What game were they up to? she wondered. Her heart beat erratically as she assessed the reaction of the pages carrying out the meal. The servants appeared outraged.

“Gentlemen,” she said, addressing her companions firmly. “You do the servants an injustice by seating me in the lady’s chair. Kindly seat me elsewhere.”

“We have questions to put to you,” the knight replied in the same steely tone. “And we would both do so at once.”

She hesitated a split second. “Suit yourselves,” she said, setting Simon in her lap. “If your servants are displeased, I warrant you they will find a way to let you know.” She turned her attention to the baby, who seemed content to gaze at the azure tablecloth.

Sir Roger and his lord shared looks.

“Let us eat,” the Slayer growled. He nodded at the waterbearer, and the boy approached them with the bowl to dip their fingers. Clarise noted that the basin trembled in Peter’s freckled hands. Here was another servant afraid of his master.

Pages swarmed into the hall, carrying with them an aroma of cooked meat and thyme. Thanks to Maeve’s efficiency, the food was still steaming. But Clarise’s appetite had dwindled. She regarded the trencher of venison, boiled in milk and whole wheat, and wondered how she would eat it.

As he had done yesterday, Sir Roger cut their trencher in half, giving her the choicest portion of the fare. The Slayer got a whole trencher to himself. She had scarcely taken a bite when he nudged her with his shoulder and said, “I visited the abbey yesterday.”

Knowing that already, she nodded and kept chewing. The warmth of his shoulder burned through the sleeve of her gown.

“There is an inscription over one of the doors,” he added casually. “It bears your name—Crucis.”

Her heart forgot to beat. Could a simple word give her away? “In truth?” she murmured, trying to sound bored.

On her right side Sir Roger called her name. “Dame Crucis, what was that song the minstrel sang to you yesterday?”

The men weren’t wasting any time. “ ’Twas ‘The Fiery-Haired Lady,’ ” she replied. “Have you never heard it?”

“Perhaps I have. The words sounded different this time.”

She had nothing to say to that observation.

“Did you know the minstrel?” he persisted.

“I cannot say that I did.”

“You cannot say? Or you did not know him? Please be clearer in your answer, madam.”

She was already weary of this questioning and it had scarcely begun. She laid down her spoon abruptly. “Yes, let us be perfectly frank with one another. The minstrel knew me, it seems, but I never knew the minstrel before my arrival at Helmesly, and I will never see him again, thanks to your lord’s enthusiasm with a blade.” She sensed, rather than saw, the Slayer stiffen beside her. “My encounter with the man was merely circumstantial. The mockery that he made of me with his song deserved a good tongue-lashing, and that is what I gave him.”

Her forthright answer left both men temporarily mute. Sir Roger was the first to recover. “What was it about his song, Dame Crucis, that so displeased you?”

Clarise gathered herself to speak the necessary lies. “ ’Twas a reference to my past, Sir Knight. The minstrel knew me as Clare de Bouvais. I was Richard Monteign’s mistress.”

The silence that followed her pronouncement brought color streaking to her cheeks. She was certain every ear in the great hall had overheard her. Pages froze with interest. The men-at-arms quit guzzling their beer to peer over the tops of their mugs. She could only imagine the expressions on her companions’ faces, as she couldn’t bring herself to look at them.

Sir Roger cleared his throat. “Lady Clare de Bouvais?” he asked, clearly recognizing the prestigious surname.

Clarise was pleased to hear his chagrin. “Aye, Sir Knight. I am Alec’s second cousin—the daughter of a third son who was cousin to Lord Monteign.”

“But how did you . . . ?”

“Become his mistress?” she finished when he floundered for the words. She wondered how many paternosters she would have to say to be forgiven her lies. “I came to my uncle’s keep when I was only eight. After my aunt died, I was the only female remaining the household. I regret to say that Monteign turned his sights on me.”

Following these daring words, Clarise held her breath. She hoped her story would be believed, for much of it was based on fact. The cousin of Alec’s who had lived with the family for years had left in disgrace and with child, only it was the stable master who had compromised her, not Monteign.

To her left, the Slayer hissed a stream of deprecations under his breath. She had clearly provoked an emotion in him so strong as to be nearly palpable.

Sir Roger persisted with his questions. “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” he demanded. “Why accept the lot of a commoner when your blood entitles you to more?” He sounded offended on her behalf.

Clarise was prepared for that query. “When I told you that I hailed from Glenmyre, Sir Roger, I saw suspicion in your eyes. You thought I’d come to avenge Monteign’s death. I assure you that my uncle meant very little to me.”

The Slayer spoke forcefully on her left. “You spoke highly of him the other night,” he accused. The thunder in his tone gave Simon a start. The baby’s face crumpled, and he began to wail.

“Kindly lower your voice, my lord,” Clarise scolded. She placed the baby against her shoulder and patted his back. “Monteign was good to his people—in that I did not lie. But I hold no allegiance to a man who compromised my virtue.”

Her words reduced the men to silence. The noises in the hall seemed unnaturally loud as she waited for their reaction. The Slayer took a swig of his wine. Sir Roger toyed with his knife. “Why did you call yourself Clare Crucis?” the knight finally asked.

“ ’Tis obvious. Six months ago I went to the abbey for protection, along with my cousin Alec. I stayed until the illness . . .” she stuttered over the next few words, finding them the hardest to say, “until my infant took ill and died. I took my name from the inscription at the abbey, rather than use my given name.”

“Yet why make up a name?” the knight demanded. “Why not return to your family to help you?”

“My family has cast me out,” she said shortly. “I am no longer marriageable. They have no use for me.”

“Because you bore a child,” he persisted.

“Exactly.” She did not wish to linger on that part of her tale.

“Are you certain it died of the scourge?”

“Leave her be!” the Slayer suddenly interrupted.

Clarise started at the fury in his voice. She swiveled her head to study his thunderous profile. The spoon in his hand looked in danger of being bent upon itself.

“Leave her be,” he repeated, more quietly.

Sir Roger ducked his head and dug into his trencher.

The meal progressed with scarcely a word more spoken. At the end of the table Hagar belched and patted his belly. Harold slurped the broth off his spoon. Both the seneschal and his master-at-arms were thoughtfully silent.

Clarise was relieved to see the ewer of spiced wine making its way to the table, signaling the meal’s end. The tension swirling about her made eating impossible. She planned to enjoy a sip of wine, then excuse herself with the need to nurse Simon. The men would want some privacy in which to discuss her news.

Peter edged along the back of the dais to fill their goblets one by one. From the corner of her eye Clarise watched him reach for the cup she shared with Roger. A stream of garnet liquid rushed into the vessel. She could not have predicted any more than Peter that the gyrfalcon would suddenly flare his wings, knocking his arm aside.

The newly filled goblet sprang from Peter’s grasp. Wine shot through the air, spattering Clarise’s chest and Simon’s backside. The goblet bounced musically from the dais to the floor.

Clarise gasped in surprise. The baby screamed in alarm. The gyrfalcon, panicked by the uproar, beat his powerful wings to escape the chaos, but his jesses held him fast.

“Clumsy youth!” Sir Roger scolded, attempting to calm the raptor.

The Slayer rose like a thundercloud, saying nothing. Clarise took one look at the ashen page and shot to her feet to protect him. “ ’Twas not his fault,” she declared.

The warrior ran an astonished look over her ruined gown. The men-at-arms ogled the scene from the benches below. Servants froze in expectation of violence.

The Slayer’s gaze cut to Peter. “Clean up this mess,” he snapped. He jerked his head, and the youth reached for the linens Dame Maeve held out to him, nearly spilling the rest of the wine in the process.

“ ’Twas not his fault,” Clarise repeated as the boy stuttered his apologies.

The Slayer glared at her, and she realized it was neither the spilled wine nor the ruined gown that irked him. No, it had more to do with accepting her new identity. She saw anger, even loathing in his eyes, but as best she could tell it was not directed at her.

“You will need a new gown,” he commented, his gaze falling to her sodden chest. A similarly savage but unrelated emotion flashed in his eyes.

It was then that she realized her breasts were clearly visible beneath the wet fabric. The warlord had noticed it, too. Needing to sever the intensity of his gaze, Clarise used Simon as a shield.

“Come,” he added, signaling that they would leave the table.

Sir Roger stood as they skirted his ruffled falcon. “I am sorry, lady, for the inquisition,” he said. The words were awkward and tentative. He was still uncertain of her tale.

Clarise threw him an understanding smile. “Your job is to defend your lord,” she assured him, “and in so doing, you must be suspicious of everyone. Rest assured that I came here for protection, nothing more.” At least that was the case now that she would not do Ferguson’s bidding.