roger ripped off a portion of his trencher and dipped it in sauce. “I know,” he said, with anger coloring his tone. “ ’Tis supposedly riddled by a great scourge.”
“Oh, it is,” she assured him. “I saw the effects of it myself.” Her stomach turned at the recollection of Horatio’s ravaged face.
The knight leaned back until his chair creaked. “My lord means to call at the gate, not to enter. He is looking for a monk there.” His silvery gaze swiveled toward her face. “Alec Monteign. You must know him, coming from Glenmyre,” he added casually.
Clarise glanced to the cradle to disguise her sudden panic. Simon was dozing, giving her no excuse to flee. “Aye, of course. He heeded a call to the brotherhood after the. . . the seneschal took possession of Glenmyre.” She had nearly said the Slayer.
“Just so. What do you know of the man?”
She tore off a bit of her own bread. “He’s a good man,” she said evasively. “Why do you ask?”
The knight looked at her directly. “ ’Tis a matter of great importance, affecting the lives of many,” he replied. “One day you may be able to return to Glenmyre”—he paused and sipped his wine—“to do whatever it is that you did before.”
She ignored his deliberate sarcasm. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “Are you suggesting that Alec might rightly rule in his father’s stead?” Hope fluttered anew.
The knight smiled enigmatically. “Mayhap,” he said, raising her hopes, “but then, mayhap not. Who can explain the devotion of an eremite?”
To Clarise, it sounded like a leading question. Sir Roger was eager to explore her allegiance to Alec. Likely, everything he had to say was designed to trap her into revealing her loyalties.
She clicked her mouth shut and silently counseled herself not to speak of the past again. The conversation moved to safer topics: the lax attitude of King Stephen and the recent antics of his dubious heir.
As the sweetmeats approached the table, Clarise summoned the courage to ask, “Sir Roger, why is there no priest here?” Seeing his questioning look, she added, “ ’Tis my custom to confess once a week.”
Something suggestive flickered in his eyes. “Are you such a sinner, then?”
The strange question gave her pause. “Let us just say that I have a conscience,” she finally answered. “Why is there no priest?”
His perpetual smile became a grimace. “An interdict was imposed on Helmesly not too long ago. The only sacraments that may be administered here are baptism and extreme unction. ’Twould serve no purpose to have a priest.”
“I see,” she said, reeling with surprise. “And who imposed the interdict? The Abbot of Rievaulx?”
“An accurate guess.”
“But why?” she persisted.
He popped a sweetmeat in his mouth. “Who knows?” he muttered. “It gives him pleasure to spread discontent.”
Hearing the irritation in his voice, Clarise glanced toward Simon’s cradle and saw that the baby was fussing. “Sir Knight, I thank you for your gracious company. The baby wakes, and I have sworn to give him my undivided attention.” She was anxious to retire to her room and ponder her next move.
“Join me,” he said, trapping her hand momentarily under his, “at the evening meal. The minstrel will be gone, and our ears will be left at peace.”
She gave a noncommittal reply. The knight was too astute by far. If she spoke at any length with him, she knew her story would buckle and the truth would be revealed.
He pulled back her chair, then called a youth to assist her with the cradle. As Clarise trailed Peter toward the stairs, they passed the minstrel who plucked at his strings in a futile attempt to make harmony. The young man’s gaze rose to capture hers, and shock slammed through her, bringing her to a sudden halt. By God, she knew him after all!
His name was Rowan. He was the son of Kendal, Ferguson’s second-in-command. No doubt he’d been sent to Helmesly to ensure that Clarise fulfilled her sinister purpose.