“Pleased to meet Your Grace,” she murmured, masking the sudden certainty that this man would help her reach Alec if the necessity arose. She hoped it would not.
The abbot’s gaze fell upon the bundle in her arms. “This could only be Christian’s son!” he exclaimed. “What a mighty one he is already!”
Simon was swaddled in purple silk, a color chosen to complement Clarise’s lavender gown. He returned the abbot’s praise with a dispassionate stare. Father Ethelred laughed out loud. “A miracle!” he pronounced, chuckling.
Clarise felt her heart swell with love, both for the baby and the cleric who was so clearly pleased to see him. She kissed the curl that grew skyward from the top of Simon’s head.
“I have news,” announced the abbot happily, “and I would say it without delay. But where is your seneschal?”
“Due to return at any minute,” the knight supplied.
“I cannot wait!” Ethelred’s blue eyes sparkled. “I have just come from a meeting with the archbishop. The subject of the interdict came up in casual conversation. Archbishop Thurston said that the interdict was never approved by the Holy See. Tomorrow I go to Rievaulx to see the papal seal. If Gilbert fails to produce it, this matter will place him under grave scrutiny.”
Ethelred did not seem at all displeased by his colleague’s treachery. Clarise recalled that there was rivalry between them.
“Verily?” exclaimed Sir Roger after a moment of astonished silence. “Then it was just an attempt to breed discontent at Helmesly. Gilbert hoped the people here would turn against their seneschal.”
“Mayhap so,” Ethelred agreed.
“Well, why stand here like knaves when Lady Clare has put the great hall to rights? Our castle is now a welcome place for visitors.”
An hour later Clarise had developed a pounding headache. The abbot had been given a room where he would dry out his robes. All she had intended to do was to tell the new head cook that a special meal would have to be drawn up for the cleric, who could not eat meat, except for Sundays. The cook, who’d finally been persuaded to concoct a jellie of fyshe this night, complained to Maeve. The steward’s wife intercepted her in the breezeway.
“Lady Clare!” she called in her strident voice.
Rolling her eyes at the woman’s tone, Clarise turned, just two steps from an escape into the great hall. “What it is?” she inquired sweetly.
“I see you have taken it upon yourself to perform Harold’s duties once again. What the abbot—or for that matter, what anyone—will eat is none of your concern.”
“I am certain Harold would not mind a little help. You, on the other hand, seem to resent it strongly. I have to wonder why you wield your power like a sword. Even your husband is subject to you.”
Maeve drew herself into a rigid line. “Do you wish to play lady, then?” she hissed. “Very well. Let us see if you can take my place. I’m retiring to my chambers,” she announced, pivoting sharply. She took her keys with her as she headed toward the servants’ hall.
Clarise stared after her with her mouth agape.
This was a setback she hadn’t expected. She had hoped to greet the Slayer with poise and elegance from the vantage of the dais, not scurrying around with her hair slipping from the knot on her head, sweating from the heat of the kitchen and the burden of having to tote Simon wherever she went.
Harold, she feared, would be more of a hindrance than a help. He paced before the kitchen exit, wringing his hands and muttering in agitation. Promising once again that she would soon read Stories of the Saints’ Lives to him, she managed to convince him that they would get along without his wife.
In the kitchen the pages and maids milled aimlessly. Hearing them squabble over the order in which they would carry in the food, Clarise pushed into their midst and gave them a lecture worthy of the Empress Matilda. The jostling for position ceased but not the complaints.
She reentered the hall to find the abbot conversing with the reticent steward. He detached himself to approach Clarise.
“Harold tells me that a babe has been buried in the graveyard and awaits the sacrament of burial,” said Ethelred.
Clarise was forced to calm a fussing Simon. “Aye, Your Grace. ’Twas the cook Doris’s babe, a stillborn. She would be thankful if the proper words could be said over him.”
“At dawn tomorrow, then. It should be done at once, now that the interdict has been lifted, so to speak.”
“Has Simon been baptized?” Clarise asked, realizing that she didn’t even know. He fretted loudly against her shoulder.
“I baptized him the day that I buried his mother,” said Ethelred solemnly, “as Christian had refused the right of the midwife to do so. True,” he added under his breath, “the interdict forbade both sacraments at the time, but I never did see the point of it.” His hand came up and stroked the soft spot on Simon’s head. Immediately the baby quit his hungry mewls. “At the time,” Ethelred continued, “I was quite concerned that this babe would not live. You have been a blessing to him,” he added, glancing at her sharply. “Where are you from?”
She looked into the abbot’s inquisitive gaze and found she couldn’t lie. “From Heathersgill,” she admitted quietly. “My father was Edward the Learned.”
“Keeper of the Books,” he elaborated with a smile. “I met him once.”
“In truth?” She was astonished to hear it.
“He tutored King David’s children in the Scottish court.”
“Aye, that he did!”
“I was educated there myself. How does he now?”
Clarise’s throat closed with grief; still, she managed to repeat the awful story of Edward’s death. It came as a relief to speak of it after guarding her identity so long. “Now Ferguson rules my father’s keep as if he were the rightful lord,” she added, pained by the knowledge that she had done nothing yet to ensure her mother’s and sisters’ survival.
Ethelred’s face reflected shock. “I am saddened to hear it,” he said. “Your mother? Is she well?”
Clarise shook her head. “The selfsame Scot forced my mother to wed him. He abuses my mother at will; my sisters, also.”
Ethelred put a hand on either one of her shoulders. “What can I do to help you?” he asked sincerely.
Her hopes took wing. “Is there something that the Church can do? Annul the marriage, perhaps?”
“I will look into it,” he promised.
“Your Grace,” she added, resisting the urge to cling to his sleeve. “I have yet to tell Christian who I am. You see,” she added, lowering her voice, “Ferguson sent me here to poison his enemy. Only I couldn’t do it. But if Ferguson learns that I’ve betrayed him, he will kill my mother and sisters as he has sworn to do.”
The abbot looked astounded by such subterfuge. “You haven’t told Christian the truth?”
“Not yet,” she admitted miserably. “I was afraid that Ferguson would catch wind of it, and the ones I love would be swiftly put to death. Now I have spun so many lies, Lord Christian has every right to be angry, perhaps to throw me out with nowhere else to go, or worse.” She tried not to think of what worse might entail.
“You must tell him at once,” said Ethelred firmly. “Truth is a better fortress than deceit.”
She nodded in agreement of his admonition. The time had come to cast herself on the Slayer’s mercy.
Further discussion was curtailed by Sir Roger’s presence as he trotted down the steps behind them. No sooner had the knight joined them than the horn trumpeted loudly, announcing the Slayer’s return.
“He’s here,” Sir Roger stated cheerfully.
Oh, God. Clarise gripped the baby so hard he let out a shriek. She had just enough time to cast a final look over the hall, wishing again that she had struck a fire in the hearth, in spite of Maeve’s disapproval. But now it was too late. Both the doors to the main entrance crashed open. Into the glare of fifty candles and ten torches stepped the Slayer.