She slammed it behind her, startling Simon into silence. Then she hesitated, pricking her ears to the quiet on the other side. Just when she despaired of hearing anything through the thick wood, Sir Roger drawled with irony. “Well done, my liege. Your father would be most proud.”









Chapter Fifteen


















Clarise worked the laces of the boy’s braies tighter and marveled at how quickly her circumstances had changed. One day the Slayer was determined to have her for his mistress, the next he wished never to lay eyes on her again. The pain of his rejection made her fingers stiffen as she tightened the last two stays.

Nell had secured the boy’s clothing from one of her brothers. “The lord told me to bring all manner o’ knowledge to him, and he would ease yer circumstances,” the young girl whispered as she arranged the pillows on the bed to take the form of a person sleeping. Clarise could tell that Nell was torn.

“That was before he threatened to return me to my stepfather,” she retorted. “He suffered a moment of human compassion, ’tis all. Do you put faith in his promises, you will be sore disappointed.”

“But why must ye travel at night?” Nell complained as she straightened from the bed.

In the darkness Clarise could just make out the golden halo of Nell’s hair. She nosed through the oversize tunic until her head popped through the proper hole. “Do I look like Callum?” she asked, holding her arms out to her sides. As she was standing in the only puddle of moonlight, she was certain the maid could see her.

Nell shook her head. “Nay, m’lady. Me brother ne hath such a bosom as thine.”

“That is precisely the reason I must travel at night,” Clarise pointed out. “Now remember what I said. You last saw me when I went to sleep earlier this evening. When asked, you don’t know where I am, or how I ventured through the gates. You must lie to protect yourself. Is that clear enough?”

Nell mumbled an unhappy answer.

“Where are those awful boots I have to wear?” Clarise asked, peering around the perimeter of the moon’s glow.

She had lived through the past few days as in a dream. The warlord was too busy tracking down Ethelred to make good on his threat. The Slayer had ventured to the abbey twice now to demand an audience with Gilbert. According to the monk at the gate, both abbots had fallen ill. There was nothing the warlord could do to gain entrance or prove otherwise. The abbey was sacrosanct. To attack it would be a violation of the Church proper.

He sent a message to the archbishop of York, stating his concerns. All they could do now was wait.

In those two days Clarise had joined the servants in lighting candles for the good abbot’s health. In silence she added prayers for her own deliverance. As the hours crept by, her dread mounted to unbearable proportions. She could only hope that the warlord had changed his mind about returning her to Ferguson.

The sound of the baby fretting next door jerked Clarise to the present. It was Dame Maeve who had moved Doris to the nursery in order to care for Simon. Yet Doris snored so loudly at times that she failed to hear the baby’s cries. His pathetic wails tugged at Clarise’s heartstrings. She refused to consider that she might never see him again.

Focus on the present, she told herself, blowing out a slow breath. She would need to find the secret entrance Ethelred had mentioned. The fate of her family still rested on her shoulders. Once Ferguson realized her plan had failed, they would all be killed. Alec was now her only hope.

Gathering her hair into a hat, Clarise pulled the brim over her ears and carefully opened the door. Nell followed her down the tower stairs and through a deserted corridor. It was well past midnight, and the torches had burned themselves out. Only a few sputtered intermittently, casting grotesque shadows on the walls. Clarise found herself wishing this were all a dream. She pretended she was slipping down to the goat pen to fetch Simon milk. The fantasy brought a lump to her throat.

As they scurried along the gallery, past the Slayer’s solar, she was beset by memories. She recalled the evening she and Christian had watched over Simon in his illness. She recalled how he had prayed by his son’s cradle. Her heart softened briefly toward the warlord. Surely he had reconsidered his threat to cast her off to Ferguson; after all, he’d yet to execute it.

Where was the chivalry Sir Roger had remarked in him? It seemed anger had the power to douse the flame of goodness that burned in him. Even if he did recant his threat, all that he’d ever offered was his bed. She burned in shame to think that she’d nearly agreed to become his mistress. Where was her pride? The man had accused her of liaisons with a monk!

Nell still tiptoed behind her. Clarise hurried down the grand staircase, drawing the notice of the wolfhound that stirred the rushes with his tail but couldn’t bring himself to slit an eye. Alfred was used to her midnight ramblings.

Clarise’s heart raced with unnatural urgency as she lifted the crossbar on the double doors and slipped through them. She gave Nell the signal that all was going as planned. The maid would wait until her mistress had passed through both gates. Then she would replace the crossbar.

The plan was a simple one of assuming another’s identity. The gatekeepers were accustomed to Callum’s midnight outings. Rumor had it that Nell’s brother had several sweethearts in Abbington and devoted his nights to keeping them all content. As he worked in the castle’s brewery, it was his custom to reward the guards with ale. In exchange they left the pedestrian gates unlocked between the hours of twelve and one.

Callum always returned at dawn to commence his work in the brewery. Clarise, disguised as Callum, would not return.

That realization struck her forcibly as she stepped off the drawbridge and onto the well-worn path to Abbingdon. Her passage through the pedestrian gates had gone unchallenged. One guard even called in drunken encouragement, his crude words making her ears burn. The sweat that had gathered between her shoulder blades quickly dried. She’d escaped the castle without raising a hue and cry.

The sweet night air filled her lungs but failed to lift her spirits. The rain that had deluged the land for the last two days had passed, sweeping away the last lingering cloud. The moon was a half crescent, hanging like a pointed pendant in a star-spangled sky. It shed just enough light to guild the hilltops in gold and gleam on the puddles of the muddy road. A good omen, she thought to cheer herself.

Listening to the squish of her boots, her short-term worries faded and the larger issues loomed. A wolf howled in the distance. She couldn’t help but consider that she was right where she’d been a month ago. Yet so much had happened since her first attempt to reach Alec! She had dwelled in the stronghold of a much-feared mercenary. She had eaten at his table, cherished his son, bantered with his master-at-arms. She had even kissed the beast and quivered with pleasure at his touch!

But because of Abbot Gilbert’s interference, the Slayer had discovered her original intent. Dimly she realized his pride had been wounded by his discovery. He hadn’t liked to find himself second to Alec in her choice of champions. Yet it was his violent overreaction that left her with no choice but to seek Alec’s help again.

In the process she would try to locate Ethelred. It seemed impossible that he would be stricken by the illness within a day of visiting the abbey. The plague is the least of my concerns, he’d told her. He wasn’t sick at all, she’d decided, but held prisoner by the Abbot of Rievaulx.

Her plan was perilous and impractical. She would find the secret entrance described to her. She would seek out Alec and enlist his help in determining Ethelred’s whereabouts. If she could do that much, then she wouldn’t feel so bad about steering the good abbot toward his ruin.

Now, as she sidestepped puddles and listened to the eerie call of wolves, she had to wonder if she shouldn’t have tried to convince the warlord that her letters were dated. They were not at all a true reflection of her feelings. It wasn’t Alec who occupied her thoughts, waking and sleeping, but Christian and all his myriad complexities. Getting to know him had been the most disturbing and, ironically, the most rewarding experience of her life.

If only he knew how desperate she’d been when she wrote her pleas.

The road curved, bringing her around a shadowy mound of earth. Clarise looked up and spied the outline of Rievaulx against the starry sky. She drew to a halt. A tremor of dread shook her as she thought of the sickness fouling the air there. She wished suddenly that she could turn back and trust Christian to come to his senses. It was too late now. She’d said she would have nothing to do with the beast, even if he crawled on his knees, begging her mercy.

She lifted her chin and struck out boldly for Rievaulx. Her stride was jaunty, even confident. Her heart sank like a stone down a wall.

Christian knew what it felt like to be a hound after an elusive hare. He felt desperate enough to foam at the mouth, perhaps even bay at the sun rising over the treetops.

The laundry maid cum lady-in-waiting was as crafty as any rabbit. She had led him in a pretty chase this morning, disappearing from the very places where she’d been seen just seconds before.

She had not been in Lady Clarise’s chamber when he knocked at her door that morning. What he’d found instead was enough to make him forget the speech that kept him awake the night before. What he’d found had made his blood run cold.