The Slayer rolled up the parchment with furious but fluid motions. “He was heading straight for Heathersgill,” he added through his teeth.

Clarise strained her ears as the warlord’s volume dimmed to scarcely more than a murmur. “Henceforth no one enters or leaves this stronghold without being thoroughly searched. I want to know how the minstrel got his hands on these designs!” He shoved them out for his vassal to take.

“We will soon find out, my lord,” Sir Roger promised him. “What did you do with the boy? We will question him.”

The seneschal tugged off a gauntlet, one finger at a time. “I killed him,” he said at last, in a voice as emotionless as death. “ ’Twas an accident.”

Clarise’s vision blurred as the words seeped into her brain. The Slayer muttered something in defense of his butchery. She shook her head in denial as she struggled to assess the impact of this news. Rowan was dead, cut down by the Slayer for being a spy. It was true that Kendal’s son was sly and utterly without honor, but he’d gone without armor and could not even defend himself! To kill him was a cold-blooded act indeed.

She thought of something still more horrible. What if Rowan blurted the truth of her identity before he died? She might be hanged for a spy within the hour.

Paralyzed by the window, Clarise watched the warlord stalk toward the keep and disappear. Was he coming after her?

As if sensing her alarm, Sir Roger looked up and caught her gaze. She steeled herself to keep from ducking out of sight. Forcing a smile, she raised a hand in casual salute.

The knight did not wave back. Nor did he return her smile, but stared at her solemnly and with suspicion.

Clarise turned and stumbled toward the bed. Crawling onto the mattress, she hugged Simon to her breast and sought comfort in the warmth of his tiny body. The image of the straw dummy flashed through her mind. The Slayer had killed Rowan without a trial. What made her think he would hear her tale with any compassion whatsoever?

Moonlight shimmered through the cracks of the shutters, exacerbating Clarise’s inability to sleep. Simon, who had squirmed fitfully for hours, was peaceful at last. Scarcely a drop of milk remained in the earthenware mug beside the bed.

Clarise stared at the shadows forming on her bed curtain and listened for the fall of approaching footsteps. She was certain the Slayer would visit her tonight.

Minutes stretched into hours, and still no midnight visitation. Just when she succumbed to the weight of her eyelids, the groaning of the hinges brought her senses back to wakefulness.

She snapped her eyes shut again and forced herself to breathe evenly. The sound of her pounding heart blended with the stirring of rushes. The air in the boxed bed moved as the curtain was pulled aside. She saw the faint illumination of moonlight through her eyelids. Someone was looking down at her. And she knew who it was.

The blood in her veins crystallized. She waited for him to waken her, her lungs starved for oxygen. Would he give her a chance to pour out her tale, or would he simply strike her down as he had Rowan?

Simon was in the bed beside her, she reminded herself. Surely he wouldn’t want to spatter blood all over his baby.

“Clare Crucis,” he called her in a voice that sounded faintly slurred from drink.

She didn’t answer him. She was scared if she spoke that she’d admit who she was and beg for mercy. And worse, the truth would spread like a quick blazing fire and it would only be a matter of days before Ferguson caught wind of her betrayal. She just needed time enough to reach Alec.

To her relief, the mercenary didn’t call her again. He stood silently beside her bed. She could scarcely hear him breathing. Fear of the unknown kept her motionless.

Christian blinked to clear his vision. He wished he hadn’t drunk a full bottle of wine to drown the memory of this day’s work. He wanted to see the nurse more clearly.

Besides, it would take more than a bottle of wine to forget that he’d snuffed out yet another life. Doing so unintentionally made it no less difficult to bear. He should have realized that the boy wore no armor, no helmet to protect his head. One slap with the broadside of his sword had sent him sprawling to the earth. It was simple misfortune that his head had hit a rock and cracked his skull wide open.

Christian sucked in a breath at the memory and let it out again. He couldn’t help but consider that he had been a young man once, and in the name of service to his father, he had done things more awful than steal the sketches of a castle.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he muttered hoarsely. The sound of his voice in the quiet chamber startled him. He’d had more to drink than was wise.

This was not the time to question the woman, though that had been his intent when he entered the room. Several witnesses had seen her speaking with the minstrel at the gate. Others claimed he’d sung her a ballad filled with hidden meaning. He had more than enough reason to doubt that Clare Crucis had come to Helmesly just to serve him. More likely, her purpose was a sinister one.

His gaze fell to the chain about her neck. The ball-shaped pendant lay against one breast. Since first laying eyes on it, its odd shape and the clasp had made him wonder what use it served. Perhaps she carried in it the ashes of a saint, or a sweet-smelling spice . . . or a deadly poison.

With fingers that trembled slightly, Christian extended his hand and captured the golden ball. He worked the clasp with his thumbnail, determined now to see what lay inside. The two halves of the pendant swung apart, revealing a hollow. He tipped it to one side, then rubbed his index finger in the silk-lined interior. The locket was empty.

Warm relief pooled in his gut as he closed the pendant shut. This did not mean the woman was innocent, he reminded himself. And yet, gazing at her peaceful profile, at the curve of her jaw in the moonlight, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she meant him any harm. He preferred to believe—as he had from the first—that she was sent by design, to save Simon’s life. And possibly to save the Slayer’s soul.

The hope still throbbed in him. Bathed in moonlight, she looked capable of casting out a hoard of demons. Her legs were drawn up trustingly, like a child’s. One arm curled protectively around the sleeping form of his son. They lay together as if they belonged.

She was beautiful to behold, a goddess with long, fiery tresses. He didn’t want to believe that she had anything to do with Ferguson or the struggle over Glenmyre. It chafed him to think it.

Sir Roger would question the girl tomorrow. The master-at-arms was more adept with words, more skilled at eliciting a slip of the tongue. But for his part, Christian would sleep one more night with the illusion that there was hope for him and the new life he dreamed of. The baby prospered in his nurse’s care. With that sole assurance, he exited the chamber.

Clarise listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps. As soon as she thought it safe, she gasped air into her lungs and let it out in a sob of relief. A layer of sweat coated her skin. She threw back the sheet to cool herself.

He hadn’t killed her.

He’d opened the pendant that she’d emptied yesterday and found nothing, thank God. Other than that, he’d done nothing but stare at her in her sleep and utter those wrenching words, I didn’t mean for it to happen. Had he been referring to Rowan’s death? Or was it something else—the death of Simon’s mother, perhaps? With so many matters on his conscience, it could have been anything.

All she knew for certain was that he’d let her live a few more hours.

It must have been because his son was in the bed. She nuzzled the baby, grateful for the lifeline that existed between them. Perhaps the Slayer would spare her because he knew that Simon needed her.

With thanks for small mercies, Clarise closed her eyes and sighed. Once she was certain the Slayer had sought his own bed, she would rise and execute her plan. Tonight she would find more milk for the baby. Whatever happened, she could not let Simon starve.









Chapter Six


















Clarise awoke with a start. She could not remember falling asleep, but she realized nearly at once that the opportunity to fulfill her plans had nearly escaped her.

It was no longer dark. The sky through the open window was imbued with silvery light. If she didn’t hurry, the castle folk would soon be up and stirring. The baby would awaken, too, expecting milk to fill his small, but ever-ravenous stomach.

Scolding herself for sleeping so late, Clarise slipped from the sheets and sought her slippers. She had left her gown on in anticipation of her mission. All that was left was to determine what to do with Simon.

She couldn’t bring him with her, for if he woke, his cries would rouse the servants. But if the warlord learned that his son was left alone, even for a moment, his faith in her would be destroyed. If she were caught skulking through the castle in the dark, his suspicions would multiply like the plague.

She decided to leave Simon behind. An empty corridor beckoned her from the bedchamber. The tower was lost to darkness but for the barest glow in the window slits. She sped unnoticed past the Slayer’s solar, down the steps of the main stairs and through the great hall. Only Alfred the wolfhound remarked her passing from his place beside the fire pit. He raised his head, studying her through yellow eyes.

Clarise exited the keep through the door that was closest to the livestock pens. In the breezeway separating the castle from the kitchens, she hesitated, looking for signs of life. A crow regarded her from the peat roof of the latter. No one else appeared to be awake.