He turned his attention to the second wave. The Scots’ horses devoured the remaining distance to the wall. Ferguson was easiest to find, betrayed by the burnished beard that jutted from beneath his helm. He wielded his trademark battle-ax in lieu of a sword.

Out of the Scot’s leering mouth came the command to halt. His men pulled hard at the reins, out of range of Christian’s arrows. Horses reared up in whinnying protest. With a furious gesture, Ferguson roared for his men to retreat and the woman in the shift to return to him.

Christian cursed at his cowardice. “Weapons down!” he called to his men, who had readied their crossbows again. He did not want the woman accidentally struck while his men sought to pick off the Scots.

The woman refused to come. In reply to Ferguson’s orders, several of his soldiers grabbed her and began to drag her away. All the while, they looked over their shoulders, fearful of being struck by the Slayer’s arrows.

“Weapons down,” Christian repeated.

He watched as Ferguson reached out and yanked the woman up onto the saddle in front of him. Her stricken face was the mold from which Clare’s own features had been cast.

With a flash of insight Christian guessed the truth. He recalled the rumors of how Ferguson had seized Heathersgill, killing Edward the Learned and then marrying his widow. Was that she, then? If so, then Clare the wet nurse was Ferguson’s stepdaughter. The thought spattered his brains like a blow from a mace. He hadn’t realized how much he had wanted to believe in her innocence.

But at the present moment he could not afford to dwell on his discovery. The savage troops withdrew just far enough to where they could gloat as the fires they’d spawned undid all the work that Christian had expended in rebuilding.

Christian bellowed orders to the serfs to herd their livestock into the main keep. The stone wall of the keep would protect them as long as the fire didn’t sink its teeth into the timber floor joists. Their primary job was to ensure that the outer wall, which was made of timber, continued to resist the flames.

Rallying the heartier people of Glenmyre, he called them to fight the fire. While it had taken only a handful of men to spawn such mischief, it would take many more to keep the fire from spreading. The Scot was planning to burn them out, then slaughter them all.

Eight hours later they stared in weary stupefaction at what remained of the lesser buildings. Charred timbers rose from postholes like ragged pikes. The walls, the roofs, the contents of the buildings lay in steaming piles of cinder just an arm’s length from the main keep. But the outer wall held, keeping the Scots at bay. They’d survived Ferguson’s attack with no loss of life, and at last the Scots melted away, sullen with their defeat.

Christian wiped a hand over his blackened face. His limbs ached. He longed to collapse where he stood, but that was an indulgence he would not allow himself. Despite the knowledge that his reparations at Glenmyre had been undone, he felt a sense of accomplishment at having saved the wall and the keep.

The livestock were led from their sanctuary, snorting, stamping, bleating in confusion. He smiled wearily. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

He had worked side by side with the people of Glenmyre to save their home. The grain had been kept from harm. The water was still clean. In the act of fighting for Glenmyre’s future, they had forged a bond of mutual respect. He could see it in their blackened faces, in the steady gazes that turned his way.

“Let us celebrate the saving of the Glenmyre!” he shouted, startling more than a few of his own men.

A rousing cheer rose over the hiss of steaming wood.

“And for every man that joins with me to defeat the Scot, I will build you a wall of stone, so that Ferguson can never burn you out again.”

This announcement was followed by another cheer. Three barrels were rolled from the keep’s cellar and set upon trestles for the people to help themselves. Ale flowed freely, drowning despair and replacing it with a vision for the future.

Christian waited for the right people to become sotted with drink before he cornered them. What was the name of the woman Alec was going to wed? he asked. What did she look like?

In short time his suspicions had been confirmed. He’d been taken for a fool.

As the sun set that evening, he rooted out a solitary spot on the wallwalk. The sun glowed an angry orange, lighting the tips of the pines like so many tapers. A flock of geese honked noisily overhead as they flapped their way toward Spain and thence to the land of the infidels.

Christian eased his aching back onto a ledge, thankful for the balm of cooler air streaming from the mountains, and raked his fingers through his hair. Some of the longer strands were singed. He would have to cut them.

Oh, but it felt good to take his ease! He dropped his head into his palms. The sound of a woman screaming echoed in his ears. He was able to name her now: Jeanette DuBoise, the mother of the woman in his castle. To see such a fair woman wearing only a shift and crying with such desperation had been shock enough. But the fact that she looked so much like her daughter, Clarise, made it all the more disturbing.

He wished very much that they had managed to let the woman in. What was clearly a ruse to open the gates might also have been her only hope. Ferguson had put her directly in the path of danger, as though he cared not a whit if she were killed.

The thought sickened him.

He dragged his fingers over his face. What was he going to do now? The only thing left to him was war. Ferguson had asked for it by willfully attacking Glenmyre. And yet everything inside him rebelled at the spilling of more blood. He did not care to fight anymore, to add yet more hellish visions to those that paraded through his dreams.

And what of Clare? Clarise, he corrected himself. Seeing her mother’s situation firsthand, he was certain she could not be loyal to the Scot.

Why had she come to Helmesly, then? Why?

The sun sank lower, and the crickets began to chirp in the high grass between the wall and the tree line. Christian lay down on the wallwalk and closed his eyes.

All he knew for certain was that she hadn’t come to Helmesly to save his son. The hope that God had sent an angel to redeem him was nothing more than fantasy. Clarise had another purpose at his castle altogether. And it wasn’t likely a purpose that would benefit his soul.









Chapter Eleven


















A thin mist hung in the castle graveyard. The sound of wet earth falling on a wooden casket rose over the sniffles of the heavyset cook as she watched her baby being buried. Clarise huddled with the few servants who dared to test Maeve’s patience this morning by shirking their duties. There were no holy words to soothe the spirit of the grieving mother, only the mournful call of a dove as it settled on the wall to observe them.

As the grave was steadily filled, Simon grew impatient for his breakfast. Clarise shifted him to her left shoulder and thought about the meager milk supply in her bedchamber. A bucket of goat’s milk was no longer enough to get the baby through a day. How on earth, she wondered, would she manage to procure two buckets without drawing notice?

Simon broke into angry cries as the gravedigger dropped the last clump of earth on the mound and patted it down. Sniffles rose from the more sympathetic women. One of them helped Doris to her feet. Clarise, who needed to break away for a feeding, hurried over to offer the cook a word of encouragement.

“Might I hold him?” the woman asked, her wet gaze falling to the baby’s swaddled form.

Clarise was more than happy to let Simon shriek in someone else’s ear, at least for the time being. He looked tiny against the woman’s robust breasts as she cradled him in her arms. With his mouth wide open, he turned his head, searching hopefully for sustenance.

“He knows that I have milk!” Doris cried with surprise. Her many chins wobbled at the thought of what might have been.

Clarise’s eyes widened as a notion hit her. Rather than rush Simon off into the castle, she dawdled in the graveyard while others approached Doris and offered their comfort. “Doris,” she called, when the last one moved away. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Yes, milady?” Doris replied, still holding the squirming Simon.

Clarise hoped it wasn’t too much to ask of a grieving woman. “I have so much to do,” she began, “making changes in the castle, and I fear that I’m depriving Simon of the proper nourishment. Do you think you might feed him with your own milk on occasion?”

Doris’s eyes narrowed with sudden discernment. “Ye have ne milk o’ yer own, do ye, milady?” she guessed.

Clarise made a choking sound and looked around, relieved to see that none of the lingering servants were close enough to have overheard. “How do you know that?” she breathed, deciding it was pointless to lie.

Doris rocked the disconsolate Simon. “Nell tolde me that ye hide a pail o’ milk in yer chamber.”

Of course, thought Clarise, with a grimace. Nell was not the soul of discretion she required in a lady’s maid. “Do you know who’s been leaving a bucket for me in the goat pen each night?” she asked, still no closer to solving that mystery than she’d been two weeks ago.

“Nay, milady.” Doris shook her head. “But I am happy to helpe ye now.” She gazed with pleasure at the squalling Simon. “Bring him to me whene’er he hungers, and he will grow plump on my breast, I warrant ye!”