She knew that the Abbot of Revesby would marry them. Ethelred had procured a special license while conferring with the archbishop. Elections were already in process to determine who would take Gilbert’s place at Rievaulx. It was no secret that Ethelred, desiring to see his former abbey flourish, would be happy to accept the position if offered.
One villain down, thought Clarise as she edged toward the balustrade to peer down into the bustling hall, and one to go.
She braced herself for the sight of her stepfather. She saw at once that Ferguson had brought more than half his men with him. Their pea-green plaid was unmistakable, as were their bare knees in kilts. They milled impatiently in the great hall, gathering closely about the fire pit as though anticipating the fires of hell that awaited them.
She backed up until her spine was pressed to the wall. Her mouth had gone dry at the sight of their too familiar faces. Kendal, Rowan’s father, stood with his shoulders hunched and his eyes glittering with the desire for vengeance. It came as little comfort that his only weapon was a costume sword, its scabbard encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Clarise didn’t doubt it was sharpened in anticipation of conflict.
She summoned the courage to look again. Her eyes sought and found her stepfather. He lounged behind his men, using them as a shield in the eventuality of a scuffle. The smirk that rode the edges of his orange mustache contrasted sharply with Kendal’s fury. He looked well pleased, she thought, thinking himself allied with the Slayer. Hatred and grief wound themselves about her throat and squeezed. He did not deserve to be happy, she thought, when he had brought her family so much pain.
Her gaze slid to the women huddling beneath the window, and she gave a gasp of mixed delight and dread. Her mother and sisters had come! Jeanette was even wearing a presentable gown, though her hair was still gnarled and her expression haunted. Merry looked nearly as distressed as her mother. Her fire-red hair had been covered with a headdress, but she stood with her arms crossed and her green eyes darting nervously. Only little Kyndra, her hand tucked in Merry’s arm, looked pleased to attend a wedding. Blond and guileless, she was too young to scent the current of danger in the air.
If God were merciful, Clarise thought, they would all be free of Ferguson by the morrow.
Suddenly a Scot caught sight of her. He nudged his partner, and a dozen curious gazes rose above the tapestry of the hunt. A rash of pinpricks broke out on Clarise’s skin.
“Daughter!”
The cry startled her. Her mother had seen her as well. Clarise watched with alarm as Jeanette struggled to claw through the wall of Scottish soldiers to get to her.
“Get back, wench,” one of them growled, shoving her into the wall again.
“Leave her go,” said Ferguson. His eyes glittered with contempt. “Let her make a fool o’ herself.”
Jeanette shot through their ranks, not waiting for her daughters, who trailed behind. Up the stairs she scrambled, leaving Clarise torn between panic and the desire to greet her halfway. She took several steps toward the stairs. Her mother gained the last step and raced forward, her eyes wild with alarm.
“Daughter!” she cried again. She flung her bony arms around her and held her tightly.
Clarise felt her mother tremble. Her own arms folded protectively over her. “Hush, Mother. Everything’s all right.”
“My dear, how have you been?” Jeanette cried. She pulled away and clasped her daughter’s face in her hands. “Oh, but you look so beautiful!”
She wished she could say the same of her once-lovely mother. Jeanette was as thin as a wraith. Her cheeks were now hollow, and her hazel eyes had lost their luster. “I am well, Mother,” she answered earnestly. Her gaze moved beyond her mother’s shoulder to Merry and Kyndra, now gaining the second level. “Sisters!” she cried, holding her arms out to them, also.
They huddled together, embracing fiercely, their eyes wet with tears, their hearts aching.
“I have found help,” Clarise whispered, taking care not to be overheard. “The Slayer will reclaim our home.”
The blare of a trumpet signaled that the wedding was about to commence. All and sundry began to file through the forebuilding and out to the chapel. “Stay with me,” Clarise implored, gripping them tightly. “You need not go with them.”
The Scots looked to Ferguson for permission to proceed. In a tightly knotted group, they marched toward the chapel, ignoring the women who remained on the gallery.
At last the only people left below were the servants laying out the fare.
“You don’t have to marry him!” Jeanette blurted. She seemed suddenly stronger than she had seconds before.
“I have a poison for you,” her younger sister added, pressing a satchel into her hand. “You can kill him ere he takes you to his bed.”
Clarise regarded them both with amazement. “Nay,” she said, “you misunderstand, both of you. I am not being forced in any way. ’Tis my choice. The Slayer is going to help us.”
“Hah, he’s another like Ferguson,” her mother insisted. “He has killed women and children. I heard he even killed his first wife.”
She gripped her mother’s arms. “Mother, I am not being coerced. You have to trust me in this matter. Christian is an honorable man, not a murderer. I will wed him of my own free will,” she insisted.
Merry hissed a breath through her teeth. “He’s put you under a spell!” she guessed, her green eyes enormous.
“Stop it!”
“How could you want to marry such a man?” her mother asked. “Do you want to end up like me?”
A movement drew Clarise’s gaze to the window. It was a pigeon, launching itself into flight. Could her mother be right? She shook her head. Nay, she believed in the better side of Christian de la Croix. Besides, if she didn’t marry him, who then would save her family from their misery?
No one.
In truth, she had no choice. But it didn’t help to have them planting doubts in her mind.
There was more to this marriage than the promise of Christian’s help, wasn’t there? After the tourney tomorrow, their marriage would hinge on something other than Ferguson. The question was, what?
Nell called her name. “Milady, Sir Roger doth give his summons,” she pointed out. Indeed, the knight had poked his head through the double doors and was signaling them to descend.
“Hear me out,” Clarise said firmly to her mother and sisters. “This marriage is our best chance at destroying Ferguson. Do not meddle in the matter. The Slayer is not like him,” she added. “He’s a far better man, an honorable man. I do not need this poison,” she added, thrusting it back at Merry.
“Come,” she added when they simply gawked at her. “The sooner this is done, the sooner you’ll be safe.” Taking her mother’s hand, she led them down the sweeping stairs and across the hall, where Roger held the doors. As they approached the knight, she could see the interest and the pity in his eyes as he beheld her mother. “My lady,” he said, bravely addressing her. “May I have the honor of knowing your name?”
Startled, Jeanette looked to Clarise for instruction.
“This is my mother, Lady Jeanette,” Clarise said, making the introductions. “My sisters, Merry and Kyndra.”
He repeated each of their names, giving them all a gallant bow. Then he turned his focus to Jeanette. “Will you grant me a token for the tourney tomorrow?” he begged her.