His gaze fell to the chain about her neck. The ball-shaped pendant lay against one breast. Since first laying eyes on it, its odd shape and the clasp had made him wonder what use it served. Perhaps she carried in it the ashes of a saint, or a sweet-smelling spice . . . or a deadly poison.
With fingers that trembled slightly, Christian extended his hand and captured the golden ball. He worked the clasp with his thumbnail, determined now to see what lay inside. The two halves of the pendant swung apart, revealing a hollow. He tipped it to one side, then rubbed his index finger in the silk-lined interior. The locket was empty.
Warm relief pooled in his gut as he closed the pendant shut. This did not mean the woman was innocent, he reminded himself. And yet, gazing at her peaceful profile, at the curve of her jaw in the moonlight, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she meant him any harm. He preferred to believe—as he had from the first—that she was sent by design, to save Simon’s life. And possibly to save the Slayer’s soul.
The hope still throbbed in him. Bathed in moonlight, she looked capable of casting out a hoard of demons. Her legs were drawn up trustingly, like a child’s. One arm curled protectively around the sleeping form of his son. They lay together as if they belonged.
She was beautiful to behold, a goddess with long, fiery tresses. He didn’t want to believe that she had anything to do with Ferguson or the struggle over Glenmyre. It chafed him to think it.
Sir Roger would question the girl tomorrow. The master-at-arms was more adept with words, more skilled at eliciting a slip of the tongue. But for his part, Christian would sleep one more night with the illusion that there was hope for him and the new life he dreamed of. The baby prospered in his nurse’s care. With that sole assurance, he exited the chamber.
Clarise listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps. As soon as she thought it safe, she gasped air into her lungs and let it out in a sob of relief. A layer of sweat coated her skin. She threw back the sheet to cool herself.
He hadn’t killed her.
He’d opened the pendant that she’d emptied yesterday and found nothing, thank God. Other than that, he’d done nothing but stare at her in her sleep and utter those wrenching words, I didn’t mean for it to happen. Had he been referring to Rowan’s death? Or was it something else—the death of Simon’s mother, perhaps? With so many matters on his conscience, it could have been anything.
All she knew for certain was that he’d let her live a few more hours.
It must have been because his son was in the bed. She nuzzled the baby, grateful for the lifeline that existed between them. Perhaps the Slayer would spare her because he knew that Simon needed her.
With thanks for small mercies, Clarise closed her eyes and sighed. Once she was certain the Slayer had sought his own bed, she would rise and execute her plan. Tonight she would find more milk for the baby. Whatever happened, she could not let Simon starve.
Chapter Six
Clarise awoke with a start. She could not remember falling asleep, but she realized nearly at once that the opportunity to fulfill her plans had nearly escaped her.
It was no longer dark. The sky through the open window was imbued with silvery light. If she didn’t hurry, the castle folk would soon be up and stirring. The baby would awaken, too, expecting milk to fill his small, but ever-ravenous stomach.
Scolding herself for sleeping so late, Clarise slipped from the sheets and sought her slippers. She had left her gown on in anticipation of her mission. All that was left was to determine what to do with Simon.
She couldn’t bring him with her, for if he woke, his cries would rouse the servants. But if the warlord learned that his son was left alone, even for a moment, his faith in her would be destroyed. If she were caught skulking through the castle in the dark, his suspicions would multiply like the plague.
She decided to leave Simon behind. An empty corridor beckoned her from the bedchamber. The tower was lost to darkness but for the barest glow in the window slits. She sped unnoticed past the Slayer’s solar, down the steps of the main stairs and through the great hall. Only Alfred the wolfhound remarked her passing from his place beside the fire pit. He raised his head, studying her through yellow eyes.
Clarise exited the keep through the door that was closest to the livestock pens. In the breezeway separating the castle from the kitchens, she hesitated, looking for signs of life. A crow regarded her from the peat roof of the latter. No one else appeared to be awake.
The scent of yeast and drying herbs made her stomach growl as she hurried past the kitchens. She turned toward the animal enclosure and the less appealing stench of manure. Straw snapped crisply beneath her slippers as she pushed open the door of the goat shed. She could just make out two pairs of eyes reflecting the light she let into the pen.
Clarise reached for one of the pails hanging overhead. She dragged a stool close with her foot and backed a spotted goat into the corner.
The nanny goat tensed, mistrustful of a stranger. Clarise wasted precious minutes soothing the animal whose milk would not flow freely unless it accepted her touch.
By the time Clarise began to get results, a rooster was crowing in the yard. Knowing that servants would soon be heading to their chores, she quickened her pace.
She had filled the pail halfway when the sound of women’s voices arrested her. Two of them were talking near the entrance to the kitchens.
“He killed the minstrel? Just because he couldn’t play?”
“ ’Tis what Maeve told me. Struck him down where he stood.”
Clarise frowned at the inaccurate gossip. Rowan had been caught carrying important papers in his lute. Espionage was a crime punishable by death, though murder was a bit excessive given the boy’s lack of defense.
Reminded that she might well become the next victim, Clarise rose to her feet and hefted the pail. Peering out of the enclosure, she determined it was safe to leave the pen, so long as she kept to the shadows of the garden wall.
The milk sloshed loudly in her bucket as she scurried for cover. All the while she strained to hear the conversation coming from the kitchen door. She could just make out a young girl and a plump cook conversing by the hearth they worked to light. To her amazement, she realized she was now the topic of their conversation.
“Well, who is she?” the girl wanted to know.
The cook shrugged her massive shoulders. “She were seen sharin’ words with the minstrel yesterday. They say she’s a spy as well, which means the seneschal will kill her, too. That’s what Maeve thinks.”
Clarise’s eyes widened. She nearly tripped over her own two feet.
“Well, I don’t think her a spy. I think she’s beautiful,” said the girl. “Me sister Nell says she’s a gentlewoman.”
The girl was clearly kin to Nell and Sarah. Clarise was grateful for the vote of confidence, even if it came from an insignificant source.
“She might be a noblewoman for the airs she gives herself,” the cook replied, “but Maeve says she’s a leman. She overheard Sir Roger say it.”
Clarise stopped in her tracks. She, a leman? A nobleman’s mistress?