“Which household?”

Ferguson had instructed her not to mention Heathersgill. “Glenmyre,” she said, naming Alec’s estate. It was best to keep close to the truth, she told herself.

“Ah,” said the knight, looking suddenly grave. Crickets added a melody to the tempo of the horse’s iron shoes. “Was your husband one of the peasants recently killed?” he inquired gently.

As he persisted in speaking French, she answered in the same, being more at ease with her first tongue. “Nay,” she said slowly, though she knew the peasants to which he referred. Just before she left, Ferguson had boasted that he’d cut the peasant population at Glenmyre in half. She had no wish to be associated with that slaughter. “As I said, my husband was killed in a skirmish.”

They continued the journey in silence. Clarise used the time to sketch a rough history for herself. She imagined what it would be like to care for a warlord’s baby. Rather like playing nursemaid to the devil’s spawn, she thought, recalling what she knew of the Slayer.

The mercenary had once been the master-at-arms for the Baron of Helmesly. The baron had wed him to his only daughter and then departed Helmesly on pilgrimage to Canterbury, leaving the Slayer behind as his seneschal. Rumor had it that the Slayer had plotted to kill the baron and his lady wife, for they did not return alive from their pilgrimage but in coffins. The Slayer was left ruling Helmesly, not as rightful lord but as a usurper.

Much the way Ferguson had acquired Heathersgill, Clarise thought with a sneer.

She cautioned herself to disguise her disdain. In masquerading as a freed serf, she would need to be humble and respectful. “What is the Slayer’s proper name?” she asked, realizing she didn’t even know it.

The knight looked up at her sharply. “Have a care that he doesn’t hear you call him that,” he warned. “He doesn’t like the name Slayer.”

Clarise paled at the warning.

“His name is Christian de la Croix,” answered the knight, “and despite what people say of him, he is a devout man.”

Christian of the Cross? She nearly hooted aloud at the devout name. With difficulty she swallowed the lunatic laughter in her throat. Still, she couldn’t resist questioning the knight. “How comes it, then, that they call him the Slayer? Did he not kill every living soul at Wendesby, or is that a lie?”

The knight’s crooked smile flattened to a seam. “If you value your post as the baby’s nurse, you had best keep silent on the subject.”

She bit her tongue at the reprimand and looked away. The knight was clearly loyal to his liege lord. She would do well to be cautious in his company.

Gazing toward the horizon, she sought sign of a fortress standing over the next hill. For just a second she imagined what it would be like if Sir Roger spoke true. What if the Slayer weren’t the monster rumor painted him to be? What if he hadn’t killed anyone at Wendesby, or the Baron of Helmesly, or even Alec’s father?

She shook her head at her wishful thinking. There were far more villains in this world than good men. She’d be doing everyone a favor to rid the borderlands of the notorious Slayer. If she wished to see her mother and sisters alive, she had best accomplish her task and do it quickly.









Chapter Two


















“ ’Tis beautiful,” Clarise admitted with surprise.

“Aye, it is,” Sir Roger concurred.

The object of their admiration stood in a field of wildflowers, just behind a swift-running moat. In the coppery hues of evening, the moat was a golden disk from which the outer wall rose clifflike. It stood at least twenty hands high and twelve feet thick. The entire castle had been built on ancient earthworks, making the second wall visible as well.

The inner wall was flanked by towers. Four of them! Clarise marveled. Her own family’s home of Heathersgill touted just one tall building. The closer Sir Roger urged them, the more overawed she became. With the sun plunging down behind the castle, shadows engulfed the drawbridge. She felt as if she were being swallowed into the maw of a great beast.

They clattered over the moat. “Diverted from the River Rye Derwent!” Sir Roger shouted over the burbling water.

Clarise recalled that Helmesly had been built after the Norman acquisition to protect England from Scottish incursions. The ruling barons had been powerful men, fervently loyal to successive kings. Yet the man who ruled it now was nothing but a bastard seneschal.

They stopped before the gatehouse. Clarise shrank into the saddle, eyeing the window slits with the fear of being recognized. Feeling sharp, suspicious gazes on her person, she tied her kerchief more securely beneath her chin. Yet Sir Roger’s hail was answered at once. The portcullis rumbled upward, and their passing went unchallenged.

In the outer ward she cast eyes to the outer bailey. Bobbing helms betrayed the Slayer’s vigilance. In the grassy enclosure stood a practice yard and archery run, attended by a handful of knights who continued to drill, though bats wheeled overhead. She knew already that a number of his fighting men remained at Glenmyre, yet he did not look ill prepared to defend this stronghold.

There was no bustling trade at Helmesly as there had been in Abbingdon. No venders, no craftsmen, no laughing children. It was a warrior’s paradise.

Passing through a second gate, they came to the inner ward. The keep stood squarely before them, rising nearly to the height of the towers at either corner. It loomed into the evening sky, abutted by supporting arches. Smaller buildings huddled at its base in no apparent order, yet each was immaculately kept. No filth grimed the cobbles; no stench fouled the air.

Neither was there sign of human life. A red fire glowed in the smithy’s hovel. From the mews came the screech of a hunting bird. The scent of hops wafted from the brewery house. Yet not a soul traversed the courtyard.

“Where is everyone?” Clarise wondered aloud.

“Within,” Sir Roger said, helping her from the saddle.

He left her for a moment to duck into the stables. His answer told her nothing. She took note of where to find his horse should it suddenly become necessary to leave. Then she hunted for signs of a nanny goat.

She told herself she wouldn’t linger long. But until she slipped the powder in the Slayer’s drink, she would need to be convincing. If she were caught feeding the baby goat’s milk, her identity would be called into question. She didn’t doubt the Slayer had ways to make a prisoner talk.

In a distant pen a mud-caked sow nursed her offspring. Chickens pecked in another enclosure. There wasn’t a nanny goat in sight.

Sir Roger emerged from the stables. “Lord Christian is back from Glenmyre,” he announced with cheer. “His horse is here. He will be pleased that I have found a nurse at last.”

How nice, thought Clarise, her stomach cramping. “Do you house goats here?” she rushed to inquire. Sir Roger was leading the way to the forebuilding of the main keep. “I have a fondness for goat’s milk,” she said, running to keep up with him.

He slanted her a tolerant look. “I find it sour.”

“ ’Tis good for one’s health,” she argued, mounting the stairs by his side. “You do have goats, here, do you not?” she asked again. What would she do if the man said no?

“Several,” came the heartening reply. “You shall have milk to quench your thirst,” he promised. A moment later he swung wide the doors to the great hall and motioned for her to enter.

The grandeur of the hall chased all thoughts of goat’s milk from her head. Clarise stepped into an enormous chamber. Its high arched ceiling soared above the first and second levels. A gallery coursed the length of the inner wall. The last hint of daylight glowed in the four tall windows opposite.

Clarise drew up short. Not a single tapestry, urn, or silver tray relieved the starkness. The hall was clean beyond compare but lacked the personal touches that made it welcoming.

A murmuring of voices drew her gaze to a clutch of servants lining the benches. A minstrel, sitting with his back to the door, plucked dejectedly upon his lute, while his audience looked on. At Clarise’s entrance they turned their heads to regard her, their faces reflecting only vague curiosity.

“Did someone die?” she whispered, working at the knot beneath her chin.

Sir Roger spared her a distracted glance. “Did I not tell you? My lady died in childbirth. ’Tis the reason I was sent for a nurse.”

Clarise’s stomach tightened. The baby’s mother was dead? And she was supposed to kill its father as well? “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said automatically. “They must have loved her greatly to cease their labors.”

“Aye, they did,” Sir Roger said with a sigh. “But this particular gathering is an indication of my lord’s temperament. They herd together like sheep to avoid an encounter with him.”

She nearly rent the cloth in her hands. “What . . . what does that mean, exactly?” But he was already mounting the stairs to the second level. With leaden feet she chased after him.

The tales of horror inspired by the Slayer bubbled in the cauldron of her mind. In laying waste to Wendesby six years past, he’d burned the village to ash and killed the innocents that ran before the flames. His own people huddled in the hall in fear of him, and she had just joined their oppressed ranks. Was she mad?

With every step Clarise’s feet grew heavier. What if he recognized her from some previous visit to Heathersgill? She quickly redonned the kerchief to conceal her hair. Gazing at the second level, she faltered to a halt. She couldn’t do it. She feared she would be caught and executed in a matter of hours.

“I have a terrible thirst,” she called, stopping Sir Roger midway up the stairs. “Might I have the milk you promised me?”

Roger leaned over the balustrade and called to the servants. “Dame Maeve!” An elderly woman withdrew from the gathering, her harsh face softened by the mellow light. “Have a servant bring up a mug of goat’s milk for our nurse, Dame Crucis.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Boil it first, if you please,” Clarise added, knowing that part to be crucial.

Dame Maeve thinned her lips, but taking up her keys, she turned to fulfill the request.

“You give orders with accustomed ease,” Sir Roger remarked. He indicated that they should follow the length of the gallery where a servant worked to light a torch. Shadows had already leaked into the upper levels. Clarise felt like a lamb being drawn to slaughter.

“My husband was a lenient man,” she said, offering him a breathless explanation. She followed him along the gallery and down a long and narrow hall. They came to the twisting stairs of one of the four towers. Here the shadows thickened into blackness.

“Lord Christian must be in a rage if his servants won’t approach him,” she gasped, dreading the encounter to come.

“My lord is a reasonable man,” Sir Roger threw out to comfort her.

But the sounds coming from the level above belied his tale. The cacophony of a wailing infant and a bellowing man blended in an awful duet. The Slayer’s angry roar shot through Clarise like a poisoned arrow. She felt as though he were railing at her and not some hapless servant. Curiosity alone carried her up the remaining steps.

“Blood of the Saints, wench!” he shouted. “Cease this infernal sniveling and think of something else. My son is starving. Will you listen to his cries!”

“M’lord, I’ve done naught else for the last ten hours,” whimpered the servant in Anglicized Norman. “He ne wille take the milk. I’ve tried it for days, now. Please ask nay more of me.”

“You will scrub the garderobes for the rest of your life if you fail to make him drink!”

Clarise pitied the poor woman, but at the same time the distress in the Slayer’s tone was palpable. No father, good or evil, would want his son to die.

Sir Roger chose that moment to propel her through the open door. “Lord Christian,” he called over the din. “Your troubles are over, sire. This is the nurse you bade me find. Clare Crucis.”

Clarise skidded to a halt before the most enormous creature she had ever seen. Her first instinct was to draw back, and she trod Sir Roger’s toe as he barred the exit. The nursery seemed exceedingly small, or maybe its proportions had shrunk in the presence of the giant.

So this was the man she was to kill!

The Slayer stood before the open window. Half his body was illumined by the lingering glow of sunlight; the other half concealed in shadow. He was long of limb, broad in the shoulders, packed with muscle. His hair defined the color black as it hung in waves to his shoulders. Midnight eyebrows scowled over a long, straight nose.