The request was almost boyish in its uncertainty. She was tempted to say yes, if only to reassure him. Part of her longed to resume their passionate kisses! She had never tasted anything like them. But she had no intention of offering her favors in exchange for his sword arm. She was the daughter of a nobleman, not the leman she professed to be.

She looked away, wishing she could blurt the truth. ’Twas safest to say nothing at all, she decided.

“I see,” he said, reaching for his belt. In a furious gesture he slung the strip of leather against the bedpost. The resulting crack made her leap with alarm. The baby came awake with a gasp. The warlord snatched up a charcoal-colored tunic and strode to the door.

Simon began to cry. “Lord Christian,” Clarise called out as she reached for the baby.

When he looked at her, his anger was subdued. “Aye, what?” he asked, taking in the two of them.

“Be careful. Ferguson uses alchemy as a weapon. But I suppose you know that already.”

His gaze narrowed with interest. “What do you know of it?” he demanded.

The truth quivered on her tongue, but his volatile temper made her loath to confess it now. “I told you, Monteign feared Ferguson and his trickery. Beware the powders that he uses to spread fire. Beware any ruse for peace, for he will use deceit to gain advantage.”

He pondered her words in silence, seeming to take them to heart. Then, with a brusque nod, he left the room.

Her thoughts ran after him. She found herself wishing him the best possible outcome, fearing for his life. If only he could kill Ferguson in the conflict to come! Then her family would be free, and then she would dare to tell him who she was, knowing Ferguson could not learn of her betrayal.

Suddenly she realized she should have told him the truth after all. Wasn’t the Slayer going to Glenmyre? The people of Glenmyre would unknowingly expose her, for there had never been a Clare de Bouvais in their midst, only an Isabeux by that name.

She looked at Simon with consternation. Aye, she should have told him who she was. Instead, she’d lied and lied again, simply to avoid the Slayer’s wrath. With those lies she’d sealed her own uncertain fate, whatever it might be.

Several mornings later Clarise parted the cupboards of the lord’s conservatory and eyed the stale bread with lukewarm enthusiasm. This was what she got for sleeping so late and missing the morning meal. Her late-night exploits to the goat pen had left her exhausted.

On three more instances she had found the same offering of milk awaiting her. With every discovery her skin tightened and a chill washed over her. She was certain someone knew of her masquerade. But who? And how could they know when Nell was the only one to enter her chamber?

Since Simon had fallen ill, Clarise knew better than to use the milk. She’d dumped the bucket in the corner of the shed and milked the nanny goat herself. She wouldn’t take the risk that the offering was poisonous. If a plot was afoot to see Simon murdered, she refused to be party to it.

It was not entirely the baby’s fault that she was tired. After stumbling into bed again, she would lie awake, thinking of her family and wondering how they fared in her absence. Often her interference was the only thing that kept Ferguson from cuffing her mother in plain sight of his men. Her vigilance kept Merry from being fondled by the Scottish men-at-arms. The only time that Kyndra bathed was when Clarise toted her, kicking and screaming, to the bathhouse.

She was also preoccupied by thoughts of the Slayer. Word had come from Glenmyre that Ferguson had not attacked on the first day. The warlord remained at Alec’s stronghold, ready to defend it if the need arose, free to make inquiries into her background.

The knot in her stomach would not allow for a big breakfast. Clarise poured herself a mug of watered ale and cut a wedge of cheese from a wheel. Carrying her food to the only trestle that hadn’t been put away, she adjusted the sling in which she carried Simon and sat down.

The food was tasteless. The reason for her anxiety, she acknowledged, was not whether the Slayer could repel Ferguson’s attack. She had confidence in his abilities. It was his reaction to the truth she feared. She ought to have told the warlord who she was before he came to his own conclusions.

Glumly she nibbled on her cheese. A few well-placed questions would expose her. When the peasants were asked if they’d ever heard of a Lady Clare, they would inquire if he didn’t mean Clarise, for the names were all too similar. And then they would describe the elaborate betrothal that had taken place there just a month before the Slayer seized Glenmyre.

She’d had ample opportunity to tell Lord Christian the truth. Because of her reticence, he would likely assume the worst.

What could she do to soften the blow? How could she appease the warlord when he came storming back to Helmesly?

“Oh, oh, oh!”

This cry of lamentation wrenched her gaze to the far end of the hall. Clarise spied Harold pacing before the fire pit, wringing his hands and muttering in distress. She looked around for the source of his worry. Other than the two of them, the hall was deserted. Harold gave another cry of despair, and she abandoned her breakfast to hurry over to him.

“Why, Harold, whatever is the matter?” She put a hand on his shoulder to gain his attention.

The steward looked amazed to see her there. “Oh!” he cried again, halting his frantic pacing. “Lady Clare,” he said, staring at her blankly.

“What is it, Harold?” she asked again. “Tell me what is troubling you?” Her first guess was that his overbearing wife had caught him filching pastries from the kitchen, as it was a common occurrence.

“ ’Tis Doris,” he blurted, his color high, his white hair waving as he rocked himself. “She’s going to have a baby, a baby.”

“Who is Doris?” Clarise asked in bewilderment.

“The cook!” Harold seemed to force the words out.

Immediately Clarise envisioned the heavyset woman who prepared all the meals at Helmesly. Surely she was well beyond her childbearing years. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“The midwife has come. Oh!” he groaned. “She is going to die. Doris is going to die, oh!”

“Calm yourself.” She tried to reassure the rattled steward. She brought him a flagon of ale and made him drink it, but still she could make no sense of his prattle. She decided to look into the matter right away. With Simon sleeping in the sling, this was the best time.

Clarise headed straight for the servants’ quarters in the castle’s southern wing. A handful of women had gathered outside one of the many tiny chambers. Among their number was Sarah, a brunette version of Nell, looking drawn and pale. “How does she?” Clarise inquired.

Sarah merely shook her head, reluctant to spread poor news. “Dame Maeve haffe summoned the midwife. She be with Doris now,” was all she said.

Clarise peeked through the curtain that separated the room from the hall. The sight that greeted her filled her with dismay. Doris lay like a great mountain on her pallet of straw. Her body was covered in sweat, due to the blazing brazier. It was common practice for midwives to heat the chamber to unbearable temperatures. There was no window to open in order to relieve the occupants.

Clarise did not believe that heat encouraged the body to expel a baby any faster. All it caused was premature exhaustion. She stepped into the cell with the intention of extinguishing the brazier’s flames. The sight of blood between Doris’s legs drew her up short. Her gaze flew with alarm to the midwife’s stoic expression.

“Push with the next pain,” said the shriveled woman. She had yet to notice Clarise, for her shoulder was positioned toward the door. More than that, a blinding film clouded the woman’s right eye.

Doris gave a tortured gasp. The cook’s big body tensed with pain. The midwife leaned forward, lifting the blanket. “ ’Twill soon be over,” she predicted, scooting to the edge of her stool.

Clarise could not have moved if the castle fell into ruins around her. The stain on the pallet spread, until it went clear to Doris’s ankles. The sight was ghastly, yet the midwife’s grip remained steady as she held up the blanket.

Again, Doris was racked with pain.

“Push,” urged the midwife. “Push!”

A baby eased out of the passage in a breech position. It had obviously come before its time. Scrawny in size and coated in a cheesy substance, it lay still and silent on the soiled pallet. There was not a sound in the room, other than that of Doris’s heavy breathing.

Then the midwife bent low and dragged a metal object from the beaten bowl at her ankles. It was an iron cross.

Clarise took a look at the lifeless baby and the dull cross and fled the room. She succumbed to her sudden need to pull Simon from his sling and hold him close.

An hour later she summoned the courage to visit Doris again. The servants had moved into her cramped chamber, telling Clarise that the cook could stand to have at least one more visitor. The women shuffled aside as she entered, giving her room to kneel at Doris’s side. “We suffer with you, Doris,” she said, not knowing what else she could possibly say to ease the woman’s pain.

Doris closed her eyes. Her doughty face was ashen from the loss of so much blood. “ ’Tis God’s will, my lady,” she said bitterly.

Clarise floundered in her helplessness. “What can I do for you?” she dared to ask. She was not the mistress of these people, and yet she felt protective toward them. They had no one to lend an ear to their complaints. No one but the stern Dame Maeve.

A fat tear squeezed between Doris’s stubby lashes. Behind Clarise, the servants scuffled near the box that held the dead infant. “Looks just like ’im,” someone whispered.

Like who? wondered Clarise. Did they know who the father was?

“If I could have a mass for my babe,” the cook finally murmured. “If I could have him buried close, in the castle graveyard, where my mother and brothers lie, ’twould ease my spirit.”

It took Clarise a second to understand the significance of Doris’s request. Priests would not venture near to Helmesly with the interdict in place. Who would perform the burial?

Her spine stiffened with resolve. The chapel must be restored to use. The servants hungered for Godliness. They seemed to blame their seneschal for their inability to worship. It would be a favor to Lord Christian to open his chapel doors. Finding a priest, however, lay beyond her powers. Perhaps she could convince the Abbot of Revesby to ignore the interdict and perform the necessary sacrament.

“I will do what I can,” she heard herself say. And in the same instant, she thought of several improvements she might make at Helmesly before the seneschal returned. Would it help her cause at all to make his castle more welcoming? It might dissuade him from violence, she reasoned, to find his home transformed when he did come back.

She could place a tapestry or two upon the walls, make torches to brighten the great hall, gather flowers to add color. At this juncture she would try anything within her powers to earn his good will.

She felt precisely like a straw dummy hanging in the wind, awaiting the thrust of a lance.









Chapter Ten


















With Simon ever present in the sling tied across her shoulders, Clarise carried luncheon for two to the outer ward. The day was growing hotter, much like the situation in which she found herself. She hoped today to make an ally of Sir Roger. If anyone could aid her with her cause, it was he.

She found the knight in the training arena, tightening bowstrings on the arsenal of bows. With no men-at-arms to train, he focused his energies on keeping Helmesly in constant readiness for war. All the fighting men were off with the Slayer at Glenmyre.

Clarise hailed him from a distance and showed him her basket. They found a shady area in the orchard, where Sir Roger spread the blanket under a pear tree. She didn’t miss his quizzical look. If his watchfulness were any indication, he knew that she was up to something.

“Have you any news?” she asked to distract him. She pulled Simon from the sling and laid him on his stomach in the center of the blanket.

The knight eased himself down beside her, his joints protesting loudly. “Nay, nothing more than to say that Ferguson has yet to strike. Perhaps he has changed his mind with my lord on site defending Glenmyre.” He began to unpack the basket. He lifted out a bit of dry meat and grimaced. “How does the babe today?” he asked.