The silence in the chamber grew oppressive. He longed to hear her honeyed voice again. Seldom did he come across a soul willing to converse with him. “Why did you journey south?” he prompted. “Why did you come to Helmesly?” It was a two-day walk from Glenmyre, perhaps farther. The road offered untold perils.
“I could stay no longer.” He was relieved to hear resignation in her tone and not weeping. “ ’Twas logical that I come to Helmesly, as you are now the ruler of Glenmyre. I came to . . . to serve you as I can.”
Her observation caused him to remember the fateful day he rode upon Glenmyre. Monteign’s forces had spilled over a hill without warning. There was no time for words, no time for explaining. Monteign thought he was defending himself from attack. He fought like a lion, ignoring the banner of peace that Christian’s flagman had frantically waved. Despite effort to subdue Monteign without undue bloodshed, the lord of Glenmyre had died and his soldiers had laid down their arms in surrender.
Ignorant of the warlord’s weighty thoughts, Clarise struggled to keep her eyes open. She sensed that the Slayer had finished questioning her. Miraculously she’d survived the initial round. With wildflowers sweetening the evening air and the rhythmic tugging at her breast, she was lulled into a false sense of security. Any moment now she might fall asleep.
Through the bloom of light at her feet, the warlord’s rasping voice reached her again. “I am sorry for the death of your lord, Monteign.”
She could not credit the quiet apology. She must have misheard him.
“I’d heard rumors of an alliance between Monteign and Ferguson. I only meant to question him about the matter.”
“An alliance?” Reality jarred Clarise to wakefulness. Her heart lurched against her breastbone.
“ ’Twas a marriage, between Monteign’s only son and Ferguson’s stepdaughter.”
Her stomach slowly twisted. Her scalp tingled. He couldn’t have guessed who she was already!
“I was told to confront Monteign and put an offer to him that was better than Ferguson’s. The sight of our soldiers must have confused him. He ambushed us as we came over the hill. We had no choice but to fight. He ignored our signal for a truce.”
Stunned, Clarise digested this new information. She’d always assumed that the Slayer had seized Glenmyre by force. This was the first she’d heard of an attempt at negotiations, but perhaps he was lying to her. Men’s recollections of battle were inevitably skewed.
“Tell me,” he added, sounding reflective. “What was Monteign like? What kind of lord was he?”
The question left her reeling. Did the Slayer feel remorse for his sins?
She summoned a picture of Alec’s father. “He was a father to his people,” she replied. “He was fair, yet stern with them. He was stubborn, too, and loyal to his friends.”
“And was he friends with Ferguson?”
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “I . . . I don’t know. I was only a servant. However, I . . .” Did she dare say more, to admit to any kind of knowledge? “I rather think he feared Ferguson more than anything.”
All at once it was quiet on the other side of the partition, and the quiet was profound.
“Dame Crucis, would you like fresh clothing?”
The question was the last thing Clarise expected. She was certain he had guessed who she was and was preparing to kill her.
Clothing? She looked down at her worn smock. “Please,” she replied, dazed that he would even concern himself.
She heard him move to the door. Straining to see beyond the alcove, she perceived the outline of his powerful frame.
“I expect you to sup with me once you’ve refreshed yourself. Bring my son with you.”
With that peremptory order, the shadow melted into the darkness, and Clarise was left alone with the baby. She pondered the words she’d shared with his father. No matter how she turned them over in her mind, she was left with one burning impression: The Slayer wasn’t the barbaric warrior she’d believed. His intelligence made him a double-edged sword. And something else . . . he seemed to actually have compassion and remorse—rare qualities indeed for a man of such fearsome repute.
How was she to poison such a man without losing her own life, or worse yet, her soul to eternal hellfire?
Christian shifted his legs under the table and encountered the wolfhound bellycrawling beneath it. The dog did not belong on the dais, but the presence at his feet was comforting. Since no one but the dog dared get so close, he let the interloper stay.
The discordant twangs bouncing off the ceiling drew his disbelieving gaze. Christian stared at the multicolored tunic of the minstrel and admitted he had erred. Three days ago he’d believed the presence of a minstrel would lighten the spirits of the servants. But the notes tumbling from the boy’s instrument were more of an irritant than entertainment. Christian tried to shut his ears to the noise. Now he knew why the hound hid beneath the table.
Shifting his attention to Peter, he wondered perversely what the page would drop tonight. Peter lived in terror of the seneschal’s temper, and his fear put him in peril of dropping the water bowl. Even now candlelight shivered on the water’s surface. If he dropped the bowl, the Slayer would yell. ’Twas a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Christian growled and glanced toward the gallery. No sign of the new nurse yet. Perhaps the servants had whispered his sins in her ears, and she cowered in her chamber, loathing the prospect of his company. What of it? Everyone feared him. It was inevitable that she would come to fear him, also.
Still, he thought, peering into the ale that was the color of her eyes, he hoped she wouldn’t. Her unflinching attitude was a novelty to him. It had been so long since anyone besides Sir Roger had told him what to do. Kindly leave us.
Could the woman really be a freed serf? She sounded like a bloody queen.
Now she was late for supper, exacerbating his desire to look at her again. He entertained himself by wondering which of her many attributes appealed most to him. Was it her eyes or her mouth? Her habit of chewing on her bottom lip had caused immediate stirrings in his loins. And those breasts! Ah, how he marveled at those full pale globes. He found himself irrationally jealous of his son, who got to suck on them.
Where was the wench? For that matter, where was his master-at-arms? Christian sat alone, insulated from his serfs by the rift that widened to unbreachable proportions after his lady’s passing. Genrose had visited the peasants’ cottages and tended to their needs. He could not compete with the devotion they were used to. He could not begin to emulate it.
He swirled his drink, feeling guilty for something that had been beyond his powers, irritable for the caterwauling coming from the minstrel’s lute. Several soldiers at the boards grumbled over supper’s delay.
At last Sir Roger sidled along the dais to take his seat beside the empty lady’s chair. He greeted Christian with his usual aplomb and held out his goblet to be filled.
Christian waited for what he thought was a reasonable span of time. “You wished to tell me something of the nurse, Saintonge?” he inquired casually.
Sir Roger sent a meaningful glance toward the musician. “How long are we going to put up with this?” he asked, ignoring his liege’s opening.
Christian didn’t want to discuss the minstrel. “Dismiss him tomorrow,” he said curtly. “What was it you were going to say about the nurse?” he asked, betraying his impatience.
“A veritable pearl in an oyster, eh, my lord?” Sir Roger stalled.