Christian checked his reply. With his wife not in the ground a week, it didn’t seem appropriate to comment one way or the other. But if Clare were a pearl, then Genrose might have been a slab of marble. He squashed the unkind thought.
“Did she tell where she is from?” Sir Roger added, his eyebrows nudging upward.
“Glenmyre,” Christian assented with a grunt.
“Yet you trust her with your son.” The knight watched his lord’s expression. “Her husband was killed in a skirmish, you know.”
Christian nodded his head. “He was one of the peasants Ferguson killed.”
Sir Roger gave him a funny look. “Nay, I asked her if that were so, and she denied it,” he retorted unexpectedly.
The noise from the lute faded into the background. Christian frowned and searched his memory. “She led me to believe such was just the case. That is why she came here, because she couldn’t bear to remain at Glenmyre any longer.”
Sir Roger’s gray eyes narrowed. “I’d say we have a slight discrepancy,” he said lightly. “What more did she tell you?”
“In her own words, she said she came to serve me, as I am now the ruler of Glenmyre.”
“Serve you?” the knight repeated, a hint of ribaldry in his eyes.
Christian ignored it, though in his mind’s eye he imagined her serving him in exactly the same way. “Is she suspect?” he asked his vassal. Sir Roger had a gift for sensing danger. If the woman were a spy, his man would soon know it.
“I’m not sure,” Saintonge surprised him by replying. He scraped the bristles of his new beard. “I know she is not what she professes to be. Her speech betrays her. She is no more a freed serf than you or I are high-born princes. The woman is a Norman, if not a lady outright.”
It was nice to have his suspicions corroborated. Yet if the woman lied to them, then chances were she intended some mischief. “I’d better check on Simon.” He rose quickly from his chair.
Sir Roger clapped a hand to his wrist. “Peace, my liege. A man stands guard over the baby. Sit you down and eat for a change.”
Christian eased back into his oak chair. “You left a guard alone with her?” The notion unsettled him. He knew firsthand the willpower it took not to stare at the nurse’s breasts.
“ ’Tis only Sir Gregory,” Sir Roger said, naming the oldest knight in their service.
Christian was mollified, but only slightly. He signaled to Peter to bring the water bowl. “He had best keep his eyes to himself,” he muttered, dipping his hands. “Marked you how the woman spoke to me?” he couldn’t help but add. It had been years since he’d shared a casual conversation with any woman, the most recent being with his mother nigh ten years ago.
“Mayhap she has yet to hear the rumors of your bloody past,” drawled the knight.
“She knows them,” he insisted. “I saw the fear on her face when she beheld my scar.”
“Then she is either brave or foolish.”
Trenchers of starling and pork pie made their way to the high table. “Where is the wench?” Christian wondered aloud. “I bade her sup with us.”
“Likely sleeping,” said Saintonge. “She was dead on her feet when I found her.”
Ah, yes, she’d fainted in his arms. Christian savored the memory of her softness against his armor. He ought to have thought of her welfare, but he was not as astute as Saintonge where women were concerned. Catching the eye of Dame Maeve, he waved her forward. “See you what the nurse is doing,” he commanded.
The woman pinched her lips. She gave the air a sniff as she turned to do his bidding.
What? Christian wondered, staring after her. He decided he should have asked a lowlier servant. The steward’s wife had better things to do than charge up and down the stairs. It was no secret that she was the true source of efficiency behind the simple-minded steward.
Harold, panicked by his wife’s desertion, began to pace before the dais. His white hair bobbed like a rooster’s comb as he oversaw the food’s distribution. The minstrel fell wisely silent as the men dug into their trenchers.
The meal progressed slowly. Christian looked up, happy to see the steward’s wife approaching the table at last.
“My lord, the woman is sleeping, and I was unable to awaken her,” she said with more deference.
“Well, what about my son? Who watches him?”
“The babe sleeps, also, and a knight stands guard outside his door.”
“All is well with the world,” Sir Roger added with distinct cynicism.
“Kindly prepare a tray for her,” Christian requested of the woman, “as I would not have her starve. I will carry it up myself,” he added, eager to share words with the woman.
“She is fond of boiled goat’s milk,” said Saintonge from the side of his mouth.
Christian indicated that the milk be added to the fare. Dame Maeve affirmed the order and moved away, calling instructions to the pages as she hastened to the kitchen.
“So,” Sir Roger said, reaching for his goblet. “You will deliver the tray yourself.”
“I mean to question her, ’tis all,” Christian groused. “We know that she has lied to us. I mean to discover why.”
“The answer depends on what she truly is,” his vassal reasoned. “If one goes by her speech alone, she could be a damned Parisian.” He deftly fingered his knife.
“Then she’s a lady,” Christian reasoned. “But what would a lady be doing traipsing through the countryside in search of work? ’Tis impossible.”
“ ’Tis possible if she bore her baby out of wedlock,” Sir Roger countered.
Her baby. Christian had forgotten that the woman had to have given birth first in order to have milk. God’s blood. Not only had she lost a husband recently but also a child. Having experienced that kind of loss himself, he felt a ribbon of pity wind through his heart. At least he was capable of such a basic emotion, poor woman. Had he been crass to her? He could have been more thoughtful.
He put the pieces together slowly. “So, if she bore a babe out of wedlock, then mayhap she lies about the husband.”
“ ’Twould explain the inconsistencies,” Sir Roger countered. He tapped the side of his goblet with his knife and narrowed his eyes. “Which brings up an entirely new possibility,” he murmured, after a moment of intense reflection.
“And that is?” Christian prompted.
“Perhaps she was a courtesan, a leman—”
“A mistress!” said Christian. Now, this explanation he preferred, for he could feel less guilty about the woman’s loss. “Aye, that would explain her candor with me, the jewelry that she wore about her neck,” he added with enthusiasm. “She said it was bronze, but I know the difference.” He remembered staring at the pendant to keep from ogling the woman’s wares.
“It also explains why she bore a child out of wedlock, why she has come to serve you as overlord of Glenmyre.” Sir Roger imbued the word with all its baser connotations.
Christian felt his ardor rise. The woman had come to serve him in the absence of her former lord. All at once, his excitement dimmed. “That means . . .” He reached for his wine, needing to chase a bitter taste from his tongue.
“That she might have been Monteign’s leman,” Saintonge supplied.
Christian thrust the unpleasant image from his mind. Monteign had been a big and burly man, more than twice Clare Crucis’s age.
They sat for a moment in private contemplation.
“Do you think she seeks a new protector?” Christian dared to ask.
Sir Roger wiped the sheen of grease from his chin. “We have taken our guesses to extremes,” he replied, crushing his lord’s burgeoning hopes. “She might also be a spy, sent to take stock of our defenses. Or to avenge a husband’s death.”
Those same fears had coursed Christian’s mind like muddy rivers, sullying the relief that Simon had been saved. “I will get the truth from her yet,” he vowed, hurrying to finish.