“Are you certain it died of the scourge?”
“Leave her be!” the Slayer suddenly interrupted.
Clarise started at the fury in his voice. She swiveled her head to study his thunderous profile. The spoon in his hand looked in danger of being bent upon itself.
“Leave her be,” he repeated, more quietly.
Sir Roger ducked his head and dug into his trencher.
The meal progressed with scarcely a word more spoken. At the end of the table Hagar belched and patted his belly. Harold slurped the broth off his spoon. Both the seneschal and his master-at-arms were thoughtfully silent.
Clarise was relieved to see the ewer of spiced wine making its way to the table, signaling the meal’s end. The tension swirling about her made eating impossible. She planned to enjoy a sip of wine, then excuse herself with the need to nurse Simon. The men would want some privacy in which to discuss her news.
Peter edged along the back of the dais to fill their goblets one by one. From the corner of her eye Clarise watched him reach for the cup she shared with Roger. A stream of garnet liquid rushed into the vessel. She could not have predicted any more than Peter that the gyrfalcon would suddenly flare his wings, knocking his arm aside.
The newly filled goblet sprang from Peter’s grasp. Wine shot through the air, spattering Clarise’s chest and Simon’s backside. The goblet bounced musically from the dais to the floor.
Clarise gasped in surprise. The baby screamed in alarm. The gyrfalcon, panicked by the uproar, beat his powerful wings to escape the chaos, but his jesses held him fast.
“Clumsy youth!” Sir Roger scolded, attempting to calm the raptor.
The Slayer rose like a thundercloud, saying nothing. Clarise took one look at the ashen page and shot to her feet to protect him. “ ’Twas not his fault,” she declared.
The warrior ran an astonished look over her ruined gown. The men-at-arms ogled the scene from the benches below. Servants froze in expectation of violence.
The Slayer’s gaze cut to Peter. “Clean up this mess,” he snapped. He jerked his head, and the youth reached for the linens Dame Maeve held out to him, nearly spilling the rest of the wine in the process.
“ ’Twas not his fault,” Clarise repeated as the boy stuttered his apologies.
The Slayer glared at her, and she realized it was neither the spilled wine nor the ruined gown that irked him. No, it had more to do with accepting her new identity. She saw anger, even loathing in his eyes, but as best she could tell it was not directed at her.
“You will need a new gown,” he commented, his gaze falling to her sodden chest. A similarly savage but unrelated emotion flashed in his eyes.
It was then that she realized her breasts were clearly visible beneath the wet fabric. The warlord had noticed it, too. Needing to sever the intensity of his gaze, Clarise used Simon as a shield.
“Come,” he added, signaling that they would leave the table.
Sir Roger stood as they skirted his ruffled falcon. “I am sorry, lady, for the inquisition,” he said. The words were awkward and tentative. He was still uncertain of her tale.
Clarise threw him an understanding smile. “Your job is to defend your lord,” she assured him, “and in so doing, you must be suspicious of everyone. Rest assured that I came here for protection, nothing more.” At least that was the case now that she would not do Ferguson’s bidding.
The tension in the knight’s face eased, making him look younger. “You are safe here,” he said sincerely.
Clarise dared a peek at the Slayer’s face as he drew her toward the stairs. It seemed all at once that he was cloaked in predatory silence. She felt threatened by the simple touch of his fingertips as he escorted her to the stairs.
“Change him,” the warlord instructed, letting her go. “I will send more gowns to your chamber. You may choose those that please you.”
His narrowed gaze dared her to decline his generous offer. She passed an uncertain moment, wondering if the Slayer assumed, because of her story, that she was now his mistress by default.
Peter rushed toward them with the cradle, and the question went unspoken. With eyes wide and mouth dry, Clarise turned and followed Peter up the stairs.
She hated the niggling suspicion that she’d just dug herself a deeper hole.
Clarise studied the gowns that Nell had draped over the chest, the bed, and the new dressing partition. There were ten in all, in every shade and color of nature: blue, orange, saffron, purple, and green. They were fashioned out of wool and linen, precious cotton and silk. Some were shot with silver thread; others embroidered with ribbons, tassels, and lace. They came with matching slippers, all a bit too big. She had never seen such luxurious clothing in her life.
“Did they belong to Lady Genrose?” she asked with sudden reluctance.
“Oh, nay, milady,” Nell assured her. “These were Lady Eppingham’s, the baron’s wife. She loved to look the part, if ye know what I mean.”
Clarise recalled the rumor that the Slayer had killed the baron and his wife on their pilgrimage to Canterbury. “What happened to her?” she asked, wanting to hear Nell’s version of the story. She ran a hand over a length of lustrous silk.
“She died with her husband on pilgrimage,” the girl predictably answered. “They got nay farther than Tewksbury when they fell fiercely ill. ’Twas the food they ate in an inn, someone said. An awful way to die, do ye not agree?”
Clarise gave a delicate shiver. “Wholeheartedly,” she said.
“Which will ye wear first, milady?” Nell prompted, eager to test her wings as a lady’s maid.
Clarise deliberated a moment. In accepting these gowns from Christian de la Croix, she was in effect accepting her new role in the castle. Was it the role of a guest and a lady, or did he expect her to be his mistress? Either way, she had no choice. The turquoise gown could not be salvaged.
“The saffron one,” she decided at last. She liked the way the sleeves fell away from the arm and draped toward the floor.
“Perfect!” Nell exclaimed.
Clarise withdrew behind the dressing partition that had been dragged into her chamber by two young boys. After peeling off the wine-stained gown, she submitted to Nell’s pampering as the maid wiped her down with lavender water. Before Nell could catch a glimpse of the pale stripes across her back, Clarise tugged on a clean shift. The marks that Ferguson had placed there would be hard to explain in light of her story.
Moments later Clarise examined her reflection in the looking glass. The mirror was too small to tell her much about the gown’s fit, but the saffron color turned her eyes to liquid gold. I look more like a leman than a nurse now, came the troubling thought.
“Ye look lovely, lady,” the maid enthused. “I knew ye was gentry the second I laid eyes on ye. Wille ye still be wantin’ to come with the servants to Abbingdon on Friday?” she asked.
Clarise was counting on it. Everything she had done and said depended on her ability to reach Alec. “I would like to, very much,” she answered. Whether the Slayer would let her go was another question altogether.
Nell chattered enthusiastically as she combed her lady’s hair. Clarise, who had begun to fear that she would never be left alone, was relieved to hear a knock at the door.
Her maid went to answer it. “My lord,” she squeaked, stepping to one side.
The Slayer ducked beneath the lintel and drew up short. Clarise experienced his stare as a bolt of lightning striking her from the sky.
“I wish to speak with you,” he said in a voice that was oddly reserved.
“That will be all, Nell.”
The girl dragged herself from the chamber. Wisely she left the door ajar. Clarise stood up from her seat on the chest. She felt her newly brushed hair swing softly at her hips. She was relieved to see the predatory glint gone from the seneschal’s eyes. In its place was a brooding thoughtfulness.