A great weight seemed to rise from Clarise’s shoulders. At the same time a voice of caution whispered in her ear. “I would prefer you to come to my chambers to nurse him. I promised the seneschal my vigilance, and I would stay with you when you do.”

“As ye wish, lady.”

“Can you come with us now?” Clarise pleaded. It would save her the trouble of feeding Simon herself.

Doris fell into step beside her.

“Will you promise me something?”

The cook looked at her askance.

“Promise you’ll not speak of our arrangement to anyone yet,” Clarise whispered. “It must appear that I am still Simon’s nurse. Very soon, the truth will be known,” she added. Her spirits sank as she realized the moment was coming ever closer.

The messenger who’d stamped his way into the hall that morning had announced that the Slayer would be home by nightfall.

Doris paled a bit at the necessity for secrecy, but she nodded nonetheless. “I swear,” she said.

Two hours later Clarise surveyed her handiwork from the landing on the stairs. Shortly after her picnic with Sir Roger two weeks ago, she had stumbled on a room full of goods in one of the castle storerooms. Most of the pieces Genrose had supposedly given to the poor still remained, collecting dust. Maeve protested that she’d forgotten about the goods, overwhelmed as she was by the baron and his lady’s death. The amazed knight had given Clarise permission to haul it from the cellar for display.

At first the servants had been too paralyzed by the housekeeper’s influence to help Clarise bring the goods up. Dame Maeve had secretly threatened them with additional chores, while in the presence of the master-at-arms she was solicitous and helpful. Clarise had found the woman maddening to deal with.

However, when it came to the chapel, servants had come whenever they could sneak away. With additional hands it had taken only a week to coat the ornate woodwork in beeswax. The embroidered kneeling cushions had been washed and replaced under the pews. They had swept up the stale rushes and scrubbed the floor with lye and wood ash. In short time the chapel was fit for worship.

Clarise had then turned her attention to the hall. With an eye toward decorating the walls, she’d enlisted Harold’s aid in hanging a tapestry on the gallery wall. She chose the tapestry of a hunt, attended by lords and ladies, complete with comical hounds and red-tailed foxes. Silver trays were hung between the windows where they flung the light of the many torches back into the chamber. Even with the shutters drawn to keep out the gusty rain, the hall appeared as bright as if it were a fair day.

Clarise had placed a pot of flowers on every step of the grand staircase and brightened the high table with a colorful bouquet. She’d plundered the castle gardens and sent servants outside the walls to procure wild roses, savory, and meadow saffron, which now filled the room with their perfume. Oxeye daisies and pink mallow splashed color against the gray stone.

All stood in readiness for the lord’s return. The room lacked only the crowning touch—a fire crackling in the fire pit. But with Dame Maeve threatening to complain to Sir Roger, Clarise admitted that a fire might make the room a mite too warm.

Studying the combined effects of her labor, she sought reassurance that the Slayer would be pleased. She had heard that Ferguson had set fire to Glenmyre. While the wall and central keep had held, the rest had been gutted by flame. If Lord Christian had discovered her identity by now, his need to avenge the Scot might well overshadow his reason.

The blare of the gatekeeper’s horn shot through her like an arrow. Clarise nearly dropped poor Simon, who was sleeping in her arms. He’s back. Her first instinct was to flee to her bedchamber and lock the door. But she was not a coward. Aside from a few white lies, she was guilty of no wrongdoing.

Clutching Simon like a shield, Clarise headed to the forebuilding. There, she encountered Harold dawdling at the base of the steps. He seemed reluctant to step through the protective arch and into the pounding rain.

“ ’Twould put me in a foul mood to travel in this mess,” she called out, announcing herself. The thought depressed her further.

“Foul mood,” the steward repeated. He glanced at her with something akin to wariness. She could only assume his wife had blistered his ears for doing her bidding this afternoon. She reminded herself that she had promised to read to him in exchange for his help with the tapestry.

Perhaps tomorrow, if the Slayer could forgive her lies.

She found herself wishing she had told Sir Roger who she was. The opportunity had presented itself at nearly every meal. And yet, as she was loath to see the disappointment on his face, she had bitten her tongue. The last time he’d questioned her, weeks ago, he had demonstrated great trust in her. How would he feel to know she’d been misleading him all the while?

In tense silence Clarise waited with the steward at the base of the steps. Sir Roger dashed across the courtyard from the garrison and joined them in a huddle. “Is all in readiness?” he asked, casting her a conspiratorial wink.

She gave him a weak smile. “I pray so,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Anxiety was twisting her innards into knots. What if the Slayer didn’t like the changes she had made? What if they were viewed as presumptuous?

The clopping of hooves played descant to the spattering rain. They were all astonished to see a lone rider pass through the gate on the top of a donkey. The beast hung its head dolefully against the downpour. The rider was cloaked in a mantle, his hood pulled low over his face.

“ ’Tis Ethelred!” Sir Roger exclaimed. He ran into the rain to greet the good abbot.

Clarise went weak from a mixture of relief and disappointment. She watched the Abbot of Revesby slide from his mount. She could see that he was quite a little man, coming only to Sir Roger’s shoulder. As a stable boy took away his donkey, the two men splashed through the puddles as they raced for shelter.

Clarise had just lit the torch on the stairwell—a true feat with a baby in her arms. She had adopted the habit of carrying a flint with her, as it afforded her pleasure to witness the fruits of her labor.

As she turned around, the abbot shook back the hood of his mantle. He was still a young man, she saw, having pictured him much older. His sandy-colored hair was cropped short. He wore the black garb of an Augustinian monk, yet unlike the Abbot of Rievaulx, he went without a fancy stole. No jewels twinkled on his fingers. Sandals peeked from below the hem of his cloak. She looked into his friendly gaze and found him watching her intently.

“Father, this is Lady Clare, Simon’s nurse.” Sir Roger made the introductions. “Lady, the esteemed Abbot of Revesby.”

“Pleased to meet Your Grace,” she murmured, masking the sudden certainty that this man would help her reach Alec if the necessity arose. She hoped it would not.

The abbot’s gaze fell upon the bundle in her arms. “This could only be Christian’s son!” he exclaimed. “What a mighty one he is already!”

Simon was swaddled in purple silk, a color chosen to complement Clarise’s lavender gown. He returned the abbot’s praise with a dispassionate stare. Father Ethelred laughed out loud. “A miracle!” he pronounced, chuckling.

Clarise felt her heart swell with love, both for the baby and the cleric who was so clearly pleased to see him. She kissed the curl that grew skyward from the top of Simon’s head.

“I have news,” announced the abbot happily, “and I would say it without delay. But where is your seneschal?”

“Due to return at any minute,” the knight supplied.

“I cannot wait!” Ethelred’s blue eyes sparkled. “I have just come from a meeting with the archbishop. The subject of the interdict came up in casual conversation. Archbishop Thurston said that the interdict was never approved by the Holy See. Tomorrow I go to Rievaulx to see the papal seal. If Gilbert fails to produce it, this matter will place him under grave scrutiny.”

Ethelred did not seem at all displeased by his colleague’s treachery. Clarise recalled that there was rivalry between them.

“Verily?” exclaimed Sir Roger after a moment of astonished silence. “Then it was just an attempt to breed discontent at Helmesly. Gilbert hoped the people here would turn against their seneschal.”

“Mayhap so,” Ethelred agreed.

“Well, why stand here like knaves when Lady Clare has put the great hall to rights? Our castle is now a welcome place for visitors.”

An hour later Clarise had developed a pounding headache. The abbot had been given a room where he would dry out his robes. All she had intended to do was to tell the new head cook that a special meal would have to be drawn up for the cleric, who could not eat meat, except for Sundays. The cook, who’d finally been persuaded to concoct a jellie of fyshe this night, complained to Maeve. The steward’s wife intercepted her in the breezeway.

“Lady Clare!” she called in her strident voice.

Rolling her eyes at the woman’s tone, Clarise turned, just two steps from an escape into the great hall. “What it is?” she inquired sweetly.

“I see you have taken it upon yourself to perform Harold’s duties once again. What the abbot—or for that matter, what anyone—will eat is none of your concern.”

“I am certain Harold would not mind a little help. You, on the other hand, seem to resent it strongly. I have to wonder why you wield your power like a sword. Even your husband is subject to you.”

Maeve drew herself into a rigid line. “Do you wish to play lady, then?” she hissed. “Very well. Let us see if you can take my place. I’m retiring to my chambers,” she announced, pivoting sharply. She took her keys with her as she headed toward the servants’ hall.