The Slayer motioned for the men in the practice yard to form a circle around him. In a smooth motion, he pulled his broadsword from the scabbard. The length of steel flung bursts of sunlight into the air as he hefted it and swung it casually. Clarise guessed that it weighed nearly two stone. The men-at-arms gave him a wide berth.
The warlord waved the weapon in a series of graceful arcs. The blade twisted left, right, down, up, then swooped in a lethal arc that would cleave a man from shoulder to groin.
As he performed the drill a second time, she imagined Ferguson standing helpless before the onslaught. The Scot would struggle to raise his double-edged ax in his defense. As the blade came down, she imagined him crumpling to the grass that would turn red with blood. She spun around and blinked to clear the vivid daydream.
Alec would take care of it for her, she vowed. There wasn’t any need to admit to the warlord who she was.
And yet, deep in her heart, Clarise had a feeling it was only a matter of time before she would need to beg the Slayer’s mercy and call upon his might.
Chapter Eight
“The saints and the apostles!” Nell exclaimed, helping her mistress into the tub.
Clarise did not have to ask the reason for Nell’s sudden outburst. She’d taken great pains to shield her lady’s maid from viewing the stripes on her back, but the task was impossible with Nell hovering so close at all hours. Though the wounds were old and near to fading altogether, it was obvious that the marks hadn’t fallen there by accident.
“ ’Tis nothing,” Clarise assured her. She would have to rush this bath and send Nell away promptly. Simon was thrashing mightily within his cradle. She had just enough milk for one more feeding. Then it was off to the goat pen to procure more for him.
“But, my lady, ye haffe been beaten!” Nell cried. “Who dared do such a thing to ye?”
Clarise put a toe in the water, testing its heat. “Perhaps I will tell you one day, Nell,” she admitted, turning her head to give the servant a stern look. “But for now I cannot. You must tell no one about these marks.” She cringed at the necessity of having to tell more lies. “Promise me,” she added firmly.
Nell gave a reluctant nod. “I promise, milady,” she whispered. “I be right good at keeping secrets,” she assured her. “I ne did tell ye how the seneschal killed our Lady Genrose, did I?”
“No, you kept that well to yourself,” Clarise drawled with irony. She stepped into the steaming water, hissing as it burned her thighs.
The girl clasped a hand to her mouth. “Oh!” she cried. “I just told ye.”
“That’s all right.” Clarise assured her. “I have heard the story already.” She lowered herself into the fragrant bath.
“ ’Tis nay a story,” the maid insisted, propping her hands on her waist. “He plucked the babe out whilst she still breathed. We heard her screams, we did.”
“Nonsense.” Clarise wondered why she felt moved to defend the warlord. She had nothing but his word that he hadn’t killed his wife. “No one mentioned a scream before now. You made that up.” She scooped up a sponge and began to lather it with soap.
Nell seemed to search her memory. “Mayhap I did,” she relented.
With her face averted, Clarise rolled her eyes. Nell’s imagination didn’t bode well for her own secrets. She sensed the culmination of her own deceit coming steadily closer. “I would like to take a bath alone,” she informed the maid. “You may come later when I’m done.”
“Aye, milady. May I wash yer hair?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Nell left the room, reluctant to return to her less glamorous chore of laundering.
Many hours later, smelling of lavender and sleeping in her newly laundered chemise, Clarise’s eyes sprang open. A fleck of moonlight had fallen on her face, reminding her to waken. She sat up slowly. Simon was sleeping in his cradle for a change. He had yet to rouse for a midnight feeding. If he did, she would have nothing to feed him. The pail was empty as it usually was by this late hour.
She dragged herself from bed. The servants would have sought their pallets by now. It was time to make her move. Opening the chest, she retracted the empty pail. She wriggled her feet into her slippers and set out on another perilous quest for goat’s milk.
This is truly madness, she thought, not for the first time. Her stomach endured a familiar uneasiness as she slinked through the darkened castle and out the rear door. She edged cautiously around the kitchen and arrived at the animal pen. The ground seemed to glow under the incandescent moon. A fresh layer of straw crunched beneath her feet.
At least the goat was used to producing at this time, she comforted herself. The door to the pen gave an agonizing groan. She pinpointed the two nanny goats by the whites of their eyes. The one with the dark patch on its side was her favorite. As she stalked it, her foot came in contact with a bucket.
The full pail sloshed but didn’t tip. She bent down to examine it.
It was a full bucket of goat’s milk, fresh from the udder if its warmth was any indication. She dipped her finger and tasted it. Sour, just like Roger said.
Who would be so careless as to forget a pail of milk? She straightened and eyed the bucket thoughtfully. One of the milkmaids must have left it behind.
Why waste the time of milking a goat when she ran the risk that Simon would awaken? What if he were crying even now, drawing the unwanted concern of his father? Mere stone could not disguise the baby’s volume.
Making a quick decision, Clarise snatched up the bucket and hastened back into the castle. Remembering the fall of Troy from Homer’s famous volume, she hoped she wouldn’t regret this gift the way the Trojans regretted the gift horse and the enemies who lay concealed within it.
“Lady Clare!”
Clarise winced openly and ground to a halt. She’d been tiptoeing past the Slayer’s solar, hoping not to gain his notice. It was Friday afternoon, and the servants were scheduled to leave for Abbingdon at any time. This was her big chance to enlist the Abbot Revesby’s aid in getting word to Alec.
“My lord?” she inquired, stepping closer to the open doorway.
The warlord was seated at a writing table, quill in hand. Sunlight streamed through the window behind him, framing his torso in a haze of gold. He looked different, she noticed, and then she realized why. He wore a bleached undershirt and no tunic. She’d never seen him in white. He looked like the archangel Gabriel.
Until he looked up. The scar on his face betrayed an inner tension that was entirely at odds with an angel’s serenity. “Call me Christian,” he demanded, stabbing the inkwell with the tip of his quill. He paused to take in her appearance.
She wore a different gown today, a smock of forest green with a satin ribbon that laced up the front. His gaze fell to the sling she carried against her hip. “Where are you going?” he added sharply.
She rubbed her moist palms against her linen skirt. “I would like to go to Abbingdon to hear the Abbot of Revesby preach,” she replied, holding her breath.
“With my son in a sling?” His eyebrows predictably lowered.
“He will come to no harm,” she assured him. “I go in the company of many servants, even men-at-arms, to keep us safe.”
“My son does not pass outside these walls,” the Slayer quietly explained. His expression was stern enough to make her fidget.
“But I wish to confess,” she insisted, fighting to keep her tone mild. “Is there another here who may watch Simon in my stead?”