“A feast,” she repeated. The lightness of his spirits was contagious, if curious. “And what is the occasion?”
“You will know it soon enough,” he said. He turned faintly red beneath his tan.
“Can you not send others to do the hunting?” she asked, thinking of Ethelred. “There must be men-at-arms who would undertake the task.”
“Sir Roger’s falcon answers only to his call. My men remain at Glenmyre. That leaves only us.” He shrugged, looking like a handsome woodsman with a bow on his shoulder.
“Well, go then, but hurry back,” she relented. She made to turn away, but then remembered that she wanted to thank him for a recent kindness. “My lord, I thank you for moving Doris to the nursery. I am well rested for the first time in a month.” The cook had taken over Simon’s midnight feedings, giving Clarise the leisure to sleep.
The warlord’s half-smile faded. His expression became quizzical. “I would like to take credit for such thoughtfulness, but it wasn’t I.”
Not he? Then it could only have been Sir Roger. They both looked to the knight, who shook his head.
Possibly Harold, then, or Dame Maeve. Had the steward’s wife tired of their rivalry? Was she ready to make amends? “Do you object, my lord? I will, of course, watch him at all other times.”
His gaze caressed her upturned face. “You look better for your rest,” he decided kindly. “Doris may stay.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish to speak with you this afternoon, about my offer,” he announced. With those alarming words, he yanked his mount around. The destrier gave his tail a haughty swoosh, and they were away.
From the edge of the drawbridge, Clarise watched the two men cut a fresh path through the knee-high flowers. Daisies and loosestrife swayed beneath an easterly breeze. She only had eyes for the dark-haired warrior who rode so confidently in his seat, his sharp gaze focused on the tree line. She felt a clutching pang in her chest that she attributed to missing breakfast.
What was he going to talk to her about? Likely he wanted an answer right away.
She didn’t have an answer yet, though she’d imagined in vivid detail what it would be like to be his mistress. Despite his bloody reputation, she was certain he would treat her well, perhaps even come to feel affection for her. Breed children on her if he so desired.
Or marry again and leave her with her shame.
She recalled the things she had wanted for herself since childhood—the things she’d thought Alec could offer her: a marriage blessed by God, a husband who cherished her, children in her lap and at her feet. A longing came upon her, so deep and pulling that she sighed out loud. How could she settle for anything less and be happy?
She turned and plodded the length of the drawbridge. In light of the good abbot’s absence, her yearnings were selfish. Her mother and sisters suffered on, while she pined for something that was more than most women ever attained.
The Slayer offered her his sword arm and shattering physical ecstasy. Unless Alec could top that offer, it would have to be enough for Clarise DuBoise.
Was it a boar or a deer? Christian couldn’t readily tell by the color of its fur. The animal froze as though sensing that it had become a target. He pulled his bowstring taut until it creaked ominously in the silent clearing. The birds were dumb with terror. The leaves on the trees ceased to tremble. In the meadow nearby, the pure, high scream of the gyrfalcon signaled Sir Roger’s success in his portion of the wager.
Christian gave a determined smile. By felling this animal, he might still come out the victor and produce the biggest game.
The animal suddenly bolted. Through the underbrush it crashed, snapping twigs, crushing ferns. “Don’t shoot!” it cried.
Christian brought his arrow down. A talking boar? Nay, it was a monk. He could see that clearly now. The man wore the dun-colored cloth of a novice. The bottoms of his sandal’s flashed as he ran.
“Hold!” he called out. “I mean you no harm.”
The monk disappeared behind a tree, then peeked around it.
“What are you doing on my lands?” Christian snapped. It irritated him to be reminded of the Abbot of Rievaulx right now. He’d been enjoying this challenge between himself and his vassal. It had been a long time since he’d taken part in the hunt. More than that, every pheasant, every rabbit felled would find its way to the banquet table in celebration of his marriage to Clarise. Provided she agreed to wed him.
“I’ve been following you,” the monk admitted feebly.
“What the bloody hell for?”
The man blanched at his foul language and crossed himself. “I . . . I have a package for you,” he replied. An arm jutted outward. Dangling from the monk’s hand was a large leather satchel.
“What is it?” Christian demanded, suspicious of anything the Gilbert might have to give him. Two possibilities occurred to him: a ransom note for Ethelred—he dismissed the notion, as the bag was too big for a note. Or a body part of the good abbot—a hand, perhaps.
“Letters!” cried the cleric. “Letters from Clarise DuBoise to her lover, Alec Monteign.”
Those were not the words Christian expected. He heard a buzzing in his ears that might have been caused by a fly. Clarise and Alec? Lovers? He recalled that they had been betrothed at the time he seized Glenmyre. But he’d assumed their marriage was a legal arrangement, an alliance between Monteign and Ferguson. It was the catalyst to every event that followed.
He sat astounded in his saddle. Shock gave way to denial. Gilbert was meddling again. “Come forward,” he growled.
“Will ye kill me?” the man inquired. His eyes darted to the warlord’s sword.
Christian could see his reputation was alive and well at the abbey. “I don’t kill clergy,” he growled.
When he seized the bundle from the man’s shaking hands, he was instantly impressed by the quantity of letters inside. “Stay a moment.” He loosed the cord and withdrew one of the parchment tubes. He would determine at once if the letters were real or forged. My beloved Alec, he read, struck by the flowing script of the writer. You have been gone but a month and already I feel that years have passed. He released one end of the parchment and it sprang closed.
He could not begin to name what he was feeling. A vise had closed about his chest, squeezing so hard that he could scarcely draw breath. Without a word to the watchful monk, he jerked his horse around and galloped from the glen. He rode blindly in the direction of the field where he’d left his hunting partner. Through the green canopy overhead, he caught a glimpse of the gyrfalcon circling the sky. Sir Roger would know what to do.
Hours later they sat in Christian’s solar with the table between them and Clarise’s letters lying in two piles: those they had read and those yet unread. He’d refused to let his vassal read the majority. The messages were too intimate, too sensual. They made him burn with jealousy and shame.
Dearest One, read the letter in his hand. When you lie on your narrow cot at night, do you not dream of me? The marriage bed is a warmer place and softer, I trow. To sleep with your hand on my breast were as pure an act as prayer. He dropped the letter out of Sir Roger’s reach and snatched up another.
Alec My Love, if you knew the humilities I endure under Ferguson’s rule, you would not have abandoned me so cruelly. Have you forgotten the kiss we shared at the Feast of St. Michaelmas? We strolled by the lake, and you held my hand. Have you forgotten that you pledged your heart to me that day while a starling serenaded us? I have not forgotten. I dream of kissing you again. All that I have are my dreams, now. Ferguson and his men roam the halls of Heathersgill looking for wenches, willing or nay. I try to stay clear of them. Do you lack the courage to rise up for me? You took your horse and armor with you when you left. In the name of chivalry, how can you leave us to suffer so?