“ ’Tis nay a story,” the maid insisted, propping her hands on her waist. “He plucked the babe out whilst she still breathed. We heard her screams, we did.”

“Nonsense.” Clarise wondered why she felt moved to defend the warlord. She had nothing but his word that he hadn’t killed his wife. “No one mentioned a scream before now. You made that up.” She scooped up a sponge and began to lather it with soap.

Nell seemed to search her memory. “Mayhap I did,” she relented.

With her face averted, Clarise rolled her eyes. Nell’s imagination didn’t bode well for her own secrets. She sensed the culmination of her own deceit coming steadily closer. “I would like to take a bath alone,” she informed the maid. “You may come later when I’m done.”

“Aye, milady. May I wash yer hair?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Nell left the room, reluctant to return to her less glamorous chore of laundering.

Many hours later, smelling of lavender and sleeping in her newly laundered chemise, Clarise’s eyes sprang open. A fleck of moonlight had fallen on her face, reminding her to waken. She sat up slowly. Simon was sleeping in his cradle for a change. He had yet to rouse for a midnight feeding. If he did, she would have nothing to feed him. The pail was empty as it usually was by this late hour.

She dragged herself from bed. The servants would have sought their pallets by now. It was time to make her move. Opening the chest, she retracted the empty pail. She wriggled her feet into her slippers and set out on another perilous quest for goat’s milk.

This is truly madness, she thought, not for the first time. Her stomach endured a familiar uneasiness as she slinked through the darkened castle and out the rear door. She edged cautiously around the kitchen and arrived at the animal pen. The ground seemed to glow under the incandescent moon. A fresh layer of straw crunched beneath her feet.

At least the goat was used to producing at this time, she comforted herself. The door to the pen gave an agonizing groan. She pinpointed the two nanny goats by the whites of their eyes. The one with the dark patch on its side was her favorite. As she stalked it, her foot came in contact with a bucket.

The full pail sloshed but didn’t tip. She bent down to examine it.

It was a full bucket of goat’s milk, fresh from the udder if its warmth was any indication. She dipped her finger and tasted it. Sour, just like Roger said.

Who would be so careless as to forget a pail of milk? She straightened and eyed the bucket thoughtfully. One of the milkmaids must have left it behind.

Why waste the time of milking a goat when she ran the risk that Simon would awaken? What if he were crying even now, drawing the unwanted concern of his father? Mere stone could not disguise the baby’s volume.

Making a quick decision, Clarise snatched up the bucket and hastened back into the castle. Remembering the fall of Troy from Homer’s famous volume, she hoped she wouldn’t regret this gift the way the Trojans regretted the gift horse and the enemies who lay concealed within it.

“Lady Clare!”

Clarise winced openly and ground to a halt. She’d been tiptoeing past the Slayer’s solar, hoping not to gain his notice. It was Friday afternoon, and the servants were scheduled to leave for Abbingdon at any time. This was her big chance to enlist the Abbot Revesby’s aid in getting word to Alec.

“My lord?” she inquired, stepping closer to the open doorway.

The warlord was seated at a writing table, quill in hand. Sunlight streamed through the window behind him, framing his torso in a haze of gold. He looked different, she noticed, and then she realized why. He wore a bleached undershirt and no tunic. She’d never seen him in white. He looked like the archangel Gabriel.

Until he looked up. The scar on his face betrayed an inner tension that was entirely at odds with an angel’s serenity. “Call me Christian,” he demanded, stabbing the inkwell with the tip of his quill. He paused to take in her appearance.

She wore a different gown today, a smock of forest green with a satin ribbon that laced up the front. His gaze fell to the sling she carried against her hip. “Where are you going?” he added sharply.

She rubbed her moist palms against her linen skirt. “I would like to go to Abbingdon to hear the Abbot of Revesby preach,” she replied, holding her breath.

“With my son in a sling?” His eyebrows predictably lowered.

“He will come to no harm,” she assured him. “I go in the company of many servants, even men-at-arms, to keep us safe.”

“My son does not pass outside these walls,” the Slayer quietly explained. His expression was stern enough to make her fidget.

“But I wish to confess,” she insisted, fighting to keep her tone mild. “Is there another here who may watch Simon in my stead?”

The warlord clenched his jaw. The scar on his cheek became more pronounced. “What if he hungers whilst you are gone?” he queried. “ ’Tis an hour’s walk in either direction, and I have no horses docile enough that you could ride with a babe.”

“Then I will take him with me and nurse him on the road.” A full bottle of milk was tucked inside the sling, thanks to the bucket she’d discovered last night.

The Slayer laid down the quill and scrutinized the scratches on the parchment. “Are you so devout, then?” he asked, frowning mightily.

She sensed the struggle within him. He was trying to be fair. “My lord, you have no priest here,” she pointed out.

He looked up at her then. “What sins have you committed that you must confess?”

“That is between me and God,” she retorted sharply. Frustration welled within her. He had no idea how important this mission was to her. The Abbot of Revesby was not due to visit again for another month. In the meantime, every day brought her mother and sisters closer to death. “Oh, just forbid me to go and have done with it then!” she snapped. She threw him a glare and was halfway down the gallery when he called her back.

“Lady Clare.”

She slowed to a halt but refused to turn around.

“Please stay,” she heard him beg.

His deep voice pitched on such a humble note was her undoing. Turning slowly, she stalked back to the door with her mouth compressed. “Why?” she demanded.

“I need your help.” He gestured to the vellum sitting on his desk. “ ’Tis a letter to Alec. Since I’m unable to speak to him in person, I will put my offer on parchment and see it delivered.”

A letter to Alec? Maybe she need not ask the Abbot of Revesby after all! Adjusting the sling on her hip, Clarise ventured into the Slayer’s solar.

The room was a very different place than the rest of the castle. Here, rich blue tapestries padded the walls. The rushes under her feet were woven into a thick mat. At one end of the room stood a massive bed, draped in blue velvet. At the other end was his writing table and a chest laden with manuscripts.

The sight of so many books distracted her. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stepping over to the chest to admire the jeweled covers. “Proverbs of Solomon,” she cooed, picking up a book and reading the titles of its lengthy poems. “History of the English,” she added, putting it down. “Where did you get these?” She hoped he wouldn’t say he’d acquired them in his sieges.

“They were a gift from the abbot you just mentioned. Ethelred illustrated them when he was master novice at Rievaulx.”

“Ethelred,” she echoed him. “You know him well enough to use his first name?”

“He wed me to Genrose,” said the warlord shortly.

With that simple admission, Clarise’s hope for help expired. Was there no way around her troublesome quandary? Perhaps this letter would finally put the matter to rest. “What did you need my help with?” she reminded him.

The Slayer glanced around. “Let me find you a stool.”

“Simon will wake if I sit,” she declined. It was true. The minute she held still, the baby rose from his slumbers. He seemed especially agitated today. She stood by the table, swaying softly to keep him lulled.

The warlord seemed distracted by her movements. He sat behind his desk and forced his gaze downward. “Let me read what I have already written. ‘Amiable and God-fearing knight, Greetings from your humble neighbor and friend, Christian de la Croix, and wishes for good health . . . ’ ” His eyebrows sank so low they formed an unbroken line over his eyes. Half a minute of silence ensued. Clarise gazed in consternation at the rigid warlord. “Is that how you address a man whose father you have murdered?” he finally asked, in a voice gritty with remorse.

Compassion flooded her. While sunlight sat brightly on his shoulders, shame also weighed them down. He looked forlorn, clutching the quill as though his words alone would redeem him. “Give me the words,” she heard him mutter.

She knew an insane urge to shelter the beast. “You must apologize,” she instructed him. The letter would have to be worded carefully. If Alec accepted the warlord’s offer, he would need a wife to help him rule Glenmyre. But was he strong enough to defend her? she wondered disloyally. “Confess your guilt,” she instructed, “and accept full blame for killing Monteign. He will respect your honesty.”

She noted, absently, that the Slayer’s lashes rimmed his eyes the way Simon’s did. He took up his quill and began to write.

His handwriting was forceful and sweeping. Black ink bled into the vellum as the Slayer worded his apology. His hand seemed to tremble slightly. She could not read what he wrote, as the script was upside down and some distance from herself. The words were for Alec—and perhaps even God, if he meant them true enough.

When he lifted his gaze to look at her, she was surprised by the honesty in his gray-green eyes. She was suddenly convinced that he hadn’t killed his wife. People simply delighted in keeping the rumor alive.

“Shall I mention you?” the Slayer asked.

Alec would need to know where to find her. “Please do,” she answered, wondering why she wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of Alec’s rescue. “Tell him Cousin Clare dwells safely at Helmesly, caring for your son in exchange for your protection.”

It would take Alec a moment to puzzle through that statement, but then he would arrive at the conclusion that Clarise had taken up residence at Helmesly, using an alias to hide her identity. Curiosity would then bring him to Helmesly to ask for her. The sooner he came the better, she thought, chewing on her bottom lip.

The quill scratched away at the parchment. It stopped just as suddenly, and the Slayer looked up at her. “I take it he knows what his father did to you,” he guessed, the lines of his face hardening with disapproval.

Guilt rose up in her like bile. How she hated to be reminded of her deceit, especially when the warlord seemed so genuinely concerned. “Of course,” she said tightly. “We went to Rievaulx together.” The moment the words were out, she regretted them. With his letter the Slayer was unburdening his soul. Why not confess her own sins now and tell him who she really was? Her pulse accelerated at the thought. Could she afford to pass up such an opportunity, with the Slayer in such an amenable mood?

“Forgive me,” he said, stabbing at the inkhorn, unknowing of her thoughts. “It must be a painful matter to discuss. My own mother was raped, you know, by my father.”

She didn’t know. But his admission stirred her curiosity.

“She was a nun at the time, a novice gathering herbs outside the convent walls,” he added, gazing down at his work. “A lone rider surprised her and took her by force. He boasted that he’d defiled a child of the Christian God, and he told her his name—Dirk of Wendesby.” He made another stab at the inkwell.

Clarise remembered clearly the tales her father had told of that heathen warlord. How horrible for an innocent novice to be debauched by a man who held no law to be higher than his own.

“My mother endured the shame of bearing a child when she was supposed to be chaste,” he continued, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “Fortunately, her superiors were compassionate and refrained from casting her from their order. She gave birth to me within the convent walls, and I remained there, to the age of twelve.”

Amazement and understanding came to Clarise in the same instant. No wonder Sir Roger had called his lord devout. The man had grown up in a convent, of all places!

“When I was twelve,” he continued, his voice flattening with tension, “my mother fostered me to a nearby family. I wasn’t told that the lord of the house was my father.” He broke off, waiting to see her comprehension. “ ’Twas an act of forgiveness, she told me later.” Though his face was now a mask of ruthlessness, she saw the pinch of pain overtake him briefly.